by Zoey Dean
"Um, probably more. Is there a point to this, Champagne? Except to make yourself feel bad?"
"It doesn't make me feel bad. It makes me feel good. Like, why couldn't I be rich someday?" The girl's eyes shone.
"I agree," Anna told her. "It's great to be ambitious and have goals. If you stay in school and do really well, you can get a scholarship to college--"
"I have what-do-you-call-it . . . aspirations." Champagne looped some hair behind one ear. "You're driving me home, today, to Reseda, right? You'll see where I live--an apartment building that's . . . Well, let's just say I don't want to live there for the rest of my life."
Anna nodded thoughtfully.
"My mom, though," Champagne continued, "she's happy there. It's all we can afford, even with me working
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so much. J'ai envie d'etre vous deux. Tout les deux. Tout les temps."
Anna's jaw dropped slightly. The French was perfect.
"Ou as-tu apprise ton francais?" she asked.
Champagne grinned. "Au ecole. Je suis une bonne etu-diante . . . mais sans beaucoup d'argent."
"Tell me what she said," Cammie demanded, wiping some of the soy drink from her lips with a napkin.
"I'm a good student," Anna translated bashfully. "And I'd like to be like you. All the time."
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A White, Dry Envelope
"Dad? You penciled me in?" Cammie reminded her father. She stood with Sam by the side of the tennis courts at the Hancock Park Tennis Club. Her father had a regular Saturday morning doubles game, and he'd just finished his usual Saturday morning three sets--him and Norm Aladjem of Paradigm against Ari Emanuel and Ari Greenburg of Endeavor. The industry partners changed from week to week, but his 9 A.M. to 10:30 A.M. Saturday doubles game was sacrosanct. Definitely, Cammie knew, more sacrosanct than any meeting with her. "Breakfast? Remember?"
"Absolutely!" her father bellowed. He wore a brown Fila tennis shirt and white shorts. "I didn't forget. Glad to see you, kid. Just a sec. Let me say goodbye to my buds." Clark bounded across the court again--he was one of those completely in-shape Hollywood jock-agent types, with short blond hair, green eyes, and a gleaming smile--and Cammie ruminated on how strange it was that they lived under the same roof but still had to make an appointment for breakfast.
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A moment later, Clark was back, his jet-black leather racquet bag slung over his shoulder--he carried four Babolat Pure Drive racquets, like some older version of Andy Roddick. "Walk with me to the clubhouse. I've got a table reserved. How are you, Sam?"
"Ready for coffee."
"Me too."
"I reserved the private room for us," Clark announced. "The Billie Jean King room. Follow me."
There was one white-clothed table set up in the center of the room, its three wicker seats presumably for Clark, Cammie, and Sam. A second buffet table was against the far wall. It was already laden with bagels and lox, scrambled egg whites, scones, sliced prime rib, and a basket of assorted breads.
Cammie sat. She had no appetite but poured herself an oversize cup of coffee. She could make no sense out of the long mystery that was her mother's death, but the time had come to try. It didn't help matters that her father was a notorious liar who would say anything to anyone if it would help to get him what he wanted. Whether she'd get any useful information from him remained to be seen.
"You want to take the lead here, or should I?" Sam asked. She poured herself a tumbler of apple juice and sat down. "You nervous?"
"I was before. Now ... I just want to get this over with. I got it covered. After all, I heard what your mother said."
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"Mother in name only," Sam corrected. "I'm nervous."
"Don't be. I just want to see what my father says when I accuse him of lying--"
"Lying about what?"
Sam and Cammie turned; there was Clark in the doorway. He didn't look angry, though. Just curious.
"Mom. And you. And me," Cammie replied. She idly stirred her coffee.
"Ah. Let me get some juice. We'll talk."
Cammie drummed her fingers on the table as her father poured himself an enormous glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, set it on the white tablecloth, put down his tennis bag on the parquet floor, and then closed the outside door to the King room before folding himself into a chair and taking a long swallow from his tall glass.
