That year’s fall was brief. The January rains moved their schedule up, starting in earnest right after Thanksgiving, slanting in hard lines that seemed to assault the trees and cabins. Leaves dropped in thick masses, bunching around the cabins, turning into a soft mulch that the dogs tracked into the L and whatever cabin they visited.
Josh and Clark shifted their workload from the camp to the mountain community, helping repair or weather-proof the cabins and houses of the mountain residents. Lucky continued his winning ways at both contests and cards. William settled into his new office, expanding his office hours slightly. And Donna, fresh off her victory with the ‘battered woman’ defense, wrote an article about it that refreshed the public interest in her. But she let the phone in the L go unanswered, putting all her free time into working with Carol on the book.
Paul’s string of good assignments continued, with print work scheduled for the next six months. His agent held out hope for television or commercial work and enrolled him in acting classes: twice a week he went to the same studio that Jimmy Caan and Sally Kellerman went when they were between movies.
He still called up to the L every Friday at five, regaling whoever answered with stories about which star he’d met that week, which spots he was hoping to try out for.
“How are the acting classes going?” Josh asked one night.
“Okay. I mean, a lot of it’s crap, pretending to be different animals and all. But some of it’s helpful.”
“Any speaking roles on the horizon?”
“Yes and no. I’ve got two walk-ons—just one-day jobs—coming up. One’s a movie, the other a TV sitcom. But Jerry says there’s some interest in me from one of the soaps. I test with them next Wednesday.”
There was a pause on both ends of the line. “Soaps?”
“Don’t start with me, Josh. It’s work and it’s a step up. Besides, you’ll be stunned when I show you a list of all the stars that started in soaps.”
With everything shutting down for the holidays, Paul flew up that Friday. When Alexis pulled up in front of the United baggage claim, he was standing next to a neat pile of wrapped boxes, gifts for everyone that he had bought, with some guidance from William.
Paul dominated the ride down with stories about the Hollywood he was just getting acquainted with. His stories adopted an insider tone, as if he were already part of that scene. Finally, after thirty minutes, Alexis had heard enough.
“Listen. No offense, but if I wanted my Hollywood news, I’ve got Rona Barrett on KGO every fifty-five minutes. Let’s just get reacquainted, okay?”
Paul went quiet after that, staring out the window. Alexis made no attempt to restart the conversation, just turned the radio to NPR and settled back and drove.
“So this acting,” she said finally. “Are you any good? I mean, I just saw you sulk. That wasn’t bad.”
He looked over. “I can’t tell if you’re teasing or not.”
“About the sulking, yes. About the acting, no. I’m impressed that you’re trying it at all, especially when you could just stay with your catalogues and commercials and be just fine.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell you, anyone who thinks acting’s easy hasn’t tried it. The first thing they tell you is that being self-conscious is the kiss of death. Which only makes you more self-conscious.
“I’ve asked a lot of the better actors—men and women—and they tell me the same thing, that what works for them is going back to a time and place that pulls that emotion out of you. I’ve tried that, but it feels easier for me to just pretend I’m someone else.”
“What’s wrong with that? Sounds like acting to me.”
“What I’m gathering—from my coaches and the other actors—is that pretending like that will work, but it will only take you so far. The good ones, guys like De Niro or Hoffman, they’ll use memories that you and I would be afraid to touch.” He paused. “I don’t know if I want to be an actor that bad.”
“Well, you decide. But don’t let the guys and their kidding get to you. You’re pushing yourself, trying something new—we’re not. And besides, I remember Dustin Hoffman got his start doing Volkswagen commercials. Remember that?”
He said he didn’t, but he looked over at her gratefully as she drove.
About halfway down, after a comfortable silence, Paul looked over. “With all that’s been going on with me, I never asked: how did things go with that getaway with your husband?”
“Ex-husband.”
“Ex-husband. How did it go?”
