Mai Tai'd Up Page 5

  “You want to head up north to get some space, that’s fine with me, kiddo. I think it’ll be good for you to be alone for a while. Who knows, you might find you like it up there and want to stay.”

  “I can hardly stay there forever. How adult would it be for me to just go from living in my mother’s house to living in my father’s vacation home?” I asked.

  He laughed. “It’s not just my vacation home, it’s yours, too.”

  “That’s sweet, Dad. I appreciate your letting me head up there for a bit,” I said as I went upstairs, thankful for the lifeline he was tossing me.

  “The house is yours for however long you want it.”

  “Pardon me?” I asked from the landing.

  “Just keep it in mind.”

  “I say again, pardon me?” I leaned down to peer through the banister at him.

  “Pardon you nothing—take as much time as you need,” he said.

  “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

  “I do know that, actually,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  So while I had no real plans to stay up there very long, the idea that I could? If I wanted to? Options . . . kind of a good thing.

  And options in a small, beautifully quiet town felt like exactly what I needed. I’d grown up on a stage. With dance competitions, modeling competitions, pageants almost every other weekend, I’d learned very early on that anything worth doing is worth doing in front of people.

  As I drove the longer, more scenic route up the Pacific Coast Highway, I realized that for so much of my life, I’d been posing. Literally posing, mentally posing, acting a part, or some version of the best foot forward. Even my engagement was for public consumption. At a San Diego Padres game.

  “And as we pause for our seventh-inning stretch, there’s a certain young man in the stands today who has a very special question for a lovely young lady.”

  We were in box seats behind home plate. And there was my face on the Jumbotron, just after I’d bitten into a hot dog. A hot dog that was not on my diet, and don’t think that didn’t get mentioned later on. Ladies, if you’re going to cheat on your diet, don’t do it in a place where there’s a Jumbotron.

  Also, ladies? Don’t go on a fudging diet.

  Back to the flashback.

  As I hastily wiped the mustard from my chin, Charles sank to his knees in front of me—angled toward the camera, mind you—and presented me with an iconic blue ring box.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing?” I whispered from behind the hot dog—angled away from the camera, mind you.

  “What does it look like? Chloe, baby. Will you marry me?”

  He opened the box, and the diamond was so large that the blimp flying overhead could have seen it.

  “Wow,” was all I could manage.

  By that time, the entire stadium began to chant.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  “Yes,” I repeated.

  And as Charles swept me up into a hug, then dipped me backward in a romantic fashion for a kiss seen in every romantic movie from the beginning of time, all I could think was: Too Much. Too Public. Too Not Private.

  But it was a version of romance, and I let myself be swept away by it. I was only a year out of my reign as Miss Golden State, and now I’d been proposed to with a glob of mustard on my chin not only for the fans in the stands to see, but to be rebroadcast on the nightly news later on. Slow news day.

  Slow news day indeed I thought as I turned my stereo to something hip-hoppy. I bounced a little in my seat as I sped up the coast, looking forward to some quiet time with nary a Jumbotron in sight.

  Hours later, I rounded the last bend of my journey and saw Monterey spread out before me. Situated on a natural bay, the city curved in on itself as it continued up the coast, the town twinkling in the early dusk. I’d driven all day, I was exhausted, and more than that, I was hungry. Not wanting to come all the way back down from the hills into town after getting set up in the house, I pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant and slid my car into the last spot.

  I stretched as I climbed out of the car, feeling my joints crackle and pop in the best of ways. Quickly braiding my hair and dotting on a little lip gloss so I didn’t look so road weary, I grabbed my purse and headed inside. Wide front windows took in the view of the bay, and cozy candles sat on the tables and booths. Tables and booths that were full, so I elected to eat at the bar rather than wait for a table. As I took a peek at the menu, I sipped a club soda. I still had a twisty, windy drive up to the house that would now be happening in the dark, so I stayed away from the glass of wine I was dying to have.

  When the bartender came back to take my order, I looked up and locked eyes not with him, but with a set of baby blues at the other end of the bar. The mirror that stretched behind the bar reflected everyone sitting there, including the guy the baby blues belonged to. Red hair that was just two or three shades deeper than strawberry blond, gorgeous hair. Prince Harry hair. Unbelievably, this guy was better looking that his royal highness, with an incredible tan, and—oh, look, now he’s smiling. Great smile.

  While telling the bartender I’d take the daily special of local sablefish, my eyes kept going back to the blue eyes. I tried hard to keep my eyes on the man who was trying to decipher what kind of salad dressing I wanted from my “Hmm?” but I kept finding myself drawn back to the man in the mirror.

  When I finished placing my order, those smiling blue eyes were gone. Which was a good thing; I had no business making eyes at anyone right now. I had a car full of suitcases packed with honeymoon clothes, and an engagement ring the size of a quail’s egg on my hand.

  Wait. Why was I still wearing my engagement ring?

  I looked down at it, stunned as I always was when I looked at it. J. Lo would be impressed, is all I can say. Every time I’d teased Charles about what a big ring it was, he’d told me it was bling for his baby. Yuck. The guy actually used the word bling.

