“Talk, huh?” I ask. Will Houghton was my first. First everything. First everywhere. I haven’t had good “talk” in much, much too long.
Will is silent. “Noonish? You still know the code, right?” he finally asks.
“Yes,” I answer. His birthday: 131. I hear another announcement of a departing plane.
“That’s me. See you tomorrow—oh, I mean today,” he signs off.
“See you then,” I say. My stomach lurches as I turn on the shower.
Chapter Three
By the time I was twenty-four, my liver was shot, and I had lost three toes to gangrene.”
So begins my father’s debut novel, The Coward. He smoked like a chimney, looked like a matinee idol, and had his choice of any woman.
He chose Ballard Foster. My mother. The sole heir to the Foster Family Fortune—a running joke in our family. Not the fortune, mind you, but the alliteration of the phrase. It was always said with lisps, in the voice of Daffy Duck and with saltine crackers stuffed to capacity in tiny, ornery mouths: Fausta Famiwee Fortoon, à la Barbara Walters—so it was a bit surreal when Barbara Walters actually did a show on my dad and said our name just like that. We even tried the obligatory “say it ten times fast” rule, much to the displeasure of the overseers of the Foster Family Fortune.
Instead of marrying someone from her social set, my mom married a nobody whom she met at one of her charity functions. He was a young naval aviator stationed in San Diego, and she was a debutante on summer break from Stanford University. Or, from the point of view of the Foster relatives, she was a mark, and he was a gold digger. They were married in a tiny chapel at the naval station with Will’s mom, Anne, as the maid of honor. She was the only friend who stood by Mom while she made “the biggest mistake of her life.”
Ben Page. The biggest mistake of Mom’s life.
He flew helicopters in the war and, at twenty-three, was shot down over North Vietnam. After being released from a North Vietnamese POW camp, he was sent home for good. It was while recuperating at Balboa Naval Hospital that he wrote The Coward, the novel that began a career that has spanned thirty years, eleven books, four movie adaptations, two Pulitzers, and a partridge in a pear tree.
The Coward came out in 1971, at a time when the country was deeply divided and changing. Dad’s book was a wrenching first-person account of the horrors and utter waste of war. He and his book were an integral part of the growing antiwar movement, and he became the poster boy for disillusionment and dissent. He appeared on late-night talk shows more often than Truman Capote had, and when it came to getting an intellectual sound bite for the nightly news, he was more sought after than Norman Mailer. Dad rented a run-down cottage in Laurel Canyon for his workspace, got stoned with a veritable Who’s Who list of pop culture, lazed around the pool with Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson, and hung out backstage at The Last Waltz with Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Neil Young.
As she came of age, Mom took the helm of the Foster Family Foundation. My grandmother Elisabeth died from a fall off a horse when Mom was in her teens. When my grandfather died shortly thereafter, he left Mom the entire Foster Family Fortune. In his will, he stipulated that Mom was to be raised by her aunt, my great-aunt Brooke—or rather, Mom was to spend the school year at boarding school, summer in Montecito with her extended family, and keep a room at Aunt Brooke’s house in Pasadena.
Despite the pain and trauma that both my parents had experienced up until then, neither one gave up hope that someday they could be part of a family. They also knew that neither would give up a hold on independence. It’s odd they never quite put together that desiring a family while craving independence is a bit of a contradiction, to say the least.
My bags are packed and waiting for me by the door. Two hours up the 101 Freeway, and I’ll be staying at my parents’ summer home again. Driving through the same two enormous rock columns and up the tree-lined drive. Sitting at the long dining table in the same seat I’ve been assigned my entire life. And sleeping in the same tiny twin bed.
I take off my running gear and put it in the washer. I can still feel the breakfast I ate at Joan’s on Third flipping in my stomach. Joan’s is the official end point of my morning run. Each morning, after a cleansing three-mile route through my West Los Angeles neighborhood, I sit and read the L.A. Times over an Americano and a bowl of yogurt and granola. Despite my run, my stomach has been churning all morning. I chalk it up to parental stress on the horizon. I grab the box of Pepto-Bismol chewables next to the sink and pop two pink pills, chewing and washing them down with a swig from the bottle of Pellegrino in the refrigerator. I pocket two more tablets for the road and pour the entire contents of my Bialetti stovetop espresso maker into a travel mug. No sugar. No milk. Straight.
