by Shannon Hale
Incubator, prize dairy cow (when nursing), and She-Who-Motivates-with-Popsicles
BEST FEATURES:
The enchantingly brown shade of her hair, sturdy glasses, and her, uh . . . her shapely kneecaps
READERS’ RATING (OF HER LASAGNA):
Superfine!
She wasn’t hideous. There had been that unfortunate hairdo that she’d sported far too long—the bad corkscrew perm with lots of bangs curled and heavily sprayed like some Star Trek alien ridged forehead. But a couple of years back, her friend Melissa had dragged her to a salon for a bad-hair intervention.
Bless you, Melissa. Bless you.
Still, there was no way Felix was giving her a lift because he was attracted to her—unless he had a fetish for hugely pregnant women. But she wasn’t getting creep-o vibes. In fact, even in the silence, she didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable.
Hey, that was another strange thing—they should be trying to make stilted small talk and squirming at gaps in the conversation, not riding at ease. She watched him as he stared out his window, trying to see in him the character of Calvin from Rattled Cages. But the man beside her wasn’t Calvin. She was riding with a stranger.
However, there was something intensely familiar—more than just what she knew of him from the screen. There was something about the way they’d been conversing, especially in the elevator.
“I know it’s a stupid question,” she said, “but is there any way we knew each other when we were younger?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“You seem . . . familiar.”
“Yes,” he said tiredly.
“No, not from your movies, you doofus. Something else.”
“Well . . . you do resemble my great-aunt Hydrangea.”
“Stunning, vivacious, and witty, was she?”
“Hydrangea? She was, er, she was . . . Hullo, what do you know? Booze!” He opened a hatch and pulled out a minibottle and two glasses—holding one up to her with a questioning look.
“No thanks.” She pointed at her belly as if it were a badge for the Women’s Temperance Society.
“Right. I don’t know how you survive for nine months.”
“I don’t drink alcohol even when I’m not in the family way. Never have.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“Never drank once in all your life? That’s impossible.”
“It’s partly a religious decision. I’m a Mormon. From Utah, you know.”
He stared, mouth slightly agape. “How many wives does your husband know.”have?”
“Oh please. Mormons aren’t polygamists.”
“Yes they are,” the driver piped up. He wore one of those cliché chauffeur hats low over his eyes. “Everyone knows. The men have loads of wives, make them all wear bonnets.”
Becky sighed and gave her speech. “Some Mormons were polygamists in the nineteenth century, but they gave up the practice in 1890. There are small religious groups around the Utah area who practice polygamy, but they have nothing to do with the LDS Church.”
“That’s not what I saw on TV. Mormons, they said. Polygamists. Loads of ’em.”
“I am a Mormon, from Utah, lived there my entire thirty-four years, and I’ve never met a polygamist.”
The driver straightened the Mets plush baseball that dangled from the rearview mirror. “You must not get out much.”
“Yes, that must be it.”
“It’s tragic really,” Felix said. “She’s agoraphobic and hadn’t been out of the house in, what was it, fifteen years?”
“Sixteen,” Becky said.
“Right, sixteen. Last time was when Charles and Diana wed.”
“You’re thinking of the last time I leaned out the window. The last time I actually left the house was for a sale at Sears.”
“Of course, the day you bought those trousers. Sixteen years later, here she is! And in the same trousers, but still . . . We’re so proud of our little Becky!” Felix patted her head. “You dug deep, but you found the courage to step out of that door.”
“I did like you told me, Felix. I just shut my eyes and chanted, ‘The polygamists are not going to eat me, they’re not going to eat me,’ and I wasn’t afraid anymore.”
“She is a rare example of true bravery. Don’t you agree?”
“Uh, yeah,” said the driver. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Becky smiled politely. “Go Mets.”
The driver snorted.
