Necklace of Kisses Page 8

  Weetzie didn’t have to say anything. Peri immediately woke Bean, who was sleeping on top of the covers in a dark jacket and sneakers. He sat up as if he had been expecting this. His mother slid a long, fitted black-leather trench coat over her nightgown and zipped her feet and legs into black-leather, thigh-high boots. She picked up the black-leather satchel that was standing ready by the door and took Bean in her other arm.

  Then, before Peri and Bean disappeared through the French doors into the night, the red-haired woman leaned over, kissed Weetzie’s cheek, and pressed something cold and hard into her palm.

  There was a rapping at the front door. Weetzie crouched down under the writing desk and held her breath. After a while, the knocks grew softer and softer. Weetzie put her head on the deep, grass-colored carpet and closed her eyes.

  She dreamed of a large, spiky wrought-iron gate that opened onto an old graveyard. Among the stone angels and thick, humid foliage, stood a dilapidated gingerbread house. Peri and Bean walked up the front path to the porch. In the moonless night, with their black clothes, they were almost invisible.

  The front door of the house creaked open. A man stepped out.

  He was tall and fine-boned, with eyes that glowed in the dark, like a cat’s. His skin was stained with soot. His ears were like an animal’s—pointed and covered in pale, silky fur.

  He took Peri and Bean in his arms. The door closed behind them.

  Weetzie saw morning creeping into the sky.

  Someone was whistling.

  Weetzie jumped up, bumping her head on the writing desk. The sun was streaming in through the large windows, and a feather duster was hovering in the air.

  “Hola, Missus Weetzie,” Esmeralda said. “Are you all right?”

  “Hola, Esmeralda.” Weetzie scrambled to stand. She realized she was holding something so tightly in her hand that it had almost cut the skin.

  It was an emerald.

  She said good-bye to Esmeralda and hurried outside. In the gardens, it was once again impossible to imagine anything even slightly sinister. But there was something strange. As Weetzie hurried out of Peri’s room, in sandals caked with dried mud, she saw that someone had painted the front door a pale silver. And the old-fashioned baby carriage she had seen the night before was abandoned on the path.

  She stood there, dazed by the sun. Suddenly, a man in white pants and a cap drove up in a cart and began sanding off the silver paint. Weetzie wondered how long it would take to cover an entire door with silver nail polish, especially if you were the size of a bean.

  She hoped that, at least, it had worked to keep the monsters away.

  Soaps and Shopping

  After what had happened the night before, Weetzie was not interested in adventure, at least not for the moment. As soon as she got back to her room, she opened the windows, ate a bag of pretzels, drank some grapefruit juice from the refrigerator, took off all her clothes, took a bath, pulled down the covers, and tucked herself under the cool, fresh sheets. She closed her eyes and slept until she was awakened by the phone.

  A man’s voice said, “I have Dashell Hart on the line for Weetzie Bat.”

  “Oh, yes? Hi.”

  “Hi, darling,” said the producer.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me calling. I’ve been talking with Sable and he came up with an idea for a project we’d like to discuss with you. Can you meet for lunch tomorrow at the hotel?”

  Weetzie was delighted. She was starting to feel that, except for warning Peri and Bean, she hadn’t been doing anything very constructive while she was here. Maybe Tristan Sable and Dashell Hart had an idea for a movie.

  After she hung up, she reached for the remote and put on the TV. The soap opera, in which Tristan played an angel, was on. He looked very different, clean-shaven and without his glasses. Weetzie watched him grab the shirt collar of a depraved-looking, greasy-haired man in black-leather pants, who, she gathered, was a vampire, while she dialed room service.

  She was half relieved and half disappointed when a woman answered to take her order of a vegetable platter and bottled water. But when the doorbell rang, Pan was standing there. Weetzie pulled her robe tighter around her.

  “Is this all you’re eating?” he asked her. “You can’t survive on crudités and wedding cake, lady.”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite. Things keep happening.”

  He brought the tray in and set it on the bed. “Whatcha watchin’?”

