I got up at the crack of dawn, made myself a light breakfast, showered, dressed in my best Elie Tahari black pantsuit, applied my face, and slipped on my Cole Haan two-inch pumps. I picked up my suitcases in both hands and locked the front door after I stepped outside. With head held high and firm resolve, I walked over to Alastair’s house and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. The house was completely dark. Alastair usually leaves early for the office. He’s anal about that. I could never lose the habit of arriving at my desk at exactly 9 o’clock, no matter what my title became. Perhaps Alastair really decided to sleep in. No, that’s so out of character for him. I used the spare key he’d given me for emergencies and entered the house.

He was nowhere to be found. I went through the length and breadth of the house. He must have left for the office already. I looked at the clock on his kitchen wall. It was only 7:30. I stood there for a long moment, debating what to do. I had planned on handing Alastair back his house and car keys. I expected he’d want me to vacate the premises. I would then go to Philippa’s house and go through a normal day’s work on the screenplay. I’d find myself a hotel room to stay in until I could secure alternative housing. Or maybe I could room with Eliot or Joey for the short term.

I went back to the guest house and changed into more casual, “writerly” clothes and comfortable flats. I poured myself a second cup of morning brew and stared at nothing, calculating when I’d have to call Alastair to see that he came straight home after work. The whole idea had been to avoid a nasty fight and effect a discreet departure with nary a hostile word uttered by either of us. Now, it seems unavoidable we’ll have an argument. I’d better be ready to crash at Eliot or Joey’s place tonight.

“Oh, I plan to finish writing this screenplay with you, Philippa, but I won’t be staying in Alastair’s guest house any longer. You can understand how awkward that’d be.”

I was on the phone with Philippa, just minutes away from hopping into the Audi to make the short drive to her Los Feliz house. I unburdened myself of my rather embarrassing situation to her, hoping for a sympathetic ear I suppose. She wondered if I should skip today’s session and pick up tomorrow or the next day when my mind would be clearer and more focused. I sighed and told her I’d rather work on the script than sit around the house driving myself crazy with expectations of what Alastair’s mood turns out to be. Suddenly, the call waiting beep went off. I looked at the number. It was Alastair.

“You better answer that, Joanne. Good luck.” Philippa disconnected. I accepted Alastair’s call.

“Jo? Alastair. Can you come to the offices here in a half an hour?”

“Alastair! I came by this morning, but you’d already left—”

“Jo, please. Just be here in half an hour. Michelle and I need to speak to you.”

“What about?” I was apprehensive. Why would Michelle Gravesend need to speak to me? Oh, my god, they’re going to fire me! “Alastair, is this about the…the screen—”

“I’ve got to go. See you soon. Goodbye, Jo.” He ended the call. It was a 20-minute drive to the GlobalNet offices on Vine Street. I’ll have to go dressed as I am. At the last second, I decided to wear my oversized, azure blue blazer even though it was already 80° outside. Oh, vanity, woman be thy name!

I had expected to meet with Alastair and Michelle in her office. The corner office with the view of Farmer’s Market, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and the Capitol Records Building all in a straight-line facing north. Michelle was GlobalNet’s Chief Content Officer and Alastair’s boss. Time Magazine had just done an extensive article on her: Columbia Film School graduate and Harvard MBA, started out as a junior staffer in Paramount’s film acquisitions department, rose to head of production at 21st Century Fox (where she met Alastair), three films she executive-produced had been Oscar-nominated in the last 5 years, and she was Hollywood’s highest-ranked out lesbian, married to Veronica Latimer, the noted prima ballerina of the San Francisco Ballet Company.

Instead, the receptionist shepherded me into a nondescript conference room, where I sat by myself for almost 15 minutes before Alastair walked in, followed a minute later by Michelle. She sat at the head of the conference table while Alastair and I faced each other across it.

“Thank you, Joanne, for being here on such short notice. I felt we should tell you about some changes in your situation with us as soon as possible—”

“Am I being…let go?”