Becky sneaked a glance at Felix before returning her gaze to the window. That whole exchange had felt as unaccountably familiar as Felix’s presence. She had an ah-ha moment as she thought, Augie Beuter! That’s who Felix reminded her of—well, actually, the two men looked and acted about as much alike as Margaret Thatcher and Cher. But the way she and Felix had followed each other’s lead, the way their conversation fl owed together, tuned for an audience, that’s how she and Augie used to be. He’d been her assistant editor on the high school paper and partner in debate club. Their five-year best friendship ended when they both married other people. Augie Beuter—she hadn’t seen him since her wedding, and she still missed him.
When the car stopped at the hotel, there was some fumbling with wallets. Felix assured her that Bub and Hubbub had paid for the limo, but then he added his own tip in cash. Becky protested that she should pay the tip, and they were still arguing about it after the car had driven away.
“Just take five bucks,” Becky said. At times Augie had been irritating too. “I swear I’m more stubborn than you.”
“I’ve already paid. It’s your duty to be gracious.”
“Argh!” She stuffed the money back in her wallet and grumbled as they walked. “Why’d you have to say ‘be gracious’? Hitting below the belt. I don’t like being a freeloader. I’m not a mooch. I’m—”
“Mooch?”
“—capable of paying my own way, and with you of all people, Felix Callahan. You’ll think I just wanted to ride with you because you’re famous and rich, and that’s not it at all.”
He held open the door to the hotel. “Then why did you want to ride with me?”
She ducked under his arm, then stopped, trying to find a reasonable answer to his question.
“Did I say I ‘wanted to’?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Really?”
“Well, your verbiage did imply it.”
“Huh. I don’t know. I don’t know why.”
She became conscious that she was close enough to smell his cologne (a light sandalwood), so she hurried inside.
And there they were. At the hotel. This would be good-bye. She was in one way anxious to get away from him and the awkward drumming of her heart, and in another way a little sorry. She really did miss Augie.
“Well, thanks. For the ride. And good luck.” She held out her hand.
He gave her hand a light squeeze. “All right then. Au revoir.”
She did a half wave, half salute and walked away.
And . . . yes, once again, he was behind her, his shoes tapping the marble floor. She rolled her eyes. He would be going the same direction. She tried to walk faster so at least they weren’t side by side, though that was tricky given that she was carry ing an extra thirty pounds and pregnancy hormones had made her hip joints as loose as wet sand.
The restaurant, she thought. He’s going to the restaurant too, darn him!
She hadn’t eaten anything since the granola bars and orange she’d packed for the plane trip that afternoon, and she hadn’t seen a single restaurant around the hotel or she’d have taken the quickest path to a ninety-nine-cent hamburger. It was the hotel restaurant or starve, and starve was not an option.
“You’re going for dinner?” she asked over her shoulder.
“A drink,” he said, still one step behind.
“Well, I would be polite, veer left and leave you to it, but I’m ravenous and so is the fetus. I have an urgent mission to hunt down some steak a
nd potatoes and dark green veggies and some kind of frosty dairy product to follow. But mostly I want red meat. And ice cream. But not at the same time. Though maybe . . . would that be yummy? Anyway, just so you know I’m not following you.”
“Technically I’m following you.”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to mention that. You should do horror movies—you’re kind of creepy.”
“I get that a lot. People magazine’s Creepiest Man of the Year, Lifetime’s Top Ten Hunks Who Give Us the Willies, that sort of thing.”
“Where do you keep all the trophies?”
“In an abandoned shed in the forest.”
“Infested with bats and rusty farm equipment?”
“Naturally.”
He opened the restaurant door for her. It was at least the fifth door he’d held for her so far. And the last, she was sure. She thanked him, said good-bye again, and made for the maître’d, a very thin young man with shiny black hair.
“Nonsmoking, please,” she said.
The maître’d picked up two menus and said, “Table for two, right this way.”
“Uh, no,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder where Felix was waiting his turn for a table, “not for two. We’re not together. I’m just me.”
