Monday afternoon. Lounging by the pool. In my cute navy swim dress with the white piping on the sides and along the hem. Drinking a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the rocks. Enjoying the sun. Another warm July day in the San Fernando Valley. I turned on my Walkman and listened to one of Aunt Lori’s cassettes. The Go-Gos. Pulling down the sun visor over my eyes, I started to fall asleep.

I recalled the busy Sunday Lori and I had shopping for a dress I could wear to The Pantages Theatre on Tuesday evening. Mrs. Glover insisted on inviting me to a performance of Bob Fosse’s Dancin’ there. The dress would also need to be appropriate for dinner at Ma Maison beforehand. Of course, I was essentially being paid to be escorted by Blaise around town, so this wasn’t really a date. Or was it? Rich people have strange ways. Who can know.

Lori and I campaign-marched through The Beverly Center. We reconnoitered, in order, Bullock’s, Contempo Casuals, The Broadway, and The Limited, in search of the perfect formal frock…in my size. We finally settled on a burgundy wrap dress that discreetly lifted and separated what little I had up front and accentuated my bounty in the rear. I had to watch my caloric intake that night, so I took it easy on the pizza at Starky’s.

Serendipitously, as the cassette auto reversed, halting Belinda Carlisle’s callow warbling, the silence revealed the doorbell ringing loud and vehemently. Sighing, I wrapped a towel around myself and ran into the house to answer the door. It was Rafe.

“Rafe!” I wrapped my towel tighter around my chest, ignoring the fact that by doing so, I was revealing to his perplexed eyes the skirt I was wearing.

“Joey…you’re…you’re—”

“Wearing a girl’s swimsuit?”

“Yes and you look beautiful,” he recovered. “Can I come in?”

I stepped aside, further tightening the towel around me. “Sit. Anywhere. Do you want something to drink?”

“Whatever’s at hand. I’m not picky.”

“I’ve got a pitcher of orange juice in the fridge. Aunt Lori made me some fresh-squeezed this morning. Oh, she’s not here. Working at the office today.”

“Does she know about—”

“Lori’s my patron saint. She knows about my…issues. And we’ve kept it on the downlow. Dad doesn’t suspect anything. He’s in Santa Barbara most of the summer anyway.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do? How?” I placed a glass of juice on the coffee table in front of Rafe.

“You look great, Joey. It’s not fair, is it?”

“Fair? What do you mean?”

“You should have been a girl. You would have been the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Life's not fair.” We were quiet for a minute, just exchanging soft glances. “How did you know my dad was in Santa Barbara?”

“My dad is in LA this week to finalize a possible deal with the group that’s building a shopping mall in Redondo Beach. A…whatchamacallit…a galleria. And your dad’s firm is competing for the job. I’m sure his boss is in town to meet with Henry Glover, the mogul who’s spearheading the project, just like my dad.”

“Henry Glover? That’s the husband of the woman I’m working part-time for this summer. She owns the cosmetics company that Lori works for, La Belle.”

“Working part-time? Does that include wearing a swimsuit and putting on make-up?”

“No, silly. I’m kind of babysitting her grandson. Make sure he’s not doing bad stuff or getting into serious trouble.”

“He thinks you’re a girl, then?”

“They all do. I wasn’t trying to deceive them. They just assumed I was a girl.”

“Wearing girls’ clothes and make-up will make one assume that.”

“It’s harmless and I get to be a girl for the summer in a place where no one knows better.”

“So, you’re planning to go back to being a guy when you go to school in September?”

“Unfortunately. Like you said, life’s not fair.”

“Mom and Sally are out shopping on Rodeo Drive. I begged off so I could come see you. But I’ve got to be back at the hotel by five. We’re having dinner at Michael’s in Santa Monica tonight. Ever been there?”

“No, but I was at the Pier just the other weekend.”

He placed his empty glass on the coffee table. “Thanks for the juice. Well, we better get going then.”