“No, of course not. What makes you think that? It’s just a change in the management chain, so to speak. Perhaps Alastair hasn’t already told you…” She looked at the both of us. Neither of us said anything. “Well, as you might have read in all the trades…you don’t read the trades, do you?” I shook my head. “GlobalNet has reached an agreement in principle to an exclusive relationship with Beardsley Studios in London to produce a certain number of films every year on their famous premises. I’ve asked Alastair to go across the pond to make all the necessary preparations and this would mean being off-site for 3 or 4 months…or more.” My face betrayed my shock and Alastair avoided my look of surprise by keeping his attention locked on Michelle.

“What will this mean for my project? Is it still on?”

“Definitely. The whole organization is looking forward to it, Joanne. We think what you’re working on with Philippa would give GlobalNet the signature film treatment of the lives of transwomen in contemporary society. And that can impact attitudes and tear down biases, don’t you think?”

“Of course, I agree. I thought Alastair was out of his mind when he broached the matter to me at first. You know, he’s the motive force behind this. I would’ve never thought my life was that interesting to anyone else much less millions of viewers but Alastair…” I swallowed the last words and looked at Alastair. “Sorry, I get a little emotional about it all sometimes.”

“There are very few people I’ve been around who I have as much respect and admiration for as Joanne. She’s simply a uniquely inspirational person. Which is why I was insistent in asking her to do this.” Alastair seemed to stare into my soul.

“I know you’re disappointed that Alastair won’t be able to continue to oversee this project since he’ll be occupied overseas but I intend to give your screenplay my utmost personal attention. Any questions you might have or potential roadblocks you might face in the process, feel free to ask me for help. You’ll find I’ve had a lot of experience with controversial subject matter in my career in the business. Not to mention my own personal battles, as I’m sure you can empathize with.”

“I thought you’d be here while I finished the screenplay. You never mentioned having to spend three months in England—” My tone edged toward anger. Michelle took notice.

“I…it was something that developed in the last week or so—”

“Alastair came to me this morning and said he was immediately available to start the Beardsley deal. We booked him on Virgin Atlantic’s 10:30PM non-stop to London tonight. I was surprised to say the least, but it gives us a 3-month head start. And he’ll be our man on the spot. Who knows, we might be able to beat our competitors to the next Harry Potter or Dr. Who!”

“You might like it so much; you’ll decide to stay. I hear British women can be so much more sophisticated than American women.”

“I’ll be back. It’s a 3-month assignment, that’s all. It’s my job.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know what was happening on your project. Don’t worry, your screenplay is high priority with us, with or without Alastair onsite.” She rose from her chair and extended her hand. I shook it and tried to smile.

In the hallway, after Michelle had stepped back into her office, Alastair turned to me.

“In the mood for an early lunch?”

“From what I just heard; I’d think you’d rather be 5,000 miles away than have lunch with me.”

“You said on the phone you came by this morning. Why?”

“To give you back your house and car keys. I’d rather leave on my own accord than be evicted.” He took me by the shoulders and gently redirected me into his office, closing the door behind us.

“No matter what happens between us, Joanne, you can stay in my guest house as long as you want. Even after the screenplay is finished…if that’s what you want.”

“I think it’s better if I find another place to stay. As things stand…”

“Come on, let me take you to lunch. But first I want to go to Home Depot.”

“Alastair, just hire a locksmith. You’re not a handy guy. I’ve seen you try to fix things. Surely, you can afford it.”

“I’m not interested in anything in the store. It’s what’s on top of it.”

“Huh?”

We stood next to each other, leaning against the side of his Porsche, on the rooftop parking lot of The Home Depot on Sunset Boulevard, looking past the Shell Gas Station sign and the Dunes Inn sign all the way to Mt. Lee in Griffith Park.

“You can’t park anywhere near the Hollywood sign on Mt. Lee. You can only approach it by foot along those hiking paths. This rooftop parking lot is the best vantage point to see it. And it’s free of charge.” Alastair snaked his arm around my waist. “Take off your jacket. It’s getting hot closer to mid-day.” He put both our jackets back in the car.