"Guilty as charged, Cammie," he admitted. "I lied about what happened on the boat."
"I knew it," Cammie muttered, and then rested her chin in her hands.
Sam nudged her and mouthed, Chill out.
"Let's just say I did something all good agents do."
"Told a half-truth?" Sam guessed boldly. "We got the rest of the truth from Dina. You remember Dina, don't you? Always great when you have to hire a private detective to find your own mother. That kind of maternal connection really brings a tear to the eye, doesn't it?"
Clark drained half his glass. "I've told Cammie this a
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million times: never go to a meeting with less information than the other people in the room."
"Sam's mother talked to you?" Cammie was honestly surprised.
Clark nodded emphatically. "Two days after she went back to North Carolina. I'm up to speed." He slapped a stomach that would make most body builders jealous, the product of two hundred sit-ups every morning. "Hey, I need to fuel up. Aren't you two going to eat?"
Both Cammie and Sam shook their heads no. Then they had to wait again, while Clark filled his plate from the buffet selections. Sam's mother had indeed come for graduation, after not having seen Sam for many years. They had met her at her crappy hotel in Sherman Oaks. After what Cammie had learned from the police report about her mother's death-by-drowning on a yacht off the coast of Santa Barbara ten years ago, she had to find out the truth. The police report had said that Dina--Sam's real mother--had been out on the boat that same night.
When they'd met Dina, she'd confirmed that she had indeed been a passenger that night. Then she'd shared more information than Cammie and Sam had bargained for. According to Dina, Cammie's mother had been clinically depressed. The reason that Jeanne had jumped had a lot more to do with blood chemistry than with any sexual musical chairs that evening--or any other evening-- despite the wife- or husband-swapping that was so popular
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back then among Hollywood parents. In fact, Clark had confessed to Cammie that he'd done little more than play gin rummy with Dina that same night.
Clark brought his food back to the table. "Nothing like playing tennis to work up an appetite." He shook his napkin out, placed it on his lap, and dug into his egg whites.
"Dina said that Mom was depressed," Cammie began pointedly. "True or bullshit?"
"True."
Which, of course, did not necessarily mean it was true at all.
"Prove it."
"Figured that's what you'd say." Clark took a huge bite of his everything bagel, washed it down with some coffee, and then unzipped his black leather tennis bag. Out came a manila folder, which he passed to Cammie. "Take a look at this."
Cammie did, even as Sam edged her chair closer so she could check out what was in the file. It held a sheaf of papers much thicker than the original police report. As Cammie leafed through them, she could see they were from Cedars-Sinai Hospital as well as from various well-known Beverly Hills doctors and psychiatrists, all detailing treatment of one Jeanne Sheppard for severe depression. There were prescriptions galore, plus at least one mid-five-figure receipt from the Ojai Institute, the same psychiatric facility that had helped Dee get her life back on track.
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"Holy shit, she was at Ojai," Cammie murmured softly, the enormity of her mother's mental health problems so apparent here on paper in black and white. How ironic it was--in some sick way--that her mother had once been at the same mental hospital where Dee had gone. Maybe that was why Cammie had felt so creepy being there. A sixth-sense kind of thing. "I
didn't know about any of this."
"We did our best to keep you isolated from it," Clark explained. "Like, if your mom had to go in-patient, we'd send you to visit friends up at Mammoth, or to a summer camp or something. Maybe that wasn't fair, but we didn't want it to be a burden. You were just a kid. We were trying to keep you that way." He gave a sad little laugh. "I can't say we entirely succeeded."
Cammie kept reading, though her hands felt as numb as her heart. Here was the proof she'd been looking for. For the briefest instant, she thought that maybe her father had faked all this--she wouldn't put that past him. But it couldn't be. There was too much evidence. It would have been too easy to check. This was the truth. There'd been no foul play on the Strikers' yacht. Jeanne Sheppard had jumped overboard.
"You should have told me." Her voice was hoarse, and the back of her throat ached.
