Chasing Chaos: A Novel (3 page)

Sometimes
she thought she stuck around only because she didn’t have anywhere to run to.

~~~~

Five
minutes later, Daphne sat down again. To Greta, she still appeared troubled.
Greta had an idea of what Daphne might be thinking about.

“How’s
Dan?” Greta asked, deliberately interrupting Daphne’s thoughts.

Greta
had noticed when Daphne’s thoughts started drifting. Greta had been concerned
that her agreeing to marry Timmy would affect Daphne in negative ways, but she
wasn’t sure what those ways might be. So she’d observed her friend to ascertain
what she might be thinking. She’d meant it when she’d said she knew Daphne was
happy for her. Daphne’s petty jealousy of Timmy had died a long time ago. No.
She was afraid Daphne might be feeling something far more insidious than mere
jealousy.

Even
though many years had passed, Greta knew her friend still felt an irrational
sense of guilt over Greta’s attack, as though Daphne had wielded the weapon
herself. And no matter how much Greta tried to convince Daphne she was wrong,
Daphne would not believe her. Daphne thought Greta had been targeted because of
their proximity to one another.

Daphne
could not see reason where Greta was concerned. And Daphne still suffered for
it.

So
if Daphne wanted to plan a ridiculous wedding-type event for Greta and Timmy,
then Greta would let her. It was a small gift Greta could give her. Even if
Greta really would have been fine with the water treatment plant. After all,
the one in Playa had great views of the ocean.

“Dan’s
fine,” Daphne said. “But I cheated on him again last night.”

“I’m
so sorry.” Greta placed her hand on Daphne’s.

Daphne
would know what she was expressing sympathy for. Daphne clearly felt guilty for
committing an act that was the equivalent of lying. And this wasn’t the first
time she’d done it.

“Thank
you.”

Greta
waved at Carrie, who came over to the table. “Can we get a pitcher of the
sangria please?”

Carrie
grinned. “Sure.”

Daphne
gave Greta a wobbly smile. “I do have somewhere to go this afternoon.”

“I
deduced as much. But we have time.” For the first time in a long while, Greta
was worried about Daphne.

“Oh
Greta. What if I’m not meant to be happy?”

“The
part of that sentence that makes no sense is the middle part.”

“You
don’t believe in ‘meant to be’.”

“Correct.
There’s no such thing as fate.” Greta gestured around them, at the crowded
patio—or as crowded as Rivet was ever allowed to be, given how exclusive it was
and how much space they kept between the tables for the sake of privacy—and she
saw the many faces that were likely on grocery store entertainment magazines,
and, these days, on entertainment websites.

Daphne
might belong at a place like Rivet, with her physical beauty and professional success.

But
Greta? Greta had defied what anyone would have said she was meant to be in Los
Angeles. She was a woman with sub-par beauty who had simply moved as far away
from the radioactive decay of her family as she could without boarding a plane.
Six years ago, Daphne had invited her in, and Greta had come. The fact that a
monster had lurked among them hadn’t been Daphne’s fault, and Greta didn’t
blame her. Even Timmy didn’t blame her.

Only
Daphne still felt guilty about that now.

Greta
didn’t believe that hearts did much more than circulate necessary fluids in the
human body, but she also knew that hers broke for Daphne.

“I’m
sure you’ve considered that Dan isn’t the right fit for you,” Greta said.

“We
do fit in many ways. I like working with him. We have great conversations. We
even have great sex.”

Carrie
appeared with the sangria pitcher and two tall glasses. She poured. Her smile
revealed that she’d heard at least the tail end of Daphne’s words. Greta and
Daphne grinned back.

They
picked up their glasses, and Daphne took a big sip. Greta watched Daphne smile
and lick her lips in an exaggerated motion.

“You
should stop doing that,” Greta said. “There are two prime-timers over there who
might try to talk to us.”

“Oh,
crap. Where?”

“Table
eleven.”

Rivet’s
regulars knew Greta was one of the owners. They knew she could ban them from
the restaurant forever. And they wondered why the tall, funny-looking girl in
the tank top and jeans was in charge. She was secure enough now to find their
speculation amusing.

Daphne,
for her part, had always seemed to know how to handle anything men threw her
way. That was why the self-doubt Daphne now manifested was causing Greta
serious concern.

“Greta,
do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Daphne asked.

“No.”

“Then
why do I always seem to destroy things?”

“I
don’t think you
always
do anything,” Greta said. “No human is that
consistent.”

Daphne
snorted. “Stop trying to make me feel better. I’m being serious.”

“I
know you are. I’m sorry.” Greta took another sip of sangria. “I think it’s
possible that you feel—despite all evidence to the contrary—that you don’t
deserve certain things.” Greta eyed the prime-timers again, who still stared at
her table, but who, as usual, mostly stared at Daphne. “It’s possible you
believe you deserve to be punished for a wrong—multiple wrongs—that weren’t
yours to begin with.”

“I
thought you always said social sciences were bunkum,” Daphne said with a laugh.

“I
didn’t say that. I said that science not based on replicable empirical
observation was bunkum.” She gave Daphne a devious smile. “But I’ve been
observing you for years.”

Carrie
arrived with many plates on one arm, an impressive feat of balance. She placed
the food in front of Greta and Daphne with the professional care expected of
all Rivet’s servers. “Can I offer you anything else?” she asked, and they shook
their heads. She left them to their meal.

“If
Dan hasn’t captured your attention by now, he never will,” Greta said. “And if
you’re punishing yourself because of his failing to do so, that’s illogical.”
She ate a fry.

“He’s
a good person.”

“Irrelevant.”

Daphne
dropped her face into her hands. “I know.”

“Did
you at least have fun last night?” Greta asked.

“The
guy seemed nice enough. Not really my type, but somebody’s, for sure.” She cocked
her head, as though imagining a person in front of her. “Surprisingly
well-defined muscles once his clothes came off.”

“That’s
good. At least we’re having guilty brunch over good sex. Otherwise this,” Greta
gestured at the spread of food and drink, “would be a serious waste.”

They
laughed, and the prime-time guys were transfixed. Greta felt sorry for them.
Daphne’s beauty had always been, and, Greta suspected, would always be,
transcendent.

“So
you’re getting married,” Daphne said.

“It
