Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 42
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Julian yelped. “Show a little mercy!”
She slid past him, enjoying the feel of his soapy chest against hers, and immediately hogged the stream of piping hot water. “Aaah. That feels great.”
Julian feigned a sulk and retreated to the far end of the tub. Brooke laughed. “Come on over,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t tolerate anything hotter than lukewarm water. “There’s more than enough for both of us.”
She squeezed some shampoo into her palm, changed the water temperature back to tepid, and kissed his cheek. “There you go, baby.” She slid past him again and smiled as he tentatively stepped under the stream. She lathered her hair and watched Julian enjoy the barely warm water.
It was one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny little details they knew about each other, and this knowledge never failed to make Brooke happy. She loved thinking that she was probably the only person on earth who knew that Julian hated submerging himself in very hot water—baths, showers, Jacuzzis, hot springs, he scrupulously avoided them all—but could withstand muggy, humid temperatures without complaint; that he was also a self-proclaimed “hot drink gulper” (put a cup of scorching hot coffee or a bowl of steaming soup in front of him, and Julian could pour the contents down his gullet without so much as a testing sip); that he had an impressive tolerance for pain, as evidenced by the time he’d broken his ankle and hadn’t reacted with more than a quick “Dammit!” but would squeal and squirm like a little girl whenever Brooke tried to pluck an errant eyebrow hair. Even now, as he lathered up, she knew he was grateful to have bar soap instead of a liquid body wash, and that as long as it didn’t smell like lavender or, worse, grapefruit, he would use anything handed to him.
She leaned over to kiss his unshaven cheek and got a spray of water right in the eyes.
“Serves you right,” Julian said, and patted her butt. “That’ll teach you to mess with a number-four artist.”
“What does Mr. Number Four think about a quickie?”
Julian kissed her back but then stepped out of the shower. “I’m not explaining to your father that we’re late for his party because his daughter jumped me in the shower.”
Brooke laughed. “You’re such a wuss.”
Cynthia was already at the restaurant when they arrived, bustling around the private room in a frantic whirlwind of energy and orders. They were at Ponzu, which, according to Cynthia, was the new hippest restaurant in southeastern Pennsylvania. According to Randy, the place used “Asian fusion” to describe their overambitious attempt to tackle sushi and teriyaki dishes from Japan, Vietnamese-inspired spring rolls, a pad thai that few Thai people would recognize, and a “signature” chicken and broccoli dish that was no different from his cheapie Chinese delivery joint. No one seemed to mind the lack of any actual fusion dishes, so the four of them kept their mouths shut and immediately set to work.
The guys hung two massive, matching foil signs that read, happy 65th! and congratulations on your retirement, while Brooke and Michelle arranged the flowers Cynthia had brought in the glass vases provided by the restaurant, enough for two arrangements per table. They’d only finished the first batch when Michelle said, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with all that money?”
Brooke almost dropped her scissors she was so surprised. She and Michelle had never talked about anything personal before, and a conversation about Julian’s financial potential seemed totally inappropriate.
“Oh, you know, we’ve still got tons of student loans and all sorts of bills to pay. Not as sexy as it seems.” She shrugged.
Michelle switched out a rose for a peony and cocked her head to the side, examining her work. “Come on, Brooke, don’t kid yourself. You two are going to be rolling in it!”
Brooke had no idea what to say to this, so she just laughed awkwardly.
All of her dad and Cynthia’s friends showed up at exactly six and milled around munching passed hors d’oeuvres and sipping wine. By the time Brooke’s father arrived for what he fully knew was his “surprise” party, the crowd appeared appropriately festive. They proved it when Mr. Greene was escorted to the back room by the maître d’ and everyone shouted “Surprise!” and “Congratulations!” and her father cycled through the usual reactions of people pretending to be surprised by their non-surprise surprise parties. He took the glass of red wine that Cynthia handed him and downed it in a determined effort to enjoy the party, although Brooke knew he’d rather have been home preparing himself for Sunday’s preseason game schedule.
Thankfully Cynthia planned to do the toasts during the cocktail hour; Brooke was a nervous public speaker and didn’t want to spend the entire evening dreading her two minutes. One and a half vodka tonics made it a bit easier, and she was able to deliver her preplanned speech without a hitch. The audience seemed to especially like the story Brooke told about the first time she and Randy visited their father after the divorce and found him in the kitchen one morning, packing his oven with piles of old magazines and paid bills since he didn’t have a ton of storage space and didn’t want the oven to “go to waste.” Randy and Cynthia followed suit, and despite an awkward mention on Cynthia’s part regarding “the instant connection they felt the very first time they met”—which, incidentally, was when Brooke’s father was still married to Brooke’s mother—everything went off without a hitch.
“Hey, everyone, can I have your attention for just one more minute?” Mr. Greene asked, rising from his place in the middle of a long, banquet-style table.
The room grew quiet.
“I want to thank you all so much for coming. I’d especially like to thank my lovely wife for scheduling this party on a Saturday instead of a Sunday—she finally knows the difference between college and professional football—and thanks to all four of my lovely children for being here tonight; you guys make it all worthwhile.”
Everyone clapped. Brooke blushed and Randy rolled his eyes. When she glanced over at Julian, he was busily typing under the table.
“And one last thing. Some of you may already know that we have a rising star in the family. . . .”
This got Julian’s attention.
“Well, I’m just thrilled to announce that Julian’s album will be debuting at number four on the Billboard chart next week!” The room cheered and clapped. “Please raise your glass to my son-in-law, Julian Alter, for accomplishing the near-impossible. I know I speak for everyone when I say how incredibly proud we are of you.”
