TURN ME ON

by Kristin Hardy

  He flipped open the paper. Out of habit, he picked out the Parade section. Though he'd probably already seen all the news weeks ago in Daily Variety you never knew. Keeping up in a town built around power structures was important.

  And then he saw the photo, the ripe curve of her mouth, the silky dark hair. It was longer, though, and it was a younger, much younger Sabrina who grinned up into the eyes of her father. It looked like Cannes, perhaps, or some movie premiere. The camera flashes made bright splotches of light in the background, but none of it rivaled the brightness of her smile.

  The smile of perfect happiness. She'd always idolized her father. It wasn't hard to understand, Stef reflected, remembering talk of film, art and life with Michael Panotolini. The man had lived with gusto, passionate about his family and his work in roughly equal proportions. A man like Pantolini had to leave a huge vacuum behind him.

  Michael Pantolini—Friends and Family Remember, read the headline. Stef froze, staring at the words, and suddenly he knew.

  It hadn't been some party or premiere she'd been talking about when she'd said she couldn't shoot that day. That day, of all days.

  The anniversary of her father's death.

  And in an instant, Stef Costas felt like the biggest jerk in the world.

  * * *

  Crickets sang in the late dusk. The early stars glimmered in the sky overhead, at least the few that could get past the giant pool of light that was L.A. after dark. He'd waited until then, until he thought she might be back at home. He'd come because his conscience prodded him, because his sense of justice demanded it. He'd come out of respect.

  A knock at the front door brought no response. No one home, maybe … or maybe not. Brightness shone from some of the windows upstairs. And weaving through the sweet air was the slow, mournful wail of Charlie Parker. Maybe it was a neighbor or maybe not. It was worth a try, he thought. They had to get on an airplane to New York in a few days, and there was no way he'd start back into work without clearing the air between them.

  Without making things right.

  He headed toward the back of the house. The canal stretched out calm in the wash of moonlight. Fairy lights flickered, reflecting off of a fragmented flagstone path that traced the edge of the water. The same fairy lights traced the arches of the periodic bridges that crossed the water and connected the streets. Small night creatures aroused and chittered, and went on about their business.

  A rhythmic metallic squeak punctuated the quiet setting. As Stef rounded a corner of the deck that stretched out behind the house, he saw an old-fashioned porch glider. His uncle's house had had one like that, with fat cushions and a pink-and-yellow shiped canopy, the kind that swayed back and forth with just the push of a foot. And on the glider was Sabrina, alone but for a bottle of beer and the haunting strains of Parker's sax.

  For a moment, he just stood and watched her. Something about the glow shot her back through the years, made her look as young as she had in the photo. But it couldn't bring back the father she mourned. It was then that Stef saw the tears on her cheeks.

  "Why are you here?"

  Her voice was small, rusty. She lifted the bottle and swallowed a gulp of beer.

  He took a step forward, rested a hand on the railing to the steps. "I came to see how you were doing. And I came to apologize."

  She was silent for a long moment.

  "Look, maybe we should talk about this tomorrow. I'm going to get out of here and leave you—"

  "Don't."

  There was none of Sabrina's usual snap and fire in her voice, only the bit of the lost note she'd always had after waking from a nightmare. She looked at him then, her eyes watery smudges in the gloom.

  He stepped up onto the deck and settled next to her.

  "There's beer," she said, waving at the bottle.

  He could hear the slight slur and figured that she'd probably had too much already. Maybe that was what it took, but maybe it just made things worse—dulling the good feelings with the bad. As she reached for the bottle again he stopped her, then took her hand in his instead. Her fingers were ice-cold, and he pressed them between his to warm them. She was shivering, he realized, though the evening was balmy. It wasn't physical cold. It went deeper than that.

  "It must be tough."

  "Always. It's…" her voice broke and she tilted her face toward the sky. "I keep … thinking that it'll get easier, you know? That as time goes by, it'll hurt less, and maybe one day this will be a time for memories and good stuff." She took an unsteady breath. "But it just never is."

