by Carol Durand
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Maven Publishing - All rights reserved.
All rights Reserved. No part of this publication or the information in it may be quoted from or reproduced in any form by means such as printing, scanning, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
Melissa Gladstone glanced at her watch repeatedly as she waited for a slow-moving train to pass. Sighing at the inconvenience, she started at the rusty, graffiti-covered cars as they clanked and creaked by so slowly that Missy was certain she’d be able to walk faster than they were moving. Her daily routine varied little, and a hiccup like this unsettled the conscientious owner of two cupcake shops probably far more than it should have.
She began every morning by taking her two furry friends, a golden retriever named Toffee and a malti-poo name Bitsy on a vigorous walk to the park, then after her breakfast and shower, she headed immediately to the first of her two shops, Missy’s Muffins and More, in LaChance, Louisiana. Once she’d established that all was well in the LaChance store, it would be time to drop in on her second location, Crème de la Cupcake, in the neighboring town of Dellville.
The spunky blonde’s best friend, Echo Willis, owned the vegan ice cream shop across the street from Crème de la Cupcake, so Missy often ended her days there, conversing with her free-spirited “partner in crime” who had moved to Louisiana from California last year. Evenings were usually spent in the company of the incredibly handsome LaChance detective, Chas Beckett. When she really stopped to think about it, life for Missy Gladstone was pretty close to wonderful, a fact that she had to remind herself of while sitting behind the flashing red lights of the railroad crossing.
After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality had only been more like seven minutes, the red and white striped railroad gates finally started rising slowly, and Missy’s little blue car bumped over the tracks, crawling behind the traffic that had built up at the crossing. The manager of MM&M, Cheryl Radigan, was waiting for her in the commercial kitchen when she arrived, looking perplexed and holding a slip of paper.
“Hey, Ms. G.,” Cheryl greeted Missy cheerfully. “I just took this message for you. The woman was talking so fast, and there was so much noise in the background that I couldn’t really understand what she wanted, but I think it had something to do with the catering we did for Whispers of Blood when they were filming in town,” she guessed, handing her boss the message slip.
“Thanks, Cheryl,” Missy murmured, glancing at the paper. “That’s really strange…I wonder why they’d be contacting me,” she mused. The horror movie Whispers of Blood had been filmed on the outskirts of LaChance a few months ago, and Missy had prepared cupcakes for the cast and crew on a daily basis, but all accounts had been settled long ago. “How are we doing on deliveries?” she asked, getting down to business.
“We’re good to go – everything is boxed and loaded into the truck. Grayson will be handling the counter while I do the deliveries, the baking is all caught up so that we have plenty of stock, and the supplies have been ordered,” the resourceful young woman replied, double-checking the list of to-do items on her phone.
“Wow, somebody’s been busy this morning,” Missy observed, pleased. “Great job. I’m going to hole up in my office to wade through some paperwork, and to make this phone call. Tell Grayson to come get me if things get crazy,” she instructed, heading down the hall.
“You got it,” Cheryl nodded, rummaging in her purse for the keys to the delivery truck.
Missy plopped into her ancient brown leather office chair that had the look and feel of a well-worn baseball glove, and dialed the California phone number that was on the message.
“Francesca Childs’ office, how may I help you?” a voice on the other end of the line that sounded very young, bored and Californian inquired. Missy gave her name, said that she was returning a call from Francesca, and waited, listening to smooth jazz, while the receptionist connected her.
“Melissa, sweetheart, how are you?” a nasal New Yorker demanded, without waiting for an answer and launched into a fast-paced monologue that left Missy’s head spinning. “So anyway, Ian Carson was a good friend of mine and he couldn’t stop raving about how fabulous you are and how great you’d be on camera, and he insisted that your cupcakes were a little piece of heaven on earth,” Francesca explained, not even pausing for breath. Missy winced a bit at the mention of Ian’s name. He was a Hollywood A-list actor who had befriended her while filming Whispers of Blood, and he had been tragically murdered on the set. “So here’s the deal, honey…I’m in the process of looking at candidates for a new reality show that’s all about baking. We need someone quirky and fun and Ian spoke so highly of you that, naturally, you were my first choice. I’m going to need you to come out to L.A. for an audition and a screen test as soon as possible. The studio will pick up the cost of your travel and accommodations of course, and we’ll provide you with a daily stipend while we evaluate your readiness for hosting your own baking show. Whaddya say, Melissa?” she asked, finally.
Missy’s head swam with a combination of information overload, and the enormity of what was being proposed. “Umm…I have some questions actually,” she began, feeling a bit steamrolled.
“Shoot,” Francesca ordered. Missy could hear the tapping of computer keys in the background.
“Umm…okay,” she faltered a bit, not quite knowing where to begin. “So…are you a casting director?” she asked.
