Spelling It Like It Is
a relaxing vacation. After that experience, I had vowed I would never go to Malibu again. But as summer approached, my two internal voices went to war with each other. The Lucy voice, with its harebrained ideas, said, “Go to Malibu! The sunshine! The waves! The family all crowded together in a tiny beach house!” Then the Ricky voice chimed in: “You shouldn’t be doing this. Remember what happened last time?” Back and forth, back and forth, like a therapy session in my head. I should know better by now. Lucy always wins.
    We rented a little house in Malibu: Dean, the kids, and me with my round belly. It was all we could afford, but I was glad the house was small. At home in Encino, our six-thousand-square-foot house was far too big. We were always in different rooms. Here we were all together, on top of each other, and I was in heaven. It didn’t hurt that this particular small house was snugly nestled on millionaire row—the Pacific Coast Highway is probably the most expensive highway in the world. But in my mind we weren’t leading a grand lifestyle. I did tons of cooking. The kids and I made plaster-of-Paris footprints and other beachy crafts. We were enjoying a cozy family life—cooking, crafting, and watching movies together. It was the life I wanted.
    Actually, the life I wanted was right next door. Our immediate neighbor happened to be the fabulous Kelly Wearstler. I’ll confess that when we were looking for a summer place, we were shown two houses. The house that I picked worked well for our family, but I definitely factored in Kelly Wearstler’s proximity. I mean, Kelly Wearstler is one of my favorite interior designers. I’d loved her from afar for a long time. Spending a summer next door to her—I could see us chatting on the beach while our kids built luxury sand castles together.
    I’d say, “Kelly, I love what you’ve done with malachite.”
    She’d reply, “Thanks, Tori. What do you think the next stone in design is going to be?”
    “You must do tiger’s-eye, Kelly.”
    “Tori, you are a genius.”
    Then we’d air-kiss and frolic in the sand in matching BFF caftans. (Too seventh grade?) “So lucky,” we would say. “If we hadn’t been neighbors we might never have met!” Failing that, I would be excited just to say hi on the beach once or twice and bask in her fabulousness for a summer. We even had an in—my friend Cheyenne.
    Cheyenne was our occasional masseuse (We’re mommy friends, I swear. We double date with our husbands. Does that make it sound less fancy? I’m not talking weekly massage! Just biweekly. Kidding), and she also worked on Kelly. I was always not-so-subtly probing to find out what she was like. Now that she was next door—well, I upped my game. Trying to be discreet, I offhandedly mentioned to Cheyenne that Kelly was next door, and that we both had kids, so if she ever wanted to have a playdate . . . Cheyenne could give her my e-mail. That’s right. I was that person.
    All July I kept an eye out for signs of life at the Wearstler house, but for the first couple weeks we were in Malibu, it seemed to sit cold and empty. Then one day I heard laughter coming from the beach nearby. The Wearstlers had arrived. Their kids were running around on the sand. This was my golden opportunity, but I couldn’t rise to the occasion. I was too shy to look in their direction, much less to go over and say hi. Instead, I slunk inside and glanced back as the screen door closed behind me. I caught a glimpse of someone with a wide-brimmed hat and flash of long, golden hair. It had to be Kelly.
    Days passed. If I was ever going to meet her, I needed a plan. I brought Mehran in on it.
    “Why don’t you take a walk on the beach?” he suggested. “Or go to her door and introduce yourself. Borrow something—an egg. Or maybe a slab of agate.”
    Mehran was full of potential meet scenarios, but I couldn’t execute. I was much more comfortable stalking from afar. The closest I
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