by Nikki Steele
He must have taken pity on me. “Fine, okay,” he said, still speaking into the bullhorn. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”
“Do you mean it? I’m not sure you mean it!”
“I mean it,” he said. “Really. I’ll stop. And you know what? Since I put you to so much trouble, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. I’ll just be here, anyway, so you won’t have anything to do. Go home. Relax.”
I looked around again; people were starting to go back to what they were busy with before the little show I’d put on. “Okay,” I called up to him. “Thanks. I guess.”
“Hey, Marty,” Archer called, pointing his bullhorn at a man with a clipboard. He jumped to attention. “You know those tickets we talked about earlier? Can you get that worked out for Josie, please?”
“Sure thing,” Marty said, coming toward me.
“What tickets?” I asked him. I looked up. “What tickets?” I called out to Archer.
“As an apology, I was thinking I’d send you and your mom to the movies tonight. On me.”
I sighed. Why did he have to be so stinking adorable? Marty handed me two tickets, but there was no title on them.
“What’s the movie? Will she like it?” I called.
“I think she will,” he called. I heard a smile in his voice even if I couldn’t see it. “I think you’ll both enjoy it.”
“I’ll arrange a car to pick you up at your mother’s house, if you give me her address,” Marty offered. “That’s…Bellyflour, right?”
“Bellefleur,” I corrected absently, giving Marty the address to Mom’s house. Archer was up to something, I knew it. I just wasn’t sure what.
Chapter 3
“Where are we going?” Mom asked for the twentieth time.
“I told you, Mom, I don’t know exactly,” I said. “It’s a surprise. All I know is that we’re being picked up and the movie starts at eight o’clock.”
“This isn’t going to be some weird artsy movie, is it?”
I stifled a laugh. “I don’t think so, Mom. Archer knows we love the classics. I don’t think he’d force us to see a weird movie.”
“You never know,” she said in such a world-weary tone that I struggled not to laugh again. She was such a pill sometimes.
We were both dressed nicely, instinct telling me that this was going to be no run-of-the-mill evening. Truthfully, I’d thought about throwing the tickets the same way as the roses, but Mom did enjoy getting out of the house, and besides, what sort of signal would I be sending if I refused a peace offering?
Mom had enjoyed getting herself dolled up; we’d even been able to squeeze in an appointment for her with the hairdresser. Looking at her, waiting happily (if a little anxiously) made me so happy I found myself fingering the hair band on my wrist suspiciously, just in case.
At seven-thirty, the doorbell rang. I jumped up from the sofa to answer the door.
“Are you sure you’re here for us?” I asked the chauffeur who stood outside, cap under one arm. A stretch limousine purred gently behind him. He nodded with a bright smile.
“Um, Mom?” I called over my shoulder in a shaky voice. “Our ride is here.” I only hoped her heart could take it.
She surprised me, though. In fact, the way she allowed herself to be escorted down the path and helped into the car would give the average bystander the impression that she’d been getting in and out of limos her entire life.
I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. What the heck did Archer have planned? And why couldn’t he just let me go?
Mom had no such qualms. “Driver,” she called out as we pulled away from the house. “Can I roll the window down so everybody sees it’s me in the car?”
***
“I don’t believe it,” Mom whispered as we pulled up in front of the theatre. “I just don’t believe it. It’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t called Grauman’s anymore. And the fact that we were here wasn’t the most impressive aspect of the evening; movies were shown here all the time. No, what I noticed first was the sign on the marquee: Special Event. One Night Only. Sold Out.
Had he…? No. It wasn’t possible.
We were helped from the limo. Mom asked the driver if he wouldn’t mind escorting her up the red carpet that had been laid out, leading from the car door to the theatre entrance. As she walked slowly, grandly toward the building I couldn’t help wondering who she was imagining herself to be. Some starlet on her way into a big premiere, I guessed, imaginary flashbulbs going off all around her.
And he’d made this happen.
There were no other people here. I noticed that first. It was silent, eerily so, inside the theatre. There were six screens here, but not a single patron was anywhere to be found. There were, however, employees waiting behind the concessions stand.
“Would either of you ladies like anything?” the chauffeur asked. “Everything’s taken care of.”
Mom wiggled her eyebrows at me in that infuriating who-is-this-guy-and-just-what-is-your-relationship-with-him way mothers do so well, then went straight to the candy bar and ordered a jumbo popcorn and soda. I settled for a small water and candy, wondering again where all of this was leading. I looked around, expecting Archer to come out at any minute. There was no way he’d set all of this up without showing his face.
But it was just us. At the ticket counter, the chauffeur bid us adieu, telling us he’d be waiting when the movie was over. We were led by an employee to one of the theatres, and the beauty of the restored interior took my breath away. I could almost imagine this place in its golden years, and like Mom I couldn’t help feeling a little carried away.
Of course we were still alone. Mom looked around us, wide eyed. “You mean he bought out the whole theatre for us? Not just this one little theatre but every screen?”
“I guess so,” I laughed, looking around. “I don’t see anybody else here.”
When the clock struck eight, the lights went down and the curtains in front of the screen opened. Three actors appeared on screen, their backs to the camera, black umbrellas covering most of them. It was raining.