  “Eden Place.”

  Tristan Sable was now unbuttoning the blouse of a young, slender blonde. He kissed her neck as he slid the fabric off her tan shoulders. Weetzie wondered if he ever took off his own shirt on the air, and if she had imagined the feathers pressed beneath the cotton when she hugged him the other night. She felt her face heating up once again.

  “It’s not bad,” she told Pan, without looking at him.

  “That guy’s got it made,” Pan said. Then he added quickly, “To have a part like that,” and she realized he didn’t want her to think he was referring to Tristan kissing the actress.

  “I’m having lunch with him and the producer tomorrow,” Weetzie said.

  Pan checked his watch. “I better get back to work.”

  Weetzie caught his wrist. He swiveled around to look at her. “Isn’t it funny,” she said, “how you keep turning up? Like wouldn’t it be a kick if you happened to be working the lunch shift tomorrow?”

  He winked at her.

  “With a head shot and résumé?” she said as he opened the door.

  “Eat something. You need strength for your meeting,” he said.

  When she smelled the night-blooming flowers waking up outside her window, she decided to take an evening walk. She had cleaned the mud off her sandals and put them on with the black trousers, studded belt, and a new white tank over her palest pink French-lace bra.

  Weetzie took the path down to the far end of the hotel, where a row of green-glass shops stood along a reflecting pool in the shade of the palms and jacarandas. She passed a florist; a fancy pharmacy; a bookstore/magazine stand; a gourmet coffee place; a jeweler, a gift shop that sold wind chimes, china fairy and mermaid figurines, paper weights, blown-glass animals, scented candles, and, in an effort to discourage impulsive theft, hotel-room items like bathrobes and satin sheets. There was also Lacey’s Beautiful World. The lady from the wedding was standing behind the counter wearing a silk blouse of a fine, loose weave.

  “I met you last night!” the lady said. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. All kinds of strange things are happening. How are you?”

  “Everything is beautiful,” the woman said. “Isn’t it? The air smells so good.”

  Weetzie nodded, looking through the green glass at the sunset reflected in the long, narrow pool. Purple jacaranda blossoms were drifting down into the water. The lawn was dark velvet-green with shadows.

  Weetzie went over to a rack where suits, dresses, and blouses, like the one the woman was wearing, were hanging. They were the softest, most fragile things she had ever felt, but they were strangely strong at the same time, and they glinted with an uncanny light in varying shades of white, cream, gray, and silver.

  “Speaking of beautiful!” she said, choosing a silver-white suit with a fitted jacket and short skirt. “Where are these from?”

  “I make them,” said the woman.

  “Are you Lacey?”

  She nodded.

  “Where do you find the fabric? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Lacey looked into Weetzie’s eyes as if she were trying to figure something out. “You don’t seem to me to be the type of person that minds strange things. Am I right?”

  “If I was before, I’m not now,” said Weetzie. “Everything is strange these days.”

  “Well then…”

  Lacey locked the door of the store, sat down, lifted up her shirt so her slim abdomen was exposed. A tiny pair of arms and ha
nds protruded there. Lacey began to move all four hands about with quick, mysterious movements. A milky liquid seemed to be coming out of her, sticking to her fingers in long threads that she wove together. In a short time, she was holding a beautiful, silvery-white scarf. She took a pair of scissors and snipped it off her body.

  “How…” Weetzie stopped herself. There was no point in asking.

  “Just like any woman,” Lacey said, handing Weetzie the scarf. “We weave our stories out of our bodies. Some of us through our children, or our art; some do it just by living. It’s all the same.”

  Weetzie took off her clothes and put on the suit. There was no reason to be modest after what she’d just seen. The fabric was so fine that it seemed to melt away at the edges. She bought it on the spot.

  “Do you mind me asking, how did you find out you could do this?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m a survivor,” Lacey said calmly.

  Weetzie waited for her to go on.

