Say Never Read online

  Christmas is still more than a month away, but the John Wayne Airport terminal has been done up in true holiday fashion. Giant glittery snowflakes with happy faces are suspended from the high ceiling, and at every kiosk and counter hang garish, non-religion-specific, fringed boughs of all different colors: red and green, yes, but also blue, yellow, orange, pink and purple. The scene reminds me not of Christmas, but of Cinco de Mayo. The only thing missing is a piñata (although I’d be happy to take a bat to one of those damn smiling snowflakes).

  A blow-up snowman waves goodbye to visitors from beside the sliding doors leading to the taxi stand—an incongruous decoration seeing as how it’s likely seventy-five degrees outside; no way in hell Frosty could survive the OC winter.

  I suddenly feel like Bruce Willis in the original Die Hard when he arrives in Los Angeles: Cali-fucking-fornia. Too right.

  On the other side of the baggage carousel, I see my row mate make a grab for a humongous Louis Vuitton bag whilst his damsel-in-diapers giggles and bats her false eyelashes at him. For a minute, he looks like he might suffer a coronary right on the spot, forehead covered with sweat and cheeks lobster red. But when the woman throws her arms around him and kisses him full on the lips, he puffs up like a body builder winning the Mr. Universe title.

  I roll my eyes and return my attention to the conveyer belt, thinking that if I tap the toe of my boot against the floor fast enough, my suitcases might emerge more quickly. No such luck.

  I reach into my purse and withdraw my Samsung Galaxy and punch the side button to bring it to life. The familiar T-Mobil chime echoes painfully through my head. I glance down at the small screen to see that I have thirty new texts and forty-four new emails as well as a dozen missed calls. Jeez. Five hours on an airplane, and you’d think I’d gone missing in the Congo.

  By now, the majority of passengers from my flight have already gotten their luggage and moved out of the terminal, leaving only a handful of pitiful, hopeful schmucks—myself included—to gaze longingly at the conveyer belt. The young mother from the plane, her infant strapped to her chest like a suicide bomb, gives me a snide look as she pushes past me, rolling suitcase in tow. Even the baby seems to be glaring at me. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at it—uh, her.

  Tom Petty’s voice alerts me to an incoming call. I swipe the screen to unlock it.

  “Are you here?” My brother’s voice booms in my ear before I can say hello.

  “Hello to you too, jerk,” I say.

  “Sorry, my darling sister. Hello. ARE YOU HERE???”

  “I’m at baggage claim as we speak,” I tell him, although I’m starting to suspect that I will not be ‘claiming’ anything any time soon.

  “Great.” He blows out a relieved sigh. “When will you be here?”

  “As soon as this cut-rate airline finds my suitcases, Danny. Couldn’t you have gotten me on a better flight? Sheesh, I paid for the ticket, not you. I would have been happy to cough up a few extra bucks to fly an airline whose name I recognize. What the hell is BiCoast anyway? It sounds like the official airline for bisexuals.” I realize that yelling at my brother is causing my temples to throb, so I stop.

  “It was the best I could do at the last minute, Meg,” he says, his tone unapologetic. “So, you’re renting a car, right? I mean, since Caroline’s is in the shop, and obviously I need mine. Just make sure it’s a seven passenger, not a mini, okay? Because the kids’ car seats have to fit—”

  I turn off my phone right in the middle of his sentence because I’m not quite ready to face the reality of the situation. I stow the phone in my purse, adjust my Hermes scarf, then sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the information desk. A squat Hispanic woman wearing a blue polyester suit jacket sits perched on a stool behind the counter. She looks up at me and arches her pencil-thin eyebrows.

  “No luggage?” she asks knowingly. When I nod, she jerks a thumb toward an office on the far side of the terminal.

  As I make my way to the office, I start to count. This is a calming technique I learned from my shrink, one Dr. Hershel Rabinowitz (at a hundred and fifty bucks per forty-five minute session). As usual, it’s not working. When I push through the office door, another clerk in a blue polyester suit—this one a scrawny male with tortoise-shell glasses—heaves a world-weary sigh and holds up a form without meeting my eye.