  Without thinking about it, Stef reached over and gathered her against him, feeling the shudder of her sobs. It always surprised him how small she was. Somehow, she had a larger-than-life quality that made him forget. Now, folding his arms around her, he felt as if he were protecting some precious gift from the outside world. He pushed back with his foot to send the glider gently rocking and made those meaningless noises that people have always made to banish the hurt and fear away.

  Time slid by as he stared at the reflection of the tiny dancing lights on the water, lights that reminded him of the winking of fireflies. There was something peaceful about the scene—the arching bridges, the flagstone paths, the canoes and rowboats bobbing at the water's edge.

  Sabrina stirred.

  He kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry for the things I said last night. I didn't realize what was going on."

  "Why should you? Why would you?"

  "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  More silence. "You know the last time I talked to my father. It was about a week after you and I broke up." She sighed. "It was really ugly. I've gotten in fights before, but I've never said things specifically to hurt someone. I did that night." She was quiet for a long time, as though she couldn't stand to say the really unbearable part. "That was the last time I ever talked to him."

  "But…" he stopped himself.

  "But that was years before he was killed?" She gave a harsh, barking laugh. "I never meant it to be the last time. I always thought we'd make up some day. At first, I was just too mad, and after a while, it was just too easy to keep going."

  "What was the fight over?"

  "Me quitting film school."

  It was as though she'd punched the wind out of him. She'd left, he knew, because of him. Because of their breakup.

  "He'd pulled shings to get me in, made me swear I was serious. You know how much film meant to him. It was his life. When I told him I was leaving, he got so angry. It was hurt, disappointment, I know that now, but at the time…" She raised her head and stared out at the water. "At the time I couldn't see two inches past my own nose. He told me I was frivolous, useless, that I didn't take anything seriously. So I figured why not? And I spent the next three years partying. You know," she said aridly, "if you've got enough money and don't mind airplanes, you can find a party 24 hours a day." She straightened up and he let her go, all except her hand.

  "When he died, it just flattened me. There was so much between us that never got fixed. And it was so bad after the funeral. They all meant well, but there were so many people around, every one of them so sympathetic it made me want to scream." Her fingers tightened on his. "As soon as I thought my mom would be okay, I got out. Drove north, up to our place in Big Sur."

  He remembered it, an A-frame tucked among the redwoods and pines.

  "I unplugged the phone and hid my car. I spent a week not listening to music, not saying a word to anyone, just being there in the quiet. And all I could think of was how much I'd wasted the past three years. Not just wasting the time I could have had with my dad, but wasting the time I could have spent doing what I really want to do."

  "What?"

  "Film. Documentaries. I came home and threw myself on Gus's mercy." She let out a long breath, no longer shuddering, just tired. "He said if I worked, he'd teach me everything there was to know about producing. That was five years ago." She closed her eyes. "You know the rest."

 
"No, I don't. That's all backstory, character development, motivation. The rest is what's going to happen from here on out."

  She turned to look at him, her eyes shadowed. "You see why it matters, then? Why I'm serious about it? This isn't a whim, Stef. I want it more than anything. I want it to be a success. I need to prove this to myself."

  "You will. You are."

  "I wish…" She pushed with a foot to start the glider moving again.

  "What?"

  The rhythmic squeak started. "I wish he could have been proud of me."

  "He is," Stef said simply, reaching over to take her hand again. "I guarantee you, he is."

  * * *

  9

  « ^ »

  "Here we are, a cosmopolitan, a dry martini, a Maker's Mark on the rocks, and a Guinness," said the cocktail waitress as she set the drinks down on the tiny bar table.

  "Where is everyone tonight?" Sabrina asked, reaching out for her Maker's Mark.

  "Oh, Delaney had a meeting and Thea's sick. I don't remember where Kelly is," Cilla said, taking a sip of her cosmopolitan.

