She Went All the Way

by Meg Cabot

  Jack held the door open wider, so that Lou, who was standing behind him, beating eagerly on his back with her fists, could come in. Her smile, as she surveyed the place, was like the sun.

  “Bud’s,” she said appreciatively.“I love Bud’s!”

  “Bud ain’t here,” the woman behind the bar said. “And you can’t stay. I told you. We ain’t open yet.”

  “Oh,” Lou said, leaning her skis in the doorway and hurrying towards the television, which was on. “TV. Look, Jack. TV.”

  Jack had put his own skis aside. “Yeah,” he said, watching as Lou stripped off her gloves and ran her hands appreciatively over the sides of the television with all the affection of a jockey for a beloved horse. “Great.” To the woman behind the bar, he said, as he slid onto one of the stools, “I know you’re closed, miss. But listen. I could really use a beer.”

  He gave her his best smile, the one that had won him the part of Dr. Paul Rourke on “STAT,” over better-known, more experienced actors.

  It hadn’t, apparently, lost any of its effectiveness, since the blonde, staring at him like a jack rabbit stared at a rattler, not blinking, not even moving to flick the enormous ash from her cigarette, said, “Sure thing. And call me Martha.”

  “Thanks, Martha,” Jack said, winking at her. “You’re a peach.”

  Martha didn’t blush. He didn’t know any women who blushed anymore, with the exception of the one in the corner, going into ecstasies over the television. But Martha did remove the cigarette from her lips and, with a shy smile, tucked some of her lank hair behind her ears.

  “It’s satellite,” Lou said, sliding onto the stool beside Jack’s. “Seven hundred channels. Nine of them are HBO.”

  “That’s great,” Jack said. He took the beer Martha slid in front of him and tipped the glass in her direction. “Cheers.”

  Martha smiled, then looked darkly in Lou’s direction. “Get you anything?” she asked tonelessly.

  “Oh,” Lou said, dragging her gaze from the television. “Whatever he’s having. Thanks.”

  Martha nodded and, the smile gone, began to fill a mug from one of the taps.

  Lou had pulled her cell phone from her purse.

  “Look at this,” she was saying. “Seven hundred channels, but still no cellular service. This thing’s completely dead. Maybe I should have charged it last night. But I doubt that would have made a difference. It should still have some juice. So—”

  “Shhh,” Jack said, holding up a hand and nodding in the direction of the TV.

  Lou turned her head and found herself staring at her own image.

  Or at least an image of her in a long, pink hoopskirt.

  Lou let out a shriek. “Oh my God! What is that?”

  Jack looked at Martha and asked politely, “Would you mind turning that up?”

  Martha obliged, and a CNN news correspondent’s deep, reassuring voice filled the bar.

  “It’s been almost seventy-two hours since the helicopter carrying action-adventure star Jack Townsend and Academy Award–winning screenwriter Lou Calabrese crashed in the vicinity of Mount McKinley.” Lou’s picture disappeared and was replaced by one of Jack in a tuxedo. He recognized it as a shot from last year’s Golden Globes.

  “Search and rescue crews are still combing the area in hopes of finding survivors,” the reporter continued. “Neither Townsend’s nor Calabrese’s bodies were recovered from the crash site. Winter storms have hampered the search effort. A spokesman for the McKinley National Forest says that the longer the couple remain missing, the less chance there is of their being found alive, as the conditions in the area are simply too harsh to support human life.” Video footage of the terrain Jack and Lou had just spent nearly three days traipsing through was shown, along with a shot of helicopters exactly like the one they’d just hidden from.

  “A spokesman for Tim Lord, director of the film Townsend was in Alaska to shoot, states that the thoughts and prayers of the entire Hollywood community are with the loved ones of the victims, whose safe return everyone is praying for.”

  The reporter shifted to a story about the continuing struggle for peace in the Middle East.

  “Jeez!” Lou cried, with no small amount of indignation. “Did you see that photo of me? That was the best photo they could come up with?”

  Jack said, “I thought it was kind of cute.”

