Back in Black (8 page)

Fine. She didn't have to be a part of it, since she didn't have a kid and wasn't pregnant. She'd peek in, say hello to her father and Poppy, wave at the photographer, and then go the Beverly Hills Coffee Bean for some serious caffeine stimulation. In just a few hours, she'd be in Las Vegas and forget that she'd even had the experience.

Sam went into the living room, which had recently been redecorated after Jackson had gone to a dinner party at Simon Cowell's house in the Hollywood Hills and been smitten by the layout. The only difference was, Jackson's living room was six times the size of Simon's. But after Jackson had gotten Poppy's approval, out had gone the old and in had come the new: There were four beige overstuffed Italian couches covered with white goose-down pillows from Slovenia and a handwoven rug from Istanbul, beige with red stripes. All the artwork had been consigned and replaced with photo-realistic paintings of rural Ireland. The fireplace had been completely redone so that it could burn real wood. Though it was now April, a blaze roared away. Sam liked the redecoration but wondered if it had been necessary, since the living room had been completely made over not eighteen months before in an Art Deco style she'd adored.

The room was crowded with coiffed mothers, all of them young, beautiful and skinny—or at least their perfectly applied cosmetics and professional plastic surgery made them look that way. All wore some variation on the upscale hip yoga-wear look du jour: Zen Nation black or gray pants and plain white T-shirts over sports bras. Sam found the whole thing kind of … well, she knew that Svetlana would describe the uniformity of uniform as unintentionally Bolshevik.

The couches had been moved so the six new mothers could sit in the lotus position on their rattan yoga mats on the floor. Surrounding them were bright photographer's lights and the
InStyle
camera crew. A thirtyish producer in a black-and-white pin-striped Armani pantsuit issued directions to her crew in hushed tones. Beyond her, a posse of young makeup artists and hair stylists stood at the ready—the only difference in appearance between these assistants and the moms was that the assistants weren't in yoga uniform. Sam saw that they were armed with Chantecaille Future Skin, whose light diffusers made it appear as if each new mom had perfect skin; Laura Mercier Lip Glaces, for shiny, pouty, “natural” lips; and HairfixTotal Detox spray, in case a single glossy hair should pop out of place.

From somewhere in the distance—the gym off the family room, maybe?—Sam heard the collective wailing of babies. Certainly, they were not unattended. Most likely, each woman had brought her own day nurse.

Suddenly, the klezmer music stopped. Well, thank God for small favors. At least Dee Young wouldn't …

“Hi, Sam.”

Sam turned. There was Dee, wearing one of the same Zen Nation black pants/plain white T-shirt combinations as the new mothers. Dee had met Sam's stepmother at the Kabbalah Centre in February. They'd become good friends, and then Poppy had asked Dee to stay with the Sharpes while Dee's parents were on a business trip back east. Dee's father was a famous music producer; her mother had accompanied him to try to head off one of the business-trip liaisons that she feared was threatening their marriage. That business trip had extended and extended and extended, and Dee had never gone back home. In fact, Dee's parents were now in Europe. Meanwhile, Dee and Poppy were now bonded like sisters, though Sam sometimes wondered whether her friend was getting more attached to the new baby than to her mother.

Sometimes it was fun to have Dee around. They were both only children—well, Sam had been until the arrival of the Hummer—and they'd been best friends forever. But Dee seemed to get wackier on a daily basis—she'd taken her study of Jewish mysticism to new heights (she was now attending Shabbat services at Chabad of Beverly Hills on a regular basis, though her record producer father was an avowed atheist and her mother raised a Lutheran), and somehow melded it with her own peculiar brand of New Age spiritual thinking. Half the time, Sam had to admit that she had no clue what her longtime friend was talking about. Nor did Poppy or Dee make any effort to invite her into their troika with the new baby. Sam felt left out. And sometimes it hurt.

“I'm leading the mothers' meditation,” Dee reported. “Poppy insisted.” She motioned to the floor. “There's room between Felicity and Francesca. Would you like to join us?”

Felicity and Francesca—one blond, the other red-haired, both wearing identical yoga uniforms—motioned with big smiles and waves for Sam to slide in. “I don't think so,” Sam demurred. “I don't really love the smell of yoga in the morning.”

Dee shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, there's lots of room.”

