by Penny Reid
***
I was glad to have Cletus along.
I wouldn’t have been able to move the traps on my own. Cletus was good company, just as long as he didn’t have anything up his sleeve. The problem was, Cletus usually had something—or several somethings—up his sleeve.
Luckily, today was one of those infrequent days where we were able to share space, time, and work without me having to worry he was plotting my demise.
“. . . so we’re going into Nashville to play the opening set. Now I just need to convince Claire to sing the vocals, because there’s no way Billy or Drew can be persuaded to come around.” Cletus was referring to his bluegrass trio. My brother played the banjo every Friday night at the community center during the weekly jam session. He and two of his fellow musicians had recently formed a bluegrass band, but they were still looking for a singer.
“You’ve tried blackmail?”
He nodded. “With Billy, yes. But he won’t budge.”
“But not with Drew?”
Cletus gave me a probing stare. “Under what circumstances do you think it would ever profit to blackmail Drew Runous? He’s as honorable as the Mesozoic Era is long.”
“I guess no profit, if I thought on it.” I grinned, ceding his point. “But what about Ashley?”
Cletus lifted an eyebrow, holding the trap base so I could crank open the door. “What about Ashley?”
“Well, she’s been back in town for nearly two months, and she’s got a great voice. If Claire don’t work out, you could ask Ash.”
“Huh.” Cletus nodded slowly. “I could ask Ash. And I bet she’d agree straightway, too. Good idea, thanks.”
“No problem.” I grinned wider.
Arriving at this place with Cletus—where he actually spoke in a congenial tone rather than constantly plotting my demise—had taken five years and a great deal of effort. His thanking me with any sincerity was a small victory I’d happily take.
We worked in silence for a time, finishing with the first trap after forty-five minutes of setting up. The Beast could only carry four traps at a time, so we’d have to make ten trips in total over the next week. I wanted to have all the traps set and checked at least once before meeting with the film director.
“You’re whistling again,” Cletus remarked as we climbed back into the truck.
“Am I?”
“Yep. It’s that froufrou song again, the one Roscoe can pronounce without sounding like he’s from Tennessee.”
“I don’t even know where I heard it.” I started the ignition, checking the rearview mirror.
“Momma used to listen to it when we were growing up. She’d make us dance with her whenever it was on.”
“Oh yeah . . .” My recall clicked at his reminder and an image of my mother came to me, so very young to be having a brood of boys wrecking everything in her fine, old house. She and my grandmother tried their best to civilize us, with deportment lessons and mandatory reading lists, not to mention dancing around the house to French records.
“It’s a love song.”
“Is it?” I asked, pulling onto the primitive dirt road.
“Yes. So why are you whistling it so much?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know.” But that wasn’t true. I guess I did know. I was thinking about Sarah and her chestnut eyes and full lips. It was the song that came to mind whenever I thought of her. It just seemed to fit.
“Yeah, you know.” Cletus sounded irritated. “You’re just not going to tell me.”
I studied my brother for a beat, debating whether or not to share the truth. In the end, I decided to tell him, even though it could be used as ammunition. Drew, who had become a good friend, had counseled me on more than one occasion that I needed to show trust in my brothers in order to gain trust.
So tucking my contrary instincts away, I cleared my throat and admitted, “I met someone.”
The cab was quiet for maybe a half minute before Cletus echoed, “You met someone?” I felt his shrewd eyes inspecting me before he asked, “You mean, you met a woman?”
I nodded quickly, checking my rearview mirror for no reason. We were going five miles an hour through the deserted prairie. The chances of encountering another vehicle were zero.
“So this woman has you whistling a love song?”
“I guess,” I started to say, being evasive, but then corrected myself, “I mean, yes. This woman has me whistling a love song.”
Glancing at Cletus, I was surprised to see a rare smile curving his lips.
“Well, that’s great.” He nodded, reiterating quietly, “That’s really great.”
This was effusive encouragement for Cletus. It left me disoriented. Hence, when he launched into his bombardment of questions, I answered plainly.
“So what’s her name?”
“Sarah.”
“And where’d you meet her?”
“She was lost last week coming up the mountain going to Hank Weller’s place. I drove her the rest of the way.”
“This is the car Duane filled with gas and moved during your surprise party?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And she’s staying with Hank?”
I shook my head. “No. She’s not staying with Hank at his place, she’s staying at his cabin on Bandit Lake.”
“Ah. Well, what does she do? Who is she?”
“She’s a writer. She wrote the script for this movie.”
Cletus grew still and quiet. When I glanced at him again he was staring out the windshield, his expression showing he was confused.
“What? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“She said her name was Sarah?”
“Yep.”
“Are you sure? Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Any last name?”
“No. But I haven’t asked for it yet.”
“And you saw her just the once?”
Something about Cletus’s new line of questions had me sitting a little straighter. “No. She was lost again this morning, so I dropped her off to the movie set and made plans to pick her up after, so she doesn’t have to worry about finding her way back. Why?”
“What does she look like?”
I settled my frown on him. “Why?”
His eyes widened to innocent circles. “You know I follow the film business, I was just trying to figure out if I knew of her, any of her previous works and the like, since you don’t know her last name.”