  “I’m going to kill Vicky,” Lou said, looking as if she meant it. “That picture’s from her wedding to Tim, you know. I was one of the bridesmaids. God, I begged her not to go with hoopskirts.”

  Jack said, “You looked like Little Bo Peep.”

  Lou let out a frustrated exclamation, then headed for the pay phone. “My driver’s license photo is better than that one,” she said as she stomped away.

  Jack, smiling, turned back to his beer. It was only then that he noticed that behind the bar, Martha was staring at him, wide-eyed.

  “That was you, weren’t it?” she said breathlessly. “On the TV?”

  Jack sighed. Then he summoned up another smile.

  “Yes, Martha,” he said. “That was me, all right.”

  “You’re Jack Townsend,” Martha said. “From that show about the doctors. And those Copkiller movies.”

  “That’s me,” Jack said.

  Slowly, Martha slid a napkin towards him.

  “Can you sign this for me?” she wanted to know. “ ’Cause otherwise, ain’t no one going to believe me.”

  Jack took the pen she offered and scrawled his name on the napkin. Then, beneath it, he wrote, It’s always funny till someone gets hurt. Then he handed it back to her.

  Martha picked up the napkin and squinted down at it, her lips moving as she read what he’d written. Then she looked up.

  “What’s that mean?” she wanted to know.

  “Well, it means—”Then Jack shrugged. “Here, just give it back.” She did so, and he crossed out Lou’s line, and wrote instead, I need a bigger gun.

  When Martha read this, a smile broke over her face.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sure. I remember that.” Then she looked at Lou, who was chattering animatedly into the phone. “She somebody famous, too?”

  Jack nodded. “She wrote the movie Hindenburg.”

  Martha’s eyes widened. “Really? Hindenburg’s my favorite movie of all time. You know we got that song—you know, the one from the movie? ‘My Love Burns for You Tonight’? We’ve got that on the jukebox. You want me to play it?”

  “No,” Jack said quickly. “No, actually, that’s all right. I think we’re just gonna, you know. Have a beer and use your phone and check out the scores on the TV, if that’s all right.”

  “Oh, that’s just fine,” Martha said.

  Across the room, Lou was having some trouble making herself understood. Her phone call had gone well enough so far. She had gotten through to the Anchorage Four Seasons, and asked for Tim Lord’s room.

  But when the phone was picked up by Vicky and Tim’s housekeeper, and Lou said, “Lupe? Hi, it’s Lou Calabrese. Is Mrs. Lord there, please?” she was greeted by a high-pitched shriek followed by a cry of, “Nombre de Dios!”

  Then there was a clatter, as if Lupe had dropped the phone.

  “Hello?” Lou glanced at the bar. But Jack was no help. He was watching the television. “The Jets won?” he exclaimed to no one in particular, sounding indignant.

  Lou heard a click, and then Tim Lord’s voice sounded in her ear.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. “If this is some kind of a joke, allow me to assure you that it is in the worst kind of taste. I want you to know I am having this call traced—”

  “Tim,” Lou said. “Calm down. It’s me. Lou.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then Tim burst out, “Lou? Oh, my God! You’re alive? You’re alive!”

  “Of course I’m alive,” Lou said. “I’m calling you, aren’t I?” “Where are you?” Tim wanted to know. “Is Jack with you?”

  “I don’t know where I
am,” Lou said. “And—”

  There was the sound of a slight struggle on the other end of the phone. Then Vicky’s voice came over the line.

  “Lou?” she cried. “Lou, is that really you?”

  “Hi, Vicky,” Lou said patiently. “Yes, it’s me. Jack and I are all right. We’re—”

  “Oh, thank God!” Vicky broke down, sobbing in what Lou could only describe as a semi-hysterical manner.

  Lou, not for the first time that morning, felt a twinge of guilt. She had, after all, just slept with her best friend’s ex. But that was all Jack was: Vicky’s ex. Vicky was happily married now. So what could Lou possibly have to feel guilty about? Nothing.

  Accordingly, she growled into the phone, “Vicky, what were you thinking, giving that picture of me from your wedding to CNN? You know I freaking hate that picture. And now the entire country has seen me in that dress— Vicky? Vicky?”

