Fame

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Yikes.” Katy tightened her grip on the board and helped lift it, moving it toward the back of the stage. Her hands were getting cut up too. “It was supposed to be the finest grain. It shouldn’t be splintering like this.”

  Ashley poked her head around the plywood. “The grain’s okay. Even with the splintering, we can still paint on it; I’m pretty sure.”

  “Good.” Katy moved in sync with Rhonda’s steps, and in a few seconds they had the board flat on the stage. She smiled at Ashley. “Thanks for doing this. It’s just like God to bring you.” She looked from Heath to Rhonda. “We prayed for someone with an art background to help with sets.” Her eyes returned to Ashley. “And God brings us a professional artist. How great is that?”

  When all three boards were lined up side by side, Katy explained what they were for. “These’ll make up Aunt Polly’s house.” She gave the other three a look. “Aunt Polly’s on a low budget these days, so no fourth wall.” The paint was already sitting a few feet away on a spread of newspapers. Katy pointed to it. “We’ve got red, blue, green, yellow, and white. Enough to make pretty picture windows and a roofline.” She gave Ashley a hesitant look. “That is, if you can take a pencil and sketch out the design so it looks like the roofline’s coming down along the top of the three walls.”

  Ashley laughed and rolled up her sleeves. “No problem.”

  Heath was still in a white button-down and a tie from work. He slipped an old T-shirt over his head and stood back a little. “Okay, Ms. Baxter, give us something to paint.”

  Rhonda smiled. “We’ll stand here and watch.” She positioned herself next to Katy and elbowed her in the ribs. Her next few words were hushed. “I watched her sketch something the other day. She’s amazing.”

  Before Katy could respond, her cell phone rang. Rhonda’s eyes lit up as Katy took it from her pocket. Rhonda mouthed the question on both their minds: Dayne?

  Katy made a face at her, put the phone to her ear, and turned her back to the others. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Katy, it’s Dayne.” He hesitated. “Dayne Matthews. Are you busy?”

  The floor beneath Katy felt suddenly molten. She steadied herself. “Hi. No . . . just about to paint some sets.” She wasn’t sure what else to say, so she waited.

  Dayne chuckled on the other end. “That’s so great. Painting sets.” He drew in a slow breath. “It’s been a long time since I did that.”

  “You should join us sometime.” She was regaining her balance, finding her way in the conversation. “Nothing beats an all-night sets party.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that.” He laughed again, and then his tone grew more serious. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to call you, but I had to make sure about the audition time. Mitch and I would like you to come back, do a scene with me this time.”

  Katy clutched the phone more tightly. This wasn’t happening, was it? Dayne Matthews wasn’t really chatting at the other end of her cell phone, asking her to come back to Hollywood to do a scene with him, was he? “When . . . when would it be?”

  “Tuesday morning. You could fly out Monday if that works for you. The studio already has a flight lined up if you’re interested.”

  If she was interested? “Yeah.” She forced herself to take slow breaths. “Tuesday works.”

  Katy glanced over her shoulder. Heath was watching Ashley, taken by her pencil sketches on the plywood. But Rhonda was only a few feet away, her eyes round. This time she mouthed the words I knew it.

  Katy waved her fist in a silent cheer and held one finger to her lips. She didn’t want Heath or Ashley knowing about her LA auditions—not yet. Dayne was explaining what time her plane would take off and assuring her that someone from the studio would call her with a confirmation and the specifics.

  “What should I wear? Is it a city scene or something from her hometown?” She kept her voice quiet, her back to the others.

  “You know, Katy—” she could hear the smile in Dayne’s voice—“I don’t think it really matters.”

  Then—and only then—did she admit the truth to herself, a truth that built and grew and consumed her even after the phone call with Dayne Matthews ended. After a lifetime of dreaming about making it as an actress—after coming close in Chicago and walking away from it—here, now, the long-ago dream was about to come true. The reason it didn’t matter what she wore to the audition was obvious.

  Because the truth was, the part of Tory Temblin was practically hers.