  Instead of reaching for the form, I shove my hand into my purse and root around for my Motrin. I pop open the plastic vial, shake three pills straight into my mouth, and swallow them dry.

  Three

  Barry: I agree, caller. Kids make life worth living. What do you think, Meg?

  Meg: (horrible choking noises)

  Barry: Um, my co-host seems to be trying to impale herself on her microphone. Anyhow, we’ll be right back after the break! At least, I will!

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later I’m behind the wheel of an electric blue Camaro with only a teensy little ding in the left fender. It’s not the seven-passenger my brother requested—unless a gang of really skinny people squeezed inside—but whatever. Meg Monroe would never purposely rent a minivan. The booster seats Danny mentioned will fit just fine, thank you very much.

  Traffic on the freeway is pretty much what you’d expect on a Monday at three o’clock in the afternoon. Bumper to freaking bumper. I sit breathing in exhaust fumes, trying to find a radio station that doesn’t play Latin hip-hop. Finally, I give up and shut off the radio.

  My cell phone vibrates on the passenger seat and I roll my eyes. It’s either Damien or my brother. Either way, the conversation will suck. But since traffic is moving at half the speed of growing grass, I know I have loads of time to kill. I pick up the phone and answer the call, holding the phone against my ear.

  “Meg Monroe.”

  “Deserter. Traitor. West Coaster.” The last barb is delivered with the same venom as one might use when saying child pornographer.

  “You’re the one who told me to come, Damien,” I nearly shout.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually take my bloody advice, now did I?”

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it, and then you and your British ass will be able to abuse me up close and personal instead of by way of cell phone towers.”

  “But who will I abuse until then?” he asks. “I’ve been reduced to fetching coffee for Rena Rump-roast, for fuck’s sake.” Damien is referring to the station’s food critic, a plus-sized woman who favors Technicolor muumuus to match her Technicolor hair and pretends to be a Georgia Peach. Georgia watermelon’s more like it.

  “‘That’s two packets of Equal, darlin’,’” he says, mimicking Rena’s faux southern drawl. “‘Make sure you get all those little granules out of the packet, now ya hear?’ Christ, as if I didn’t graduate from Oxford top in my class.”

  “I thought it was Cambridge.”

  “Oh, who the fuck cares? When are you coming back?”

  “Damien, I just got here,” I say. “Seriously, I’ve been here all of an hour!”

  “That’s an hour too long, if you ask me. Did you know that there’s a drive-by shooting every sixty-seven seconds in Los Angeles, and high speed car chases happen every three days.”

  “That’s a load of hooey,” I tell him, but check my rearview mirror all the same.

  “Not according to Wikipedia.”

  “Was there a specific reason for this call or do you just miss me?”

  “You know I miss you with all my black heart. But also, I wanted to tell you that the Humpinator is in a tizzy this morning. He says you’ve abandoned him without warning,” Damien tells me.

  “I did not! I talked to him. I even got Sally Jessy Raphael to step in this morning. How’d that go, by the way?”

  “You mean When Barry Met Sally?”

  I groan. “He didn’t.”

  “He did. The buffoon.”

  “Look, there’s oodles of segments Barry can use to fill time. I went over this with hi
m. Like the segment where I nearly beat the crap out of that a-hole who wanted to get foie gras banned in the state of New York? That’s a great one.” And one of my personal favorites, even though it resulted in a restraining order. Before I’d attacked the congressman and chased him from the sound booth, I’d told him that as long as there were Daniel Bouluds and Tom Colicchios and David Burkes in Manhattan, goose livers would continue to grace the plates of some of the finest eateries in the world and he could just go buy himself some tofurkey and shove it up his PETA-loving keester. “Our fans would love to hear it. They ask for it all the time.”

  “I’m just concerned, because he’s making noises about getting the show all to himself again.”

  “Don’t worry about the Humpinator,” I tell Damien. “That’s not gonna happen. I busted my ass for six years to get that show and I’m not giving it up. Plus, it’s the Barry and Meg Show! He’s nothing without me.”

