Suzie Lightning. FIFTEEN

Suzie Lightning

FIFTEEN

I’d never had any luck with Hollywood. To me, the movie industry was like a guy you lusted after from across the high school cafeteria — so good-looking, so perfect, that you just knew he’d never notice you, and that if you asked him to sign your yearbook at graduation he’d stare at you blankly and grope for your name.

It was an unrequited love affair, but I’d never stopped trying. Every few months I’d importune agents with query letters asking if they were interested in my screenplay. I’d wind up with nothing to show for my troubles but a fistful of preprinted rejection postcards (“Dear aspiring writer, ” they’d begin), or occasionally a semipersonal letter advising me that they were no longer handling unsolicited material, unknown writers, novice writers, unproduced writers, or whatever they were using as the derogatory term du jour.

Once, the year before I met Bruce, an agent did meet with me. The thing I remember most about our appointment was that during the entire ten minutes or so he granted me, he never once said my name, or removed his sunglasses.

“I read your screenplay, ” he said, pushing it across the table toward me with his fingertips, as if it was too distasteful to risk full palm contact. “It was sweet. ”

“Sweet’s not good? ” I asked — the obvious conclusion one would draw from the expression on his face.

“Sweet is fine, for children’s books, or TGI Fridays on ABC. For movies, well … we’d prefer it if your heroine blew something up. ” He tapped his pen across the title page. Star Struck, it read. Except he’d doodled little fangs coming out of the S’s, so they looked like snakes. “Also, I’ve got to tell you, there’s only one fat actress in Hollywood”

“That’s not true! ” I exploded, abandoning my strategy of smiling politely and keeping quiet, not sure what I was more offended by — his use of the term “fat actress, ” or the notion that there was only one of them.

“One bankable fat actress, ” he amended. “And really, the reason is, nobody wants to see movies about fat people. Movies are about escape! ”

Well. “So … what do I do now? ” I asked.

He shook his head, already pushing himself back from the table, already reaching for his cell phone and his valet parking stub. “I just can’t see getting involved with this project, ” he had told me. “I’m sorry. ” Another Los Angeles lie.

“We’re anthropologists, ” I murmured to Nifkin, and to the baby, as we flew over what might have been Nebraska. I hadn’t brought any of my baby books with me, but I figured, if I couldn’t read, I could at least explain. “So just think of it as an adventure. And we’ll be home before you know it. Back in Philadelphia, where we’re appreciated. ”

We — me, and Nifkin, and my belly, which had gotten to the point where I pretty much regarded it as a separate thing — were in first class. Actually, as best I could tell, we were first class. Maxi’d sent a limo to my apartment, which had whisked me the nine miles to the airport, where a block of four seats had been reserved in my name and nobody so much as batted an eyelash at the presence of a small and ter-rified rat terrier in a green plastic carrying case. We were currently airborne, at our cruising altitude of 30, 000 feet, and I had my feet up on a pillow, a blanket spread over my legs, a chilled glass of Evian with a twist of lime in my hand, and a glossy assortment of fresh magazines fanned out on the seat beside me, beneath which Nifkin reposed. Cosmo, Glamour, Mademoiselle, Mirabella, Moxie. The brand-new April issue of Moxie.

I picked it up, hearing my heart start thumping, feeling the sick feeling in the pit of my belly, and the familiar cold sweat at the back of my neck.

I put it down. Why should I upset myself? I was happy, I was successful, I was flying to Hollywood first class to collect a bigger paycheck than he’d ever see in his life, not to mention the mandatory hob-nobbing with superstars.

I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

“Shit, ” I muttered, to no one in particular, and flipped to “Good in Bed. ”

“The Things She Left Behind, ” I read.

“I don’t love her anymore, ” the article began.

When I wake up in the morning, she isn’t the first thing that I think of — whether she’s here, and when I’ll see her, and when I can hold her again. I wake up and think about work, my new girlfriend, or, more likely, my family, and my mother, and how she’ll manage in the wake of my father’s recent death.

I can hear our song on the radio and not instantly punch up another station. I can see her byline and not feel like someone large and angry is stomping on top of my heart. I can go to the Tick Tock Diner, where we used to go for late-night omelets and fries, where we’d sit side by side in a booth and grin dopey grins at each other. I can sit in that same booth without remembering how she’d start off sitting across from me and then, halfway through, get up and plop herself down beside me. “I’m just being sociable, ” she’d say, every time. “I’m paying you a visit. Hello, neighbor! ” she’d say, and kiss me, and kiss me until the waitress with the blond bouffant and the coffee pot in each hand would stop and shake her head.

I have reclaimed the Tick Tock. Once it was our place, now it’s my place again. It’s right on my way home from work, and I like the spinach and feta omelet, and I can even order it sometimes without remembering how she’d bare her teeth at me in the parking lot, demanding to know whether she had spinach stuck between them.

It’s the little things that get me, every time.

Last night I was sweeping — my new girlfriend was coming over, and I wanted things to look nice — and I found a single kibble of dog food, wedged in a crack between the tiles.

I returned the obvious stuff, of course, the clothes and the jewelry, and I tossed out the rest. Her letters are boxed up in my closet, her picture’s banished to the basement. But how do you guard against a single kibble’s worth of her dog’s Purina Small Bites that’s somehow survived, undetected, for months, only to surface in your dustpan and send you reeling? How do people survive this?

Everyone has history, my girlfriend says, trying to soothe me. Everyone has baggage, everyone carries parts of their past around. She’s a kindergarten teacher, a student of sociology, a professional empath; she knows the right things to say. But it makes me furious to find C. ’s cherry Chap Stick in my glove box, a single blue mitten in the pocket of my winter coat. Furious, too, over the things I can’t find: my tie-dye tank top and the Cheesasaurus Rex T-shirt I got for sending in three box tops from Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, because I know she’s got them and I’ll never get them back.

I think that when relationships end there should be Thing Amnesty Day. Not right away, when you’re both still raw and broken and aching and probably prone to ill-advised sex, but down the road, when you can still be civil, but before you’ve completed the process of turning your former beloved into just a memory.

Turning your former beloved into a memory, I thought sadly. So that’s what he’s doing. Except … well, turning a former lover into a memory is one thing, but turning a child into a minor distraction, into something you can’t even be bothered with … well, that was something else. Something infuriating. Ill-advised sex, indeed! What about the consequences of his little slip-up!

But for now, I hired a cleaning crew for my apartment. The floors, I told them, showing them the kibble I’d found, muttering dire predictions about bugs and mice and other assorted vermin. But really, I am haunted by memories.

