Page 90 of Nothing Less than Magic
I get out of the car and walk through the lovely courtyard to get to the double-arched front doors that remind me of a medieval castle and ring the bell. Lolly’s car is in the driveway. But no one answers, so I ring it again. It’s a large house. Who knows if she can hear the ring if she’s upstairs or in the kitchen?
I wait a few more minutes, then walk around to the back, where I find Lolly doing yoga by the pool. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me, yet she doesn’t acknowledge me, either. She just continues with her routine. In a pair of yoga pants and an exercise bra, my sister is in excellent shape. Then again, she has a lot of free time to work out.
The pool is a sparkling blue with an infinity edge that gives the illusion that the water is spilling over the edge into the ocean. I assume it’s heated and gets used year-round. To check, I dip my hand in. It’s about eighty degrees. I can only imagine the gas and electric bill. Just the thought of all those zeros makes me queasy. Another thing Brent is likely paying for.
I plop down into one of the lounge chairs, which is shaded by a giant umbrella. The sun is already peeking out from behind the clouds, and it’s warmer than when I left Century City. The smell of chlorine is thick, and somewhere in the distance, a leaf blower or weed whacker rents the air. Still, it’s peaceful here. Like a private resort above the beach.
I don’t know why Lolly needs Hawaii.
She’s winding down, I can tell, because she’s sitting with the palms of her hands pressed together in front of her sternum in prayer position, her eyes closed, and her head bowed. I’ve taken enough yoga classes to recognize Anjali Mudra. That’s about all I remember from the instruction, probably because it was my favorite point in the routine. In other words, over.
She sits there for a few minutes with her eyes closed, pretending to meditate. Or maybe she really is. But I doubt it. That’s okay, because I’m feeling patient today.
“You look awful.” It’s the first words out of her mouth.
I look the same way I always do. Though perhaps a little thinner, because I haven’t yet gained back my pre-accident weight. But I’m well on my way, considering my three helpings of potatoes and pie last night. I’m already thinking about having another slice of the pecan as soon as I get back to Uncle Sylvester’s.
“I’m serious,” she says. “You look like a bag of shit.”
“That’s lovely, Lolly. What a great thing to say to me after I almost died.” I’m not above playing the death card when it comes to her.
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, you don’t look so great, either,” I lie.
“I look the best I’ve ever looked in my life. But you, on the other hand, look like a sad sack. Like that bitch, Mrs. Roberts, who used to yell at us for being too loud when she was trying to watch her programs.” She accentuates the wordprograms, and I laugh.
Mrs. Roberts lived one floor down from Uncle Sylvester and was forever complaining that our footsteps were like a pack of elephants. No amount of rugs was ever good enough for her. She eventually died of a heart attack, and a young couple bought the apartment.
“Whatever, Lolly. Go ahead and get all the anger out of your system.”
“Don’t pull your psych shit on me. I’m not in the mood.”
“I can see that.” I shake my head. “You’re in the mood to excoriate me. So have at it.”
She gets up from her yoga mat in one fluid motion. It’s graceful and at the same time aggressive. “I need a shower.”
She leaves me sitting there while she goes inside the house. Despite not being invited, I tag along behind her and wind up in the kitchen. Five of my kitchens can fit in this room. The La Cornue stove alone would take up most of the floor space in my apartment.
I rummage through her built-in refrigerator for something to drink and help myself to a glass of orange juice. Then wait. I’m not going home until we do this, until we hash this out. I don’t expect that it’ll only take this once, but we have to start somewhere, right?
I pass the time snooping around her house. It’s a long way from our humble beginnings at Porter Ranch, though I have no right to complain. While I don’t have anything like this, I’m well taken care of.
“Stop pawing my furniture.” Lolly sweeps down the wrought-iron staircase. “Why are you still here?”
“Can you just give it a rest already? All this feigned anger has got to be exhausting.”
She surprises me by suppressing a laugh. “What makes you think it’s feigned?”
“Because you’re a very bad actress.”
“Use a coaster.” She points to the juice glass that I’ve put down on the mammoth wooden coffee table in her front room. “It’ll leave a ring.”
“Sorry,” I say, and quickly pick up the glass. “Can we go in the kitchen?” I like that room the best. Even though it’s ginormous, and the state-of-the-art appliances intimidate me, there’s love there. I can feel it oozing from the walls.
She leads the way, motioning for me to take a seat at the breakfast bar. “What happened at Big Al’s? Did he tell you to leave?”
“He’s remarried now. Her name is Barbara, and she loves him more than he loves her.”