  “I love it when you go all Hillary Clinton on me,” he says.

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “But I do, and that’s what matters,” he replies. “By the by, I need you to shoot me some pics for Facebook and Twitter. Mustn’t forget about your faithful fans, even though you’ve escaped to the Wild Wild West.”

  “Right.” My phone beeps, alerting me to my call-waiting. “Gotta go, Damien. That’s my other line. Keep me posted on the haps out there.”

  “Will do, Captain my Captain.”

  Okay, so my assistant is a little odd. He’d do anything for me, including walk through fire wearing a tiara and stilettos if I asked him to. Come to think of it, he might own a tiara already. I swish the screen to answer the other call. Danny. Who else?

  “Hey, sis. Just checking in. Where are you?”

  “Riverside,” I tell him. “I think I took a wrong turn at the 55.”

  “WHAT???”

  “Kidding, Danny. Kidding. I’m on the 405 North. I should be to you in about a thousand years.”

  “That’s funny, Meg. Just hilarious. I’m supposed to be meeting a prospective client tonight, remember? I told you about it yesterday. Big account, could be major, if I get it. I can’t be late.”

  “You won’t be late,” I say, glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard. “I should be there in a half an hour, or so. Four o’clock on the outside.”

  He sighs. “That’s cutting it close.”

  “Are you going for the early bird special?”

  “Half price apps, sis. This guy has a hard-on for spicy wings.”

  Through the driver’s side window, I hear the rev of a motorcycle—don’t you just hate those guys, weaving between lanes like they own the road? Sometimes I just want to open my door right before they pass—followed by the unmistakable sound of a siren. I turn my head to see the unsmiling face of a CHP officer. He glares at me and jerks his thumb toward the shoulder.

  Shit.

  “I gotta go, Danny,” I say, my jaw clenched tight. “Might be more like four-fifteen, four-thirty.”

  “Okay. See you soon!”

  I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, click on my right turn signal, and begin the arduous task of crossing three lanes in the slow moving traffic. I’m suddenly frantic that my eyes are bloodshot, that I might possibly still be drunk and will fail a Breathalyzer test. But I don’t dare remove my sunglasses and check my reflection for fear that the cop will catch me out. I popped a breath mint at the car rental place so at least I can be fairly confident I won’t spew toxic, stale vodka breath at the guy.

  When I finally reach the shoulder, I turn off the engine and take a deep breath. I glance in the rearview mirror and see that the officer is talking on his CB.

  You better go to your calming place, Meg, I tell myself. This is another coping technique I learned from my shrink. It requires far more energy and focus than counting, which is why I rarely use it.

  I close my eyes and concentrate, mentally repeating the mantra calming place, calming place. I breathe in and out as my imagination conjures the location, filling in the details from my memory. Within seconds, I’m standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, gazing out across the wide expanse of Manhattan, the beautiful, dirty, spectacular, dangerous concrete jungle that is my home.

  A tap on the glass brings me back to the 405. The window is partially open, but I have to turn the key in the ignition to roll it all the way down. The patrolman has removed his helmet, and up close, he isn’t bad looking. Mid-thirties, short brown hair, olive complexion, green eyes. He’d be downright handsome if it weren’t for the disdainful scowl on his face.

  “Using a cell phone without a hands-free device is illegal in California,” he says, his tone similar to one you’d use to address a group of kindergarteners. I really don’t like that tone.

  Just stay calm, Meg. Don’t piss off the nice police officer.

  “I know,” I assure him. “I’m very sorry. I just flew in, and unfortunately, the airline lost my luggage. My Bluetooth is in my overnight bag.” I shake my head regretfully. “It was silly of me to pack it, but I knew I couldn’t use my phone on the flight, so…” I let my voice trail off.

  The patrolman’s expression remains impassive. “And what is the nature of your visit?”

  What’s it to you? I almost blurt out, but stop myself by literally pinching the end of my tongue between my teeth. It hurts like hell and I swear I can taste blood. “Um…” I swallow. Yup, definitely bleeding. “Family stuff. You know.”

