“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I feel like a princess.”
“You look like one too,” Lance said, his gaze flitting to my blue silk dress. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Really?”
“I wrote a song for you.” I stopped dancing, wondering if Lance was playing a trick on me. “I’m serious,” he reassured me.
Lance escorted me to our table and spoke into a mic he’d borrowed from the stage. “Family and friends, please take your seats. Before we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and cut the cake, Gerald is going to perform a song I wrote for Gretchen.”
As everyone applauded, we watched the saxophone player walk to the mic stand. He blew into the sax, and a shrill sound filled the room. He tried again, with the same results.
Mumbling resonated throughout the room and Lance said, “I think I know what’s wrong.” He walked to the stage. “Can I borrow this?” Gerald handed over his instrument. Lance reached into the saxophone bell and removed a small, velvet box. “I think I’ve solved the mystery.” Then he returned to our table and knelt on one knee. The room filled with gasps and shrieks and applause. Lance opened the box, and I nearly choked when I saw the huge diamond.
“Gretchen Holloway, five years ago, a woman named Patty Crowley, wearing purple overalls, approached me in the bookstore at Dancing Hills University and asked me if I was interested in acting in her friend’s student project. I told her ‘no.’ She then explained the project and told me I was perfect for the role. I wasn’t convinced. While she argued her case, I wondered who this friend was who she was so committed to. Whoever her friend was, she must have been pretty special for this poor girl to accost a stranger and beg him to do something he was adamant he wouldn’t do. Then she showed me your photo. I took one look at your red hair and your blue eyes, and I was sold. And after I’d met you and watched you work on your project for a month, tirelessly and with unmitigated passion, I found myself falling in love. At the end of the project, I knew it was just the beginning for me—for us. I had to have you as mine, always. Gretchen Holloway, will you marry me?”
Tears streaming down my face, I said, “Yes.”
******
“Gretchen, are you okay?”
“Yes … yes, I’m fine,” I say, waving at my neighbor. I collect myself and go inside, hoping that I haven’t lost the love of my life.
Chapter 10
Regina
In the Turner Talent Agency lobby, I smell the bouquet of flowers I arranged for Carol. I wish I’d called first. I’ve been here for forty minutes. Granted, she had a couple of interviews today, but the two guys she was considering left twenty minutes ago. So what the hell is she doing back there? The flowers are wilting, and I’ve read all the trade magazines on the two glass tables flanking the white leather sofa I’m sitting on. I’ve counted all the recessed lights in the ceiling and all the dead leaves on the ficus tree in the corner of the room.
The gray-haired, bespectacled couple sitting on the sofa across from me both smile warmly at me, and I reciprocate. Carol’s been signing a lot of baby boomers lately. I can see the couple doing one of those insurance ads. They’re adorable. They hold wrinkled hands like they’re newlyweds, and I wonder how long they’ve been married.
Maybe Taylor and I will live to be that old. Hell, he’s almost that old already. When he’s eighty, I’ll be sixty-five. Damn.
When we were dating, I didn’t focus on the age difference. When I’d met Taylor, he was forty-six, and I was thirty-one. He was a young forty-six, and he was a monster in bed. Cookie kept asking me if I loved her father. I think she was afraid I was going to hurt him. But what she didn’t know is that Taylor had stolen my heart on that first date. We had a whirlwind courtship. Before I knew it, he asked me to quit my job so that I could study acting full time. I told him I couldn’t do that. My mother had taught me to never become financially dependent on a man, especially one who wasn’t my fiancé or husband. Taylor continued to pressure me. He wanted me to move out of my apartment, but I stood my ground. We had a huge argument, and we agreed to take a break.
A few weeks later my coworker asked me to take over her shift. She was a stand-up comedian, and she said she’d landed a gig that was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I didn’t want to, but she’d covered for me a few times, so I agreed. It was raining that night, and I remember wishing I hadn’t agreed to help her out. I shake my head, remembering that soggy Valentine’s Day evening.
