Good Nights Read online

  I need to head somewhere foreign, and preferably warmer, but first, I’m going to find a loving caretaker for Jughead. Doug is out, of course. I’ve already begged him to take the bird, and he argues—by text, he never speaks to me in person anymore—that it’s my problem.

 

  I reread the text, wondering why I even bother to keep these hurtful threads on my cell, set down my wine glass, and start punching in Jill’s number.

  “Boob. Don’t be a boob,” Jughead shrieks. That’s it. Enough is enough.

  Jill answers on the first ring. “Hey, I need to get away for a month to write. What are the chances you could take care of Jughead? Like, forever?”

  Three

  Hannah

  I despise that I’m a pathetic softie when it comes to animal welfare. Tough as nails with humans at the bargaining table, but room temperature Jell-O when an animal tips its head to one side and looks at me.

  Jill couldn’t take Jughead because she’s working long hours every day on an LA TV show set. She also can’t stand my ex and understandably doesn’t want to deal with sarcastic bird comments every day for the next fifteen years. My Mom isn’t allowed pets in her apartment. When I thought about whether I could live with myself leaving him at a shelter, the answer came up a resounding no.

  “Oh, Mom.” I sighed into the phone this morning. “I’ve made bad life choices.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, honey. We all make mistakes. That’s how you grow.”

  “I guess. I feel like my best friend is a parrot. I never see Jill anymore! Well, there’s you, course.”

  “There are worse things than having a pet as a friend. Pets don’t talk back.”

  “Uh, this one does!”

  “He is rather rude. Needs a time out! So then, it’s decided? You’re taking him? Do you need me to stage the house or is the agent doing that?”

  “Oh no, the agent is just showing the place, could you do that for me, Mom? Your flowers and candles magic, with what little furniture is left? Water my plants?” Mom took a home staging course a few years ago, and it turns out she’s a flower-arranging, fountain-formation rock star.

  “Of course I can. If you wouldn’t mind me having a few gals over one night for drinks… it gets quite cramped at my place.”

  “Sure. Little bit of strip poker?” I tease.

  “I think we’re far too old for that dear. But you go write in France, and whoop it up, or whatever young people call it these days. You deserve a break.”

  So, here I am, on my mother’s orders, and what was supposed to be a sunny, peaceful, solo writing retreat, standing by the ocean in a cold torrential downpour. Oh, and I’m about to carry a Hahn’s mini-macaw onto a ferry leaving France’s mainland. Yes, leaving. I certainly hope the weather is nicer on the small island where I’m headed.

  At least Jughead is the smallest of his kind, but right now, he sounds like my ex-husband on speed. I should probably see a therapist about my loyalty to this bird, but I don’t have time. I have to get this screenplay finished so I can keep my name out there. If I get at least one movie credit to my name, maybe I can get hired back to TV, which is my passion.

  Is it? I hate those stuffy awards shows. And the late nights and early mornings writing to deadline. I despise pacing my office floorboards down to sawdust when I can’t get an idea for the next episode and it’s due that afternoon. I hate being a woman in an industry where women are hardly respected, and even if they are, they’re paid less than their male colleagues.

  But I love the writing. I love getting lost in the characters and their emotions. I love making people laugh.

  Just this morning, I got to experience that feeling again first hand, when I met a viewer in the business lounge.

  After rushing around the crowded airport pushing a suitcase and a squawking macaw in my metal cart, getting many strange looks from passersby, I finally had a peaceful moment in the lounge. Jughead was safe in cargo, having been checked by customs, and all his forms were sent to the airport in France. I was assured that, because most European countries don’t require quarantine of birds, I would be fine upon our arrival, however, the airport vet had sent notice to the vet at the Charles de Gaulle airport. It was a long flight and took another hour for the vet to check Jughead.

  I stare out at the rain-streaked window as the ferry prepares to leave, lost in thought. A whole month alone on a French island. I’ll have a house all to myself to relax, to write my movie, and to retrain this bird to sound like me again. Sure. It’s possible. I googled it, so I know it must be true.

