The Burnt House

“Burbank.” Marge checked her watch. “We can grab some lunch then attempt to wade through the corporate morass. I have a few names. By the way, the women I spoke with over the phone sounded young and beautiful.”

“Sure, dangle that carrot in front of me.” But Oliver was already on his feet, straightening his tie. “What the heck. I’m kind of hungry anyway.”

THE BOB HOPE Airport-formerly Hollywood-Burbank-was one of those smaller, suburban airfields that attempted to drain air traffic from LAX. Originally associated with Lockheed, the Hollywood-Burbank/Bob Hope was a convenient locale for the residents of the San Fernando Valley. The field was way more Burbank than Hollywood. For years, Burbank’s biggest claim to fame was NBC studios. Recently, the city had been trying to gentrify, with boutique theaters, funky vintage clothing shops, café restaurants, and tree-lined jogging paths. But the strip malls still abounded. So did the car dealerships, the outlets, and the cheap electronic wholesalers dealing out of storefronts.

Turning onto Hollywood Way, Oliver and Marge passed several business hotels, several franchise restaurants, and a business park of soulless glass structures-all windows but very little light. WestAir corporate offices were located in a bank building on the fifth floor. There was an adjacent parking lot for the structure and Oliver chose to park on the top level, even though there were plenty of spaces on the other three tiers. This was his usual habit. His rationale was that if the big earthquake should hit and the parking structure pancaked, his car, sitting on the top level, would stand a better chance of surviving.

Just as Marge pushed the elevator button, her cell rang. She looked at the phone’s window and the number staring back startled her.

It was Vega’s cell.

Vega, now living in one of Caltech’s dorms, called every night precisely at eight o’clock, come hell or high water. It didn’t matter where she was and it never mattered where Marge was. Vega called at eight because Marge had asked her to call every day. Not necessarily at eight o’clock, but that was Vega-a rule and a schedule for everything.

So her calling now signaled an emergency.

“I’ve got to take this,” Marge said.

Over the line, Vega’s voice was panicked.

“Oh, Mother Marge, I am so sorry to be bothering you. This is going to sound very silly, but I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell me, honey.”

“Mother Marge, I work with a man named Joshua Wong. He’s in my particles class. He’s a very nice man.” She took a deep breath. “He asked me to come with him to a party tonight. I was so shocked that I said yes.”

A grin stretched Marge’s mouth. “Honey, that’s wonderful.”

“Mother Marge, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just have a good time, Vega.”

“I don’t know how to have a good time. I don’t even know what a good time is.”

Her voice was one step away from tears. Marge knew her daughter’s radical statements were completely true. Vega had grown up in a cult: all work and absolutely no play. When the cult was raided and destroyed, the teen had been left an orphan. Marge had taken her in and they had developed a special relationship. Most definitely, the girl knew how to love, but no matter how much Marge tried, the kid was socially blunted.

“I don’t know how to act at a party. I don’t know what to say. Joshua is going to think that I’m stupid.”

“That’s not possible.”

“What do I say, Mother Marge? I am so sick and dizzy about this that I can’t work. I’m afraid to go but I’m also afraid to cancel. I like Joshua. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“First of all, no one could hate you.” She looked up and Oliver was making fake yawns. She glared at him. Then she took a deep breath.

Talk to Vega in a language she can understand.

“Are you in front of your computer?”

“I have my laptop, as always.”

“Okay. I’m going to give you some instructions. Write them down.”

“Right away, Mother Marge, I’m ready.”

Her voice had perked up at the sound of an assignment. “Clothing. Go out and buy a nice pair of black slacks and a black top. No turtleneck, Vega, make it a scoop neck.”

“Long-or short-sleeved?”

“Either one. Shoes can be anything black. I’d wear your combat boots. That would show that you’re not afraid to be an individual.”

“Okay, but they’re dirty. I’ll polish them. What else?”

“Do you still have that gold necklace I gave you?”

“Of course. I treasure it.”

“Don’t treasure it, wear it.”

“I will do that.”

“Fine. Do you have any perfume, Vega?”

“No.”

“Go buy some…wait, not perfume. Eau de cologne. It’s cheaper.”

“What kind?”

“Uh…any kind that smells good.” She glanced at Oliver, who was tapping his watch. “Now, instructions for the party. Listen closely.”

“I am listening.”

“Good. If you ask people questions and look like you’re interested in their answers, people will talk to you. People love to talk about themselves.”

“But what if they ask me a question, Mother Marge? That’s what I’m afraid of. Or rather…that’s of what I am afraid.”

Marge sighed. She’d been taught the king’s English and that made her weird. “Vega, if they ask about your background, tell them you were adopted at a young age by a single mother who was a cop. Usually, the word cop shuts people up. Do not tell them about the cult and Father Jupiter. If you do, they will ask you many, many questions, Vega. You don’t want that.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Sweetheart, just be your own sweet self. Talk about the weather, talk about politics, talk about your work. It’s a party of Caltech people, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll know some of the people and I bet quite a few will have some understanding of astrophysics and your current research.”

“I can ask them about their research?”

“Absolutely.”

A big sigh. “All right. I’m going to do this, Mother Marge. Where should I buy the clothing? Is the Gap suitable?”

“Yes, the Gap is fine.”

“Good.” Another exhalation. “Thank you so much. I feel so much better. My stomach pains are gone. I love you, Mother Marge.”

“I love you, too. Let me know how it goes.”

“Of course. I’ll call you at eight o’clock tonight.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re in the middle of the party, you don’t have to call me.”

“No, I will call you. If I don’t, I will be very anxious.”

“Then I’ll be waiting for your call. Now go shop.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Bye, honey.” She stowed the cell in her pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Some geek asked her out?”

“Some smart person asked her out,” Marge corrected.

“Is she freaking out?”

“Vega never freaks out. But she is a little nervous.”

“How old is she?”

“In her twenties.” She glared at Oliver. “No wiseacre comments, please. Just be happy for her, okay?”

Oliver looped his arm around Marge. “I am happy for her. And I’m happy for you. It’s going to be fine.”

“I sure hope so. I just want her to be happy. I want her to have a nice, normal social experience. God, I hope it goes well and he’s not a jerk.”

“I’m sure he’s a very nice young man. And even if he is a jerk, that’s part of the experience, too, right?”

“I suppose so.” She smiled at him. “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t protect her anymore. She’s an adult.”

“Exactly. Now take a deep breath and please stop biting your nails. We have to con an airline into thinking we’re important.”