Jay has passed away, and I still feel a sad tug that he’s not at the door to greet us. But Mike Anderson, Jay’s longtime partner, runs the place now and has saved a booth for us. In a world that’s shifted under my feet entirely too much lately, it’s comforting to walk across the peanut-shell–littered floor and see that nothing has changed. The tables are still covered in red-checkered cloths, and Christmas tree lights remain strung year-around across the awning over the bar. A handwritten slate with the day’s specials hangs on a hook next to a boxy TV set mounted on the wall. No flat-screen here.
There’s no need to check the menu. Jack orders for both of us: a bottle of Cabernet, clam chowder, medium-rare pepper steaks, and banana home fries. Toasted garlic bread, hot from the oven, arrives with a retro dish of carrot sticks, celery, and black olives. It’s not until the wine arrives that I realize Jack and I have been holding hands since we sat down. We relinquish one hand each to raise our glasses in a toast.
“To finally getting you here,” Jack says and laughs. “Cheers!”
“To Jay and being here with you. Cheers yourself!” I know I’m grinning, and I can’t stop. But so is Jack. We sip our wine, not taking our eyes off each other. I’ve been grinning since Jack called and asked me if I was free for dinner tonight. I hadn’t seen him since Donna and I were whisked out of Mexico, but he’d warned me he would be busy wrapping things up. That was fine with me. I had two more scenes to film before I was wrapped at the studio. I wanted to start fresh with Jack, and I sensed that was his desire, too.
I also needed some breathing space to sort things out with Donna. I offered to move out, but she refused to hear of it—thank God. In the end, we knocked back a bottle of good red in her garden gazebo and decided a little honesty was probably necessary to keep our friendship on firm footing. Since I don’t have much more to hide from Donna, I agreed. Besides, two women who have seen each other in Pepto-Bismol pink and sea-foam green shorty nighties are pretty much bonded for life.
There was also the little problem of dealing with press coverage from our escapade south of the border. Donna, ever the sophisticate when it comes to these matters, insisted some self-promoting lemonade could be squeezed out of what I considered to be very foul, past-their-sell-date lemons. “Been there, don’t want to go there again,” I told her, reminding her I had already shared front-page headlines with my con-man husband.
In the end, in a town without much in the way of print media, where hard news is hard to come by, Sid finessed a heart-wrenching tale about his blonde, beautiful wife—an innocent tourist in Mexico—murdered by warring drug cartels. The story grabbed headlines and proved excellent fodder for cable coverage. Clips of Carol in her most significant role as star of Zombie Aliens from Outer Space played repeatedly. Sid, buffed to a sheen (and with a plea deal in his pocket), stage-managed the coverage brilliantly, sparing both himself and me from undue press investigation. Carol’s funeral, a subdued affair by Hollywood standards, took place the morning I wrapped my final scene on Soundstage 9. Alas, I was unable to attend the graveside service.
The one completely unexpected kicker was the phone call from Steve Dorfman, who rang just as I was about to hurl myself into the shower before meeting Jack for dinner. UNKNOWN blinked on my caller ID.
“Miss Barnes? Hi, this is Steve Dorfman. I’m a researcher on Jeopardy—your agent might have mentioned me? First, I’m a really big fan and was hoping to get you to sign a photo for me on Saturday, but you left the hotel early. Anyway, you were a category a few years back, and I’d love to do something again on Jinx.”
“For Jeopardy? With Alex Trebek?”
“That’s it. Since the twentieth anniversary of Holiday is coming up, I thought it would be great to throw in a few trivia questions about the show. You game, as we say?”
“Sure, and you must know Alex Trebek pretty well, right? I’d be happy to give you whatever you need if you could arrange for a friend and me to watch a taping. Could you do that? We’d love to meet Alex.”
“Of course. In fact, I’ll show you around our offices. I think you’d be astounded at the research we do here.”
Mission accomplished. I’ve finally arranged a meeting with Alex Trebek—and a visit to the Jeopardy research office, the wellspring for all those questions Donna knows the answers to and shouts at her TV screen. This should make up for all the jeopardy I’ve put her through.
By the time Jack swings by to pick me up, I’m feeling as spunky as a puppy off leash. I bound out to his BMW, pleased to see he’s put the top down. I don’t give a damn about my hair, or much else. It’s late February, but Southern California delivers on its promise of sunny skies, warm weather—and I’m back to believing in promises.