I don’t love her anymore. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Oof. I leaned back in the plush, double-wide leather-clad reclining seat and closed my eyes, feeling the most potent and horrible mixture of sadness and fury — and sudden, overwhelming hope — that for a minute I thought I’d throw up. He’d written this three months ago. That was how long magazines took to print things. Had he seen my letter? Did he know I was pregnant? And what was he feeling now?

“He still misses me, ” I murmured, with my hand on my belly. So did that mean there was hope? I thought for a minute that maybe I’d mail him his Cheesasaurus Rex T-shirt, as a sign … as a peace offering. Then I remembered that the last thing I’d mailed him was news that I was having his baby, and he hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone and ask me how I was.

“He doesn’t love me anymore, ” I reminded myself. And I wondered how E. felt, reading this … E. the kindergarten teacher with her sweet talk of baggage and her small, soft hands. Did she wonder why he wrote about me, after all this time? Did she wonder why he still cared? Did he care, or was that just my wishful thinking? And if I called, what would he say?

I turned restlessly in my seat, flipping the pillow, then scrunching it against the window and leaning against it. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the captain was announcing our descent into beautiful Los Angeles, where the sun was shining and the winds were from the southwest and where it was a perfect 80 degrees.

I got off the plane with my pockets full of little gifts the flight girls had pressed upon me, packets of Mint Milanos and foil-wrapped chocolates and complimentary eye masks and washcloths and socks. I had Nifkin’s carrier in one hand, my bag in the other. In the bag was a week’s worth of underwear, my Pregnancy Packable kit, minus the long skirt and tunic, which I was wearing, and a few fistfuls of assorted hygiene products that I’d thrust in at the last minute. A nightgown, some sneakers, my telephone book, my journal, and a dog-eared copy of Your Healthy Baby.

“How long will you be? ” my mother had asked the night before I’d left. The boxes and bags of what I’d bought at the mall were still strewn in the hallway and kitchen, like fallen bodies. But the crib, I’d noticed, was put together perfectly. Dr. K. must have done it while I was on the phone with Maxi.

“Just a weekend. Maybe a few days longer. ” I told her.

“You told this Maxi person about the baby, right? ” she’d fretted.

“Yes, Mom, I told her. ”

“And you’ll call, right? ”

I rolled my eyes, told her yes, and walked Nifkin over to Sa-mantha’s, to give her the good news.

“Details! ” she demanded, handing me a cup of tea and settling on her couch.

I told her what I knew: that I’d be selling my screenplay to the studio, that I’d need to find an agent, and that I’d be meeting some of the producers. I didn’t mention that Maxi had urged me to find a place to stay for a while, in case I wanted to be in California for the inevitable revisions and rewrites.

“That is completely unbelievable! ” Samantha said, and hugged me. “Cannie, it’s just great! ”

And it was great, I mused, as I trudged down the jetway with Nifkin’s case banging against my leg. “Airport, ” I murmured to the baby. And there, at the gate, was April. I recognized her instantly from New York. Same knee-high black leather boots, only now her hair was drawn up into a ponytail at the top center of her head, and there was something strange happening between her nose and her chin. It took me a minute to figure out that she was smiling.

“Cannie! ” she said, and waved and took my hand. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you! ” She raked her eyes over me in the way that I’d remembered, lingering just a beat or two too long on my stomach, but her smile was firmly in place by the time her eyes met mine. “A towering talent, ” she pronounced. “Loved the screenplay. Loved it, loved it. As soon as Maxi showed it to me, I told her two things. I said, Maxi, you are Josie Weiss, and I said, I cannot wait to meet the genius who created her. ”

I thought briefly about telling her that we had, in fact, already met, and it had been the single worst reporting experience of that month, possibly the entire year. I wondered if she’d hear me if I whispered “hypocrite” to the baby. But then I decided, why rock the boat? Maybe she genuinely didn’t recognize me. I hadn’t looked pregnant the last time she’d seen me, any more than she’d been smiling.

April bent to peer into the carrying case. “And you must be little Nifty! ” she cooed. Nifkin started growling. April appeared not to notice. “What a beautiful dog, ” she said. I snorted back laughter, and Nifkin continued to growl so hard that his cage was vibrating. Nifkin has many fine qualities, but beauty is not among them.

“How was your flight? ” April asked me, blinking rapidly and smiling still. I wondered if this was how she treated her famous clients. I wondered if I was a client already, if Maxi had gone ahead and signed a pact in blood, or whatever one did to acquire the services of someone like April.

“Fine. Very nice, really. I’ve never been in first class before. ”

April linked her arm through mine like we were grade-school chums. Her forearm fit neatly below my right breast. I tried to ignore it. “Get used to it, ” she advised me. “Your whole life’s about to change. Just sit back and enjoy the ride! ”

April deposited me in a suite in the Beverly Wilshire, explaining that the studio was putting me up there for the night. Even if it was for one night only, I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, if they’d gone with the indie-alterna ending, where the prostitute winds up pregnant and alone, with only her little dog for comfort.

The suite might very well be the one where they filmed Pretty Woman. It was big, and bright, and deluxe in every way. The walls were covered in gold and cream striped wallpaper, the floors were lined with ultra-plush beige carpeting, and the bathroom was a study in marble shot through with veins of gold. The bathroom was also, I noted, the size of my living room back home, with a bathtub big enough to accommodate a vigorous game of water polo, if I’d been so inclined.

“Fancy schmancy, ” I noted for the baby, and opened a pair of French doors to find a bed that looked big as a tennis court, all done in crisp white sheets, topped with a fluffy pink and gold comforter. Everything was clean and new-smelling and so gorgeous I was almost afraid to touch it. There was also an elaborate bouquet waiting for me beside the bed. “Welcome! ” read the card, from Maxi.

“Bouquet, ” I informed the baby. “Very expensive, probably. ” Nifkin had bounded out of his carrier and was busily making a sniffing tour of the suite. He glanced at me briefly, then rose up on his hind legs to dip his nose toward the toilet. Once that had passed muster, he scampered into the bedroom.

I got him settled on a pillow on the bed, and took a bath, and wrapped myself in the Wilshire robe. I called room service and ordered hot tea and strawberries and fresh pineapple, and liberated some Evian and a box of Choco Leibniz, king of all cookies, from the minibar, without even blanching at the $8 price tag, which was at least triple what the cookies would have cost in Philadelphia. Then I lay back on two of the six pillows that came with the bed and clapped my hands together, laughing. “I’m here! ” I crowed, as Nifkin barked to keep me company. “I did it! ”

Then I called every single person I could think of.