“It took me 30 years to get to see this sign as something other than a tourist. You know, I wanted to be a documentary filmmaker—”

“I know. You’ve told me a thousand times over the years I’ve known you.”

“It was Ed Bradley who gave me my big break. 1994. I was 27. An assistant producer and chief bottle-washer. But I structured that group interview and profile he did of The Rolling Stones on their worldwide tour. Won him and the show an Emmy that year. And then we went to New Orleans later that year and did the Wynton Marsalis profile. That was the start for me. I gave up my dream of being another Peter Davis, the guy who directed “Hearts and Minds” about the tragedy of the Vietnam War. My talent lay in producing, supervising, putting things and people together to get something done.” I leaned back into him and listened to his heartbeat, keeping my eyes on the Hollywood sign in the far horizon.

“Less than two years later, I met you. And from the moment I first laid eyes on you, I fell head over heels for you. But you turned me down every time I asked you out—”

“I’ve explained why. You caught me at the wrong time. I was so insecure, afraid of what people would think of me or say to me when they found out. You saw me as a woman, but you were more certain of that than I was. I needed time.”

“Time marches on. It can’t be suspended. I guess I got frustrated with waiting you out. Then you found Emily—”

“No, you found Lulu first. Then I met Emily. It was in the same year though.”

“The point I guess is that I’ve waited almost 30 years to win your heart, I think I can wait another 3 or 4 months. Maybe giving our relationship some space could help sort out your feelings. You want space, don’t you?”

“It’s not what I want, Alastair. It’s something I can’t escape. I’ve been hurt and abandoned by the people I most loved in my life. Elizabeth leaving felt like the end of the world. She rejected the person I wanted to become, the real me. And then the years of transitioning, adjusting to actually living as a woman. I was flattered you liked me, but Emily was the first person who really saw me for me—and it was life-affirming. Then I lost her too. The universe keeps taking the things I love away from me.” He took me in his arms.

“I won’t leave you, Jo. I don’t care that you slept with Elizabeth. Really. People make mistakes. Tell me you want me to stay, and I’ll postpone my assignment to London. I don’t care if Michelle fires me. I’d toss it all aside for you. It’s you I’ve waited for. 27 years is a long time to keep a dream alive. Say you want me to stay.”

“I can’t do that to you, darling. My mind, my heart is so confused. It’s so damn hard to keep the past tucked away and out of sight. The monster of memory leaps out at you from dark, forgotten corners and eats your soul. I still love Elizabeth. I won’t lie to you—”

“I know, I know. I’ve always known. But she’s not here now. She comes into your life, dances the tango with you, seduces you, and takes the next plane out of town. Is that what you want, time and time again, over and over? She’s the one haunted by the past, not you. We have a future together. Say it. Say you want me to stay.”

“Go, Alastair. Go to England and hit it out of the park. You’re the one who should be running GlobalNet not Michelle. This will show the board you’re the right choice. Don’t worry about me. I need some time to get myself straight. What you say makes total sense, but I need to restructure my brain and my heart.”

“You want me to wait? How long will this take?”

“I don’t know. But I want you to know, Alastair.” I kissed him, quick and sharp, on the lips. “I want you to know that I’ve been deliriously happy with you these past five months. Let me have this time and the space to clear my head of the ghosts of the past. I do love you, dear, dear Alastair. But go and do your job. I’ll be here…waiting for you this time.”

The marines have landed! We rushed the Santa Monica Pier along with the teeming millions marching across the cantilevered Pedestrian Bridge. I was flanked on all sides by Joey and Eliot, Philippa and Paul, and, of course, Clarissa snugly positioned against her daddy’s chest in a baby carrier, her eyes wide as saucers as she scanned the scene before us.

“Did Alastair give you all the details on his encounter with J.K. Rowling on that BBC chat show? Paul and I only saw short clips on YouTube.”

“Well, she wasn’t expecting the subject of transwomen to be brought up and she had no idea who Alastair was. She was backtracking so fast; her head was spinning. I think Alastair made her look like a fool—”

“Good luck GlobalNet getting dibs on any future Rowling properties,” Eliot chuckled.