******
Drenched, I trudged into the diner packed with rowdy customers. The manager called me over and told me to keep an eye on a man in the back of the restaurant, who was wearing dark shades and a sombrero. He said the man had ordered a bunch of stuff and hadn’t paid yet. He had a feeling the guy was going to skip out and not pay his bill.
The last thing I wanted to do was babysit some deadbeat. I glanced at the man and then went to the back, removed my raincoat, washed my hands, and started waiting on customers. When I looked toward the rear of the restaurant, the man was gone, and a huge vase of red roses sat on the table.
I walked to the manager, who had a goofy grin on his face, and I said, “Where’d he go? And who left those roses?”
“I’m not sure, but you need to go see if he left money for his bill.”
I walked to the table and stared at the roses, wondering what the hell was going on. Then my eyes locked on a ring case. With trembling hands, I picked it up, looking over my shoulder, wondering if the man wearing the sombrero and dark glasses left the case there. I opened it, and my mouth fell open. It wasn’t the biggest diamond in the world, but it was flawless.
I nearly dropped the case at the sound of Taylor’s voice. So he was the man who’d been sitting there.
He knelt on one knee and said, “Regina Parker, you’re everything I want and need in a woman, and I want you to be my woman. Will you marry me?”
The diner erupted into shouts and cheers, and I said, “Yes.”
******
Returning to the present, my smile fades, and I turn my attention to the aquarium built into the wall above the sofa where the elderly couple is sitting. It’s filled with exotic, colorful fish. Observing them, I think about reincarnation. When Robert and I were growing up, we talked about dying and returning as an animal. He wanted to come back as a lion because they rule. And I wanted to be a bird, because I liked the idea of being able to fly away from trouble. It’s funny the things you think about as a kid. Maybe Robert came back as a fish. What if he’s the beautiful fish staring at me?
“Carol won’t be too much longer. She’s on a call.”
The receptionist startles me out of my thoughts. “Thank you.”
“No worries.” Her sunken eyes return to the computer screen, which sits front and center on her U-shaped reception desk. She leans back in her ergonomic chair. She looks so comfortable, so smug. I wonder if she knows she’s the fourth receptionist this year. Carol goes through them like I go through synthetic wigs. I don’t even bother to remember their names anymore. This latest one looks like the poster child for anorexia. I feel like buying her a burger—no, two burgers. Unfortunately, I’d probably eat them before my gluttonous behind even made it back here.
The receptionist looks up and sends what appears to be a genuine smile my way.
I really need to stop putting myself down, and other people too—especially other women. No matter what, it’s not easy being female.
I glance at my phone and do a double take when I see the voicemail icon, which shows a message has been left. Dammit, I had turned down my ringer. I press my trembling finger on the missed calls icon. Restricted appears on the screen.
Just as I hit voicemail, the receptionist says, “Carol is ready to see you now.”
“Okay.” I’m tempted to skip out on Carol, so I can see who’s called. I pray it’s the call I’ve been waiting for. I slip my phone into my purse and walk through the double doors leading to the back offices. The sound of agen
ts wheeling and dealing fills the corridor. Carol has five people working for her. I reach the end of the hall and knock on the corner office door.
“Come in.”
I enter, and Carol, her almond-shaped green eyes fixed on her computer monitor, motions for me to have a seat. I sniff and stifle a sneeze when her perfume assails my nostrils. I sit in the swivel chair across from her, holding on to the flowers, waiting for her to finish reading. Her huge Century City office boasts an ocean view. My eyes scan the piles of photos, contracts, and various paperwork fanned out on her black marble desk. A picture of her husband and five-year-old twin boys sits near her phone. I remember the hell she went through to have them—ten rounds of in vitro. She’s forty-eight, six years older than I am. With her petite figure, delicate features, and blond pixie cut, she could pass for thirty-five. After Robert was killed, I lost all desire to have children. His death nearly destroyed my mother. I couldn’t imagine having a child and something happening to him or her. I couldn’t endure that kind of heartache. Thank goodness Taylor didn’t want any more kids. He always says Cookie is more than enough.