“If you eat at any of Wolfgang Puck’s restaurants, get the duck pizza, ” counseled Andy, in full food-critic mode.

“Fax me anything before you sign it, ” urged Samantha, and proceeded to spout five minutes’ worth of lawyer-ese before I calmed her down.

“Take notes! ” said Betsy.

“Take pictures! ” said my mother.

“You brought my head shots, right? ” demanded Lucy.

I promised that I’d lobby for Lucy, take notes for future columns for Betsy and pictures for Mom, fax anything legal-looking to Samantha and eat duck pizza for Andy. Then I noticed the business card propped on one of the pillows, engraved with the words Maxi Ryder. Under her name was the single word Garth, a telephone number, and an address on Ventura Boulevard. “Be there at 7 o’clock. Drinks and amusements to follow, ” it said.

“Drinks and amusements, ” I murmured, and stretched out on the bed. I could smell the fresh flowers, and could hear the faint sound of cars buzzing from thirty-two floors below. Then I closed my eyes and didn’t wake up until it was 6: 30. I splashed water on my face, scrambled into my shoes, and hurried out the door.

Garth turned out to be the Garth, hairdresser to the stars, although at first I thought the cab had dropped me off at an art gallery. It was an easy mistake to make. Garth’s salon lacked the typical trappings: the row of sinks, the stacks of thumbed-through magazines, the receptionist’s desk. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anyone at all inside the high-ceilinged room, decorated with a single chair, a single sink, and a single floor-to-ceiling antique mirror except … Garth.

I sat in the chair while the man who’d put the buttery chunks into Britney Spears’s tresses, who’d given Hillary her highlights and Jennifer Lopez henna, lifted and replaced sections of my hair, touching and scrutinizing it with the cool detachment of a scientist, and tried to explain myself.

“See, you’re not supposed to color your hair when you’re pregnant, ” I began. “And I wasn’t expecting to get pregnant, so I’d just had my highlights done, and they’ve been growing out for six months and I know it looks terrible …”

“Who did this to you? ” Garth asked mildly.

“Um, the pregnancy or the highlights? ”

He smiled at me in the mirror and picked up another piece of my hair. “These weren’t done … here? ” he asked delicately.

“Oh, no. In Philadelphia. ” Blank look from Garth. “In Pennsylvania. ” Truth was, I’d gotten it done at the beauty school on Bainbridge Street, and I thought they’d done a pretty good job, but from the look on his face I could tell that Garth would not agree.

“Oh, dear, ” he breathed quietly. He took a comb, a little spritz-bottle of water. “Do you have any strong feelings about, um …” I could tell he was groping for the kindest word to describe what was happening on top of my head.

“I have lots of strong feelings, but none about my hair, ” I told him. “Do with me what you will. ”

It took him close to two hours: first cutting, then combing, then snipping the ends, then rinsing my head in a garnet-red solution he swore was completely natural, chemical free, derived from only the purest organic vegetables and absolutely guaranteed not to harm my unborn child.

“You’re a screenwriter? ” Garth said once I’d been rinsed. He was holding my chin, tilting my head this way and that.

“Unproduced, so far. ”

“Things are going to happen for you. You’ve got that aura. ”

“Oh, that’s probably just the soap from the hotel. ”

He leaned in close and started tweezing my eyebrows. “Don’t tear yourself down, ” he told me. He smelled of some wonderful cologne, and, even inches from my face, his skin was flawless.

Once he’d shaped my brows to his satisfaction, he rinsed out my hair, blew it dry, and spent about half an hour applying different creams and powders to my face. “I don’t wear much makeup, ” I protested. “Chap Stick and mascara. That’s pretty much it. ”

“Don’t worry. This is going to be subtle. ”

I had my doubts. He’d already brushed three different shades of shadow around my eyes, including one that looked practically violet. But when he whipped the cape off me and twirled me to face the mirror, I felt sorry for even thinking about doubting him. My skin was glowing. My cheeks were the color of a perfect, ripe apricot. My lips were full, a warm wine color, curling with a faint hint of amusement even though I wasn’t aware that I was smiling. And I didn’t notice the eyeshadow, just my eyes, which seemed much bigger, much more compelling. I looked like myself, only more so … like the best, most happy version of myself.

And my hair …

“This is the best haircut I’ve ever had, ” I told him. I ran my fingers through it slowly. It had gone from a raggedy mouse-brown bob with a few haphazard highlights to a rich, shimmering tortoiseshell color, shot through with strands of gold and bronze and copper. He’d cut it short, the tendrils just brushing my cheeks, and let its natural wave remain in place, and he’d tucked it behind my ear on one side, giving me the look of a gamine. Sure, a pregnant gamine, but who was I to complain? “This may be the best haircut anyone’s ever had. ”

The sound of applause came from the doorway. And there was Maxi, wearing a black slip dress with spaghetti straps and black sandals. She had diamond studs in her ears and a single diamond on a thin silver chain around her neck. The dress tied around her neck and left her back bare almost enough to display butt cleavage. I could see the tender buds of her shoulderblades, each marble-sized vertebra, the perfectly symmetrical sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders.

“Cannie! My God, ” she said, studying first my hair, and then my belly. “You’re … wow. ”

“Did you think I was kidding? ” I said, and laughed at her awed expression.

She knelt down in front of me. “Can I …”

“Sure, ” I said. She laid one hand flat on my belly, and, after a moment, the baby obligingly kicked.

“Ooh! ” said Maxi, yanking her hand back as if she’d been burned.

“Don’t worry. You won’t hurt her. Or me. ”

“So it’s a girl? ” asked Garth.

“Nothing official. I just have a feeling, ” I said.

Maxi, meanwhile, was circling me as if I were a piece of property she was thinking about buying. “What does Bruce have to say about this? ” she inquired.

I shook my head. “Nothing, as far as I know. I haven’t heard from him. ”

Maxi stopped circling and stared at me, her eyes wide. “Nothing? Still? ”

“Not kidding, ” I said.

“I could have him killed, ” Maxi offered. “Or even just beaten up. I could send, say, half a dozen angry rugby players with baseball bats to break his legs …”

“Or his bong, ” I suggested. “It’d probably hurt him worse. ”

Maxi grinned. “Do you feel okay? Are you hungry? Or sleepy? Do you feel like going out, because if you don’t, that’s no problem at all”

I grinned at her, and tossed my fabulous hair. “Of course I want to go out! I’m in Hollywood! I’ve got makeup on! Let’s go! ”

I offered Garth a credit card, but he shooed me away, telling me not to worry, it was all taken care of, and if I’d only promise to come back in six weeks to have my ends trimmed he’d consider that payment enough. I thanked him and thanked him until Maxi dragged me out the door. Her small silver car was pulled up to the curb. I got in carefully, aware of my shifting center of gravity … and aware that, next to Maxi, even with my fabulous new hair and gorgeous Garth-enhanced complexion, even in my semichic black matte tunic and skirt and not unhip black slides, I still felt like a dowdy dirigible. A gamine dirigible, at least, I thought, as Maxi zoomed across three lanes of honking cars and accelerated through a yellow light.

