Broken Hearts, Fences and Other Things to Mend (8 page)

her name in a similar fashion, when Bruce was desperate to get

Gwyneth Paltrow to sign on to a fi lm that was on the verge of los-

—-1

ing fi nancing. He thought that she would be impressed by his

—0

—+1

S 51 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 51

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 51

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

naming his daughter after her, showing his dedication to get-

ting her for the movie. But apparently, it just freaked her out, and

she dropped out of the project as a result. Which, to me, seemed

like an outsize reaction from someone who named her own chil-

dren after biblical prophets and fruit.

But it was too late to change Gwyn’s name at that point, and

though it had never been confi rmed, I had a feeling that trying

to trade his kids’ names for professional success might have been

a contributing factor in Bruce’s fi rst divorce.

Rosie led me through to the kitchen, then stopped short, caus-

ing me to narrowly avoid crashing into her.

“Bruce,” she said with a sigh to the open silver refrigerator

door. “What are you doing?”

“Mmmph,” the door said. It swung closed and revealed Bruce

Davidson, feared Hollywood producer, holding a half- eaten bur-

rito and looking guilty. “What?” he said, his voice defensive. “I

was just— oh, hey, Gemma. Get in okay?”

“Bruce.” Rosie reached out her hand. “Gimme.” Bruce looked

abashed and handed over the burrito.

“What’s going on?” I asked, though I had a feeling I knew.

Bruce was short and had a tendency to plumpness. He was con-

stantly seeing different nutritionists and going on crazy diets he

always broke. The last time I’d been in L.A., he’d been eating “low-

impact”—he couldn’t eat anything that was cooked or hadn’t fallen

naturally to the ground without picking or harvesting. He’d lasted

almost a whole week on that one.

-1—

“Bruce is eating like a caveman, for reasons that make sense

0—

+1—

S 52 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 52

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 52

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

to him,” Rosie said, as she contemplated the burrito, then took a

bite herself.

“Paleolithic,” Bruce mumbled.

“Caveman,” Rosie said with a roll of her eyes. “It means, basi-

cally, you can’t eat anything our ancestors— who had tiny brains,

might I add— couldn’t pull from the ground or kill with a stick.

And they certainly didn’t eat burritos, so . . .” Rosie took another

bite, and Bruce sighed.

“I’m going to fi nd Paul,” he said, referring to my dad. “He should

be on this call too. Glad you’re here, Gem. Help yourself to what-

ever. And let’s make a plan to go running.”

“Definitely,” I said with a smile. It was a running joke— so to

speak— between us. It had started a few years ago, when I was

visiting my dad in L.A. and Bruce was on an exercise kick. We

had talked a lot about going running together, but all we had

ended up doing was going to get donuts while they were still

hot.

Bruce gave the burrito one last look, then shuffl ed out of the

kitchen, yelling for my dad.

“Okay,” Rosie said, turning to me. “Want the fi ve- cent tour?”

There was nothing fi ve- cent about the house, I soon realized

as I trailed Rosie from room to room. It just went on forever, one

beautiful, clutter- free room stretching into the next one. The

whole house had clearly been decorated by someone who had taken

the concept of a beach house very literally— it was mostly done in

blue and white, with glass jars fi lled with sand or shells on every

available surface. But when we reached a group of rooms toward

—-1

—0

—+1

S 53 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 53

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 53

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

the back of the house, things started to seem more like Bruce and

less like his decorator.

“Bruce’s domain,” Rosie told me as she pointed to the three

rooms at the end of a hallway. There was a screening room, which

Rosie told me had just been installed so that he could watch rough

cuts at home, his offi ce, and what she called his “brag room”— a

room that seemed designed just to woo actors and intimidate

other producers. It was basically just a couch and two chairs, and

the rest was all Bruce’s memorabilia and posters and the awards

that he’d collected over the years.

This included, in the very center of the room, a pedestal for

Bruce’s pride and joy, the Spotlight award he’d gotten a few years

ago at the British version of the Oscars. There was even a small

spotlight that shone directly down onto it, making the glass gleam.

Ford had confi ded to me that he’d found out at the afterparty

that the award had actually been meant for Marcus Davidman,

the acclaimed documentary fi lmmaker, and not Bruce Davidson,

producer of time- traveling- animal movies. But apparently the

En glish fi lmmakers who were presenting the award were too po-

lite to correct the mistake, and Bruce was none the wiser.

After the tour of Bruce’s domain, Rosie started to show me

the upstairs bedrooms, but gave up when we both got tired of

walking so much. So the tour fi nished up in the guest room that

would be mine for the summer. It was done in blue and white,

much like the rest of the house— white wicker dresser, blue painted

headboard, white sheets and pillows. There was a half- fi lled jar

-1—

of seaglass on the bedside table, next to a small vase of fresh

0—

fl owers. But best of all was the view, which looked right out on

+1—

S 54 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 54

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 54

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

the water. I could see the waves crashing and the moonlight

spilling onto the dunes.

“This is great,” I murmured as I took it all in. It really was—

certainly better than being at home, and most likely better than

being in some crumbling castle in Scotland. I had a strong suspi-

cion that castles didn’t have air conditioning.

“Glad you like it,” she said. “Yell if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, smiling at Rosie as she headed out. “Thanks.” I

had a feeling that even if I yelled at the top of my lungs, nobody

would hear me in a house this big. But at the moment, I really

didn’t seem to mind.