I walk out of my small galley kitchen and into the front room. I chose this apartment for its proximity to the restaurant. I’ve grown fonder of it over the years because of its great style, hardwood floors, and abundance of natural light. I open the French doors. They overlook the communal courtyard and burbling fountain. I sip my coffee and breathe in the morning air. Another day.
After an hour on the 101 Freeway, I look over at my passenger seat. My BlackBerry sits next to the iPod that’s connected to the car stereo. The iPod is sitting next to a bottle of water, which is propped up next to the laptop. I have an electronic entourage. The red dot that indicates unread e-mail on my BlackBerry has been flashing the entire time. The ringer is set on silent, but I can see that I’ve already missed six calls. It’s a tossup whether the calls are from Mom or Chef Canet or some combination of both. Just because the restaurant is closed on Sundays and Mondays doesn’t mean that I won’t hear from Chef.
I turn up the sound on my stereo and roll down my window. I’m driving through the picture-perfect section of the 101 between Ventura County and Montecito. Ocean on one side, mountains on the other. I breathe in deeply and change into the slow lane.
The town of Montecito nestles cozily between the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Ynez Mountains, just south of Santa Barbara. It’s said to be one of the wealthiest communities in the nation, filled to bursting with huge estates hidden behind massive gated walls. Some of these estates were built a long time ago by the robber barons of a bygone era, like my grandfather. Others have been added more recently by a bevy of celebrities, show business people, and the modern-day robber barons of finance and technology. The Montecito old-timers discreetly turn up their noses at the new arrivals’ displays of wealth: fancy new cars, ridiculous baubles, and bling. You can always tell the old money. They don’t have to try that hard. The old Mercedes, the Chanel suit, and a foundation named after your family. This is where I spent my idyllic summers as a kid.
I drive slowly down Montecito’s main street, Coast Village Road, past small elegant shops, nurseries, and bistros. Montecito has a slightly rustic yet decidedly upscale look; wooden street signs with white lettering mark the winding roads. I have forgotten all things Los Angeles and embrace the hundred-mile expanse between me and the pressure and stress of Beverly. I turn my car toward Will’s mom’s house. I tap the numbers into the small touchpad at the main entrance: 1 . . . 3 . . . 1.
The huge gate swings open, and I drive between the large rock columns. I twist open the lid of my water and drink. My stomach is in knots. I have no idea what the next few hours will hold. I pull up next to Will’s 1988 Jeep Grand Wagoneer. It’s parked in front of the six-car garage. The ugly oxidized maroon paint is only slightly uglier than the faux-wood siding. This is Will’s Montecito car—a car that reeks of old money. When he’s in L.A., Will prefers the luxury of the brand new black Porsche Cayman his mom bought him for his birthday. Even though we’re grown up now, I still look at Will and see the eight-year-old hellion who called his mom “stupid fuck-it” at a black-tie charity event; the same boy who always seemed to finagle an invitation to dinner at our house so he didn’t have to eat with the housekeeper. My family, with all of our flaws, is the only family Will has
ever known. Mom always welcomed Will and has remained loyal to Anne, reminding everyone how faithful Anne was during the first years of Mom’s marriage to “the biggest mistake of her life.” I know she’s brokenhearted at the parenting choices, or lack thereof, that Anne has made over the years, and the harm those choices have done to Will, yet she still holds out hope for both of them.
I park my Audi wagon next to the Jeep and scoop all of my electronics into my purse. I zip the purse closed, sling it across my chest, and get out, beeping my car locked from habit. Just who’s going to scale the six-foot wall of the Houghton manse and steal my car? I guess L.A. isn’t so far out of my mind after all. I almost beep the car unlocked out of embarrassment.