“Where are we going? I can’t go in this swimsuit. Let me change into something more comfortable.”

“Sally’s been planning our week in LA for a month. She got several maps of the whole region. I thought we could drive over to one of the overlooks on Mulholland Drive. Walk and talk. Look down on the city in all its glory. You’ll need a jacket. It’s fairly windy up there. That’s what Sally read in one of the tourist guides she’s been devouring ever since dad told us we’d be making this trip.”

What should have been a quick 30-minute drive took us almost half an hour longer because Rafe missed the exit to Cahuenga Blvd. and continued southbound on the Ventura Freeway. Then he missed the next exit, Vine Street/Hollywood Blvd. His voice was getting high-pitched now. Panicking.

“You’ve missed two exits,” I scolded.

“Well, you’ve got the map in your hands. Tell me when’s the next exit?”

“Why do all men refuse to ask directions?”

“And why are all women backseat drivers?”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Rafe.” I genuinely started to tear up as I told him to take Exit 8C for Gower Street.

That one he took. We turned left at the bottom of the ramp onto N. Gower St., drove one block north, and turned left onto Franklin Ave. A right turn onto Cahuenga Blvd and Rafe easily found an on-ramp heading back onto the Ventura Freeway. A couple of miles later, we connected with Mulholland Drive through Pacific View Drive. Continuing along Mulholland, we finally arrived at the Jerome C. Daniel Overlook, a place I fondly remembered from my first week being escorted by Blaise (after Mateo’s band played their set at Grimaldi’s on Sunset).

After parking his rental Ford, we walked along the terrace level of the Overlook, peering over the low concrete retaining walls at the vision below us, stretching from the basin of the city to the expanse of the Valley reaching to the horizon. It was different from the view of it I had gotten at night weeks ago. And walking beside me was another boy. One who could still catch my breath and almost stop my heart when he looked at me with those dark brown eyes.

“Why do you bother to sneak away from your family to see me, Rafe? It’s done. You made that clear before graduation.”

“I never said we were quits as friends, Joey,” he stopped in place, almost brushing up against me.

“Whatever. You’re going to M.I.T. and I’m going to Columbia. And in the summer, you’ll be home in D.C. while I’m in Port Jefferson.”

“Ever heard of trains? I’ll manage to get away at least once a month to come see you in Manhattan. I promise. Your friendship means a lot to me. You know that.”

“Your mother would kill us both if we came within 100 miles of each other. You couldn’t tell her you were going to see me today, could you? She’d have a shit fit.”

“I’m an adult now, Joey. My parents can’t tell me who I can be friends with.”

“We’re more than friends. Remember when we were kids and you’d ask me to put on my mom’s dress and high heels?”

“Yeah, you and Erica would pull me into the garden shed to put on a fashion show. I also remember when your dad came into the shed to get the lawn mower. If he’d had a gun with him, we’d probably both be dead.”

“He was drinking heavily back then.”

“That’s why my dad fired him.”

“Then your mother got all worked up about me acting in A Christmas Carol. I got rave reviews in the Times! But your mom said I was a pervert. After that, both sets of parents wouldn’t allow us to see each other. Your mom made sure we never had the same classes in school. Your mom even tried to get my mother fired from our high school…”

“I’m sorry for all the hurt my mother put you through, Joey. You know I never want to hurt you.” He reached out to take my hand, but I shrunk from it.

I leaned against the wall and gazed out at where Sherman Oaks must be. The words came out in a torrent of emotion. “But you and your family have. Hurt me very, very much. You’ve even turned my mom against me.”

“No, Joey, your mom loves you—”

“She loves her son, Joseph. She doesn’t like Joey, her daughter. Why should she? What’s my own conception of who I am up against the opinion of the rest of society? You should just wash your hands of me, Rafe. Go back to your mother, be a dutiful son, learn to take over your father’s firm when he chooses early retirement and takes his wife to visit all the wondrous places in the world he’s missed out on because of decades spent building his empire. Ascend to the throne, like they want you to.”

