The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 19
Sometimes I’d make sketches of the garden designs I had in mind for her home.
Sometimes I’d make sketches of her.
Either way, whenever we’d sit together to have a look, ZouZou growled at me.
“Oh I know my precious tiny hound maybe someday he’ll go away and you’ll have me all to yourself and we’ll frolick in the garden…”
ZouZou growled at the word.
Sandy: That is strange. I thought she only understood French.
These were days of absolute heaven. Commonplace by now, but the first time she pulled up to the hotel in her black Jaguar XJ12, Jeff looked like he’d stroke as I casually opened the passenger door and slid inside.
Next stop: The Conservatory for Coffee on Washington Blvd. in Culver City. Double espresso for me and a double nonfat soy macchiato for my lovely companion, (ZouZou’s head occasionally popping out of Sandy’s handbag for bites of croissant).
Then to one or more of the plant wholesalers in W.L.A. where I still had an account, an active resale #, and was still well known from my days in the industry.
Then to Gelson’s.
Then to Sandy’s four bedroom home in Beverly Hills.
She swam laps in her huge rectangular pool, sunbathed poolside while slowly, methodically reading my novel as I performed my landscaping work.
Oddly, she never said one single word about the book.
And I never asked.
The lunches she prepared were delicate, culinary masterpieces during which she carefully walked me through the nutritional elements, which wines from which vineyards worked, etc., as jazz gently drifted through the house.
Back in a groove planting things, moving earth from one place to another, cracking open fertilizer bags, sweating, gloves off gloves on, raking, watering, I couldn’t get the beat or the bass line out of my head, then the lyrics:
“Well, how did I get here?
Letting the days go by
Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
Water flowing under ground
Into the blue again
After the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime…”
A shadow crawled across my right hand. A ladybug crawled across the shadow, then flew off. I turned and looked up.
Sandy: You’re a lousy singer. Who was that?
Me: (Standing) Uh, Talking Heads.
Sandy: (An undercurrent of vexation changing to the tenderest smile) Can’t you just like jazz?
Me: Your Highness, for you, I promise to try.
The pool washed everything away.
She always wore a black bathing cap in the water.
ZouZou stood rigidly on the very edge of the deck by the chrome rail and growled.