Chasing Chaos: A Novel (12 page)

“It’s
in the car,” he said. “Come on.”

He
stood and headed out of the café, expecting her to follow. Then she threw her
things into her bag and hustled after him.

Marlon
drove Sandy’s car slowly not because he was worried about damaging the car.
Sandy wouldn’t care if Marlon got in a fender-bender. Sandy had told him as
much the first time he’d loaned Marlon the keys, saying, “When it’s in the
shop, the dealer always loans me the newest model. It’s like having a fling.”
Sandy hadn’t wanted Marlon to worry. Marlon had been nineteen years old.

No.
Marlon drove slowly because he always drove slowly. Los Angeles was a city
packed end-to-end with cars, and those cars carried people in unbearable
hurries. How miserable. He refused to live that way. So he drove at his own
pace and planned carefully so he would never be late.

Never
needed to be in a hurry.

Never
needed to rush things.

Plus,
right now he had Daphne sitting in the car next to him. She was an added reason
to take his time.

They
headed east on San Vicente. “Turn left up here,” she said, pointing to Montana.
He did. After a few more blocks, she directed him to turn left again and head
around back of a two story building. He waited a moment while she opened her
garage to let him pull into the empty spot next to her Audi.

He
climbed out of the car, standing in the cool shade of the garage with her.

“Do
you… um… I don’t suppose you want to come inside?” she asked.

“I think
I need to,” he said.

“You
do?”

He
nodded, loving her adorable look of confusion.

“Just
hold open the door for me, OK?”

“OK,”
she said, and she trotted up the stairs.

He
heard a metal door clank open at the top of the stairs. He opened the rear
hatch of the car and withdrew the large wrapped item, taking care not to bump
it on anything.

He
met her at the top of the stairs where she held the gate. She eyed the package
in his hands, and he could see her guessing—likely accurately—as to its
contents.

She unlocked
her front door and led him into the foyer, then firmly locked the door behind
them. She took off her shoes by the front door, adding to the fancy sneakers,
glittery flats and boots of a variety of heights piled there. He set down the
package and then did the same. Then, picking it up again, he followed her
inside.

Her
home was a tribute to the midcentury era. He knew purchasing that high-end
furniture would have cost a fortune. But he also knew she probably hadn’t spent
a fortune on it. It didn’t seem like something she would do.

“Where
did you find all this stuff?” he asked.

“Thrift
stores. The side of the road.”

“That’s
what I thought. That couch though. Wow.”

It
was a blazing shade of orange. Traffic-cone orange. Safety-vest orange.

“That’s
the lifeboat. Timmy and Greta bought that a long time ago. It set the tone for
the rest of my house.”

She
must have been referring to the couch’s midcentury styling, not the color.
“Then why don’t Timmy and Greta have it now?”

A
look of pain crossed her face. “It just became mine one day.”

“Sure,
OK,” he said. “Got a place where I can put this down?”

“Through
here.”

She
led him into her kitchen and through to her dining table.

“It’s
clean,” she said, seeming to sense that cleanliness was important. “For once.”

He
set the package down flat, and it covered an awful lot of her six-person table.

“I’m
guessing you’ve figured out what’s in here,” he said, gesturing at the brown
wrapping paper.

“I
think so.” She sounded as nervous as a bird.

“All
right then,” he said. “I guess I’ll leave now.” Perhaps if he gave her some
space, she’d come around.

“No,
don’t go.”

Her
words surprised him.

“I
mean,” she said, “if you have some place to be, I don’t want to keep you. But,
if you don’t need to leave, you can stay.”

“I
don’t have some place to be.”

She
reached forward with both hands to grab the edges of the paper. Then she pulled
slowly, revealing the painting underneath. It was the painting he’d stayed up
all night finishing while she’d been asleep in his bed last night. He wasn’t
supposed to give it to her. He was supposed to give it to the man who’d already
paid for it. But it didn’t seem right. This painting was Daphne’s.

This
painting was Daphne.

“Here,
let me.” He reached for the painting.

Because
the oils were still wet, he’d encased the canvas in a three-inch-deep frame for
transport. He lifted the frame from the canvas, leaving it bare on its wrapping
paper.

She
reached to touch the canvas, but stopped just before her fingers could brush
the raised paint strokes, sensing that they were still damp. She traced the air
a hairsbreadth from the painting, a portrait of her on the lounge chair, the
sunset exploding behind her.

“When?”

“You
know when.”

“But,
so fast?”

“I’d
already started it. I just didn’t know how to finish. Who belonged on it.”

“So
this part is still wet?” She gestured at the center where her portrait
appeared.

“Yes.
I’d done most of the work this past month, and I knew it would be a portrait. I
knew how most of it would look. But not how it would end.”

“You
talk like you’re writing a story.”

“It’s
kind of like that I guess.”

“Will
you hang it for me?”

“You
got tools?”

She
dashed to the hall and opened a closet door. She pulled out a sturdy red
toolbox, holding it out to him. “Greta put this together for me. It should be
well stocked.”

He
opened the box and found a hammer, a tape measure and the rest of what he’d
need, and he put items in various pockets of his jeans.

Then
he reached wide and picked up the canvas by its edges, letting the brown paper
fall to the floor. He carried the painting to her room, following her lead. She
kicked aside a pile of clothes to make a pathway for him. Her room was
delightfully messy. Then she stepped up onto her bed, pointing above her
headboard.

“Here.”
She gestured at the bare space there.

He
leaned the painting against the wall. He climbed up on her bed, eyeing the
space. He took his time measuring, ensuring the picture was even over her
headboard and not too high. When he finally let the canvas frame’s wire catch
on the hanging hardware, he heard her sigh behind him.

