As she waited for her heartbeat to slow to a normal rate, Iris silently considered all the reasons why she shouldn’t have made the trip. The most recent near-death experience now taking the top spot on that list. An endless loop of second-guesses and what-ifs had been cycling through her head during the entire flight from Los Angeles to Atlanta. There was nothing quite as potent as a cheating boyfriend to tank your self-esteem. The breakup with Kent had definitely not been a confidence boost. But ambition had overruled uncertainty, so here she was. She wanted to do something more lasting, something that would negate the need to be cast for commercials simply to pay the bills.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Iris blinked several times, suddenly aware again of the elderly woman in the seat next to her.
“Thank yew, Jeezus,” her seat mate said it again, her southern accent more noticeable the more times she repeated the phrase.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Ask me again when we’re off this airplane.” There was good-natured humor and relief in her words. She turned to Iris. “What about you, honey, are you all right?”
“Yes, shaken, but okay.” Iris swept her fingers through her hair, a habit that usually helped ground her when she was nervous.
The woman riffled through her large handbag as the plane taxied across the tarmac. She produced two red striped peppermint candies and offered one to Iris.
“Peppermint. It settles the stomach.” She crinkled the plastic wrapped candies between her fingers.
The small gesture of kindness reminded Iris of her grandmother and how she’d kept peppermints in her purse to quiet Iris during evening mass. The sight of the candy swept Iris back to childhood and the itch to break free.
“Thank you.” Iris unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth. She was fairly sure it was going to take more than one small mint to settle her tattered nerves, but she was grateful for anything that would kill the taste of fear lingering in her mouth.
She sucked the candy gratefully, rolling it over with her tongue as she watched the flight attendants methodically move through the cabin. Fallen luggage was gathered up and stowed overhead as the aircraft lumbered toward the terminal.
Iris wondered how long it would take to drive back to California after the audition, because there was no way she wanted to get back on an airplane again anytime soon. Maybe a cross-country road trip was the perfect way to celebrate her impending thirtieth birthday.
Chapter Two
A name and an address flashed across the screen of the cell phone at the edge of the dresser, followed by a pickup time. Taylor Finn leaned closer so she could read the details. She returned to her reflection in the mirror as she finished buttoning the tailored pale blue shirt. The light starch made the collar stand up nicely. She reached for the charcoal jacket that matched her dress pants, slim through the hips and tapered at the cuff. She couldn’t bring herself to wear a black suit and drive a limo, such a cliché. Dark gray was close enough. It was warm tonight so she opted for black wingtips with no socks to finish the ensemble. She slipped her wallet into her back pocket, then reached for her phone along with the car keys.
Finn trotted down the steps of the one-room cabin and followed the gravel path to the main house. Her family had owned the Hideaway Haven since the forties. Nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Hideaway Haven was a collection of small, rustic cabins peppered among old growth poplars and maples, with a few conifers thrown in. The vintage roadside getaway was about an hour outside Metro Atlanta. Finn had taken over one of the cabins for herself. If all the units filled up, she moved into the main house, which also doubled as restaurant and registration. Her parents occupied the entire second floor. But lately there’d been a drop in reservations. It seemed everyone did VRBO these days, which was taking a toll on small roadside motels.
Her mother rarely left the main house in case someone unexpectedly needed a cabin for the night. She glanced up at Finn when the bell over the door chimed.
“You need a haircut.” Her mother only looked up briefly. Her salt-and-pepper hair curled around her face, the curls more textured due to the summer humidity. She was wearing a well-worn apron over a floral blouse and dark Capri pants, with old-school women’s Keds tennis shoes. A television in the dining area near the kitchen blared CNN. Her mother had taken a seat nearby. She sipped iced tea and shook her head at the news. “That man. How did she ever agree to marry that man?”
“Maybe she knew he’d be president one day.” Finn pulled a Coke from the cooler next to the wall and used the opener mounted on the side of the classic icebox to pop the cap.
