nineteen

SOUND BOUNCED SO ENTHUSIASTICALLY off the rustic stone walls of Campanile’s high-ceilinged dining room, Molly was surprised Brick even noticed his phone had rung. She was beginning to suspect that his brain worked on a special BlackBerry frequency that would allow him to hear it even if he were sitting on an exploding hydrogen bomb.

“Ryan Gosling? Are you crazy? The part is written for a woman, Caroline,” Brick boomed into the phone.

Brick had sworn he had to take this call in order to meet some production deadline or other, so Molly let her gaze wander around the funky setting. Campanile was a refurbished late-twenties-era building set back a bit from the surrounding storefronts on La Brea, complete with what looked like a bell tower poking up at the sky and a dining area divided by beautiful old archways. The crowd was an interesting mix: She spied a few of the usual way-underdressed and crazy-overdressed types she was getting used to seeing out and about in Los Angeles, but mostly it was a refreshingly regular assortment of girls in jeans and guys in cargo pants, most of whom seemed like they were washing away a hectic workday by tucking into the restaurant’s famous gourmet grilled-cheese sandwiches. Or, in the case of the couple seated to their right under one of the mosaics—where the woman looked dazed as the guy flicked through photos of his cat on an iPhone—a first date that wasn’t going very well. Molly wondered if those two would even make it to dinner, much less dessert.

“How is Lark Rodkin going to impregnate her if she is Ryan Gosling?” Brick’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Try that tapenade, it’s tangy!”

Molly felt like she was on a five-second delay—that’s about how long it took to realize that last bit was aimed at her. Brick had a maddening ability to conduct phone and in-person conversations simultaneously, and indistinguishably. When he sighed, “Who the hell bleaches her knees?” Molly thought she was supposed to answer before she noticed Brick had his BlackBerry clamped to his left ear. Moments earlier she’d needed to explain to their jittery waiter that Brick was, in fact, trying to order the Grilled Alaskan King Salmon, and not the Grilled Deviated Septum My Ass.

“Lady Gaga is not doing the sound track,” Brick said forcefully at poor, disembodied Caroline, whoever she was. “I don’t trust people who don’t wear pants.”

He hung up with an aggressive punch of a button.

“I’m so sorry, Sunshine,” he said. “But don’t you think I’m right? Our thighs should be our greatest mystery.”

“Sounds right to me.” Molly passed him the bread basket.

Brick looked around as if nervous that people might see, then burrowed through it until he came up with a seeded wheat roll.

“The carbs are complex,” he winked as he split it in two with his thumbs. “Even my trainer can’t be too mad. Now, tell me, how is school? A good academic environment is like Bowflex for the mind.”

Molly hesitated. Now that she had his full attention, she wanted to confide in Brick about how it had really been, thanks to the problems she and Brooke were having. But it seemed dirty to pull him into the middle of it, like she was tattling the first chance she got. Besides, maybe Brooke had the right idea earlier: The sooner Brick thought the two of them were getting along, the sooner she’d get back her own room.

“I might try out for cross-country,” she said instead.

Joy washed over Brick’s face. “That is a spectacular idea! We can work out together!” he said. “Exercising is one of the best ways to bond! It’s like my trainer says: If you love something, sweat it free!”

“That would be—”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt you, Brick,” a woman said, leaning over their table in a tank top cut so low that Molly could see the top of one of her nipples. “But that scene in Tequila Mockingbird where you disarmed the bomb with your teeth was amazing. Could I get an autograph?”

This was the third autograph Brick had given, and they weren’t even halfway into their appetizers.

“You can just sign this,” the woman said, presenting her sun-damaged right breast the way Vanna White revealed a letter on Wheel of Fortune.

Molly turned her inadvertent snort into a cough. Judging from the expressions of the unimpressed diners surrounding them, it had been a long time—possibly forever—since someone had her boob signed in Campanile. Although the first-date couple didn’t seem to notice; he had now progressed to showing her the dry skin around his thumbs, while she focused very hard on getting one piece of lettuce on her fork.

Brick finished with a flourish. “Thank you so much,” the woman cooed, reaching into her Dolce & Cabbana handbag—it was a nice try, but the letter was obviously not a G—to remove a folded piece of paper. “Call me sometime.”

Brick chuckled. “That was sweet,” he said, tossing the paper into the bread basket. “Now, I’m glad you’ll be pursuing team-oriented cardio, but how are your studies? Education is very important, Sunshine. You can’t spell ‘dream’ without ‘read.’ I learned that when I made a PSA about the Library of Congress.”

“Well, I think—” Molly began, but she was interrupted by Brick’s buzzing BlackBerry. He glanced at the screen and shot Molly an apologetic smile.

“This will only take a minute. It’s my lawyer. Ed, talk to me.”