  "I think she had a premiere to cover," Trish put in.

  Sabrina reached out for a cracker from the bowl of bar mix. "This might be the record for the smallest Supper Club meeting ever."

  "I'm not sure we can even call it a Supper Club meeting with so few of us," Cilla agreed.

  "Sure it is. It's an executive board meeting," Paige suggested. "This is where we vote ourselves raises."

  "Here, here." Sabrina raised her glass to click with the others.

  "Well, we might have raises to our nonexistent salaries, but how am I going to get my vicarious kicks if there's no one here to tell dating stories?" Trish grumbled, grabbing a couple of crackers from the bowl. "Delaney and Kelly always have the best ones."

  "I hear someone else has stories to tell. Isn't that right, Sabrina?" Paige asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Sabrina flushed and made mental plans to roast Kelly over a small fire. "Nothing much."

  "Nothing like, oh, say a blast from the past?"

  "Who?" Cilla asked avidly, leaning in to put her elbows on the table. She wore a white silk and lace Valentino top, with a silver globe dangling from a long black cord and jingling with internal chimes.

  "Stef Costas," Sabrina muttered.

  Three pairs of eyebrows shot up.

  "Yes, Stef Costas," she repeated. "He's directing the documentary. He was the best person available for the job, and I went for it."

  "She sounds defensive," Cilla observed.

  "Bad sign," Trish agreed.

  Sabrina took a long pull on her drink. "Look, it's business, okay? I tried to explain that to Kelly. There's nothing going on."

  "Oh, I don't know," Paige said casually. "I hear something about a kiss that stopped traffic and a mysterious disappearance in the middle of a shoot."

  "Sounds like Kelly's been talking way too much."

  "No," Paige said simply. "She's worried about you and, quite frankly, so am I. Do you know what you're doing here?"

  "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Do any of you? What about all the guys you date? Can you see the end of the road with all of them?"

  "Well…"

  "Exactly. Look, Stef was young, I was young. Things got screwed up. But we're both older now, and hopefully wiser. I don't know what that means. Maybe nothing. But he was there for me last night when I needed him. I can't hate him anymore. I don't know what I feel for him, but it isn't that."

  "Oh, God," Cilla said, "she's falling for him again."

  "No, I'm not," Sabrina said emphatically. "I'm going to work with him and keep my distance. I just don't want everyone to act like he's some kind of monster."

  Trish nudged Paige. "She's defending him."

  Paige looked at Sabrina. "Maybe," she said slowly, "he's worth defending."

  * * *

  "Good morning and welcome Flight 1584 to New York's LaGuardia Airport. Just a reminder while you're getting seated that we have a full flight today, so please be sure to place your carry-ons under the seat in front of you."

  Sabrina stood in the aisle, waiting for it to clear to her row. Stef would be sitting farther back, not that she was going to look and see where. She gave herself points for having avoided him in the departure lounge. His unexpected sweetness two days earlier had comforted her, but her solitary sleep had drawn her into dreams of straining hot and wet against him and morning had found her confused and uneasy.

  The unspoken agreement had been that they'd work armed and dangerous with each other. Then, the truce. And somehow, when she'd been vulnerable, the rules had changed, and she wasn't sure how to accommodate them. Somehow, even her subconscious had joined in the changing dynamic.

  She shook her head as she tucked her roll-on into the overhead bin. Everyone had erotic dreams once in a while, starring the most improbable people. Just because she woke up slick and wet, with her fingertips still tingling from the feel of Stef's dream body, didn't mean anything. The fact that in the waking world she'd made a mistake and let him into her head for a moment didn't mean anything either. When she wasn't sunk in melancholy and wine, she was completely capable of controlling a conversation, and she was nothing if not good at keeping things light and superficial. It was just a day and a half in New York and then she'd be back home with some time to sort it all out.

  "I swear, I don't know how you do it," Kelly said as she dropped into the seat next to Sabrina. "My blow-dryer and makeup alone fill up my carry-on. How do you squeeze everything into one bag?"

