Lucky Stars

by Jane Heller

  “No, but she worked hard for her various causes. She had inherited a great deal of money from her father, and so she didn’t need a paying job.”

  Neither did you after she died, I thought, wondering if the bundle she’d left him had been squandered in one of his failed business deals. “And she died in a boating accident?”

  “Yes. She adored being out on the water. She was a skilled sailor and taught me what little I know about the sport.”

  If she was so skilled and you were such a novice, how come she drowned and you didn’t? “My mother said you were practically newlyweds when she died. You must have been devastated.”

  “I was. I kept hoping that I would wake up and discover that the accident had been a bad dream—a typical reaction, I’ve been told. But it wasn’t a dream, and Elizabeth was never coming back, and I spent years grieving for her.”

  “Well, you seem to be doing much better now,” I said.

  “Thanks to your mother,” he said. “She’s given me a reason to get up in the morning.”

  “How sweet.”

  “It’s true. She’s helped me to look ahead to the future,” he went on, “instead of dwelling on what might have been with Elizabeth. She’s an amazingly positive force, your mother.”

  We shared a few chuckles over Mom’s tendency to make her presence felt.

  “Your attitude is remarkable, Victor. A lot of people would have dealt with the sudden loss of a spouse by saying, ‘That’s it. I’m not going to let myself care for anyone again.’ But now here you are romancing the famous Helen Reiser. How do you explain that?”

  “I explain it by admitting that I didn’t let myself care for anyone for a very long time, and it was easy, because I dated women who weren’t suitable for me, women to whom I’d never form an attachment. Then I met Helen and she touched my heart. I decided I’d been alone long enough. I had to move on.”

  Brother, I didn’t know what to believe about Victor Chellus. He had a way of making everything sound so plausible. Yes, his wife had died tragically, but bad luck happens. As for the fact that she was rich when she died, well, good luck happens, too, right?

  Before adjourning to the screening room, he excused himself to have a word with Rosa. “I’ll be a few minutes,” he told me before heading into the kitchen. “Give yourself the grand tour if you like.”

  I took him up on his invitation. I was halfway through the tour, in the master bedroom, when I spotted a phone and decided to call Maura, to give her a quick report on my evening.

  “So far he hasn’t revealed much,” I said after she picked up.

  “Did you ask him about his wife?” she said. “You were going to see if you could find out any more about how she died.”

  “I know I was, but I chickened out. He seemed very genuine in his grief, so I asked a few harmless questions and left it at that He did admit that Elizabeth was very rich.”

  “Elizabeth? Who’s she?”

  “The dead wife. Who else?”

  “Well, now I’m confused. When I had my date with Victor, he told me his dead wife’s name was Mary. It was ‘poor Mary’ this and ‘poor Mary’ that all night long.”

  “That’s strange. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. My sister’s name is Mary, remember? I tend to pay attention when someone else has that name.”

  “But he told me his wife was Elizabeth, Maura. I swear he did.”

  “Hey, I warned you to check this guy out, didn’t I? There’s something off about him. Like he’s demented or just incredibly slippery. Who knows? Maybe he was married to two women, not one, and they both died and left him money.”

  “You really think that’s it? That he was married to Elizabeth and Mary and blurted out a different name to each of us in a moment of weakness?”

  “Could be. Look, if I were you, Stacey, I wouldn’t hang around that house by myself. I don’t care how much Victor says he cares about your mother. I saw him in action and he’s a letch, among other things. It would be completely creepy if he came on to you while Helen is out of town.”

  “Oh, God. That delightful thought never occurred to me.”

  “It occurred to me. You’re supposed to watch a movie with him in his screening room, right? Well, don’t forget about the chaise in there, the one that converts into a bed.”

  “The chaise. Yech. I’d die if he got anywhere near me.”

  “So go home now, before anything happens. Visit him again when your mother’s with you. Then you can confront him with the Mary-Elizabeth thing.”

  “Good idea.”