“Even still, she should’ve known better.”
“You’ve gotta quit watching the news, Mama. Nothin’ good ever comes of it.” Finn took a long swig of the icy cola. The carbonation burned her throat a little, but it was refreshing.
“Don’t quote your father to me. Lord knows he tells me his own self plenty often enough.” Her mother shook her head and sipped her tea, never taking her eyes off the newscaster. “Now there’s a good-looking man.”
“He’s gay, Mama.” Finn leaned against the registration counter. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it off her forehead. She’d put product in it to give it a casually tousled shape, but the front was getting a little long. Her mother didn’t like it when it fell into her eyes.
“I know he’s gay. Most of the handsome ones are. Except for George Clooney. Now there’s a man I’d like to meet some day.” A commercial came on, and her mother hit the mute button and rotated in her direction. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m working tonight. Driving to Atlanta. I’ll probably be back really late.”
“How much longer are you going to do that job? You are wasting your time. You could make something of yourself.”
They had this conversation at least once a month. Finn could set her calendar by this discussion. When was Finn going to quit driving rich people around and get a real job, a job with a future?
“We’ve been over this, Mama. As long as it takes.” Finn pushed the door open, not waiting for her mother’s reply.
The screen door banged loudly. She stood for a moment and finished off the last bit of cola. She tossed the bottle into the recycle bin and strode to the garage behind the main house. The extra-long black company car lurked in the shadowy interior of the carport, which was walled on three sides but open at the front. There were three bays in the carport—one for the limo, one for her mother’s ancient Volvo sedan, and one for her most prized possession, a 1958 MG MGA Roadster. She tugged at the gray canvas cover to make sure it was snug as if she were tucking in an infant for the night. In truth, this car was her baby, just not the sort of baby her mother preferred. Her mother wanted Finn to have an actual infant, a toddler who’d call her Grandma, not an overly pampered vintage sports car.
One night at dinner, Finn actually got the nerve to remind her mother that she was gay and she wasn’t going to sleep with a guy. So a baby happening was highly unlikely. They never talked about sex so this was a radical breach of southern protocol. To which her mother responded by suggesting Finn didn’t have to keep a man, just sleep with him so she could have a baby. Finn was speechless, and she was pretty sure the conversation had ruined her father’s appetite. He sat back in his chair with wide eyes. He pushed away the plate of his Wednesday favorite, meatloaf, and scowled at them both.
Regardless, it didn’t seem that a baby was in her future.
Cars were the only true love Finn had ever committed to. If asked, she’d have had a hard time pinning down the origin of her love affair with automobiles. Even her first memory of Christmas was asking her mother for a toy truck. Her mother had given her a dollhouse instead. She’d promptly traded it to her cousin Jeffrey for a case of Matchbox cars. Jeffrey preferred dolls and clothes. This wouldn’t be the last Christmas she and her cousin swapped gifts. He’d grown up to be a very stylish man, currently living in Midtown Atla
nta with his boyfriend.
Given the choice, Finn had pretty much always set her sights on anything with wheels. The first bicycle she ever owned was an intoxicating taste of freedom. She rode the wheels off that thing. It wasn’t long before she began customizing the bike. Changing out the handlebars, removing the fenders, almost as if she were customizing a stock car for racing. Then she and her brother, Trey, built ramps for jumping over things in the backyard. Until one day when she’d failed to tighten the handlebars properly. They came off mid jump. Trey broke his arm, and Finn was grounded for a month. She was twelve and Trey was ten. Good times.
Finn stood next to the town car’s driver’s side door as she removed her jacket, folded it, and placed it on the passenger seat. She reached for her aviator style sunglasses in the console and put them on as she settled in behind the wheel. She might as well be comfortable for the drive to the city. Besides, she didn’t want to have to run the AC. In the early evening she preferred to drive with all the windows open. The smell of fresh cut grass wafted through the car, and the soothing rhythm of cicadas sang their roadside summer melody as she drove along the tree-lined scenic byway.
