Page 26 of Fathers of the Bride
“That’s hardly going to make it safer.”
“Well, we’re in now,” he said. Since there’d been an opening and, squinting my eyes shut, I’d crossed traffic to pull into the driveway.
Raj, being in his twenties, was unfazed by the idea of sudden death. I remembered that feeling. At his age, I thought I’d live forever, while at the same time I was convinced I’d never make it to thirty. But then life happens, you get older, you have a child—mostly you have a child—and then every dangerous thing that might happen was suddenly very, very likely to happen. Yes, Kelly would fall off her bike and break a wrist. Yes, your own parents would die, one by one. Yes, your marriage would sputter and crumble. And, despite all that—or perhaps because of it—the thought of sudden death became more and more frightening.
We got out of the car, a C-Class with a lease that cost more than my first L.A. apartment. On the upside, if we were mowed down when we backed into on-coming traffic we’d probably be fine. The car was built like a Panzer.
“Which house are we supposed to go to again?” Raj asked.
“I think it’s 20702,” I said. “Unless it’s 04.”
“Didn’t you put it into your phone?”
“I wrote it on a piece of paper. And then I forgot the piece of paper.”
“That’s why I tell you to put everything into your phone.”
I didn’t mention that I’d also left my phone at home.
“I suppose we’re lucky we got this far,” he sneered.
“I knew where I was going because I wrote down the address.”
“Which address?”
“Both.”
Raj rolled his eyes. “Well, pick one.”
“02.”
“Good, we’ll try 04 first.”
Raj tromped off in that direction. I began wondering where Miles’ car was. We were fashionably late, so I thought he’d be there. Not that Miles was punctual, between L.A. traffic and a tendency to get lost he was almost never on time. My daughter, on the other hand, plotted and planned even the shortest errand. She checked traffic reports well before leaving the house and adjusted her route. Typically, she was early. And since they were together, Miles’ car should have been sitting in the driveway. And it wasn’t.
I followed Raj around the corner to find him standing at an intercom. Someone was speaking Spanish and Raj was snapping a picture of the intercom with his phone.
“Seriously?”
“Don’t gloat,” he said. “But I think we’re expected next door.” Putting his phone into his pocket he breezed by me. We walked down the connecting walkway to the correct address. We used the identical intercom.
“Hello!” I said gamely. “Is this the—” I’d forgotten which house belonged to which in-laws. “—the Lincoln-Collinses’ home?”
“Welcome,” someone shouted into the intercom. The gate buzzed open, and we followed a narrow gravel path down to an open courtyard that served as something of an outdoor foyer. A sliding glass door flew open and out popped one of the women I’d stalked. She wore a bright red floral caftan and carried a straight-up martini. I decided to reserve judgement. Maybe they weren’t all that bad.
She smiled at me for the briefest moment before squealing, “Raj! Is that really you?”
“It is!”
“I’m Patricia Collins-Lincoln. My friends call me Pudge.”
“Love, love, love the caftan, Pudge,” Raj said, taking out his phone. “Selfies, anyone?”
“Absolutely! This fabric, I got it in Bali. Had the caftan run up by a seamstress in Inglewood. Lovely work. Barely charges me.”
“It’s fabulous. Smile!”
They grinned wide for the photo. Then immediately looked at it. Raj was happy with it, so Pudge turned to me. “And you! Andrew, I feel like I know you, too! Has that awful rash cleared up?”