"When you're a mother ... If you're a mother . . . The idea of you being a mother . . . Well, maybe you'll understand then. You just want to protect your kid." Clark sighed.
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Suddenly, Cammie slammed a hand down on the table so hard that orange juice splashed and coffee sloshed. "I could have the same fucking thing that mom did. Did you ever think of that? What if it's genetic?"
Her father's cell rang. He checked the number and then swore softly. "It's my partner. We're in this intense negotiation over online video streaming rights for Hermosa Beach."
Cammie felt so sad that no words could have made it past her constricted throat anyway. Her father was going to take a business phone call. Now? She watched in mute horror as he snapped open his Razr.
"Margaret? I'm with my daughter. . . . No, you wait. I'll call you back. . . . When I can . . . Learn a little patience. It's a goddamn virtue." He closed the phone again.
Cammie wasn't sure if she had just imagined that her father had blown his partner off for her, or if it had really happened.
"Okay, so where were we?"
"You were hanging up on Margaret." Cammie smiled. It gave her some serious satisfaction just to say it aloud. "And your daughter was proud of you."
"I do have to talk to her. But I have one more thing for you." He ducked down again for his tennis bag.
"About Mom?"
Clark shook his head and handed her another envelope. This one was letter-size, white, and very dry. There
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was handwriting on the outside of the envelope that Cammie hadn't seen in years but remembered like her own name. Red pen, the color her mother liked so much because she was a teacher. Perfect cursive. Camilla. Not Cammie. Camilla.
"Not about Mom. From Mom," Clark explained gently.
Her heart careened around inside her chest; her mouth went to another level of dry. Her ears rang from the blood that rushed to them, so loudly that she could barely hear what her father was saying.
"Mom . . . ?"
"She wrote this right after you were born. I wrote one, too. The plan was, we'd give them to you on your wedding day." He smiled sadly. "But somehow, I don't think Jeanne would mind if you got hers now. In fact, I think she'd rather like it.
"Damn. I miss her. I was a better person with her." He stretched his neck and then stood. "Come on, Sammy-antha, let's take a walk and give Cammie some time alone with her mother."
Cammie started to tell Sam to stay, that she could read over her shoulder, but then stopped. Her father was right. She'd let Sam read it later. This time, she wanted to be by herself and relish her mother's words. Whatever they turned out to be.
"You good?" Sam asked.
"No. But you should go."
"Cammie, you'll come out when you're done?" her
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father asked. He gestured toward the door. Clearly, he'd be waiting for her.
She nodded blankly. Her father had just called Sam by her childhood nickname that no one used anymore. She hadn't even known that he remembered.
And then she was alone in the room with her mother's missive. Carefully, she opened it.
My dearest daughter,
I am awed and amazed that you have made me a mother. My own mother once told me that I wouldn't understand her until I became a mother myself. Already I feel like I understand that, at least a little hit. I loved you from the moment I saw you, Camilla. To love this much is beautiful, and wonderful, and painful, and the scariest thing in the world, all at the same time.
It thrills me to think that I will be raising you with your father. He is the smartest man I've ever met in my life. I hope that you have come to realize that, having traversed teen years that could not have been easy. They never are.
If you are reading this, it must be your wedding day. I pray you picked a man worthy of the wonderful young woman I know you will grow up to be. What I want to tell you is this, my darling daughter: Love him fiercely, but not with all your heart. Save a piece of it for yourself. Don't let
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marriage be an excuse to stop living and growing. Every day that you are alive is another day full of possibility. Cherish it. Make the most of it. Use it wisely and well. And one day when you are very, very, very old and you leave this world for whatever is out there, leave it a better place than you found it.
You are my hope and my joy and my future.
All my love forever,
Mom
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Could I Have Your Autograph?
Parker Pinelli was a man with a plan.