“We talked. A lot. About who we were, who we are now, who we want to be. And we realized we weren’t on the same page. Hell, we weren’t even in the same book.”
“You miss him?”
“Not really. I had a life in Chicago with him. I had a life in Chicago without him. Now I’ve got life here without him. But it did give me a chance to find some things out and repair a few potholes.”
“Like what?”
She didn’t answer for over a mile, flexing her hands on the wheel. “Anyone ever left you?” When she saw him hesitate, she continued, “That’s what I thought. It’s a tough feeling to describe. It’s not exactly that you’re violated, but you’re robbed of your self-confidence. You feel…’pathetic’. You hate the person who made you feel that way and you don’t have much respect for the person they left behind.”
“So what did San Francisco accomplish?”
“It was important to revisit that time, to see what went wrong and to see if we were still the same people. It was nice to hear him apologize, which he did, too much. The important thing, though, was that we both realized that, once he’d gotten successful and I quit work, we’d both become shallower versions of ourselves.”
“And now that he’s a changed man…” He gestured around the car, “…and you’re sure as hell a changed woman, where does that leave you two?”
“As friends. Nothing more. The people we’ve become—if we met today, we wouldn’t have much to say, but we’d still like each other.”
Five minutes later she let out a small bray. “You’ve really never had anyone leave you? Break up with you?”
“Okay, I lied. Junior high. Mary Ann Pirelli.”
“You poor dear. Talk about scars that don’t heal.”
“You asked. That’s the answer.”
“So how does it work? You do all the leaving?”
“It never seems to come to that. The rules in my world are fairly clear and understood. We’re all thrown together in an intense work environment, then we go on our ways. It’s shallow, but then, as most people think, we’re shallow people, getting by on just our looks.”
“Do you ever wish it went beyond the shallow level?”
“Not so far. But I might be…” He reached over and put a hand over hers on the steering wheel. “…if I found the right woman.”
Donna squinted at the road ahead, then looked over, her eyes searching his face. Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch and both of them broke into laughter.
“Don’t let anyone tell you those acting lessons aren’t working.”
He smiled back. “I just need more practice, that’s all.”
The week between Christmas and New Year’s brought a steady rain which, while needed after the summer drought, drove everyone indoors. Clark still went on his daily hike with Zeke and Josh his afternoon run, but there were no takers for either one. William and Lucky had shut down their respective practices for the holidays and so spent most of the time in their cabin or down at The Gimp’s. Donna and Carol were the only productive ones, spending the week polishing the first three chapters of their book.
Paul wasn’t slated to return to LA until the first week of January, so to alleviate the boredom he started riding with Alexis, who was pulling mostly day shifts. He helped her regulars—usually elderly—into and out of the car and with their shopping, if needed. The women clucked over him, telling Alexis how handsome her boyfriend was.
On her longer fares he busied himself with the scripts that his acting coach had assigned. He would read a page twice, his forehead tight, then close the book and practice his lines. Alexis looked over and saw him mouthing the lines, a frown on his lips. Finally, on the third day of their ride-alongs, as they sat in the cab drinking coffee, the motor and heat running, Alexis volunteered to read with him, feeding him his lines. As she argued, he could concentrate on just his parts and it would be more interesting for her than listening to “All Things Considered.” Paul declined at first, saying he was too self-conscious. But by the end of the day, realizing it would be cutting his work in half, he relented. They started working together the next day.
After one of the readings, Alexis put down the script. “I liked that one. You made a pretty convincing middle-age weasel. Too bad the mob kills you off in the next scene.”
“Yeah, it felt a little real, didn’t it? Too bad I don’t have a paunch or a comb-over.” He patted the scripts. “This is one area where my looks work against me. The heroic and pretty-boy roles go to the A-list guys—the ones who can carry a movie. The rest are character roles—and I’m told I’m too good-looking to play second bananas.”
