Page 17 of Backslide
“Can I take this in for you?” he asks.
I shake my head, forced bravery rising in my chest. “I’m good.”
He nods and rotates the bag toward me, so that I can easily access the handle. “Listen,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on. We don’t know each other. But I can tell you the thing I always tell my girls: You are stronger than you think. And then some. You’ve got this.”
I’ve got this.
His words reverberate through me. And I realize he reminds me of my own dad, who I could really use right now. I almost start to cry right then and there. My God, I’m a mess.
“Thank you, John.” I smile, my vision blurred.
“Also,” he says, leaning in. “The wine helps.”
And that I know is true.
Before I can fully thank him, I hear my name ring out from behind me and I swivel toward the voice. There is Cara, on the threshold of the property, arms raised above her head in celebration. And, despite my misgivings, a wave of relief washes over me.
“You’re here!” she practically sings.
Yup. I am. I am here. Whether I like it or not.
She drops her arms. “Be honest: Do I look okay in this? Because I feel like a character out ofLaurel Canyon.”
And I can’t help but smile, the knot in my chest loosening ever so slightly. Because she is glowing, a vision of California bohemia in an Indian block-printed maxi dress and Birkenstocks—a stark contrast to her usual more tailored and preppy striped tops. She is trying something out.
“You look great.Andlike a character inLaurel Canyon.”
She purses her lips, rests a hand on her hip, and I rush toward her for a giant hug. And it’s just what the doctor ordered. My best friend.
She smells like vanilla and her—and it’s as comforting as anything could be.
When we finally release each other, she turns and leads the way deeper into the property. “I can’t wait to show you around!”
“Great!” I say. “But where’s your VW bus parked?”
She shoots me a death glare and we both dissolve into laughter.
I should have let John carry my bag. That’s my first thought as I drag the Jolly Green Giant along the cobbled path. Though it’s sprawling and stunning, I think “estate” is not quite the right word for this place, which feels rustic in the most upscale and contained way. Because there is nothing stuffy or grandiose here. It’s beautiful but barefoot—every breezy detail considered.
No needs left behind.
The path is lined with an organized pandemonium of wildflowers against low stone walls—white clovers, violets, the friendliest daisy fleabane. Bees and butterflies flit harmoniously from bloom to bloom, sharing an abundance of nectar. It’s a free-for-all!
We walk by an understated indoor/outdoor dining area with twinkle lights strung from the trees above, and a spacious pool surrounded by plush loungers and sharp white umbrellas. Behind that is a row of small slatted buttercup-colored bungalows, clearly individual guest rooms.
On our way past the chicken coop and vegetable garden, I catch a glimpse of a tall blond man in overdetermined sunglasses and a too-hipster short-sleeved button-down coming around a corner. I haven’t seen him in years, but I’d know him anywhere.Damien. I duck my head and discreetly hustle behind Cara before he spots us, my heart pounding. It’s one thing to confront these blasts from the past; it’s another to do it while airplane grime is still clinging to your clothes.
I am not ready to contend with him.
Gesturing toward the adjoining biodynamic vineyard and orange grove like a spokesmodel for artisanal living, Cara leads me beyond a spa wafting the scent of neroli to a larger barn-style building—also in slatted yellow—that she explains is the main manor house.
Renting this property must have cost a pretty penny. Ben and Cara both work in tech and all that implies, but still… they have gone all out.
Again, it occurs to me that this is all a little unlike Cara, whotends to be sensible, responsible, austere. This event, while being mostly symbolic, is clearly important.
It’s a reminder not to ruin it for her. I will not be a flaming ball of rage. I will be measured, calm. I will fake it like nobody’s business.
For once,I’llbe the chill one—not him.