  “Once, there was this man. I was terrified. I had no idea what I had, what I could do. But all of a sudden, it started happening. I made a web around his face. I got away.”

  Weetzie wished she knew what to say. Lacey smiled and brushed a piece of hair out of Weetzie’s eye.

  “You look so great,” she said. “Do you have plans?”

  “I’m on my own,” said Weetzie, and, for the first time since she’d been here, she wished she wasn’t.

  “Well, have fun! There’s a shoe store down the way. Come visit me again.”

  Weetzie hadn’t planned on buying shoes, but she had to go into the little shop when she saw, through the green glass, the twelve dancing girls from the wedding. They were all wearing long gowns and trying on flats. When they saw Weetzie, they rushed out of the door, giggling, and she was left staring at a pair of raspberry snakeskin sandals with precariously high heels and ankle straps.

  “Who were those girls?” Weetzie asked the salesman.

  “The twelve dancing princesses,” he said blithely. “Good customers. They wear everything out in weeks. Those shoes are you!”

  Weetzie was so bewildered by the twelve girls that she bought the shoes that instant and wore them out the door. She was almost at the end of the row of shops when she came to a small art gallery. It was closed, but she paused at the window and looked in. A large painting filled the glass. It was of the lower portion of a woman’s face—her full mouth and small, sharp chin—and her neck. She had one hand raised, lightly touching her collarbone, where four jewels glimmered as if they were lit from behind the canvas. There was a pearl, a ruby, an emerald, and a sapphire.

  Then Weetzie noticed a name written on the glass. ZANE STARLING. RECENT WORK. The date of the reception was in four days.

  Weetzie walked through the gardens to the Japanese restaurant, where she ordered some miso soup, avocado rolls, vegetable tempura, rice, and tofu salad to go. Then she went back to her room, ate, and lay in the dark, in the webby skirt and jacket, wondering what in the world she would say to Zane Starling.

  Movies

  Weetzie’s idea of a business suit was Coco, a white tank top, her new raspberry snakeskin sandals, and her Hello Kitty watch.

  She met Dashell Hart and Tristan Sable on the terrace. Tristan, once again, looked very different from his TV self. He wore the thick-rimmed glasses and had his hair in a ponytail. Weetzie tried to see if there was anything bunching up at the back of his T-shirt, but it was too hard to tell. Dashell had on an expensive-looking daffodil-yellow shirt. He smelled like peppermint. Their waiter—Weetzie pretended to be surprised—was Pan.

  When she introduced him, Dashell said, “Great name!”

  “Yours, too,” said Pan. “Both of you.”

  “You all sound like characters in some crazy book,” said Weetzie.

  “Oh really?” Dashell peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Weetzie Bat. Talk about overwriting, darling!”

  “It’s my real name,” she said. “I think my dad saw it on a license plate on the freeway in the San Fernando Valley.”

  “May I suggest the special,” Pan said. “Pasta with white beans, garlic, basil, Roma tomatoes, and a touch of olive oil. We can make it without the Parmesan.” He winked at Weetzie.

  While they were waiting for their pasta, Weetzie asked, “So what’s this idea you have?”

  Dashell gestured to Tristan, who said, “Well, you know we’re big fans of your work. So I thought, maybe do a new piece with your character running away and staying at this hotel. It’s just such a great setting. You meet all these weird people and surreal stuff happens, I’m not sure what.”

  “You meet a charming soap opera angel with actual wings!” said Dashell.

  Tristan squirmed. “In the end, you go back to the Max character,” he said quickly.

  “Is this for Max to direct?” Weetzie asked.

  Dashell nodded.

  “Because he hasn’t worked in a while. He’s been sort of down.”

  “That’s the whole point,” said Dashell. “A comeback.”

  “And for you, too,” said Tristan.

  “You mean I play me?” Weetzie was more excited than she would have expected. She felt color rise in her cheeks.

  “Of course, silly.” Dashell patted her hand.

  “Also,” said Weetzie, “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but Max is really into doing things his own way. He’s only worked independently before.”

