A Comedy of Erinn

Book 2: Venice Beach Romance

by Celia Bonaduce

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

Erinn Wolf needs to reinvent herself. A once celebrated playwright turned photographer, she's almost broke, a little lonely, and tired of her sister's constant worry. When a job on a reality TV show falls into her lap, she's thrilled to be making a paycheck--and when a hot Italian actor named Massimo rents her guesthouse, she's certain her life is getting a romantic subplot. But with the director, brash, gorgeous young Jude, dogging her every step, she can't help but look at herself through his lens--and wonder if she's been reading the wrong script all along. . .

75,503 Words

Release date: September 1, 2013

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 240

Sample

Erinn Elizabeth Wolf leaned on the fence that kept visitors from sliding down the bluff into the ocean. She glowered at the young couple snuggling on her bench—in her park. The young man and woman occasionally looked at the water, but spent most of their time sinking into each other’s eyes.

The sun was just dipping into the water. The world was suddenly filled with coral, russet, violet, periwinkle, and cornflower. Erinn was getting impatient, very impatient. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

She joined the couple on the bench. Nudging the young woman aside with her hip, she heaved her oversized bag onto the bench and hunkered down.

“Look at that sunset,” Erinn heard the young woman sigh softly. “God’s masterpiece.”

Erinn snorted.

“God wouldn’t have a prayer creating a sunset like that,” she said. “This is a masterpiece only city smog could produce.”

The couple ignored her. It was obvious Erinn was going to have to crank up the annoyance factor. She studied the couple. Gauging that they were liberal arts students from one of the local universities, Erinn formulated a plan. With a quick prayer, asking forgiveness from her beloved Democratic Party, Erinn said, “Since he’s now out of office, I think Dick Cheney is really coming into his own, don’t you?”

The couple left their spot on the bench—he frowning, she beaming with politically correct good will.

That’s one way to get your bench back.

Erinn glanced at the rapidly advancing sunset and realized she had not a moment to spare. She reached into her bag and pulled out a battered, hand-held video camera. She quickly and expertly adjusted her settings and started panning steadily over the horizon. She was getting pretty good at her camera work—if she did say so herself.

The view at Palisades Park in Santa Monica, California, was the billion-dollar vista featured in movies since cinema’s golden era. Although Erinn had lived in Santa Monica for nine years, she never got used to the incredible beauty the park offered.

Whenever Erinn was shooting, she was nimble—and confident in her movements. But as soon as she shut the camera off, a transformation took place. She suddenly appeared heavier and slower, as if gravity had taken hold of her—as if she were rooted to the earth. When the sun had gone, Erinn stowed her camera and made her way home. She didn’t walk far, as she was the owner of another masterpiece—one of the few remaining Victorian houses on Santa Monica’s main drag.

While Erinn would never be mistaken for the stuff of fairy tales, the courtyard of her house looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast. The old climbing roses that crawled up the lacy wooden pillars also disguised layers of peeling paint on the porch. An uneven walkway curled quaintly toward the side yard.

She retrieved a large silver key from a keychain that looked like a medieval jailer’s and fitted it into the front door lock. The door squeaked open, and Erinn was home.

She shrugged off her coat, hung it on an old-fashioned hall tree, and carefully put her camera aside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and rearranged a few bobby pins, hoping to control her wild, coarse hair. Even with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, corkscrew tendrils tended to escape. Her hair was still mostly pepper, but now with a sprinkling of salt. Erinn had made no attempt to halt the aging process, which she knew was practically a sacrilege in Southern California—but she stood firm against useless vanity. Even so, without the weight of the camera bag on her shoulders, hints of the graceful young woman she used to be were still evident in her posture and the way she moved. Almost miraculously she had remained an extremely attractive woman.

Not that she cared.

Not that anybody cared.

The doorbell rang. She peered out. A man in ripped jeans, a tight T-shirt, and carrying a skateboard was trying to open the gate. Erinn instinctively stepped out of sight, but kept her eye on the man. He managed to get the latch open and headed up Erinn’s path. He marched up to the porch and knocked.

It suddenly occurred to Erinn that this must be someone who wanted to rent the guesthouse.

“Damn it, Suzanna,” she cursed under her breath.

Her younger sister, Suzanna, was worried that Erinn would lose the house if she didn’t generate some income. She had placed a rental ad on craigslist without Erinn’s knowledge or consent. Erinn balked when she heard about it, but promised her sister she’d keep an open mind and at least meet with a few people.

The man, in wraparound sunglasses, knocked on the door again.

She yanked open the heavy wood-beamed door.

“Hey there, how you doing?” asked the young man, as he removed his glasses. He put out his hand by way of introduction. “Craigslist.”

He had the casual gait of a man—Erinn would put him at about twenty-eight—at ease with himself. He was also extremely well built, with biceps peeking out from under the sleeve of his snug T-shirt.