  I feel optimistic and grateful that the house owner let me bring my macaw. This bird is beautiful and rare, and it was a group gift from my first television crew. He poops a lot and makes a screeching noise worse than a colicky baby when he’s angry, but he represents how far I’ve come in my career. I can’t just dump Jughead at some shelter, even if he has become a cheeky teenager.

  I wanted to stay at a fancy five-star hotel in Cannes, but none of them would accept the parrot. I kept saying that it was the size of a cockatiel and well-behaved—I lied about that part—but they wouldn’t budge.

  Thankfully, Jill introduced me to the Good Nights app, and that’s how I found a lovely home for rent for a month on the little-known Ile Saint Bruno, south of Cannes, off the coast of France. The house owner, James, said it would be fine to keep Jughead in his cage in the living room. I’ll have my privacy on a gorgeous, under-populated island. I know I can finish my screenplay here. I’ll be done in a few weeks, and, thanks to my connections in TV, I can have it sold a month later. I’ll be back on my feet again before the end of summer.

  And now, thanks to a serendipitous meeting in the airport, I feel encouraged to write again.

  “Oh my, that is the funniest show I’ve seen in a long time,” the woman at the table beside me was dabbing the corners of her eyes and chuckling. “I’ve been binge watching this for hours.” She turned to me and showed me her tablet. She was watching my show, Never Flip A Fried Egg Naked on Netflix, and didn’t even realize I was the creator. That happened a lot lately. I smiled at her.

  “What’s your favorite part so far?” I asked, taking another sip of my Chardonnay.

  “Oh, well, it’ll make you blush,” she smirked, her cheeks round and rosy. I could tell she’d enjoyed several glasses of wine.

  “I doubt it, since I wrote it.” I smiled at her, then sat back and soaked in the surprised and joyful expression on her face.

  “Oh, my! I thought you looked a little like Hannah Storm. This is something! Oh. Well, now I need your autograph.” She handed me a pad and pen. “To Marjorie.”

  “Only if you tell me what made you blush, Marjorie.”

  “Ha! Well. I loved that Carly couldn’t… you know… she was feeling unsexy. And old. I could relate! So, her husband Drake takes her out for dinner and lots of wine, and then, just before stores start closing…”

  “They do it in an office supply store,” I said, breaking into a grin.

  “On the fancy desks and leather chairs! And a young shelf stocker boy finds them and can’t break them apart!” Marjorie was laughing so hard, tears were streaming from her eyes.

  I sighed. It was the validation I needed. I knew then that I had to keep writing. I had my audience after all. Maybe I’d had them all along. I just needed a change of scenery.

  “Rock the boat, baby. Rock the boat,” Jughead squawks.

  I’m trying to get comfortable on the wooden bench inside this small, eight-car ferry with Jughead in his cage beside me. We’re experiencing what I’d call major turbulence, with dark grey skies and high winds, but I’m doing my best to convince myself it’s just an ordinary crossing between Cannes and the Island.


  Jughead’s comment was spot on for the moment. Did I play that song for him recently? I can’t recall. I’m always fascinated by what he retains and what I can never get him to say, no matter how many times I say it. It will be interesting to discover what I can and can’t teach him once I spend more time alone with him.

  “Pardonnez-moi, madame, voulez-vous d’aide avec votre valise?” A tanned, broad-shouldered gentleman wearing the ferryboat logo on his t-shirt hands me a card, takes my suitcase in his right hand and the cage in his left, and smiles at me. The card reads, “Ferry Taxi. 24 heures.” Smart. He works on and off the ferry. Still, there are a dozen people getting off this ferry, and he approached me. Perhaps the ferry workers saw my nervous expression when the waves started getting wild, and they want to make it up to me. Maybe the house owner arranged this. If everyone is this helpful on Ile St. Bruno, I’m going to enjoy my stay immensely.

