by Davis Bunn
Celia asked, “Do you ride?”
“No, and I probably should learn. There are a lot of roles that require it.”
“I could teach you,” Celia said.
Estelle found it very touching, how they both then glanced over, seeking Porter’s approval. All the chief said was “Long as there’s no quid pro quo on the man’s two-wheel rocket.”
“It’s called a Ducati,” Connor said.
“Call it whatever you like. It’s still off-limits. Celia knows what I think of motorcycles, don’t you, daughter?”
“We were talking about horses,” Celia replied.
Connor said to her father, “No bikes.”
Carol pulled her cell phone from her pocket and said, “Celia, sit on the railing. Connor, go stand beside her. Okay, Celia, put your arm around his shoulders. Great, now smile.”
Celia said, “I can think of about a dozen ladies who are going to keel over in a dead faint when they see this.”
Porter said, “Connor, unhand my daughter.”
Celia said, “Daddy, how often does a girl get her very own Hollywood star to help her forget a guy who did her wrong?”
“Connor’s helped you all he’s going to. Now climb down.”
As they walked back to the house, Carol pulled her husband on ahead. Estelle held back, so she was able to observe and overhear as Celia said, “Tonight has been great.”
“For me as well,” Connor said. “I feel . . .”
“What?” When Connor did not reply, Celia nudged him. “Haven’t you heard? Miramar sunsets are made for sharing secrets.”
“I feel like I’ve found a home.” Connor sounded subdued. “It woke me up last night. I haven’t felt that way about a place in a long time.”
“What about LA?”
“I have a nice house,” he agreed. “But this is different. I came up here looking for, I don’t know. Peace, maybe. A way out. Something. What I found was . . .”
“Tell me.”
“A second chance. Which is a really big challenge for me. It means learning how not to make the same mistakes all over again.” He lifted his gaze to the sunset vista. “I’d really like to stay here.”
“You mean, like, buy a house?”
“I’m so far in debt, buying a shed is pretty much out of the question. But, yeah, I’d love to find a place I could call my own.” He addressed his words to the night’s first stars. “I don’t suppose you folks know of a place that might be on the market.”
Only then did they realize that Carol and Porter were both watching and listening. Porter said to Connor, “Why don’t you and me take a little drive.”
Celia said, “I’m coming, too.”
“You don’t even know what we’re—”
“You want to show him the Kaufmans’ place.”
Carol laughed. “She’s got your number, honey. Looks like we’re all coming.”
CHAPTER 40
Porter’s personal ride was a Chevy double-cab pickup with a six-liter diesel. Connor sat up front and the three ladies were comfortable in back. They descended to the valley floor, then drove another winding lane up the opposite ridge. Connor did not say anything during the ride. Estelle was beginning to think that this was his natural state. She decided the silence suited him.
The road ended at a set of tall metal gates. Porter opened his glove box and drew out a key, which caught the light in a remarkable fashion. When he saw Connor’s expression, Porter held it up and said, “Gold alloy.”
“He and his wife moved in here on Valentine’s Day,” Carol explained. “He had the keys specially made.”
“Is that romantic or what,” Celia said.
Porter checked a sheet of paper, then rolled down his window and punched a code into the keypad. Lights came on along the graveled drive and the house’s forecourt. Porter took it slow, granting them time to inspect a Japanese garden replete with fountains and several groves of miniature cypress and fruit trees. The entire fenced-in plateau was less than an acre, and its size suited the meticulous garden. The home itself was simple in the extreme, a long flat-roofed rectangle that stretched the entire length of the mini-plateau. The interior held to that same Oriental-inspired concept. Everything was done with a rough-hewn precision. Hand-painted shoji walls were framed in thick redwood beams. The floors were teak and tatami. Carol touched a panel by the entrance, and seasoned wood shutters rolled up. The rear wall was almost entirely glass. The western view showed the full sweep of Miramar and the Pacific.
The home was fully furnished, and appeared to Estelle as though the owners had stepped away for an evening. A lovingly polished Baldwin baby grand stood in the front parlor’s far corner.
They let Connor take his time. He wandered through the place on his own. Every time he came into view, and then vanished down another corridor, the Wrights exchanged smiles.
Finally Connor emerged and said, “I’m listening.”
Carol said, “The Kaufmans were our dearest friends. Last year, Jamie had a stroke. They moved to Minneapolis, where their daughter and her family live.”
Celia said, “They call every week. We exchange gossip, then they talk about putting this place on the market.”
Carol said, “Selling their home means accepting that Jamie will not get better.”
The words only seemed to make Connor sad. Estelle asked, “What’s the matter?”
In response, Connor turned to Porter and said, “You want me as your neighbor?”
Celia walked over and hugged the actor. “Daddy’s right,” she said. “You’re our kind of people.”
* * *
On the drive back across the valley, Estelle’s mind returned to Sylvie and the dilemmas her daughter faced. When they pulled up in front of the Wrights’ home and Porter cut the engine, Estelle asked, “What happens with Sylvie now?”
