The squirrel, the raving guy at the Pig ’N Pancake, and the paint on my house are like the scorpion. They’ve ruined my fragile peace of mind. With Maui at my side, we round the exterior of the house, and then, inside, we make a map of the rooms, looking in closets and under beds, checking locks. Yul Brynner joins us, tail high and fluffy.
When it is established that the house is secure, I give both animals a treat, then wash my sandy feet and brush my hair. It’s still very long, longer than is fashionable for sure, but I’ve let it start to gray and I love the way the blonde and gray weave together. I rummage around the cupboards and fridge for something I can eat, and there’s little. At home in LA, I order food most of the time, but there’s also a woman who comes to cook for me three times a week, leaving healthy, prepared meals in the fridge.
Here, there’s less. A few slices of pizza are left over, but their cold, congealed tops are not in the slightest bit appealing. There’s a half gallon of milk, some boxes of pasta, three chunks of cheese in various states of decay. One is pretty solid—I only have to slice mold off the very edges, skim a slice on the top and bottom, and it’s good as new. Cheese is meant to mold, after all.
I never cook because I grew so tired of it when I was the main food preparer in my father’s house, but every so often I do get a yen. Right now, rather than call for another pizza, I can make one of my cornerstone favorites, baked macaroni and cheese. It will make me feel loved.
It was a specialty of mine, once upon a time. Baked mac and cheese is a great potluck favorite, and I made mine with a recipe Beryl showed me. It freezes well, so I make the full casserole and stick it in the oven. Outside, the sun has been overtaken by heavy clouds, and it’s raining hard, sideways rain driven by a wind that whips up the waves, tossing spray high into the air. Birds huddle together in the shelter of various rocks.
On the speakers is a playlist made of my favorite soundtracks. One is from my fourth movie, a romantic spy thriller set during the Cold War, in which I played an American in love with a suspected double agent. Another is from my first picture, A Woman for the Ages, and both suit the mood of the night, moody and quietly dramatic. I sip tonic water over ice and think about that girl, the one who made the movie.
It was such an exciting period, the excitement of being plucked out of a crowd in a waiting area in New York, the nausea of getting myself to LA for a screen test all on my own. I was terrified it was all a big lie, that I’d get to Hollywood and find a weaselly guy waiting, no movie.
Instead I auditioned in front of a big director and one of the stars who’d already been cast, and the woman who’d written the screenplay. Auditioning was the easy part—stepping into the role, donning it like a cloak. I knew the story inside out because Phoebe and I had read it with zeal only two years before, and discussed it half to death. Wildly romantic, with forbidden love and sex and all kinds of tortures and setbacks. We adored it, and especially loved the happy ending.
They loved me, and I was cast the next day, which led to phone calls to Phoebe and Beryl and the people I knew in NYC. I found an agent who negotiated a dazzling amount of money, and I was launched into the madness of Hollywood. When the movie was critically acclaimed, especially for my portrayal of Sarah, my career was made.
That started the whirl. For a solid two decades, I mostly worked. I made movies and promoted them. I lived in hotel rooms and on planes and in cars sent to pick me up early in the morning in strange locations. I suffered food poisoning and smoked heavily and dabbled with addictions to various substances and had too many lovers, which was a favored tabloid subject.
I fervently hoped my father saw all of it. Every single bit.
Phoebe and I drifted apart somewhat during those years. How could we not? She was raising Stephanie, supporting Derek as he tried to make a name for himself in the art world. She wasn’t painting much, and I know it bothered her, but I was careful never to say anything.
But when I could, I included her in things that would be fun—once she and Stephanie came to an awards show with me, and another time I flew Beryl, Phoebe, and Steph to Paris for a whirlwind trip. It made a big impression on Steph, who was born big boned and suffered in the throwaway fashions of her childhood. In Paris, she learned the elements of classic dress and has never wavered from them.
In my early forties, I met Dmitri. On set, of course. He’d recently divorced wife number three, and was nearly fifteen years my senior, but the first time I met him, I knew we’d be a thing. It took a while, nearly a year, for me to let him into my bed, perhaps because I sensed it might be very serious, but once I did, we were together until his death.