All Night Long (23 page)

His first words were a brief question. “May I?”

Her answer was a sweep of her hand toward the battered wooden upright chair across from her. His answer to that was to sit and put his elbows on the equally battered wooden table. “I'm glad you'll talk to me. You look great.”

“Bullshit. I look like a girl in the Echo.” This was true. Esme had worn nothing special to come to La Verdad. Just a pair of jeans and a black tank top.

“That's great.”

“Forget it, Jonathan. I don't want compliments from you. How'd you find me?”

He shrugged. “I called your mom. She said you weren't home but might be at this place. I took a chance. I'm glad I did. I remember this place from the time we came to hear your friend Jorge and his group. The fire department closed it down because there were too many people.”

Esme took a sip of the
horchata
, and wiped the white line she was sure it made away from her upper lip. She remembered that time, too. That was when she and Jonathan were an actual couple.

“She shouldn't have.”

“You'll have to take that up with her. What are you drinking?”

She deliberately hit herself in the forehead three or four times before she answered. “Come on, Jonathan. You didn't drive out here to the Echo— or did you have one of the drivers bring you?—just to find out what I'm drinking.”

He put his palms up. “Guilty as charged.”

“Anyway, it's
horchata
. A rice drink. If you want, get my friend Marlene to bring you some.”

“Not thirsty. I came to see you.”

She shrugged. “Cool. Here I am. Talk. I think you probably have something you've planned to say. Say it. I promise I won't move until you're done.”

“What about after that?”

“Jonathan. Don't push your luck.”

The radio station music changed to something by Santana— and Esme had a brief flash to that day not long ago when she'd come back to the mansion to find Tarshea making genuine Jamaican jerk chicken, and her feeling like a genuine jerk. Then
there was the water volleyball game afterward, when Santana had been in the pool along with Jonathan and Tarshea, and all she could do was stand on the sideline and watch. That had been close to humiliating.

Maybe Jonathan had the same memory. His eyes clouded over.

“What are you thinking about?” she demanded.

“You don't really want to know.”

“If I didn't want to know, I'd change my mind and leave. Which is what maybe I should do if I had any sense.” She was getting aggravated. Maybe the best thing to do was to go home and tell her mother never, ever to tell this guy where she was.

“Fine. I was thinking about when you showed up at my door. And Tarshea was inside.”

“Oh,” Esme mocked. “What a nice memory.”

“I want to tell you something about that night. It wasn't what it looked like.”

Esme laughed in a way that wasn't funny. “Do you realize that's the oldest line in the book? What do you take me for? A dumb girl FOB? Fresh off the boat?”

“It's the truth.” Jonathan defended himself. “It wasn't what it looked like.”

“Then why don't you tell me what it was?” Esme knew her voice was cutting, but she didn't care. She'd never been in the habit of letting guys take advantage of her, and she wasn't about to start now. On the other hand, she was curious to see what kind of lame-ass excuse Jonathan would concoct.

“Here's what happened. I was home. I heard my buzzer. It was her, downstairs. She sounded totally polluted. I let her in. She
was
polluted. Seriously drunk. We didn't do anything. I mean it, Esme. Nothing.”

Esme just sat there for a minute, thinking. It was bullshit. It wasn't bullshit. It was bullshit.

It was bullshit.

“You were in your bathrobe!”

Jonathan's response was instantaneous. “Because she'd just barfed all over me.”

“Prove it,” she challenged.

“I can't.”

“Knew it.”

“I would if I could,” Jonathan said. “But I can't. Since Tarshea has gone back to Jamaica.”

Well then. For the first time since Jonathan had sat down at her table, Esme felt surprised by something he'd said. This couldn't be bullshit. It was too easy to check. But if that was the case, why hadn't her parents told her?

The answer was self-evident, even as he looked at her expectantly, waiting for her reaction. She'd made it so clear she didn't give a rat's ass about what was happening at the Goldhagen estate that they'd adopted their own bilingual don't-ask, don't-tell policy. That had to be why.

