The Cottage (9 page)

She was still there on Monday morning, when Paloma arrived for work. Coop asked her to bring trays for both of them, which she did with a sullen expression of disapproval. She glared at Coop, slammed the trays down on the bed, and stalked out of the room in
bright pink high heels. The accessories she wore with her uniform always fascinated him.

“She doesn't like me,” Charlene said, looking crestfallen. “I think she disapproves.”

“Don't worry about it. She's madly in love with me. Don't be afraid if she makes a jealous scene,” he said sarcastically, as they dug into what appeared to be rubber eggs, covered with a thick layer of pepper which made Coop choke and Charlene sneeze. It was a far cry from the huevos rancheros she'd made him the week before. Paloma had won this round, but Coop was determined to have a word with her after Charlene left, and by then it was early afternoon.

“That was an interesting breakfast you served this morning, Paloma.” Coop stood in the kitchen, looking coolly at her. “The pepper was a nice touch, but unnecessary. I needed a buzz saw to cut through the eggs. What did you make them with? Rubber cement, or just ordinary paper glue?”

“I donnow what ju talkin' about,” she said cryptically, polishing a piece of silver that Livermore had told her had to be polished every week. She was wearing the rhinestone sunglasses again. They were obviously her favorites, and were becoming Coop's too. He was wondering if there was even a remote possibility of bringing her to heel. If not, he was going to have to replace her, no matter what Abe said. “Ju don' like my eggs?” she asked angelically, as he scowled at her.

“You know what I mean.”

“Miss Pamela called from Italy this morning, at eight o'clock,” Paloma announced nonchalantly, and
as she did, Coop stared. Her accent had suddenly disappeared.

“What did you just say?” It wasn't so much what as how.

“I said…” she looked up at him with an innocent grin, “Mees Pamela called ju at eight o'clock.” The dialect was back again. She was playing games with him.

“That's not how you said it a minute ago, is it, Paloma? What's the point of all that?” He was visibly annoyed, and she looked a little sheepish, and then covered it with bravado and a shrug.

“Isn't that what you expect? You called me Maria for the first two months I was here.” He could still hear the echo of San Salvador, but only faintly, and her English was almost as good as his.

“We hadn't been properly introduced,” he excused himself. And although he wouldn't have admitted it to her, he was faintly amused. She had figured she would hide from him by pretending to be barely able to speak English. He suspected she was not only smart, but probably a damn good cook too. “What did you do in your country, Paloma?” He was suddenly intrigued by her. As irritating as she was, she was becoming a human being to him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be burdened with that. But nonetheless, his curiosity got the best of him.

“I was a nurse,” she said, still polishing the silver. It was a loathsome task, and she missed Livermore almost as much as Coop.

“That's too bad,” Coop said with a grin, “I was hoping you were going to tell me you were a tailor or a dressmaker. At least then you could take proper care
of my clothes. Fortunately, I am not in need of your nursing skills.”

“I make more money here. And ju have too many clothes,” she said, donning the accent again, like a garment she put on and off at will. It was like playing peekaboo with him.

“Thank you for that piece of editorial commentary. You have some interesting accessories yourself,” he said as he glanced down at the pink shoes. “Why didn't you tell me Pamela called, by the way?” He had already decided to make a switch in paramours. But he always remained friends with the previous ones. And he was generous enough that they always forgave him his vagaries and his sins. He was sure Pamela would.

“You were busy with the other one when she called. What's her name.” The accent was gone again.

“Charlene,” he supplied, and Paloma looked vague. “Thank you, Paloma,” Coop said quietly and decided to quit while he was ahead, and left the room. She never wrote a single message down, and only told him about them when she thought of it, which worried him. But she seemed to know who the players were. So far, at least. And she was becoming a more interesting character herself day by day.