  I hung up the phone, scampered downstairs, and ran smack into Victor, knocking a brandy glass out of his hand. I apologized profusely, then told him I’d developed a monster headache and needed to pass on the movie.

  “But I was looking forward to the two of us getting comfy,” he said, pouting.

  That’s what I’m afraid of, I thought, and beat a hasty retreat.

  twenty

  I didn’t go straight home after all. I drove to Jack’s house in the Hollywood Hills. I knew he’d be there, because he’d given me a big speech about how he couldn’t possibly come to Victor’s for dinner with the pile of notes he had to go over. I hoped he wouldn’t mind the interruption, but I just had to tell him about Victor’s Elizabeth-Mary bit, plus the business revearsals Mickey mentioned, and get his reaction in person.

  His house was a 1940s bungalow with a gorgeous pool—not a palace, like Victor’s, but a private hideaway in a hip location that had been tricked out with new kitchen appliances, hardwood floors, and a sexy master bath. The only downside to the house was that Jack was a serious pack rat, the type who saves every single scrap of paper—for years! As a result, his place was ridiculously cluttered. Okay, a mess would be more accurate. Everywhere you looked there were magazines and newspapers and stacks and stacks of books, never mind videos and DVDs and Post-it messages from Kyle, his assistant. It was a miracle he didn’t break his neck just trying to navigate from room to room. It was a miracle I didn’t break my neck whenever I slept over, which was becoming more and more often.

  I pulled up to his front door, rang the bell, and, while I waited for him to answer it, thought about how grateful I was that he was in my life, pack rat or no pack rat. My career was going down the toilet and my mother was going off the deep end, but I was happy. I woke up in the morning knowing there was a man who cared about me. I went about my days fortified with the certainty that I was in love.

  Yes, love. Well, that’s no surprise, is it? That I had fallen in love with Jack so quickly, even after my vow not to rush things between us? It was simply my nature to fall hard and fast; there was nothing I could do about it. Moreover, I honestly believed the outcome would be different this time. I felt that I had matured significantly since my past bust-ups and that I was a better judge of character now, was more discerning when it came to choosing a romantic partner. Besides, I kept reminding myself of what Jack had said the first night we were together: there were no guarantees in life but that he and I were off to a damn good start. He hadn’t told me he loved me, but I trusted that it wouldn’t be long before he made the declaration.

  He opened the door and looked both surprised and delighted to see me, which made me love him all the more. When you show up at a guy’s house unannounced, you’re definitely taking your chances.

  “I know I should have called first, but I had to talk to you,” I said, feeling safe and protected in his arms.

  “I take it that dinner with Victor wasn’t a success?” he said, holding my hand as we went inside. It was a good thing he was holding my hand, because I nearly tripped over a mountain of Entertainment Weeklys.

  “Pour me a glass of wine and I’ll tell you,” I said as we made our way into his kitchen.

  “Okay, but let me run into the den and shut off the VCR.”

  “What were you watching?”

  “A double feature,” he said. “Mildred Pierce and Stella Dallas. I’m interviewi
ng the author of a book about movies that focus on dysfunctional mother-daughter relationships. I’ve been studying up.”

  “Perfect. You’re about to hear my sob story on the subject.”

  “What’s it called? Hollywood Mom? Or maybe No Bones About It? Or how about Mother’s Tuna Helper?”

  “Funny. Very funny.”

  He kissed the top of my head, disappeared for a few minutes, and returned to pour me some wine.

  “Now,” he said, leaning against the kitchen cabinet. “I’m all ears.”

  I gave him a blow-by-blow of my evening with Victor, including my phone conversation with Maura. “Isn’t that weird?” I said when I’d finished my saga. “I mean, it’s bad enough that his wife drowned right after they got married, leaving him a rich man—a rich man who lives like a king, travels all the time, and yet doesn’t seem to have a job. But the fact that he told Maura the dearly departed’s name was Mary and then told me her name was Elizabeth is beyond bad. It’s totally bizarro. The point is, I’m convinced my mother’s better off without this guy, and I’ve got to do something about it.”

