Chasing Chaos: A Novel (13 page)

Out
she came, flinging open the door dramatically. She’d let down her hair from its
ponytail so it hung around her in long, dark blond waves. The dress was, of
course, black, with spaghetti straps, a fitted bodice, and a tea-length skirt.
The color made the fair skin of her arms and chest glow. The slim-fitting cut
exaggerated her curves.

“Well?
Is this Hollywood-wedding-appropriate?”

“It’s
perfect,” Daphne said. “On you.”

“Compliment?”

“Yes.”
And it was. Miranda was dressed to kill. In fact, Daphne thought she recognized
the designer. “It’s, ah, really nice,” Daphne said. “Did you get it at one of
the boutiques on Montana?”

“Yes!
How did you know?”

“Fashion
diva, remember? I know this is nosy, but you didn’t come here with much. Are
you sure you can afford it?”

“Here’s
the deal, Daphne.” Miranda suddenly looked fierce, staring down at Daphne with
blazing brown eyes. She reminded Daphne of the Sumatran tiger she’d once seen
at the San Diego Zoo. “I have my dead mom’s credit card. It’s the same color as
this dress. I used it to buy a plane ticket to get here. I used it to buy this
dress. I’m going to keep buying stuff with it until my father cancels it or I
hit its preposterous credit limit. And I’m not going to feel the slightest bit
guilty about it.”

Daphne
smiled faintly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

The
fierceness left Miranda, and she slumped. “Cool.”

“I’m
going to meet Greta at the Beverly Center,” Daphne said. “That’s our shopping
mall. She’s going to buy her wedding dress. Do you want to come with us?”

“Nah,”
Miranda said. “I think I’ll take a nap. Don’t worry about me.”

