Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (4 page)

I laughed. “Astronomer, actually. Sixteenth
century,” did I see Jennifer’s eyes glaze over as I gave this
information? Maybe a little. But it’s fun to haul out bits of
knowledge you never thought you’d have a use for again and show
them to the light. It makes you feel as though all those books you
read getting your degree weren’t a total waste of time. “Tycho
Brahe. And, man: that
is
a funny name for a dog but it
totally makes sense, in a weird sort of way.”

Jennifer shrugged in the completely
dismissive way that only teenage girls can pull off properly.
“That’s
so
my father. Weird!”

The story is actually pretty good, though it
was clear Jennifer didn’t want to hear it: she’d moved on to topics
of greater interest to her than her father’s weirdness. “Dad tells
me you’re a friend of Uncle Sal’s and you just moved here from New
York.”

“Last week.”

She looked interested. “No kidding? Where
did you live?”

“Manhattan.”

“Cool. That’s where I’m going to live. When
I’m 18. I’m an actress. Or I will be. Dad said you’re a
stockbroker.”

I shook my head. “I was. I’m not
anymore.”

“But you were?” she insisted.

“Yeah. I was. For a long time.”

“How’d you get into it?”

The question made me think about my Dad,
Burton Carter. He’d been dead for a long time. I didn’t think about
him every day anymore, but I always thought of him with a grateful
fondness. My mother continued to provide the safest, most loving
zones in my life. But my father had given my adulthood its shape,
even if that shaping hadn’t always been intentional.

Jennifer’s question brought a strong image
to my mind. Me: a little girl out for a special day with her father
which ended up including an illicit trip to Seattle’s local stock
exchange. Illicit because, when I was a kid, the trading floor was
no place for a child, my mother had made that clear. I remember the
feeling of being adrift in a sea of wool-clad knees, all of them
male. The huge room was filled with cigarette smoke and excited
shouts and important yells. It was as though the air in the room
had its own life: a life different and more exciting than the more
mundane air that might be found outside. I never forgot the feeling
and, even though the electronic world I was part of had changed the
physical aspects of the stock market beyond recognition, the
tension and excitement I’d felt that day had never really
diminished.

“My Dad,” I said to Jennifer now. “He taught
me about the stock market when I was a little kid.”

“He was a stockbroker?”

“Naw,” I said. “He was an insurance agent.
He just liked the stock market. A lot.”

“Why’d you stop?”

People change careers all the time. There
were a lot of things I could have told her. But, as I went to
answer, the sight of Jack just before he went down flitted in front
of my eyes. I saw his big, friendly face, the welcome on it giving
way to recognition of the inevitable. I shook my head, pushing the
image away.

“Sorry, Jennifer. It’s not something I feel
I can talk about right now.”

I could see by her look — smug understanding
— that she figured some affair had ended painfully and I decided
this wasn’t a bad conclusion for her to draw. Easier for me than
the truth. At least for the time being.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding like she meant
it at least a little. “I get too curious sometimes. None of my
beeswax. But the stock thing got my dad’s attention,” she admitted.
“I think he hopes you’ll rub off on me.”

I laughed. “That’s funny. I’ve never been
cast as a role model before.”

“That’s my dad: always casting. Goes with
the territory.”

I looked at her thoughtfully. “I guess it
would.”

“And he hates that I want to be an actress,
which is also funny. Considering.”

“Considering...?”

“Well, the business he’s in, for one. And
the fact that his wife is an actress.”

“Your mom is an actress?”

“No, my mom makes pots. She’s a potter,” she
clarified. “In Taos. His wife,” she jerked a thumb at my ceiling,
towards her own part of the house, “is Tasya Saranova.”

“I saw her in
Wings of Dawn.
She was
wonderful,” I thought of something. “Oh... she’s...”

“Not much older than me. Well, she’s 27, so
she’s a lot older than me, but that’s what my mom said when she
found out.”

“She nice? Tasya, I mean.”

“I guess. And her and my Dad are crazy about
each other.” The way she said it came out sounding like
“kar-ay-zee.”