“You were there in the courtroom,” Porter replied. If he found anything odd about her abrupt change of subject, he gave no sign. “The judge agreed with Sol’s request for a speedy trial. He had an opening in his calendar starting next Wednesday.”
“That poor girl,” Carol said.
Estelle felt the dampening effect her words had on the entire car. “I’m sorry for bringing it up like this.”
“You’re her mother,” Carol said. “It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
Estelle asked, “So Sylvie needs to come up with the other payment, what’s the word?”
“‘Retainer,’” Porter said. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Connor shifted in his seat, but he did not speak.
Estelle said, “I can manage a little over half of that.”
Celia said, “The whole thing is just crazy. Why are they picking on her?”
“That question has me wondering, too,” Porter said.
“You’re the chief of police, Daddy. Go out there and stop it.”
“My powers end with the arrest, honey. It’s in the court’s hands now.”
Celia huffed and crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t like it.”
Carol said, “None of us do, sweetheart.”
Connor shifted again, like the seat could barely contain him.
Porter asked, “You got something you want to say, spit it out.”
“I’ve got a lot that needs saying,” Connor replied. “Only not just yet.”
* * *
Estelle sensed there was more to Connor’s intense silence than the house and the evening with a fine local family. She waited until they said their farewells and were driving back into Miramar to ask, “You liked the Kaufmans’ place, didn’t you?”
“What’s not to like,” Connor said. “It’s beautiful, and the view is nothing short of stupendous.”
“Why didn’t you ask the price?”
“I need to work out some things first. If I ask, they’ll have to talk with the Kaufmans. And that means the couple will have to confront some very hard questions.”
“That’s very considerate of you,�
�� she said. When Connor did not respond, she asked, “Can you afford it?”
“I’m paying a pretty sizeable mortgage on my place in LA,” he replied. “I could sell it and move up, then rent somewhere when I have gigs. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“I’m up for a big role.”
“Big enough to pay for a place like that?”
“It’s not just the one role. If I land it, and if I do well by it, my career elevates to a whole new level.”
“Can I ask what the role is?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m being considered for a major part in the new Bond film.”
She slowed and put on her blinker and pulled to the side of the road. The news was not what had stopped her. Connor seemed to be utterly disconnected from his words. She struggled to find the right thing to say, and settled on, “When did this come up?”
“Apparently, it’s been in the works for a while. I received confirmation that it might be moving forward while I was down in LA.” Connor rolled down his window and looked up to where the darkened house was invisible against the night. “I could make a home there.”
It hit her then. Sitting by the side of the main road leading into Miramar, Estelle realized what Connor was thinking. Any place he called home would remain empty without Sylvie.
And not only that.
She knew what she had to do.
Estelle saw with utter clarity the act that would bind her to her daughter and take a step toward healing the rift of nineteen years.
If only she could figure out a way to make it happen.
CHAPTER 41
When the phone rang on Tuesday morning, Connor was drawn from the most remarkable dream. He had difficulty recalling where he was, what day, why he was sprawled on this lumpish bed, why his hand couldn’t find the phone and make the buzzing stop....
“Hello.”
“I woke you, didn’t I?”
“Gerald?”
“I’d apologize, but I’m not the least bit sorry.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine. Don’t they have clocks up there?”
“I slept until nine o’clock?”
“Well, apparently so.”
“Give me five minutes to put on coffee.”
“Give Ami five minutes and you won’t need any.”
“Wait, Gerald. Just wait.” He heard Gerald squawk, but he put the phone down, anyway. Half a minute later, he picked it back up and said, “I can’t talk to Ami without pants.”
Gerald played the stork again. Ack-ack-ack-ack. “A half-dozen ladies on this floor just entered meltdown. Hold for Ami.”
Ami greeted him by saying, “The Bond gig is almost yours.”
Connor threw open his door and made a barefoot and shirtless circle of the parking lot.
“Are you there?”
“Trying to find enough air to say thank you.”
“They want a screen test. I told them no way, you’ve played enough roles of this kind for them to forgo such ridiculousness. But they insisted. You’ll be happy to know I exacted my pound of flesh.”
“Tell me.”
“They have agreed to a pay-or-play clause in your contract.”
A screen test was standard ops for anyone but the biggest stars, and even they might agree to one if the role was out of their standard mode. To have Ami negotiate anything in return for Connor testing meant he was, for the first time in his life, being treated as a star.
Pay-or-play was another item restricted for top actors. Once the contract was signed, Connor would be paid even if the film was never made.
“Ami . . . thank you so much.”
“That’s my boy.”
Connor scrubbed his face, trying to force his mind to wake up. “Before the shoot, I need to work through the script with my coach.”
“They’ll scream over the very idea of an outsider seeing their precious screenplay.”
“Can you make it happen?”
“Stay by the phone. It looks like the test will be set for tomorrow morning. Gerald will call with the time and contact your coach. The studio will insist you go through the screenplay on set. No way will they allow you to take it home. I assume you can find your way back to Los Angeles?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Now that I’ve seen your bike, I almost believe you. Come on down this afternoon. They will want you on set bright and early.”