A dog had his head out the window of an approaching car. Finn couldn’t help smiling. He was a big collie, his long hair fluffed in the wind. His mouth was open and his tongue was out. He looked like he was smiling. Dogs couldn’t drive, but they definitely understood the joy of cars. Yeah, dogs got it.
The sleek black limo looked completely out of place in rural north Georgia. Almost as out of place as her roadster. Almost as out of place as she did sometimes. Unincorporated Watts Mountain wasn’t exactly an ideal community for a butch lesbian. Her mother preferred the word tomboy. Finn wasn’t crazy about either label. She simply was who she was. She was who she’d always been. And whether she fit in or not, this was home.
Watts Mountain was founded in 1834, and it was really more of a hill than a mountain. But from here you could see the beginnings of the Blue Ridge Mountains a half hour’s drive away. The community’s only claim to fame was a post office that closed in 1967. Oh, and Watts Lake, conveniently located only a few miles from Hideaway Haven.
Watts Mountain had a small grocery at Turner’s Corner. That intersection had the only three-way stop sign. The grocery had a single gas pump that occasionally ran dry because the Turners, who owned the store, weren’t the best at managing their inventory. They had the necessities, beer, chips, and deli sandwiches. And there was a little mail center and gift shop across the highway, housed in the original train depot. From back when a train actually ran along this neglected section of track.
The necessary items for a picnic at the lake were readily available, including recycled inner tubes for flotation enjoyment. But for any other needs, like a date or a movie, well, that required a drive to the metro area. The suburbs of Atlanta now stretched miles and miles past the Perimeter, which was an eight-lane motor speedway populated by rednecks with shotguns in the gun racks of their pickups and yuppies in BMWs and Audis. Atlanta was booming and the city had the traffic to prove it.
Her mother was annoying at times, as most mothers could be, but she was right, and Finn knew it. Driving a limo was never supposed to be a long-term plan and yet, somehow, three years after taking the position she hadn’t made any real progress toward her goal. She needed to get serious about doing the career she really wanted to be doing.
Working for the limo service was like a velvet coffin. She was comfortable, and shuttling high-end passengers paid the bills. The tips were good; other perks were sometimes good too. Especially the kind that didn’t involve money. It seemed that Atlanta had more than its share of bored divorcees in need of a ride. Remembering one recent afternoon made Finn smile. Elaine Caufield was in her forties, bi-curious, and gorgeous. And she never made Finn feel like a dumb kid, even though at twenty-six, she probably was. Finn knew enough to know there was a lot she didn’t know.
The last three weeks, Elaine had asked for Finn by name, special request, for her shopping excursions in Buckhead. Then when they returned to Elaine’s place they always ended up getting food delivered. Elaine was fun. Sometimes she’d pull up to Elaine’s large brick home and help carry shopping bags into the house. She’d head toward the door and Elaine would touch her arm and simply say, stay.
Stay, the word some people longed to hear only made Finn want to leave, to move, to go. She feared being stuck, hindered in some way from moving on, tethered by responsibility for another’s happiness.
Even still, when Elaine had asked, she’d stayed. But she never spent the night.
Yeah, this gig was a velvet coffin all right. And if she wasn’t careful she’d wake up in a few years and find that she was in the exact same spot. She hated to admit it, but her mother might actually be right this time.
Chapter Three
The casting director, Katherine, was an elegant woman probably in her early fifties. Her hair was pulled up into a knot, and she wore glasses with dark, thick rims, like some New York fashion designer.
“Hi, we’re set up on the soundstage.” She shifted the clipboard she was holding and extended her hand to Iris.
“Hi.” Iris took Katherine’s hand.
“You can wait in here until we call for you.” Katherine motioned toward the door of a small waiting room.