Rafe approached me, inching along the retaining wall, almost stealthily. He reached out with his hand to touch my shoulder but pulled back at the last second, putting both hands in his pockets.

“If I could choose, I’d choose you, Joey. But I can’t. Not right now. After I get my degree, I can get a job in New York. To be near you…if you’d like. I don’t have to work for my father. He’s not the ogre you think he is—”

“No, but your mother’s a…a—”

“A bitch? Yeah, I get it. But I’ve had talks with my dad. He’s very sympathetic. He says he worked his way up doing drafting for an architectural firm in Brooklyn. He told me he’d have more respect for me if I went off to work on my own. Anyway, he’s still a relatively young man. He’s not going to retire for a good twenty years.”
He turned toward the view, placing his hands on the top of the wall. “We could get an apartment together and you could finish grad school then.”

“It’s a nice thought, Rafe, but you know it’s impossible. You’re going to work for your dad, and your mother will pray that you find a girl from the right side of town. A real girl. Which I’m not and may never be.”

“With all that said, we’ll still see each other on the regular. Like I said, the train from Boston to Penn Station takes 4 hours. I can spend the whole weekend if you’d like. I’ll even bring my textbooks with me.”

“I want to tell you to just forget me, Rafe. But I can’t.” I took his hand in mine and gripped tightly. “Dear, dear Rafe. Only an accident of birth has prevented me from being the woman you want me to be.”

“I only see a woman, a beautiful woman, when I look at you.” He leaned down and kissed me passionately.

An Asian couple, tourists undoubtedly, tittered as they walked by us. The man stopped and in halting English asked us if he could take our picture against the view of Los Angeles below and beyond the retaining wall. We agreed to pose. Rafe put his arm around me, and we smiled into the man’s camera as he snapped the picture.

On the drive back to my house in Sherman Oaks, this time not missing any exits, I came to the realization that this was probably the last time we’d ever see each other again. This was the fork in the road of our lives. Perhaps one day, we might cross paths on a Manhattan street. He would nod to show he still recognized me after ten or twenty years apart, then grip his wife’s hand tighter as they walked past this stranger.

While we waited for the lights to change at Franklin Avenue, I turned to smile at Rafe. He looked up from the traffic ahead of us and returned my smile. A smile that might have to last me a lifetime.

As I fidgeted before the mirror, checking my hair and make-up, Lori came toward me with a white silk wrap that she tried to drape over my shoulders. It seemed unnecessary on a hot summer night and, to my nascent feminine intuition, it clashed with my burgundy dress.

“Do I need this, Lori? It’s sweltering out there!”

“It gets cooler in the evening and the air conditioning in the theater will freeze every part that’s not covered by your dress. Stop moving around, honey.”

“Alright but I just hope I’m not the only woman in the place who’s wearing a shawl.”

“It’s called a wrap, Joey. And all the women will be dressed to the nines. Including wraps, pashminas, and even light blazers. You can carry it on your arm if you want.”

“Did you hear that? I think Mrs. Glover’s car is here. I wonder what she drives,” I said as I checked the gloss on my lips, making smacking noises and grimacing into the mirror. Lori peered discreetly through the window.

“Silly girl, Mrs. Glover doesn’t drive herself. She travels in a luxury sedan driven by her chauffeur, Jimmy. They’re here! Oh, it looks like Blaise is coming to the door. He looks dreamy in that blue suit.”

The doorbell rang. Lori walked briskly to the front door and opened it.

“Hi, Lori,” Blaise cheerfully addressed her. “Is Joey ready?”

I tried not to fall over as I sashayed to the door. Damn these heels!

“Hi, Blaise. You look spiffy in that suit and tie.”

“You look wonderful yourself, Joey.” He offered his arm to me.

“You kids have a great time tonight. I’ll expect a thorough review of the show, Joey.”

