Sail On

1

Natalie had never learned to ride a bicycle, and they were everywhere.

Strollers were in abundance too. Young couples pushing newborns, bicycling (it even had its own verb) with their toddlers (training wheels, no less) and grade schoolers down the sun-dappled, tree-lined streets of the Redmond suburb. There was cooing and giggling and smiling. Safety. Joy. The stuff of families, or what they were supposed to be. She felt a twinge of envy, but only a minor one. She had moved on. Or so she told herself often.

The blue house was large, the yard well kept. She had a good feeling as she exited her leased Seattle-requisite BMW, briefcase in hand, red heels clicking confidence past the much more expensive BMW in the driveway, likely bought and paid for same day at the dealer. It still bore California plates—from what information she could find, he had left the sunshine state two months ago. No one really knew why.

She clicked up the steps to the wide porch sporting a swing off to the side, smoothed her tight teal skirt and jacket that complemented her cocoa skin and pressed the doorbell.

No answer. Doorbell again. Nothing. She knocked, just in case the doorbell wasn’t—

The door swung open. Natalie arched an eyebrow. This is a famous screenwriter?

Fiftyish, unshaven, wrinkly shorts and shirt and a well-worn robe. His bleary eyes worked to focus in the noon sun. They gave up and shuttered. Where’d you learn your trade, sugar-hips? Too goddamned early. He shook his head. Tell Teddy—no more hookers.

That took her aback. "Excuse me? Do I look like a prostitute to you? Natalie Summers, I’m an attorney, Mr. Donovan—

Is there a difference?

She bristled. Let’s start over. Um… She looked back at the bicycles and strollers. This is a great neighborhood. Very family friendly.

Is that code for ‘suburban hell’?

What’s wrong with you?

Au consaire. Mi bella soiree.

Pardon?

"It’s French. Le doi."

No it’s not.

Provencal. From the Riviera.

Vous etes plein de merde.

Pardon?

He knew French about as well as he knew self-grooming. We spoke on the phone? I’m with Briggs, Booker and—hey! She wedged her foot in before he managed to shut the door completely. Her heel fell inside. That hurt. She waited for an apology.

None was forthcoming. He was already walking away without another word.

She hesitated, picked up her shoe, adjusted her skirt and limped after him.

The hallway inside was long and distinguished, light pouring in from the high windows to illuminate the myriad pictures of Hollywood life that lined the walls: red carpet walks, candids with famous stars, numerous awards and accolades. The centerpiece a shelf with six Emmys, a space between the fourth and fifth one. Rubbing shoulders with the famous were pictures of sailing surrounding one black-and-white, a young Adam Donovan with one arm around a slender siren, the other around a sinfully handsome man gaily hamming it up for the camera on a sailboat; a happy, goofy moment, perhaps even a drunken one.

Mind the gap.

What?

He didn’t expound, took a left instead.

She found him in a dark den, swiping pill bottles into the coffee table drawer before falling onto a large leather sofa. A gloomy, noxious haze wrinkled her nose. The windows and drapes were closed, presumably to better see the enormous flat screen dominating a wall where a young Craig Jordan was playing his breakout role in Glycerin Road.

He was great in this, she said, trying for small talk as she slipped back on her heel.

He reached between the sofa and an old mahogany cabinet radio and produced a tall bong. As her eyes adjusted, she realized a big bag of dope was on the table next to a stack of DVDs. Are you high right now?

He smiled as he took a very long hit.

Great. Wonderful. She sighed. This was a terrible idea.

Sex with me is never terrible. Just ask me.

I’m not here for sex, Mr. Donovan.

More’s the pity. The front doorbell rang. He looked left, right, brought a finger to his lips. Ssh. We’re not here.

She exhaled a deep breath, feeling a little lightheaded from the vapors. Okay. One, two, three, eyes on me, Mr. Donovan. We discussed Shelby’s passing—

I told you. They’re not mine.

Yes, I know, but you did date Mrs. Metzger—

A decade ago. Briefly. Who didn’t?

An older, Hispanic woman entered and handed him a thick FedEx folder. He glared after her retreating back. You didn’t answer the door earlier! he accused.

You need exercise, Mr. Donovan, the woman called back from the hall.