He
stepped back, taking in his work.

Earlier
today, when he was deciding what to do about Daphne, he’d considered keeping
the painting. He’d thought if he were going to let her go, he’d at least have
the painting to remember her by. But when he decided to not let her go after
all, he knew she should have it. She should have it, and no one else should.
The portrait was too intimate.

It
belonged right here above her bed. He would have suggested she hang it there if
she hadn’t figured it out for herself.

He
turned and looked at her. She stood, leaning back against the wall, her mouth
covered by her hands. “It’s so lovely,” she said. “Is that really how you see
me?”

“Don’t
you know you’re not supposed to ask questions of the artist?”

“I’m
sorry.”

He
stepped off the bed, which was another fine piece of craftsmanship. He pulled
her to him, wrapping his arms around her slender shoulders. “Yes,” he whispered
in her ear. “Yes, of course that’s how I see you.” Then he kissed the corner of
her mouth. When she kissed him back, he really wished he didn’t have something
else he needed to work on that afternoon.

A
click sounded from the front of the house, the front door unlocking. Opening.
Daphne stepped away from him.

“Daphne?
You here?”

“I’m
here!”

“There
is an ever-loving sweet DB9 parked in your other parking space. Oh.” Miranda
saw Marlon and stopped in the bedroom doorway. “I guess that’s your sweet DB9.”

A
girl stood there, a whirlwind of black and red and a dark blond ponytail that
hung almost to her gorgeous rear end. She was tall—though not as tall as
Greta—and striking, with her enormous eyes and full, red lips. Marlon was
certain he’d never seen her before.

“In
a way,” Marlon said.

“You
steal it?”

“No.”

“Borrow
it?”

“Yes.”

“Then
it’s not yours. Bummer.”

“Marlon,
meet Miranda,” Daphne said with a sigh.

He
glanced at Daphne, who looked pained. He knew Daphne didn’t have a roommate.
Miranda was company then. The unexpected kind?

“How
do you two know each other?” he asked.

“We
went to college together,” Miranda said.

“Ah,”
he said. “Another Cameron girl.”

Miranda
frowned, seemingly displeased with the moniker. “You don’t have to put it like
that.”

“Why
not?”

“None
of us liked it there very much,” Miranda said.

“I
thought everyone loved Cameron,” Marlon said. “What do they call it on ESPN?
Blue Heaven?”

Miranda
made a gagging noise.

Daphne
spoke. “Not us. We’re like a secret club.”

Miranda
laughed. “Is it secret?” Then she held up a shopping bag to show Daphne. “I got
a dress for the wedding. You should give it your fashion diva approval before
tomorrow.”

“I’ll
see you later, Marlon,” Daphne said. “I have to take Greta out to buy her
wedding dress, then I’ll come by Sandy’s so we can finish arranging the space.
I might be late—like around seven?”

“He
doesn’t have to go,” Miranda said. “He might have excellent fashion sense.”

“I
do not,” Marlon said. He nodded at Miranda. “Nice to meet you.”

He
headed out, through Daphne’s living room and into the foyer, slipping on his
shoes at the door, listening to the girls talk in low voices in Daphne’s
bedroom. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

He
felt a stab of self-consciousness. Perhaps giving her the painting was too
grand a gesture. Daphne had a face he was certain men had painted before. Had
photographed. Had captured for eternity. What was one more depiction of her
perfection? One more penitent worshipping at her altar?

He
opened her front door silently and slipped out, making his way to Sandy’s car.
He started the drive back home, heading north.

He’d
seen them, the men who’d come with her to Sandy’s house, men like Dan Morello.
He’d known who Dan was long before shaking his hand at the café this morning.
That’s what Marlon did. He paid attention to things, to the people who came and
went from Sandy’s house. To the people who were important to the people who
were important to Sandy. He might only watch from a distance most of the time,
but he watched closely.

He
drove north until he hit Sunset Boulevard. He knew Wilshire was probably the
faster route from Daphne’s house, but he preferred the rolling hills of Sunset.
He liked to pass by the northern edge of UCLA, where, like Carrie, he’d also
gone to college. This was the route he’d taken to school, driving down from
Sandy’s house where he’d lived during most of his school years instead of in
college housing. He thought of Carrie’s current nasty living arrangements and
smiled. He was glad she was living within her means, working hard at Rivet
while working on her dream. Too many beautiful girls in Los Angeles thought
they could find easier ways to success, thought they could cut corners. But
they couldn’t. Not without losing parts of their souls.

Just
look at Daphne. Five years later and she was still a wreck. He wondered if she knew
just how much he knew about what had transpired between her and Greta all those
years ago. But Daphne had grown stronger for it, if a little fearful. In fact,
the reason he was willing to take a gamble (as she’d put it) on her was that
she was more afraid of him than he was of her.

He
had an idea. He pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant, closed at this
time of day, then pulled out his phone. He hoped she would answer this time.

“Marlon?
Is everything OK?” Daphne answered after two rings.

“I
had an inspiration.”

“Another
one?”

“Let’s
get together, you, me and Carrie.”

“OK,”
she said. “That would be nice.”

“Great.
I’ll call her and see when she’s free.”

~~~~

Daphne
hung up. She had the sense to recognize that Marlon inviting her to get
together with him and Carrie was a big deal. Like meeting his parents, except
he didn’t have parents.

Miranda
was in the guest room, changing into her dress. It wasn’t that Miranda was
modest—she would have stripped naked right in front of Daphne without a second
thought—but she wanted to surprise Daphne.