by Tess Oliver
I dropped the towel over my shoulder. "Fuck you with the macho thing. After Forever Kisses, every director had me pigeon holed into one kind of role, the leading man in romance movies. I did one right after that was such a disaster the critics were saying I was washed up before I'd really even begun."
"Yeah, I saw that one. It was shit. But then Paul Frye is known for making shit movies. That's why he switched to horror flicks. You can get away with crappy directing and scripts if there's a lot of blood and gore," Sawyer said. "Look, we both know you've had a few clunkers—"
I picked up a fifteen pound dumbbell. "Gee, thanks for coming here to give me a pep talk and remind me that I'm a loser." I sat at the edge of the bench for some triceps extensions.
Sawyer stood up and walked around to face me. I continued my workout. "The movie is based on a bestselling book, Diary of a Mail Order Bride. It takes place in the 1930s. I've got Sheila Hopper, one of the best screenwriters in the business, adapting the novel for the big screen."
I lowered the weight and placed it on the floor in front of my feet. I wiped my brow with my towel as I stared up at him. "Doesn't sound remotely close to the type of part I'm looking for."
Sawyer's phone rang as he was about to present his counter argument. He checked the screen, put it on mute and jammed it back into his pocket. "Look, you might not be looking for this part, but it's looking for you. I've been sitting on this project, agonizing over who would be right for the starring roles. The book was number one for months and people love the characters. If I pick the wrong actors, the thing will be a disaster before it even hits the screen."
I wiped my forehead. "Who were you thinking for the female lead?"
He peered up at me with a cocked brow and a smile.
"You've got to be kidding." I chuckled. "I don't know what's crazier, that you think Kinsey and I are the two people that fit the parts or that we can recreate whatever it was we managed to spark on a movie set nine years ago. We've both gone our separate ways." If I was being totally honest, I was slightly intrigued at the possibility of hanging out on set with Kinsey again.
Sawyer glanced around the gym. He turned back to me with lips rolled in as if he was reluctant to tell me the next piece of his sales pitch.
"What's on your mind, Sawyer? Other than this farfetched notion that we can all catch the fantasy ride we had with Forever Kisses?"
He nodded. "I'm gonna confess something." He pointed at me. "Just remember, I have more power than you in this town so no laughing." He sat on the bench next to me and looked out at the massive room where weights clanged, machines were counting miles run and people were sucked into their own world with earbuds dangling. "Nobody talks anymore at the gym. Used to be a place to socialize, trade advice and all that shit. Now, everyone just tunes into their Spotify station and tunes out the rest of the world."
"Someone is sounding sentimental, and I might add, a little like my dad. He's always saying nobody talks anymore. Texting is destroying humanity," I said in my dad's deep, gritty tone. My old man always liked to talk with a twang like a John Wayne style cowboy, even though he was born in Southern California.
I elbowed Sawyer. "You were saying something about a confession all while mildly threatening to ruin my career if I laughed at said confession."
Sawyer rubbed his knuckles against the stubble on his chin. "Right, guess I need to finish that. I'm not someone who, you know, looks for signs from nature or some kind of divine providence to make movie decisions." His face popped my direction with a grin. "Do you know that Tracey King won't shoot any movie scenes on a Friday the thirteenth?"
"And the man is swerving off topic again," I said. "Sure hope I'm waiting for something good with all this pivoting. I still need to do squats and the treadmill."
"All right, no more swerving. I'm sure it did not escape your notice that Kinsey Greene's wedding went a little off the rails on Saturday. By the way, I have to give the woman credit. She still knows how to make a fucking exit. Did you see the video?"
I stared down at my hands. "Yeah, I might have caught bits and pieces." Total fucking lie, of course. I'd practically memorized it. Not sure why but I couldn't stop watching it.
"Well, on that same day, the other mega star from Forever Kisses had some notoriety of his own when he plucked his unconscious friend from a twenty thousand foot death fall."
