And now Warner Bros. was making a movie about him. I’d already met with the executives last year and agreed to consult on the movie script. I wasn’t privy to all the information about my uncle’s life, but I was confident I knew enough. I was the keeper of his belongings—awards, albums, documents, and his guitars.

The first meeting with the film producers was both a classic rock love-fest and a contentious boxing match between the biographers and the scriptwriters. The movie manuscript took over a year to come to fruition—but I read it last month and couldn’t be prouder. Rather than be involved in the day-to-day workings of producing a movie, I released my rights and decided to let them do what they do best. I felt comfortable with the direction the movie was taking and work had grown crazy with so many new demands now that Damon was overseeing Sound Music, I just didn’t have the time to dedicate to it. My attorney wanted me to add an addendum that any major re-writes had to be approved by me, but I didn’t think that was necessary. Last I heard Brett Hildebrandt had been named the director, and I was happy to know they had hired one of the best.

I have to admit the idea of Jagger playing the role of my uncle intrigues me. Jagger is taller, much thinner, has darker hair, and honestly, better looking, but he does exude a similar confidence to my uncle. His looks could be downplayed. And for some reason I felt a certainty that beneath his lean, long body was a tower of strength—the same strength my uncle exuded. Shoving my own insecurities aside I decide that I’ll help him.

The beach parking lot is deserted and just as I put the car in reverse, I get a text message from a New York number.

Are we on for lunch tomorrow?

Assuming it’s Jagger, I respond quickly: I haven’t decided yet.

How can I persuade you?

Let me pick the place.

Done. So I’ll pick you up at noon?

No. I’ll meet you.

That’s not how dates work.

I didn’t think this was a date.

Time seems suspended as I wait for a reply. Staring at my illuminated phone, I jump, startled when my phone rings from the same number that just texted me. The thunder in my pulse makes my finger shake as I slide it across the screen.

“Hello,” I answer.

“I would have called you to begin with, but I wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake,” a low sultry voice says through the line.

“I’m not even home yet,” I answer, looking at the small silver watch on my right wrist.

“It’s almost 1:30. I thought it was an hour drive? Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” I laugh. “I just had a stop to make. I’m heading home now.” I ease my foot off the brake and start to pull out of the parking lot.

“An oil change?” he jokes.

“No, definitely not an oil change.”

“Well, when you’re in need—you let me know. I just might be able to hook you up with an excellent service center.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So about lunch tomorrow. I thought you should know—I really want to see you again. It’s not just about your uncle.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, sounding incredibly stupid, but not knowing how else to respond. I’ve never been asked out on an afternoon date. Then, I hear voices in the background.

“Is that Dahlia?”

“No. She and River went to bed. It’s just me, the TV, and the dead bodies.”

We both laugh and the sound of his laugh makes me laugh harder. Once our laughter fades he asks, “So I’ll pick you up then?”

“No, let’s meet at the Loft in Laguna. Say one.”

“Do you not want to ride in my car?”

“How’d you guess?” I tease.

“I knew it.”

“No really, it’s just easier that way.”

“Okay, for this time. You need to get your comfort level up. I get it.”

And he did. What could I say to that?

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. What is it?” I manage to sound relaxed when I’m anything but.

“Do you ever take the top down?”

I’m not the joking kind but I know exactly how to answer. “No. Never. In fact I’m not even sure I know how.”

A beat. A pause. I can tell he’s thinking. He’s been doing this all night—asking me a question and then quietly processing my answer.

“Jagger, I’m pulling into my neighborhood, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I hope so, Alice,” he responds before the line goes dead.

There’s a line from Alice in Wonderland that tugs at my thoughts. The quote says something about being different yesterday than you are today and it strikes me as overly philosophical to have come from a fairy tale written in the 1800s, and yet it’s completely on the mark. Signaling, I take a right and head toward my house tucked deep away in Laguna Canyon. Easing past the community pool and the tennis courts, I come to a stop in front of the attached garage of my cape cod–style townhouse. My home backs up to a wooded hill and has a beautiful private patio where in the mornings I could sip my tea and listen to the birds sing while the sunlight filters through the large trees—I could, but I never have.