But
Daphne couldn’t help worrying about Miranda. She might be fierce, but she was
also a creature in pain.

~~~~

Daphne
pulled into the parking deck at the Beverly Center. She was meeting Greta at
Bloomingdale’s. Greta refused to shop at boutiques like the one where Miranda
had purchased her dress.

Greta
had once said, gesturing at her own body, “The salesgirls look at me like I’m a
freak who won’t fit into their clothes. And they are not wrong.”

But
for her wedding dress, even Greta had agreed to go to a nice department store.
To Daphne’s joy, she’d even agreed to shop the designer dress department.
Daphne could barely contain herself.

Daphne
found Greta waiting on a bench in the mall just outside of Bloomingdale’s,
sipping a cup of coffee.

“Fortifying
yourself?” Daphne asked.

“Why
would I need to do that? You assured me this procedure would take minimal time
and energy.”

“I’m
so excited!”

“Of
course you are. That’s why we’re doing this.”

But
Greta was smiling too, and she and Daphne looped their arms together.

“Where’s
Miranda?” Greta asked. “I figured she’d come along.”

“I
invited her. But she was tired after all of her exploring of Los Angeles. She’s
trying to decide if she wants to stay here.”

Greta
chuckled. “Miranda in Los Angeles? Her dark humor will create an event
horizon.”

“There
was a time when you thought you wouldn’t fit in here either.”

“That’s
true. I guess she just needs to find her people.”

“You
and me—we kind of are her people.”

Greta
nodded.

“I’m
glad you feel that way because I invited her to your wedding.”

“Of
course you did. You have a kind heart.”

Daphne
snorted. “At least that way we can keep an eye on her.”

“How’s
she doing?” Greta turned serious.

“Not
well.” Daphne remembered the moment when Miranda’s snarky facade had fallen and
her bitterness had shone through.

They
browsed the departments of different designers, Daphne opting for dresses that
were sleeveless and even strapless.

“But
it’s cold right now!” Greta said.

“It
won’t be at five o’clock tomorrow. And we’ll get you a cardigan to wear over
it.” She pulled a cream cashmere piece off the rack. “This one.”

Greta
rolled her eyes. “This outfit is going to cost more than everything else I own
put together.”

“Not
if you count your shoe collection.”

“Oh.
Do I get to buy new shoes for this?” Greta asked.

Greta
loved shoes.

In
the end, Greta bought an ivory strapless dress that stopped at her knees, the
cashmere cardigan “so she wouldn’t freeze her ass off,” and a new pair of
strappy heels in a pearl-colored leather.

Outside
the store again, they hugged. Daphne felt particularly ardent: protective,
loving and grateful all at once. She backed away from Greta but held on to her
hands. “I’m so happy for you,” she said, and then burst into tears.

“Daphne,”
Greta said, leading her to the mall bench. “What’s the matter? If this is
simply an oversupply of emotions because your best friend is getting married, I
understand. But I’m sensing that’s not the case.”

“I
don’t want to burden you the day before your wedding,” Daphne said, more in
control.

“If
it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be having a wedding. This whole rigmarole
is your fault.”

“Thanks
for letting me have a rigmarole.”

“Tell
me what’s wrong.”

“I
will,” Daphne said. “After.”

Miranda
George did indeed want to take a nap while Daphne took Greta out to buy a
wedding dress. But that wasn’t the only reason she declined to go to the
Beverly Center. Miranda had plans for the evening.

She
slept the afternoon away, finally feeling refreshed after her travels the day
before. Then, she climbed out of bed and dragged herself into the shower.

Earlier
that day, she and John had shared mimosas at Didier’s. They’d discovered that
they both worked in the same field—new media—although he was a programmer and
she a content creator. Like her, John was new in town, but not as new as she
was. He had his own place, steady work and a group of friends, one of whom
she’d met at Didier’s. When they’d finished their drinks, he’d asked her out to
dinner that night. She’d agreed.

She
was well aware of the chaos that dating Daphne’s recent one-night-stand might
introduce into her own already unbalanced life.

But
honestly
, she
thought as she stepped out of the shower,
what was a little more chaos
?
She dried off, looking at her face in the mirror. She looked like shit. She
wished she could borrow Daphne’s concealer to deal with the under-eye circles,
but their skin tones were too different. Whatever. She’d wear red lipstick
again. It served as an excellent tool of misdirection.

Miranda’s
thoughts returned to chaos as she headed into the bedroom to dress. She’d
watched Daphne break away from sucking face with that Marlon guy earlier.
Seeing how easily Daphne made all guys fall in love with her, seeing how
charmed her life was—Miranda didn’t feel guilty at all about introducing a
little chaos.

Well,
she thought as she slipped into her skinny black jeans, maybe she felt a little
guilty. Daphne had taken her in without hesitation, and that had helped Miranda
a lot. If Miranda had been forced to use her mom’s credit card to pay for a
hotel for a couple of weeks, she’d have taken a big risk—after all, she didn’t
know when it would get cut off. And she just wasn’t ready to sign a lease. Not
in Los Angeles, not anywhere.

Miranda
didn’t know where she was supposed to be. She was unmoored.

She
checked the time on her cell phone. She had fifteen minutes to make it to
Didier’s, where she’d said she’d meet John. He was going to pick her up and
take her to dinner someplace. She didn’t want to give him Daphne’s address. She
might embrace chaos, but she wasn’t stupid.

~~~~

Dan
Morello sat alone at Rivet’s bar eating one of their famous steaks. He wasn’t a
filet mignon guy, though. He preferred the strip. He had a glass of whiskey
next to him, and he made small talk with Quentin, the bar manager. Quentin had
been at Rivet since the day the place opened, and he knew everyone. He knew
everything. He was like Yoda with a martini shaker, except better looking
(could have been an actor and had probably tried at one point) and less
cryptic. Dan thought he’d enjoy hanging out with Quentin, but the few times
he’d dropped such a hint, Quentin had pretended not to understand.

Perhaps
Quentin thought he was too good to hang out with Dan. Dan shook his head. That
wasn’t possible. No way some bullshit bartender believed he was better than Dan
Morello.

He’d
also recognized someone else that evening. Working an indoor section of tables
was the girl he’d met with Daphne at Uptown Coffee the previous morning. Casey?
Carrie? Carrie. Yes, that was it. Carrie something. She had an impossible last
name. But she was foxy, that’s for sure. Amazing tits.