I smooth my camel cashmere sweater down over the silk camisole I’m wearing with my tweed pants. I’m wearing black Chuck Taylors for the drive, with a pair of kitten heels stashed in the car, just so Mom won’t faint at the sight of me. I start to knock on the back kitchen door and then quickly lower my hand. I look around. I try the latch on the door and find that it’s unlocked. I look around again.
“Are you being followed?” Will asks. He’s sitting at the large kitchen table with the entire L.A. Times spread out in front of him. A half-full French press sits next to a mug of steaming coffee. An ashtray and a pack of Gauloises are almost hidden by the dissected newspaper.
“What?” I turn around and slowly close the door behind me. In that millisecond, I try to gather myself. He looks amazing. No shirt. Pajama bottoms. Bare feet. His yellow brush of hair is slightly grown out and a bit ruffled. He’s clean-shaven and smells of his morning shower. Dad likes to say that Will is a true example of a man—strong, bold, and intrepid. It doesn’t help that Rascal is usually off somewhere with a wineglass dangling from his long fingers, wearing some kind of scarf and talking about his feelings.
Standing in front of Will now is like turning a key and entering a place that exists only in my mind. Bred to constantly raise the bar higher, I can’t stop checking for imperfections in my life. Everything must be weighed and measured. Everything is up for criticism. Everything could be better. Being here means everything doesn’t have to be perfect . . . for a while.
How did I allow myself to go without him for so long? How long has it been? The last time I was with someone was Will, and that was a year ago, right before he embedded in Iraq for a story he was writing for Vanity Fair. Will went to Israel immediately after Iraq. Until last night’s phone call, I thought he was still in Lebanon on a story for Esquire. I’ve long since given up the job-related flings and late-night flirtations of my twenties. My momentary flush of sweet oblivion is inevitably negated by the realization that nothing could survive my brutal schedule or an unannounced visit by Will. I’ll drop everything for just one night with him. It’s been like this for years. But here we are, after knowing each other all our lives, always picking up right where we left off yet always starting right back at square one.
I feel my shoulders lower away from my ears. I breathe in as I set my keys and purse on the long soapstone counter.
“Do your parents know you’re in town yet?” Will says, folding up a portion of the paper as he stands.
“Why are you still talking?” I say, pulling him in for a long-overdue kiss.
Will pulls at my now-inconvenient cashmere sweater. The world falls away. As it always has. My sweater comes up and off. The camisole is being manhandled within an inch of its life. I’m pushing his pajama bottoms farther and farther down.
The kitchen floor is cold on my back, though I can feel my face flushed with heat. Will smiles and laughs in between kisses. I say something about calling Mom and letting her know I might be a little late. The funny thing is we’ve been here before, on this actual kitchen floor. So many times we’ve been unable to make it past the first few steps without falling into each other. I reach for my pants pocket and pull out the fun-size box of condoms I bought at a gas station on the 101. Will lifts himself up and reaches underneath the L.A. Times for his own strip of condoms and smiles.
There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.
Chapter Four
Hi, Mom!” I announce into my BlackBerry as I beep my car unlocked. My hair is still wet from my hour-long shower with Will. He trails behind me, trying to light a cigarette.
“Darling, why didn’t you call? Did you get any of my messages?” Mom asks. I’m waving off Will and his cigarette, mouthing frantically, “Not in my car . . . not in my car . . . no smoking . . . no smoking.” Will lights the cigarette and blows smoke out through his nose. He opens the door and climbs in.
“I just stopped by to get Will so we could drive over together,” I say, climbing into the car and immediately rolling down all the windows. My body aches—the wonderful, wonderful ache of Will.
“I’ll have Iris make those appetizers he likes so much,” Mom says. Iris and her husband, Robert, have worked for Mom and Dad for over twenty years. I let Mom know we’ll be there within minutes and hang up.
“So, we’re rocking the Genesis, huh?” Will says, cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he taps every button on my car stereo.
“Yeah, a little ‘Follow You, Follow Me.’ Great road song,” I say.
