wasn’t picking up. This way she could leave a message. Something casual that still left open the possibilities for—
“Hello?”
Holy shit. He’d answered.
“Hello?” he said again.
Anna couldn’t speak.
“Hel-lo?” Louder now, and irritated.
Anna quietly hung up the phone and lay back on her bed. Of all the infantile things to do. She was acting like she was in fifth grade or some crazy stalker out of Lifetime TV. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she shouldn’t have called him. What the hell was
wrong
with her?
Maybe in her heart of hearts, it wasn’t talk she was after. Maybe she was after something more . . . carnal. In which case, she didn’t really need Ben.
Lust could just be with
s
omeone you didn’t know and would never see again.
Anna sat bolt upright, almost smiling as a truly daring notion raced through her chronically overactive mind. That
someone
sounded like someone she might meet at a highly upscale, all-inclusive Mexican resort.
Right Gender, Wrong Person
S am spent the first part of Sunday night lying on her bed, reading William Goldman’s
Adventures in the Screen Trade.
She was preparing for the big time. After already making a few student films, now she was ready for the real thing. Few fantasies were sweeter than the one where every thin, blond, perfect girl at Beverly Hills High was groveling to be in a Sam Sharpe movie.
“Sam?” Svetlana was standing at the open door to her room, arms folded across her black housekeeper’s uniform.
“Yes?”
“Friend said to tell you she has moved into room down hall.”
“Fine, great . . .” Sam mumbled, too deep into her reading to care. But something told her to rewind and play back. “Wait. What are you talking about? What friend?”
“Small one,” Svetlana replied.
“What small—?”
Sam never finished the sentence. Instead she jumped up from her bed, tossed William Goldman on her pillow, and bolted past Svetlana and down the hall to the last room in the wing. There was barefoot Dee, in size-zero Earl Jeans and a pink Zac Posen ribbed tank top that could have fit a twelve-year-old, sitting on the floor next to an open and brimful Louis Vuitton suitcase. She was in a lotus position, her eyes closed. It took a moment for Sam to take in all of this, because the room was lit only by two fat votive candles; their vanilla scent overpowered the room.
“Dee? What are you doing?” Sam flipped on the overhead lights.
Dee opened her eyes. “Oh. Hi, Sam. Can you turn off the lights? I have seasonal affective disorder. My life coach says I need a certain lamp from Light Bulbs Plus in Sherman Oaks, or I’ll get really depressed. Poppy said she’d have one delivered tomorrow. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Diabetic,” Sam opined.
“The lights?” Dee prompted.
“Focus here for me, Dee. Please. Did you just become our houseguest?”
Dee nodded. “I changed my mind and accepted Poppy’s offer. Isn’t it great?”
“Great” wasn’t the first word that came to mind. Sam wasn’t just bothered that Dee had shown up with a suitcase. After all, she and Dee were still friends. But this bedroom was special, reserved for family members only. Like when Sam’s favorite cousins came three times a year from New York. Or her grandparents on her dad’s side—in December and for the month of August. In fact, there were two dresser drawers full of her grandparents’ clothes and personal items so that they could travel to visit without lugging suitcases.
The Sharpe estate was big enough to have a guest room reserved for family. For everyone else who might be asked to spend the night, there were three guesthouses out behind the main building: a whitewashed three-bedroom cottage near the winter heated pool and twin two-bedroom log cabins down the path from the tennis court.
“Why aren’t you staying in one of the guesthouses?” Sam asked.
“I
could
move into one of them, I guess,” Dee had agreed. “But I thought this would
“Hello?”
Holy shit. He’d answered.
“Hello?” he said again.
Anna couldn’t speak.
“Hel-lo?” Louder now, and irritated.
Anna quietly hung up the phone and lay back on her bed. Of all the infantile things to do. She was acting like she was in fifth grade or some crazy stalker out of Lifetime TV. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she shouldn’t have called him. What the hell was
wrong
with her?
Maybe in her heart of hearts, it wasn’t talk she was after. Maybe she was after something more . . . carnal. In which case, she didn’t really need Ben.
Lust could just be with
s
omeone you didn’t know and would never see again.
Anna sat bolt upright, almost smiling as a truly daring notion raced through her chronically overactive mind. That
someone
sounded like someone she might meet at a highly upscale, all-inclusive Mexican resort.
Right Gender, Wrong Person
S am spent the first part of Sunday night lying on her bed, reading William Goldman’s
Adventures in the Screen Trade.
She was preparing for the big time. After already making a few student films, now she was ready for the real thing. Few fantasies were sweeter than the one where every thin, blond, perfect girl at Beverly Hills High was groveling to be in a Sam Sharpe movie.
“Sam?” Svetlana was standing at the open door to her room, arms folded across her black housekeeper’s uniform.
“Yes?”
“Friend said to tell you she has moved into room down hall.”
“Fine, great . . .” Sam mumbled, too deep into her reading to care. But something told her to rewind and play back. “Wait. What are you talking about? What friend?”
“Small one,” Svetlana replied.
“What small—?”
Sam never finished the sentence. Instead she jumped up from her bed, tossed William Goldman on her pillow, and bolted past Svetlana and down the hall to the last room in the wing. There was barefoot Dee, in size-zero Earl Jeans and a pink Zac Posen ribbed tank top that could have fit a twelve-year-old, sitting on the floor next to an open and brimful Louis Vuitton suitcase. She was in a lotus position, her eyes closed. It took a moment for Sam to take in all of this, because the room was lit only by two fat votive candles; their vanilla scent overpowered the room.
“Dee? What are you doing?” Sam flipped on the overhead lights.
Dee opened her eyes. “Oh. Hi, Sam. Can you turn off the lights? I have seasonal affective disorder. My life coach says I need a certain lamp from Light Bulbs Plus in Sherman Oaks, or I’ll get really depressed. Poppy said she’d have one delivered tomorrow. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Diabetic,” Sam opined.
“The lights?” Dee prompted.
“Focus here for me, Dee. Please. Did you just become our houseguest?”
Dee nodded. “I changed my mind and accepted Poppy’s offer. Isn’t it great?”
“Great” wasn’t the first word that came to mind. Sam wasn’t just bothered that Dee had shown up with a suitcase. After all, she and Dee were still friends. But this bedroom was special, reserved for family members only. Like when Sam’s favorite cousins came three times a year from New York. Or her grandparents on her dad’s side—in December and for the month of August. In fact, there were two dresser drawers full of her grandparents’ clothes and personal items so that they could travel to visit without lugging suitcases.
The Sharpe estate was big enough to have a guest room reserved for family. For everyone else who might be asked to spend the night, there were three guesthouses out behind the main building: a whitewashed three-bedroom cottage near the winter heated pool and twin two-bedroom log cabins down the path from the tennis court.
“Why aren’t you staying in one of the guesthouses?” Sam asked.
“I
could
move into one of them, I guess,” Dee had agreed. “But I thought this would
Similar Books