“Who cares? She’s yesterday’s news. Speaking of Alastair, Joanne, when’s he returning from across the pond?” asked Joey as she was making funny faces to entertain Clarissa.

“Who knows? 3 months was the original ETA but there’s always loose ends that need to be tied up.”

“Have you made any progress on solving your dilemma?” asked Philippa.

“Do you mean have I wiped Elizabeth from my memory banks?”

“Mom just moved into your old loft this week. I’m supposed to fly out there next month. Do you want to come along?” Joey remained her mother’s greatest advocate. It was a sore subject between us, but I continued to resist her prodding.

“Joey, you’re the one who’s always preaching about letting the past go. Face forward, don’t look back. Right?”

“There are always exceptions to the rule…”

We passed underneath the arch that frames the entrance to Pacific Park, the Pier’s mini amusement area chock-a-block with rides for all ages. Paul and Eliot argued over who was paying for the unlimited ride wristbands when I stepped forward, swiped my card, and returned with five wristbands. Clarissa didn’t require one since, as a toddler, she was essentially considered an appendage of her daddy’s.

We tried every ride. The Pacific Wheel, The West Coaster (circling the perimeter of the Park), Shark Frenzy, Sea Dragon, Inkie’s Scrambler, Pacific Plunge, Seaside Swing, Frog Hoppers, Sea Planes, and several more. Clarissa enjoyed them all, giggling and shouting all the words she had in her vocabulary. Mama, dada, car, banana, juice…she even shouted out “Joanne” once or twice. Everyone had a great time except for Joey, who started looking a little green around the gills about the time we did the last Pacific Plunge.

We decided to have lunch at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, a popular franchise that served seafood and American fare. Nearby stood the Route 66 sign, denoting the terminal point of the legendary highway that, before 1986, threaded the western United States from downtown Chicago to the Santa Monica Pier. Along the boardwalk, buskers dotted the path every 50 feet or so. Joey dropped coins into the various hats, caps, and instrument cases as we walked through the gauntlet of guitar slinging singers and Sonny Rollins wannabes.

“I read somewhere that these street performers, if they find a good location, can make up to $500 on a busy summer weekend. Some of them probably live in better digs than we do,” Paul informed us.

“Oh my god!” We looked ahead of us where Joey was holding her head in her hands, peering at the scruffy busker, his eyes shut, strumming his guitar, and singing a cover version of John Martyn’s “May You Never.”

“Raffy? Is that you?” The busker stopped his performance and opened his eyes. An expression of shock and recognition passed over his bearded face. He picked up his guitar case and amp, and without a word, ran like an Olympic sprinter down the boardwalk.

“Joey, what’s going on?”

“Joanne, I think that was Raffy. Raffy Gonzalez!”

It was coming up Labor Day weekend. My little cohort here in Los Angeles was scattered to the winds. Paul and Philippa had taken Clarissa with them to spend a week at Paul’s parents’ Lake Tahoe summer house. Eliot was in Europe, probably sitting in a gondola in Venice right now. Joey was in New York City exploring the Tribeca neighborhood her mother had moved back into. She might be looking out the same floor to ceiling windows I often spent late afternoons in summer standing by, watching the busy streets below.

I had just unwrapped a package that came by the U.S. mail and discovered it was a chapbook of collected poems written by Emily Bradshaw, my late wife. It was published by Elizabeth’s small boutique press. That and painting was what occupied her days now that she had retired from her medical practice. Inside the front cover was a handwritten note from Elizabeth.

Dearest Joey,

E

There was a bookmark in the book that opened it to Emily’s poem, “The Saddest Song.” I remembered hearing Emily read it the first time I saw her in St. Paul’s Chapel. She was the last poet of the afternoon. Our eyes met at some point during her third poem and stayed locked together every time she looked up from her text. After the reading, I invited her and little Eliot to Tom’s Diner where we had coffee and I treated Eliot to a root beer float.