Paloma had met Mark the previous week, and she had offered to do some laundry for him, when he told her the washing machine in the guest wing was out of order. And the stove still was too. She had told him that he could use the kitchen in the main house if he needed to. She said Coop never came down to the kitchen himself in the morning, and she gave him a key to the connecting door between the main house
and the guest wing. The espresso machine in the guest wing was broken too. Mark had made a list of all of it, and the realtor had promised him it would all be repaired, but with Liz gone, there was no one to take care of it, except Coop himself, which wasn't likely to happen, they both knew. Mark was taking his clothes out to be laundered, and Paloma was doing sheets and towels for him, and with the use of Coop's espresso machine on the weekends, he had no other needs. He was using the microwave instead of the stove, and the only time he'd need the stove would be when he had the kids. He was sure it would be fixed by then, even if he had to take care of it himself, and he told the realtor he was willing to. She said she would see what she could do. But Coop never returned any of her calls, or his. And Coop was scheduled to do another commercial that week, for a brand of chewing gum. It was a ridiculous ad, but the pay was decent enough so his agent had talked him into it. He was working more than usual these days, although no features had surfaced yet. His agent had been beating the bushes for him to no avail. His reputation was too well known in Hollywood, and given the kind of parts he wanted to play, romantic leads, leading men, he was simply too old. He wasn't ready to play fathers or grandfathers yet. And there hadn't been any demand for aging playboys in years.

Charlene stayed at The Cottage with him almost every night that week. She was trying to get work as an actress, but she got even less work than Coop. And the only work she had done so far since she'd come to Hollywood were two X-rated videos, one of which
had been shown on TV at 4
A.M.
And her agent had finally convinced her that neither of them would look good on her C.V. She had already asked Coop if he could talk to anyone about getting work for her, and he'd said he would see what he could do. She had started out as a lingerie model on Seventh Avenue, after similar modeling in Paris, and she had a fabulous body for that, but he wasn't even sure if she could act, and seriously doubted it. She claimed to have modeled in Paris extensively, but she could never seem to find her book. Her real skills were in an area that was far more appealing to Coop, and had nothing to do with acting, modeling, or TV.

He was enjoying her company immensely. And he was relieved when Pamela told him when she got back from Milan that she'd gotten involved with the photographer on the shoot. Those things had a way of working themselves out, particularly in Coop's world. It was all about bodies and temporary alliances and quick affairs. It was only when he went out with famous actresses that he encouraged the rumors about engagements and wedding bells. But he wanted none of that with Charlene. She was all about having a good time, and seeing that he had fun too. He'd already been on two major shopping sprees with her, which had eaten both checks his tenants had given him, but he thought she deserved it, as he explained to Abe when the accountant called and warned him he'd have to sell the house if he didn't behave.

“You'd better give up starving models and actresses, Coop. You need to find a rich wife.” Coop laughed at him and said he'd give it some thought, but
marriage had never appealed to Coop. All he wanted to do was play, and that's what he was going to do, or planned to anyway, until his dying day.

The following weekend Mark went to New York to see his kids. He had told Paloma all about them by then. She had done a little cleaning for him, and he'd paid her handsomely. She would have done it for him anyway. She felt sorry for him when he told her his wife had left him for another man, and she started leaving fresh fruit in a bowl on his kitchen table, and some tortillas she'd made. She liked hearing about his kids. It was easy to see he was crazy about them. There were photographs of them all over the place, and others of him and his wife.

But in spite of that, it was a challenging weekend. It was the first time Mark had seen the children since they'd left LA more than a month before. Janet said he should have given them more time to settle in before he came, and she seemed nervous and hostile to him. She was leading a double life, pretending to be unattached when she was with the kids, and continuing her clandestine affair. And Adam wanted to know when he was going to meet her kids. She had promised him it would be soon, but she didn't want them to figure out why she had moved them to New York. She was terrified they'd object to Adam, and start a war with him, out of loyalty to their father, if nothing else. She was looking nervous and strained when Mark saw her, and he wondered what was going wrong. And the kids were unhappy too. But they were thrilled to see their dad.

They stayed at the Plaza with him, and ordered lots
of room service. He took them to the theater, and a movie. He went shopping with Jessica, and he and Jason went for a long walk in the rain, trying to make sense of things. And by Sunday afternoon, he felt as though he had only scratched the surface, and hated leaving them again. He was depressed all the way home on the plane. He was really beginning to wonder if he should move to New York. He was still thinking about it the following weekend, as he lay in the sun at the pool on Saturday, and he noticed that someone was moving into the gatehouse finally. He took a stroll over, and saw Jimmy hauling boxes out of a van by himself, and offered to give him a hand.