“I arranged for the doormen at the hotel to look in on Nifkin, in case we’re out late, ” she shouted, as the warm night wind blew in our faces. “Also, I rented him a cabana. ”

“Wow. Lucky Nifkin. ”

It wasn’t until two traffic lights later that I thought to ask where we were going. Maxi perked up instantly. “The Star Bar! It’s one of my favorite places. ”

“Is it a party? ”

“Oh, it’s always a party there. Great sushi, too. ”

I sighed. I couldn’t eat raw fish or drink alcohol. And even though I was excited to celebrate and see the stars, I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thing I wanted most was the bed in that big gorgeous hotel suite. I never liked late nights or loud parties much before I was pregnant, and I found myself liking them even less since. I’d stay for a little while, I told myself, and then plead pregnant lady exhaustion and make a break for home.

Maxi gave me the rundown on who might be there, as well as any pertinent back-story of which a newcomer such as myself should be aware. The famous actor and actress, married for seven years, I learned, were faking it. “He’s gay, ” Maxi murmured, “and she’s been getting it on with her personal trainer for years. ”

“How cliché! ” I whispered back. Maxi laughed and leaned in closer. The ingenue, star of last summer’s second-biggest action picture, might offer me Ecstasy in the ladies’ room (“at least, she offered it to me, ” said Maxi). The hip-hop princess who reportedly didn’t make a move without her Baptist, Bible-carrying mother was “a real wild one, ” said Maxi. “Sleeps with boys, and girls, and both at the same time, while Maman’s off leading revivals in Virginia. ” The fifty-ish director just got out of the Betty Ford Clinic; the fortysomething leading man had been diagnosed as a sex addict during his last stint at Hazelden; and the much-gossiped-about art-house director wasn’t actually a lesbian, although she was perfectly happy to feed the rumor mill. “Straight as an arrow, ” said Maxi, sounding disgusted. “I think she’s even got a husband stashed in Michigan. ”

“The horror! ” I said. Maxi giggled, grabbing my arm. The elevator doors slid open, and two gorgeous guys wearing white shorts and white dress shirts swung open ten-foot-high glass doors, revealing a bar that looked like it was suspended in the night sky. Windows wrapped around the length of the room. There were dozens of small white-cloth-covered tables for two and for four, covered with dozens of flickering votive candles. The walls were hung with gossamer ivory curtains that billowed gently in the night breeze. The bar was backlit with blue neon, and the bartender was a six-foot-tall woman in a midnight-blue cat-suit, dispensing martinis with her face as gorgeous and still as a carved African mask. Maxi gave my arm a final squeeze, whispered, “I’ll be back in a jiff, ” and darted off to air-kiss people I’d only seen in movies. I leaned against one of the pillars and tried not to stare.

There was the hip-hop princess, with tiny braids cascading from the crown of her head almost to her waist. There were the long-married superstars, looking for all the world like a devoted couple, and the non-lesbian art-house director, in a starched tuxedo shirt and a red bow tie. Dozens of waiters and waitresses zipped around. They all wore white — white pants, white shorts, white tank tops, and absolutely pristine white sneakers. It made the place look like the world’s most chic hospital, except the staff carried oversized martinis instead of bedpans, and everyone was beautiful. My hands itched for a pen and a notebook. I had no business being at a place like this, surrounded by people like these, unless I was taking notes for a future newspaper article in which I’d quite possibly be sarcastic. I didn’t belong here just as myself.

I walked to the windows, which overlooked a lit swimming pool in which nobody was swimming. There was a tiki bar with the requisite thatched roof and torches, thronged with people — all young, all gorgeous, most of them pierced and tattooed and looking like they were on their way to shoot a music video. Beyond that, smog, and Calvin Klein billboards, and the glittering lights of the city.

And there, with his back to the room, with a glass in his hand, staring off into the night, was … oh, God, was it? Yes. Adrian Stadt. I could recognize him from the shape of his shoulders, the set of his hips. Lord knows I’d spent enough time mooning over his pictures. His hair was cut short, and the back of his neck glimmered in the dim room.

Adrian wasn’t handsome in the classic rugged-leading-man mode, and he wasn’t one of the latest crop of androgynous pretty boys, either. He was more boy-next-door — medium height, regular features, unremarkable brown hair, and standard-issue brown eyes. What made him special, appearance-wise, was his smile — the sweet, crooked grin that exposed an ever-so-slightly chipped front tooth (he always told interviewers that he’d done it falling out of his treehouse at age nine). And those regular brown eyes could convey a thousand variations on bafflement, bewilderment, befuddlement — in short, all of the b words necessary to playing the lead in a romantic comedy. Taken by themselves, the pieces were nothing special, but put them together and you had a bona fide Hollywood hottie. At least, that’s what Moxie called him in the “Men We Crave! ” issue.

I’d been thankfully immune to teenage crushes, had never papered my locker with pictures of New Edition or anything, but I had feelings for Adrian Stadt. Watching him on Saturday Night! as he cringed and whined his way through impressions of Kid Picked Last for Kickball Team or sang the faux-operatic “PTA Mother’s Lament, ” I’d felt that if we’d known each other, we could have been friends … or more. Of course, judging from his popularity, millions of other women felt exactly the same way. But how many of them were standing in the Star Bar on a warm spring night in Los Angeles, with the object of their affection in front of them?

I shuffled back until I was leaning against a pillar, trying to hide so I could stare, uninterrupted, at Adrian Stadt’s back and trying to decide whether I’d call Lucy or Samantha first with the news. Things were going fine until a gaggle of skinny girls on stilettos surged into the room and planted themselves in front of, behind, and all around me. I felt like an elephant who’d blundered into a herd of sleek, fast, gorgeous antelope, and I couldn’t see an easy way to blunder my way back out.

“Hold this a sec? ” the tallest, blondest, thinnest of the girls asked me, indicating her silvery pashmina shawl. I took the shawl, then stared at her, feeling my mouth gape open. It was Bettina Vance, lead singer of the chart-topping power punk band Screaming Ophelia — one of my late-night dancing favorites when I was in a bitter mood.