There was an open mat to Francesca's left, and Dee went to it. As Sam stared in disbelief, she assumed the lotus position, closed her eyes, and, after explaining to the yoga moms that the tune they were about to hear was a famous Hasidic melody, began to hum. The tune's lack of lyrics was deliberate—the notes were designed to bring those chanting it closer to the Eyn Sof, the highest degree of God in kabbalistic terms.

As the lithe
InStyle
photographer sprang into action, the meditation circle picked up the chant, which continued for a few minutes, waxing and waning in intensity. In a certain way, Sam found it soothing and beautiful. In every other way, she found it absolutely bizarre. That her friend Dee should be leading it—the only one in the circle who didn't have a child—was most bizarre of all. Yet the mothers seemed to have no objection. On the contrary, they were getting into it.

Then Dee spoke, her eyes still closed. “I am eternal bliss, I am eternal happiness.”

“I am eternal bliss, I am eternal happiness,” the women echoed, their eyes closed as well.

“I am at one with my baby. We are at peace together,” Dee chanted.

“I am at one with my baby. We are at peace together,” the women responded.

Sam rolled her eyes at this picture of Dee leading a meditation circle. Dee honestly probably couldn't even
spell
meditation. Then she mentally relented. Her friendship with Dee had never been based on the intellectual. She had other friends, like Anna, for that. Instead—at least before she'd become the poster girl for Jewish mysticism—Dee was sincere. Sweet. Loyal. She'd stood by Sam through thick and … well, thicker (Sam had never come within striking distance of
thin
).

Sam saw one of Poppy's eyes pop open.

“Sam!” her stepmother wheedled. “Come join us!” Then she quickly scanned the room for the lead photographer, making sure that her right profile, which was her best side, faced him.

“I'll pass,” Sam grumbled as she checked her new Patek Philippe watch, uncertain how long the meditation circle was planning to continue. “Dee, are you packed? We're leaving for Vegas really soon.”

She knew she was exaggerating for effect, but she also knew that Dee was one of the world's great procrastinators. That she had gotten her friend to change her mind about the Vegas trip had been a minor miracle in and of itself.

Dee fixed her cornflower blue eyes on her dear friend. “I don't need clothes. What I'm wearing is fine.”

“For four days?”

“I'll wash my things out and hang them over the tub,” Dee replied, a serene expression on her face. “When there is inner peace, the outer trappings are so unimportant.” She turned and smiled at the camera.

Gawd. Dee was actually playing to the camera. How nauseating. “Dee, this is Vegas we're talking about.” Sam tried to keep her voice even. “It's
all
about the outer trappings.”

“For you, maybe.” Dee held her palms up to Sam. “Wherever you go, Sam, there you are.”

“What does that even
mean
, Dee?” Sam demanded.

“Do you mind, Sam? You're upsetting the
chi
in here,” one of the new mothers with a punk platinum blond hairdo blurted out. She seemed to want to raise her eyebrows with indignation, but since her face had been Botoxed into submission, it was difficult to tell.

“Well,
chi
wiz,” Sam quipped.

“Don't worry about it, Sam—this is great stuff!” the
InStyle
producer chortled. “I love that natural family vibe! Do you mind if we get a few shots of you?”

“Yep, I sure do mind.” Sam slapped a perky smile on her face. “Dee, if you don't mind, could I speak to you and your
chi
in the study?”

Without waiting for an answer, Sam turned around and headed for her father's study—actually an ornate library done in nineteenth-century British style. Bookcases lined three of the walls from floor to ceiling; four plush leather chairs faced one another at right angles, each with its own Tiffany reading lamp. There were two rolling ladders to reach books on the highest levels and a huge picture window that looked out on the only weeping willow tree Sam knew about in Bel Air.

All the world's greatest literature was on those shelves, bound in leather. Sam was the only one in the household who actually ever read any of it. While waiting for Dee, she pretended to busy herself with a first edition of Herman Wouk's
Youngblood Hawke
—a novel about an aspiring writer that Sam had always thought was a masterpiece of storytelling. She heard rather than saw Dee pad into the room.

“What is it?” Dee asked, blowing her wispy bangs off her forehead. Evidently, meditating had caused her to work up a sweat.

Sam wasn't exactly sure how to approach what she wanted to say. So she lifted one of the priceless gold Fabergé eggs that decorated some of the small bookstands around the library, then absentmindedly tossed it from one hand to the other. “You know how much I want you on this Vegas trip. I mean, we've been planning it forever.”