  Dayne could feel himself falling for Katy Hart.

  That didn’t surprise him. He’d been taken with her from the moment he saw her at the Bloomington Community Theater a year earlier. What did surprise him was the fact that he couldn’t control his feelings.

  In his world, women were as plentiful as the grains of sand on the Malibu shoreline. When he came across one he couldn’t have—because she was married or seeing someone—he would flirt but never fall. Not hard, anyway. But with Katy things were different. He hadn’t met anyone like her since his days of boarding school in Indonesia. She was as genuine as a summer breeze, and no matter how he tried to clear his mind of her, he failed.

  Now it was Saturday morning, and Katy would be back in town on Monday. He wanted badly to call her and make plans to take her out, maybe show her around. But it wasn’t possible because it wouldn’t be fair to Katy. Her innocence even went so far as to her lack of understanding of what might lie ahead for her—the world of Hollywood living.

  Dayne was barefoot as he padded across his kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs from his refrigerator. Four egg whites and sautéed mushrooms were on the menu for the day. One of his favorites. He took a bowl from the cupboard and snagged a fork from the drawer.

  He liked Saturday mornings in June, liked the fog that hung around his patio, liked the quiet way everything felt when the ocean disappeared from view and his estate became a comfortable cocoon of normalcy.

  If just for a few hours.

  A pretty instrumental flowed through his house from the sound system. He had a collection of such music, and this one was called Creek something or other. Gentle guitar melodies mixed with the cry of an occasional bird or the soft sounds of a babbling brook.

  This was peace, these Saturday mornings.

  He cracked the eggs, separated the yolks, and whipped the whites with his fork. Katy’s face came to mind again as he poured the mixture into a small frying pan.

  It wasn’t that she was glamorous. He’d been around women like that most of his career. But what she lacked in glamour she made up for in natural beauty. She was gorgeous, pretty in a simple way, with a style that Hollywood had forgotten. It was what made her perfect for the part in Dream On and what would catapult her to the top of the Hollywood list if she won it.

  And she would win it.

  He remembered the conversation he’d had with Mitch Henry about Katy. After her first audition and Dayne’s lunch with her at the commissary, Dayne had returned to the studio office and found Mitch at his desk looking at his computer.

  Dayne was breathless, energy and enthusiasm flowing through his veins. “Well?”

  Mitch took his wire-rimmed glasses from his face, set them on his desk, and focused on Dayne. “You look like a schoolboy, Matthews.” He lowered his chin, his expression that of an indignant father. “Don’t fall for her.” He hesitated and looked at his computer screen again. “She’s too good for you.”

  “I know it.” He pulled up a chair and leaned on the edge of the desk that separated them. “But what do you think? The real deal, right?”

  Mitch gave an exaggerated sigh and turned toward Dayne again. “You were there.”

  “Right.” Dayne wasn’t sure where the casting director was headed.

  “In the room watching her audition?”

  “Yeah, so?” Dayne sat back a little. “I still wanna know what you thought.”

  Mitch crossed one leg over the other and gripped the arms of his chair. “I thought she was brilliant. The most natural
talent I’ve seen come through those doors in years.” His expression cracked, and a smile softened his eyes. “But you already knew that.”

  “So . . .” Dayne rose and tossed his hands in the air. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  “Because . . .” He faced the window for a moment and then stood. When he turned around, his eyes were serious again. “I don’t think she’ll take it.”

  “Of course she’ll take it.” Dayne had felt the excitement surge through him. He’d wanted to shout to the heavens. Mitch Henry liked her, liked her so much he already expected to offer her the part! Dayne could imagine himself working alongside her, getting to know her better, becoming friends with the girl who had captured his imagination the previous summer. “She wouldn’t be flying out here for an audition if she wasn’t interested in the part.”

  “I’m worried.” Mitch tapped his fingers on his desk. “Katy Hart doesn’t belong here.” He waved his hand in the air. “With all the craziness in Hollywood.”