“I love your music, ” I blurted, as Bettina snatched a martini.

She looked at me, bleary-eyed, and sighed. “If I had a nickel for every fat girl who said that to me …”

I felt as shocked as if she’d thrown ice water in my face. All this makeup, my great haircut, new clothes, all of my success, and all the Bettina Vances of the world would see was another fat girl, sitting alone in her room, listening to rock stars sing about lives they couldn’t even dream about, lives they would never know.

I felt the baby kick then, like a little fist rapping sternly at me from the inside, like a reminder. Suddenly, I thought, the hell with her. I thought, I’m someone, too.

“Why would you need donations? Aren’t you rich already? ” I inquired. A few of the gazelles tittered. Bettina rolled her eyes at me. I reached into my purse and, thankfully, felt my fingers close around what I needed. “Here’s your nickel, ” I said sweetly. “Maybe you can start saving for your next nose job. ”

The titters turned to outright laughter. Bettina Vance was staring at me.

“Who are you? ” she hissed.

A few answers occurred: A former fan? An angry fat girl? Your worst nightmare?

Instead, I went for the simple, understated, and, not coincidentally, true answer. “I’m a writer, ” I said softly, forcing myself not to retreat or look away.

Bettina glared at me for what felt like an unbelievably long time. Then she snatched her shawl out of my hands and stalked off, taking her gaggle of size zeros with her. I leaned back against the pillar, shaking, and ran one hand over my belly. “Bitch, ” I whispered to the baby. One of the men who’d been hanging at the edge of the crowd smiled at me, then walked away before his face could really register. In the instant it took me to figure out who he was, Maxi was back at my side.

“What was that all about? ” she asked.

“Adrian Stadt, ” I managed.

“Didn’t I tell you he was here? ” asked Maxi impatiently. “Jesus, what’s with Bettina? ”

“Never mind Bettina, ” I burbled. “Adrian Stadt just smiled at me! Do you know him? ”

“A little bit, ” she said. “Do you? ”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yeah, ” I said. “He’s in my bowling league back in Philadelphia. ”

Maxi looked puzzled. “Isn’t he from New York? ”

“Kidding, ” I told her. “Of course I don’t know him! But I’m a major fan. ” I paused, debating whether to tell Maxi that Adrian Stadt had basically inspired my screenplay. Just as Josie Weiss was me, Avery Trace was Adrian, only with a different name, and without the annoying penchant for dating supermodels. Before I’d decided what to say, she connected the dots. “You know, he’d be a perfect Avery, ” she murmured. “We should talk to him. ”

She headed toward the window. I froze. She turned around.

“What’s wrong? ”

“I can’t just walk up to him and start talking. ”

“Why not? ”

“Because I’m …” I tried to think of a nice way to say, “in a completely different league than handsome, famous movie stars. ” I arrived at “… pregnant. ”

“I think, ” said Maxi, “that pregnant people are still allowed to converse with nonpregnant people. ”

I hung my head. “I’m shy. ”

“Oh, you are not shy. You’re a reporter, for heaven’s sake! ”

She had a point. It was true that, in my working life, I could, and have, routinely just walked up to people far more powerful or influen-tial or better-looking than me. But not Adrian Stadt. Not the guy I’d allowed myself a one-hundred-page daydream about. What if he didn’t like me? Or what if, in person, I didn’t like him? Wouldn’t it be better to just preserve the fantasy?

Maxi shifted from foot to foot. “Cannie …”

“I’m better on the phone, ” I finally muttered. Maxi sighed, charmingly, the way she did everything. “Wait here, ” she said, and hurried to the bar. When she came back there was a cell phone in her hand.

“Oh, no, ” I said when I saw it. “I had bad luck with that phone. ”

“It’s a different phone, ” said Maxi, squinting at the numbers she’d drawn on her hand with what looked like lipliner. “Smaller. Lighter. More expensive. ” The phone started ringing. She handed it to me. Across the room, in front of the room-length windows, Adrian Stadt flipped his own phone open. I could see his lips moving, reflected in the glass.

“Hello? ”

“Don’t jump, ” I said. It was the first thing I could think of. As I spoke, I moved so I was standing behind a pillar draped in white silk, hidden from his view, but in a spot where I could still see his reflection in the window. “Don’t jump, ” I said again. “Nothing could be that bad. ”

He gave a short, rueful laugh. “You don’t know, ” he said.

“Sure I do, ” I said, with the phone in a death grip in my suddenly sweaty hand. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was talking — flirting, even! — with Adrian Stadt. “You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re talented …”

“Flatterer, ” he said. He had a wonderful voice, low and warm. I wondered why he always spoke in that weird whiny singsong in his movies, if he really sounded like this.

“But it’s true! You are. And you’re in this wonderful place, and it’s a beautiful night. You can see the stars. ”

Another bitter burst of laughter. “Stars, ” he sneered. “Like I’d want to. ”

“Not those stars, ” I said. “Look out the window, ” I told him. I watched his eyes as he did what I said. “Look up. ” He tilted his head. “See that bright star, just off to your right? ”

Adrian squinted. “I can’t see anything. Pollution, ” he explained. He turned from the window, scanning the crowd. “Where are you? ”

I ducked even farther behind my pillar. When I swallowed, I could hear my throat click.

“Or at least tell me who you are. ”

“A friend. ”

“Are you in this room? ”

“Maybe. ”

His voice took on a faint, teasing edge. “Can I see you? ”

“No. Not yet. ”

“Why not? ”

“Because I’m shy, ” I said. “And wouldn’t you like to get to know me better this way? ”

He smiled. I could see his lips curving in the window. “How do I know you’re real? ” he asked.

“You don’t, ” I said. “I could be a figment of your imagination. ”

He turned around swiftly, and for a second I felt his eyes on me. I dropped the phone, picked it up, clicked it off, and handed it back to Maxi, all in one motion that I would like to think was smooth, but probably wasn’t.

Instantly, the phone started ringing. Maxi flipped it open. “Hello? ”

I could hear Adrian’s voice. “Figment? Figment, is that you? ”

“Hold, please, ” Maxi said crisply, and handed the phone back to me. I slipped back behind my pillar.

“Star 69 is the bane of human existence in the nineties, ” I began. “Whatever happened to anonymity? ”

“Anonymity, ” he repeated slowly, as if it was the first time he’d said the word.

“Just think, ” I continued, “of the generations of pubescent boys who are never going to be able to make hang-up calls to the girls they’ve got crushes on. Think of how they’ll be stunted. ”

“You’re funny, ” he said.

“It’s a defense mechanism, ” I replied.

“So can I see you? ”

I held the phone as tightly as I could and didn’t answer.