I turned my face up and looked at him. "I don't get what one has to do with the other."
"Nothing of course. The two incidents were vastly different and unrelated. Except, of course, that Kisses fans were outside the wedding venue chanting Jake loves Katy. But that's not the main point here."
"You're beginning to lose me, Sawyer." I scrubbed my face with the towel and got up from the bench. I grabbed a jump rope off the hook and started jumping.
Sawyer stood up, looking somewhat flustered. "Seeing both of you all day on television and online, well it was like a streak of lightning came down and smacked me on the head. I thought—Jameson and Kiki, they have to do the movie. People love them, more when they're together than apart mind you, but you both still have adoring fans. It would be box office gold to have the two of you splashed across a movie poster again."
I tripped on the rope, stopped jumping and stared at him. "A lightning streak, eh?"
Sawyer shrugged. "Maybe I believe in divine providence after all. What do you say, Jameson? Will you give it some thought? I'll send you the partial script, whatever Sheila has ready, so you can give it a look."
I hung the jump rope up. I gave him an apathetic nod. "I'll give it a look but no promises. Just not sure it'll be my kind of project."
Sawyer snapped his fingers excitedly. "Great, I'll send it over."
"By the way, what did Kiki say when you asked her?"
"About the same thing you said. She's skeptical and she didn't think you'd be interested. But her career has hit some rocky bumps, to say the least. Even though that wedding video went crazy viral and most people were on her side, I've heard that most of the directors are turning their backs on her."
"But not this director." I looked pointedly at him. "Or is this an all or nothing deal? The both of us or neither of us?"
He pulled his gaze away and pretended to dust something off his arm.
"So that's it, then. It's the two of us or neither of us?" I wasn't sure whether it pissed me off or amused me.
Sawyer looked up. "As I told Kiki, I've never seen chemistry like that before. I think if we can spark that fire again, we'll have another mega hit on our hands."
"If," I said with a nod. "If is the big question. Unfortunately, I don't think you're going to like the answer."
Nine
Kinsey
I leaned over and finished dabbing my toenail with the nail polish, Ballet Slippers Pink, the perfect color for my mood. It had been a week since the circus of my non-wedding. Some of the hoopla, as my dad had aptly phrased it, had slowed, and as I'd predicted, people were moving on to the next movie star scandal. This time it had something to do with a very badly phrased backhanded compliment between two actresses competing for the same role. I'd heard through the Hollywood grapevine it had turned into a nasty Twitter war. I was just pleased to have the spotlight off of me. Up until recently, I was still receiving daily, bitchy texts from Kent's mom. I'd only perused them with limited interest, but the gist was that I had never deserved him in the first place because I was far too plain to look at and a no talent in front of the camera. She also insisted I hand back the engagement ring. (That seemed to be her main purpose for the texts.) At first, her messages were somewhat entertaining, then I decided to block her and every other person who I had in my phone only because of Kent. It was actually quite easy to erase the man from my life completely with a few brushes of my thumb over the screen. The ring too. It was now sitting in a local jeweler's window, and I had an extra twenty grand in my account, something that would come in handy now that I'd become a pariah in the movie industry.
&n
bsp; The offers hadn't dried up completely, but my next part seemed to rest more on Jameson Slate's decision than mine. Sawyer had made clear that he wanted us as a pair. That thought riled me as much as it amused me. How on earth did it happen that we were no longer viable or the least bit entertaining without each other? I hadn't even seen or stood in the same room with the man in at least five years. Long enough, that I couldn't even pinpoint the occasion. Well, maybe I could. It was a birthday party for Tino Rolley, a big producer. Jameson was wearing a dark green sweater, black jeans and his favorite cologne, a mix of sandalwood and some other spicy, manly scent. We said hello over a plate of shrimp. It was awkward and clumsy and I remember wanting to sink under the iron gray tablecloth on the refreshment table. Then he smiled stiffly and walked back over to his new girlfriend, Harlow Newton, an undeniably gorgeous woman who had found her niche in psychological thrillers. She spent most of her on-screen time hiding in dark places that no one in their right might would ever hide in, running with short, hurried breaths coming from parted lips and collapsing into the hero's arms after singlehandedly shooting and beating the crap out of an entire slew of evil antagonists. After our greeting over the shrimp, (like two dorky teens at their first dance) Harlow latched onto Jameson with her arm. I was certain she would have used two if there had been a feasible, non attention drawing way to do it. She'd also skewered me with angry scowls for the rest of the night.