  Was he overcompensating for something? I preferred to think no, that this was a very generous and sweet and very public display of how much he cared about me. And yet . . .

  I’d take the ring off after I got to the house; it wasn’t right that I still wore it. But for now, I sat in a bar 455 miles away from it all, thinking semi-blushworthy thoughts about the cute guy with the blue eyes.

  I ate my salad, I ate my fish, I even managed to eat some cheesecake, and eventually packed myself back into the car. Following the GPS directions, I twisted and turned my way into the hills, each bend in the road affording me an even better view of the lights of the town below. My father had hired someone to turn on some lights and make sure I’d have no problem getting in. And as I saw the gate for the ranch, I realized I was grinning big. I was so excited to see the house—it always felt so cozy and comfortable and gorgeous, all at the same time. I punched in the code, the old gates swung open, and I headed down the gravel drive.

  It was originally a small cattle ranch, and though animals hadn’t been raised here in years, the old pastures and fence posts remained. Every ten yards or so there was a gas lantern atop a post, alternating sides, illuminating the driveway in flickers of flame. In the sixties my grandfather had expanded the original house, creating a wonderfully open space that was great for entertaining. And as I rounded the last curve and finally caught sight of the house, my grin got even bigger.

  It was straight out of the Rat Pack. Pure California ranch style through and through, it was low, open, one story, and full of floor-to-ceiling windows. Incredibly innovative at the time, they slid on tracks so that you could open them all the way, creating an indoor space that was equally outdoors.

  I grabbed my overnight bag, crunched up the gravel walkway, and took out my keys. Light spilled through every window; they had really left the light on for me. When I pushed open the door, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Pine, sage, and a night-blooming jasmine seeped in from the back garden. I set my bag down and turned in a
360-degree circle.

  I could easily envision Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin hanging out, paling around. Low modular furniture in tangerine leather in the living room off to my left, offset by an enormous glass coffee table in the shape of a kidney bean. Big glass balloon lamps floated over matching deep red oval end tables. An area rug in a black-and-white diamond pattern screamed from the floor, but was tempered by the fountain—oh, yes, a fountain—that was bubbling away on the inset bar in the corner. The most authentic tiki bar you ever did see. Stacked with highballs, lowballs, old-fashioned bowl-shaped champagne glasses, and several sizes of metallic cocktail shakers. I told them I’d be taking one of them out for a test run tomorrow.

  On my left was a dining room with a table that could seat twenty. An oblong tortoiseshell, it had chairs with alternating cushions of turquoise and gold. Over the table soared a chandelier that had always reminded me of the old-fashioned game of Jacks, with silver rods jutting out at all angles and spheres of blown ruby glass at the ends.

  Under my feet a terrazzo floor poured out in a wave pattern toward the kitchen, where it met polished concrete. An enormous wall of custom cabinets, light blond wood above the largest orange Formica countertop anyone had ever seen. At least in my generation.

  Down the hall were several bedrooms, including the master, where I’d be sleeping. But off the kitchen? That’s where I was headed. Through one of those enormous floor-to-ceiling glass doors was the most gorgeous terraced patio, inlaid Spanish tile set against adobe brick. There were tables and chairs and umbrellas everywhere, all in shades of sunny yellow and gold, like you might see outside a Tastee-Freez in the summertime. Three levels of terraces with potted olive and lemon trees, and then the pool. Free form and lush, it was painted dark green, giving it a tropical lagoon feel. I gazed at it a moment, considering a swim, but my sore muscles were singing a different story.

  Collecting my overnight bag, I headed for the master bedroom (shades of green and pink with palm tree wallpaper, very Beverly Hills Hotel) and took a quick shower in the bathroom (shades of aqua and mint with golden mirrors, very Liberace in the Desert), and fell into the low platform bed (shades of I’m exhausted, so I have no idea what color it actually is).

  I lay there feeling my muscles begin to relax, and listened to the house settling around me. There was a strong wind blowing tonight, whistling through the trees outside the window and scuttling leaves across the patio. It was a lonely sound, but I didn’t feel lonely. I was alone in a strange bed in a semistrange house in a semistrange town, but there was still that hum of electricity running under my skin that I’d felt ever since my dad suggested coming up here.

  As I rolled over on my pillow, my thoughts were suddenly filled with images of blue eyes. I smiled to myself in the dark and imagined what it might be like to date again. It was way too soon right now, but one day it’d be an option.

  And there’s that word again: option. The world was full of possibilities, and meeting handsome men in restaurants was just one.

  I allowed one more moment of dreamy over the blue-eyes guy in the mirror, and then hummed myself to sleep. Sinatra, of course.

  chapter four

  The next morning I woke up to not one, not two, not even three, but four texts from my mother. Which proves how much she didn’t want to actually speak to me, since texting was something she hated to do. And was terrible at—she never really grasped the concept as a medium of communication. Case in point . . .

  Text #1:

  Dear ChLOE!