Mrs. Glover’s Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham Elegante 4-door sedan gleamed in the late afternoon light. As soon as Blaise and I emerged from the house and carefully descended the steps, Mrs. Glover’s chauffeur Jimmy slipped out of the driver’s seat and stood at the ready to escort me to my seat in the rear-left side of the sedan. He tipped his cap to me and led me to the street side. Before I climbed in, I could see Emily, Blaise’s 12-year-old sister, seated in the middle of the back bench, and Mrs. Glover seated in the place of honor next to the right-hand ear door. Emily waved and Ms. Glover smiled. Once Blaise settled into the shotgun position in the front row and Jimmy put the sedan in gear, the car smoothly moved down Beverly Ridge Drive.

I marveled at the blue, deep-pile crushed velour that filled the interior of the car. The bench was firm yet smoothly contoured to a passenger’s body. I sensed that Mrs. Glover registered my nervousness.

“I love your dress, Joey. Very tasteful. And the silk wrap adds just the right touch.”

“Lori helped me pick it out. I love the botanical print on your dress, Mrs. Glover. And your dress is very cute, Emily.”

Emily was wearing a Gunne Sax design. An Edwardian-style drop-waist dress with a ruffled bib collars and lace trim. Very popular with pre-teen girls that summer.

“Grandmother’s taking us to Ma Maison for dinner before we go to the theater. Have you ever been?” Emily asked me.

“Uh, no –”

“Emily, Joey is visiting from New York. She’s not familiar with all the wonderful institutions we have in Los Angeles. That’s why your brother is acting as her tour guide this summer. Last week, he took her shopping on Rodeo Drive and then dinner at The Bistro. Did you enjoy your day out, dear?”

“Oh, yes, tremendously, Mrs. Glover! It’s a world of luxury and celebrity I’ve never experienced. We even bumped into Farrah Fawcett at The Bistro. I’m sure Blaise told you about that.”

“I’m afraid her 15 minutes of fame has just been eclipsed. Poor dolly. Modeling and acting are not professions kind to aging beauties. What career do you envision pursuing, Joey?”

“I want to be a professor of comparative literature. I hope to get into a doctoral program at Yale or Harvard.”

“I only wish Blaise had the gene for academic excellence. A smart girl like you would be a good influence on him, if only you weren’t leaving to go back East in a few weeks.”

“I don’t need to be Summa Cum Laude to become a photographer like my father. Just experience in the field,” Blaise interjected from the front row. “I know a friend of a friend who worked for Francis Ford Coppola as a receptionist and Coppola got him into USC Film School. He’s shooting his first studio movie this summer on location in San Francisco.”

“I think Blaise has an artistic eye, Mrs. Glover,” I said. “He helped me with the composition of the photos I took on the hike up to Griffith Observatory.”

“You see, you’ve already been a muse to his heretofore somnolent artistic impulses,” Mrs. Glover triumphantly noted.

“And he thinks you’re really pretty too,” added Emily, with a devilish grin.

“Shut up, Emily. Joey’s more than just a pretty face,” Blaise countered. “She’s smart and funny and—”

“My own parents never say such nice things about me,” I laughed.

“What’s your favorite novel that you’ve read?” Emily asked.

“Well, have you ever read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen?”

While Emily and I discussed Jane Austen and the Romantic literature of the Regency Era, Jimmy took the scenic route to Ma Maison in West Hollywood. We jumped onto Mulholland Drive and drove west until we reached Beverly Glen Blvd. Heading south, we followed the winding, tree-lined descent of Beverly Glen all the way down until it spilled onto Sunset Boulevard right at the eastern edge of Bel-Air. Made a right onto Canon Drive to cut through the flats of Beverly Hills. Once in West Hollywood, we drove East on Melrose Avenue until we arrived at the restaurant near King’s Road.