She nodded. “I could see that. Maybe as you age…”
Paul shook his head. “Let me tell you a secret. Everyone I know down there has done some kind of projection—consulting a plastic surgeon, a police artist, whatever—to find out what they’re going to look like as they age. In my case, the people who know—the ones who study facial bones, what skin will sag and what won’t—they tell me I’m going to ‘age beautifully.’ Which is good news for my modeling career, long-term, but there’s going to be a period where I’m too old to do what I’m doing now and too young for the senior work. That’s where acting comes in—hopefully to bridge that gap.”
She smiled, almost to herself. “You know, it’s refreshing to hear a man talk so openly about his looks. We women do it all the time to each other, but I can’t imagine you’ve got too many guys you can confide in.”
“Within the industry, there are a few. But you’re right—I could never get away with talking about this with Josh or William.” He looked over at her. “You may not believe this, but I’m not vain. It’s just that this thing…” he motioned at his face, “it’s my job. My craft. I take care of it, the same way Clark takes care of his tools. I don’t think the guys get that. I see it in Josh’s face and I can certainly hear it in Will’s tone.”
“C’mon. They’re just giving you grief. It’s the national sport up there. You know that.”
“Maybe, but there’s a tone there when they talk about my career that I don’t hear when they’re getting on each other.” He looked out the window. “Don’t get me wrong. I know they like me. They just don’t respect me. Sometimes it matters to me, sometimes it doesn’t.” He looked back at her. “In your case, it does.”
Two nights later Donna and Carol knocked off their work on the book and invited Alexis to join them up at the hot springs. It was almost eleven by the time they reached the pools. The three women stripped down, sampled each pool, then settled into the lower one. Donna and Carol caught Alexis up on how the book was progressing, how they were integrating Donna’s recent case into the book.
“The woman whose case it was,” Alexis said. “What happened to her?”
“She’s in a shelter. We’re still in touch. I like the woman who’s running the house. She has plans for two more. I’m giving her the proceeds from the next edition of my book. Josh is doing the same. Hell, his contribution might be more than mine—his sales have doubled since the court ruling.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have equated ‘battered woman syndrome’ with rape, but it seems like there are a lot of people out there—especially women, it seems—who do.”
Alexis forehead furrowed as she looked over at Carol and Donna, both of whom had their heads leaning back on the pool’s cement lip. “I’ve got no idea what you guys are talking about.”
“What part?” Carol asked.
“What book are you talking about? Not yours. The other one. Something about Josh?”
Donna cocked her head. “You know. The rape manual.”
“I’ll repeat. I’ve got no clue what you guys are talking about.”
Donna looked at Carol, then back at Alexis. “Honey, I’m sorry. I guess I assumed Carol told you—and from how she’s looking at me, she must have assumed the same.”
“Told me what?”
“How do you think Josh got all the money to buy this place? I’m assuming you’ve heard of The Rapist’s Guide?”
“Sure. Who hasn’t?” She looked at them. “Are you telling me that Josh wrote The Rapist’s Guide?”
“Well, edited it more than wrote it. But, yes.” Donna cocked her head. “Why do you think the police call him in whenever there’s a rape they can’t solve?”
“I was afraid to ask,” Alexis said, her voice weakening slightly.
“Oh, honey. No. No. When he was in San Tomas he noted that there were no programs for rapists. In the prison hierarchy—both for guards and inmates—rapists are just one notch up the chain from child molesters. I don’t know if Josh thought they were capable of redemption or not, but he started working with them individually and in groups. And the more he worked with them, the more he started seeing patterns—in their backgrounds, in how they viewed women, and in what they looked for in their victims.”
Alexis nodded. “I read the book, especially the part about the distinction between ‘familiar rapes’ and ‘stranger rapes.’ About the early signs in a boyfriend or husband as opposed to the safety measures you could take to avoid getting on a rapist’s radar. The chapter on defensive measures alone was worth the price of the book.”