  Text #2:

  Your father tells ME YOU HAVE GONE TO MONTEREY. HOW VERY grownup of youDON’T YOU THINK PART OF BEING A GROWNUP MIGHT BE NOT LETTING YOUR PARENTS GIVE YOU ROOMand bonobo??????%

  Text #3:

  Pleasefilloutachangeof

  addressformatthePOST

  OFFICESOTHATYOUR

  MAILWILLSTARTGOING

  STRAIGHTTOYOUAND

  youcanstartdoingthe

  verygrownupexerciseof

  answeringyourownsorryyou

  didn’tgetmarriedCARDS)

  Text #4:

  FROM: YOUR MOTHER

  She had large thumbs. Pretty sure ROOMand bonobo??????% meant room and board, but I can’t swear to that. But she did have a point, and as soon as I had some breakfast, I intended to begin addressing her concerns. The room I wasn’t even going to dignify. This house was way too cool to not enjoy. So stick that in your tea cozy. But the bonobo? That I should, and would take care of on my own.

  I had some money squirreled away from my days on the pageant circuit, although it wasn’t much. Even when you’re winning, which I did the last few years, it was mostly scholarship money, not a ton of cash payouts. But I’d saved what I could, and would be able to get by for a while. I knew what my mother was saying: don’t take your father’s money. Funny, she had zero problem with that when it came to her alimony checks . . .

  And my father would happily fork it over to keep me happy, but that wasn’t the point. I’d felt funny about jumping from my parents’ payroll over to my husband’s. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to get a job over the years; I had. But my mother wanted me to focus on school, and then pageants, and then I was engaged. My year as Miss Golden State had taken place my senior year of college, and then once I graduated I was still volunteering extensively for the therapy dog charity. And once the wedding planning began, that became all consuming. I’d attempted to broach the subject several times to Charles about working once I was married, but it wasn’t something he was too keen on. So my résumé, other than countless titles and work for my charitable organizations, was thin at best.

  I’d been thinking more and more about the conversation I’d had with Lou Fiorello the other day.

  “We’re finally ready to open a second Our Gang location, and we’re starting to scout possible sites. We know we want to go north, somewhere like Santa Cruz, Salinas, maybe even as far north as San Jose.”

  “That’s so great!” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have a location up there. Same business model as the one you have now?”

  “Yeah yeah, pretty much the same,” Lou said. “Part rescue, part shelter, part rehab, and of course, the adoption center. That’s the whole point: getting these guys a good home.”

  “Sounds amazing. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “Well, why do you think I emailed you, princess?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure,” I said.

  “I thought maybe we could persuade you to come join us, get your hands dirty a bit.”

  “You want me? To work with you?”

  “Hell, yes. You love dogs, you’re great with the pits, and they need all the good PR they can get. Having a Miss America running a shelter for rescued and abandoned pit bulls? How great will that look on the six o’clock news?”

  “Miss Golden State,” I corrected as I doodled on the legal pad. “So what are you asking me, exactly?”

  “We’ve already got the startup money for the new location. We just need to find it, staff it, and train the team that’ll be working there. Interested?”

  Goodness yes, but there was something that was a bit off here . . . “Lou, you knew I was supposed to be getting married this weekend, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Yet you’re offering me a job that would move me out of San Diego, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, now, how’s that gonna work out?”

  “I got that pretty invitation you sent me stuck up on my bulletin board. The wedding date was yesterday, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m not calling you from my honeymoon, if that gives you any clue.” I grimaced.

  “I had a feeling,” he said, and I rolled my eyes.

  “Would have been nice if you’d told me,” I replied, and he chuckled.

  “Well now, that was something you had to figure out for you
rself. Sounds like you did.”

  “Humpf,” was my reply.

  “Listen, I gotta get going, making a run to Torrance to check out a fighting ring we heard about. You think about what I said. If you’re interested, let’s talk soon, okay?”

  “Okay, Lou. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “You kidding? I’ve already got fliers designed in my mind: you in your tiara and sash, surrounded by forty pit bulls. It’ll be a hoot,” he cackled, and I grinned into the phone.

  “I don’t like the idea of you daydreaming about me in my tiara, Lou,” I teased, and he gave a whoop of laughter as he hung up the phone.

  I’d thought about that conversation a lot over the last few days. And while driving up to Monterey, I couldn’t help but think that it was situated right between two of the towns he was considering.

  I fired off a quick email to him now, while I was thinking about it, then got ready to head out and grab some breakfast and hit up a grocery store. And then maybe take a dip in that gorgeous pool. By the time I got my hair brushed and tucked into a neat bun, dressed in a simple sundress with a jeans jacket, and added the barest hint of makeup, there was already a reply waiting for me from Lou.

  Hiya princess,

  So you’re spending some time in Monterey, huh? Beautiful town, probably a great place to get some space, am I right?

  I’d love to have Our Gang in a town like that. Land can be pretty pricey there but it’s worth looking into. Sounds like you’re warming up to the idea? There’s a vet there that I’ve worked with for years, Dr. Campbell. He’s got his own clinic set up in town there, Campbell Veterinary Hospital. He volunteers his time down here when he can and does a lot of work with cities all over California, fighting those breed specific laws that get put on the books without merit. I’ll tell him you’re in town, so stop by and see him anytime. He’d be a great person to talk to, get another perspective on what we want to set up. Also a great person to partner up with, especially since he might have some ideas about space around town we can look into.