The maître’d gestured grandly to the bar. “We seat single patrons at the bar, madam.”
The bar. The air around the dangling lights was thick with cigarette smoke, as if the area were in the process of creating its own atmosphere. It was 1996—if this had taken place just two years later, smoking would have been banned in California bars and there would be no issue. Even from a distance, the odor was making Becky woozy. Strong smells and pregnancy were about as pleasant a combination as rotten seafood and roller coasters. Then her gaze fell to the bar stools—faux art deco contraptions with tiny round seats and three stainless steel legs that looked fit for holding, say, a potted geranium, but certainly not a pregnant woman.
“Do you have a nonsmoking bar perchance? And one with sturdy stools?”
Behind her, Felix groaned.
“I’m sorry, madam,” the maître’d said.
“In that case, don’t I count as two people and deserve my own table?” she said, patting her belly.
Felix groaned louder. The fact that he didn’t go to the bar himself made Becky think he wanted to drink in some privacy—she was certain the maître’d could find People’s Creepiest Man Alive a table for one. Pregnant women should be pampered over celebrities, shouldn’t they? The thought made Becky outrageously angry, the emotion quickly transforming inside her hormone-ridden body into heartbroken misery.
“I am sorry,” the maître’d said, though when his gaze passed over her belly he seemed mildly disgusted, as if he believed Becky thoughtless for getting pregnant in the first place and so doomed to pay the consequences. “We expect a significant dinner rush, and hotel policy dictates single patrons sit at the bar. Are you a hotel guest? Perhaps you could order dinner in your room?”
Becky’s bottom lip quivered. She was getting dizzy with low blood sugar, and she was feeling pouty too, not to mention broke. “Room service is so expensive. Are there other restaurants nearby where I could walk? I don’t—”
Felix grabbed the two menus out of the young man’s hand, took Becky’s elbow, and said, “Table for two, nonsmoking.”
“Oh. Very good. Follow me please.”
As he began to walk them to the table, the maître’d glanced at Felix for the first time, did a double take, and excited recognition warred with professional reserve. In the end, he gave Felix a sheepish, adoring smile over his shoulder, the kind of smile that would have been at home on the face of a six-year-old girl.
“Thank you,” Becky whispered to Felix, removing her arm from his, though they immediately had to descend some stairs and on her first wobble, Felix took her arm again. “I wouldn’t have survived that stool. It would’ve been ‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.’ ”
“With rings on your fingers and bells on your toes even,” he said.
“Curious that meeting you is more nursery rhyme than fairy tale. If I see a farmer’s wife with a butcher’s knife, I’m running and not looking back.”
“And I’ll have no nonsense from my dish and spoon.”
The maître’d placed them in a padded booth (A padded booth! Becky thought happily, for the sake of her pelvis), hidden around a corner and private from any other table, in a prime location facing the dance floor. The maître’d glanced back lovingly at Felix before leaving them in awkward silence.
Because it had become awkward suddenly. They ordered (Becky a three-course meal, Felix a whiskey sour), and with no menus to stare at, they turned their gazes on the empty dance floor and the enthusiastic DJ in his red-and-gold caftan and cap. Becky tried to restart the conversation, asking why he was staying at a hotel, and he explained that he’d be there for a few weeks while his house was renovated and his wife was in Europe. He made some polite inquiries about her stay, her flight, her home. She said she was from Layton, Utah, only she pronounced it as Utahns do, replacing the “t” with a glottal stop—Lay’en.
“You’re from where?”
“Lay’en. It’s near Salt Lake City.”
“Spell that for me.”
“Um, that would be S-A-L-T—”
“No, the other one. The city you’re from.”
“Oh. L-A-Y-T-O-N.”
“Ah—Lay-ton.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No you didn’t. You said, ‘Lay’en.’ ”
“So I did. But just go ahead and pronounce ‘aluminum’ for me, Mr. British Man. How are you going to defend that piece of insanity? Why don’t you spell it and count syllables and see if your al-um-in-ium makes any sense whatsoever?”