“That’s important.”

She shrugged. “They’re gone a lot though.
You know, moving and shaking and stuff,” her voice was
nonchalant.

“That rough?”

“Not really. It means I get the place to
myself,” she pulled affectionately at Tycho’s head. “Me and lizard
boy here, that is.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

“True.” Then a new thought, “Did Dad
remember to show you the pool?”

He hadn’t and the existence of the pool was
a nice surprise, so off we went to peek at it.

Chapter Three

My own Mom seemed mixed about my new
situation. She’s worked hard all her life, for not much return. To
her the money I was making in New York was beyond the moon, my
lifestyle fabulous outside comparison and I was safe, as far as she
could see. Set. Even without a husband. Leaving my job before I had
a plan or another position seemed like insanity to her. And since
there were moments when it seemed like insanity to me, it wasn’t
hard to see things from her point of view.

On the other hand, the fact that I was now
renting an apartment from her “favorite director in-the-world!” was
of considerable interest to her and would earn her some bragging
rights with her pals. I’d never heard her mention Tyler until I
told her about renting his guest house, but this didn’t minimize
her claim.

“Is he incredibly good looking?” she said on
the phone.

It was one of the first calls from my new
nest. A Saturday night around eight o’clock, I was snuggled into
the built-in bed, the Pacific Ocean at night a velvet curtain
outside my window.

“Mom, you
know
what he looks
like.”

“But in person. Does he have, you know,
charisma?”

“He’s married.”

“Oh. Well. Are you going to be OK for money?
What are you going to do?”

That was a question I was trying not to
stress about myself, though this wasn’t something I wanted to tell
my mother. “I’ll be OK mom. I need to take some time and
reevaluate, you know? I... I need to heal a bit. I feel very
raw.”

“I wish you would have come home,” other
mothers might have made this sound sullen. Needy. Mine made it
sound factual. It
was
what she would have wished. On one
level, it was even what I would have wished.

“I thought about it. But it would have felt
like coming back with my tail between my legs.”

She laughed. A cheerful sound. “I
understand. But sometimes that’s OK.”

After I’d said good-bye, I thought about
what she’d said. “Home” was a carefully preserved Victorian in the
Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle. From “home” I could walk to my
old high school and poke around and look at the latest crop of kids
doing early preparation for their lives. I could go a couple of
blocks up the street and grab a fish taco or a well made espresso —
never tough to find in that city — or travel another block to the
friendly little tavern where they poured a lovely ale and the
bartender/owner knew you by name. “Home” was a pair of well-worn
slippers, comfortable with long use. And thinking about it all now
made me wonder if my mother wasn’t right. In New York I’d had a
career, friends, a neighborhood I knew and understood. In Seattle I
had history and a support system. In LA I had... possibilities.
Which was more than nothing, but would it be enough?

A soft knock on my door broke through my
thoughts.

“Open!” I called, while I swung my feet out
of bed.

“Is open a good idea?” It was Jennifer,
smooth in well made jeans and a cutaway blouse, she brought the
scent of evening and barbecue with her. Tycho padded in behind her,
making amazingly little noise for a dog so large.

I grinned. “Do you mean, is leaving the door
unlocked a good idea?”

She nodded.

“Sure. I don’t think anyone could even find
me down here. It’s like my little secret skycave.”

Jennifer hopped up onto one of the kitchen
stools uninvited and Tycho plopped himself down at my feet with a
bit of a grunt. The place suddenly felt even smaller, but in a nice
way. “You thinking about getting, like, a couch or anything?”

“Not really. I might get a TV for the
bedroom, but I guess the living room is going to be about work,” I
said, indicating the oversized desk.

“You’re a day trader?”

I blinked at her. “Do you even know what
that is?”

“Not exactly. It sounds cool, though. Dad
said it.”

“Well, I’m not one,” I thought, then
qualified it. “Yet. I’m not one yet. But I’m thinking on it.”

“Great! If you decide, you can tell me what
it is. Meanwhile, dad sent me down here to tell you to come
upstairs.”

