“Did anyone ever find out?” Maisie asked.
“What? No. I started getting auditions on my own and quit that stupid job. Soon after that I booked my show. Guncle Rule number ten: Don’t trust any label you don’t know. Labels should have a good, recognizable name, like Tom Ford, whether it be his own label or his work for Gucci or Yves Saint Laurent.”
Clara added some cranberry to another bite of turkey. “You’re filling these kids’ heads with nonsense. Don’t listen to your uncle.”
“Oh, it’s not nonsense. It’s practical life advice.”
“And how many of these . . . Guncle Rules . . . have there been? Ten?” Clara looked around the table for confirmation.
“I think so. Maisie could tell you. She has them written down.”
“Well, how about Auntie Rule number one: Labels don’t mean anything.”
“For people, yes. For consumer goods, god no.” Patrick chuckled. “Unless you want to eat dog food or buy everything off the rack.”
Grant threw his fork down on his plate with a clang. “No!”
“No, what?”
“I don’t want to eat dog food.”
“Okay, well, finish your people food, then. I tipped the Postmates guy extra because it was Christmas.” Patrick winked at Clara because he knew she was dying to scream that it wasn’t. She set her silverware down and took a deep breath. “Besides. ‘After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody.’” He kicked Clara under the table. “‘Even one’s own relations.’ Oscar Wilde.”
Clara was amused in spite of herself and worked hard to stifle a smile.
“Oh, look, here comes Marlene for seconds.” The dog circled to Patrick’s side of the table and sat wagging her tail. He leaned down to scratch her between the ears. “We should take her for a walk afterward. I think the pavement will finally be cool.”
“PRETHENTS!” Grant screamed.
“A walk, then presents.”
Grant slouched, defeated, but pleasant conversation resumed and everyone cleaned their plate.
* * *
Patrick let Marlene choose the route as they weaved their way through his Movie Colony neighborhood; she led them dutifully around the cul-de-sac with the old Tony Curtis estate. There were other Hollywood-star homes in a several block radius—Cary Grant, Gloria Swanson, even Frank Sinatra camped out in the neighborhood for a time when his Twin Palms home became a notorious party house—but Patrick forgot whose was whose, and many homes were hidden from view by high walls and ficus. The streets were wide and empty; they walked straight down the middle of the road and the air was eerily still. Clara stayed behind to do the dishes.
“Is Aunt Clara mad at you?” Maisie asked.
“Who, me? Noooooo.”
“Is she mad at uth?”
Patrick stopped and put his hand on Grant’s head, leaned against him as he lifted one leg off the ground to adjust his Prada slide. “Absolutely not. She loves you guys. Your aunt Clara and I . . . Well, she’s my sister, your dad’s sister. There’s a lot to unpack there. You know how you guys are brother and sister? Sometimes you annoy one another, but you’re not mad at each other. Frustrated, maybe. But not mad.”
“I’m mad,” Grant said.
“Then stomp your feet.”
Grant stomped and growled and was instantly agreeable again. Marlene swerved back and forth as they turned onto the main road, hot on the scent of something. It looked like she was navigating an obstacle course set up with invisible traffic cones.
“Can I hold the leash?”
Patrick handed the retractable leash to Maisie. “Don’t let her get too far ahead.” Patrick closed his eyes for their next ten steps, enjoying the momentary silence.
“I want a turn!” Grant grabbed for the leash.
“Hey, hey. Cool your jets, you’ll get a turn.” He stepped between the two kids. “Having a brother or a sister. That’s something really special. I want you guys to remember that. You two to remember that. Aunt Clara wouldn’t want me to say ‘guys,’ as that’s the language of the patriarchy.” Patrick picked up several stones in the road and skipped one across the asphalt like it was a pond.
“Can we do that?” Grant asked, excited.
“You can’t really skip stones on the road. You need a pond.”
“We have a pool!”
“I have a pool and you’re not skipping stones in it.”
“Why not?”