He
would say she was a bit young for him, except this was Hollywood, so there was
no such thing.

Carrie
came up to the bar to hand a drink order to Quentin.

Dan
called to her. “Carrie, right?”

She
looked at him, and her face brightened. “Dan?”

“That’s
right. I didn’t realize you worked here.”

“Working
here is how I met Daphne.”

Hearing
Daphne’s name, Dan frowned, his hurt and anger almost overtaking his ability to
think rationally. Sandy’s handyman? Daphne had betrayed him for that goon? He
couldn’t believe it.

“Well,
I should get back to work,” she said. Dan realized he’d taken too long to pick
up his end of the conversation.

“Of
course you need to work!” he said, trying to sound jolly. “I wouldn’t want you
to get in trouble.”

Carrie’s
face relaxed into a smile.

He
lowered his voice. “You going tomorrow night? To the wedding?”

“Yeah,
I am.”

He
lowered his voice to a whisper, forcing her to lean closer in order to hear
him. “Wanna go together?”

She
looked uncertain, but interested. He wondered what the hang-up was.

He
added, “Just as friends.”

“Sure.”
She sounded more interested.

He
handed her his card. “Call me later—I’ll be home around ten. We’ll make plans
then.”

She
smiled. “Sounds cool.” She turned to head back to her tables, giving him a nice
view of her long, long legs.

