Lauren Weisberger 3-Book Collection: Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger

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СКАЧАТЬ that I left home to go to college when she already had one kid and another on the way. She makes lots of comments about how I’m Dad’s reason for living and at least one of us has a chance of making him proud – you know, that sort of stuff. But she’s a good girl. Christ, I just got heavy there. Sorry about that.’

      Before I could say anything, let him know that it was okay, that I loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything, a Whitesnake track came on and Sammy laughed again. ‘Are you serious with this music? How do you listen to this shit?’

      The conversation continued easily after that – just chitchat about music and movies and the ridiculous people we both dealt with all day long. He was careful not to mention Philip, and I returned the favor by steering clear of Isabelle. Otherwise, we talked as though we’d known each other forever. When I realized we were only a half-hour outside of town, I called to let my parents know that I was dropping someone off and would be there shortly.

      ‘Bettina, don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll bring him by for dinner!’ My mother all but shrieked into the phone.

      ‘Mom, I’m sure he wants to get home. He’s here to see his family, not mine.’

      ‘Well, be sure to extend the invitation. We never get to meet any of your friends, and it would make your father very happy. And of course, he’s more than welcome at the party tomorrow. Everything’s all set and ready to go.’

      I promised her I’d relay the information and hung up.

      ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh, my mother wants you to come over for a late dinner, but I told her you’d probably want to get home to your dad. Besides, the stuff they try to pass off as food is atrocious.’

      He was quiet for a second and then said, ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, that’d be really nice. My old man isn’t expecting me until tomorrow, anyway. Besides, maybe I could help out in the kitchen, make that tofu a little more palatable.’ He said this tentatively, trying to sound indifferent, but I sensed (prayed, hoped, willed) that there was something more.

      ‘Oh, uh, okay,’ I said, trying to come across as cool but instead sounding mortally opposed to the idea. ‘I mean, if you want, it’d be great.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Positive. I’ll give you a ride home afterward, and I promise not to keep you trapped any longer than absolutely necessary. Which will still be long enough for them to try to convert you to a meat-free lifestyle, but hopefully it’ll be bearable.’ The awkwardness was over. I was ecstatic. And slightly terrified.

      ‘Okay, that sounds good. After the stories you’ve told me, I feel like I have to see them now.’

      My mother was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in multiple layers of wool when we pulled into the driveway, which bisected the nearly six acres of land they’d lived on for a quarter-century. The hybrid Toyota Prius they kept for emergencies (I often wondered what they’d think if they knew that Hollywood’s entire A-list drove them, too) sat in the driveway, covered by a tarp, since they rode bicycles 99 percent of the time. She threw down the book she was cradling in her mittened hands (Batik Technique) and ran to meet the car before I’d even put it in park.

      ‘Bettina!’ she called, yanking open the driver’s-side door and clasping her hands together excitedly. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out into an immediate hug, and I wondered if anyone besides my mother or my dog would ever be so happy to see me. We stood there for a moment longer than was necessary and I immediately forgot how much I’d dreaded this visit.

      ‘Hi, Mom. You look great.’ And she did. We had the same long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back, parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman whose determined expression is the only clue that she’s not quite as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. ‘This is my friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother.’

      ‘Hello, Mrs Robinson.’ He paused. ‘Wow, that sounds weird, doesn’t it? Although I suppose you’re used to it.’

      ‘I sure am. “Jesus loves me more than you will know.” Either way, please just call me Anne.’

      ‘It’s really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I’m not intruding.’

      ‘Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now come inside before you freeze.’

      We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the small greenhouse they’d installed a few years earlier ‘for contemplating nature when the weather wasn’t cooperating.’ It was the only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you’d discover tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond, slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks (‘No need to buy those German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well,’ he liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.

      ‘Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest,’ he sang, pulling me into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

      ‘Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is my dad.’

      I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly what he’d say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The first time my parents came to the city after I’d graduated from college, I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She’d met them at graduation and once before – she probably barely remembered a thing about them – but my dad didn’t forget much. He’d kissed her hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, ‘Penelope, dear, of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember him being very bright and very articulate,’ he deadpanned without a hint of discernible sarcasm.

      This was my father’s subtle way of inside-joking with just me. Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he’d had trouble responding to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even though he hadn’t seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery’s fictional dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I’d like to purchase a pound of ‘some really good shit.’ We thought it was hysterical, and he clearly couldn’t resist taking a quick shot now and then. Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.

      ‘Pleasure, Sammy. Come sit and keep an old man company. You from around here?’

      We all sat. My father poured the Yogi Egyptian licorice tea that my mother brewed by the bucket as Sammy carefully arranged his large frame on one of the oversized beaded floor cushions scattered around the table. I flopped between him and my mother, who folded СКАЧАТЬ