“Oh my god!” Mom cried out, and for a moment I thought she might be having a heart attack. But she turned to me with a look of joy on her face. “Singin’ in the Rain! How did he know?”
I shrugged, fighting the tears that were threatening to spill onto my cheeks. I knew how he knew it was our favorite, of course, but her reaction meant everything to me. She was enthralled.
It was such a treat, getting to see our favorite musical on the big screen. The colors popped, the sound was crisp. Hardly the same experience one would have at home, even with the nicest TV—which Mom’s certainly wasn’t. We were swept up, the both of us; it didn’t escape me that the opening scene of the film took place in front of the theatre in which we sat, either. He’d thought of everything.
By the end of the film, when Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds kissed, both of us had tears in our eyes. I sighed—why couldn’t Happily Ever After be more than just a Hollywood device?
Mom was in seventh heaven, completely overwhelmed. “That was so wonderful,” she said, hands clasped over her chest. “I never thought I’d get to see it on the big screen. Oh, is Archer here? I have to thank him!”
“I really don’t know,” I admitted, as the lights came up and we made our way out of the theatre. I’d wondered many times during the course of the movie whether he was lurking somewhere, but he hadn’t appeared.
Mom and I walked out to the hall; still it was empty. I wondered how much it had cost to put all of this together for us.
“Did you like it?” I heard from behind me, and I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Why did my heart have to skip a beat every time I heard his voice? Why did relief flood me when I knew he was nearby?
I turned, about to introduce my mother, but she beat me to it. “I’d know you anywhere, you’re Archer Williams!” she exclaimed, throwing her a
rms around him. I was shocked; he looked rather surprised as well, but he was smiling.
“Mom!” I whispered, pulling on her arm in the hopes that she’d release him. I felt like an embarrassed teenager.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Bellefleur,” Archer said when Mom finally let go. “I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight.”
“Oh, Archer, it was wonderful!” mom replied. I almost choked. On a first name basis already? “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, though,” she continued.
“It was no trouble, believe me,” he said. “Josie here told me that you both love old movies, and Singin’ in the Rain was your favorite. It was the least I could do. I know I’ve been running Josie ragged,” he cast a look in my direction, “so I wanted to make it up somehow.”
“I’m sure you could never be a bother,” Mom gushed. I fought to keep my eyes from rolling. She was completely smitten.
As he walked us out to the car, with Mom on his arm, he gave us a brief history of the theatre. Either he was an expert or he’d done his homework; either way he seemed intimately aware of the grand old place. We stopped to look at a few sets of handprints in the cement, too.
“Look, Josie! William Powell and Myrna Loy. Oh, I just love the Thin Man movies,” Mom said, pointing.
“That’s a great series,” Archer agreed. “Really funny stuff. Look, John Barrymore imprinted the side of his face. ‘The Great Profile’, after all.” They laughed together.
Mom gave Archer another hug and her profound thanks and then climbed into the car; it left the two of us standing alone.
“I haven’t seen her so happy in a long, long time,” I told him quietly, to avoid being overheard. “I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Did it make you happy, too?”
I couldn’t help myself. I nodded. “You sir, don’t play fair—winning my mom over like this.”
“I never said I played fair,” he reminded me with a chuckle. He took my hand, where it rested on the top of the open car door, and raised it to his lips. I nearly melted. I almost gave in. The touch of his lips on my skin was an exclamation point at the end of everything he’d put together for Mom and me.
But then, just below his lips, I saw an ugly old hair band, still wrapped around my wrist. I steeled myself, and gently withdrew my hand from his.
He sighed, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “In all the movie studios…” he said, backing further away with each word, “in all the towns… in all the world. She walks into mine.”
He turned and walked away, leaving me breathless.
Chapter 4
On the limousine ride home, I was more conflicted than ever.
On the one hand, I was still convinced that pushing Archer away was the right thing to do. Giving in to my feelings for him would have been altogether wrong, and cruel.
But I did have feelings—strong ones. I couldn’t deny them, just like I couldn’t deny the pain I’d inevitably cause. It was torture, not being able to give in and take what Archer was so ready to give me. I wanted him so badly. It was killing me to keep turning him down, especially when he was trying so hard.
And no matter how I had tried to tease him over using my mom against me, to get me to come around, the fact was it had worked. Mom had felt like a Queen, thanks to him. And that made me more grateful to him, and more taken by his kindness, than I wanted to admit.
I suffered yet another fitful night; dreams of Archer and cigar smoke and those awful photos all intermingling inside my head. I dreamt I was drowning, but the water was smoke, and though Archer kept reaching in to save me, each time our fingers touched he got burned.
I woke feeling alone. And though last night had been joyful, it was with dragging feet that I forced myself to work.
It was a blessedly easy morning, for all the dread I’d felt walking in, and I whispered a prayer of thanks as I walked past Archer’s office for the fourth time in a row without him looking up. He was leaving me to my own devices.
On the fifth time I crossed his path without notice, I caught myself pouting. Was he trying to avoid me, now, the way I’d been avoiding him earlier in the week? Had he given me up, after all the chasing of previous? I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I mean, I should be glad, but now that the tables were turned… it didn’t feel so nice.
