CHAPTER 6
MINA
If I’d known Max’s secrets, maybe I wouldn’t have done what I did at Dusty Clark’s beach house—the New Year’s Day Incident that I remembered with conflicting feelings of wonder and regret... but mostly regret. I guess that memory of the beach house is kind of like Mama’s ring—it reminds me of what I’ve lost.
I had wanted so badly to give Max something then—not to repay him, that wasn’t it; you couldn’t repay somebody for being your friend—but to show him what he meant to me. The sorry thing was, I gave him too much, or maybe just the wrong thing. Then I got scared and I tried to take it back.
I made a horrid mess of it all.
I guess you could say it started last Christmas Eve. That night was something I’d never figured out about Max, no matter how much I thought about it. And I thought about it a lot.
By the time the tinsel stars and silver bells went up onHollywood Boulevard and the Bullock’s Santa was ho-ho-ho-ing his way through a line of children, Max had become a part of my life. To be honest, the best part of my life. Then, just when everything was going swell, I came down with a whopper of a head cold. I was supposed to work the Christmas Eve shift at the Derby, but I telephoned Norb at noon—sneezing and snuffling—and made my excuses.
Lana had a big date. After she got all dolled up, she moved her radio close to my bed. “At least you can listen to Christmas carols all by your lonely,” she said cheerfully. “You mind if I borrow your velvet gloves? It’s not like you’re going to be using them.”
By the time it was dark, my head was hammering, and my nose was running faster than an LA streetcar. I was a sorry sight and felt even worse. I curled up in my bed with a magazine I was too miserable to read and let myself think of home. By now, Penny would have the tree decorated with the precious glass balls that had come all the way from Germany with Papa. She’d probably scraped together enough sugar and butter to make cookies, and the sauerbraten would be simmering. Knitted socks for Papa would be wrapped in newspaper and tied with bright yarn.
And here I was, alone and sick. No presents, not even a tree. It was like Christmas had forgotten this corner of Los Angeles. Or maybe Christmas had just forgotten me.
I was well into my private pity party when I heard a tapping at the window, and Max—his face pressed against the glass—scared the horsefeathers out of me. I yelped, then jumped out of bed and undid the latch. He hoisted himself up to the sill and threaded his long legs through the opening. “What are you doing?” I hissed, as he knocked over a chair and a stack of magazines, making a din loud enough to wake the dead.
Clumping steps sounded down the hall and stopped just outside my door. “What’s going on in there, Miss Sinclaire?”
Max grinned and put a finger over his lips.
“Just getting some fresh air, Mrs. Perfall,” I called out, shutting the window with a bang. If she found a fella in our room, unchaperoned, she’d put me out in the cold for certain.
I launched into a series of well-timed sneezes. Max covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes crinkling with laughter. Mrs. Perfall’s heavy footfalls and mutterings receded back down the hall.
Max looked over my place, the laughter still on his lips. The room was littered with discarded clothes from Lana, magazines, dirty cups and saucers. And then there was me. I put my hand to my hair. I was a fright. Red nose, runny eyes, my hideous pink chenille dressing gown belted over the white cotton nighty I’d had since I was twelve.
“You look terrible,” Max said.
“That’s bunny, I beel like a million bucks,” I managed back, wishing he didn’t look so good in his soft wool trousers and navy oxfords. His shirt was pressed, as usual, but the sleeves were rolled up and the top two buttons undone. No tie or jacket tonight. What was he doing here on Christmas Eve, anyway? Didn’t he have a family? I climbed back into my bed and pulled the covers all the way over my face. I couldn’t deal with Max tonight.
Max wasn’t put out. Not a bit.
I heard him rustling through the paper grocery bag he’d dragged in with him and peeked over the edge of the blanket.
“Norb told me you were down with a bug.” Before I knew it, he’d found a clean glass, filled it with water, and was handing me two aspirin. “Take these.”
He was a bossy one but I didn’t have the energy to fight him. He took the glass from my fingers after I downed the aspirin and tucked the blanket back under my chin. “You got a hot plate in this mess?” He kept his voice low—no need to alert the landlady again.
I raised my head weakly and pushed back the covers. “What in heaven’s name do you—”
“Ah, ah.” He held up his hand. “Stay put.”
I obeyed. It was easier that way. I think I dozed, because in what seemed like moments, he was back with a cup and a spoon. He helped me to sit up, plumping the pillow behind my back, then dipped the spoon in the cup and held it out to me.
I eyed the golden liquid doubtfully.
“Don’t worry. It’s an old family remedy. Guaranteed to make you feel like new.” He winked. “Or at least forget how bad you feel. Open up.”
I opened my mouth without thinking and swallowed. It was hot and sweet and felt like heaven on my scratchy throat.
He wiped a drop from the side of my mouth with his thumb. “That’s my girl.” He didn’t mean anything by it, but I think my fever went up a few degrees.
“What’s in it?”
