asked a man working on the grounds where the closest grocery store was. He spoke broken English mixed with Spanish words, but I remembered enough from my high school Spanish class to communicate with him. The supermarket was a little more than three long blocks away. When I got there and saw all the delicious produce, I wanted to fill my cart, but thinking about the long walk home kept me from going wild. It was already hot and sticky, with only little puffs of clouds lazily sliding toward the horizon. A nice day for a stroll but not for lugging groceries around.
A handsome young man with dark brown hair was just turning in his apron at the next counter when I checked out, and I caught him looking my way as I was paying the cashier. As I walked from the store, struggling not to spill anything out of my two bags and hoping the bottoms wouldn't burst, I heard someone behind me say, "You look like you could use a third arm."
I turned to see the handsome young man from the store. In the sunlight, his hair held hints of copper. His laughing eyes were hazel with long eyelashes. Although he wasn't what I would call muscular, he was well proportioned, sinewy, sleek, his face very masculine, especially around his mouth.
"I could carry one of those for you," he offered. "I won't steal your food," he added with a soft smile when I hesitated.
"How do you know where I'm going?" I asked. "The Egyptian Gardens, right? I saw you there yesterday. I was at the pool when you went by. I live there, too," he said. "I'm walking that way anyway," he added, "going home." He shrugged when I didn't reply. "Light's changing."
"What?" "We can cross now," he said, indicating the traffic had stopped.
"Oh."
He reached out and took one of my bags.
"Better hurry up," he said. "This is one of the shortest lights in L.A."
He grabbed my elbow and gently directed me across the street. We walked quickly and didn't speak again until we were on the sidewalk.
"I don't blame your hesitating to accept my offer. I don't trust my groceries with strangers either," he said with that silly, impish grin again. "Strange women are always approaching me and offering to carry one of my bags."
"Very funny."
"My name's Mel Jensen."
"Melody . . . Simon," I said.
"There. Now we're no longer strangers," he quipped. "I can carry your groceries all the time."
"Just because we exchanged names doesn't mean we're not still strangers," I replied and he turned very serious.
"You're right. Besides, around here, you're never sure the person is giving you his or her real name anyway," he said with a tiny turn in the corner of his mouth, and I felt myself turn a bright crimson. He was looking straight ahead, so he didn't notice. "But that's my real name and I intend to make it a household word," he bragged, now turning to see my reaction.
"What are you selling?" I asked and he laughed, the light in his eyes getting even brighter. He paused when he saw I wasn't kidding. "You're serious? You think I'm a salesman?"
"Well, you said household, so I thought . . ."
"What are you doing in L.A.?" he asked, suddenly very curious and suspicious. I looked away before replying.
"I'm visiting my sister," I said.
"Sister? Simon," he thought aloud. "Oh, you're Gina Simon's sister?"
"Yes," I said. I never thought of myself as a good liar and I had doubts that I would be able to fool people the way Mommy and Richard Marlin wanted. I was positive people would see through me or hear the hesitation in my voice and know immediately I wasn't telling the truth, but if Mel Jensen saw my deceit, he ignored it.
"Of course," he said nodding, "you two do look a lot alike. I suppose you want to be an actress and a model, too?"
"Not really, but my sister's agent thinks I can be. He says he's going to try to get me a job while I'm here," I replied.
"Stranger things have happened. The doorman at the Four Seasons got offered a small part in a television pilot. The pilot was picked up and he got a recurring role in it. Now he's an actor who drives up to the Four Seasons in his own Mercedes and has doors opened for him."
"Are you an actor, too?"
"No, I'm a dancer, jazz, interpretive, that sort of thing. However, if they made musicals the way they did when Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were alive, I'd be in the movies," he claimed. "Anyway, this job packing groceries and stocking shelves is just something to keep a roof over my head while I fight the good fight. I share an apartment with two other guys, who both happen to be actors. Aren't you and your sister from the Midwest someplace?"
"Yes," I said quickly, hoping he wouldn't press me for details. I didn't know all the lies Mommy and Richard had spread about themselves.
"I'm from Portland."