“I can’t stand a cheap producer.” She looks up, and her frown morphs into a smile when she notices the flowers. “Are those for me?”
“Yep. Straight from my garden.”
“They’re delightful.” She stands, takes the vase from me, and sets the flowers on a bookcase against the paneled wall. “Thank you,” she says, returning to her seat.
“I wanted to make up for yesterday.”
“What happened, Regina? That’s not like you.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of basket case, because she’ll stop submitting me for roles. “It was the part. It was…it reminded me of my brother.”
“Robert. The one who was murdered.”
I shudder at the sound of the M word. “Right. His birthday is coming up, and the film is so close to what happened to him. It’s eerie.”
“Regina, why didn’t you tell me that when I sent you the sides? I would have understood. I’d rather you pass on an audition than to sign in and then disappear. It’s not good for my brand or yours. In the seven years you’ve been with me, you’ve never done that. For a minute I thought you were on drugs or something. That’s why I had you come in. You need to visit more often. You look good though. I like the curls. You need to take some photos with that look. Anyway, you booked the print job. I was reading the terms when you walked in. It shoots Friday.”
“Wow, great. That’s great,” I say, cheesing from ear to ear.
“It’s been a while since you’ve booked anything. This could be a foreshadowing of what’s to come in 2018.”
“I hope so.” I glance at my phone, peeking out of my purse.
“Is everything okay?”
“I have an important message I need to listen to.”
“Okay, no worries. I’ll email the details on the print job. Don’t mess this up. They’re talking about doing some commercials too, depending on how the print ad goes.”
“Don’t worry, Carol. I have this.” I stand, smile with gratitude, and rush out of her office, past the receptionist, down the elevator, and to my car. I disengage the alarm, fling open the door, and flop my big butt into the driver’s seat. I hit voicemail, input my password, and hold my breath.
I’m not sure if I have the right number. I’m trying to reach Regina Wilson. I have your water bottle, and I want to return it to you ASAP. Please call me as soon as you get this message. I’m at 626-555-3459. Oh, and this is Gretchen Holloway, the writer/director. Thank you. I look forward to speaking with you.
“Yesssss!” I grin so big; I think my ears will fall off. I click the number, and the phone barely rings before someone answers.
“Hello?”
“Is this Gretchen Holloway?” I cross my fingers, my toes, and my eyes like Kate from the diner did. Not too long after that, the freeway had reopened.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Regina Wilson. I got your message. You have my water bottle.”
“Yes, yes. It’s so good to hear from you. Yes, I have it. I can bring it to you.”
My heart sinks when I imagine myself waiting for her to show up, and she doesn’t for one reason or another. “No! I mean, I can come and pick it up. I’d like to come today, if possible,” I say, rocking in my seat.
“Sure. Of course. Where are you coming from?”
“Culver City. Well actually, Century City.” I want to tell her it wouldn’t matter if I were on Jupiter—I’ll get there.
“Wow, you’re fifty plus miles away.” She sighs.
“I don’t mind. That water bottle has sentimental value,” I say, hoping she hasn’t damaged it in any way.
“Why don’t we meet halfway? I feel badly having you come this far.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m on my way. Do you want to meet on campus?” I don’t expect her to invite a stranger to her house.
“That’s fine. I’m viewing footage there around 2:00 p.m. Will that work for you?”
“Yes. That’s fine. It’s almost 1:00 p.m. I’ll be going against traffic, so I should make it there by 2:00 p.m.”
“I’ll be in Blakely Hall, viewing room C. It’s a little difficult to find, so call me when you arrive, and I’ll come to you.”
“Okay, I’ll be there at 2:00 p.m. on the nose.”