“I’m being summoned?”

She laughed. “No. Sorry. I didn’t say it
right. Dad and Tasya are having some people over and he sent me
down here to
invite
you.”

“You going?” I asked, curious about who
might be there.

“For a while. Corby is coming to pick me up
in a while, though.”

“Corby?”

“Boyfriend person.” She looked me over
carefully. “The party; it’ll be casual but nice, you know.”

I looked at my track pants and sweatshirt
with a grin. “This
is
casual.”

Jennifer laughed. “No, that’s undressed.
There’ll be, like, boys and everything. You know: boys your age.
Half an hour or so, ‘k?” She pushed herself off the chair. “See
ya.”

I stressed ridiculously over what to wear,
which was, in itself, a happy diversion. I knew what to wear to a
gallery opening in Soho or for dinner at Balthazar. I could put
together a wardrobe for a weekend in the Hamptons quite easily: not
that I’d done it so often, but I would have known what to wear. But
a barbecue at the Malibu home of a famous director? This was new
territory.

I decided to follow Jennifer’s lead: good
jeans and a cutaway top, though not as cutaway as hers had been:
some things are best left to 17-year-olds. Soft little sandals on
my feet and my hair loose around my shoulders. LA enough, I decided
when I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the
bathroom door.

The big deck above my apartment had been
transformed since I had crossed it earlier in the day. Lit torches
illuminated strategic corners, bringing the velvety night alive
with golden light. Music echoed from the house and filled the air.
People had already begun arriving and were arranged around the deck
in little groups, standing and chatting, or sitting on various
types of comfortable-looking patio furniture, drinks in hand. Even
though it was early spring, the night was mild. I settled in to
enjoy my first Malibu party.

Tyler was holding court from the center of a
big-ass barbecue. The barbecue part itself would have done well by
a professional chef: huge, stainless steel and
commanding
.
But Tyler’s barbecue was an entertainer’s special. It had a
conversation pit built around it, where people could sit and chat
with the chef, sip their drinks and taste any newly prepared
tidbits he saw fit to offer. With Tyler at the barbecue, you had
the impression that the place where he stood was a stage, the seats
around him a little amphitheater: the director where you might
expect to find an actor.

“Madeline!” he said when he saw me, sounding
genuinely pleased that I’d joined them. “Glad you could come.”

“Thanks for inviting me. That’s an amazing
barbecue, Tyler. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I had it custom made a few years ago,” he
said, looking pleased and faintly self-conscious at the same time.
“It’s the same old story: When I was growing up in Colorado,
everybody had a better barbecue than my family did. Ours was rusty
and old-fashioned and terrible. But I
loved
barbecue. And I
resolved...” he spread his hands out, indicating the barbecuing
beast at his disposal.

“You’ve arrived,” I said firmly, with a
smile. Understanding.

He grinned, at once sheepish and proud. “I
have. And now you have, too. Let me introduce you around.”

I was the new kid, and there were a lot of
them, so the names soon melded together, especially since, by the
time we’d done the rounds, more people had arrived and mixed
themselves up with the ones whose names I was trying hard to
remember. I saw a few familiar faces, but they looked smaller to
me. Diminished in person — looking oddly normal — when I’d gotten
to know them on the big screen.

Tyler’s wife, Tasya, stood out from the
crowd. This was partly because of her position as hostess, but also
through the sheer force of her presence. Calling her beautiful is
too obvious, plus an understatement: she’s an international
actress. A
movie star
. Beauty is self-evident. But it’s more
than that. Her look is dark, smokey and sublime. Audrey Hepburn
with an exotic edge. Her voice is also smokey, her accent
pleasingly esoteric — Eastern European with an overlay of dialect
coach — and her cheekbones look as though they could seriously
slice anything that ventured too close.

She brought me a glass of wine. “I’m so glad
to meet you, Madeline,” it sounded like “Mad-eh-leen” when she said
it. “Jennifer can’t stop talking about you.”

“Really?” I was oddly touched. “She seems
like a sweet kid.”