Something started ringing. He jammed his hand into his robe pocket, set a cellphone down on the table next to the bong.

Need to answer that? Natalie asked.

Weren’t you listening? We’re not here.

She had been here five minutes and had observed five different mood swings. This was absurd. But they didn’t have any other option. The housekeeper at least seemed sane if not somewhat racially stereotyped. Was that racist? Was she being racist observing that?

Nevermind.

She sat down—leaving space between them so his addled brain didn’t get the wrong idea, throwing a conciliatory smile anyway—slipped out the file from her briefcase and handed him the pictures.

He grudgingly took them, looked them over and handed them back, taking another hit from his bong. I remember the oldest, he said around a mouthful of smoke. She looks like trouble.

Trouble? No. What kind of trouble?

"Cherie Currie in Foxes, trouble."

He tucked the FedEx package under an arm and walked out. She looked to the TV. Craig Jordan was having one of his patented emotional moments with another heartbreaking lover.

She followed the slippery writer again, wafting at the pot smoke, finding him in an open kitchen filled with expansive light. A large table sat empty before large windows overlooking a large, disused deck, a covered pool and hot tub. The older woman who had dropped off the package was cutting vegetables at the sink. The room darkened as he pulled the blinds, then passed the housekeeper as he reached for the knife block near the sink.

Don’t do it, Alice, he warned.

Alice jerked the blinds back open, returned to her vegetables in the sink, making her presence known, Adam retreating to the table. It was almost a dance, like they had choreographed it. He shrugged at the blinds and slit open the box with a big butcher knife, dumping the contents onto the table: a bound script with angry words scrawled in furious red over the cover: QUIT SCREENING MY CALLS, DICK!

He dropped into a chair. Natalie continued with her pitch. She named you in her will as their legal guardian for a reason. She set down the pictures.

Reason and Shelby were never chocolate and peanut butter, sweetheart.

I’ve gathered that. From her arrest record. Among other things.

Do I look parental to you? In any way, shape or manner? He shook his head. Shelby’s reasoning? I’m around, I’m not in prison, I’m not dead. Where’s their dad, anyway?

Dads. MIA. In prison. Dead.

He snorted, flipped through the script, which only increased his disgust. He took another hit off his boon companion bong. You must’ve made quite the couple, she said.

He tossed the script in the trash and strode past her, back down the hall.

She was close to surrender, spied the abandoned pictures of the abandoned girls and for the third time chased after him. He was moving with purpose, now.

We can overlook the drug thing, she offered.

Your disapproval of me is cloying. Mind the gap, he said over his shoulder.

What gap? That’s just your paranoia. Eat a brownie.

Just don’t sleep with one? He chuckled at his own joke.

Will you at least meet them? Please?

Nah. The lost puppy thing.

Lost pup—

He had reached the front door. You can walk on by but if you pick one up, it’s over.

"You can’t be serious. They’re not puppies, Mr. Donovan. Look, they’re in the system, and we’re talking L.A. They’ll be split up soon, likely molested, abused, raised in girl gladiator academies."

He opened the door, pumped a fist in the air. Go gladiators.

What is wrong with you? She blew out her cheeks. There’s no one else, no one cares about them—

There’s you. You care, Miss Summers.

I can’t, I couldn’t, I—

Why not?

She grew uncomfortable. Were you always an asshole? Or did it come with the fame and fortune?

This meet-cute could use some work.

What?

He stepped aside. Hurry, you might beat traffic. The 520’s a real bitch at this hour.

She shoved the pictures at him and stomped out. Adding insult to injury, he whistled at her as she clicked down the stairs.

Do I look like a hooker?

Uh-huh, Andrew mumbled, not looking up from his iPad.

Dinner at Ray’s Boathouse, like every Thursday. Handsome doctor, attractive lawyer, mixed race couple, they fit in well. If only she were Asian. There were far more mixed race couples with one of them being Asian in Seattle. Was that racist? A little bit?

Great. An obnoxious couple in the corner, about their age, sitting the same side of the booth, holding hands and nuzzling. PDA like that drove her nuts.

He’s the criminal. All those drugs, she continued.

Andrew stabbed at asparagus and shoved a spear into his mouth.

"And that smug sanctimonious smile. Mr. Hollywood."

Mmm.