  “That’s what we like,” said Tristan. “Right, Dashell?”

  “Absolutely. That’s the whole point.”

  Pan came back with the food and left. Weetzie said, “What if my character meets this faun? With furry legs, cloven hooves, and a tail!”

  “He does look faunish,” said Dashell. “Actually, that might work on the show. What do you think, Tristan?”

  Tristan nodded. “I like the faun thing. I don’t think it’s been done.”

  They finished their meal with coffee and a tiramisu to share. Weetzie excused herself. Pan met her at the ladies’ room door.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Do you have your résumé?”

  He pulled it out of the back of his pants. “Are you sure this is all right?”

  “Of course. They’re interested.”

  “Thank you so much,” he said again. His voice quavered a little, which surprised her.

  She went back to the table, wishing she had been as excited about helping Max. But maybe this new project would be the thing he needed. Maybe if he looked at her through a camera lens, he would see her again.

  When she was saying good-bye to Dashell and Sable, Tristan bent his head and kissed her hand.

  Weetzie saw a blond boy sitting in a ditch holding a soiled puppet. It was some kind of soft, furry animal that had once been white but was now quite gray. It had a single sapphire eye.

  The boy looked as if he had been beaten—his eyelid was turning purple and there was blood on his temple and his mouth. His glasses were cracked and broken. He was humming to himself, rocking the lamb back and forth in his arms.

  Suddenly, there was a terrible tearing sound. From the young man’s bruised, scratched shoulders sprouted huge, white wings.

  “Wow!” said Weetzie.

  “Does that happen to you a lot?” asked Tristan.

  “What?” Dashell asked.

  Weetzie turned over her hand and opened her palm, revealing a shockingly bright blue jewel.

  “Nice trick, darling,” Dashell said. “Can you make me a diamond?”

  They got into his Jaguar and disappeared down the hill, through the gate, out of the pink hotel.

  Anima/Animus

  Weetzie swam laps in the pool that afternoon. Then she had her hair done and got a facial at the cherry-blossom salon. She had to admit that all this talk of movies was making her feel a little self-conscious about her appearance. She couldn’t admit to herself that she was getting ready for Zane Starling’s art opening.

  To distract herself furt
her, she decided to go back to the bar to see Heaven.

  Weetzie was sipping her glass of sparkling water, watching the effervescent twinkle of the stars in the ceiling, when a green satin gown descended from a hidden opening in the dome. Inside the dress was Heaven. This time she sang about floating brides, boys with wings, monsters without hearts, and kisses turning to jewels. She sang about how each of us has a male and female self; Weetzie thought of the lady in the lavender sari and what she had said about Zane Starling. Heaven’s last song was about a man who missed his lover so deeply that his soul followed her like a ghost, his footsteps echoing down the path behind her wherever she went.

  “Don’t cry, girlfriend,” she told herself, pretending Ping was here. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

  After the set was over, a small, wiry young man approached Weetzie’s table. He was dressed simply in a black T-shirt, black jeans, and black canvas Converse high-tops. In one ear he wore a single ruby.

  “May I join you?” he asked softly.

  “Sure,” said Weetzie.

  “Heaven wanted me to give you this.” He handed her a small envelope.

  Weetzie found an invitation inside. It read: Please Come to Heaven’s Ball. It’s the prom you didn’t attend, the wedding you never had, the surprise party no one ever threw for you, the celebration you dream of…

  The date of the event was in five nights. Weetzie tucked the invitation into Coco’s pocket.

  “What did you think of the show?” the man asked.

  “It was so beautiful! I don’t know how she does it. It’s like that song from the seventies, what is it? ‘Singing my life with her words.’”

  “‘His words.’ Roberta Flack, 1973, ‘Killing Me Softly.’”

  “I’m such a geek, aren’t I?” Weetzie said.

  “Hey, I’m the one who knows the exact date it came out.”

  “You would think I was a geek if I told you the first song that made me cry.”

  “‘Seasons in the Sun.’ “