People had commented on his good looks for as long as he could remember. First it was, "Better watch out, he's gonna be a heartbreaker one day." When one day came around, he was six feet tall, a hundred sixty-five pounds, and just in ninth grade; a young-Brad-Pitt-James-Dean-but-taller look-alike. That was when girls and women of every age, size, and shape began to throw themselves at him. The first time someone old enough to be his mother had hit on him was when he was fourteen, at a commercial audition for some breakfast cereal. The fiftyish casting director said he looked tense, asked him into her private office, and began to give him a massage. He'd freaked out and bolted.
Needless to say, he didn't get the gig. But on the long bus ride back to his crappy apartment on the fringes of Beverly Hills, he started to feel remorseful about leaving. It was a national commercial. If he had booked it, he'd have gotten a check every time it aired, as well as compensated for the job itself.
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He'd been hungry when he got home. As usual, there was nothing in the refrigerator except some nasty-looking leftovers his mother had brought from the Apple Pan diner, where she was currently waitressing, and a frozen chocolate cake she'd ordered from QVC. The furniture looked more worn and threadbare than usual, and that was saying a lot. He couldn't avoid it. His mother, younger brother Monte, and he desperately needed the money the commercial would have brought in. That casting director had wanted something. He'd wanted something. They could have exchanged. It was the American way. Instead, he realized he'd blown it by running in the wrong direction.
By the time his next audition rolled around, this one for a well-known amusement park down near Anaheim, Parker had gotten over his jitters. And since then, because women and men of all ages hit on him, he'd pretty much been able to pick and choose whose affections--and favors--to court.
Such was the power of really great looks. He saw it with Sam's friend Cammie Sheppard, who had it with guys. He had it too, with both girls and guys. That was just the way it was. To ignore that power would be to ignore the fact that the earth was round, or that two plus two equals four.
When he got to high school, those same looks helped fool Sam and her friends into thinking he was one of them. When Sam discovered Parker's secret during the trip to Las Vegas, he figured he was fucked. It was too
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delicious a secret--that he was actually poor--to expect anyone to keep. But she'd promised to keep her mouth shut, and they'd looked at each other differently ever since.
Parker's plan was to become a movie star. An Orlando-Brad-Leonardo-l
evel movie star. But there was always a hitch. While he could generally finagle auditions, he rarely made it past whatever assistant was making the first round of cuts. Parker was just another great-looking piece of Hollywood meat. They never really saw him. The phone never rang, and, quick as he'd gotten his hopes up, he was on to the next casting call.
Until now.
Thanks to the deal he'd cut with Sam, he'd screen tested yesterday at Transnational Studios for the role of Marcus in Ben-Hur. He'd done homework and discovered that the role didn't exist in the originalbut had been added during one of the uncredited rewrites.
By three o'clock--just twenty-four hours ago--the call he'd been praying for had actually come. The role was his. The pay would be ten thousand dollars and he should report to the Palmdale set today.
That was when the tears had flowed. He tried not to think about the part of the bargain that would come later, in which he had to start a seduction of Sam's gold-digging stepmother.
But the worst-case scenario--in which Jackson found out Parker had hit on his wife and got Parker blacklisted from Hollywood for life--wasn't far from his mind,
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which had to be part of the reason he was sweating as he stood under a blue tent canopy on the Ben-Hur set, dressed in a white Roman toga, about to shoot his first scene. In it, Marcus would help Judah Ben-Hur dress for the climactic chariot race.
He'd been messengered the entire script the night before, and he'd read it through twice. It was the year A.D. 1. Judah Ben-Hur, after years of being imprisoned by the Roman procurator Messala, now had the chance to defeat him in a chariot race. Parker had read his own scenes so many times that he had not just the lines but the stage directions memorized. He could see the pages in his mind's eye.
EXT. CHARIOT GROUNDS-RACE PREP AREA-DAY
MARCUS, NOSAN's son, enters and bows to BEN-HUR, who is checking the condition of his horses.
MARCUS
If I might be of service . . .
BEN-HUR
What is it, Marcus?
MARCUS
I would be honored if you would allow me to help you prepare for the race, sir.
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[BEN-HUR turns and looks askance at MARCUS.]