Ma Maison was a legendary hang-out for Hollywood royalty. Although it had a modest-sized indoor dining room, it was its main patio dining area that drew the rich and famous. An outdoor terrace covered in green AstroTurf, shaded by yellow-and-white Ricard umbrellas, and outfitted with casual white plastic folding chairs. On most nights, the A-listers you could catch a glimpse of extended from Orson Welles and Elizabeth Taylor to Warren Beatty, Johnny Carson, Rod Stewart, Marlon Brando, Elton John, and David Bowie. It was the ultimate celebrity sandbox and power-dining epicenter for Hollywood's elite. Because of the restaurant's strict no-camera policy and legendary unlisted phone number, the rich and famous treated the Astroturf patio like their private living room. Of course, reservations were a must.

Although Mr. and Mrs. Glover had a prime "holding" space directly on the street right outside the restaurant's awning, on this night, after dropping us off at the entrance to the terrace, Jimmy decided to forego it and drive the car just around the corner onto Kings Road or north up to Warrington Avenue. He would park along the quiet, tree-lined residential curbs just outside the commercial zone. There, he could turn off the engine, roll down the windows to catch the warm July night breeze, and watch the car until we finished our coffee and dessert.

“Doesn’t Jimmy get to have dinner himself?” I asked Blaise as we stood before the host stand while Pierre the Maître d’ gathered our menus together before leading us to Mrs. Glover’s reserved table.

“He’ll probably grab a hamburger at one of the diners on Fairfax. Maybe The Daily Grill. Don’t worry about Jimmy. He’s got the whole routine down pat.”

The terrace was packed. I couldn’t help but scan the tables to see if I could spot any celebrities I knew. There was a couple at a back table who sort of reminded me of Rod Stewart and his wife Alana Hamilton, but I wasn’t too sure. That’s when I heard a very distinctive voice call out a greeting to Mrs. Glover.

“Hey, Doris! Looks like you brought out the whole squad tonight. Where’s Henry though?” It was Jack Nicholson, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses and holding a half-smoked cigarette stub loosely in his left hand.

We gathered around his table as Mrs. Glover exchanged pleasantries with him. I didn’t know where to put my hands and tried not to stare. Blaise drew me into his side, showing me off to Jack. I smiled when Jack noticed me.

“Henry’s got some important business meetings all week, couldn’t get away. I’m taking the kids to that Bob Fosse musical at the Pantages. Have you gone?”

“I just saw the final performance of its original run on Broadway in June. Bob was a little disappointed it only ran four years. That’s show business.” He turned and looked straight at me again. “I know Blaise and Emily but who’s the cutie on Blaise’s arm?”

“That’s Joey Prentiss, a family friend visiting from New York. Say hello to Mr. Nicholson, dear.”

“Hello, Mr. Nicholson,” I whispered, not intending to sound sultry.

“If you have any inclination to act, I’d be glad to get you a screen test with Jim Brooks or Mike Nichols. They’re always looking for new talent. You could play sisters with Emily here.”

“I’m afraid, Jack, they’re both the bookish types. Joey wants to be a literature professor.”

“If I knew there could be professors who looked like her, I’d have gone to college instead of working as a lifeguard the first summer after high school,” Jack laughed.

“I know this is short notice but are you free Thursday evening. It’s Henry’s birthday and we’re having a bit of a wingding at the house. Cocktails at seven if you can make it. You know you and your plus one are always welcome,” Mrs. Glover said, trying not to sound as if she was pleading.

He re-lit his stub and took a long drag before answering Mrs. Glover. “Of course. I might be a little late, but I’ll be there for the last round for sure. I might even bring a couple of bottles of bourbon.”

“Jack, we’ll be drinking champagne and chardonnay.”

“Correction. You and your guests will. I’ll be knocking back Jim Beam.” He smiled before taking a last puff on his almost exhausted cigarette. Then he leaned over toward me and jabbed his finger at Blaise. “Don't let Ace here pour your drinks, honey. Junior looks like the type who thinks a splash of tonic turns a cheap gin into a marriage proposal. Stick to the good stuff.” He winked and put his cigarette out in the ashtray.

