Love the One You're With

  And today, she always seems to be involved in some do-gooding mission or another—whether volunteering to plant trees in public parks and cemeteries, or firing off eloquent letters to her legislators, or even making a trek to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina where she repaired homes with Habitat for Humanity. When Suzanne talks about her various projects, I find myself wishing that I were motivated to do more for the greater good; the extent of my activism is that I vote every November (which, incidentally, is slightly more than I can say for Andy, who only votes in presidential elections).

  Sure enough, as I conclude my Drake tale—minus the parts about Leo—Suzanne says, “Wow. You lucky bitch.”

  “I know,” I say, feeling tempted to tell her the whole story, that luck really didn’t play a part in this assignment. If I were going to confide in anyone in the world, it would be Suzanne. Not only because of our blood loyalty—and the simple fact that she’s not related to Andy—but because she was really the only person in my life who didn’t seem to dislike Leo. They only met once, and neither was very chatty, but I could tell that they had an instant rapport and quiet respect for each other. I remember thinking that they actually had quite a few similarities—including their political views; their cynical habit of sneering at much in the mainstream; their acerbic wit; and their seemingly contradictory way of being both passionate and profoundly detached. Even when Leo broke my heart, and I was sure Suzanne would viciously turn on him, she was more philosophical than protective. She said everyone needs to get dumped once—that it’s part of life—and that obviously things weren’t meant to be. “Better now than down the road with three kids,” she said—although I remember thinking I would have preferred the latter. I would have preferred to have something lasting with Leo, no matter what the accompanying pain.

  In any event, I resist telling her about him now, thinking that Leo really is a moot point. Besides, I don’t want this to unfairly color her views on my relationship with Andy, and I can just see it queuing up her depressing outlook of how nearly every marriage is tainted in some way. Either one or both parties settled, or someone is dissatisfied, or someone is cheating or at least considering it. I’ve heard it all before, many times, and it never helps to point out that our own parents seemed very happy together because she rebuffs that argument with either, “How would we really know otherwise? We were kids,” or an even cheerier, “Yeah, but so what? Mom died. Remember? What a fucking fairy tale.”

  Margot, who is downright aghast by my sister’s cynical tirades, maintains that it must be Suzanne’s way of rationalizing her in-limbo, unmarried state. I can see some truth in this, but I also think there’s a bit of the chicken-or-the-egg going on. In other words, if Suzanne were a bit more traditional and romantic or actually threw down an ultimatum like most girls in our hometown over the age of twenty-five, I truly think that Vince would change his tune pretty easily. He loves her too much to let her go. But with all of Suzanne’s marriage bashing, Vince has a built-in excuse for putting off a wedding while remaining guilt-free. In fact, I think he gets way more pressure from their mutual friends and his family than he does from Suzanne—and it is usually she who will chime in with, “No disrespect intended, Aunt Betty, but please mind your own business…And trust me, Vince isn’t getting any milk for free.”

  But, as it turns out, there is no opening to discuss the Leo angle because Suzanne blurts out, “I’m coming with you,” in her authoritative, big-sister way.

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re not star-crazed,” I say, thinking that at least she pretends not to be, although I’ve busted her with her share of tabloids over the years, including an occasional National Enquirer.

  “I know. But Drake Watters isn’t your typical star. He’s…Drake. I’m coming.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why not?” she says. “I’ve been meaning to come see you for months now—and it’s no big deal for me to hop on a plane to L.A.”

  “That’s true,” I say, thinking that it is the best part about her job—and likely the reason she sticks with it. Suzanne can go just about anywhere, anytime she wants.

  “I’ll be your assistant…Hell, I’ll work for free.”

  “Platform’s providing a freelance assistant,” I say, reluctant to agree, although I’m not sure why.

  “So I’ll be the assistant to the assistant. I’ll hold that big silver disk thingy for you like I did when you shot the Monongahela River that one ass-cold winter day. Remember that? Remember how I dropped my glove in the river and almost got frostbite?”

  “I remember,” I say, thinking that Suzanne won’t let you forget certain things. “And do you also remember how I bought you a new pair of gloves the next day?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember those cheapies,” she says.

  I laugh and say, “They were not cheapies.”

  “Were too,” she says. “So make it up to me and let me come to L.A.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But no autographs.”

  “C’mon,” she says. “I’m not that lame.”

  “And no more griping about the gloves.”

  “Deal,” she says solemnly. “Never again.”

  Over the next few days, while Andy is away on a document review in Toronto, I focus on my shoot, working out logistics and consulting several times with Platform’s photo editor and art director who inform me that the focus of the feature is on Drake’s humanitarian work. As such, they want two to three “somber, visually rich, environmental color portraits.”

  “Do you know what situation you’re after?” I ask the photo editor, feeling my first wave of nervousness.

  “That’s what we have you for,” she says. “We saw your work on your Web site. Loved it. Such stark beauty. Just do your thing.”