I lifted my newly pink toes onto the coffee table to dry in the sunlight streaming through my front window. It had taken me until this afternoon to finally pull the book, Diary of a Mail Order Bride off the shelf. I might have been avoiding it, mostly because I was certain Jameson was going to turn down the part, which meant I was going to be back thinking about tampon commercials. But I decided it wouldn't hurt to give it a read and see if it was even something that had me mildly interested.
The cover picture was of a rather sorry looking farmstead surrounded by mostly unplanted fields and a tiny house with dusty windows. A tractor was parked in front of a ramshackle barn. (Ramshackle—such a great sounding word with such a sorry meaning.) The only splash of color was the edge of a rose colored calico dress, indicating a woman walking just out of the frame. I grabbed a decorative pillow for my lap, propped the book on it and opened to the first diary entry.
October 3, 1929
Good lord, it has been an absurdly contrary day. It started out well enough with pleasantries such as Molly's's delicious fresh from the oven brown bread piled high with marmalade, of which I indulged in two thick slices, much to the chagrin of The Stepmother. (I'm always a little too delighted to cause the woman irritation.) I'm pleased to say that I had only one other minor interaction with Margaret the rest of the day when bad fortune placed the novel I'd been reading under her pile of knitting, and I had to ask her to move it so I could retrieve my book.
My indulgent breakfast fare was followed by a walk in the gardens where I spotted not one but two butterflies, unusual for this time of year. Apparently, the unexpected warm spell had coaxed an American Swallowtail to the last frilly remnants of Queen Anne's Lace growing in the wilderness section of the garden. When Mother was alive, there was no wilderness, just perfectly manicured, well thought out rows of boxwoods, herbs and flowering plants that made spring at our house an explosion of color and texture . . . and pollen. How I miss those days of red noses and sneezes.
The pleasant half of the day continued with an invite from Charlotte and Susan for a shopping trip to Saks. I'd had my eye on the most stylishly stunning coat with a sable shawl, collar and cuffs. It would be perfect for winter parties. Gregory Stevens had phoned to inquire whether or not I was going to the Kimble's soiree the following week and would I please save him the first dance. I played coy and had a few minutes of fun teasing him, letting him know I would certainly consider it. He is such a dear, and I can't get enough of his charming smile. Unfortunately, Father is sour on the whole thing. Somehow (and I use that term tongue and cheek because the somehow is most assuredly The Stepmother) Father has gotten it into his head that Gregory's family's standing in society does not comport with our own lofty standing, even though his father is a perfectly respectable businessman. Mr. Stevens is even treasurer for the local Rotary Club. (Although Father frowns on service clubs, thinking 'they do far too much for people who should be helping themselves'.) Father wasn't always a hard headed, stodgy snob who considered money and societal standing above all else. When Mother was alive, he would have been right out there in the garden with us, looking for unusual insects and telling us about the various medicinal uses of plants. But The Stepmother charged (not sauntered, floated or sashayed but charged) into our lives, and in a few short years, she had removed the original soul that God had blessed my wonderful, laughter filled father with and replaced it with one that was, at this point in time, utterly unrecognizable. It was as if my real father, Daddy as I had called him when his original soul was still intact, had been buried with my beloved mother.