She slid past him, enjoying the feel of his soapy chest against hers, and immediately hogged the stream of piping hot water. “Aaah. That feels great.”
Julian feigned a sulk and retreated to the far end of the tub. Brooke laughed. “Come on over,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t tolerate anything hotter than lukewarm water. “There’s more than enough for both of us.”
She squeezed some shampoo into her palm, changed the water temperature back to tepid, and kissed his cheek. “There you go, baby.” She slid past him again and smiled as he tentatively stepped under the stream. She lathered her hair and watched Julian enjoy the barely warm water.
It was one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny little details they knew about each other, and this knowledge never failed to make Brooke happy. She loved thinking that she was probably the only person on earth who knew that Julian hated submerging himself in very hot water—baths, showers, Jacuzzis, hot springs, he scrupulously avoided them all—but could withstand muggy, humid temperatures without complaint; that he was also a self-proclaimed “hot drink gulper” (put a cup of scorching hot coffee or a bowl of steaming soup in front of him, and Julian could pour the contents down his gullet without so much as a testing sip); that he had an impressive tolerance for pain, as evidenced by the time he’d broken his ankle and hadn’t reacted with more than a quick “Dammit!” but would squeal and squirm like a little girl whenever Brooke tried to pluck an errant eyebrow hair. Even now, as he lathered up, she knew he was grateful to have bar soap instead of a liquid body wash, and that as long as it didn’t smell like lavender or, worse, grapefruit, he would use anything handed to him.
She leaned over to kiss his unshaven cheek and got a spray of water right in the eyes.
“Serves you right,” Julian said, and patted her butt. “That’ll teach you to mess with a number-four artist.”
“What does Mr. Number Four think about a quickie?”
Julian kissed her back but then stepped out of the shower. “I’m not explaining to your father that we’re late for his party because his daughter jumped me in the shower.”
Brooke laughed. “You’re such a wuss.”
Cynthia was already at the restaurant when they arrived, bustling around the private room in a frantic whirlwind of energy and orders. They were at Ponzu, which, according to Cynthia, was the new hippest restaurant in southeastern Pennsylvania. According to Randy, the place used “Asian fusion” to describe their overambitious attempt to tackle sushi and teriyaki dishes from Japan, Vietnamese-inspired spring rolls, a pad thai that few Thai people would recognize, and a “signature” chicken and broccoli dish that was no different from his cheapie Chinese delivery joint. No one seemed to mind the lack of any actual fusion dishes, so the four of them kept their mouths shut and immediately set to work.
The guys hung two massive, matching foil signs that read, happy 65th! and congratulations on your retirement, while Brooke and Michelle arranged the flowers Cynthia had brought in the glass vases provided by the restaurant, enough for two arrangements per table. They’d only finished the first batch when Michelle said, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with all that money?”
Brooke almost dropped her scissors she was so surprised. She and Michelle had never talked about anything personal before, and a conversation about Julian’s financial potential seemed totally inappropriate.
“Oh, you know, we’ve still got tons of student loans and all sorts of bills to pay. Not as sexy as it seems.” She shrugged.
Michelle switched out a rose for a peony and cocked her head to the side, examining her work. “Come on, Brooke, don’t kid yourself. You two are going to be rolling in it!”
Brooke had no idea what to say to this, so she just laughed awkwardly.
All of her dad and Cynthia’s friends showed up at exactly six and milled around munching passed hors d’oeuvres and sipping wine. By the time Brooke’s father arrived for what he fully knew was his “surprise” party, the crowd appeared appropriately festive. They proved it when Mr. Greene was escorted to the back room by the maître d’ and everyone shouted “Surprise!” and “Congratulations!” and her father cycled through the usual reactions of people pretending to be surprised by their non-surprise surprise parties. He took the glass of red wine that Cynthia handed him and downed it in a determined effort to enjoy the party, although Brooke knew he’d rather have been home preparing himself for Sunday’s preseason game schedule.
Thankfully Cynthia planned to do the toasts during the cocktail hour; Brooke was a nervous public speaker and didn’t want to spend the entire evening dreading her two minutes. One and a half vodka tonics made it a bit easier, and she was able to deliver her preplanned speech without a hitch. The audience seemed to especially like the story Brooke told about the first time she and Randy visited their father after the divorce and found him in the kitchen one morning, packing his oven with piles of old magazines and paid bills since he didn’t have a ton of storage space and didn’t want the oven to “go to waste.” Randy and Cynthia followed suit, and despite an awkward mention on Cynthia’s part regarding “the instant connection they felt the very first time they met”—which, incidentally, was when Brooke’s father was still married to Brooke’s mother—everything went off without a hitch.
“Hey, everyone, can I have your attention for just one more minute?” Mr. Greene asked, rising from his place in the middle of a long, banquet-style table.
The room grew quiet.
“I want to thank you all so much for coming. I’d especially like to thank my lovely wife for scheduling this party on a Saturday instead of a Sunday—she finally knows the difference between college and professional football—and thanks to all four of my lovely children for being here tonight; you guys make it all worthwhile.”
Everyone clapped. Brooke blushed and Randy rolled his eyes. When she glanced over at Julian, he was busily typing under the table.
“And one last thing. Some of you may already know that we have a rising star in the family. . . .”
This got Julian’s attention.
“Well, I’m just thrilled to announce that Julian’s album will be debuting at number four on the Billboard chart next week!” The room cheered and clapped. “Please raise your glass to my son-in-law, Julian Alter, for accomplishing the near-impossible. I know I speak for everyone when I say how incredibly proud we are of you.”