“When?” Esme asked.

“After I told my folks that she showed up at my place drunk,” Jonathan explained.

“Nice. You cost Tarshea her job.”

“No, Esme. Tarshea cost Tarshea her job. Now, my parents have no one. The girls have no one.”

He looked at her with those deep-set eyes, and for a moment she felt herself back under his spell.

But no. That was an Esme who was no more. Since that
night, everything had changed. She'd decided not to be a nanny. To be a tattoo artist instead. To make the kind of money and have the kind of business that would give her the kind of financial security she'd never had, and even security for her parents. She'd done the late-night calculations. Even with rent on her office space, even with buying the car she'd need to get back and forth and to do the occasional home visit (if it was safe, of course), she'd be in a position to make a down payment on a house inside of eighteen months.

Not for herself. For her parents. To get them out of the Echo, and into South Pasadena or Alhambra. Someplace where Spanish was still the first language, but where you heard the LAPD midnight sirens and choppers a lot less often.

“You should have told me right away.” She could feel herself biting her lower lip. It was a nervous habit from when she was younger. She hadn't done it in ages.

“Maybe. But you'd quit. My parents were pissed.”

“I was pissed,” Esme retorted.

“It left them with no one. They've been using a service, but the twins are flipping out.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” That was no exaggeration.

“So I'm here for two reasons.” Jonathan puffed some air loudly between his lips. “One, to see if you'd be willing to talk to my parents about coming back.”

“Does Diane know about this?” Esme interjected, before Jonathan could get to his second point.

He shook his head. “I thought I'd sound you out first.”

This was it. A moment of decision. She knew it. He was basically offering to run interference for her in case she wanted her
job back. But so much had changed. Working with those twins for a relative pittance seemed so long ago. Was she ready to roll back the clock?

“What's the other thing?”

“You're dodging,” he said. “You answer the first one, I'll answer the second.”

She couldn't help it. She smiled for a brief instant. “This is my turf. I'll decide.”

“Fair enough. Decide on your own time.” He stood. “But you should know that my stepmom said you had a week. Otherwise, she's going to go to the club and poach someone's nanny.”

“Hold it.” She stood too. “I thought you just told me that you hadn't talked to Diane and Steven about this.”

He shrugged. “Sue me. I lied. Anyway, I gotta get back. I promised the twins I'd take them out for ice cream.”

“At this hour?” She looked skeptical.

“Got me again. Anyway, the stuff about Diane saying you had a week? That's no lie. You know where to find her. And you know where to find me.”

That was it. Twenty seconds later, the door of La Verdad swung shut behind him.

Marlene was on Esme in a minute.
“¿Oye, quién fue el chico? ¡Wow! ¡Muy lindo!”

“Yeah, he's fine,” Esme agreed. “The problem is, I don't know what he is after that.”

“I just wanted to tell you,” Susan began, looking deep into Kiley's eyes, “how relieved I am that you'll be here for the kids after the colonel and I are gone.”

They were standing in front of the house. The colonel was supervising as the chauffeur put their packed bags in the limo's trunk. Although Platinum's sister made it sound as if she was dying, what with her dramatic
after the colonel and I are gone
thing, in actuality Kiley knew that she and her anal-retentive husband were simply moving out and moving on.

Bruce, Sid, and Serenity were about as happy as three kids could possibly be. At the moment, Bruce was off with his friends riding dirt bikes, Sid was in their home theater eating junk food and watching Johnny Knoxville movies, and Serenity was in her room with what had formerly been a black leather skirt of Plat-inum's, which she was cutting into clothing for her Barbie doll. Platinum herself was out at a
Rolling Stone
photo shoot.

No one in the entire family had bothered to show up to say goodbye.

Kiley felt kind of bad about that. She truly loathed the colonel. And she thought Susan was a wuss who refused to stand up for herself. But they had stepped into the breach after Platinum had screwed up her life and the lives of her children. Not to get a thank-you for it? That was cold.