And that brings me to the reversal of the day. In fact, reversal doesn't seem the correct word as I see it flowing from my pen. It was more like a perfectly wondrous day turned on its head. Father was more out of sorts than I'd ever seen him, which generally meant a business transaction or investment had gone sour. I suppose if I wasn't always absorbed in things such as butterflies and stylish coats, I might have been more in tune with the world news, but it wasn't entirely my fault. For the most part, Father always had possession of the newspaper, and if I dared to move the pages, to look for new deals on stockings or the latest news from Paris fashion, I usually had to endure a lecture about folding the paper up properly, even if he had already read it cover to cover. All I could gather from the rather dark, somber mood at the dinner table was that the financial world was on some sort of cusp of brewing disaster. This was made more plain when Father finished the nightly fruit cup with a stern lecture about me spending far too much money on clothes. It had been ill timing on my part. I should have read the dining room better rather than bring up the stylish coat at Saks. But in my defense, his mood lately was so changeable, I hardly knew when the right time was to even just wish him a goodnight.
As I rushed from the room, hurt by the unwarranted scolding, he added insult to injury by insisting I skip next week's social events and stay close to home. It sounded like such a dire, dreary warning that my entire mood darkened and the pleasantries of the day were entirely erased. I intend to find out just exactly what is going on in the morning. Sometimes Molly and her kitchen staff know more than anyone else. But tonight, I'm far too tired. Besides that, Mrs. Woolf's latest novel awaits me on the night stand.
October 5, 1929
It's of no use. I pulled on my favorite cotton voile night robe, the one with the cream lace and rosebuds. The fabric is warm and comforting, worn to the perfect texture on the inside. It usually helped erase a bitter chill or alleviate any stress from the day. But tonight, even coupled with a glass of sherry, something I rarely drank, my faithful, familiar old friend of a night robe could do nothing to ease my worry. It took me a ludicrous amount of time just to pick up the pen and open my diary. I considered skipping the entire endeavor for the night so I could coddle my glass of sherry and surround myself with warm bed linens, but it occurred to me that writing down my feelings might alleviate the dread that seemed to be welling up deep inside of me.
It seems financial calamity and ruin is running rampant in our fair city, the entire coast, in fact, and it has even laid its greedy sharp claws on Father's fortune. I'm, of course, being kept in the dark, nearly banished like a child to my room right after dinner so that grownups could bicker and squabble on their own. Several of Father's business acquaintances, men who belched into napkins after meals, constantly checked pocket watches as if time was always of the essence and smoked cigars in small, suffocating rooms without a care to those of us with delicate noses and sensitive eyes, had dropped by to continue the raucous banter.
I was just
as glad to retire to the second floor and the peaceful solitude of my bedroom, however, I was sorely starting to resent being treated like a small child. A woman of twenty-one was a worldly creature, no matter how sheltered. After all, I read fashionable novels and travel in cultured circles. Just last week I spent an entire afternoon at the local art gallery offering my opinion on some of the new mix of cubism and collage by the artist Picasso. (Frankly, I'm not sure if it will ever spring into popularity. I found it a touch disturbing.) But Picasso aside, I feel that I should be given far more value as an adult. I place the blame of my perpetual childhood on The Stepmother. She has a hard time seeing me as her equal, so she tries to keep her thumb on me.
It was rather hypocritical since those same thin, ruby red coated lips had, just the other day, mentioned to Barbara Holt, another family acquaintance who I loathed, that since my twenty-first had passed without an offer of marriage it seemed I was destined to be a spinster. I had pretended to be busy arranging some newly picked bellflowers when I overheard the callous remark. Naturally, she pretended to whisper it behind her hand, but she made sure the bitter words traveled across the room to my ears. I blinked back tears, reminding myself that The Stepmother was the very essence of evil and that she had no idea what she was talking about. I also had to hold my tongue not to chirp out 'better to be a charming spinster than a craggy old hag who had already buried two husbands before she got her claws into Father'. It took me only a few months of the woman moving in with her stacks of trunks, designer luggage and personal maid, Florence, to come to the conclusion that her first two husbands had no doubt died with blissful smiles at finally being free of her.