“Producer,” was the abrupt answer. “Next question?”
“Oh…well…I..,” Missy floundered a bit, overwhelmed. “I really hadn’t heard anything about a baking show. Could you give me some more information as to what it’ll involve, and what would be expected of me? I really don’t know what I’d be getting myself into.”
“Well, doll, you won’t be getting yourself into anything if we can’t at least agree on an audition date. Let’s get that set up, see if you’d be a good fit for the show, and we can hash out details once we get to that point. At any time during the process, if you’re not feeling comfortable or you decide that you don’t have what it takes to host your own baking show, we’ll just say our goodbyes and leave it at that. So, I’ve got an opening on Friday, can you make it?” Francesca asked as though it were a foregone conclusion.
Missy swallowed hard. “Friday? Wow, that’s really soon…can I take a look at my schedule and get back to you?” she asked, feeling somewhat faint.
“Here’s what we’ll do, honey,” the producer spoke slowly, sensing Missy’s reticence. “I’m gonna
go ahead and book that slot for you on Friday. You look at your schedule and see if there’s anything in there that might prevent you from keeping an appointment that could very well give you the job of your dreams and set you up financially for life, and call me if you can’t make it. You can fly out on Thursday – what airport would you like to use?”
“Uh…New Orleans,” Missy replied, feeling as though she were dreaming.
“Perfect, sweetheart. My assistant, Roger, will hook you up with flight and hotel reservations, as well as a driver to get you to the studio. He’ll email you the details along with his cell number in case you need anything, and I’ll look forward to seeing you on Friday, alright babe?”
Missy almost giggled. Babe? How very Hollywood. She agreed, feeling as though she didn’t have much of a choice, and hung up the phone in a daze.
Chapter 2
Missy had no earthly idea what one wore to an audition or a screen test, but she was quite certain that her current wardrobe was woefully inadequate. She tossed outfit upon outfit onto her bed, finding some tragic flaw in each item of clothing as Echo watched with amusement, sipping a glass of Cabernet.
“For someone who still isn’t sure about whether you should even be going or not, you’re awfully concerned about first impressions,” her friend remarked, reaching down to stroke Toffee’s silky golden ears, while Bitsy snoozed peacefully in her lap.
“This whole thing is crazy,” Missy folded her arms and shook her head, surveying the tornadic mess on the bed. “Who am I to even think about having my own TV show? I’m not qualified for this. What if I make a fool of myself?” she worried, going to the closet to rifle through the remaining items.
“Seems to me that quite a few people on TV make a very good living by being unafraid to make a fool of themselves,” Echo observed dryly.
“Yes, but I certainly don’t want to fall into that category,” Missy shot back, flinging hangers aside one by one. “I know nothing about any of that Hollywood stuff. I’m an ordinary cupcake artist from Louisiana.”
“Which is apparently exactly what they’re looking for,” her friend reminded her gently. “Just go out there and have a good time. Enjoy the first class plane ticket and luxury hotel, and if they don’t choose you, just be glad that you had a free mini-vacation,” she advised, taking another sip of wine.
Missy stopped her frantic search for the perfect outfit and turned to face her laid-back friend. “You know what? You’re right! Why should I be so worried about what they think when I already have everything I’ve ever wanted. If they don’t choose me, I’ll just come back here with a fun story to tell, and be able to fall right back into my wonderfully ordinary life,” she nodded, smiling for the first time since she spoke with Francesca Childs.
“Exactly!” Echo exclaimed, raising her glass. “Now choose a few outfits and throw them in the suitcase so that we can go order pizza and watch our movie,” she directed, eager for girl’s night to begin.
**
“So, how are you feeling about the prospect of becoming a TV star?” the tall-dark-and-handsome Detective Chas Beckett teased, as he drove Missy to the airport.
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” she replied with a grin. “But, if it happens, I’ll have you to keep me humble.”
“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” he winked and squeezed her knee affectionately. “Are you nervous?”
“Terrified,” Missy confessed. “It’s not that there’s a lot at stake – I’ll be perfectly fine if they choose someone else, but the thought of getting in front of a TV camera, with everyone focused on me, gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I can see how that might be intimidating,” Chas nodded. “Just try to forget about the camera. When they ask you to say something, just pretend you’re talking to me and that I’m right behind the lens. I’ve handled press conferences that way for years,” he admitted, shrugging.
“Good idea,” she agreed, feeling butterflies fluttering in her stomach as they pulled up in front of the terminal. Kissing Chas goodbye, she headed for the ticket counter.