He bowed his head. “Touché. So . . . if you’re from Utah . . .”
“How did I end up in Los Angeles selling a screenplay?” she gushed, relieved to have a topic of conversation. “A fluke. On road trips as kids, my family used to play a game where we invented original but plausible movie plots. A few years ago I checked out a book on screenplays from the library and wrote out a couple of my ideas. So I was on a TV movie set one day—my friend Melissa is a second assistant director and she’s always roping me and the kids into being extras. Anyway, I was hanging out at craft services with my two older kids—”
“Just how many children do you have?”
“It’ll be four with this one. So—”
“And you’re interested in breaking into professional acting?” His look became a little cagey.
“Yes, that’s right. And I was hoping,” she leaned forward, resting her chin coyly on her hands, “I was so hoping that you could help me get cast. I’ve heard tales from the other girls about a certain couch . . .”
His eyes widened in alarm.
“Oh come on, do I look like the actress type to you? I just do the extra stuff as a favor for a friend and to have a little adventure with the kids. As I was saying, I was at the craft services snack table, the best spot on set, and one of the producers for the show and I got to talking about why we like yellow M&Ms better than the other colors, and somehow that led to how there’s been a real dearth of good romantic comedies lately—”
Felix groaned. “Romantic comedies . . .”
“I repeat, a dearth of good romantic comedies, the kind of which you starred in years ago before you got too old—”
“I grew bored of the hackneyed—”
“Uh huh. So I tell this producer my idea for a romantic comedy called Arm Candy, about an up-and-coming supermodel who gets into a fake relationship with a young actor for publicity purposes. By being photographed together and developing a public relationship, they hope to help each other’s careers soar, but they both start actually falling in love with each other while believing that the other still feels platonic, and it escalates until a scene when they’ve been roped into getting married and the actress calls it off at the last minute becaus
e she can’t bear to marry someone who isn’t in love with her, because she is actually in love with him, and he’s heartbroken, thinking she called it off because she really doesn’t love him, but when he finds out how she feels . . . well, you get the picture. Anyway, the producer liked the sound of it and gave me her card. I mailed her the screenplay and she must have passed it on to Annette, because a few months later, Annette called me to fly out to L.A. and negotiate a deal. Okay, now you may interrupt.”
He was staring at her. “Be honest, no embellishments. That’s really how it happened?”
“Yellow M&Ms and everything.”
“But that never happens.”
“I was pretty surprised myself.”
“No, it never happens. No one actually reads a spec script written by an extra for a made-for-telly movie and then actually passes it on to a producer like Annette, who then flies said Nobody to Los Angeles and actually buys it. I would call you a liar, complete with pants afire, as they say, if I hadn’t seen you in her office myself. How could . . . That’s preposterous. Just how did you do it?”
“I’m one of God’s chosen people, and he looks out for me.”
Felix didn’t blink.
“It’s too easy! You’d believe me if I said I sacrificed a goat to get the good will of the north wind.”
“Don’t you?”
“No. Goats are cute. Anyway, it was just a colossal fluke, like I told you. I fully expect the screenplay to languish on someone’s desk for eternity, never becoming a movie, and to never sell another screenplay in my life. Which is why I wasn’t so worried about the contract.”
His eyes flicked to the stack of paper, sitting on the table under her purse. “Annette is going to own you.”
Becky shrugged. “Yeah, but what can you do? Can’t cross a gypsy without getting cursed.” She leaned forward and tried to whisper judiciously. “Her outfit . . . I’ve been keeping an eye out for other women in poofy blouses and hoop earrings, or men in caps and vests carrying fid-dles. I mean, for all I know, everyone’s going gypsy this year and Utah is egregiously behind the times.”
He shook his head slowly.
“So, does Annette always dress like a caricature of the Roma people?”