  “Maybe she wants it.” Dayne’s answer had been fast—too fast. Even as he said the words, he knew Mitch was right. The lifestyle of the Hollywood elite, the type of actress who would play opposite him in a major film, was something Katy wasn’t prepared for. Not at all.

  “Be careful with her when she’s out for the next audition.” He pointed at Dayne, the stern-father look back in his eyes. “I can see it, Dayne. I know how you’re feeling about her. Just do everyone a favor and keep your feelings to yourself. I don’t want that girl’s face on the cover of any magazine, you understand?”

  The memory of the conversation lingered as thick as the fog outside.

  Was that what he had to do—keep his distance from everyone he wanted to get to know? everyone who might be good for him? The idea brought back another memory, one that was so sad he rarely thought of it. The memory of his birth mother lying in the hospital bed in Bloomington, the feel of her dying arms around his neck as she told him what he’d always wanted to know.

  That he’d been loved by her. By her and his birth father. And that if his siblings had gotten the chance to know about him, he would’ve been loved by them too.

  Dayne adjusted the fire beneath the eggs. He gripped the granite countertop and closed his eyes. He could still remember how it felt sitting in that rented SUV, watching the front door of the hospital from the back of the parking lot, and seeing the group come out. The group that he quickly realized was his family, his biological father and siblings and their spouses and children.

  Even now he could feel his fingers wrapped around the handle of the driver’s door, feel himself opening it and putting one foot on the ground. He would go to them, introduce himself, talk to them. Maybe even hug them. And just like that, in a matter of seconds, he would have the family he’d always wanted. He would never feel disconnected again.

  But as he stepped into the light of day, he heard the first series of clicks—paparazzi camera clicks—and in that moment he made the decision. He wouldn’t pull the Baxters into the tabloids with him. They were private people, good people from what he knew of them, doctors and lawyers and teachers and artists. People whose lives centered around the comfortable town of Bloomington, Indiana.

  So instead of going to them, he stayed in the SUV and let them walk past him to their cars, where they climbed in and drove away. And that was the end of that.

  Dayne opened his eyes.

  In light of his decision that day, he had promised himself he wouldn’t think about them, that he’d put them out of his mind. But the memory of them stayed with him like a favorite song, and it came back whenever it willed. The worried lines on their faces as they clung to each other, obviously concerned about their mother, dying inside the hospital.

  It was senseless to think about Elizabeth and the other Baxters. As senseless as it was to think about Katy Hart. His world and theirs were far too different, the distance between them too great to span, and it was up to him to keep it that way. For now, anyway. If Katy took the part, if she received national acclaim for her role the way he figured she would, then she would gain passage into his world.

  And maybe they would find something together.

  But not now, not Monday when she came into town for her second audition.

  He scraped the sautéed mushrooms into the half-cooked egg whites and stirred the mixture. Most of the time the issues his friends had with fame didn’t bother him. Who cared what the rags printed? People must lead pretty dull lives to hang on every word in the trash magazines. He could sleep at night without wondering whether a photographer was perched outside in a tree or waiting for him in his driveway. They were harmless, more a nuisance than anything else.

  But when he weighed into the mix what he’d lost with the Baxters, the issues became much more complicated.

  The eggs were cooked, and he spooned them onto a plate. He poured a glass of orange juice, fresh squeezed from the juice shop across the street. It was his favorite breakfast, compliments of his well-paid housekeeper. She knew what he liked, and she kept the place stocked.

  The eggs were good, just the way he liked them. But throughout his meal he continued to see their faces, the Baxters’ and Katy Hart’s. Maybe it was the music—the soft, melodic sounds like the credits from a sad movie. He was about to get up and switch to something more upbeat when his phone rang.

  He snatched it on his way to the stereo system. “Hello?”

  “Dayne, it’s me. Kelly.” Her voice was strained, quiet and desperate at the same time. “I think someone just tried to break into my house.”

  “What?” Dayne turned back, took his plate, and headed for the kitchen. “Kelly, call the police. Right now.”