  “Oui, merci,” is about all the French I know, but I nod, hand him a slip of paper with the address where I’m headed, and follow him off the boat. The house owner said it was only a two-minute walk to his place from where the ferries come in, however, it would be up a hill. I notice my helper far ahead of me, loading an electric car, so I walk down the platform to the boardwalk and take in the idyllic scene.

  I’m nervous to be in this new place, but mostly, I’m feeling excited to be trying something new. Soaking wet and feeling chilled, but excited.

  The sky is overcast, but it’s finally stopped raining. Swaying palm trees line the boardwalk, and beyond the winding highway that stretches along the ocean, lush rolling hills are dotted with cream colored, red-roofed homes. I’ve read that Ile St. Bruno isn’t popular with many tourists, yet. It’s divided into sprawling mansions like these that only celebrities can afford to rent, an old coniferous forest at its center, and on the other side of the island, there’s a downtrodden, poverty-stricken area of homes built mostly as cottages in the 1930s and 1940s. The French government supported the upkeep of that stretch of a hundred or so homes until the turn of the century, when they decided it was more lucrative for them to pump money into high-tourist towns along the French Riviera.

  Once ushered inside the car, I catch my breath and try to dry off my wet face with my scarf. I’ll have to check a mirror once inside; I’m sure I look like a wet cocker spaniel.

  As I peer out the window, I notice that every home on the hillside before me has a balcony looking over the ocean and an arched set of double glass doors leading inside. This is more beautiful than any Malibu beach town. It’s already quieter than both Vancouver and LA. I can hear the seagulls cry and the ocean roar, unlike in stateside ocean towns, where noisy traffic takes over.

  As we pull off the road, I soak in the stunning architecture of the house at the end of this long, paved driveway. It shares elements of French mansions I’ve seen on earlier vacations, but also reminds me of a Moroccan ease, from the lazy river weaving along its side to its yellow stucco walls, its curvy cast-iron balconies, its sky-blue shutters, and French doors covered in loose white sheers blowing freely in the breeze. I want to stay here more than a month. It already feels like home.

  There’s no turning back, now. It’s fine. This is one of the most adventurous ideas I’ve had in a while. I’ve never stayed in someone else’s home before, and I’ve never been alone in a foreign country.

  I know that lately I’ve been lacking a sense of adventure in my life. I certainly wasn’t to blame for Doug leaving me. I heard through the industry grapevine that he met a younger brunette two years ago who played a significant role in that story. Still, I realize that I also fell into a pattern of working long hours, and then feeling too tired to do anything fun with him on the weekends. I said ‘no’ far too many times to events I later realized I would have enjoyed if I’d even given them a second thought. I was afraid of going out of my comfort zone.

  Now, I’m way out of that zone, about to start a new adventure on a French island. I am A Superwoman of Change. I’m soaked, my toes feel like icicles, my new bra is cutting into my ribs, and my thong’s giving me a wedgie, but Superwoman, honey, that’s my hashtag.

  I bend down and search under the woven grass doormat for the key. Huh? James said he’d leave the key right here. Where is it?

  Did I get the day wrong? What’s going on? Should I knock on the door? That’s ludicrous, right? No one will answer, don’t be silly. But, I think I hear noises inside. Oh, right. The cleaner. James said if there was no key, the cleaner would likely be inside, and she’d let me in.

  I give the glass door a rap with my knuckles and wave my driver to walk farther up to the steps, so he can set down my luggage and Jughead behind me. I don’t want him holding all that weight the whole time we’re waiting.

  Five more minutes pass. Damnit, I’m frozen, and I have to pee.

  “Hello?”

  I wait a minute.

  “Can someone answer the door!” I say, a little too loudly.

  There. I hear movement! Someone’s coming to the door. Everything is going to be fine. More than fine. I just know it.

  “Answer the fucking door,” Jughead squawks.

  Oh, Jughead!