“The lyrics are ass—Oy! It’s the pedal on the right, Mary!” Will yells out the window at a giant boat of a Cadillac that’s going about three miles an hour. The poor woman behind the wheel doesn’t hear a thing. I laugh over the offensive Genesis song. Will taps the forward button and lands on a more suitable Nick Drake song. “I could have been a sailor . . . could have been a cook . . .” Will sits back in the passenger seat and rests his hand casually on my leg.
The eucalyptus- and fireplace-scented winds of Montecito drift in through the open windows. A single curl of Will’s hair sticks to the nape of his neck. As I pull through the large rock columns that mark Mom and Dad’s drive, I twirl the curl in my fingers. Will leans in to my twirling. Then we slam our doors and walk into the house past the parked cars.
“Whose is that?” Will asks, pointing to Dad’s favorite new toy. This is the first I’ve seen it. God, it really is beautiful.
“Dad’s,” I say. “That’s the car he’s wanted since he was a teenager.”
“What’s so special about it?” Will says, running his finger down the side of the car.
“It’s a 1966 427 Corvette. Marina blue. Four-speed. A hundred percent original. Side-pipe exhaust in the classic hard-top coupe,” I parrot. Rascal and I have been hearing about this car our entire lives.
“How much did he have to pay for that?” Will asks.
I sigh. “About half a million dollars.”
“Jesus, I knew they were popular, but—” he says. We walk past the Corvette, Mom’s old Mercedes diesel wagon, a brand-new sleek BMW, and on into the house.
“Well, another guy wanted it at the Barrett-Jackson auction, and Dad doesn’t like to lose,” I say, walking up the front steps.
The house has gone through many decorating incarnations over the years. Mom is still developing her own style after growing up with all the heirlooms and antiques that she was never allowed to touch. So she practices on the Montecito house. She has a team of designers on speed dial. She went through a hideous nautical phase for a while. We’re not allowed to mention it in front of company. She decorated the front of the house with life preservers and buoys with our last name emblazoned across them. After that, she did the whole shabby-chic thing. White everywhere. She transformed the gardens into a carbon copy of the English countryside. We were okay with it at the time. But one summer we all looked around and noticed that the shit just looked dirty and worn out. Vintage, my ass. That “aged” armoire was just plain old.
Last summer Mom redid the entire house again, this time in a modern/Asian style, filling it with sleek furniture in pale blues and chocolate browns, with persimmon accents. She’s even had some work done outside, I see. She’s had some paths installed leading to p
eaceful Zen gardens. I definitely like it.
“Darling!” Mom is wearing one of her beach-house outfits: a beautiful creamy-white cashmere sweater and a simple pair of black pencil pants. She’s never had a problem defining her fashion sense. She looks radiant. She kisses my cheek and then rubs the lipstick off. Will steps forward, and Mom plants a kiss on his cheek. She rubs the lipstick off his cheek as he smiles and looks embarrassed.
“What are you doing with all this, William? They don’t have barbers in Lebanon?” Mom smirks, tugging on his just slightly grown-out, yellow hair.
“No, Ballard. No barbers—just death and destruction,” Will says as we walk into the foyer. Mom closes the door behind us. The strap of my suitcase is digging into my shoulder.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, in code. “Everyone” means Dad.
“He’s in his study,” Mom says.
“And Rascal?” I ask.
“He’s in the guesthouse with that Sarah somebody. To look at him, you’d think there are no barbers in Santa Monica, either,” Mom says as Robert reaches for my suitcase. Will puts his hands in his pockets and does that rocking thing he does, side to side, almost as if he’s finding his sea legs on some invisible ship that only he has boarded. That’s how I usually find him in crowds—rocking. I give Robert a hug, and he takes the bag from me.
“We’re going to go say hi to Rascal, Mom,” I say.
“Give your father a kiss before you go out there, Elisabeth,” Mom adds.
“I’ll be in the guesthouse,” Will says, motioning in that direction. It’s no coincidence that Will began smoking, just like Rascal, just like Dad. Will has looked up to Rascal like a god since we were all kids. His unofficial older brother.
“Be sure to knock, darling. You know how he is,” Mom says to me. I catch up with Robert and climb the stairs to the tower.