Page 74 of Sleeper: The Palisades Edition

“We should get on the road,” I insist.

“I brought the perfume sample,” Willa says, pulling a small box out of her purse and handing it to Margo. “You can try it out for a few days, let me know what you think.”

“Oh, look at this pretty box. How cute!”

Willa gives her a folded-up piece of fancy letter paper. “Here’s a list of the ingredients.”

“Thank you.” Margo holds the paper up to her nose. “Oh my God—did you put my fragrance on the paper? Is this it?”

I notice Willa wincing when Margo says the words “my fragrance.” “Yes, I did. It is.”

“Willa, I love it!”

“I want to smell that.” Margo holds the paper out for me to get a whiff, and gosh darnit, it somehow smells like some idealized version of Margo. I don’t know howWilla did that without actually spending time with her. “That’s amazing.”

“Willa—I’m so excited. We’ll talk more later—you’ll come by to pick up the kids, and I’ll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork by then.”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind if I talk to Shane about the kids for just one second? Have so much fun at the Ranch.”

“Thanks. Bye, kids!” she yells out through the open doors.

“The Ranch, huh?” Margo says to me in a low voice, eyes sparkling. “Pretty special.”

“Yes, she is.”

Once Willa is inside the Land Rover, she gets a stern look on her face and says, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Shane. Word has gotten out. I keep in touch with Jill, you know.”

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Abby’s mom. She told me about the zoo.”

“So?”

“So—she’s the nanny. You know how those moms gossip. I’m not mad. It just better not affect the kids.”

“You mean the way you snuck around with Landon while you were married to me didn’t affect the kids? Thanks for the tip, Marg. I’ll try real hard to meet your high standards. Make sure they practice their karate stance and punches. Oh, and Willa’s been teaching Summer songs fromMy Fair Lady, so she talks like Eliza Doolittle now.Have a great visit.” I call out through the open doors too. “See you on Saturday, kids!”

I lean in to give Willa a kiss when I turn on the engine while Margo is still standing there and pull awayfrom her a second before the kids run out to wave good-bye.

I will miss those little people, but there’s a private hot tub, an outdoor rain shower, and a king-size bed with Italian linens waiting for us, ninety minutes away.

I don’t knowwhy it’s so important to me to stake my claim as the first guy to do certain things for Willa, but being the first person to drive her up the 101 between Ventura and Santa Barbara felt good and it was fun—almost as good and fun as being the first guy to get a blow job from her in the shower. Driving her down the olive tree and lavender bush-lined lane that leads up to the front desk cottage of the resort as she leans out the window to inhale the scented air is a singular delight. Because I knew she’d love it, and I know I’m the only person who’d ever think to bring her here.

“Shane! It’s so pretty here!”

“This is just the beginning.”

I chose the accommodations, but my business manager’s office made the reservation. I’ve been checking into hotels under the name Milton Shine for the past couple of years—an alias I came up with when I was sleep-deprived, but it amuses me that it sounds like I’m a producer from the golden age of Hollywood or a vaudeville comedian in the Catskills. I can’t help but crack up when the front desk clerk calls me “Mr. Shine.” Willa is outside, taking pictures of the gardens and the view of the Santa Ynez mountains. The property’s designed like a French country garden, but every cottagehas its own cobblestone parking spaces and total privacy. The Gardenia Cottage that I booked is right next to a little orange grove, and it has a view of the wildflower garden. I called yesterday to make sure the orange trees are in bloom—don’t ask me what kind of strings I would have pulled to get them to bloom if they weren’t, but I definitely would have made more calls.

Fortunately, orange blossoms are abundant this time of year, and as soon as I open the French doors, Willa dashes through the 1800 square foot cottage, through the bedroom, to the enclosed back patio with her nose raised. “Orange blossoms! Jasmine! Geranium! Lavender! Rosemary! Oh, Shane!Holy shit! Do you smell that?” She spins around, runs back to me, and leaps. I catch her, hiking her up so her legs can wrap around my waist. “They’re all aphrodisiac scents!” she says, peppering my neck and face with kisses.

“I don’t think I need any help in that department, but it does smell nice.”

“We’re going to have to be quiet,” she whispers into my ear as I carry her to the bed.

“Why?”