“Anyway,” Donna continued. “He took half the book’s proceeds and bought the camp and all its land. The other half he donated to hotlines and shelters.” She looked at Alexis. “Don’t tell him you know. It embarrasses him.”
As they were toweling off and getting into their clothes, Donna looked over at Carol and motioned to her. Carol frowned and looked over at Alexis, then back at Donna, who motioned to her again.
“Listen, Alexis,” Carol started. “Before we head back, we need to talk to you about something. Actually, ask you about something.”
Alexis finished pulling up her pants—her top still bare. “What is it?”
“Is there something going on between you and Paul?”
Alexis pulled her head back slightly, her eyebrows narrowing. “No. Why?”
“Well, you guys have been spending a lot of time together. And…”
“I’ve been helping him with some of his acting homework. And he’s good company. But… again, why are you asking?”
“Honey, this is a community,” Donna interjected. “Everything ripples and affects everyone else. If you and Paul are an item, that’s a big ripple.”
“Well, we’re not. An item.” She looked from one woman to the other. “Am I missing something else here?”
Donna’s sigh floated over the water. “We didn’t say anything when you were up in San Francisco with your ex because it was just for a few days. But Josh wasn’t himself while you were gone. He moped some, didn’t work with Clark when he was asked, wouldn’t play Scrabble with Lucky. Spent more time in his cabin than normal. But, like I said, it was just for a few days. And then you were back and he was back to normal, so we didn’t need to say anything.”
“But since Paul’s started riding with you,” Carol continued, “he’s sliding back into being a moody prick.” She looked at Donna.
Donna nodded. “He’s been…not quite rude, but short. With all of us.”
“And you think it’s because of Paul and me?”
“It’s the only thing that’s different up here. So, yes. Will agrees.”
A soft breeze came up, causing the leaves overhead to issue a hushing sound. Some of the leaves broke loose and fluttered down into the pool. “What the hell does he want me to be?” Alexis asked. “A nun?”
Donna looked at her sympathetically. “Remember, you’re talking about someone who’s lived his whole life like a monk.”
Alexis reached for her bra. “The hell with him.” And she finished getting dressed.
With the rain showing no sign of relenting, Paul called down to Le Jardin. Management comped him a suite, complete with spa treatments, for two nights. He invited Alexis to join him at the spa for the second day, but she had a day shift and had to pass.
“How about dinner, then?”
“I’d have to go back up to the camp, change, shower, you know.”
“Bring some clothes and shower and change here. Or in the spa, wherever you’re most comfortable. Come on, it’s my last night here. I want to celebrate. And I want to thank you for helping out with the scripts.”
There was a slight pause, then “Okay. See you at seven.”
She drove over after work, arriving in her work clothes—black on black, plus a leather jacket. She took her hanging bag into the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later—still all in black but now a raw silk blouse and slacks, set off by gold earrings, necklace and belt. Over her arm was a cape she hadn’t worn since her Chicago days.
Paul, wearing a dark blue blazer over a grey cashmere sweater and dark-grey herringboned slacks, held his hand up high, index finger extended. Alexis laughed lightly, touched the finger and twirled. “If Moetown could see us now,” she said, “we’d be blackballed.”
“And we’d deserve it. Let’s go. Phillipe is waiting.”
They had the same table as before, the same spectacular view of the darkening coast. Alexis looked at the bottle of Brunello on the table and nodded her thanks to Philippe. “Same shitty table, same shitty view,” she said to Paul as Philippe eased away. She nodded at the bottle. “Same swill, I see.” She put her hand on his for a brief moment. “This is very nice. Thanks.”
“Thank Philippe. They were out of the Brunello when I called down yesterday, but he made some calls. He didn’t have to do that.”
She raised her glass. “Neither did you.”
The dinner conversation was relaxed, comfortable. Paul felt ready for what awaited him in Hollywood. He had the scripts down cold, the characters weren’t a major stretch for him—not a Ratso Rizzo in the lot. And besides, he said, mimicking Josh, they were just soaps.
