ST. CROIX LIVES IN LA JOLLA

First of all, all hail Wallace Cunningham. 
Thank you for this inspirition:

The Razor Residence, La Jolla, CA.



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Here's the inspired excerpt from Unrequited:d

December 31, 2009

“Jesus.” 
Cress and I pulled up in front of what looked like a slanted off ramp. Below us was Blacks Beach, next to us were edges of cliffs and further down below the house, or north, was Torrey Pines. In front of us a heath of oceanfront and at least three, maybe four acres. We could see the ocean only because the Wallace Cunningham designed museum had enough glass to peer through. Croix lived in a fucking museum.
We were spending New Year’s with St. Croix in La Jolla, where she would meet Cress for the first time. For the last three years she lived in Europe, wrote, and wore black leather and taffeta haut couture dresses while smoking at Le Georges in Paris. While wearing those dresses, she dated counts. Croix and her latest count purchased the Razor Residence (museum, residence, whatever) last year: a steel, concrete and—needless to say—glass structure occupying 11,000 square feet of jeweled cliffs. It belonged in an Iron Man movie. Maybe it was in an Iron Man movie, I wouldn’t know.
“Dearheart! You look so gorgeous, and so happy.” She greeted us as Cress opened up the back of the Range Rover. The 180-degree panoramic views of Southern Californian ocean lit up the entire structure and driveway, almost blinding you with white.
“Thank you. You look incredible,” I told her. We hugged long enough for a flock of gulls to fly over the house. She did look incredible; her vibe: St. Tropez/Jackie O./dash of La Jolla socialite. Metallic and buttercup yellow Pucci dress. Sally Hershberger extended, styled, and flaxen-colored hair. Rings and bangles bought on Bond Street in London and Via Condotti in Rome. She floated towards Cress with arms open. Not wide, but a distance that made it clear,
Maybe by Monday you’ll get full width. 
3 p.m.
St. Croix dragged me to bottles of wine and sparkling waters in the living room, which spanned both indoors and out. 
“Baby, what the hell has happened to you?” She bubbled as she asked.
“I don’t hate the latest B!”
“I see that.” She glanced at the Count and Cress smoking cigars on chaises by the infinity pool. If you could call it that; the extraterrestrialized hole filled with olive/silver/blue water didn’t look like a “pool” at all.
“Your pool looks like Pac-Man,” I told her.
Croix surveyed Cress. “Cute. Handsome, actually. And I won’t know till after the 
weekend but I’m hoping not a dork, and not a fucknut. Again, won’t know till after the weekend. You surprise me, Jan.”
“He’s kind of a dork.”
“Not surprised, and I bet you let him come to you, right?”
“I guess I did.” Surprised at my own answer.
I never thought about it. In fact I hadn’t thought about what Childless Brad Pitt warned me of years ago. 
“Told you.”
“I still don’t like the theory; are we 16? Please. So the Count pursued you?”
“Of course. He saw me on the Norway count’s yacht in Capri and within two days 
I was on his yacht in Capri.”  
“From?”
“Hungary. He’s the Hungary count.” 
We walked toward one of the glass doors from the living room. My long, blow-dried, ombré light brown/blonde hair blew in the breeze like an enlivened palm tree. A cliff jutted out, their only neighbor to the right. Croix’s stories (Capri? Yacht? Counts?!) were dreamy and extraordinary, but she still maintained her Santa Barbara starving (but never vodka thirsty) student charm. We both did. We were humbled and blessed. I promise. Two adjectives I would never have predicted to implant into my life. 
“Doesn’t matter how old they are, Jan, they’re hunters. And think of it this way, he found you, you didn’t find him. Worlds away from Fat Fuck.”
“Short.”
“Right, Short Fat Fuck.”
“The craziest part is, the other part of that theory, the “You only want what you can’t have” bullshit, I don’t have that. It’s almost the opposite. I wanted him even more when I realized he wanted me back.”
“You’re growin’ up girl. My baby’s all growed up.” She pulled me in and kissed my head.
A couple of hours before we rang in 2010, Croix and Cress ventured out onto the top floor of the “deck.” The non-deck was also the roof.
“You’re not my first interrogation,” Cress said jokingly.
“You’ve known January six months?” 
Croix probably thinks he’s a dork for saying “interrogation.”
“Dating for nine, 10, known her for a year or more.”
“Job? Family? Everyday bullshit?”
He laughed a true laugh, which was really an exhale of air from his nose 
combined with a smile. “Agent, two kids, an ex-wife.”
“Agent? An insurance agent?” 
Cress smiled, holding his scotch and peered left to Mission Beach and San 
Diego.
They chatted and laughed a few more minutes. St. Croix put a hand on his 
shoulder before St. Tropez/Jackie O./dash of La Jolla socialite. Metallic and buttercup yellow Pucci dress. Sally Hershberger extended, styled, and flaxen-colored hair. Rings and bangles bought on Bond Street in London and Via Condotti in Rome whisked away.
“Be whatever she needs you to be. She’ll take care of you if you let her, 
but be there for her. You’re lucky. I promise you, you are.”
“I intend to.” They faced each other and Cress let go of the glass railing. 
“Don’t fuck it up. All she has ever sought in life is love.” 










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