  I feel a boost of confidence and a little rush that I always feel when someone appreciates my work. I ask if there’s any way I can set up at a restaurant I found on the Internet that is only a couple of miles away from the hotel. “It’s one of those classic, retro diners with black-and-white, hexagon-tiled floors and red booths,” I say, thinking that it’s not unlike the booth I last saw Leo in. “You know, the red will be sort of symbolic of his AIDS work…I think it could look really cool.”

  “Brilliant,” she says. “I’ll just call Drake’s publicist and get the OK.”

  “Great,” I say, as if I’ve heard such words a thousand times before.

  A few minutes later, she phones back and says, “Send the exact address of the diner, and Drake and his people will be there at three o’clock, sharp. Only caveat is that he’s on a really tight schedule. You’ll have to work fast. You’ll only have about twenty to thirty minutes. That work?”

  “No problem. I’ll get the shots,” I say, sounding like the consummate professional—way more confident than I actually am.

  I hang up and call Suzanne, asking her if twenty minutes is still worth a transcontinental flight. She is undeterred.

  “Twenty minutes with greatness is still twenty minutes with greatness. And certainly more greatness than I’ve seen in a long time,” she says.

  “Good enough,” I say. “Just don’t let ole Vince hear you saying that.”

  Suzanne laughs and says, “Oh, Vince knows he’s mediocre at best.”

  “At least he knows his place,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says. “’Cause there are very few things worse than a man who doesn’t know his place.”

  I laugh, memorizing this gem from Suzanne, but not appreciating the full truth of it until I arrive in L.A. three days later.

  Fourteen

  It is five-thirty in the evening L.A. time, and I’ve only been in town for an hour, just long enough to check in at the Beverly Wilshire, dump my suitcase and camera bags in my room, and call Suzanne, whose flight got in earlier this afternoon. She informs me that she’s window shopping on Rodeo Drive—“totally in my element,” she adds sarcastically—but will be
back soon. She says that she’s already scoped out the hotel bar options, suggesting that we meet at the Blvd Lounge for a drink.

  I say great idea, my flight-nerve pills weren’t strong enough for the heartland storms we flew through, and I could really use a glass of wine. Suzanne laughs and calls me a big sissy before I hang up and change into what feels like an L.A. outfit—dark jeans, silver platforms that put me near the six-foot mark, and a simple but chic (for me) lime green silk tank. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack the strapless bra that I bought to go with it, but I figure I’m flat-chested enough to pull it off without looking cheap. Besides, I’m in California now, where anything goes. I freshen my makeup, smoking my eyes more than usual, and finish with a spritz of perfume on the back of my hands, a trick that Margot taught me in college, saying that anyone who talks with her hands as much as I do should reap the benefits of simultaneously releasing her scent.

  Then I’m down the elevator and through the posh lobby, strolling so confidently that I’m very nearly strutting into the Blvd, an intimate, modern, and very elegant lounge decorated in rich shades of amber, chocolate, and gold. As I admire the illuminated onyx bar with a large backlit wine display of at least a thousand bottles, I also find myself admiring the strong profile of a man seated alongside it, alone, drink in hand. A man who looks an awful lot like Leo. I do a squinting double take, and discover, with both amazement and something akin to horror, that he doesn’t simply look like Leo—he is Leo.

  Leo once again. Leo three thousand miles from home.

  I freeze, and for one second, I’m actually naïve or dimwitted enough to think that this is yet another coincidence. Another chance run-in. And, in that beat, my heart stops with the foolishly shameful notion, My God, what if this is fate chasing me down all the way across the country?

  But as Leo glances over, spots me, and raises his drink in the air, cheekbone level, I realize what he’s orchestrated. I realize that I’ve been set up.

  I shift my weight from one heel to the other as he slowly lowers his drink—what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks, his signature drink—and gives me a small, knowing smile.

  I do not smile back, but take the half-dozen steps toward him. I am no longer strutting, and a sudden chill down my spine has me wishing for a bra. Or better yet, a full-length coat.

  “Hello, Leo,” I say.

  “Ellen,” he says, nodding. “Glad you could make it.”

  It sounds like a line right out of an old Hollywood movie, but I am far from charmed, not even when he stands and motions toward the stool beside him.

  You are no Cary Grant, I think, as I shake my head, refusing the seat. I am too stunned to be angry, but am feeling something stronger than mere indignation.

  “You come all this way and won’t have a seat?” he says.

  Another line.

  Leo was never one for lines in the past, and I’m almost disappointed that he’s throwing them out now. I have no vested interest in the man he has become over the last decade, but in some odd way, I don’t want my image of him tarnished by lines.

  “No, thank you,” I say coolly. “I’m meeting my sister here any minute.”

  “Suzanne?” he says with a note of smugness.

  I look at him, wondering whether he actually thinks that remembering her name is impressive. I am tempted to rattle off Clara, Thomas, Joseph, Paul—the names of his four siblings, in birth order, but would never give him the satisfaction of my recalling details about his family.

  Instead I say, “Yes. Suzanne. I only have one sister.”

  “Right,” he says. “Well, I’m glad she’s coming. That’s a nice bonus.”