Once we ordered, I turned to Blaise, who was sitting a seat away from me, as Emily had plopped herself between us at our table. Mrs. Glover was still making the rounds, chatting up some people she knew, mostly business types.

“I didn’t know your grandfather was having a birthday party on Thursday night.”

“It was grandmother’s idea. Normally, we’d just have a quiet family dinner at one of granddad’s favorite restaurants. This time, she thought it might be a good inflection point for his negotiations over the Galleria project. Grandmother believes people reveal themselves in social environments. She considers herself a pretty good amateur psychologist.”

“She’s one sharp cookie, I’ll give her that,” I conceded.

“We were going to wait until the end of the evening, but you’re invited, of course,” Blaise confided.

“To see if I pass the test tonight?”

“Oh, you’ve passed the test already. With flying colors. Grandmother adores you.”

“I like you too,” Emily interjected.

Wolfgang Puck had been the chef who put Ma Maison on the map in the ‘70s, winning rave reviews for his unique California Nouvelle cuisine. He was championed by young Hollywood, old Hollywood, cultural and business leaders, professional athletes, and rock stars. Then early in the year, he opened his own restaurant Spago’s, which forced owner Patrick Terrail to hire a new head chef, Claude Segal. What ensued was a tense struggle to keep their famous clientele while introducing new recipes invented by Segal. In the end, they had to duplicate some of Puck’s most popular dishes even as Terrail claimed that Puck was "just a cook who couldn't manage anything.”

Following Mrs. Glover’s lead, I ordered the famous Lamb Tenderloin with Roquefort Sauce as she did. Incredibly tender cuts of local California lamb with a rich, velvety, yet sharply flavored blue cheese reduction. It was her favorite Puck original. When we tucked in though, she was sadly disappointed.

"It’s a tragedy, really. This lamb tenderloin tastes less like a culinary revolution and more like a desperate attempt to read Wolfgang’s mind through a closed door. The sauce has lost its vocabulary. Bless Chef Claude’s heart, he tries so hard. One feels the ghost of Wolfgang in the room, but unfortunately, he took the talent up to the Sunset Strip and left us with a rather uninspired copyist.”

Emily whispered to me, keeping one eye on her grandmother, “I didn’t like the lamb when Wolfgang was the chef either. I’m waiting for dessert. The sorbets are great. Order the passion fruit.” I blinked, not knowing how to reply. “It’ll be perfect for you and Blaise.”

It was a 15-minute drive from Ma Maison to the Pantages Theatre. Mrs. Glover had perfectly timed our dinner at Ma Maison so that by the time the owner Patrick Terrail had gently slid her chair backward and confirmed that the meal would be added to the Glovers’ tab, there was safely half an hour left to make the 4 mile trip.

When we emerged into the dying light of dusk, there was Jimmy waiting in Mrs. Glover’s Cadillac Fleetwood sedan. We piled into the car, taking the same seats we had on the way here. This time, I entered first and slid over to the left-side window seat. Emily followed and Mrs. Glover resumed her place of honor at the right-side window.

Jimmy pulled the sedan out from the Ma Maison awning, heading east down Melrose. We passed through the design district, crossed Fairfax Avenue and drove by the sprawling, historic gates of Paramount Pictures on the right side of the road. After passing the studios, Jimmy took a left turn to head north up Cahuenga Boulevard. The street transitioned from trendy boutiques to old-school Hollywood storefronts, auto shops, and small production offices. A right turn directly onto Hollywood Boulevard and the grand Art-Deco marquee of the Pantages Theatre appeared ahead on the left, illuminating the sidewalk near Argyle Avenue.

After Jimmy helped the ladies (including me) out of the car in front of the theater, Blaise pressed a ten-dollar bill into his gloved hand, making sure his grandmother wasn’t looking. “"Here, Jimmy," Blaise murmured. "Go find yourself a glass of something cold around the corner while we're inside. Keep it to two, Chief. I don't need you clipping a curb on the drive back down the hill."