“That’s an interesting mode of transportation,” Erinn said, indicating the skateboard.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but it’s a real chick magnet.”

“Pardon?”

“The babes really go for a guy on a skateboard.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re not a . . .”

He propped his skateboard against the house and stepped inside, without invitation. Erinn followed him. He walked around, whistling appreciatively.

“Wow, this place is awesome,” he said.

He walked into the living room and started to pull open the curtains.

“Dude! You have an ocean view . . . why do you have the curtains shut?”

“If you must know, I like to keep to myself. I like the privacy,” Erinn said. “Besides, I find Southern Californians vastly overestimate sunshine.”

“Well, it’s a cool place anyway,” he said as Erinn closed the curtains. He squinted in the darkness. “You could do a spread in Better Caves and Gardens.”

The cat rubbed against the young man’s legs.

“Sweet! I love animals,” he said, scooping up the cat. “Whoa! This is one fat cat!”

Erinn reached out and patted the cat, a large, flat-faced, silver point Himalayan.

“His name is Caro,” she said.

“Hello, Car-ro,” he said, pronouncing two r’s.

“It’s pronounced with one r,” Erinn said. “Car-o. It’s Italian for ‘dear one.’ ”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No . . . you said ‘Car-ro’ . . . that’s Spanish for ‘truck.’ ”

“Well, no offense, dude, but Truck’s a much better name for this guy,” said the young man as he put the cat down and headed toward the kitchen.

Erinn kept her face impassive. This boy was not winning her over. “And my name, in case you’re interested, is Erinn.”

“Wow, nice kitchen, Er . . . Do you mind if I call you ‘Er’?”

“Massively,” said Erinn.

“What about Rinn? Or Rin Tin Tin?”

Does he want the guesthouse or did he just come here to insult me?

“Why would you call me Rin Tin Tin?”

“Just shortening the process, dude. That’s how nicknames are made. You start out with something that makes sense, like Rinn, and pretty soon you’re Rin Tin Tin. It’s totally random.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Erinn said.

“Jude . . . Raphael.”

Common ground at last.

“Ah!” she said. “As in the artist!”

“As in the turtle,” Jude said. “Hey, let’s go check out my guesthouse!”

He stood and followed a stormy Erinn into the backyard.

If love could have kept the place up, Erinn would have had no worries. But like everything else about the Wolf residence, the yard was looking a little down-at-the-heels. The one-room guesthouse was nestled in a patch of large fig trees. It was a miniature Victorian, complete with a tiny porch and hanging swing. Its bright red door stood out from the greenish tone of the rest of the exterior, and its window boxes overflowed with geraniums.

“This is it,” she said, trying to hide the pride she felt in the place.

Jude stood back and looked the building over.

“Huh.”

Erinn turned on him.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just not really big on these gingerbready kind of places, ya know? They’re kinda gay.”

“Gay?”

“I mean . . . not in a bad way. Like . . . not even in a gay way, you know?”

“Shall we go inside?” asked Erinn, since she hadn’t the faintest idea.

She clicked on the light but didn’t step inside. Her eyes scanned the room lovingly. Jude stood on the porch, looking in over Erinn’s head. The room had an open floor plan, and every inch of space counted. A small kitchen was fitted into one corner and a bathroom was tucked discreetly into another. There was a wrought-iron daybed that functioned as a seating area as well as a bed and a tiny, mosaic-tiled café table and chair set. Even in this small space, there was an entire wall of bookcases. Erinn turned to Jude.

“Is this gay as well?” she asked as she walked into the room, Jude at her heels.

“Hey! If you’re gay, I don’t care. Really,” Jude said. “I’m, personally, not gay. I’m, you know, metro/hetero. But whatever floats your boat, I say.”

“Thank you. I was so worried it might be offensive to you somehow, if I were gay.”

“Whatever, Erinn. I mean . . . gay is as gay does, right?”

“Well, obviously, that’s true,” Erinn said. “But I don’t do as gay does, because I’m not gay.”

“Whoa . . . you know that old saying . . . something about . . . you’re protesting a shitload.”

“Are you perhaps thinking of ‘The lady doth protest too much?’ from Hamlet?”

“Moving on, Erinn,” Jude said. “Your sexuality isn’t the only thing in the world, right? There’s food, the beach, the theater . . .”

Erinn winced and walked around the room, trying to ignore the cretin who was taking up much too much space—and oxygen—in her little sanctuary. She started opening blinds to make the room seem somehow bigger.

“I don’t go to the theater,” Erinn said.

“What do you mean?” asked Jude, trying out the daybed. “Erinn Elizabeth Wolf, the famous New York playwright, doesn’t go to the theater? That’s crazy!”