Molly sighed. The work interruptions almost made her nostalgic for the ten ridiculous minutes Brick had spent talking to the bartender about the tragic nonexistence of low-calorie whiskey. She began to wish she’d brought a magazine—or weirder, that Brooke had come, because at least she’d be company during the lulls. As it was, she picked at her beet salad and tried to decide if that guy browsing in the wine room was Stephen Colbert.

“Are you done with your salads?” the waiter whispered.

“Incendiary nonsense!” Brick shouted.

The waiter recoiled, looking like he wanted to weep into his apron.

“It’s not you,” Molly whispered. “Just take the plates.”

Brick heaved another exasperated sigh as the waiter scuttled away.

“I am turning this off,” he told her, and did so with a flourish. “Precious girl, forgive me for being so distracted. Work is valuable, but family is invaluable.”

He made as if to reach for his BlackBerry again, but stopped himself. “Remind me to write that down later.”

“You can do it now,” Molly offered as their server returned and slid a plate in front of each of them.

“No! This is quality father-daughter time,” Brick insisted, prodding his salmon with his dinner fork. “How’s the play going? If your costuming is anywhere near as good as Laurel’s was, it’s going to be the best-dressed production in town. Even better than Avalanche!, unless Patricia Field finally comes to her senses. Do you think Lark Rodkin would wear manpris? Because I do not.”

Molly felt a wave of affection, mixed with some residual irritation that he’d shanghaied her into doing the costumes at all. He could have simply asked her; Molly would’ve agreed just to avoid further drama. But Brick didn’t know that was how she operated. He didn’t know her at all, really, and at their current rate, he might never.

Maybe I should just tell him everything. Brick had been so cool after the Hey! party, so understanding and surprisingly insightful, that Molly was seized with optimism that he’d have the same reaction now. History was on her side. And then she could move back across the hall, and no blood would be shed.

“The play is going okay,” she began slowly. “But I think… with all due respect… I know you thought if Brooke and I lived and worked together that we’d grow to love each other. And hopefully that will still happen. But right now all that togetherness seems to be making things worse. It might be doing a lot of damage, actually.”

Satisfied, she chanced a peek at her father. He was tapping away on his iPhone. Since when did Brick have two phones?

“I should never have given Harvey my e-mail address,” Brick said with a convivial eye-roll. “But he’s trying to make us use mountain goats even though I specifically asked for yaks. It’s like people don’t even care.”

Molly shoved a piece of coq au vin into her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Even the first-date couple seemed to be having a better time now than she was: He’d grabbed the woman’s hand so she could feel what seemed to be the edge of a steel plate in his pectoral region, which, however unlikely, appeared to be the right aphrodisiac.

“Anyway, so glad to hear the play is working out,” Brick said. “Now tell me where you are emotionally. Spiritually. In here.” He tapped his heart with his fork.

“Well, I’m feeling better, I swear,” she started.

“I’m so proud of you,” Brick said, squeezing her arm. “You have been so brave, Sunshine. And if your mother were here, she would be so happy to see how you’re thriving.”

“Thanks,” Molly said. “It’s still hard sometimes, though.”

Brick looked deeply sympathetic. “Of course it is. Tell me more,” he said.

“Well, the thing is—” Molly began.

“Oh, there he is,” Brick said, gesturing for someone at the door to join them.

Her stomach sank. It was the Us photographer, but Molly was in no mood to smile pretty. She just wanted five uninterrupted minutes with her father. It didn’t seem like a lot to ask.

As the flash went off, Molly thought that she’d find out soon enough whether any of Brooke’s old tips were worth anything, since she was pretty sure she’d look super crabby in that picture. She could see it now: “Stars: They’re Just Like Us: They Don’t Listen to Their Kids at All.”

A noise on the stairs interrupted Brooke. Quickly, she skimmed the rest of the e-mail. She hadn’t missed a thing—it crammed in every nice detail Molly had provided about Danny, plus a few Brooke had embellished just for fun. She was a genius.

The photo took forever to attach, so when Molly walked in, Brooke pulled the laptop closer to her body and tilted the screen away from her sister’s view. But Molly didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Brooke at all. Strange. After a private meal with Brick, Brooke would be gloating at full volume. A victory that wasn’t rubbed in your rival’s face was hardly worth winning. Molly had a lot to learn.

“You have butter on your skirt,” Brooke told her. Apparently, How to Use a Napkin was lesson number one.

Molly absently brushed at the spot. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you bond enough with Daddy?”

“It’s hard to bond when you’re getting interrupted every fifteen minutes by people asking Brick to sign their boobs.”

Brooke felt an empathetic pang. Last time she went somewhere with Brick—Gelson’s, to grab Vitamin Water before a hike at Runyon Canyon—it had taken them an hour to buy two bottles because Brick kept glad-handing people, and by the time they’d left, it was too dark to hike anymore.