“I’m going to keep calling until you let me see you. ”

“Why? ” I asked.

“Because you sound very nice. Can’t I buy you a drink? ”

“I don’t drink, ” I said.

“Don’t you ever get thirsty? ” he asked, and I laughed in spite of myself.

“Let me see you, ” he said.

I sighed, straightened my tunic, cast a quick glance around to make sure Bettina Vance was elsewhere, then walked up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. “Hey, ” I said, hoping that he’d get the full impact of my hair and makeup before getting to my belly. “Hi. ”

He turned, slowly. In person, he was adorable. Taller than I’d imagined, and so cute, so sweet looking. And drunk. Very, very drunk.

He smiled at me. I picked up my phone. He grabbed my wrist. “No, ” he said, “face-to-face. ”

I turned the telephone off.

He was so handsome up close. On the screen he looked cute, not gorgeous, but in the flesh he was amazing, with beautiful brown eyes, and …

“You’re pregnant, ” he blurted.

Okay, not precisely a news flash, but it was something.

“Yeah, ” I said. “I’m pregnant. I’m Cannie. ”

“Cannie, ” he repeated. “Where’s your, um …” And he waved one arm in the air in a vague way that I took to mean “baby’s father. ”

“I’m here by myself, ” I said, deciding to let it go at that. “Actually, I’m here with Maxi Ryder. ”

“I’m here alone, ” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I’m always alone. ”

“Now, I know that isn’t true, ” I said. “I happen to be aware that you are dating a German medical student named Inga. ”

“Greta, ” he murmured. “We broke up. You’ve got some memory. ”

I shrugged and tried to look modest. “I’m a fan, ” I said. I was trying to figure out whether it would be completely tacky to ask for his autograph, when Adrian grabbed my hand.

“I have an idea, ” he said. “Do you want to go outside? ”

“Outside? ” Did I want to go outside with Adrian Stadt? Did the Pope wear a big hat? I nodded so hard I was worried I’d give myself whiplash, and darted off into the halter-topped, miniskirted masses in search of Maxi. I located her at last in the crush by the bar. “Listen, ” I said, “I’m going outside with Adrian Stadt for a minute. ”

“Oh, you are, are you? ” she said archly.

“It’s not like that. ”

“Oh, no? ”

“He seems kind of … lonely. ”

“Hmph. Well, remember, he is an actor. ” She thought about it. “Well, actually, a comedian who makes movies. ”

“We’re just going for a walk, ” I said, feeling desperate not to upset or offend her, but even more desperate to get back to Adrian.

“Whatever, ” she said airily. She scribbled her number on a napkin and held out her hand for the cell phone. “Give me a call from wherever you are. ”

I handed her the phone, tucked the number into my purse, and rolled my eyes. “Oh, right. I’ll be off seducing him. It’ll be very romantic. We’ll be snuggling on the couch, and I’ll kiss him, and he’ll tell me he adores me, and then my unborn child will kick him in the ribs. ”

Maxi stopped looking sulky.

“And then I’ll film the whole thing, and sell the rights to Fox, and they’ll turn it into a special. World’s Kinkiest Threesomes. ”

Maxi laughed. “Okay. Just be careful. ”

I kissed her on the cheek and, unbelievably, found that Adrian Stadt was still waiting. I smiled at him, and he led me to the elevator, down and out the door, where we found ourselves standing in front of what looked like a highway. No benches, no grass, not even a lowly bus shelter, or a sidewalk to stroll on.

“Huh, ” I said.

Adrian, meanwhile, was looking even more tipsy than he had in the Star Bar. The fresh air didn’t seem to be having the sobering effect I was hoping for. He grabbed at my hand, managing to get my wrist instead, and pulled me close to him … well, as close as my belly would allow.

“Kiss me, ” he said, and I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Kiss me! Like a line from a movie! I was looking over his shoulder for the inevitable bright lights and milling extras and director ready to yell “Cut! ” when Adrian took his thumb and traced it along my cheek, then down over my lips. It was a move that I was pretty sure I’d seen him perform on screen, but I found that I didn’t much care. “Cannie, ” he whispered. Just hearing him say my name was making me throb in places I hadn’t expected to feel anything until the baby came. “Kiss me. ” He brought his lips down to mine, and I tilted my face up, and my body away, as his hand curved behind my neck and held my head like it was something precious. Oh, so sweet a kiss, I thought, and then his lips were back on mine, harder, his hand more insistent, as the traf-fic rushed by us and I felt myself melting, forgetting my resolve, my history, my name.

“Come with me, ” he offered, raining kisses on my cheeks, my lips, my eyelids.

“I’m staying at a hotel …, ” I murmured weakly, realizing as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it sounded like the cheapest come-on ever. And what was going on here, anyhow? Could he really be that lonely? Did he have a thing for pregnant women? Was this perhaps his idea of a joke? “Do you want to maybe …” I tried to think quickly. If I were in Philadelphia, if I were standing on a street being groped by the ultimate object of my desire who was very very drunk, what would I suggest? But, of course, I couldn’t think of a thing. Nothing in my life had even come close. “Go to a bar? ” I finally offered. “A diner, maybe? ”

Adrian reached into his pocket and produced what I figured must be a valet ticket. “How about a ride? ” he said.

“Can we …” I thought quickly. “Can we go to see the beach? It’s such a beautiful night” Which was not exactly true. It was an extremely smoggy night, but at least it was warm, and there was a breeze.

Adrian rocked back and forth on his feet and gave me a sweet, slightly dopey grin. “Sounds like a plan, ” he said.

First, though, there was the not inconsequential matter of getting him to surrender the keys.

“Ooh, a convertible, ” I cooed when a small red car arrived at the curb. “I’ve never driven one. ” I shot him my most coy and charming glance. “Could I drive it? ” He handed over the keys without a word, then sat beside me quietly, not saying much except to tell me where I should turn.

When I glanced over he had his hand pressed to his forehead.

“Headache? ” I asked. He nodded with his eyes shut. “Beer before liquor? ”

He winced. “Ecstasy before vodka, actually, ” he said.

Oof. I guessed if I was going to stay in Hollywood, I’d have to get used to people casually confessing to recreational drug use. “You don’t look ecstatic, ” I ventured.

He yawned. “Maybe I’ll ask for a refund, ” he said, and glanced at me sideways. “So, you’re, um … when are you …”

“I’m due on June fifteenth, ” I said.