  All she heard was sobbing. Lou sighed and looked heavenward. “Vicky. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I love that picture. I do. I even love the dress. Look, put Tim back on the phone, will you? Vicky? Vick?”

  Then the sobbing grew fainter, and a new voice came over the line.

  “Lou? Lou, honey, is that you?”

  Lou found herself blinking down at the receiver. It took a few seconds for her brain to register what she was hearing. Even when it did, it still didn’t make any sense.

  “Dad?” Lou said incredulously.

  “Yes, honey,” her father said. “It’s me. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “Oh,” Lou said, because she could not believe she had called Tim Lord and somehow managed to reach her father. Which could only mean one thing, of course. That her father, notified of her disappearance, had come all the way out to Alaska to look for her.

  It made sense, of course, for Frank Calabrese to have done so. He was that kind of man, the kind who liked to be in control. He’d probably wanted to supervise the search and rescue crews himself.

  But still. Her dad had flown all the way to Alaska to look for her. Could there be anything sweeter—or more humiliating?

  “Oh,” Lou said, again, beginning to sniffle. “I’m just… well, right now, I’m in a bar, Dad.”

  “A bar?” Her father sounded stern. “Now you listen here, young lady. Did you know that a lot of people happen to be out looking for you? We’ve been scared silly! And you tell me you’re in a bar?”

  “Dad,” Lou said. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  She hung up a few minutes later, feeling completely numb. Slowly, she made her way back to the bar and sat down.

  Jack glanced away from the television. “Jets won,” he said. “Can you believe that?”

  Lou picked up the beer Martha had left for her and drained half of it while Jack watched her, a little astonishedly.

  “Got some bad news?” he asked.

  Lou put the beer down with a thump.

  “I’ll say,” she said. “Guess who was in Tim Lord’s suite when I called there just now.”

  Jack seemed to deliberate on this for a moment. Then he brightened. “Oh, I know,” he said. “Robert Redford and Meryl Streep.”

  “No,” Lou said, without even cracking a smile. “My dad.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “Really? What’s he doing there?”

  “Jack, everybody thought we were dead. Apparently there’s a whole family contingent gathered there at the Four Seasons. My dad, your mom—”

  “Excuse me?” Jack asked quickly. “My what?”

  “Your mother,” Lou said, reaching for her beer again. “Your mother, Eleanor Townsend. A very kind and elegant lady, my dad says.”

  Jack reached quickly for his own beer.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said, when he’d lowered the glass again.

  “My dad,” Lou said faintly, “and your mom know each other. Not just know each other. Apparently, your mom’s dog—”

  “Alessandro,” Jack said, closing his eyes tightly, as if by doing so he could drive a painful image from his mind.

  “Yes. Apparently Alessandro really likes my dad—”

  “Oh, God,” Jack said, lowering his head until it rested against the bar. “Please stop.”

  “I wish I could. They had breakfast together this morning.”

  Jack jerked his head back up.

  “They what?”

  “You heard me,” Lou said. To Martha, she called, “Excuse me, miss? Could we get a couple more beers over here?”

  “Tell me,” Jack said urgently, “that you did not say what you just said.”

  “My dad,” Lou said, “had eggs over easy with Canadian bacon, even though his cardiologist, after his bypass, advised him to lay off the greasy stuff. Your mother’s apparently a much lighter eater. All she had was whole wheat toast with half a grapefruit and hot water with—”

  “—lemon and honey,” Jack finished for her. “I know. I know. That’s what she’s had for breakfast every morning since I was born.”

  “Well,” Lou said, “it certainly impressed my father. He likes sensible eaters.”

  Jack looked alarmed. Still, he tried to be reasonable about the whole thing. “Well, breakfast,” he said. “So they had breakfast together. I mean, that doesn’t mean…I mean, it’s just breakfast.”

  Lou, realizing his meaning all at once, made a disgusted face. “Of course it’s just breakfast,” she said. “You think my dad and your mom would—”

  “No,” Jack said hastily.