  He shook his head at me. “Stacey, Stacey.”

  “What? You’re not impressed by all this?”

  “Well, for starters, there’s no proof that Victor is rich because of his wife. It’s more likely that he had his own money from his various business investments, questionable though they may be.”

  “What do you make of the rest of it?”

  ‘Truthfully?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Victor has a dead wife whose name he can’t remember or keep straight, and you think I’m overreacting? It’s distinctly possible, Jack, that the reason he said the wrong name to me or to Maura is because the woman meant nothing to him. She was a meal ticket—a way for him to cover his business reversals, which he did by taking her out on that boat and pushing her overboard. Or—and I know you’ll think this is a stretch—maybe he had two wives, Mary and Elizabeth, and pushed them both overboard.”

  “Would you please listen to yourself? Victor may not be everyone’s idea of Mr. Right, but there’s no evidence whatsoever that he’s a homicidal maniac.”

  “How do you know? You’re not a police detective. You review movies for a living.”

  “And I’m fairly sure I’ve just seen the movie you’re describing. In Mildred Pierce, the daughter is fixated on her mother’s boyfriend.”

  “Right, but the reason she’s fixated on him is because she wants him for herself. I want Victor like I want a case of food poisoning.”

  Jack smiled. “Maybe you and Helen are the subject of a movie that hasn’t been made yet. It’s about a daughter who decides to turn the tables on her domineering mother and torment her about her choice in a man.”

  “Oh, I get it. So you think I’m just paying my mother back for all the times she disapproved of my boyfriends?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No!”

  “Stacey, you’ve told me again and again how she used to involve herself in every aspect of your life. Isn’t it possible that, by rushing over here with these wild accusations, you’re doing to her what she did to you? That you’re instigating trouble between her and Victor in order to shift the balance of power between you two?”

  “Pardon me, but when did you get a degree in psychology?”

  “No degree necessary. Anybody can see what’s going on here.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  So was I just leaping to nutty conclusions? Had I taken the facts about Victor and distorted them because I wanted to be the boss of my mother for a change? Had I insinuated myself where I didn’t belong because she had become the successful actress and/had become the one with too much time on her hands?

  “I’ll grant you, it’s odd that Victor used two different names to refer to his wife,” Jack conceded, “but that’s hardly a crime.”

  “Fine. But doesn’t it concern you that Elizabeth or Mary or whatever-her-name-was died under suspicious circumstances?”

  “They’re only suspicious according to you. Victor wasn’t arrested. There was no murder trial. And, most importantly, your mother loves him. Can’t you let her lead her own life, just as you always wished she’d let you lead yours?”

  I sighed. “He’s not right for her. Even if he’s not a lunatic, he’s not right for her. If she weren’t the famous Tuna Fish Lady, she’d realize it. She’d realize that he’s got a pot belly and that he talks with a mouth full of food and that he dresses like a fool. I’m telling you, if she were back to her normal self, she wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

  Jack drew me into his arms. “But she is the Tuna Fish Lady and she’s mad about the guy, and the best thing you can do is step back and leave them alone. That first night we spent together, you confided to me how your most fervent hope was that she get a life of her own. Now she has one. Why not let her live it?”

  “So I shouldn’t tell her how tacky his wardrobe is?”

  “She’s not blind, Stacey. If she’s not upset about the way he looks, why should you be?”

  Because she’s not running on all cylinders, I thought. Because she’s too caught up in her commercials and her talk show appearances and her movie and television roles to deal with the truth about Victor, just like Joan Crawford couldn’t deal with the truth about Zachary Scott in Mildred Pierce.

  “So you won’t help me investigate Victor?” I asked in a tiny, defeated voice.

  “Investigate him? What on earth is there to investigate? Come on, Stacey. Remember when you told me how Helen used to frisk your dates? Well, wouldn’t investigating Victor have the same negative connotation? Wouldn’t delving into his background make you feel as if you and your mother had switched roles?”