It was still early enough to go for a walk on the beach before dinner. We still had a few things to clear up—or rather, to put behind us. We parked along Pacific Coast Highway and strolled barefoot on an almost deserted beach. We stayed close to the hard-packed sand near the waterline, occasionally dancing back to dodge a drift of foamy water. Jack took my hand, entwining his fingers in mine. I only needed a few bottom-line answers, but I listened to him without interruption.
The gist, according to Jack, is that in a tight economy, with mortgage loans hard to come by, scams bilking the desperate and unsuspecting are on an upswing. Paul could have laid low when his development scheme unraveled, but that wasn’t his style. He hooked up with a Russian syndicate targeting homeowners with forged documents that looked legitimate.
“It’s almost impossible to trace,” Jack said. “Internet webs with 800 numbers and sham bank accounts facilitate wire transfers to Mexico that inevitably involve drug cartels. Piecing it together is difficult and time consuming.”
“And Paul?”
“He was in WITSEC, the witness-protection program. But under these circumstances, he’ll be prosecuted.”
“Will I have to testify?”
The smooth flow of words came to a halt. I was about to repeat my question, when Jack said quietly, “Against your husband? No, you are not required under law to do so.”
Two thoughts sprang to mind. First, I wouldn’t be filing for divorce anytime soon. Second, if I had been made to testify, I’d probably be eligible for WITSEC myself. What could be worse than living the life of a fugitive again, on the run, fearing strange phone calls and notes on my windshield, when my only crime was being a victim? Rage welled, and in that moment I determined that whatever happened from then on, I’d stand my ground. No one was going to steal away my life ever again.
Jack squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?”
“Never better. I could go for that pepper steak now. How about you?”
He swung me around, holding me so tightly that my toes danced in the wet sand. We kissed long and hard, then sweetly and gently, stopping often on the walk back to the car to kiss again. I glanced across at the kaleidoscope of lights blinking in the amusement arcades along the Santa Monica Pier. It occurred to me that after dinner at Chez Jay, Jack and I could stroll down the pier and take a ride on the Ferris wheel. Wrapped in each other’s arms, we’d swing high above the glittering sea and look out on coastline, lit up and sparkling like fresh-tossed diamonds.
The Morning Show, Jeopardy… I was definitely on a nostalgia roll even as I looked ahead. It would be good to get out of town for a few days—and to appear on a nationally broadcast talk show to remind another generation that I’m still alive. Thank God I’ve just come off something fresh, a pilot for a new show. Of course, I’ll also be expected to do magic tricks with the top hat. Jinxed again!
Deepest appreciation to Cynthia Manson, my agent, for her unfailing support and encouragement. Special thanks to Caitlin Alexander for superb editorial guidance and to Kelli Martin for believing in the project and making this book happen. Abiding gratitude to Rodger Claire, a dear friend who provided me with unstinting advice and assistance.
Hugs to my Brown Bag Book Club pals Diana Doyle, Katrina Leffler, Angela Movass
aghi, Marian Power, and Raleigh Robinson. Many thanks to my friends and colleagues who offered encouragement and assisted with their professional expertise: Candalaria Aquino, Heather Cameron, Cheryl Carrington, Suzanne Childs, Sunnie Choi, Diane Clehane, Connell Cowan, Patrick De Blasi, Sandy Dumont, Jeff Fellman, Jo-an Jenkins, Bridget Hedison, Harry Hennig, Ben Martin, Robert Masello, Sheila McGrath, Mary and Chuck Rapaport, Mia and Peter Sasdy, Lucinda Smith, and Susan Sullivan.
Loving thanks to my mother, Hilda Kringstad, an avid reader and my unabashed booster, who offered wonderful comments after reading the first draft. Heartfelt thanks as always to my husband, Geoff Miller, for his inspiration, love, and delicious sense of humor.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Douglas Kirkland
Kathryn Leigh Scott is best known for creating four characters, including Josette du Pres, vampire bride to Barnabas Collins, on the cult soap opera Dark Shadows. She is the author of several Dark Shadows memorabilia books. Kathryn’s first work of fiction, Dark Passages, is an affectionate nod to her years on that ’60s series and encapsulates the romance and innocence of JFK’s Camelot era. Kathryn is also the author of The Bunny Years, a memoir covering her years as a Bunny in the New York City club, which includes interviews with other former Bunnies. As a publisher, Kathryn founded Pomegranate Press, which offers nonfiction and entertainment titles.
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