“So your, um, husband’s back in …”

I decided to end the game of fill-in-the-blank. “I’m from Philadel-phia, and I don’t have a husband. Or a boyfriend. ”

“Oh! ” said Adrian, sounding like he felt himself to be on firmer ground. “So, your partner’s back there? ”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “No partner, either. Just your classic single unwed mother. ” I gave him the briefest bare-bones outline of the story: me and Bruce, our breakup and twenty-minute-long reconciliation, the pregnancy, the screenplay, and my flight to California a scant twelve hours ago.

Adrian nodded, but didn’t ask any questions, and I couldn’t look at him to read his face. I just kept driving. Finally, after a series of twists and turns I knew I couldn’t hope to remember, let alone repeat on my own, we found ourselves parked on a bluff overlooking the ocean. And in spite of the smog, it was magnificent: the smell of salt water, the rhythmic sound of the waves on the shore, the feel of all that water, all that power and motion, so close to us …

I turned toward Adrian. “Isn’t this great? ” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Adrian? ”

No movement. I leaned toward him slowly, like a big-game hunter approaching a lion. He didn’t stir. I edged closer still. “Adrian? ” I whispered. No murmured endearments, no inquiries as to the subject of my screenplay, or the nature of my life in Philadelphia. Instead, I heard snoring. Adrian Stadt had fallen asleep.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. It was a classic Cannie Shapiro moment: out on the beach with a gorgeous movie star, with the wind whipping the waves and the moonlight gleaming on the water and a million stars in the sky, and he’s passed out.

Meanwhile, I was stranded. And getting cold, too, with the wind blowing off the water. I looked in the car in vain for a blanket or a stray sweatshirt. Nothing doing. It was four in the morning, according to the glowing green hands of my watch. I decided I’d give him half an hour, and if he didn’t wake up and start moving I’d … well, I’d figure something out.

I turned the engine on so I’d have heat, and music from the Chris Isaak CD he had in the CD player. Then I sat back, wishing I’d worn a jacket, keeping one eye on Adrian, who was snoring to beat the band, the other on my watch. It was … well, pathetic, really, but also a little bit funny. My big trip to Hollywood, I thought ruefully. My romance. Maybe I was the kind of girl who deserved to be mocked in magazines, I thought … then I shook my head. I knew how to take care of myself. I knew how to write. And I had one of the things that I wanted most in the world — I’d sold my screenplay. I’d have money, comfort, some measure of fame. And I was in Hollywood! With a movie star!

I glanced to my right. Said movie star was still not moving. I leaned closer. He was breathing harshly, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

“Adrian? ” I whispered. Nothing. “Adrian? ” I said in a normal voice. I didn’t see as much as an eyelid twitch. I bent over and shook his shoulders lightly. Nothing happened. When I let him go he flopped bonelessly back into the bucket seat. Now I was getting worried.

I slipped one hand into his pocket, trying not to think of the potential tabloid headlines (“Saturday Night! Star Molested by Wannabe Screenwriter! ”) and found his cell phone. After a little fumbling, I produced a dial tone. Great. So now what?

Then it hit me. I reached into my purse and pulled Dr. K’s business card out of my wallet. He’d told us in one Fat Class session that he didn’t sleep much, and was usually in the office by 7 A. M., and it was later than that on the East Coast by now.

I held my breath and punched his numbers. “Hello? ” said his deep voice.

“Hey, Dr. K. It’s Cannie Shapiro. ”

“Cannie! ” he said, sounding happy to hear from me, and not at all alarmed by the fact that I was calling long-distance in what was, for me, the wee hours of the morning. “How was your trip? ”

“Just fine, ” I said. “Well, so far so good. Except now I seem to have a problem. ”

“Tell me, ” he said.

“Well, I, um …” I paused, thinking. “I made a new friend, ” I said.

“That’s good, ” he said encouragingly.

“And we’re at the beach, in his car, and he’s kind of passed out, and I can’t get him to wake up. ”

“That’s bad, ” he said.

“Yeah, ” I agreed, “and it’s not even the worst date I’ve been on. So normally I’d just let him sleep, except he told me before he’d been drinking and also taking Ecstasy …”

I paused, and heard nothing. “It’s not what you think, ” I said weakly, even though I had no real idea what he was thinking, except that it was probably some combination of my name and words like “flaky. ”

“So he’s passed out? ” asked Dr. K.

“Well, yeah. Basically. ” I sighed. “And I thought I was being fairly amusing. ”

“But he’s breathing? ”

“Breathing, but sweating, ” I elaborated. “And not waking up. ”

“Touch his face, and tell me how his skin feels. ”

I did. “Hot, ” I reported. “Sweaty. ”

“Better than cool and clammy. We don’t want that, ” he told me. “Try this. I want you to make a fist …”

“Done, ” I reported.

“Now rub your knuckles along his sternum. His breastbone. Do it pretty hard … we’re trying to see if he reacts. ”

I leaned over and did as he instructed, pressing hard. Adrian flinched and said a word that might have been “mother. ” I re-settled myself in my seat and told Dr. K. what had happened.

“Very good, ” he said. “I think your gentleman caller is going to be just fine. But I think you should do two things. ”

“Go ahead, ” I said, tucking the phone under my chin and turning back to Adrian.

“First, turn him on his side, so in case he does vomit, he won’t be in danger of aspirating any. ”

I nudged Adrian until he was semi-sideways. “Done, ” I said.

“The other thing is just to stay with him, ” he said. “Check on him every half hour or so. If he turns cool or starts shaking, or if his pulse becomes irregular, I’d dial 911. Otherwise, he should be fine in the morning. He might feel nauseous, or achy, ” he cautioned, “but there won’t be any permanent damage done. ”

“Great, ” I said, cringing inwardly as I imagined what the morning would be like, when Adrian woke up with the mother of all hangovers and found himself beside me.

“You might want to take a washcloth, dip it in cool water, wring it out, and put it on his forehead, ” said the doctor. “That is, if you’re feeling merciful. ”

I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Thank you, ” I said. “Really. Thanks a lot. ”

“I hope things improve, ” he said cheerfully. “But it sounds like you’ve got this situation in hand. Will you call me and let me know how it turns out? ”

“Absolutely. Thank you again, ” I said.

“Take care of yourself, Cannie, ” he said. “Call if you need anything else. ”

We hung up, and I considered. Washcloth? I looked in the glove compartment and found only a car lease agreement, a few CD jewel boxes, and two pens. I looked in my own purse: lipstick that Garth had given me, wallet, keys, address book, a panty liner that What to Expect When You’re Expecting told me to carry.

I looked at Adrian. I looked at the panty liner. I figured that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, so I got out of the car, made my way carefully to the water, dipped the panty liner, walked back up, and laid it tenderly upon his forehead, trying not to giggle while I did it.