Chapter 3
Missy felt almost guilty about the treatment that she received in First Class. She had taken her shoes off and was reclined in a massive leather chair, cocktail in hand, before the coach passengers had even begun their boarding process. Flight attendants came by to check on her regularly, making sure that her every need was met, and she realized how easy it would be to become accustomed to this style of travel. The flight to Los Angeles was long, but watching movies, enjoying a five-star meal and napping on a feather pillow under a silky blanket helped to pass the time. Missy was delighted when the attendant presented her with a warm, lemon-scented cloth so that she could freshen up, just before they landed. The butterflies that had fluttered lightly when she was bathed in Chas’s comforting presence, now swan-dived to her toes as she looked out the window at the palm trees and sunny California skies.
There was a uniformed driver holding a placard with Missy’s name on it, who retrieved her luggage and whisked her away to a stretch limousine. Once inside the shiny, black, living-room-on-wheels, she stared out of the privacy-tinted windows, seeing the names of streets that she’d only seen in movies or on TV. Delighted when she saw the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign, high in the hills, she realized that Echo was right – she was on a free vacation, so from here on out, she would just stop worrying and enjoy it. Realistically, she probably didn’t have a snowball’s chance at securing her own baking show anyway, so there was really no reason to be nervous.
The stretch limo glided to a halt in the circular drive of an Art Deco, pink-stuccoed, luxury hotel. The marbled floors and tropical flowers in the lobby were absolutely stunning, and Missy wondered whether she could casually snap a picture without being considered too tacky by the upscale clientele flitting through the grand room as though it was just barely adequate for their taste. Deciding that she didn’t care what Hollywood’s upper crust thought of her (because truthfully, she’d most likely never encounter any of them ever again), she shamelessly took photos of a gorgeous water feature, a floral arrangement that probably cost more than her car, and the atrium that led to a massive Roman pool. Her driver escorted her to an imposing mahogany reception desk, waiting while she checked in so that he could deliver her suitcase to her room.
Stepping into her suite, Missy’s breath caught at the beauty of her surroundings. The décor was a stunning example of Hollywood Glam, with fine finishes and lots of sparkle. Once the heavily carved door closed softly behind the departing driver, who had promised to return for her in the morning, she sat, almost afraid to touch anything, on the edge of a plush velvet purple divan, just taking everything in. She noticed an elegant arrangement of two dozen white roses on the table in the dining area, and went over to pluck the ribboned card out of the holder in the midst of them.
“Relax, Beautiful…you’re amazing, and if they don’t see that in you, they don’t deserve to have your talent on their show. All my love, Chas” read the simple white card. Tears sprung to Missy’s eyes at his thoughtfulness, and she desperately wished that she could give him a hug at that very moment, or, more to the point, that he could give her one. She tucked the card into an inside pocket of her purse as a talisman to remind her that her life was wonderful and that this world of make-believe in which she currently found herself, was no big deal.
Chapter 4
Missy’s driver had taken her to the studio where she would be meeting Francesca Childs, and escorted her to the reception area, where she sat in an ultra-modern, white leather and chrome chair, staring down at an application that had been presented to her by a tall, willowy redhead who perched delicately at the desk.
“Am I a SAG member? Do I have a head shot? How many dialects can I do? I am so ridiculously out of my element,” Missy thought to herself, distracted by the beautiful people who passed through the area with a nonchalance that she found astounding. She frowned down at the paper,
her pen poised, but not moving, and a familiar nasal voice interrupted her escalating panic.
“Melissa, dearest, there you are!” a dark-haired woman, with cat-eye glasses and a ponytail, dressed all in black, breezed in through a hallway that looked as though it led to the inner sanctum. “You don’t need this,” she decreed, plucking the application from Missy’s hand and tossing it onto a glass-topped coffee table. “I’m Francesca Childs,” she introduced herself, extending a thin, pale hand. Missy shook it and introduced herself, fascinated by the fact that Francesca had a manner that made her seem to be in perpetual motion.
“Come with me, sweetheart,” the New Yorker commanded, whirling about and leading Missy back down the hallway from which she had come. Missy had to nearly jog to keep up with the producer, as she wound her way through a series of halls. Francesca talked the entire way, tossing comments and instructions over her shoulder as Missy hurried along behind her. “Now, first you’re going to meet with the production team, it’s no biggie, we’ll just ask you some questions, talk to you a little bit – you’ll be fine. Then, we’ll give you a script to look over for a few minutes, and have you read for us. When you have the reading down, we’ll put you in front of the camera for a quick little screen test, and that’s it. Tonight, if we like what we see, we’ll have you attend a little dinner party with some of the folks from the show, so that you can get to know them a bit, and we’ll deal with all of the logistical and administrative stuff later, sound good?”
Before Missy could open her mouth to answer, the producer announced that they had arrived. “Here we are,” she smiled, flinging open the door to a massive conference room that had a six inch high platform on one end with a single chair sitting in the middle of it, and a long table in front of the stage with four people sitting at it, all of whom looked up, seemingly annoyed, when they entered.