  “What kind of family stuff?” he prods, narrowing his eyes at me.

  I struggle to keep my tone light. “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

  “Excuse me?” The officer looks truly shocked that I refuse to answer his question, him being an almighty CHP dude.

  “Well, sir,” I say, sarcasm seeping through my restraint like water burrowing through cracks in damn. “If my family business were, say drug trafficking, then it absolutely would be your business. But since it’s not, and it’s personal, I don’t really feel the need to tell you.”

  A long moment passes, during which neither of us speaks. Finally, the officer breaks the silence. “Step out of the car, Miss.”

  A harsh laugh escapes me. “You’re kidding, right? I will not get out of this car. You have no constitutional right to delve into my personal business without suspicion of illegal enterprises occurring.” Yes, I am talking out of my ass. And I quickly realize that whether or not this patrolman is in the right, he definitely has the upper hand. If I don’t placate him, my first night in Southern California in five years might be spent in jail.

  I heave a world-weary sigh and shake my head with regret, then call upon the skills I learned in my college improv class.

  “Okay, officer, you want to know why I’m here? My sister—” (Just FYI, I don’t have a sister) “—was in a fatal hot-air balloon crash, leaving her six children motherless, two of them are conjoined twins, by the way, and her husband, a used farm equipment salesman who lost his arm after it was crushed by a John Deer lawnmower, just can’t handle it by himself, especially because he’s narcoleptic and keeps waking up in different grocery stores not knowing how he got there. And he’s trying to support his daughter’s rehab stay, because she’s addicted to quiffing, you know—when you use those Reddi wip cans to get high? I’m not sure how it works, cause I’ve never done it, but my niece has, which is why she’s in rehab and her brothers, Jordan and Ralph, they’ve been suspended from school twice for snapping pictures of their principal under the bathroom stall while she’s peeing and selling them online to the other fifth graders—”

  The patrolman jerks his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay!” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, then opens his mouth to say something. No words come out. He closes his mouth, then opens and closes it again and I watch, fascinated. I’m always fascinated when I manage to render someone speechless.

  “I’m going to go write you a ticket,” he says at last, his voice d
evoid of emotion.

  “Yes, officer.”

  “I recommend you get a new hands-free device as soon as possible,” he adds.

  “Yes, officer.”

  “And, uh…” He shrugs. “Good luck with everything.”

  I clamp my lips together and think of my mother’s funeral to keep from smiling. My mother wasn’t good for much growing up, but thoughts of her funeral always help me out in situations like these.

  “Thank you, officer.”

  Welcome to the O.C.

  * * *

  My interlude with Ponch on the side of the 405 sobered me up instantly, but by four o’clock, as I’m heading west on Vista Boulevard, the dreaded travel fatigue starts to set in. All I want right now is to get to Danny’s and take a nap.

  The sun has already begun its lazy decent toward the horizon, and the Camaro’s visor doesn’t reach down far enough to cut the glare, so I’m practically blinded. On a positive note, this area is so familiar to me, even after my long absence, that I could probably navigate the streets with a bandana over my eyes. Not much has changed, and I am both comforted and irritated by that fact.

  It’s not that I particularly hate Southern California. The place has a lot going for it. Good weather, for one. And for another…really good weather.

  I grew up not far from here, over in Huntington Beach, back when Surf City was the bastard relation to Newport Beach; just a community of middle class homes and blue collar workers and a laid-back vibe. Not like it is today, with its guard-gate communities and million-dollar mansions and chichi downtown restaurants. When I was growing up, if you said you were from Huntington Beach, people automatically assumed you were a reefer-hound, as opposed to being one of the privileged coke-heads of Newport.

  I didn’t do drugs in high school. I knew they killed brain cells in that non-refundable kind of way, and I also knew I needed all of my smarts to accomplish my one goal. Which was to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. Not that I suffered any cathartic or traumatic events during my upbringing. Unless you count the fact that my mother abandoned me when I was four and subsequently got herself killed when I was eleven. Other than that, my childhood was pretty much peachy keen, jelly bean. (Yes. That’s sarcasm. My childhood sucked.)