“Fine. She’s tall, five eight or more. Curvy. Dark hair, dark eyes, dimples.”
When I said dimples, Cletus huffed a peevish sigh.
Ignoring him, I continued, “She writes comedies, won a contest when she was in college.”
He hesitated, then stated rather than asked, “A stand-up contest.”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
He shrugged, no longer meeting my eyes. “Just a guess. And you said she told you she wrote this film?”
“Yes,” I bit out, growing irritated. “What are you not saying, Cletus? Do you know of her or not?”
He shrugged. “I think I’ve heard of her. She wrote a film called Taco Tuesday a few years back; it made a huge impression and about a billion dollars worldwide. Launched the lead actress’s career. Diaz is her name. Um, Diaz just won an Oscar for best actress this year. She’s probably at the top of the A-list celebrity pile right now, has been for the last two years or so. A real big deal.”
This information surprised me. “Huh, how about that.”
“How about what?” Cletus asked, chewing on his bottom lip. I made a note of the action because he only ever chewed on his lip when he was agitated.
“Well, Sarah didn’t mention any of that when I talked to her this morning. She’d been modest about her writing.” Which made me like her even more. “So it’s fascinating to hear about how she’s basically launched someone else’s career and made no show of it.”
Cletus had no response to this, just kept chewing on his bottom lip and starin
g out the windshield. We passed a few moments in a contemplative hush, during which I decided I should look up Sarah’s film credits when I got a chance. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d just let her tell me about herself in her own time, let things progress naturally.
“Well, anyway,” I said—Cletus’s prolonged silence unsettled me and I needed to say something—“you’ll meet her this evening. Like I said, I’m picking her up at the end of the day. So I’d appreciate it if you made an effort to be nice.”
My brother shifted in his seat. “You whistling love songs means you really like this girl, huh?”
I nodded once. “That’s right.”
“You’ve never been one to misread women,” he said this mostly to himself. Then to me he put, “I’m assuming she’s given you reason to believe she’s interested, too?”
I grinned, nodding. “That’s right.”
His eyes darted to mine, then away. “It’s been a long time, Jethro. Not that I’ve been keeping track, per se. But you haven’t shown any particular interest in a woman, or women, in over five years.”
“That’s right,” I said for a third time, finding I needed to add, “but you know why that is, why I haven’t.”
“I guess I do.” Cletus’s voice was gentle, deep in a way that communicated concern. “It’s just, I know we give you a hard time, but we see you’ve been trying to make amends . . . with all of us. Your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.”
I blinked. This wasn’t the direction I’d expected the conversation to go. I pressed on the brake, bringing the truck to a stop, and held still. The moment felt fragile and I wanted to make sure he knew I was serious.
“I appreciate you saying that, Cletus,” I said carefully. “But I don’t plan to disappoint this girl. I’m not like that anymore. Nothing has happened yet, but I wouldn’t be pursuing her if my intentions weren’t honorable.”
Cletus sighed, shaking his head, looking mildly frustrated. “I know that, dummy.”
I eyeballed my brother, at a loss. “Then what’s the problem?”
He didn’t respond. Not even when I pressed on the gas again and drove us to the next trap site. He just sat in his seat looking pensive and chewing his bottom lip sore.
CHAPTER 7
“Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.”
― Winston S. Churchill
~Sienna~
My makeup artist’s name was Susie Moist.
No lie. That was her name.
Thus, I couldn’t help but usually greet her as follows: “Susie . . . Moist?”
And she would always reply, “Not for you.”
But not today. Today I discovered her applying Tom’s makeup. Now this wouldn’t be that big of a deal, except Tom was in my trailer, sitting in my chair.
So, to recap, my sorta ex-boyfriend was in my trailer, sitting in my chair, and using my makeup artist.
“Hello, Tom. Susie,” I said stiffly from my place just outside the trailer. “How’s it hanging?”
Susie gave me a frown that communicated she was less than pleased to be doing Tom’s makeup.
Whereas Tom grinned like he was happy to see me. It was adorable. As was his nickname for me. “Sí-sí.”
Hilarious, right? Because I am Latina, and “sí” is “yes” in Spanish. So his nickname for me was “Yes-yes.”
. . . Don’t everybody swoon all at once.
I glanced at the front door of the trailer again, making sure it had my name on it—Sienna Diaz, not Sí-sí, because Sí-sí wasn’t my name—and sure enough, it was my trailer.
“Why are you in my trailer, Tom?” I made sure my tone was light, quizzical, and betrayed none of the irritation I felt. We were going to be working together for the next twelve or more weeks, and I was a professional. But I made note of the lesson: never date another actor, because one day you might have to work with him.
“I was bored. Make me a coffee. You make the best coffee.” He lifted his chin and gazed into Susie’s eyes, giving her his trademark smolder as she applied his lip liner. Susie was one of the toughest most pragmatic women I knew, but I could see it affected her. I wasn’t surprised. His smolder up close was no joke.
He had the bluest eyes. The. Bluest.
And his hair was jet black.