won’t change anything.”

“Only
you would say that.” Daphne shook her head.

“Nothing
is going to change,” Greta insisted.
Why should it?
she thought. She’d
been with Timmy for more than five years.

“Greta,
everything is going to change. You’ll see.”

“Timmy
would kill you for saying that. It sounds like you’re trying to talk me out of
it.”

Timmy
had grown to love Daphne over the years, despite everything that had happened
before. But it wouldn’t take much to make him suspicious.

“You
deserve to know,” Daphne said. “For people like you and me—forever means
something different to us.”

Greta
felt emotion well up inside her, everything she’d been denying since she’d
agreed to get married. This is why she and Daphne were sisters. The ability to
see the truth for one another and to speak it with kindness. She set down her
glass and threw her arms around Daphne.

“Careful,”
Daphne said, setting down her own sangria glass. “Don’t spill on Kurt.”

Greta
could hear the emotion in Daphne’s voice that reflected her own. After a
moment, they pulled apart.

“You
have till Wednesday,” Greta reminded her. “Then it’s City Hall.”

“For
you, I could have had it done by tomorrow.”

Around
two o’clock Sunday afternoon, Daphne walked Greta back to Rivet’s offices, where
Greta would review books and menus for the week. Olivia, Rivet’s manager, sat
at another desk in the room, a phone tucked behind her ear.

Greta
promised to be available by cell phone when Daphne had questions about the
wedding plans.

“You
will answer when I call you,” Daphne said.

“I
always answer when you call.”

“No,
you don’t. You get hyper focused on some nonsense and forget to answer the
phone.”

“I
run two businesses,” Greta said. “They’re not nonsense.”

Daphne
snorted. “And I run a business too. But I answer when you call me.”

“This
is a ridiculous conversation.”

Daphne
put her hands on Greta’s shoulders, reaching up a bit because, even though
Daphne was five-foot-eight, Greta still towered over her. “Greta, when I call
you this week, you will answer your phone. If you do not answer your phone, I
will call someone else near you who will hunt you down.” Daphne nodded toward
Olivia. “I might share private information with that person in order to explain
the urgency of the phone call.”

“You
wouldn’t do that.”

Daphne
raised her eyebrows.

“You
would do that to other people, but not to me.”

Daphne
waited a little longer.

“You
would do that to me?” Greta shrieked. Then she lowered her voice. “You’d tell
Olivia about my wedding to get me to answer the phone?”

Of
course, Daphne would be inviting Olivia to Greta’s wedding, but Greta hadn’t
made that connection yet.

“These
are dire times.”

“I’ll
answer the phone.”

“Turn
up your ringer.”

“Fine.”

“Do
you need me to show you how?”

“Just
get out,” Greta said, pointing to the door.

Daphne
strolled out of Greta’s office, through Rivet’s interior dining room and out
the main entrance. While she waited for the valet to bring her car around, she
dialed her phone. She smiled at the valet who brought her car—Sonia—and gave
her a generous tip. Prior to Greta, all the valet workers had been men too.

Daphne
hopped behind the wheel just as the man she’d been calling answered the phone.

“We
have a problem,” she said to him.

“Nice
to hear from you, Daphne,” the man said.

“I’m
serious, Sandy!”

He
laughed. “What happened?”

“Greta
agreed to marry Timmy.”

Sandy
paused, and his voice grew serious. “And you are happy for her, right?”

Sandy’s
words held a speck of threat. He was protective of Greta. Although he’d grown
to trust Daphne over the years, she knew he wouldn’t let go of his
protectiveness for anything.

“Of
course I’m happy for her!” she hollered into her phone. “But she’s not allowed
to get married at City Hall this afternoon.”

“Wait.
She wants to get married today?” He sounded shocked and a little bit hurt.

“See?”

“You’re
on your way here?”

Daphne
smiled. “Of course I am. I’m at Rivet. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, tops.”

Daphne
tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and downshifted as she headed toward
Sandy’s home in Laurel Canyon. Ever since she’d gotten her first car in
college, she’d loved to drive fast. She’d taken driver’s education in high
school without her overly-controlling father’s knowledge—and explicitly against
his wishes. So she’d held a license since she was old enough to do so in her
home state of North Carolina. But her father had forbidden anyone in his
household from driving the family Nissan except him. She hadn’t driven much
until she got to college. When she’d arrived at college, her boyfriends had let
her drive their cars, and she’d loved it.

When
she’d moved to LA, she’d owned a new-ish Honda Civic, a car she’d adored both
because it was zippy and because she had been able to afford it. Now, she drove
a flashy blue Audi S4 for the same reasons. She’d been able to buy the car
outright, and the independence she’d felt that day had been bliss.

She
was beholden to no one, not even a bank.

After
crossing most of Hollywood, she started the climb up the curvy roads to Sandy’s
home. She hardly glanced to her left or right at the decadent glass castles
tumbling down the mountainsides. She was aiming for one glass castle in
particular.

When
she reached Sandy’s driveway, the gates were open, waiting for her arrival. She
turned in and pulled up to the front door. The circular drive branched down to
the right where his six-car garage nestled against the pines. The two nearest
bays were open, one revealing Sandy’s current Aston Martin (he always drove the
latest model—and always in a dark pewter), and another revealing a classic
muscle car in black. Daphne jumped from her car and headed down the hill so she
could make it out. It looked like a 1967 Camaro. A pair of legs emerged from
under the front. She guessed those belonged to Marlon, Sandy’s handyman,
mechanic, assistant and general guy Friday. Marlon lived in an apartment above
Sandy’s garage. He must have worked for Sandy for more than a decade, but the
few times she’d met him, Marlon didn’t seem much older than thirty.

She
headed back up the driveway to the front porch, knocking loudly on the redwood
door and then letting herself into the house. Two dogs, large, sleek and brown,
came bounding up to her.

She
spoke authoritatively. “Jodie. Foster. Sit.” She touched her shoulder in a hand
signal to reinforce her words.

The
dogs’ bottoms dropped to the floor, but their eyes remained imploring. Daphne
set down her bag and kneeled in front of each one, rubbing their ears until
their eyes rolled back in their heads.