  * * *

  Sure we had switched roles, but it was never more apparent than when she returned from her New York trip and stopped by my apartment for a visit. For three solid hours, I was as big a pain in the ass to her as she had always been to me, criticizing her, pestering her, offering her my opinion whether it was soliticited or not.

  She arrived in her chauffeur-driven limo wearing a dress that was cut extremely low and, thanks to her new Wonderbra, revealed honest-to-God cleavage—a complete departure from the prim and proper style she’d once adopted.

  “That outfit cheapens you,” I said, sounding like the old her.

  “Too bad. I love it,” she said, sounding like the old me. “What’s more, who asked you?”

  “And your hair,” I said. “It’s falling in your eyes. Want me to snip off the uneven ends?”

  “I don’t need a haircut,” she said. “It looks fine the way it is.”

  “Maybe it’s your face. You’re too thin, Mom. How about sitting down and letting me make you something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry, but I could go for some soda. Do you have any Coke or Pepsi?”

  “I don’t think you should be drinking soda, not with all that sugar in it.”

  “And I don’t think you should be telling me what to do,” she said. “If I want a soda, I want a soda.”

  “But soda is full of empty calories. There’s absolutely no nutritional value in it, and at your age you really should watch what you eat and drink. So listen to your daughter and have some fruit juice.”

  The second the words were out of my mouth—“listen to your daughter”—I thought, Stacey, you haven’t switched roles with your mother; you’ve actually become your mother.

  This realization was so frightening to me that even the possibility of Victor being the Wacko Widower paled in comparison. I decided then and there that if the two of them were determined to be Hollywood’s golden couple, they were on their own.

  twenty-one

  Freed of my responsibility to hover menacingly over my mother’s social life, I rededicated myself to my pursuit of an acting career. Deep down, I knew full well that the clock was ticking and ther
e was precious little time left for me to make my mark in the business at my supposedly advancing age. Part of me was looking forward to the day when I would give up the dream and establish a more sensible game plan—the part of me that was exhausted and deflated and numbed by having to measure up to an impossible standard of beauty; the part of me that was sick of hearing about the need for larger breasts or perkier breasts or breasts that bespoke a ripe, wanton persona I didn’t have, with or without them; the part of me that was terrified of eating too many Reese’s peanut butter cups. It was the other part that kept me booked—the part that clung to the belief that someday I’d be famous, that someday I’d be sought after, that someday I’d fulfill the expectations of my high school drama teacher.

  It was that latter part that prompted me to jump at the chance to play the role of an eccentric cat owner on an episode of the TV show Just Shoot Me. When Mickey called to tell me about the reading, I was so thrilled that I neglected to reveal to him that I am powerfully allergic to cats.

  I auditioned for Just Shoot Me's casting person and was very convincing as the eccentric cat owner—so convincing that I was called back for a second reading with the producers. I was convincing in their opinion, too, and landed the job. Hooray for me. The only tiny wrinkle was that when they asked me if I had any problem with cats, I said, “Are you kidding? I’m great with cats.” I showed up on the set a few days later to film my scene, which involved me going on a date with Finch, played by David Spade, and insisting on bringing along Yankee, my cherished tabby, and his feline brothers Doodle and Dandy, and then getting into a “cat fight” with Finch’s old girlfriend, who happened to be seated at the bar next to me. Okay, so it wasn’t Shakespeare. It meant visibility on a hit show, and I was determined to give it my best shot. I had taken a Benadryl before leaving the apartment and had even given myself a squirt of one of those bronchial inhalers, so it wasn’t as if I went to the set unprepared. It was just that neither meds worked. The instant I cradled the cats in my arms, my eyes began to drip, not to mention itch, and don’t even ask about my lungs, which filled with what felt like motor oil and left me gasping for air. Thank God one of the cameramen had the good sense to drag me outside into the parking lot, away from Yankee, Doodle, and Dandy and their dreaded dander, and allow me to catch my breath.