“Nasty,” she said, trying to maintain an aura of disaffected cool.

“It was nasty. The woman even gave him her number.”

“That happens all the time,” Brooke said. “Daddy has three People’s Choice Awards and a Golden Globe. I’m so sure he’s going to date some tragic skank from the Valley with giant boulders for implants.”

“That’s exactly who it was,” Molly said as she sat down and unbuckled Brooke’s Manolos.

“Daddy has a huge fan base of women who seem to think if he just sees them, he’ll fall madly in love,” Brooke said, warming up to the topic; after all, she was the world’s leading expert. “They have this whole crazy website called the Brickhouse. One lady actually threw herself in front of his car.”

“Well, between the ladies and the phone calls, it was hard to get a word in edgewise,” Molly confessed, pulling on her pajamas. “I don’t even think Brick was listening to me half the time.” She sighed. “I’m sure you’re happy to hear this, so… you’re welcome.”

Brooke hesitated. Unlike her occasional, detached pity about Molly’s dead mother, Brooke knew this loneliness intimately, because she’d lived through it so many times herself.

She looked up from her desk to see Molly gazing at her with a quizzical expression.

“What?”

“I was just waiting for you to say something victorious,” Molly said.

“It’s like Brick always says, ‘Gloat rhymes with bloat, and both are the enemy of an upstanding citizen.’ ”

Molly snorted as she climbed into bed with a magazine.

“Since when has that ever stopped you?” she asked. “Be careful, I might start thinking you feel bad for me.”

“I do feel bad for you,” Brooke heard herself say. “Um, mostly just because of your bangs. But Brick can be disappointing sometimes, I guess. I’m used to it by now, kind of, but I know it sucks the most the first time.”

Wait, what am I doing?

Molly gave Brooke an appraising look, as if she was wondering exactly the same thing. On the bedside table between them, Molly’s cell phone buzzed. Brooke could see Farm Boy’s face pop up on the screen. Molly appeared to go through a mighty internal debate before ultimately ignoring it.

“It does suck,” Molly continued their conversation. “But I guess it’s been sucking for you for a long time. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Brooke huffed. But Molly bypassing a call from her boyfriend in favor of saying something nice to her made her feel very guilty about the e-mail to Ginevra sitting open in front of her. She closed her laptop.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Molly said, picking almost aggressively at the seam of her duvet cover. “It’s like that old saying, where you try to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes….”

“Can’t have been too hard—you were wearing my shoes.”

Molly let out a small chuckle. “True. And I still almost fell over in them. But it was… illuminating.” She paused. “My mom would be so proud. She always loved that particular cliché.”

Her face turned distant. Brooke felt something bubbling up inside her throat.

“Is it totally awful?” she blurted. “I mean, your mom… is it bad?”

Brooke could tell that her question had caught them equally by surprise. About three different emotions flitted across Molly’s face.

“It’s getting better,” Molly began slowly. “On a good day, I make it to lunch before I really start to miss her again.”

Brooke didn’t know what to say. For all the times she had melodramatically told herself that Kelly Berlin was dead to her, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if the words were actually true.

“I catch myself talking to her in my head all the time,” Molly said, a pained smile playing at the corners of her mouth but not quite making it all the way across.

“I write my mom letters. Sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

This would be a good time to shut up, a voice in Brooke’s head told her.

“I write her e-mails. About everything.”

I said shut up!

“Oh, well, she must enjoy that,” Molly said.

“Maybe. I mean, she might, in theory,” Brooke said, ignoring her inner voice and wringing her hands a little. “I’ve never actually sent any of them. It’s just been so long, you know?”

“Oh.” Molly chewed on her bottom lip. “So they’re kind of like diary entries.”

“Yeah, sort of. It just helps me work through stuff, even though we’re not really talking,” Brooke said. “And hey, she’s a better listener than Brick.”

“Why don’t you send them?”

“Because they’re no big deal,” Brooke lied, feeling twitchy. “It’s just a habit.”

Molly stared at one of her pictures of Laurel. “My mother would have loved hearing about all of this,” she said. “School, all those stylists, the beach, tonight’s crazy skanky woman. I can practically hear her reminding me that a woman’s best friend is her bra.”

“That would make her the only person my dad’s ever dated who has that opinion,” Brooke cracked. She couldn’t believe herself—now she was cracking jokes? About their parents? Had she suffered a head injury during gym class?

Molly laughed, then grabbed her phone to read an incoming text. Saved by the buzz. Brooke mumbled something about tweezers and bolted into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and rolling her forehead sideways against the cool wood.

Something was changing. It felt a bit like… having a sister. And God help her, Brooke kind of liked it.