~~~~

Sandy
stood in the doorway between his kitchen and his living room, watching Daphne
with his dogs, always a little bit amazed by both her beauty and by how much
she’d changed since he’d first gotten to know her. It was like a sheet of rigid
metal had been peeled away, revealing even more beauty along with a precious
fragility. He wondered if she’d mind the observation.

Back
when he’d first met Greta and Daphne, Daphne had seemed the older sister, the
leader, the one Greta looked up to. These days, in many ways, the roles had
reversed. But Sandy had lived a long time—he could no longer say he was in his
early fifties—and he knew how friendships changed over time. He also knew a
real friendship when he saw one. So even though he gave Daphne a hard time
sometimes, he knew she was for real when she stood by Greta’s side. No one was
more loyal to Greta than Daphne, and that was saying something. Greta inspired
loyalty in everyone who got to know her.

“Those
dogs are supposed to guard the place, you know,” he said, entering the room.

“Not
from me.” Daphne stood, acting not the least bit surprised by his presence. He
wondered if she’d known she’d been observed. “I’m a friendly.”

“How
could they possibly know that?”

“Multiple
visits? My sweet demeanor?”

“But
I’m the one who’s supposed to tell them you’re cool.”

“After
all these years, you’ve never told them I’m cool?” She sounded surprised rather
than hurt.

“You
don’t need me to intervene with those dogs. Or with anything else. You never
have.”

“I
might someday.” She sounded sincere.

