Chasing Chaos: A Novel (2 page)

At
eleven a.m. on Sunday, Daphne was already waiting at a table on Rivet’s covered
patio when Greta Donovan arrived, her gaze steady as she strode over to where
Daphne reclined in a chair. Greta was very tall for a woman, over six-one. She
had broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs—she only wore men’s jeans—and in
college she’d been terribly awkward. Her red curls had been a frizzy halo and
her wardrobe cartoonishly ill-fitting. Early in their friendship, she’d asked
Daphne to help her, and with Daphne’s advice, Greta had bloomed. Greta’s
features would never be considered conventionally pretty; her nose was too
large and her chin too square.

Daphne
sat at a corner two-top, a private table that gave her a view of the entire
patio, of the long bar that lined the stucco exterior wall of the restaurant,
and of the patrons who were sneaking glances at other tables and wondering who
else had chosen this exclusive restaurant for brunch today. Reservations at
Rivet could only be made by those whose names were on a very particular list.
The interior was outfitted in dark woods and leather. The exterior patio was
done in Parisian style, with wicker and white linen.

As
Greta made her way toward Daphne, Greta’s eyes never wandered over the crowd.

The
table where Daphne sat was Greta’s table. It was the table where she and Greta
ate brunch every Sunday, no matter what. Greta took a seat next to Daphne and
pulled off her leather jacket—it had been a cool April—revealing her customary
black tank top. She didn’t need the jacket underneath the gas heaters that
dotted the patio.

Daphne’s
eyes caught on Greta’s scar, extending from the armhole of Greta’s shirt and
across her shoulder in a crisp white line. The scar was the final remnant of
reconstructive shoulder surgery required when Greta’s shoulder couldn’t quite
heal itself after she was attacked five years ago.

When
she was attacked five years ago at the apartment she and Daphne had shared.

When
she had almost died from a vicious blow to the back of her head.

When
her attacker had left her bleeding out on their well-worn kitchen floor.

The
dislocated shoulder had been the least of their worries, then.

Greta’s
red-gold hair had grown long, no longer the short, curly bob she’d always worn
when they were younger, in college and after, when she’d first moved to Los
Angeles six years ago.

“I’ve
discovered the benefits of ponytails,” she’d told Daphne a few months before,
explaining the longer hairstyle.

But
Daphne smiled, seeing that today Greta wore her hair down, with only the front
pulled back in a bare metal clip, the rest of her curls hanging nearly to her
shoulder blades. Her hair was beautiful. Greta was beautiful, if
unconventionally, and it seemed that Greta finally believed it.

They
lounged together, in jeans and casual tops, in a place where all others wore
designer clothes and sat at conspicuous tables to see and be seen. Daphne
reflected on her lingering feelings of guilt over their shared past. It was
true that she and Greta had made it. They’d escaped their families. They’d
escaped everything they’d left behind in North Carolina and found themselves
here, where they finally felt like they belonged, and they were here together.
Still together, despite everything.

But
Daphne knew there were some things she could never have. Sometimes Daphne joked
with Greta about being a bad luck charm, but Greta always told her to stuff it.
The words made Greta angry because she knew Daphne still blamed herself for the
attack. Greta also said there was no such thing as luck.

But
Daphne knew the truth. She was bad luck. She knew she could only date guys like
Dan because nothing worse could happen to them than what they could do to
themselves. And the good guys? They didn’t even know her real name.

If
Daphne wasn’t completely happy, she’d be OK. Few people were completely happy.

“You
look sleepy,” Greta said, direct as always.

“I’ve
only had one cup of coffee.”

“That’s
not why.”

“Let’s
get some coffee first, and then we can talk about it.”

Greta
nodded.

A
server appeared, a woman. Female servers were one of the many changes Greta had
instituted since she became partial owner of Rivet.
No more rampant sexism
,
she’d said.

“Ms.
Donovan,” the server said to Greta. “Ms. Saito.” Daphne recalled the young
woman’s name. Carrie. She was a recent hire, just out of film school at UCLA.

“Hey,
Carrie,” Greta said. “I just want a BLT and fries.”

“Me
too,” Daphne said, stifling a laugh. Around them, patrons ate such delicacies
as steak smothered in poached eggs, hollandaise and lump crab meat, and frisée
salads covered in all sorts of things like “lardons”—basically French bacon.
She’d had the quiche, and it was delicious. But she and Greta were simple
girls. Burgers. BLTs. Their taste in food was one of the reasons they were
friends.

“And
could you please bring a whole carafe of coffee and leave it on the table?”
Greta asked.

Daphne
sighed with contentment. Truly, Greta was the best.

The
server turned to leave. “Carrie,” Daphne said, calling her back. “Working on
anything interesting?”

When
Carrie met Daphne’s eyes, Daphne was surprised to see a familiar ambition
there. The same ambition drove Daphne herself. Carrie was one of only two
non-white servers at Rivet—and the only black woman. Rivet was a place where
you could serve a BLT to a former senior production assistant at Sony-turned
successful freelance screenwriter—to Daphne—and maybe get a leg up. Rivet was one
of the film industry’s golden gates. Daphne knew this well. She’d once come
here regularly on the arm of its former owner, hoping for a leg up herself.

She’d
never gotten one.

When
Daphne had explained Rivet’s role in the film industry to Greta, Greta had
taken over hiring.

“I’m
working on a few things,” Carrie said.

Daphne
handed Carrie her card. Daphne’s cards didn’t have Sony printed on them any
more. Now they just provided Daphne’s name and email address. Carrie took it
and tucked it in her pocket without looking at it.

“You
free tomorrow morning for coffee?” Daphne asked.