Erinn almost choked, she was so surprised by this comment. Any use of her full name by someone other than her mother usually meant she was being recognized. Jude had his back to her and was studying a line of books in the bookcase. He turned to look at her.

“Did you realize your initials are E.E.W.? EEEEEEwwwwwwww.”

Erinn tried to ignore Jude’s inept attempt at winning her over with a nickname. But she definitely wasn’t finished with the conversation.

“You . . . you’ve heard of me?” she asked.

“Sure. I was a theater major. You’re in the history books.”

Erinn tried—and failed—to hide her dismay. She was surprised to hear that, at forty-three, she was already considered a relic and consigned to history. She tried not to let on that Jude had delivered a verbal slap.

“Not the history books, exactly . . . but . . .” he said.

“But . . . like . . . you know,” offered Erinn, who could see he did not mean to hurt her feelings.

“Well, yeah.”

Erinn sat down at the mosaic table. Jude continued to look around the room and stopped to admire a photograph. It was a close-up of a wrinkled old man playing checkers.

“This is cool,” Jude said.

Erinn studied the picture, lost in thought, remembering the first time she saw Oscar sitting in the little park across from her loft in Manhattan. He was always so focused on his game. That was nearly twenty years ago . . . by now, he was probably dead, or just another lost New York memory.

“I took that years ago,” she said.

“You took that? Awesome.”

Erinn warmed to the praise.

“Well, I’ve always been interested in the visual arts. I’m actually learning how to shoot an HD camera and I’m thinking of trying my hand at editing, too. I like to keep up on those sort of things.”

“Hmmm,” Jude said. “That’s pretty cool for somebody . . . uh . . . not totally young . . . to be into that stuff.”

“Let’s talk about you, shall we?” Erinn asked as her good will ebbed away.

“Sure,” said Jude, grabbing the chair opposite her. “Well, let’s see . . . I’m in the business . . . television mostly. I mean, in this town, isn’t everybody?”

Erinn looked at Jude thoughtfully. What could Suzanna have possibly been thinking? She’d been hoping to rent to a fellow artist, but everyone who applied seemed to be from television. Erinn realized that her mind had wandered, and she tried to tune back in to whatever it was Jude might be saying.

“. . . but, you know, until I can produce my own work, I pick up assignments wherever I can.”

Erinn watched Jude as he picked up the rental agreement on the table.

“Well, I don’t think you really need to read that just yet. . . .” she said, trying to grab the document that would have damned her to her own personal hell should he sign it.

Jude picked up a pen from the table. Erinn watched in silence as he lost interest in the document and started doing curls with the pen, watching his bicep rise and fall with the motion. He was mesmerized. Erinn coughed, hoping to get his attention. Jude looked up and smiled sheepishly.

“I read that you should work out whenever—and wherever—you can,” he said.

“Oh? You read that?”

Jude laughed. “Well, I downloaded a workout video to my iPod so I could listen to it while I was skateboarding. Same thing.”

Erinn arched an eyebrow. Jude suddenly looked up at her.

“What about Tin Lizzy? That would be an awesome nickname for you!”

“You know, Jude, I’m not sure this is going to work out.”

He looked up. “Oh? Why not?”

“Well,” Erinn faltered. “I just think that, if two people live in such close proximity to each other, there should be some symbiosis . . . if you get my drift.”

Jude looked at Erinn for a minute, then smiled.

“Oh, you mean ’cause I’m in such good shape,” he said. “Don’t worry about that. I can help you get rid of that spare tire in no time.”

“No, no, no,” Erinn said. “I appreciate your offer. Although I wasn’t aware I had a spare tire.”

“Oh, big-time.”

“It was more along the lines of, well, I don’t feel we’re . . . intellectually compatible.”

Jude frowned.

“I’m not smart enough to rent your guesthouse?”

He held up the rental agreement and waved it in her face.

“Is there an I.Q. test attached to this?” he asked.

Erinn stood up so fast she knocked the chair over, and stormed out of the guesthouse. Jude sprinted after her, and Erinn wheeled on him.

“I’m sorry, Jude, but clearly this isn’t going to work.”

“Tell me about it. You think you’re some sort of god because you wrote one important play a hundred years ago? Nobody can even make a joke around you? I’m out of here.”

“I assume you can see yourself out?”

“If I can find my way around your huge ego, yeah,” Jude replied, as he walked toward the main house. He stepped over the cat, which was sunbathing on the walkway.

“See ya around, Truck.”

Apparently, Jude had not succeeded in giving her a nickname, but poor Caro did not escape unscathed.

Erinn went back into the kitchen, stung by Jude’s comments. To distract herself, she decided to make a pot of soup. She pulled out her large stockpot, added some homemade chicken stock, and started scrubbing tubers in a fury. Who does he think he is, talking to me that way? she thought. I dodged a bullet with that one.