Sandy
was taken aback. Daphne had never asked him for anything. Unlike Greta, Daphne
worked in the film industry. Sandy, who’d won two Best Actors and been
nominated for four more, could have given her a boost here and there if she’d
needed him to. If she’d ever simply asked him. Hell, people asked him for stuff
all day long. He had a feeling that doing a favor for Daphne would mean
something.

“It
would be my pleasure,” he said.

At
his words, she unleashed her megawatt smile, the one that left most men
reaching for something to hold on to.

She
turned back to the dogs. “Come here, kiddos,” she said. They scrambled to her
but never once jumped. At least the training he paid for counted for something.
“We need to have a meeting.”

“Let’s
sit in the kitchen,” Sandy said. “Can you hang on while I make a call?”

~~~~

Daphne
waited in Sandy’s kitchen, although in Sandy’s house, the kitchen, foyer and
informal sitting area felt like one big space. It was the perfect floor plan
for a party. No—for a wedding, she corrected herself. Through the archway leading
out of the other side of the kitchen, she knew, was the more formal sitting
room where Sandy was on the phone, and then the hallway that led to Sandy’s
private suite of rooms, which she had never seen. Off the main sitting room
where she’d first entered was another hallway that led to another array of
bedrooms.

Greta
had told her once that the house was somewhere around ten thousand square feet,
not counting the garage. Daphne could believe it, even if all she saw right now
was the proverbial tip of the iceberg. Sandy had earned his original wealth as
a movie star in the seventies and eighties, but his business acumen had turned
ordinary Hollywood money into real money. The kind of money that neither Greta
nor Daphne could fathom, though on some late nights between beer and the
Internet, they tried to wrap their brains around it.

Sandy
reentered the kitchen, slipping his phone into his pocket. He gestured at a
bottle of champagne already open on his kitchen counter, along with three
flutes. There was also a carafe of what looked to be very freshly squeezed
orange juice.

“Want
some?” he asked.

“Sure,”
she said. “But between you and Greta, I’m going to be too drunk to plan a
wedding.”

“Rivet
sangrias?” he asked.

“I
limited myself to two.”

While
he poured the glasses, she noticed a new painting on the wall by the
floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out onto his deck. It looked like the work
of the artist whose pieces hung in other parts of the house.
Barr
, the
signature read. The canvas was large, maybe six feet square. She loved the
scale of it, the scope, what could be captured in so much space. This one was
predominantly blue, with a woman’s face off-center. It reminded her of one of
Picasso’s Dora Maars, the way the woman stared at you plainly, almost ruthlessly.
Daphne reached out to touch, her fingers nearly brushing the canvas, before she
realized what she was doing.

“Sandy,”
she said. “This painting. I love it. It’s the same artist, right? As the one in
the foyer?” She kept staring at the woman, whom she called Dora in her head.
“Who’s this Barr artist? Anyone I could afford?”

“Probably,”
said a voice to the right, startling her.

She
looked over her shoulder and saw Marlon.

“Didn’t
mean to scare you,” he said.

“You
didn’t,” she snapped, annoyed that he had, indeed, been able to sneak up on
her. “Where’s Sandy?”

“Here
you go.” Marlon handed her a glass of mimosa. “Sandy stepped out to take
another call while you were looking at that.” He nodded at the painting.

She
marveled that she could have been so engrossed in the painting that she lost
track of her surroundings. She took the flute from Marlon’s hand. She could see
that, although he’d washed his hands, he still had dirt and grease around the
edges of his fingernails.
He needs to take a wire brush to his hands
,
she thought.

Then
she took a deep breath and reminded herself to stop being small-minded. She
hadn’t spent much time with Marlon. He tended to keep to himself. But he was
Sandy’s good friend. If you asked Sandy, Sandy might say Marlon was his best
friend. Sandy had told her once that he tried to get Marlon to come with him
when he came to Rivet, but Marlon always refused. Marlon had apparently said he
couldn’t stand the scene, or any scene really.

“So
why does he live in LA?” Daphne had asked.

“He’s
from here,” Sandy had said. “And he refuses to leave.”

Daphne
took a sip of her drink, turning back to the painting.

“You
like it?” Marlon asked.

“I
do.” Daphne was eager to talk about it again. “Do you know where Sandy got it?”

“From
his garage.”

“He
has a stockpile out there?”

“I
have a studio in my apartment.”

Daphne
processed his words for a moment. “These paintings are yours?”

“The
four that look like this one are, yeah.”

“I
know which four. They’re lovely.” She realized she sounded slightly breathless.
“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I’m
not. I’m a handyman and an assistant.”

“So
you don’t try to show your work?”