No one else was in the waiting area. There was a water dispenser and cups and two love seats facing each other. Iris sat on the edge of the nearest sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She tried to relax. She’d changed into something more professional. Ditched the T-shirt for a silk blouse, but kept the jeans. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, or was too desperate, but she also didn’t want to look as if she’d just rolled out of bed either.
Iris was oddly unsettled. Was it just residual ragged nerves from her near-death experience? Or was it reading for the part? No, she’d done readings a hundred times. The director either thought you were right for the role or you weren’t. And she knew the material well. She’d already read through the sides numerous times. It was almost as if her uneasiness was from some other source. It was the sort of tingly sensation you got when something big was about to happen.
She rolled her shoulders and exhaled slowly.
Iris tried not to get down on herself when directors passed her over for someone with longer legs or poutier lips or larger breasts or whatever they were looking for that she didn’t have.
She placed her palm over her stomach hoping it would settle. If this weird tingly feeling wasn’t nerves, then what was it? Her agent, Judith, had mentioned this part almost as a joke because Iris had never done science fiction. Iris didn’t watch Star Trek—none of the generations. She wasn’t even sure she could describe the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek, although she knew enough to know they weren’t the same. One of them had something to do with feeling a force and the other one didn’t.
Zombies also did not appeal to Iris, despite their undead success with ratings and fans. Zombies had invaded Hollywood in a way that Iris couldn’t quite wrap her head around.
The idea, no, the compulsion to read for the lead role in this new science fiction series had been too strong to ignore. It was like she’d received some message from the ether compelling her to do it.
For starters, this character was the bad girl of the show. A bad girl fighting for a noble cause. Robin Hood in outer space.
Iris had only ever played good girls—the sister, the best friend, the cheerleader, the popular girl, the girlfriend who died young of cancer. She had the sort of look that meant she normally didn’t get cast as anything but the boring good girl. She wasn’t edgy or extreme or extravagant. She felt typecast and desperately wanted to prove to the studios that she could do more. In this bad girl role, she’d use weapons and fight alien creatures. There’d be actual stunts and hand-to-hand combat scenes. Also, this particular character was bisexual. Judith had concerns about Iris’s comfort level with an on-screen sex scene
with a woman, but that would be the least taxing element. Iris had dated women before, but Judith didn’t know that. Iris tried to keep her personal life personal, as much as possible in Hollywood anyway. Judith didn’t need to know everything and certainly neither did her fans. Social media was invasive enough without feeding the frenzy. The social media posts following her breakup with Kent had been bad enough. This might be the one instance when she was happy that he was more famous than she was. Fame had its drawbacks. Women loved his reckless, exciting persona, and he was a shameless flirt. He’d always explained it away as simply part of the stunt driver mystique. That, of course, was true, but also complete bullshit. And on some level, she’d known that about Kent long before the relationship ended.
Whenever possible, Iris liked to control the optics and any news about her life. She was not particularly a risk taker and that path had served her well until Kent. He was the one time she’d veered outside her comfort zone, and their relationship had ended badly.
“Are you ready?” Katherine stood in the half open door.
“Yes.” Iris tried to reroute her thoughts. Away from Kent and back to the part she was about to play.
“Thanks for traveling to do the reading.” Katherine glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door to the soundstage.
“No problem. I was happy to get the call back.” Her first two readings had been in LA. She wasn’t going to make the trip unless there was a fair chance she’d get the part. Initially, Judith had cautioned Iris that it was a long shot. She wanted to prove to Judith that she could land a leading role. The past eighteen months, she’d been getting mostly supporting roles so she was beginning to feel the pressure from the agency to bring in more money. Getting cast for this part would raise her game in their eyes.
The soundstage was basically a room with a camera. There was a six-foot table in the center of the room, and everyone was already seated. She recognized one of the men at the table as the director. She’d seen photos of him online. The other guy must be the producer or the writer, she wasn’t sure. There was also another woman at the table besides Katherine, who she assumed might be reading opposite her for this scene.
Chasing Sunset Page 2