It was one thing to tell myself that we couldn’t be together, but another to know he accepted it. I blew my bangs out of my eyes in frustration, wanting a cigarette. Why had I quit smoking, again?
My phone rang; I checked to see who it was, and suddenly my heart began to frantically to pound. Speak of smoking…
…and the devil would appear. “Hello?” I whispered, accepting the call, one eye on the door.
“Josephine. Just checking in to see how things are going with the new job.” The raspy voice sounded just as smug and slimy as ever. My stomach turned as I realized how nice it had been not to hear from Janus while I was here.
“Everything’s going fine. The copy was taken care of. Still… um, working on the original.” The gall Janus had, calling me here in the middle of the day! Then again, the job should be done by now, though they didn’t know that.
Or maybe, somehow, they did. “Are you sure you haven’t had a single opportunity to get that original recording?” the voice asked. “You didn’t let the opportunity slip through your hands? Or were you busy doing something else?”
I went cold, his choice of words striking fear in my heart. Did he know something? Impossible; we’d been alone. I was just feeling guilty, paranoid.
I glanced out the door, terrified of being overheard. “I’m sure. I’m doing my best. I really have to get back to it, though.”
“I’m sure you think you’re building a relationship with him, don’t you? But remember: He doesn’t know the real you. If he knew who you really were, he wouldn’t like you so much—don’t forget that.”
Why did I suddenly feel like crying? He was right, though I shouldn’t let it get to me.
Suddenly I heard Archer’s voice, floating down the corridor. “Josie? Can you come in here for a sec?” I closed my eyes in relief. Saved by Archer.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “He’s calling me.”
“Don’t forget who you really work for, Josephine.”
I took the phone from my ear and ended the call. I was shaking, my neck hot. I’d thrown the word hate around before, but I now realized I had never really hated anyone. Until I’d begun working for Janus.
“Josie?” Archer’s voice, again.
I tossed the phone into my purse and hurried to his office. “Sorry,” I breathed, “I was… on the phone with my mom.”
“She okay?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” I assured him. “I like to call at least once during the day to be sure, though. If I left it up to her she’d fall apart without saying a word to me about it. She’s stubborn.”
“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” he said, his voice cool.
I smirked and tilted my head to the side. “So does the smartass in the huge executive office need anything, or did you just call me in here to annoy me?”
An eyebrow rose. “It seems the apple is feisty today, too. Actually, I left my coffee on the set for the 50’s movie, I’m sure you’ve seen it.”
“The one on the other end of the studio, right? On the backlot? I’ve been by there, yes.”
“Can you go grab it for me?”
I stared at him, certain he was joking. “I could get you a new one. The shop’s closer than the set; it’s probably ice cold by now, anyway.”
“It was an iced coffee,” he said. “And I’d prefer the original, if you please.” He turned away, facing his computer screen. Discussion over.
I sighed as quietly as I could and left to make the trek to the set—a 10 minute walk, all for a cup of coffee. Who did he think I was, his servant? I blinked at that. I guess I was, in a way. Kind of the definition of
a Personal Assistant, now that I thought about it. Still, going all this way for a cup of coffee—it had better be the best cup of coffee ever brewed in the history of coffee, for the distance I had to walk.
When I finally reached the backlot, I was greeted by a beautifully realistic street scene from a stylized 50s musical. It was like something out of Singin’ in the Rain, or perhaps West Side Story. I smiled at that, wondering if maybe Archer had sent me all the way out here not just for the coffee, but for the chance to see the set. He knew I enjoyed musicals, as he’d shown last night.
I walked over to the director, easily distinguished by the fact that he was shouting loud orders to the rest of the crew to ‘take their places’. “Hi, Archer sent me over,” I said when he’d finished giving directions. “Did he leave a coffee lying around when he was here earlier?”
He shook my hand, introducing himself, then nodded. “He left it on the other side of the set, in the back. I remember seeing it there when he was chatting with one of the engineers.”
I looked around. “Can I walk through, or are you about to start filming?” I asked, skeptical.
“Oh, yeah, no problem. It’s just a rehearsal, anyway.” He excused himself, then rushed off.
I frowned. First he introduces himself—directors never did that—then he actually remembers the location of a coffee on the other side of the set? Something was going on here.
I began to walk down the street, full of fake stoops and fake stores, and soon forgot my worries. It was beautiful, like I’d left the real world behind and was walking through the middle of a 1950’s musical. Everything looked pristine, and bright, and colorful.
Suddenly, music began to play and dancers began to pour out of the apartment houses and shops, surrounding me. I froze.
“Don’t worry,” I heard the director say through a bullhorn. “It’s just a rehearsal. Keep going.” One of the dancers, dressed as an old time chimney sweep, gave me a wink.
I walked on, slowly, not wanting to get in anybody’s way. This was bizarre, like I’d suddenly been flash-mobbed. Dancers were all around me, holding red balloons. The song coming through the speakers, set up all around the street, played a familiar song; I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. Then, even more performers flooded the balconies, fire escapes and front stoops. They started singing.