“My
shift ends pretty late tonight,” Carrie said.

“How
about lunchtime?”

Carrie
nodded. “That’ll work.”

“You
know Uptown Coffee on San Vicente, near Montana?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll
be there starting early. Come when you get hungry.” Daphne nodded at the pocket
holding her card. “Send me an email if you need to change plans.”

“They
let you work at Uptown Coffee?”

Daphne
laughed. “I buy a lot of coffee.”

Carrie
tried to hide her skeptical expression. “I’ll be back with your drinks.” She
headed off purposefully.

“I
would say that was nice of you,” Greta said, “except you don’t do things like
that just to be nice.”

“I
like her.”

Greta
nodded, waiting for the complete explanation.

“She
reminds me of me.”

Daphne
knew how much of herself she’d nearly lost to be where she was today. She
didn’t want another woman to have to make the kind of choices she’d made. Not
when she could give her the path that anyone should have, no matter where she
came from or what she looked like.

No
matter what she’d suffered.

So
she would have coffee with Carrie tomorrow, and if Carrie’s ideas were
promising, she would introduce Carrie to her agent. She could do that much for
the girl.

“I
have news,” Greta said. “Timmy asked me to marry him.”

“Again
with the marriage proposal?” Daphne laughed.

“It’s
been a while,” Greta said. “He used to ask every time we did payroll. Lately
he’s been keeping it to once a quarter, when we do the taxes for Pac Lighting
and Rivet.”

In
addition to being partial owners of Rivet, Greta and her boyfriend, Timmy,
owned an event production company, Pacific Production Lighting. They produced
live events at the convention center and hotel ballrooms, and also helped
provide gear for theaters, music video productions and smaller film
productions.

“When
it gets really late at night and the numbers run together, he proposes,” Greta
said.

“What’d
he use this time?” Daphne asked.

Greta
held up her fisted hand, thumb pressed tight against her fingers, ready to
throw a worthy punch. “A ring.”

Daphne
paused, examining the shining thing on Greta’s finger. Timmy had never used a
ring before. Over the past few years he’d proposed with a spoon (saying she’d
never go hungry), a new moving light for their company (because Greta shined so
brightly), and a bottle of George Dickel Number Twelve (Greta’s favorite). But
never a ring.

“I
said yes,” Greta said. “I was thinking we’d get married this afternoon
downtown. His uncle can be the witness, since he’s already in the building, and
you, if you’re free.”

Timmy’s
uncle Brian was a Los Angeles city councilman.

“You
said yes?”

“Will
you come? Maybe around four o’clock? They stop doing weddings at five on
Sundays.”

“You’re
not getting married at City Hall.”

“Timmy
doesn’t mind.”

“Of
course Timmy doesn’t mind!” Daphne snorted. “You said yes! He’d do it at the
water treatment plant if it meant you’d finally be married.”

“Don’t
be rude.”

“Let
me handle it, please. I want you to have a proper wedding.”

“If
you’re talking about a church, I’m moving the time to noon and disinviting
you.”

“No,
I’m not talking about a church, just—” Daphne thought quickly, “just give me
until the end of the day to come up with an idea.”

“I
don’t want to wait forever.”

“What
counts as forever, Greta?” Daphne asked, exasperated.

“Wednesday.
You have till Wednesday.”

“Wednesday
evening.”

“Deal.”

“But
if I only have till Wednesday, then I get to plan everything. Food. Music. Even
the invite list.”

Greta
frowned.

“I
totally get carte blanche on the invite list.”

Greta
glared at her.

“What
if Sandy and I make the list together?”

“That
is not an improvement.”

“Carte
blanche. We don’t have time to run it by you. We need to get the invites to
everyone today.”

Greta
nodded, considering. “That is true.”

“Of
course it’s true! We only have four days.”

“Agreed.
You may have carte blanche on the invite list.”

Daphne
heaved a sigh. “I’m happy for you.”

“I
know.” Greta smiled, her green eyes twinkling a bit. Greta always found humor
in Daphne’s exasperation.

Carrie
returned with the coffee carafe and two mugs, and Daphne gave her a grateful
look.

As
she sipped from her mug, holding it with both hands to absorb warmth, Daphne
looked around Rivet. Few things had changed since she first began coming here
six years ago, back when it was owned by her then-boss. Now it was owned by her
friends, and now her friends were getting married.

Things
might be OK now, but they weren’t OK back then. Daphne felt another wave of
guilt.

Guilt
because Greta had trusted someone she shouldn’t have, all for Daphne. Guilt
because Daphne had tried to use people to get what she needed out of Hollywood,
and years ago she had tried to use the wrong person—and Greta had gone along
with it for Daphne’s sake. The shitty thing was, Daphne had indeed needed that
help to get ahead.

Because
of Daphne, Greta nearly died.

Because
of Greta, Daphne owned a condo in Brentwood and could meet Carrie for lunch at
Uptown Coffee where they let her work all damn day and never considered kicking
her out. They loved having Daphne work there. And she was only twenty-eight
years old. A wunderkind by anyone’s standards.

And
now Greta and Timmy—the man Daphne had tried to drive away from Greta because
of her own petty jealousy—were getting married.

All
of Daphne’s remembered pain came back in a flash, a flash of the light off the
ring on Greta’s finger.

For
an instant, Daphne wanted to run from the table. How could Greta still call
Daphne a friend? How could any of this new life of Daphne’s be true? She feared
she would wake from a dream, and it would be five years ago. Greta would be in
the hospital, and that pool of blood would still be on their apartment floor.

“I
need to pee,” Daphne said, standing. “I’ll be right back.” She needed a moment
to herself, to convince herself not to run. This was an argument she’d been
having with herself for years.