Jimmy hesitated for a long moment, and then accepted gratefully. He was surprised himself at how much stuff he had. He had sent most of what he had to storage, but had kept a lot of framed photographs, some trophies, his sports equipment, and his clothes. He had a lot of stereo equipment, some of which was Maggie's. There seemed to be a mountain of stuff he had brought with him, and even with Mark helping, it took them two hours to unload the van, and they were both tired when they stopped. All they'd done was introduce themselves to each other at that point, and Jimmy offered him a beer when they finally sat down, and Mark accepted gratefully. It had been a lot of work.

“You sure have a lot of stuff,” Mark said with a grin as he sipped the beer. “Heavy stuff, what's in all that, your collection of bowling balls?” Jimmy smiled and shrugged.

“Damned if I know. We had a two-room apartment
and I sent most of it to storage, and I still had all this.” He had a lot of books and papers, and CDs. It seemed endless, but it disappeared easily into the drawers and cupboards and bookcases and closets of the gatehouse. And when he opened the first box, he took out a picture of her and set it on the mantelpiece and stood looking at her. It was one of his favorites. She had just caught a fish in a lake on one of their trips to Ireland, and she looked victorious and pleased, her bright red hair tied in a knot on top of her head, her eyes squinting against the sun. She looked about fourteen years old. It was the summer before she got sick, only about seven months ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago to him, as he turned and saw Mark watching him. Jimmy looked away and didn't say anything.

“Pretty woman. Your girlfriend?” Jimmy shook his head and took a long time to answer, but finally did with a knot in his throat. He was used to it now, it felt like a growth sometimes, the knot that still turned into tears at the drop of a hat, and felt like it always would.

“My wife,” Jimmy said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” Mark said sympathetically, assuming they were divorced, because it seemed like everyone was now. “How long has it been?”

“Seven weeks tomorrow night,” Jimmy said, as he took a breath. He never talked about it, but he knew he had to learn how, and maybe this was as good a time as any to start. Mark looked like a nice guy, and maybe they'd be friends, living on the same property. Jimmy tried to keep his voice steady as he lowered his eyes.

“It's been six for me. I just visited my kids in New
York last weekend. I miss them so damn much. My wife left me for another guy,” Mark said in a somber voice.

“I'm sorry,” Jimmy said sympathetically. He could see the pain in Mark's eyes, mirrored and magnified only by the pain in his own. “That's tough. How old are your kids?”

“Fifteen and thirteen, a girl and a boy. Jason and Jessica. They're great kids, and so far they're hating New York. If she was going to fall for someone else, I wish it had been someone out here. The kids don't know about him yet. What about you? Kids?”

“No. We were talking about it. We hadn't gotten around to it yet.” He was amazed at how much he was willing to say to Mark. It was as though they had some strange invisible bond. The bond of heartache and loss and unexpected tragedy. The brutal blows of life that come as a surprise.

“Maybe it's just as well. Maybe it's easier to get divorced if you don't have kids. Maybe not. What do I know?” Mark said with a blend of compassion and humility, and suddenly Jimmy realized what he thought.

“We're not getting divorced,” he said in a choked voice.

“Maybe you'll get back together,” Mark said, envying him, but she obviously wasn't around either, so things couldn't be working out for them. And then he saw the look of raw anguish in Jimmy's eyes.

“My wife died.”

“Oh my God… I'm so sorry. … I thought What happened? An accident?” He glanced at the photograph
again, suddenly horrified that the beautiful young woman holding the fish was gone, not just to her own life, but dead, and it was easy to see how heartbroken Jimmy was.

“A brain tumor. She started having headaches… migraines… they did some tests. She was gone in two months. Just like that. I don't usually talk about it. She would have loved this place. Her family was Irish, born in County Cork. She was Irish to her very core. An amazing woman. I wish I could be half the human being she was.” Mark almost cried listening to him, and he could see the tears glistening in Jimmy's eyes. All he could do was look at him sympathetically, and then he helped him haul the rest of the boxes around, and he carried at least half of them upstairs. They didn't say anything to each other for a while, but Jimmy seemed to have regained his composure again by the time all the boxes were in the right rooms and Mark had helped him open some of them. “I can't thank you enough. I feel a little crazy moving to this place. We had a perfectly good apartment in Venice Beach. I just had to get out, and then this came up. It seemed like the right thing to do for now.” It gave him a place to recover where he didn't have a thousand memories of being there with her. And under the circumstances, it seemed sensible to Mark too.