The Apartment (16 page)

They were exhilarated after the sail, and Helen assured her younger son that he and Sasha deserved each other if she had enjoyed it, which she sincerely insisted she had.

Ben was back an hour later, and they sat in front of the fire in the den once they were dressed, and then moved into the living room when the guests started to arrive. They had invited four friends. Two of them were widowed women, and the men were alone for the holiday because one was divorced, and the wife of the other one was with their daughter in Seattle, where she was having her first baby any minute. Both men were doctors.

The dining room looked beautiful after Helen had set the table and decorated it with flowers and their Thanksgiving decorations. Their friends were interesting and good company, the meal was splendid, the conversation was lively, and they sat around and talked for hours until the guests left and Ben finally went home. They all said they were too full to ever eat again, but Alex knew that they would be eating the leftovers enthusiastically the next day and all through the weekend. He and Sasha were having dinner at a restaurant with Ben the following night, and then taking her on a tour of their favorite bars and hangouts. With their sail together that morning, she had become part of the clan.

She and Alex talked that night until they fell asleep, after they made love, as quietly as possible so his parents wouldn't hear them. She had called her own parents to wish them a happy Thanksgiving, and she'd tried to reach Valentina, but couldn't and had sent her a text, wishing her a happy Thanksgiving. She had reached Morgan at the apartment before she went to her brother's. Sasha told Alex before she drifted off that it had been the best Thanksgiving of her life, and seeing the look of love in her eyes, he believed her. It had been his as well.

When Abby got to L.A. on Wednesday afternoon, her parents were still at work, and she let herself into their home in Hancock Park with the key they had put under the mat for her. Maria, their longtime maid, had already left for the day. She only came in mornings now, and the house was quiet, but familiar and comfortable. Her mother had had it redone the year before with strikingly modern furniture and contemporary art. It wasn't cozy, but it was beautiful. Abby wandered around the house, after she put her small tote bag in her room, and went to sit in the garden, thinking about what she would do now, and what she wanted to say to them. She knew they hoped she'd move home, now more than ever, but she wasn't ready to do that. There were writing opportunities in New York too, and she was doing her best work, writing normal fiction, since the breakup with Ivan. She'd done a few short stories and was working on her novel. She hadn't realized it for the past three years, but he had been holding her back, as she tried to meet his esoteric new-wave standards, which no longer felt right for her, and never really had. She was developing her own voice again, and she felt that her writing was getting stronger than ever before. Her parents had been very patient with her for a long time, and she hoped that they would be for a while longer. She still wanted their financial and emotional support to give her the time she needed for her writing.

There was a spare car in the garage that she used when she was home, an old Volvo from her high school days. It was ancient but it still worked. She drove around L.A. that afternoon, looking at familiar places, thinking about her life now without Ivan. It felt good to be home. And when she got back to the house, her parents were both there and excited to see her. She hadn't been home in almost a year, since Christmas, and she was startled to see that her parents had aged a little. She always thought of them as young and vital forever. Her father was complaining about a bad knee he had injured playing tennis, and her mother was healthy, but seemed subtly older. They had been older parents when she was born, as a surprise, and now they were in their late sixties, but still going strong with no thought of slowing down, and Abby was glad to be spending the holiday with them.

They talked about her writing that night at dinner, and were relieved to hear that she had given up writing experimental plays to please Ivan, and was writing more traditional material again. They had ordered in fancy takeout food since her mother never cooked. They had an offsite chef who dropped off meals for them several times a week, based on healthy nonfat meal plans.

“So what do you think, Abby?” her father asked her gently. “Are you ready to come back and try your hand out here? Your mother could get you a job writing scripts on just about any show you want.” They thought in terms of commercial material, which was what Ivan had hated about them.

“I want to try to find work on my own,” she said softly, grateful for their help. And eventually, she wanted to be self-supporting too, it was her goal. And she didn't want a job because she was someone's daughter. She wanted to sell her writing or get work because of her talent, not her parents. “I don't think TV is right for me,” she said honestly. “I'd like to finish my novel and sell some short stories. I could try screenplays later, but not yet.” She gave her mother three recent chapters of her novel that night, and the next morning she told Abby how much stronger her writing had gotten and said she was impressed by how much her style had tightened and matured. And she thought the work was very cinematic and would make a great film. Abby was pleased and respected her mother's opinion. Coming from her, it was high praise. Abby knew there was still a dark edge to her writing, even without Ivan, but now she felt sure it was her own voice and not his.