"Puppies? Who the hell says things like that? Her fiancé tapped his tablet and crunched in harmony. Blond, sky blue eyes, a prince among men his colleagues said. Andrew? Andrew. Are you listening to me?"

Mmm. Yeah. Yes. He felt her eyes, sighed, glanced up. You want a puppy. Look, I’ve got that thing tomorrow, be home late. Can we skip dessert tonight? Great. He returned to his asparagus and tablet.

Natalie turned to her own dish. Creamy smoked salmon fettucine. It smelled heavenly.

A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.

She stared at him, her fork in the air. You did not just say that to me.

He shrugged, not looking up. Wedding will be here before you know it.

A loud laugh and Natalie fixed the annoying couple in the corner with daggers. They didn’t seem to care. She adjusted her lifetime hips on her chair and took a big bite of her pasta, but it was ruined and she pushed the plate away.

On the ride home in the car she let it go. It was Andrew being Andrew—he was a doctor, after all, and he did eat extremely healthy. He cared about her health, was that a crime?

If home is where you hung your hat, hanging hat, coat, putting away shoes and purse were required at Andrew’s apartment. Having witnessed bachelor pads where she wouldn’t enter the shower without a hazmat suit, Natalie could appreciate Andrew’s demand for neat and orderly; cleanliness was next to godliness, after all. Still, it would’ve been nice if he had flung the door open, tossed off his coat, ripped off her skirt and sullied her on the sofa with dirty sex. Sex she was imagining as she watched from the bathroom door as he tap-tap-tapped his iPad in bed.

She padded over, crawled atop the oversized bed, arching her rear while pressing her chest taut against the black lace lingerie. It was a size small on purpose. She made it all the way up his Paul Stuart navy blue jacquard pajamas, receiving not so much as a glance, gave him a long wet kiss—

He cocked his head to see around her. Tap-tap-tap.

She sat back on heels, still revealing and sexy but very nonplussed.

Tap-tap-tap.

How about we take them?

Take who where? Andrew asked.

The girls. Here. We have the room. Tap-tap— Andrew!

He set the tablet down. We’re not adopting wayward orphans from the L.A. ghetto. Think of the cooties.

"Cooties? Did you really just say cooties?"

You know I don’t like kids.

She didn’t know that. You work at a children’s hospital.

Exactly. Look, I have ten minutes before my six hours sleep. You want sex or not?

She had. Not now. She slid her legs out from under her. Looking sexy for no reason was painful.

Andrew returned to his tablet and his remaining minutes.

* * *

Adam tossed a pill against the back of his throat, swallowed it with tap water. In L.A., he would never do such a thing but he had been consuming western Washington water since before he was born.

The day long fled, the kitchen was dark with shadow, another day nearing the horizon. He was hungry but not enough to bother, though he was sure his housekeeper had left plenty of pre-made provisions in the fridge. Tucked into her tidy bed in the condo he had rented for her (a wise decision), she couldn’t ply him with soup or tea or other disgusting comestibles.

Ow.

The trashcan had stubbed his toe. You shall not pass! He glowered at the stainless can, willing it out of his way, but it wasn’t having any. Two can play that game. He jammed his foot hard on the pedal and its lid flew open in a silent scream. Ha!

Ha. He had been tricked. There, just below some lemon peels was the abomination. He considered pouring napalm in the can and setting it afire, savoring the morning aroma of pyrrhic victory as the house burned down around him but he didn’t have any napalm, wasn’t sure where to get any at this hour, not in Washington state, anyway. There was no gasoline in the garage, either—the gardener was hell-bent on erasing his previous lives’ carbon footprints, he had said as much, and as far as Adam knew, he was lithium-powered, himself. The world was against him. Worse, Craig was relentless—he had an excellent teacher—so it was with a heavy sigh Adam retrieved the screenplay, wiping off pizza sauce and yellow rinds from the bold dedication on the cover.

Ten minutes and twenty pages later, out on the lounger on the deck, he considered lighting himself on fire, and not just because it was chilly outside. He reached for the bong beside him, took a well-deserved hit, was callously interrupted by his cell ringing, unsurprised that it was none other than the producer and star who had sent him the shit script. Always a buzzkill, Craig. He sent the call to voicemail. He wasn’t ready.

Something else in his pocket.