Mrs. Glover restrained Emily from sitting between Blaise and me when we settled into the front row center of the mezzanine. “Sit next to me, Emily. And don’t make loud comments during the show,” she admonished her.

Bob Fosse’s Dancin’ was being performed by its National Touring Company. In August, after its highly successful two-month run in Los Angeles, it was moving on to Detroit for another two-month run. This was an all-dancing, all-singing revue that consisted of a series of unconnected set pieces, ranging from “Sing, Sing, Sing” to Neil Diamond’s “Crunchy Granola Suite” to “Mr. Bojangles” to the Fred Astaire tribute “I Wanna Be a Dancin’ Man” to a jazz rendition of Bach’s “Chaconne in D Minor.” I think out of the four of us, it was Mrs. Glover who enjoyed the show the most. Blaise told me that she had studied ballet until she graduated from high school, choosing to pursue other fields of endeavor once she enrolled in college. Emily almost fell asleep on my shoulder during the second act. At the same time, Blaise was leaning closer and closer to me in our seats. I was beginning to feel like the meat in a ham sandwich.

Mercifully, intermission gave us a chance to stretch our legs and see what kind of drinks and snacks the concession counters in the lobby offered. When we saw the long lines, we decided we weren’t that hungry or thirsty. But Emily was adamant that she wanted to get something to drink, so I went with her and got on one of the lines. “Don’t worry, Joey. I’m paying.” She opened her little purse, reached in and pulled out a five-dollar bill to show me. “What’s your pleasure?”

The line went much quicker than I had expected and Emily got her cup of Pepsi. She frowned when I deftly handed the girl at the counter a dollar bill. “My treat, munchkin.” We walked back to where Mrs. Glover and Blaise were standing. People filled the lobby. Some were sipping glasses of Chablis, some were going to or returning from the restrooms, and most were just standing around chatting. Just as we sidled up to Mrs. Glover and Blaise, a familiar face popped up, making a beeline for Mrs. Glover. It was Rafe! Typical for him, he was dressed in preppy clothes for a night at the theater. I scanned the lobby for any sight of his mother or Sally, his older sister. My heart slowed to normal when I confirmed their absence from the room.

“Mrs. Glover, hello, I’m Rafe Metheny. My dad is Matt Metheny. We crossed paths at your house yesterday. Dad and I dropped by to speak to Mr. Glover and we passed by your office. The door was open and you were on the phone. Otherwise, we would’ve introduced ourselves.”

“What a coincidence to see you here at the theater,” Mrs. Glover said. “Kids, this is Matt Metheny’s son, Rafe. Mr. Metheny is one of the bidders for the Redondo Beach project. Rafe, this is my grandson Blaise. My granddaughter Emily is hiding behind him there. She’s bashful. And this is a friend of the family, Joey Prentiss, from New York.”

From behind Blaise’s left shoulder, I started to shake my head frantically, hoping to be discreet. No. Please. No. My jaw was clenched so tight it was painful. Blaise noticed, turning back to look at Rafe more intently. Was he putting two and two together? I had told him about Rafe in an oblique way, certainly not naming names, but enough for him to be suspicious.

“Nice to meet you all. Especially you Emily. No need to be bashful. I don’t bite,” he laughed, shooting me a fervid glance. I tried not to sink into his dark brown eyes again.

“So, where is your mother? And your sister…Sally, isn’t that her name?” asked Mrs. Glover.

“My mother and sister are like fish out of water here in Los Angeles, I’m afraid. Sometimes I think they’ve forgotten how to act like rational human beings. They saw the long lines at the lobby bar and Sally had the bright idea to go to the bar next door. She thought they’d get served quicker and make it back in time for the third act.”

“Oh, my goodness, they went to The Frolic Room?” Mrs. Glover blurted out.

“Why? What’s wrong with that?” was Rafe’s surprised reaction.

