In the 8 years that I lived in L.A, I fell in love with one house. On a cul-de-sac, it was Hacienda-style, white stucco, ubiquitous red-tiled roof. Besieged by wild rye, midnight bluebeard, and desert mallow, rosy brick pavers directed us to the front door. Sky-high elephant ears guarded.
My first husband was a fashion designer who created stage wear for some of the most prominent performers in music. One particular day, he and I drove over to Brentwood from our home in Tarzana to meet with one of them, a well-known guitarist who also happened to be a trusted friend. Oftentimes with well-known clients, I only felt like a mirror to offer reflection, but not with Cassie or Scott.
I was enchanted by their bungalow. We spent most of the day gabbing in the back courtyard where a guesthouse, serving as Scott’s recording studio, extended on the other side of the pool. Red-brick pavers continued here, casement windows wide open. The free-formed pool shimmered as we chatted comfortably, my one-year-old daughter babbling happily in my lap. Cassie was a gracious hostess.
I returned a few times more, vivid memories of sitting at the kitchen counter, urging Scott and Cassie’s children to do their homework. My husband and I were there once with our baby for a Christmas holiday party, where Scott tossed my coat on a monasterial twin bed in a side bedroom. There was something about the room that entranced me. Saltillo tile, beamed ceilings. Serene. Tranquil.
Shows how much I know.
It was the room where Marilyn Monroe took her life in 1962.