* * *
Connor showered and dressed. He grabbed a pad and pen and walked over to the diner. Gloria was busy with other clients, and motioned for him to take the booth by the window. Connor waved a greeting to Joey, the cook and owner, and ignored the looks cast his way. Gloria came over with the pot of coffee, poured him a mug, and said, “Joey wants to know if cooking your breakfast will get us part of the hundred-thousand-dollar reward.”
“Time’s run out on that one.”
“Shame.”
A shrug at the cook grinning through the kitchen portal, and that was it. Gloria took his order and drifted away. Attention at the other tables returned to whatever had occupied them before Connor showed up. He was left alone.
Connor opened his pad and started writing. The Bond gig was a huge feat. It could potentially elevate him into the rarified status of a character actor who was also a bankable star. There were only a few such people in each generation. Stanley Tucci had been one of Connor’s favorites since childhood, precisely because he accomplished what Ami had challenged Connor to do. Only it was now, after the upheaval of the previous few days, that Connor was beginning to realize what it actually meant. Such an astonishing range of roles would only remain believable if the emotions were real. Connor wanted to use this role as a target, and then begin aiming for the same breadth. And flexibility. And heart.
But that was not what his list was about. At least, not directly.
He worked through breakfast. Over a last cup of coffee, a familiar voice asked, “Mind a little company?”
He waved Estelle into the booth. “Not at all.”
She smiled at Gloria, said coffee would meet her every need, then asked Connor, “What are you doing?”
“Trying to cement everything I’ve gained here. I’ve gotten through the next hoop on this Bond gig.”
“So you’ll be going back to Los Angeles.”
“If the earlier Bond films are anything to go by, they’ll build their interiors and custom sets both at the MGM lot in Century City and Pinewood Studios in London. But the on-location work will be shot all over the place.”
“Is that answering my question?”
He smiled across the table. “Not really.”
“So what happens next?”
“I’m heading back to LA for a screen test.”
“And so the list?”
“Right.”
“Will you buy the house?”
“If I can manage the cost, if it’s available, if we can work things out with my bank.” Connor glanced down at his notes. “But the house . . .”
“It’s not what the list is about. I understand. You want to anchor yourself in the changes you have started working through here in Miramar.”
He liked that about Estelle, the ability to grasp the unspoken, and gently nudge her way into the sensitive areas. “I’m trying to build a list of next steps. I don’t want to get back into the rush and the grind and the hype, and then one day discover I’ve lost it all again.”
“You won’t.”
“I wish I could be so sure.”
“Let me be sure for you. You’re going to make it.”
Connor saw she was studying the large blank space at the center of his list, the place where a woman’s name might have become the focus of actions and questions. If she was willing to even speak with him. If he had any idea what to write.
When Connor remained silent, Estelle said, “We have to help Sylvie. We can’t let her lose the restaurant.”
“I agree.” Connor leaned back. “I am i
n debt up to my eyeballs. Otherwise, I’d—”
“No, Connor. It’s sweet of you. But I’m thinking, well . . .” She took a long breath. “I was wondering if maybe we should hold a silent auction, where Sylvie’s friends donate prizes.”
Connor had a remarkable experience of hearing not just Estelle’s words, but the formation of his own question. It was the one that had remained unasked, because he had no idea what exactly he wanted—other than being with Sylvie, which he knew was not going to happen. The issue that remained there in the empty portion of his list was: what should he do? Estelle’s idea was not what rocked him back in his seat. He still did not know the answer to his dilemmas. But for the first time, he saw clearly the question he needed to ask next.
What could he do as a means of healing the rift? That was the issue he had to focus on. How could he apologize in a way that went beyond words and actually revealed . . .
His heart.
Connor realized she was still waiting for his answer. He said, “It’s a great idea.”
“You really think so?”
“Estelle, it’s better than great. Everybody I’ve met around here cares about Sylvie. A silent auction would give them a chance to show her they’re in this with her.”
Estelle allowed her own uncertainty to show. “But raising fifty thousand dollars . . .”
“Right. The prizes need to be big.”
“Something that will get people talking.”
And that was it. The first part of his answer slipped into being as he spoke. Fully formed. Ready for action. Suddenly the booth was no longer able to contain him. He rose from the table and signaled to Gloria for the check. He looked down at Estelle, who was clearly taken aback by his abrupt departure. “Make one of the prizes that I’ll play.”
“Play?”
“Music. A private concert. Ask Rick or Marcela, they’ll explain. It’s what drew me into the restaurant that first day. I’ve loved swing ballads since before I could talk. My mom used to put on one of Nat King Cole’s albums when I wouldn’t stop crying.”
“That’s it,” Estelle whispered. Her eyes glistened. “This is . . .”
Connor nodded. When Estelle did not speak, he finished the thought for her. “A headline event. Tell you what. See if a reporter for the local rag wants to come down and interview me in LA while I’m doing the Bond screen test. Use that to announce your silent auction.”