  “A nice bonus?” I say with what I hope is a nonplussed furrow of my brow. “As in…two sisters for the price of one?”

  He laughs. “No. As in, I always liked Suzanne…the few times we hung out.”

  “You met her once.”

  “Right. And I liked her on that one occasion. Very much.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be so pleased to hear that,” I say flippantly. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  Before he can protest, I walk to the end of the bar and make eye contact with the bartender, a gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man who looks like he would be cast in the role of a bartender.

  “What can I get for you?” he asks me, his scratchy baritone just as role worthy.

  I forgo my wine in lieu of a vodka martini, straight up with extra olives, and then point to an uninhabited chartreuse couch in the far corner of the lounge. “And…I’ll be over there, please.”

  “Very well,” the bartender says sympathetically, as if aware of the fact that I’d rather be anywhere in the world than in the company of the only man at his bar.

  I turn and walk briskly to the couch, feeling Leo’s eyes on me. I sit, cross my legs, and fix my gaze out the window onto Wilshire Boulevard, my mind racing. What is Leo doing here? Is he trying to tempt me? Taunt me? Torture me? What will Suzanne think when she bursts into the lounge at any moment? What would Andy say if he could see me now, braless in a swanky lounge, martini on the way, with my ex-lover just across the room?

  My drink arrives one beat before Leo.

  “Are you…upset?” he asks, standing over me.

  “No. I’m not upset,” I say, barely looking up at him before taking something between a sip and a gulp of my martini. The vodka is strong but smooth, going down easily.

  “Yes, you are,” Leo says, looking more amused than concerned. When I see the corners of his mouth turn up in a satisfied little smile, I lose it and snap, “What is this exactly?”

  “What is what?” Leo asks, remaining infuriatingly calm as he settles, uninvited and unwelcome, next to me on the couch.

  “This,” I say, angrily gesturing in the space between us, unwittingly releasing my scent. “What are you doing here, Leo?”

  “I’m writing the story,” he says innocently. “On Drake.”

  I stare at him, speechless and stupefied. Remarkably, Leo’s writing the feature had never once occurred to me. Had I conveniently blocked the possibility out? And, if so, why? Because I had a subconscious hope that Leo would be here? Or because I wanted to absolve myself of any guilt in taking a dream assignment? I have the sinking feeling that a good psychiatrist would be exploring both possibilities.

  “Oh,” I say, dumbly, numbly.

  “I thought you knew that,” he says—and I can tell he believes it.

  I shake my head, feeling myself soften as I register that at least he has a legitimate reason to be here; it’s not just a straight ambush. “How would I know that?” I ask defensively, but also slightly embarrassed by my outburst—and the brazen assumption that he was here to see me.

  “How else would I have an in on the photography assignment?” he asks, driving home the point even more.

  “I don’t know…Some contact?”

  “Like Drake?” he says, looking mildly amused.

  “You…know Drake?”

  “Yup,” he says, crossing his fingers. “We’re like this.”

  “Oh,” I say, impressed in spite of myself.

  “I’m kidding,” he says and goes on to explain how he was working as the UNICEF correspondent during last year’s AIDS Walk in New York and met some of Drake’s people there. “So long story short, we ended up chatting over a few pints…and I basically talked myself into this feature which I, in turn, pitched to Platform. And voilà…the rest is history.”

  I nod, feeling almost completely disarmed by his talk of charity and journalism—topics that hardly conjure sleazy attempts to canoodle with married ex-girlfriends in swanky L.A. bars.

  “So anyway,” he continues, “the day I got the green light from Platform was the very day I ran into you…so it seemed…I don’t know…serendipitous…fitting that I try to hook you up on the photography side.”

  “But we didn’t talk about my work,” I say, essentially asking him if he went home and Googled me—or whether he has otherwise followed my c
areer over the years.

  He smiles sheepishly and confirms. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Meaning?” I say. My tone is merely inquisitive—but the pressing nature of the follow-up goes beyond information gathering.

  “Meaning you don’t have to talk to someone to think about them…and check up on them now and again…”

  I shiver, feeling goose bumps rising on my arms and my nipples pressing against my tank. “Is it cold in here?” I say, nervously crossing my arms.

  “I’m rather warm, actually,” Leo says, leaning toward me, close enough for me to smell his skin and the whiskey on his breath. “Would you like my jacket?”

  I glance at his espresso suede jacket—the kind that a reporter or cowboy would wear—and shake my head in a gentle refusal. “No, thanks,” I say, my voice coming out in a near whisper—a whisper that serves as a stark contrast to Suzanne’s sudden, rowdy hello above us.

  I jump, feeling startled and very busted. Flustered, I stand to hug my sister while sputtering an explanation, “I…uh…look who I ran into?…You remember Leo?”

  “Sure,” Suzanne says cheerfully, unfazed. She slips one hand into the back pocket of her jeans and extends the other to Leo. “Hi, there.”

  He shakes her hand and says, “Hi, Suzanne. Good to see you again.”

  “You, too,” she says sincerely. “It’s been a long time.”