The phone rang. Erinn wiped off her hands and reached for the cordless, hesitating just long enough to grab her half-moon glasses, and checked the caller I.D.

It was Suzanna.

Erinn put the phone down without answering it. She took off her glasses and returned to her soup.

Erinn made sure the front door was securely bolted for the night and walked into her living room. She flipped on the light and admired the heavy, dark furnishings.

Sunshine, for God’s sake. She bristled as she thought back to that half-wit Jude’s reaction to this thoughtful, peaceful room.

She sat down at her computer—a twenty-four-inch behemoth that looked out of place on a highly polished clawfoot desk. She settled in to pay a few bills online. Caro pounced upon her, eager for attention. Erinn opened her eyes and scratched him thoughtfully.

“The bills won’t pay themselves, Caro,” she said, as she held the cat up and looked into his green, unblinking eyes.

With a sigh she went upstairs and changed into her men’s striped pajamas, brushed her teeth dutifully for two minutes, and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. One of Erinn’s little rebellions was that she brushed her teeth before she had her late-night hot chocolate.

Caro padded softly down the steps behind her.

Erinn’s kitchen, like every room in the house, was a monument to a more gracious era. The room was square, and the cabinetry was white with glass window inserts, so all the contents were proudly on display. A KitchenAid mixer, a Cuisinart, a Deni electric pressure cooker, a Vibiemme Domobar espresso machine: all had a place in the Wolf kitchen. If times were tough, they weren’t always.

As Erinn stirred her cocoa, she heard a key jangling at the back door. She grabbed another mug and smiled slightly as she started another serving of hot chocolate. The key continued its clanking, grinding medley for several seconds. Finally, the back door swung open.

“Hi, Erinn. I was in the neighborhood . . . ,” offered a voice from the door. “Can I come in?”

“Don’t let the cat—” called Erinn as Suzanna wrestled with the key still jammed in the lock.

Caro scooted out the door.

“—out,” Erinn finished.

Suzanna flung herself into the room, laden with bags from Mommies and Babies, Jellybeans in a Jar, and Naturally Natural Yarn. Suzanna was seven months’ pregnant and was taking to the experience like Mother Nature to spring.

“I can give you a new key,” Erinn said.

“That’s OK. This way you hear me coming,” Suzanna said. “I don’t want to scare you.”

She set her new purchases on the table and dumped out several maternity outfits and skeins of orange, brown, and lime-green yarn. Erinn picked up the yarn and examined it—could this be for the baby?

“It’s not your lack of skill with a lock that scares me,” Erinn said.

Suzanna was in her midthirties. She had recently married Eric, the object of her desire since high school. Suzanna owned the Rollicking Bun Tea Shoppe and Book Nook: Home of the Epic Scone on the other side of town.

“I thought orange and green were safe for either sex,” Suzanna said.

She and Eric had decided that they didn’t want to know the gender of their baby beforehand.

Erinn watched as Suzanna continued to unload her bags.

“God! I love shopping,” said Suzanna.

“You were shopping? At this hour?”

“Erinn, it’s eight-thirty. People shop at eight-thirty.”

Suzanna tossed a small box to her sister, who caught it clumsily.

“I bought you a lipstick!” she said. “Try it! It will look great with your . . . pajamas.”

Ever since Suzanna had gotten married, she’d been obsessed with Erinn’s single status. She was on a one-woman campaign to get Erinn out in the world.

Suzanna and Erinn had not been close as children. Erinn was nearly ten years older, and had moved to New York City when Suzanna was still young. Since moving to Santa Monica, the siblings had gotten closer, and as she examined the lipstick, Erinn doubted the wisdom of this. She eyed the waxy red tube with suspicion.

Suzanna snatched it back. She grabbed her sister’s mouth and forced it into a pucker. “Don’t move. . . .”

Suzanna finished the application, whipped out a mirror from her purse, and handed it to her sister. Erinn inspected her new lips.

“If one is a sheepdog, why try to look like a Pekingese?” she asked as she returned the mirror.

“Well, Scooby-Doo, you could do with a little lift, that’s all. Don’t you remember when people used to say you looked like Valerie Bertinelli?”

Erinn nodded, trying not to gag on the waxy taste of the lipstick.

“Well, since she’s been on Jenny Craig . . . not so much.”

“And one lipstick will do for me what a year on Jenny Craig did for Valerie? I think not.”

“Baby steps, big sister. Baby steps.”

Erinn was grateful for her sister’s concern, but missed the days when Suzanna was in awe of her and treated her with respect instead of with incessant camaraderie. While her sister reloaded her bags, Erinn covertly wiped off her new lipstick and took a hefty sip of cocoa.

“Well?” Suzanna asked.

“Well what?”

“Did you find a tenant for the guesthouse?”

“No, I did not,” Erinn said. “And I have to say, I think neither Craig nor his list is the way to go.”

“You. . .