Danielle Steel - The Apartment

“So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” Tom asked his son. “A little sailing in the morning?” He looked hopeful, and Helen shuddered.

“You’re all crazy. You’ll freeze. If you go, don’t take Sasha. We’ll find something to do here. We’ll set the table and keep the home fires burning, and maybe crochet a little.” She was kidding, and they laughed. “Can’t you find something else to do except freeze to death on the boat?”

“It’s too cold for tennis,” Tom said practically. He played several times a week, and it showed. “And I’m terrible at Scrabble.” He grinned. Alex had told Sasha that they had their Thanksgiving meal midafternoon, and his family liked to do an activity in the morning, usually something active. On the weekend, he was planning to take Sasha to a museum and a nice restaurant for lunch, of which there were many, and she wanted to do some shopping, since she wouldn’t have time before Christmas, once they went back to work. They had made lots of plans.

They chatted until dinnertime, and right before dinner, Ben joined them. And he was even more handsome than his younger brother. They were the best-looking family she’d ever seen, and Sasha silently wished that her sister would go out with someone like Ben, but she wouldn’t have given him the time of day. He was too normal, healthy, and clean.

Ben was obviously curious about Sasha, and talked to her all through dinner. He asked a lot about the orthopedic service at NYU, they talked about the residency programs she and Alex were in, and the conversation was mostly medical all through dinner, and Helen held her own. Her husband talked a lot about his cardiology practice, and she was very knowledgeable and well informed about new developments in experimental surgeries. His father was very interested in Sasha’s passion for infertility and innovations they were implementing in Europe, which they discussed at length. It was easy and fun for Sasha to talk to people who shared the same interests she did, and a little while after dinner, Ben left to go back to his apartment, and the elder Scotts and she and Alex retired to their respective rooms.

She flopped onto the comfortable bed and smiled at Alex, and he beamed at her.

“How are you doing? I’m sorry about all the doctor talk at dinner. It’s like hanging out in the doctors’ lounge. Being with my family is like living at a medical convention.”

“I love them,” Sasha said with a broad smile. “They’re all so nice. My family is like a soap opera—everyone hates someone, they’re always fighting or badmouthing each other. You’re so lucky. This is great!”

“I like them a lot too,” he admitted, and was thrilled that she did, and she had been totally at ease all evening, and he could tell his parents and brother approved, not that it mattered. He loved her anyway, but it was such a good feeling to know that they were pleased for him, and it was a perfect fit.

They were too tired to make love that night, and slept like little kids in the big comfortable bed. His parents were at breakfast, reading the paper, when Alex and Sasha walked in, and his father looked up with a smile. It was a crystal-clear icy-cold morning, a perfect Chicago winter day, with no sign of snow, contrary to the prediction.

“Are you up for a sail?” he asked his son, while Helen rolled her eyes and Alex laughed. And his mother looked pointedly at Sasha.

“Don’t listen to them. They’re insane. It’s a family disease, and it’s hereditary. Incipient insanity around boats, particularly sailboats.” But by the end of breakfast, Alex had agreed to join his father, they had called Ben, and he was going to meet them at the yacht club.

“If you lunatics freeze to death on the lake, Sasha and I are eating the turkey without you.” But when Sasha followed Alex to the guest room and watched him dress, she wanted to go too, and asked him if she could.

“Are you serious? You don’t have to, Sash. They already like you. You don’t have to prove anything to me or them.” He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable or obliged to join them.

“It sounds like fun. Maybe I’m a little crazy too. Do you have a jacket I could wear?” She followed him to his old bedroom, and he pulled several out of the closet that were too big for her but would keep her warm. She picked one, and he gave her a set of long johns that he’d had when he was younger and smaller. She put on the clothes, two heavy sweaters, and the sneakers she had brought just in case, with a pair of wool socks over the long johns, and ten minutes later they were standing in the front hall, ready to go, and she was wearing a wool cap Alex had given her and her own gloves.

“Oh my God, another crazy person in our midst,” Helen said, looking at Sasha, who was bundled up like a four-year-old to go play in the snow. “Don’t let them kill you out there. I’d hate to eat the turkey all by myself.” She kissed them all goodbye, including Sasha, and they drove off in Tom’s Range Rover, with Sasha in the back seat excited to be with them.

Ben was waiting at the lake, standing near the boat, which was a beautiful old wooden classic sailboat that was their father’s pride and joy. Ben had taken the tarps off while he was waiting, and they all climbed aboard. Alex showed her the cabins belowdecks if she got too cold, and told her not to be a hero if she was freezing, but she loved being on deck, as they pulled away from the dock in the crisp cold air. There was just enough wind to fill their sails, and they spent the next two hours sailing around the lake. Alex looked at her as though he’d found the prize of a lifetime, and Sasha was ecstatic, and he was sorry when they returned to the yacht club after a great sail.

“Your mother will kill me if we don’t go back now,” Tom said regretfully. Their faces were all red, and they looked healthy and glowing from the cold. Ben went back to his apartment to change, and Tom drove Alex and Sasha home, where Helen was waiting for them with hot toddies.

They were exhilarated after the sail, and Helen assured her younger son that he and Sasha deserved each other if she had enjoyed it, which she sincerely insisted she had.

Ben was back an hour later, and they sat in front of the fire in the den once they were dressed, and then moved into the living room when the guests started to arrive. They had invited four friends. Two of them were widowed women, and the men were alone for the holiday because one was divorced, and the wife of the other one was with their daughter in Seattle, where she was having her first baby any minute. Both men were doctors.