Kiley waved as the limo disappeared out the privacy gate. And that was that.

“Kiley, dear. Can I get you some lunch?”

Kiley turned to see Mrs. Cleveland had come in from the kitchen.

“No thanks. I'm meeting my friends.”

Kiley hesitated. She'd asked Platinum for the afternoon off so that she could hang out with Esme and Lydia. Esme was trying to decide whether or not she wanted her nanny job back, so her hours were her own. Lydia's aunt Kat had taken Jimmy and Martina to San Francisco for a much-needed sit-down with Anya on neutral ground after Anya had left several messages about needing to see the kids, and a deeply hurt Kat realized that she needed to put aside her anger to do what was best for them. Which meant Kiley was the only one who had been scheduled to work. Platinum had easily agreed. But Kiley was now so concerned that something terrible would happen with the kids if she wasn't there, she hated to leave.

“If you're sure about staying with the kids …”

“Of course.” Mrs. Cleveland waved away Kiley's concerns. “Go have fun.”

Kiley went back to her guesthouse, put on her well-worn Converse All Stars, a pair of shorts, and a T-shirt, and took off in
Platinum's pearl white Bentley for the spot where Esme had dictated they all meet—at the very end of Beachwood Canyon Drive in the Hollywood Hills. Kiley had MapQuested the driving directions. She had no idea why Esme had asked her and Lydia to meet at this location.

Enjoying this particular car's smooth ride, she was delighted to avoid the freeways and took local winding streets to this intriguing choice of location. She traveled upward on Beachwood Canyon, past beautiful homes that resembled the French countryside more than Los Angeles; Kiley found it charming. As she crossed such streets as Glen Holly, Glen Oak, and Cheremoya, the houses gave way to rolling green hills, and then … the street ended.

Esme had picked up Lydia. They'd already arrived; they were sitting on the bumper of a very used, very old maroon Saturn with a Latin Kings bumper sticker on the fender. Lydia had her head thrown back, face raised to the bright afternoon sun.

“Hey,” Kiley called to them. “Interesting place to meet.”

“I don't get it any more than you do, sweet pea,” Lydia said, lifting her oversized sunglasses to make eye contact. “Just something Esme got into her head.”

“It's actually something I've always wanted to do,” Esme countered.

Lydia cocked one blond eyebrow. “Park at the end of a street in the Hollywood Hills?”

“We are not there yet, smart-ass,” Esme informed her. “We have to walk. That way.” She pointed to a dirt path that led upward.

“Sorry, but I left traipsing in the hot sun behind with the mud hut and fire ants,” Lydia said.

Kiley saw Esme set her jaw. “Fine. You don't want to come—”

“We'll come,” Kiley said quickly. “Won't we?” She made pointed eye contact with Lydia. Ever since Esme had quit her nanny job, she'd been … what? Kiley considered for a moment. Sad. That was it. She was sad. Not that she admitted it. She claimed that her life was perfect and she was glad to be rid of all things Goldhagen, but Kiley felt that in Esme's heart, she didn't really feel that way at all.

Which meant … that Esme really needed her friends right now. Esme never asked either of them for anything; Kiley always got the feeling that asking was a hard thing for Esme to do.

Lydia sighed. “Fine. But just so you know, I'm wearing four-hundred-dollar Chanel ballet flats, which were not made for hiking.”

Kiley looked down at Lydia's shoes. “Please tell me you didn't pay four hundred dollars for those.”

“Of course not,” Lydia said primly. “I'm a
nanny
. I'm
broke
. My new friend Flipper bought them for me.”

“Swimming guy, senior class, great kisser, washboard abs,” Esme recited. “Although I don't know why you're letting some guy you just met buy you shoes.”

“Well, see, Flipper turned eighteen last week,” Lydia explained, clearly unbothered by Esme's criticism. “His real generous parents—they own this bathing suit empire—gave him his inheritance. Twenty-something million.”