“It’s a seedy, dive bar, Rafe,” Blaise informed him.

“Oh, shit…excuse my language, Mrs. Glover…I’ve got to go in there and get them before something—”

I know it might sound rude and uncaring, but I was hoping intermission would end before Rafe brought his mother and sister back into the lobby. I was not looking forward to seeing that witch again. Under any circumstances.

“I suppose Sally can take care of herself…and mom. She’s a strong young woman,” Rafe said, as he tried to calm himself.

The lobby doors burst open. Sylvia Metheny and her daughter Sally stumbled back into the carpeted Art-Deco grandeur of the Pantages, looking like they’ve just escaped a shipwreck. Syvia’s hairdo was slightly askew, clutching her handbag to her chest like a shield. Sally was in literal tears of rage and mortification, wiping a smudge of mysterious grime off her sleeve.

“Rafe! Oh my god, Rafe, it was horrible!” Sally wailed. “Some man with half a mustache tried to offer me a joint! And the floor—Rafe, my heels were sticking to the carpet!”

“They didn't even have coasters, Rafe,” Rafe’s mother whined. “A man named 'Gator' drank my gin and tonic right in front of me!”
Rafe froze in place for a moment. He glanced at Mrs. Glover, whose eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead. Then his eyes darted to me. Spurred into action, he instantly stepped into their path, blocking their view of us.

“Mother! Sally! Keep your voices down, please.”

He maneuvered his body, spreading his arms slightly to screen them from us—and crucially, from me. Grabbing his mother by the shoulders, he pushes her and Sally into a corner of the lobby.

“Let’s get you wiped down. We’ll just… step over here into the corner. Away from the crowd. Nobody saw anything.”

“Who are you hiding us from?” Sally asked, trying to peer around Rafe.

The chatter in the lobby was suddenly cut through by the sharp, rhythmic chiming of the intermission bells. The overhead chandeliers flickered twice. The crowd immediately began to turn toward the auditorium doors.

"Good heavens. If that is how Sylvia comports herself after a mere twenty minutes unsupervised on Hollywood Boulevard, one shudders to think what she’ll do with an open bar on our terrace on Thursday. Let’s hope her husband’s engineering blueprints are sturdier than his wife’s constitution, or their Redondo Beach project bid is in serious trouble." Mrs. Glover took Emily’s hand and the four of us followed the throng up the staircase to watch the final act of the show.

That was a close call but if I get invited to Mr. Glover’s birthday party on Thursday night, I won’t be able to avoid bumping into Rafe’s parents. At some point, the Glovers will introduce me to the Methenys. Even in a dress and tons of make-up, they’d recognize me before hearing my name.

Jimmy eased the sedan into the driveway of our house so that I could step out of the car without going through Emily and Mrs. Glover.

“Before you go, Joey,” Mrs. Glover addressed me. “As you undoubtedly already know, we’re having a birthday party for my Henry on Thursday night at the house. Blaise has insisted that I invite you—”

“Grandmother! That’s not true. I didn’t even have the chance to ask before you told me that you were inviting Joey. If anyone is insisting, it’s you,” Blaise said in a mock accusatory tone.

“You would have been miserable at your grandfather’s party if I didn’t invite Joey,” Mrs. Glover replied. “To be honest, Joey, we’d all be very happy to have you join us in our little celebration. And, yes, Henry insists as well.”

“Joey, you’ve charmed the pants off everyone in the family,” Blaise declared.

“A rather odd way to put it but, it’s clear we all think very highly of you, Joey. It’s a shame that you’ll be leaving us in a few weeks just when we’ve started to get to know you. I’ll have Blaise pick you up around 6 o’clock on Thursday. Good night, dear.”

Jimmy opened the door. He took my hand and helped me step out of the car.

“Good night, Miss Prentiss. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

I turned to Aunt Lori as we sat at the kitchen table, drinking glasses of iced tea.

“This is getting seriously tangled, Lori.”

“Ya think?”