I crossed to the bed, where my dad had left my duffel, and

was halfway through unpacking when there was a knock at the

door. I opened it and saw my dad on the other side, because, un-

like my mother, he clearly understood how knocking was sup-

posed to work.

“You all settled in here?” he asked, peering around. His jaw

dropped when he saw my view. “You’ve got it much nicer than

me, kid. I think my window looks out at the garage.”

“Maybe Bruce thinks you won’t be working if you’re looking

at the scenery.”

“Maybe,” my dad murmured, eyes on the water. “Still.”

“So is, um . . . Mrs. Bruce around this summer?” I asked. I

could never keep straight the names of Bruce’s wives— they all

seemed to be named after Western states or gemstones.

My dad shook his head. “He and Dakota divorced this spring.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic and surprised, when

—-1

in actuality I would have been surprised if she were still around.

—0

—+1

S 55 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 55

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 55

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

“And speaking of,” my dad said, clearing his throat a few times,

“I was sorry to hear about you and Teddy.”

I nodded, feeling as I did the wave of sadness that always threat-

ened to clobber me whenever I thought about Teddy. But it oc-

curred to me a moment later that I hadn’t thought about Teddy

in at least a few hours, which was bizarre, since he had occupied

so much of my brain real estate for years. I chalked it up to trav-

eling, and the events of the day. “Yeah,” I said, hearing my voice

wobble a bit on the word, but not as much as it might have done

the week before. “Thanks.”

My dad nodded, cleared his throat again, and stuck his hands

in his pockets. My father and I rarely talked about our personal

issues, and as a direct result, we weren’t really very good at it.

“What about you?” I asked hesitantly, feeling just how awk-

ward this conversation was. “Are you, um, dating anyone in L.A.?”

“Oh,” my dad said, looking startled by the very idea. “No, noth-

ing like that.” He gave a little shrug. “You know me.”

I did. But I also couldn’t help looking at the lines around my

dad’s eyes again. He was getting older— I didn’t like to let myself

see it, but it was true. And it occurred to me that soon he might

be too old— or at least too used to being on his own— to meet any-

body. He had only been serious about one person since he and my

mom split. And it was all because of me, my doing entirely, that

he was not with that person.

“Anyway,” he said, giving me a quick hug and then ruffl ing

my hair like I was still fi ve, “you should get some sleep. I’m glad

-1—

you’re here, Gem.”

0—

He left then, and I tried to go back to unpacking, but gave it

+1—

S 56 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 56

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 56

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

up after a few minutes of just refolding the same white shirt

while staring into space. I pulled out my phone and saw I had a

text from Sophie. She had ended up seeing the barista after all,

and would have details for me in the morning. Since she added a

winky face to the end of this sentence, I had a pretty good idea

what these details involved. I thought about texting back, but

stopped when I realized all that I would have to explain to her to

get her up to speed. Suddenly, it seemed like the events of the

day— my haircut, meeting Josh, realizing who he was, seeing Hallie

again— were too big to be contained in the house, massive as

it was.

I headed down the stairs, feeling like I should have taken a

compass, or a map, to guide myself back to the kitchen. Luckily, I

didn’t have to worry about being quiet, even though it was after

ten. Bruce— and as a result, my dad and Rosie as well— kept West

Coast time even when in New York, so that they would be around

to talk to people in California well into the night.

The kitchen was quiet, no sign of Bruce trying to sneak non-

caveman food. So there was nobody to have to explain to as I pushed

out through the back door, walking past the darkened pool house,

then the pool, lit with underwater lights. I kicked off my fl ip-

fl ops and dipped a toe in as I passed. It was just slightly heated,

the perfect pool temperature. I walked down the steps that led to

the dunes, then out the gate and onto the sand, the path lined

with beach grass, fi nding my way by moonlight. In no time, I was

at the water’s edge, the moon huge above me, the beach deserted

and all mine.

—-1

I sat on the sand and looked out at the water. I was back in the

—0

—+1

S 57 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 57

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 57

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

Hamptons. I was staying in a new place, with a new haircut. I

was infi nitely wiser and more experienced than I had been the

last time I’d been there.

But it was becoming abundantly clear that the mistakes I’d

made— and the people I thought I’d left behind— hadn’t actually

gone anywhere.

-1—

0—

+1—

S 58 T

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 58

105-56018_ch01_3P.indd 58

10/2/13 7:32 AM

10/2/13 7:32 AM

T
hat summer seemed ill- fated right from the start.

On the last day of fi fth grade, my dad picked me up from

school. This wasn’t so unusual, since the afternoons were prime

house- showing times for my mom. Normally my dad was writ-

ing, but he had been suffering from writer’s block recently—

something that, even at eleven, I was sure wasn’t helped by my

mom commenting on it, with loud sighs, at dinnertime.

The only clue I had that something out of the ordinary was

happening was when he took me from school directly to Gofer Ice

Cream and told me I could get what ever I wanted. This raised my

suspicions immediately. My father had recently gone on a health

kick, declaring refi ned sugar to be of the dev il, and the thing that

was interfering with his creative pro cess. So I could barely taste

my vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles because of the way my

dad was looking at me— desperately, and not just for my refi ned

sugar. It was like he wanted to watch me having one last happy

—-1

memory before everything crumbled. Needless to say, this made

—0

—+1