And his lips were always curved in a devilish smirk.
He was physically stunning on the screen, but up close? Forgetaboutit. He defied description.
Dropping my bag by the door, I crossed to the coffee machine in the small kitchen and easily found the coffee beans, reminding myself that I was going to make coffee anyway.
“You look great, Sí-sí,” he said to my back and I braced myself for the next comment, because I knew it was coming. “Have you lost weight?”
Yep. There it was. Right on schedule.
I was glad he couldn’t see my face because I’d just mouthed, Fuck you, Tom! to the coffee machine.
So, let’s talk about this, shall we? Since it’s “a thing” for people.
I am not skinny. Or even thin.
In show business, I’m what people called fat.
In the real world, I’m what people called a woman. (Of note, a skinny or thin female was also called “a woman” in the real world.)
Sometimes I’m a size sixteen. Sometimes I’m an eighteen. Sometimes I’m a twelve. It all depends on what role I’m playing. At present I’m a size fourteen, which was my baseline unless it was the holidays. Because I loved cookies.
Did I exercise? Yes. I did yoga and strength training five days a week because it’s good for me and makes me feel great.
Did I diet? No. I eat all food. Sometimes I eat salads. Sometimes I eat steak. Sometimes I eat cookies.
Did I eat to excess? Not unless it’s Thanksgiving.
Did I do cardio? Hell. No. I hated cardio—as we’ve already established—unless it’s sex or dancing. Then I’ll do the fuck out of that cardio. But running? No, thank you.
Am I healthy? Yes. Like most women who are size eighteen or sixteen or twelve or six, I am healthy.
Do I give two fucks about my weight? No. I honestly don’t as long as I’m healthy. And I don’t know why it’s such a big deal for people, why they can’t accept the fact that I’m not hung up on my size. I look just like all the other women in my family, and they’re gorgeous.
But, hey, if Hollywood wants to make me the poster lady for positive plus-size body image, who am I to deny them? I love the way I look, and so should everyone else.
Moving on.
Tom was one of those people who thought telling a woman “it looks like you’ve lost weight” was the best compliment ever. But this wasn’t the reason we broke up, though it was aggravating. The reason we broke up can be summed up as follows: Tom only ever said he thought I’d lost weight because he wanted me to say it in return.
We broke up because he required constant reassurance.
“You too, Tom. Have you lost weight?” I recited the lines he wanted to hear. “Because you definitely look like you have.”
He didn’t look like he’d lost weight. He looked exactly the same as he always did. But if I didn’t ask him, he’d start an argument.
I glanced over my shoulder and discovered him smiling at me with genuine affection. “I have. Just a little. I started the lemon water cleanse over the weekend.”
I swapped a commiserating glance with Susie. She gave me a tight, sympathetic smile.
Upon my sister’s advice, Susie was one of the first people I’d hired as part of my permanent staff. Marta said having a talented makeup artist who was also great at keeping secrets was like having a fairy godmother. She transformed you while pretending your dirty laundry didn’t exist.
We’d become friends quickly, her crankiness and blunt manner an excellent foil for my silliness. Most importantly, I trusted her.
“Oh. Can you have coffee?” I asked Tom.
“Yes, but thanks for checking. All liquids are al
lowed.” His startling blue eyes moved over my face, growing warm. “I’ve missed you.”
I nodded politely but didn’t respond. I hadn’t missed him. He was exhausting.
Instead I changed the subject. “Did you get the changes to the script? Tabitha sent through her okay, but I didn’t receive the follow-up email from production. Maybe they didn’t send it to me because I originated the change?”
“Yes. I received the changes. They’re good, I like what you did. I like it a lot.” He nodded earnestly, making Susie mess up his under-the-chin shadow.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I finished making the coffee then turned to lean against the counter, crossing my arms and surveying the trailer. The morning was colder than I’d expected. I made a mental note to ask production staff to bring me extra blankets just in case I needed to sleep on set.
“What? What are you thinking?” Tom picked up the mirror and looked at himself. “Is it my hair?”
I gave him a tight smile. “No, Tom. I was just thinking it’s cold here in the morning. I’m going to ask production to grab me some extra blankets. Do you want me to do the same for you?”
“Oh.” He immediately relaxed. “How thoughtful. Yes. It’s cold, right? Could you also ask Elon to have some extra cashmeres ordered?”
He called sweaters cashmeres because all his sweaters were made out of cashmere. No judgment, it’s just something he did. Elon was his administrative assistant, and she had three personal assistants. I didn’t know any of their names because each position was filled monthly with a new person. Elon was a bit of a handful.
I pulled out the drawer next to me, searching for a notepad and pencil. Finding one, I wrote down a reminder to ask for the blankets and text Elon about his cashmeres.
“Good. You’re making a list. I need more lemons, too.” Tom turned his attention back to Susie and lifted his chin so she could correct the inadvertent double shadow on his neck, leaving me to my list.
Tom was going to be a handful and my patience was already running thin. Susie knew I didn’t want Tom in my trailer, so he must’ve had help getting inside. He’d probably used an ignorant assistant director and had already been making himself at home when Susie arrived.
