Friday, October 18
7:08 a.m.
I was having a nightmare about being chased by a man in a ski mask—it doesn’t take Freud to figure out the symbolism in my dreams—when my hotel phone rang. I sat up before I grabbed it, hoping that would make me sound more awake. “’Lo?”
“I woke you up.” Bailey sounded triumphant.
“No, you didn’t. I was just lying here thinking about what to wear.”
“Sure you were.” I can never get away with anything. “I just wanted to warn you to wear boots and a heavy coat since we’re going to be sitting outside for a few hours.”
Outside? Then I remembered. Today was the memorial for the victims of the Fairmont High shooting.
They’d chosen the San Juan Theater, a lovely outdoor amphitheater on the north side of the Santa Monica Mountains. The stage was set into a steep hill planted with beautiful multicolored shrubs and scrub oak trees. Above the entrance to the theater was an open rooftop that afforded a north-facing view of the mountains. That space was used for private parties, and I’d had the chance to attend one a few years ago. A flamenco troupe was performing that night, and standing there under the stars, seeing the dancers move against the dramatic backdrop of the mountains, was an incredible experience.
“Nine o’clock?”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”