  “Of course not,” Lou said. “Jeez. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “Still,” Jack said, uncomfortably, “I mean, just the fact that they know each other—”

  “I know,” Lou said. “Stop talking about it. You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies. They’re sending some sheriff up to get us. Apparently he is familiar with Bud’s. And listen. We are not saying anything”—she held up a warning finger— “about us. What happened between us. Back at Donald’s. To anyone. Especially our parents. Understand?”

  “God, yes,” Jack said, nodding vigorously. “Can you imagine the headlines? Spurned lovers find comfort in arms of one another.”

  “Headlines?” Lou snorted. “You’ve got a lot more to worry about than mere headlines, my friend. My dad still carries around his service pistol. He finds out how you took advantage of me in my moment of weakness, he’ll pop you one.”

  As Jack choked on the mouthful of new beer he’d swallowed from the mug Martha had slid in front of him, Lou smiled at the bartender and said, as she refilled Lou’s mug as well, “How much do I owe you?”

  Martha shook her head. “Oh, nothing, nothing. The beers are on the house. I just wanted to say, Mr. Townsend here, he tells me you wrote the movie, that Hindenburg?”

  Lou nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Well,” Martha said. “I just wanted you to know. It’s my favorite movie of all time. Really.”

  “Well, thank you,” Lou said politely. “Thank you so much. And for the beers, too.”

  “And it really is true, you know,” Martha said, conspiratorially.

  “What is?” Lou looked confused. “You mean the story? Yes, it was based on a true incident.”

  “No,” Martha said reverently. “I mean that it truly was a triumph of the human spirit.”

  23

  “Let me see if I got this straight,” Sheriff Walter O’Malley said, glancing in the rearview mirror so that he could watch their expressions as he spoke. “You say armed men on snowmobiles chased you through the woods.”

  “That’s right,” said the redhead, nodding vigorously. “Shooting at us.”

  “Shooting at you,” Walt said. “And that you, in turn, shot at them. With a gun you’d taken from the pilot, Sam Kowalski, who also tried to shoot at you.”

  “He was supposed to kill me,” the tall guy, Jack Townsend, said. Walt was finding it difficult to believe that this guy, and the guy he was used to seeing on the movie screen when he plunked down his nine fifty, were one
and the same. The guy on the movie screen was so much…bigger. Though Walt supposed that, at six foot or so, in real life, Townsend was big, too. He just wasn’t twenty feet tall, the way Walt was used to seeing him.

  This, Walt thought, for the hundredth time at least, was one hinky case. Between that hot little number the director was married to, the one who kept grabbing his arm—not that he minded, as it had been quite a while since his arm had last been grabbed by a female who was not one of his daughters, their mother having passed on almost five years earlier—and this story he and Lippincott were hearing as they transported the crash survivors from the town of Damon, population three hundred, to Anchorage.

  Well, let’s just say Walt was glad Lippincott was the one struggling to get it all down, not him.

  “You say Mr. Kowalski was supposed to kill you, Mr. Townsend,” Lippincott said now, from the front passenger seat, where he sat poised with an incident report form and a clipboard and pen. “May I ask how you knew this?”

  “Because he freaking said so.” Townsend, at least, Walt was somewhat relieved to note, had the same short temper as the character he played on the big screen. In some small way, this made the whole height thing easier to bear. “What do you think, we’re making this up?”

  In the rearview mirror, Walt saw the redhead put her hand on Townsend’s arm. He may have been the one who played a cop on-screen, but she was the one who actually understood how cops worked. At least if her next statement was any indication.

  “Mr. Kowalski informed us that someone had paid him to kill Jack,” she said evenly. “He didn’t say who this person was, but he did seem to feel that if he failed in his mission, he was going to be in big trouble.”

  Lippincott wrote this down but could not seem to restrain a comment as he did so.

  “Well, good thing for him he got crispy-crittered in the crash, then,” he said, mostly under his breath.

  Still, Walt wasn’t the only one who overheard. The Calabrese girl heard it, too, and leaned forward.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  Lippincott blushed, but the only person in the car who realized it was Walt. The guy’s skin was too fried from windburn for anyone else to realize that deep shade of puce wasn’t his normal coloring.