The garage door lifts and my car fits perfectly in its immaculately clean space. After walking into the house, I flick on the overhead lights in the kitchen. I set the brown bag on the counter and peer inside. A single cupcake sits with a Post-it note stuck to the side of the bag that says, “I really am sorry I stole your cupcakes. Please forgive me.” Closing the bag, I remember Jagger’s advice and put it in the refrigerator with a grin. Then I look around at my kitchen—striking espresso hardwood cabinetry trimmed in brass, shiny old world black appliances, and beautiful marble counters top it . . . the look is one of old Hollywood elegance. I passed on purchasing this place after my initial walk-through because the all-white walls and nautical theme was more than I could bear. But nothing else I looked at compared to the location and layout of this place. So two years ago I made the decision to buy it. But before I moved in, I planned out every detail of the remodel with my designer and I must say the results were fabulous. Yet, sadly, I realize, as I look at my Herman Miller barstools, that the only person to have ever seen it is Dahlia. I have allowed work to occupy my life and socializing has lost its place.

I walk into the living room and just admire it. Cameron, my designer, steered me toward using hues of burnished metals and lustrous minerals—malachite, onyx, rose gold, silver, and copper. A metallic swivel armchair is strategically set by the large picture window showcasing the wooden hills behind it. A Murano glass chandelier rests above the polished travertine cocktail table flanked by twin velveteen sofas of which I’ve only ever sat on one. A gas fireplace centers the room and a TV hangs above it, neither of which I can recall the last time I switched on. Finally, an old speakeasy bar I’ve never had a drink at burdens one corner. Everything is perfectly coordinated.

The staircase is fitted with a very safe iron railing and I take the steps one at a time, a glass of water in one hand and my purse on my shoulder. Upstairs are the master suite and guest bedroom, which I’ve turned into my office and furnished with a marble and brass desk, two plush burnt orange chairs with brushed nail heads placed perfectly in front of a floor to ceiling window, and an old wooden file cabinet that belonged to my uncle. This is the room where I spend most of my time. Glancing around I think it would probably be good for me to go through my uncle’s things. I’d moved them from a storage unit I’d had since college into this room’s closet and file cabinet. But I’ve never really gone through them.

The lamps cast a soft glow around my bedroom as I enter. The custom rose-petal colored wallpaper reflecting off the mirrored wall that includes the sliding doors of my closet makes the room look like a silk lined jewelry box and it’s my favorite place in the house.

Once I’ve pulled out a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a tank top from my drawer, I consider skipping my nighttime routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth. It’s late and I’m tired, but I just can’t do it. Walking into the room that reminds me most of my grandmother, a starlet who graced the silver screen, I admire the surroundings. It’s sheathed in glass tiles that remind me of her golden colored hair. The light fixtures of mottled glass and hammered metal punctuate the double sinks and the artful bronze knobs. My grandmother was a collector of costume jewelry. Her collection, now mine, was vast and I used some of the pieces to decorate this room. Her favorite broach holds back the shower curtain and glass beads sewn onto panels of silk stream down the window.

Looking into one of the large oval bathroom mirrors, I pull my yoga clothes off and stare. My uncle always said I looked like my grandmother and judging from pictures, I do. My prominent cheekbones are the same as hers, but my overbite was taken care of with braces where hers only leant to her offbeat beauty. I have a few curves that I work hard to keep from getting bigger. I tug my burnished golden hair down and let it flow over my shoulders in waves. It’s long enough to cover my breasts. I never wear it down but in every picture I’ve seen of my grandmother, her hair is always down and draped to one side.

A yawn overtakes me and I hurry through my nighttime routine until I’m finally lying under the silken coverlet of my bed. Before shutting off the light, I pick up the picture on my night table—Ava Daniels, my grandmother, was a striking woman. She was born in Brooklyn to wealthy parents. She attended finishing school in Switzerland and met my grandfather there. He was much older than she and passed away shortly after my uncle was born. After he died she brought her boys back to the United States and embarked on a career on Broadway before she was signed to a contract with 20th Century Fox.