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Authors: Jane Lotter
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if I’m not mistaken.”
“Why bother?” I say. “Young people are all broke now.”
“Not the ones who own start-ups,” Dottie says.
Dottie is a wizard at discerning disposable income. I imagine her straining to look out the window, giving the young couple the once-over. “Yes,” she says, “these two are cash cows, coming into my barn. Can you hold?”
I hold. Dottie puts the handset on the counter, and I hear her talking with the customers. From the sound of their voices, I don’t need to see them to know what they look like or where they’re from. Seattle, probably. I picture the corduroy pants, the cotton turtlenecks.
“Well,” the man says, “our accountants say we better start a collection.”
“Something world-class,” the woman says. “Paul Allen already did rock and roll. That’s antique and all, but we want to do something really, really old .”
“I see,” Dottie says. “Of course, this establishment specializes in French Art Deco of the early twentieth century. Did you have a specific period in mind?”
“We like the chocolate period.”
“The . . . chocolate period?”
“Fancy stuff. Princes and princesses.”
“The fancy chocolate period. No plain vanilla for you.” By the strain in Dottie’s voice, I imagine the wheels turning in her head. “You don’t by any chance mean . . . no, you couldn’t. You don’t mean, rococo?”
“That’s it, row cocoa.”
I can almost feel the air rushing out of the room. Then I hear Dottie’s voice again, deflated: “Other side of the street, half a block down. Good day.”
There’s the sound of the shop door opening and closing, then Dottie is back on the line. “Did you hear that, darling?”
“I did,” I say. “I’ve told you before. The television screens are getting larger, but the heads are getting smaller.”
“Yes, but I’ll have my revenge. I sent them to Starbucks. Anyway, we’re alone now. Tell me about your niece’s fiancé. Do you like him?”
“Not particularly.” I slump against my boulder. “His name is Tully, and I wish he’d fall out of the car.”
“And why is that?”
“He has a chip on his shoulder.”
“That’s understandable, isn’t it? You say he was left at the altar—”
“He’s a know-it-all. He said Cary Grant was gay.”
Dottie laughs.
“It’s not funny.”
“It is a little. But I can see that it’s not the best topic for the two of you to start off on.” Dottie sighs. “Still, he must have some charms, or your niece wouldn’t have agreed to marry him.”
“He probably held a gun to her head. The minute Georgia went to change into her wedding dress, she saw her chance for escape.”
“Does the man have any interests? Besides getting married.”
“Miniatures or something. Dollhouses. He’s writing a book about them.”
“I see. Well, it’s not that far from Los Angeles to Palm Springs. How long have you been in the car?”
“Days. We’re turning into the Donner Party. I’ll have to toss out my luggage as we cross the desert. We’ll end up drinking water out of the radiator or eating each other for lunch. And he’s so small, it’d be more like brunch.”
“Margo—”
“About two hours.”
“Then you’re nearly there. It’s a lovely town, have you ever been?”
“No, it’s terra incognita. I’m hoping a miracle happens and I don’t have to go.”
“It’s the epicenter of mid-century modern,” Dottie says. “All that 1950s and ’60s glamour and Rat Pack retro. It’s also the playground of movie stars: Dietrich, Gable, Harlow. Of course, those people are all dead. And some things have changed.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t want to harp on this topic. But it’s no secret that Palm Springs has one of the larger homosexual populations in the country.”
“Goodie,” I say. “I’ll drop Tully at the first leather bar we come to. They can stretch him on one of those racks.”
“Margo, be serious. Is he really that
“Why bother?” I say. “Young people are all broke now.”
“Not the ones who own start-ups,” Dottie says.
Dottie is a wizard at discerning disposable income. I imagine her straining to look out the window, giving the young couple the once-over. “Yes,” she says, “these two are cash cows, coming into my barn. Can you hold?”
I hold. Dottie puts the handset on the counter, and I hear her talking with the customers. From the sound of their voices, I don’t need to see them to know what they look like or where they’re from. Seattle, probably. I picture the corduroy pants, the cotton turtlenecks.
“Well,” the man says, “our accountants say we better start a collection.”
“Something world-class,” the woman says. “Paul Allen already did rock and roll. That’s antique and all, but we want to do something really, really old .”
“I see,” Dottie says. “Of course, this establishment specializes in French Art Deco of the early twentieth century. Did you have a specific period in mind?”
“We like the chocolate period.”
“The . . . chocolate period?”
“Fancy stuff. Princes and princesses.”
“The fancy chocolate period. No plain vanilla for you.” By the strain in Dottie’s voice, I imagine the wheels turning in her head. “You don’t by any chance mean . . . no, you couldn’t. You don’t mean, rococo?”
“That’s it, row cocoa.”
I can almost feel the air rushing out of the room. Then I hear Dottie’s voice again, deflated: “Other side of the street, half a block down. Good day.”
There’s the sound of the shop door opening and closing, then Dottie is back on the line. “Did you hear that, darling?”
“I did,” I say. “I’ve told you before. The television screens are getting larger, but the heads are getting smaller.”
“Yes, but I’ll have my revenge. I sent them to Starbucks. Anyway, we’re alone now. Tell me about your niece’s fiancé. Do you like him?”
“Not particularly.” I slump against my boulder. “His name is Tully, and I wish he’d fall out of the car.”
“And why is that?”
“He has a chip on his shoulder.”
“That’s understandable, isn’t it? You say he was left at the altar—”
“He’s a know-it-all. He said Cary Grant was gay.”
Dottie laughs.
“It’s not funny.”
“It is a little. But I can see that it’s not the best topic for the two of you to start off on.” Dottie sighs. “Still, he must have some charms, or your niece wouldn’t have agreed to marry him.”
“He probably held a gun to her head. The minute Georgia went to change into her wedding dress, she saw her chance for escape.”
“Does the man have any interests? Besides getting married.”
“Miniatures or something. Dollhouses. He’s writing a book about them.”
“I see. Well, it’s not that far from Los Angeles to Palm Springs. How long have you been in the car?”
“Days. We’re turning into the Donner Party. I’ll have to toss out my luggage as we cross the desert. We’ll end up drinking water out of the radiator or eating each other for lunch. And he’s so small, it’d be more like brunch.”
“Margo—”
“About two hours.”
“Then you’re nearly there. It’s a lovely town, have you ever been?”
“No, it’s terra incognita. I’m hoping a miracle happens and I don’t have to go.”
“It’s the epicenter of mid-century modern,” Dottie says. “All that 1950s and ’60s glamour and Rat Pack retro. It’s also the playground of movie stars: Dietrich, Gable, Harlow. Of course, those people are all dead. And some things have changed.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t want to harp on this topic. But it’s no secret that Palm Springs has one of the larger homosexual populations in the country.”
“Goodie,” I say. “I’ll drop Tully at the first leather bar we come to. They can stretch him on one of those racks.”
“Margo, be serious. Is he really that
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