Adrian opened his eyes. “You’re so sweet, ” he slurred.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty! ” I said. “You’re awake! I was getting worried …”

Adrian appeared not to hear me. “I bet you’ll be a terrific mother, ” he said, and closed his eyes again.

I smiled, settling myself back in my seat. A terrific mother. It was the first time I’d really thought about it — the actual act of mothering. I’d thought about giving birth, sure, about the logistics of caring for a newborn, too. But I’d never given much consideration to what kind of mother I, Cannie Shapiro, age almost twenty-nine, would be.

I cupped my hands around my belly as Adrian snored softly beside me. A good mother, I thought, bemused. But what kind? Would I be one of those cool mothers that all the kids in the neighborhood liked, the ones who served sweetened fruit punch and cookies instead of skim milk and fruit, who wore jeans and funky shoes and could actually talk to her kids, instead of just lecture them? Would I be funny? Would I be the kind of mom they’d want to be the room mother, or show up on Career Day? Or would I be one of those worried mothers, always hovering by the door, waiting for my child to come home, always running after it, clutching a sweater, a raincoat, a handful of tissues?

You’ll be you, said a voice in my head. My own mother’s voice. I recognized it instantly. I would be me. I had no other choice. And that wouldn’t be so bad. I’d done all right by Nifkin, I reasoned. That was something.

I leaned my head against Adrian’s shoulder, figuring that he wouldn’t mind. And that was when I thought of something else.

I plucked his phone out of my purse, then dug out the napkin with Maxi’s number, and held my breath until I heard her bright, British, “Hello. ”

“Hey, Maxi, ” I whispered.

“Cannie! ” she cried. “Where are you? ”

“On the beach, ” I said. “I’m not sure exactly where, but …”

“You’re with Adrian? ” she asked.

“Yes, ” I whispered. “And he’s kind of passed out. ”

Maxi started laughing … and in spite of myself, I started laughing, too. “So help me out. What’s the etiquette here? Do I stay? Do I go? Do I, like, leave him a note? ”

“Where are you, exactly? ” asked Maxi.

I looked around for a sign, for a light, for something. “I remember the last street we were on was Del Rio Way, ” I said. “And we’re right on a bluff, maybe twenty-five yards over the water”

“I know where that is, ” Maxi said. “At least, I think I do. It’s where he shot the love scene for Estella’s Eyes. ”

“Great, ” I said, trying to remember whether anyone had passed out during that particular scene. “So what should I do? ”

“I’m going to give you directions to my house, ” she told me. “I’ll be waiting. ”

Maxi’s directions were perfect, and in twenty minutes’ time we were pulling into the driveway of a small, gray-shingled house on the beach. It was the kind of place I might have picked out, given my druthers, and probably several million dollars.

Maxi herself was waiting in the kitchen. She’d swapped her dress and updo for a pair of black leggings, a T-shirt, and pigtails, which would have looked ridiculous on 99. 9 percent of the female population, but looked adorable on her. “Is he still passed out? ”

“Come see, ” I whispered. We walked back to the car where Adrian still lay in the passenger’s seat, his mouth gaping open, his eyes sealed shut, and my panty liner still perched on his forehead.

Maxi burst out laughing. “What is that? ”

“It was the best I could do, ” I said defensively.

Still giggling, Maxi grabbed a copy of Variety from what I took to be her recycling bin, rolled it up, and poked Adrian in the arm. Nothing. She moved the magazine lower and poked him in the belly. No response.

“Huh, ” said Maxi. “Well, I don’t think he’s dying, but maybe we should bring him inside. ”

Slowly and carefully, with much grunting and giggling, we maneuvered Adrian out of the car and onto Maxi’s living room couch — a gorgeous white leather construction that I very much hoped Adrian would not defile.

“We should turn him on his side, in case he throws up …” I suggested, and stared at Adrian. “Do you really think he’s okay? ” I asked. “He was taking Ecstasy …”

“He’ll probably be fine, ” she said dismissively. “But maybe we should stay with him. ” She peered at me. “You must be exhausted. ”

“You, too, ” I said. “I’m sorry about this …”

“Cannie, don’t worry! You’re doing a good deed! ”

She looked at Adrian, then at me. “Slumber party? ” she asked.

“Sounds like a plan, ” I said.

While Maxi went off, presumably to gather bedding material, I took off Adrian’s shoes, then socks. I slid his belt out of its loops, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off the panty liner and replaced it with a dishtowel I’d found in the kitchen.

Then while Maxi piled blankets and pillows on the floor, I washed the makeup off my face, struggled into a Maxi-provided T-shirt, and thought of what I could do to make myself useful.

There was a fireplace in the center of the living room — a perfect-looking, pristine fireplace with a stack of birch logs in the grate in its center. And I knew how to make fires. This was good.

I couldn’t find newspaper, so I tore pages of Variety, twisted them into pretzels, put them underneath the wood, checked to make sure the flue was open, checked to make sure that the wood was actual wood, and not some decorator’s ceramic critique of wood, then lit a match from the matchbook I’d grabbed at the Star Bar, in hopes of proving to Samantha and Andy and Lucy that I’d actually been there. The paper flared, then the logs started burning, and I rocked back on my heels, satisfied.

“Wow, ” said Maxi, snuggling into her pile of blankets, turning her face toward the fire’s glow. “How’d you learn to do that? ”

“My mother taught me, ” I said. She looked at me expectantly, so I told the story … to Maxi, and, I thought, to my baby, too, of how we’d all go fishing on Cape Cod, and how my mother would build a fire to keep us warm … how we’d sit in a circle — my father, my sister, my brother, and me — roasting marshmallows and watching my mother standing in the water, tossing the silvery filament of line out into the gray-black water, with her shorts rolled up and her legs strong and tanned and solid.

“Good times, ” Maxi repeated, rolling over and falling asleep. I lay there for a while, my eyes wide open in the darkness, listening to her deep, quiet breaths and Adrian’s snoring.

Well, here you are, I told myself. The fire was dying down to embers. I could smell the smoke on my hands and in my hair, and I could hear the waves moving on the shore, and see the sky lightening from black to gray. Here you are, I thought. You Are Here. I cupped my hands around my belly. The baby turned, swimming in her sleep, executing what felt like a backflip. Her, I thought. A girl, for sure.

I sent out a good-night prayer to Nifkin, who I figured would be fine for one night on his own in a luxury hotel. Then I closed my eyes and conjured my mother’s face over those Cape Cod fires, so happy and at peace. And, feeling happy and at peace myself, I finally fell asleep.

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