  Four

  Tripp

  The woman in the black dress, cardigan and red heels standing at the front door looks like a beautiful French model turned-crazy-fortune-teller. Her head is wrapped in a long, sheer black scarf, and there’s a burly man behind her, holding what looks to be a small parrot in a cage. Her jet-black mascara is dripping from the corners of her bright green eyes, all the way down her cheeks in four wavy lines. Her dark ginger hair is matted, dripping wet and flat against her head.

  “Hello?” I brace myself for a string of strange French words, but they don’t come.

  “Hi. You’re the owner? I didn’t think you actually lived here. I thought I had the place to myself?” She gets out her phone and opens an app.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m renting here for a month? We messaged on Good Nights.”

  She shoves the phone under my nose, but the rain is coming down so hard, it’s spotting and fogging up the screen. I certainly don’t want company, but the look on this woman’s face tells me she could completely snap if I turn her away. I wouldn’t want to be an accomplice.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve already rented this place for the month. You’ve probably got the wrong address, but if you want to come in from the rain….”

  Before I can help her inside, she grabs the door with one hand and marches into the front foyer, pulling a red suitcase behind her. The burly man follows her, puts down the cage, gives her a little nod, and she hands him forty Euros. He hurries back down the stairs and long driveway to his car, seemingly eager to leave this situation. As am I, except, it seems that I’m stuck with a strange woman and her bird in the foyer of a house where I’d been promised solitude.

  As the stunning red-shouldered bird begins squawking—rather angrily, for a macaw, I must say—the woman pulls a canary yellow cage cover out of her suitcase and begins to drape it over him.

  “Sorry, he’s really stressed out right now. This will calm him.” She bends down to talk to him in a soothing voice before completely covering the cage. Her hair is dripping all over the wood floor.

  “So, your Hahn’s macaw is stressed out…but you’re just peachy?” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk, resisting the sudden urge to wipe the mascara off her face for her. If she’s indeed American, as I suspect from her accent, my kind gesture might be interpreted as creepy. Besides, I like her haggard, far from perfect look. The women at the museum where I work in Oxford wear up-dos and so much makeup they look like they’re about to attend the opera at eight a.m.

  “I’ve had better days.” She sighs and smiles up at me. “Better months, actually.”

  She has the face of an angel when she smiles like that. “Sorry to he
ar that. Well, come on in, uh…”

  “Hannah. Hannah Storm, from Vancouver. You know your birds.”

  “Hello, Hannah. Yes, I’m an ornithologist. Always wanted to go to Vancouver. Never have been. I suppose they have no need for an ornithologist in a city like that do they… ’though I hear there are a variety of beautiful birds in Stanley Park.” Bugger, I’m going on now, and sounding like a muppet. I don’t want her staying here. Just get her dry and on her way.

  “Sorry. I’m Tripp. Tripp Wilson, from Oxford. Here, let me take your scarf, and that cardigan is soaked.” I take everything from her hands and grab her suitcase. I don’t want her to stay, but I can’t have her catching a cold, either.

  “Will your birdy be fine here for now?” I cannot believe that sentence just came out of my mouth. There are far too many street meanings for that word, none of them proper. Why, why did I let that slip from my lips? I feel my cheeks grow hot and glance over at her. She’s snickering.

  “My birdy, Jughead, probably wants some company.” She takes off her heels, lifts the cage without even grunting, and follows me.

  I motion for her to set the cage down beside the couch in the living room, where there’s already a fire on. It’s an unusually chilly afternoon for late May. I’m hoping it warms up, so I can go bird-watching without needing a hat and gloves early tomorrow.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I sit down in the recliner and give Coffee a scratch under her ears. She’s slowly coming out of her deep sleep at my feet. She’s so deaf, none of the commotion in the foyer disturbed her. “This is my lab, Coffee.”

  Hannah is sitting in a stiff position on the couch, phone on her knees, staring without blinking at Coffee and me.

  “So. It seems that you brought your macaw, and I brought my Chocolate lab,” I say. “They need to change the name of that app to Bad Nightmares.”