The dinner, like last time, was superb. When Alexis marveled at the lamb, Paul asked Philippe to bring the chef out to hear the compliments first-hand. And later, as the restaurant began to empty, Philippe—at their invitation—joined them and helped them with the second bottle of Brunello.
At Philippe’s suggestion, they took their dessert and coffee in the Hearth Room. “There’s a magnificent fire in there,” he said, “and no one to enjoy it.” He came around the back of Alexis, held her chair for her, then took her hand and led the two of them into the next room. The Hearth Room was right out of an English hunting lodge—rich weathered wood, sturdy leather couches and chairs, all arranged in small, intimate arrangements. He led them to a small couch, slightly back from the fire, a low-lying coffee table in front of it.
They passed on dessert but ordered cognac. When the snifters arrived, Alexis swirled hers, looking through the rich liquid at the fire behind it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad you’re leaving.” She looked around. “I could get used to this.”
He returned the smile. “Good. Because there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“I’d like you to come back with me.”
Her smile lessened. “Come back with you where?”
“LA.”
She remained still, the fire’s dance playing on her features. “I wouldn’t fit,” she said finally.
“Yes, you would. The only question is whether you want to or not.”
“And who am I supposed to be, once I get there? Your lover? Your friend? Your roommate?”
“You be yourself. The rest will take care of itself.” He reached over and placed his hand over hers. He didn’t try to hold it. “Look, I’m not trying to pressure you here. But I didn’t want to go back without asking. Without telling you what I’d like to happen.”
“Jesus, Paul. We barely know each other. I’m just getting settled into the camp and I’m supposed to uproot myself again?”
“We both know you don’t fit in up at the camp any more than I do.”
She stiffened slightly but let her hand stay under his. His eyes tightened. “You were right the other day in the car—I don’t know how to be with a woman except in a certain way. You’re the first woman I’ve met that I really wanted to get to know—whether as a friend or something else, I don’t know. And that’s the honest truth.”
She put the cognac down and placed her other hand over his. “You don’t know how much this means to me. Not just tonight but the friendship we’ve developed.” Her eyes fastened on him. “But I can’t go with you. I can’t.”
“Why the hell not? What’s stopping you?”
She took her hands back. “Because if I went with you, I’d never know what was possible with Josh.”
His face soured. “I wondered when he’d show up.”
“I’m sorry, but if we’re friends, you can’t tell me about your desire and confusion unless I can tell you about mine.”
His hands now free, Paul cradled his snifter between his palms and rolled the glass back and forth. For more than a minute, he was silent, his eyes fixed on the stuttering flames. At one point Alexis started to say something, but he raised his hand and she swallowed the words.
“I’m going to tell you about your boyfriend,” he said finally in a low, flat voice. “This guy you want—this guy who’s everybody’s saint—you never wondered what he spent all those years in prison for?”
“Of course I did. But I also know it was a long time ago. He was just…”
“He carved a girl up. Your boyfriend. My brother. He sliced her face open with a knife.”
Alexis rocked back in her chair. Her hand went to her own cheek. “You’re lying.”
“I was there. It happened during a gang fight. In a way, she had it coming, given what she’d done to some of our boys.” He hesitated. “But she didn’t deserve what happened at the end, right before the cops came.”
His eyes were dull, throwing back none of the fire. “When the cops came, her face was running blood and she was out cold. Her skirt was up around her waist and a knife was sticking, blade-side out, sticking out of her c…” He looked away. “Out of her vagina.”
Alexis stood up. “I don’t believe you.”
He waved out the window. “Ask him yourself. Ask him why he doesn’t go out with women. Ever.” He leaned forward. “Because he knows himself, and he knows he can’t trust himself with a woman. Ever.”
Alexis started to say something, then she turned and walked quickly away.
“That’s your St. Josh,” Paul called at her retreating back.