Page 10 of The Malibu Arrangement

“Iris needs to see you right now.”

Six words from Elaine, and my mouth dries up. My heart races as I walk behind her down the hall, getting closer to what feels like the end of my job. Iris shuts the office door, and the small click sounds as loud as a gun. I try to calm down, but I can't. I might faint.

Everybody knows that when your superior shuts the door, nothing good will come of your meeting.

Iris smiles, obviously seeing my distress. Then she says something that I cling to like a lifeline. “Relax, Celeste. This meeting isn’t what you’re thinking.”

Whoosh. My breath, which I was holding, came out in one long tendril and I found myself crying.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I’ve been on pins and needles ever since last night. I shouldn’t have been so disrespectful towards Mr. Kensington. It’s just that I feel he disrespected me. But I’ll be more circumspect in the future, I promise.”

Iris wraps me in a hug, her perfume a cloud of vanilla and something floral. "Oh, Celeste," she whispers against my hair, "he had it coming. Everyone knows what Max Kensington is like. He’s a monster in Armani.” She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders, and gives a little dismissive shrug. "But I shouldn't speak ill of him." Her eyes dart away, then back to mine as she inhales sharply. "Although..."

“Although?”

She sighs and rustles some papers on her desk. Her eyes aren’t meeting mine and the mood of the room is something different than it was earlier. She shakes her head. “Celeste, I received an interesting phone call. From Joseph Kensington.”

“Joseph Kensington? The billionaire who owns most of Los Angeles?”

“Yes, Joseph Kensington. When exactly did the two of you cross paths? He just called with the strangest proposition, and I'd like to understand what prompted it. I told him I'd speak with you, but frankly, I'm at a loss."

Wait….Damn. “Can I see a picture of him?”

She shows me his picture and I feel embarrassed. Of course! That man I met at UCLA hospital seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place his face. Now, as I stare at the picture, it becomes a bit more clear on who that angel was who visited me the night I was sure I’d lose my mother.

So, I tell Iris the story….

Three Months Earlier

Mom is hospitalized with an infection, and I’m terrified about her, but I don’t want to scare Lexi. So, I didn’t call her to let her know what’s going on. She’s staying on campus with a friend tonight because they’re working on a short film together, so she doesn’t need to know our mother is so sick.

I wish Olivia were here with me, but she’s staying the night with her on-again, off-again boyfriend. So, I feel alone.

I reach for my phone, fingers already tapping toward the comfort of Taylor's voice—the Life of a Showgirl album has been my emotional crutch lately—when an older gentleman approaches. My reflection in the window shows everything: dark circles under bloodshot eyes, lips pressed thin, shoulders hunched forward like I'm bracing for impact. The thought of Mom's empty chair at Thanksgiving, of Lexi's graduation with no one to cheer from the other side, of evenings without her laughter—it's all there, written across my face for anyone to read.

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Joe. You look like you need a shoulder to cry on.”

My eyes burn with the effort of containing tears, but the gentle creases around his eyes invite rather than judge. Something loosens in my chest—a knot I didn't realize I'd been carrying—and I let a single tear fall, no longer afraid of what might follow.

He hands me a handkerchief from his coat pocket. I assume it’s a new one, so I take it gratefully. “Thank you,” I say and then dab my eyes.

He looks at me, his green eyes shining. He’s probably in his 80s, but he looks attractive for his age. “Can I help you with anything?” he asks.

I let out a deep breath. “Thank you so much, but I don’t know what I need right now. Except for my mother to get out of the hospital and beat her cancer. That’s what I need,” I say, hanging my head. “But unfortunately, you can’t give me that.”

His Adam’s Apple bobs up and down, as if he’s holding back tears himself. “Cancer,” he says, shaking his head. “It took my Gracie all those years ago. I was 20, she was 19. We just got married when she was diagnosed.” He smiles. “Gracie and I didn’t have much, but our love got us through those tough days and nights when there wasn’t food on the table or heat running through our tiny place in Skid Row.”

Skid Row is an actual area of Los Angeles. It’s known, then as now, as a place where alcoholics and people on the margins of society live.

I put my hand on Joe’s hand as he gets out his own handkerchief and dabs his eyes with it. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “You never got over that, did you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Never did. But I remarried and we lived happily. I’m still with her today, Ruth. But I never forgot my Gracie.”

I wonder if he managed to get off Skid Row, but I don’t want to pry. It’s none of my business, but I’m curious.

“Well, that’s a good thing, huh? You found a new love.”

“Yes,” he says. “But you can’t find a new mother. I’ll pray for you tonight, if that’s okay with you.”