******
I groan when I see flashing red-and-blue lights in my rearview mirror. Dammit! I’m only a couple of miles from campus. I didn’t even see that motorcycle cop. That’s what I get for driving in the carpool lane. I was almost to the exit. A few more miles, and I would’ve been fine. So much for going against traffic. It’s a parking lot out here. I pull to the side of the freeway. Maybe I should floor it and lead the cop on a chase. I could see Taylor watching me on the news, his eyes bulging out of his head, clutching his chest like Fred Sanford. I chuckle at the thought.
My laugher ends when I think about the fine—over three hundred dollars, not to mention the mark on my driving record and my insurance increasing. “Crap!” The guy that Minneapolis cop shot comes to mind, and I sober. His girlfriend was in the car when he was killed, and she streamed it live on Facebook. I open the window, gather my documents, put them on the passenger seat, and put both hands on the steering wheel. I peer in the side view mirror. The officer approaches, and I brainstorm a sympathetic reason for breaking the law.
He looks down at me, his beady brown eyes boring a hole through me. “Ma’am, the HOV lane is for cars carrying two or more people.”
“Officer, I’m sorry, but I have an emergency.”
An incredulous smile spreads his Pillsbury Doughboy face. “I get that a lot. License, registration, and proof of insurance.”
I hand my license and paperwork to him. His eyes flick from my face to my documents and back again, as if I’m on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I swallow hard.
“You’re a long way from home. What are you doing out this way?” he says.
“I’m meeting the director of a film at Dancing Hills University.”
“What film?”
I glance at my phone, now wishing Taylor would call, but he’s doing what he promised—giving me space. I think about grabbing my phone and going live on Facebook. It’s funny how thorough cops are with much-ado-about-nothing traffic stops, but they couldn’t bother to find out who killed Robert.
I force myself to remain calm, because my life may depend on it, and say, “It’s a thesis film about a black football star who’s killed, and the police never find out who did it. The same thing happened to my brother in real life.”
His face reddens, and he recoils a bit. “Sorry to hear that. Well, Ms. Wilson, today is your lucky day. I’m going to give you a pass. But please, going forward, stay out of the carpool lane if you’re driving solo.”
“You’re letting me live—I mean leave?”
“If you have a problem with that, I can write you
up,” he says, his eyes narrowing.
“No, no problem at all.” He hands me my items, and I take them. “Thank you so much. Thank you. And I won’t ever drive in the carpool lane again without having other people in the car.”
“Glad to hear it. Have a good day.”
“You too.” I watch him walk back to his motorcycle, relief rushing through me like a few swigs of vodka. “Not all cops are bad, just like not all people are bad.” Duh, cops are people too, Regina. I carefully return to the road, imagining getting my prized possession back. “Yep, this is definitely Terrific Tuesday.”
******
Sitting in my parked car at Dancing Hills University, I wait for Gretchen. When I called to let her know I was here, she sounded excited. Maybe she thinks I’m going to give her a reward. Through the windshield, I look at the surrounding area. Leaves and ripped branches cover the ground, compliments of the storm. I peer at the sun, glad it’s a clear day. I spot a woman power walking toward me. She lifts her hand to her forehead, seemingly to block the sun’s glare. I get out of the car, so she can see me, then wave. She waves back, and my eyes lock on her other hand. She stops in front of me, and I notice that she’s taller than the height she appeared to be in the restroom. I’d say she’s about five foot eight. She’s got at least two inches on me.
She places the water bottle in my hand, and I grab it and hold it to my chest. “Thank you!”
“Oh my goodness, Regina. This means a lot to you.”
“Yes, it does.” I stare at Robert’s photo.
“You’re lucky, because I found it in the trash.”
“What the fu—I mean, what?”
“I cleaned it for you. Last night, I sent a group email about finding it. But I misspelled your email address, and the message bounced back. I didn’t realize that until today, and by then the cinema department called to tell me you were looking for it.” She runs her hand through her red hair, which she’s wearing down today. It frames her heart-shaped face and cascades off her shoulders. “I’m glad I found it,” she says. Her warm smile soothes me.
The Truth About Gretchen Page 8