Dan
lifted his whiskey to his lips and took a sip. The burn felt good.

~~~~

Daphne
took the curvy roads up the canyon to Sandy’s house at a good pace, loving, as
usual, the feel of her tires gripping the pavement. She pulled into Sandy’s
driveway and then headed down to the garage. The first bay was open, revealing
Sandy’s car. The last bay, the sixth one, was open as well. She parked in front
of the closed door of the second bay, blocking in Marlon’s non-running car. She
climbed out, tucked her cell phone and keys into her pocket, and headed for the
open sixth bay, which she’d never before seen the inside of.

The
sixth bay was partitioned from the rest of the garage. This bay wasn’t a garage
at all, but a wood shop. Large power tools stood on wheeled stands. A giant
dust collector snaked along the ceiling. A workbench with upper and lower
cabinetry ran along the entire side wall. It appeared both well organized and
well used.

In
the middle of the workshop floor, Marlon was working on a wooden arbor. The
sides of the arbor resembled French doors with unglazed panes. The top was
covered with a small pergola.

He
was rubbing the arbor with a white cloth dipped in oil. Daphne stood at the
entry of the wood shop, watching him work the oil into the wood grain.

“I
hope you can keep a secret,” he said.

“What
is this?”

“I
made it for Greta. You mentioned needing a magical wedding spot on the deck. So
I made one.”

“You
made this?” Daphne was astonished. “When?”

“I
started it Sunday night after you left.”

“But
it’s so extravagant.” And it was. She didn’t understand how so much detailed
work could have happened since Sunday night.

“Sandy’s
got a spot in his garden for it. It won’t go to waste.”

“But
you’re not making it for Sandy. You’re making it for Greta.”

“Greta’s
always been good to me.”

Daphne
paused at his words. Marlon said Greta’s name in almost the same tone he used
for Carrie’s. A little less protective, perhaps, but brotherly nonetheless.

“You
were here that day.” Daphne realized an important truth. “When she first got
released from the hospital.”

“Yeah.”
He used his fingertips to work the finishing cloth into the corners of the
windowpanes on the side of the arbor. The detailed work seemed to take a lot of
his concentration.

“Greta
and I have never talked about those first few days… after.” For the first time,
her and Greta’s silence on the topic struck Daphne as horrible.

“I
don’t think anyone likes to talk about it,” Marlon said. “Why dwell on bad
times?”

“Will
you tell me what you remember?”

He
looked at her, squeezing the cloth in his hand. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because
it was my fault.”

“That
she got hurt?”

Daphne
nodded.

“I
thought some nut job did it.”

“But
it happened because of me.”

Marlon
dipped the cloth in the can of finishing oil. “It seems Greta forgave you for
whatever you think you did.”

“She
did.”

“But
you haven’t forgiven yourself.”

“I
don’t want to talk about me,” Daphne pleaded. “Please just tell me what
happened.”

“Fine,
OK.” Marlon resumed his work. “But I’m not sure it’s going to give you the
answers you’re looking for.”

Daphne
dragged a stool over from the workbench so she could sit closer to him.

“Sandy
picked up Greta when she was released from the hospital and brought her
straight here. You know that?”

Daphne
nodded. “She wouldn’t let me or Timmy see her after that first night in the
hospital.”

“When
she got here, she looked beat all to hell. But you know what she looked like.”

Daphne
nodded again, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. Five years and the pain
felt the same. She would never forgive herself.

“She
couldn’t do anything for herself because her arm was all torn up. She was also
freaked out. I think she was afraid that the person who got her would come
after her again.” He paused, working oil into a particularly tight spot. “So
Sandy didn’t want to leave her alone for very long. He had me pick up food from
Rivet, all sorts of soft foods that she could eat even though her face was
smashed. Soups, mashed potatoes, you know.”

“I
know,” Daphne whispered.

“I
helped get one of the rooms ready for her. I unpacked her bag with her stuff
from the hospital.” Marlon looked at her. “I guess you would have been the one
who packed that bag.”

“Yeah.”
Daphne choked out.

“So
mostly we made sure she took her pain medicine, ate enough food and rested. We
kept her clothes washed, filled her prescriptions and did everything else we
could imagine that would help her not feel like her world was ending.”

“Because
she must have felt that way. God.” Daphne put her face in her hands and cried.

“Hey.”
Marlon wiped his hands on a cloth and came over to her, kneeling. “I shouldn’t
have told you.”

“No,
no. I’m glad you did. I’m glad to know you guys were here for her when I
wasn’t.”

“As
I recall, Timmy wasn’t here for a lot of that time either. Took him a week to
come back around.”

“But
that was my fault too.” She stood and strode into a patch of sunlight just
outside of the garage, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Light slanted
through the tall pines that clung to the side of the mountain. She needed to be
in a warm place. The sun on her dark blue shirt thawed her from the outside in.
She stared at the tree line, the living wall that provided privacy for Sandy’s
home. Sandy had told her once that his original gardener had started to clear
out some of the forested areas of his property without his permission. He’d
fired the guy for it. Now, Sandy and Marlon just let the small forested areas
grow wild.

“Do
you want to help me with the arbor?” Marlon interrupted her thoughts, standing
beside her. “The work’s not too messy. And if you drip oil on yourself I can
help you get it out of your clothes. I’ve got practice.”

“Yes.
OK.” She took the finishing cloth Marlon handed her, dipping it in the oil the
way he showed her. She knelt on the floor, taking on the lower portion of the
arbor, using her fingertips to push the cloth into the corners and sweep across
the wood, watching the surface darken slightly as it absorbed the oil.

“What
kind of wood is this?”

“Redwood.
Sustainably grown, of course.”

“Of
course. Sandy is such a hippie.”

They
worked together in silence for a while, dipping and rubbing, working the oil
into the smallest nooks on the arbor, making the whole thing glisten.

When
they were done, they stepped back from it together, taking in the finished piece.

“Did
you learn how to do this from your dad?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“I’m
glad he taught you, even if the price was high. You have a gift.”

“I
can also make canvas frames faster than anyone in the UCLA art department, so
there’s that.”

“You
majored in art, then.”

He
nodded. “I wouldn’t have done it if Sandy hadn’t encouraged me to.” He took her
cloth and dropped both cloths in a bucket. Then he handed her a towel to wipe
her hands on. It smelled like mineral spirits, but it got her hands clean.

She
stepped closer to the arbor until she stood beneath it. She looked up, admiring
the pergola, and turned in a circle, measuring the space with her body, feeling
what a structure made of love, made for love, felt like. She closed her eyes.