  “No . . . I mean, I think they’re gone. I think it just happened. They tried to break in but then they left because I was here and maybe now they—”

  “Whoa, Kelly. Slow. You’re not making sense.” He leaned against his patio door and squinted into the fog. A chill ran down his arms. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I heard someone tapping on my window, and I ran into the room and looked and there was a lady.” She was talking slower now, her words still breathy and filled with fear. “Dayne, I think she had a knife in her hand.”

  “Hey . . .” Dayne felt his heart lurch into double speed. “Kelly, I’m serious. Call the police.”

  “No, wait. So I watched her, and all of a sudden she turned and ran to her car and drove away.”

  His forehead was cold against the glass, and he stood straighter. What sort of freak would do that to Kelly Parker? He focused on what Kelly had said. “What kind of car? Did you get the plate?”

  “No, but I saw the car. It had four doors. I’m pretty sure it was an old Honda Civic. A yellow Civic.”

  “And you’re sure it’s gone?”

  “Yes. I saw it drive away.”

  “Okay.” Dayne crooked his arm up over his head and pressed it against the window. “Let’s think this through. Maybe someone was looking for a house, and they stumbled on yours by accident.”

  “I don’t know.” Kelly sounded like she was shaking. “Maybe it was a photographer. It just scared me. You know, broad daylight and everything.”

  Dayne clenched his jaw. Photographers again. He had prided himself on not letting them get him down. He loved acting too much to be bothered by the paparazzi. Even with what happened in Bloomington, he didn’t see the lack of privacy as a prison but rather a price. A price that had to be paid by everyone at the top of the entertainment industry.

  Prisons were places from which you couldn’t escape. Paparazzi? Give up acting for a couple of years and they’d vanish like fireflies at sunrise, right? Wasn’t that what he’d always told himself? Celebrity was a choice, wasn’t it?

  But now, with Kelly Parker petrified on the other end of the line, Dayne wasn’t so sure. “Want me to come?”

  “Please, Dayne. I can’t leave; I’m too afraid.” She sniffed twice. “Besides, I want to talk to you about som
ething else.”

  Dayne made the drive to Kelly’s house without being followed. If the paparazzi knew his pattern, they knew he usually didn’t leave his house until well after three o’clock on Saturdays. It was still morning, so they were probably bothering someone else. Kelly Parker, by the sounds of it.

  Dayne wrestled with himself as he climbed out of his Escalade and moved fast up the walkway. Whatever Kelly had to ask him, he hoped it didn’t involve the other night. He’d been wrong to stay over, wrong to sleep with her. If her head wasn’t so messed up, it would be one thing. But she hadn’t been well for a while. Being with her that way was bound to confuse her.

  She opened the door, pulled him inside, and fell into his arms. “Dayne, I hate this.” She drew back, her cheeks tearstained. “This isn’t me—hiding inside, afraid of my own shadow. I used to walk around my neighborhood at night by myself.”

  He’d been thinking about what to tell her, and now he didn’t hesitate. He led her by the hand into her living room and sat her down on her couch. He took the seat next to her, gripped her knee, and looked straight in her eyes. “You need help, Kelly. This—” he looked around the room—“staying trapped inside like this isn’t normal.” For a moment the anger he’d felt earlier rose to the surface again. “You can’t let them get to you like this.”

  She hung her head, her shoulders slumped. “I know I shouldn’t read the tabs, but then someone calls or I see it when I’m out and I know what they’re saying.” Her eyes met his. “This week it’s my arms.” She motioned to the wall of windows opposite them. “Someone shot me pointing at something, and now I’ve got flabby arms.”

  Dayne winced. He’d seen the picture a few days earlier and laughed at it. Kelly Parker with flabby arms? It was ludicrous. But somehow the photogs had found six pictures of female celebrities whose arms appeared less than perfect. The headline read “Uh-Oh . . . Flabby Arms! Who’s Flabby and Who’s Not?”

  “It’s ridiculous. I saw it.” He ran his hand from her shoulder to her wrist. “Your arms are perfect, baby. You know that.”