The dining room looked beautiful after Helen had set the table and decorated it with flowers and their Thanksgiving decorations. Their friends were interesting and good company, the meal was splendid, the conversation was lively, and they sat around and talked for hours until the guests left and Ben finally went home. They all said they were too full to ever eat again, but Alex knew that they would be eating the leftovers enthusiastically the next day and all through the weekend. He and Sasha were having dinner at a restaurant with Ben the following night, and then taking her on a tour of their favorite bars and hangouts. With their sail together that morning, she had become part of the clan.

She and Alex talked that night until they fell asleep, after they made love, as quietly as possible so his parents wouldn’t hear them. She had called her own parents to wish them a happy Thanksgiving, and she’d tried to reach Valentina, but couldn’t and had sent her a text, wishing her a happy Thanksgiving. She had reached Morgan at the apartment before she went to her brother’s. Sasha told Alex before she drifted off that it had been the best Thanksgiving of her life, and seeing the look of love in her eyes, he believed her. It had been his as well.

When Abby got to L.A. on Wednesday afternoon, her parents were still at work, and she let herself into their home in Hancock Park with the key they had put under the mat for her. Maria, their longtime maid, had already left for the day. She only came in mornings now, and the house was quiet, but familiar and comfortable. Her mother had had it redone the year before with strikingly modern furniture and contemporary art. It wasn’t cozy, but it was beautiful. Abby wandered around the house, after she put her small tote bag in her room, and went to sit in the garden, thinking about what she would do now, and what she wanted to say to them. She knew they hoped she’d move home, now more than ever, but she wasn’t ready to do that. There were writing opportunities in New York too, and she was doing her best work, writing normal fiction, since the breakup with Ivan. She’d done a few short stories and was working on her novel. She hadn’t realized it for the past three years, but he had been holding her back, as she tried to meet his esoteric new-wave standards, which no longer felt right for her, and never really had. She was developing her own voice again, and she felt that her writing was getting stronger than ever before. Her parents had been very patient with her for a long time, and she hoped that they would be for a while longer. She still wanted their financial and emotional support to give her the time she needed for her writing.

There was a spare car in the garage that she used when she was home, an old Volvo from her high school days. It was ancient but it still worked. She drove around L.A. that afternoon, looking at familiar places, thinking about her life now without Ivan. It felt good to be home. And when she got back to the house, her parents were both there and excited to see her. She hadn’t been home in almost a year, since Christmas, and she was startled to see that her parents had aged a little. She always thought of them as young and vital forever. Her father was complaining about a bad knee he had injured playing tennis, and her mother was healthy, but seemed subtly older. They had been older parents when she was born, as a surprise, and now they were in their late sixties, but still going strong with no thought of slowing down, and Abby was glad to be spending the holiday with them.

They talked about her writing that night at dinner, and were relieved to hear that she had given up writing experimental plays to please Ivan, and was writing more traditional material again. They had ordered in fancy takeout food since her mother never cooked. They had an offsite chef who dropped off meals for them several times a week, based on healthy nonfat meal plans.

“So what do you think, Abby?” her father asked her gently. “Are you ready to come back and try your hand out here? Your mother could get you a job writing scripts on just about any show you want.” They thought in terms of commercial material, which was what Ivan had hated about them.

“I want to try to find work on my own,” she said softly, grateful for their help. And eventually, she wanted to be self-supporting too, it was her goal. And she didn’t want a job because she was someone’s daughter. She wanted to sell her writing or get work because of her talent, not her parents. “I don’t think TV is right for me,” she said honestly. “I’d like to finish my novel and sell some short stories. I could try screenplays later, but not yet.” She gave her mother three recent chapters of her novel that night, and the next morning she told Abby how much stronger her writing had gotten and said she was impressed by how much her style had tightened and matured. And she thought the work was very cinematic and would make a great film. Abby was pleased and respected her mother’s opinion. Coming from her, it was high praise. Abby knew there was still a dark edge to her writing, even without Ivan, but now she felt sure it was her own voice and not his.

“Would you mind giving me a little more time in New York to work on it?” she asked humbly. She was at her parents’ mercy financially, but they had always been supportive, and were still prepared to be. They both made that clear to her in their conversations and she was grateful to them. They had always been reasonable and kind, even during her three years of insanity with Ivan, and even more so now that he was gone. And she was clearly making progress with her writing without him.

They were having their usual Thanksgiving dinner the next day, with the strays her parents collected. She had learned her love of eclectic, interesting people from them—the difference was that theirs were often famous ones, not charlatans like Ivan, and Abby didn’t always know the difference. Her parents were nontraditional, and their Thanksgiving dinner normally consisted of twenty or so people who had nowhere else to be, and no family, and Joan and Harvey Williams had their dinner catered by Mr. Chow, with fabulous Chinese food, a lot of great French wine, and a combination of actors, writers, directors, and producers, who gathered at their table for an unconventional Thanksgiving. Abby had always loved it, and the people she met there. It was very Hollywood, in the best way. Some of the guests came every year and had for twenty years. Others were new. Some disappeared for a few years and then showed up again after they came back to town, finished a film, or wound up between relationships with no one to spend the holiday with. There was nothing mournful about it—in their own way they were all winners, even if some appeared to be misfits or very strange. Abby had grown up among people like them, which had given her an open mind and broad view of the world. And her parents may have been too busy to spend a lot of time with her, but she knew they loved her, in spite of the awful things Ivan had said about them. She felt guilty for listening to him now, and knew that none of what he said was true.