“Would you mind giving me a little more time in New York to work on it?” she asked humbly. She was at her parents' mercy financially, but they had always been supportive, and were still prepared to be. They both made that clear to her in their conversations and she was grateful to them. They had always been reasonable and kind, even during her three years of insanity with Ivan, and even more so now that he was gone. And she was clearly making progress with her writing without him.

They were having their usual Thanksgiving dinner the next day, with the strays her parents collected. She had learned her love of eclectic, interesting people from them—the difference was that theirs were often famous ones, not charlatans like Ivan, and Abby didn't always know the difference. Her parents were nontraditional, and their Thanksgiving dinner normally consisted of twenty or so people who had nowhere else to be, and no family, and Joan and Harvey Williams had their dinner catered by Mr. Chow, with fabulous Chinese food, a lot of great French wine, and a combination of actors, writers, directors, and producers, who gathered at their table for an unconventional Thanksgiving. Abby had always loved it, and the people she met there. It was very Hollywood, in the best way. Some of the guests came every year and had for twenty years. Others were new. Some disappeared for a few years and then showed up again after they came back to town, finished a film, or wound up between relationships with no one to spend the holiday with. There was nothing mournful about it—in their own way they were all winners, even if some appeared to be misfits or very strange. Abby had grown up among people like them, which had given her an open mind and broad view of the world. And her parents may have been too busy to spend a lot of time with her, but she knew they loved her, in spite of the awful things Ivan had said about them. She felt guilty for listening to him now, and knew that none of what he said was true.

Her mother wandered into Abby's bedroom before the guests arrived and hugged her daughter. “You know we love you, baby, don't you? Sometimes I feel like we get disconnected with you living so far away.” And they never got to New York, they were busy in L.A. with their work, and got stuck there. “And I don't care what kind of work you do. I just want you to be happy and feel good about yourself. Don't let anyone pull you off your path or tell you what to do, not even us. You don't even have to be a writer if you don't want to be. Life is about following your own dream, not someone else's, whatever that dream is. You know what's right for you, better than anyone else. And we're here to support you, whatever choice you make.” It was what they had done for the past three years, while Abby drank the Kool-Aid with Ivan, and she was so grateful they hadn't given up on her, and were there for her now, stronger than ever.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said, touched by what her mother said. “I'm really trying.”

“I know you are. You'll get there. I didn't even start writing for TV until I was thirty-five. I was writing literary novels before that, and novellas, and believe me, they were awful. Your father was the only one who liked them, and that was because he loved me. So just hang in, and you'll find the right writing form for you, and the right vehicle, if you really want that.” And they both knew it would be a lot easier without Ivan. They had been incredibly kind and supportive about the breakup without a single “I told you so.”

“I feel so stupid for wasting all that time with him,” she said with tears in her eyes, and her mother hugged her again.

“Don't forget I was married for two years, before your dad. The guy started out normal when we got married, and became a religious fanatic, and founded a cult in Argentina, which was when I left him. We all do stupid things sometimes and get involved with the wrong people. It's good to keep an open mind, but also to know when to cut your losses and close the gate. You did with Ivan. And it takes the time it takes.” Abby didn't know what she had done to deserve such understanding parents, but she thanked God that she had them. She had forgotten about her mother's first marriage. She never talked about it. There was no reason to. Her parents had been happily married for more than thirty years, and they still liked surrounding themselves with unusual people. It had never occurred to them that it would rub off on their daughter, to her detriment. Her father had said as much to his wife when they first met Ivan in the beginning, but they let her make her own decisions, for better or worse, and it had worked out in the end, after a three-year detour, but she seemed to be back on track again and even more dedicated to her writing, which had improved after what she'd been through.

People started to arrive at six o'clock, and by seven, there were twenty-six guests, in assorted casual outfits, drinking wine, and in earnest conversations in the living room and around the pool. The food was delivered at eight, and people sat wherever they found space, indoors, outdoors, on the floor, in chairs, and on couches, with their plates perched on their knees, enjoying talking to the other guests about various aspects of show business. It was a perfect Hollywood Thanksgiving, and typical of her parents, and seemed normal to Abby.