“Careful with that egg,” Dee cautioned. “It's worth about a million dollars.”

“Two million.” Sam set the egg down. She didn't want to hurt Dee's feelings, she really didn't. But her loony spiritual bullshit could ruin the entire Vegas trip. “Anyway,” she continued, “I'm not sure that you're in the right frame of mind these days to really enjoy Vegas.” She hoped she sounded sincere. “What I was thinking was, your parents are still out of town. This seems like the perfect time for you to go home and embrace the quiet. For your spiritual growth, of course. Without any of us around to distract you. Think what a pleasure that would be.”

Dee's lower lip trembled. “You don't want me to come?”

“Of course I want you to come!” Sam insisted, perhaps a shade too enthusiastically. She tempered her pitch for the sake of covering over her bald-faced lie and bought a moment's breathing room by putting
Youngblood Hawke
back on its shelf. “But seriously, Dee—look at yourself. You're a changed person. You don't drink anymore. You've become a vegan. You don't have sex. You don't gamble. I admire you for it, I really do. But why would you even
want
to go to Las Vegas?”

“Oh, see, that's the beautiful part.” Dee's face lit up.

“People in Vegas are so lost, you know? I really think I could help them.”

Sam felt like heaving into the nearest planter. “You're going to Vegas to help the sinners?”

“I'm doing so much healing work now, Sam,” Dee explained earnestly. “It's so life-affirming, you know? It's God-realization. A kind of tikkun olam, a repairing of the world, a regathering of the divine sparks that were lost at the moment of creation. If you would come with me to the Kabbalah Centre just once, you'd see exactly what I mean. Ultimately, work on the self and work on others is the same thing.”

I have no fucking idea what she's talking about
, Sam thought. She didn't want to say that, though. Hurting Dee's feelings was easily accomplished. But unlike Cammie, who seemed to get perverse joy out of cutting Dee to shreds, Sam remembered that the essential core of Dee was good, even if she got a little—okay, a lot— flaky around the edges.

“All righty, then,” Sam chirped. She had no clue what they were going to do in Las Vegas if Dee was serious about changing the souls of its inhabitants. But there was always the chance that the change in scenery would help bring her friend back to a clearer sense of reality. “Well … cool. So meet me and the others out front in an hour, okay? That'll give you time to do … whatever you need to do. Take whatever you want. Or don't want.”

“Sure.” Dee put a minuscule hand on Sam's arm. “And Sam … it will be fine. Really.”

Yuh. Whatever.

An hour later, having rewatched the opening reel of
Apocalypse Now
in her father's screening room, Sam meandered back to the front hall, where Svetlana had just let Cammie and Adam inside. Adam had on faded no-name jeans and a plain red T-shirt—his usual under stated look. Cammie wore a beige Sass & Bide silk camisole under a beige Michael Kors fitted suede jacket, and a paler beige Calvin Klein beaded silk skirt, with French Mephisto walking sneakers. She'd kept her lips glossy and pale, her eyeliner smudgy, and her hair wild.

In comparison, in her own travel outfit of a black Armani T-shirt under a red leather J. Crew blazer, and Seven jeans with black satin peep-toe Stuart Weitzman pumps, Sam felt like a dump truck.

“Sorry we're late. Adam would not let me out of bed,” Cammie reported.

Adam winked at his friends. “Don't let her fool you. We just grabbed a burger at Tommy's near the Westside Pavilion.”

Cammie smiled and stood on her toes to kiss him. “I know. But before that.” The kiss turned into something more passionate, which made Sam recoil from the public display of affection. It was annoying, like a ninth grader showing off that she was hot enough to kiss a guy in public. But Cammie wasn't in ninth grade, for God's sake. She was a senior. Eduardo would never have done anything like that. He was far too cultured, too civilized. For a fleeting moment, Sam was tempted to go join the meditation circle in the living room, but the sound of laughter and the photographers packing up meant the shoot was over.

Four days in Vegas. Gawd. Cammie and Adam would have their tongues down each other's throats the whole time. Dee would be converting sinners. Parker wasn't exactly stimulating company. Her friends Krishna and Blue had copped out at the last moment because Krishna's parents were in a vicious custody battle and Krishna had to testify. Blue was hanging out with Krishna to offer amoral support.