She was sitting on the floor, in jeans and sandals, wearing a Guatemalan peasant blouse that her mother had brought her back from a trip when she was fifteen, when a man with a beard and jeans and a camouflage jacket sat down next to her on the floor, and introduced himself as Josh Katz. He said he had produced a TV show with her mother, and was now making a feature film on location in South Africa, about the early days of apartheid. She knew it was the kind of project her parents respected. He had warm dark brown eyes and a slight accent, and later said he was Israeli, and he had a strong interest in work about oppressed people, particularly women. For a minute, she wondered if he was a better version of Ivan, with a more convincing line, but she also knew that if he was sitting in her parents' living room, he had the right credentials and was for real. Her parents were allergic to phonies, which was why they had hated Ivan.

“How come you're here?” Abby asked him, and then realized how that sounded and apologized. “I mean alone on Thanksgiving. Do you live in L.A.?”

“Some of the time. Tel Aviv, L.A., New York, and wherever I'm shooting. Johannesburg right now, but I'll be back in a few weeks for postproduction. I have two sons here. I'm spending the weekend with them, but I was free tonight, so your parents were nice enough to ask me when they heard I was in town. And I'm starting a film here in six months, so I have to find an apartment, to finish this film and the next one. I'll be here for a year and a half.”

“How old are your sons?” She liked him. He seemed interesting, nice, and offbeat, like her parents.

“Six and eleven,” he said proudly and showed her a photograph of them on his phone. They were cute boys. And he looked to be about forty. “My wife lives here. We got divorced two years ago, but I try to see my kids whenever I can. It will be nice living here for a while. I hear you're a writer.” She nodded, looking vague for a minute. “What do you write?”

“I've been writing plays for experimental theater for the last three years. Now I'm working on a novel and some short stories. I've gone back to a more traditional style.” She smiled. “I'm trying to figure it out. I'm in transition,” Abby said and laughed.

“Sometimes that's a good thing. It leaves you open to change. Sometimes you have to tear everything down to build a stronger structure. I find that to be true in life and movies too.”

“Then I'm right on track.” She laughed ruefully, and he smiled. He liked her, and he liked her parents too. They were good, honest people with talent and integrity, which were rare in Hollywood.

“Can I read anything you've written?” He was always looking for new material and found it in surprising places.

“My stuff isn't representative of my current style and what I'm doing now. And my novel isn't finished.”

“Have you ever written a screenplay?” She shook her head in answer. “It's a pretty short jump from plays to screenplays—you'd probably find it easy. Can I see something you're working on now? A few chapters of your novel?” He handed her his card before she could answer. “Send me something. You never know. I may know someone who's doing something you'd be perfect for. That's how it works. Networking. That's how I met your mother, and I did some shows for her, which got me started. She gave me a chance.” Joan had always been brave about that, and had discovered some real talent, people who were famous now, and a few duds. She was willing to make mistakes, which made her more forgiving of others.

“Okay,” Abby said thoughtfully. He was very convincing, in a nice way, and very positive. She got pulled away by her mother then, to talk to someone else, an old friend of theirs she hadn't seen since high school, who looked a hundred years old now, and was nearly unrecognizable after a face-lift. She was grateful her mother hadn't had any work done and still looked like herself, even if slightly older.

Abby found Josh's card in her pocket when she got undressed, and wondered if she should send him some short stories or a couple of chapters of her novel. She mentioned it to her mother the next morning when they had breakfast by the pool, sitting in the sun. Her father had gone to play golf, which he could still do with his bad knee.

“Why not?” her mother said easily. “He's a very talented guy, and very open to new ideas. I knew we'd never keep him around for long. He's too unconventional, and too creative, and he doesn't like playing by network rules.” Her mother was good at doing that without compromising her talent or ideas, but not everyone could pull it off. She had a rare knack for walking a fine line between commercial and sheer genius, and the ratings showed it, despite what Ivan said about her. “Send him something,” Joan encouraged her. “Maybe he'll have some good suggestions for you, and introduce you to someone making an indie movie, if that's what you want.”

“Maybe it is,” Abby said, looking thoughtful. “I don't know where I'll wind up, maybe novels or film.” She knew she hadn't reached her final goal yet. Her current writing was a work in progress.