  Sabrina blinked and came back to the present. "Natural beauty?" She snapped on her seat belt.

  "Even you use help. Nope, I think it must be all that time you spent as a jet-setter. Or did you FedEx your luggage ahead?" Kelly asked as the plane began to roll back from the gate. "I heard that's the in thing now when money is no object."

  "Money is an object, remember?"

  "I remember, it's just not as much fun."

  Sabrina rolled her eyes. "So how was your premiere?"

  "Oh, fine. How was the Supper Club?" Kelly inspected her fingernails with elaborate casualness.

  "Oh, we had quite a chat. They wanted to know all about Stef."

  Kelly blushed. "Well, you were going to tell them sooner or later, weren't you?"

  "Probably," Sabrina admitted. The airliner finished its taxi and turned into position at the end of the runway.

  "What did they have to say?"

  "What you'd expect. And I told them the same thing I've told you. It's history, what's going on now is business and I can handle it."

  Kelly looked at her soberly. "Look, you don't have to convince me, I know you've grown up and you're serious about work and all that, but no one goes through what you went through and just gets past it. Don't be trying to tell yourself you can treat Stef Costas like any old guy, because if you do, you're walking around with a bull's-eye printed on your forehead."

  Slowly at first and then faster, the plane began to trundle down the concrete ribbon. "Kelly, seriously, I don't think it's a problem. I've got both feet on the ground."

  "It's kind of like now. You may feel like you've got both feet on the ground, but you might be starting to float a little," Kelly said as the plane lifted into the air. "Just be sure you have your seat belt fastened in case you run into any in-flight turbulence."

  * * *

  Stef pulled out his notes on the New York shoot as the plane leveled off at a cruising altitude.

  Beside him, Kev stretched and reclined his seat. "So off to New York to film a bunch of gorgeous women? I gotta say, I like Sabrina's choice of topics a whole lot more than yours, chief."

  "Hey, I make docs for people who want to think with their heads instead of their—"

  "I think with my head."

  "Oh, is that what you're calling it now? I thought Felicia named it Oscar."

  Kev raked a hand through his hair, leaving it little better than before. "Remind me never to go
drinking with you again. And Felicia's history, remember?"

  "So, what, you've been solo for a week now?"

  Kev raised an eyebrow. "Try seven months. I know you were living in a cave while you were editing that union film, but try to keep up."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "So what do you think about this whole press thing?" Kev asked. "I wouldn't think you'd want to advertise the fact that you're doing a sex documentary."

  Stef shrugged. "I can't say I'm crazy about it but there's not a lot I can do."

  "How about if I run interference for you?" Kev said casually.

  "I don't think I need—" Stef stopped and gave Kev a narrow-eyed stare. "What are you up to?"

  "Me?" Kev gave him a guileless look. "Nothing. Just trying to help, as always. Of course, if I give her a nice, in-depth interview, maybe she'll be less interested in profiling you. It'll get you off the hook."

  "And give you a good reason to spend time with her."

  "Hey, seven months is seven months, and she's a babe. Nothing wrong with me trying to get to know her a little better, is there?"

  Stef's brows lowered. "Only the fact that she's writing a feature on this production. You screw up with her, you could screw us up."

  "I'm not going to screw around with anyone." He stopped. "Well, maybe if things go well. Come on, Stef. I just want to hang out with her a little. Like now, for instance. I could spend the next five hours talking to you and watching a bad movie I've seen already." He cocked his head consideringly. "Or maybe I could persuade you to invent an urgent need to change seats with her so you can chat with our producer."

  "And why would I do that?"

  "Because maybe I can charm her so much she'll forget about interviewing you."

  "Nice try. Next?"

  "Because you really want to be up there talking with Sabrina."

  Stef didn't blink. "Nice try. Next?"

  "Don't think you've fooled me with that one," Kev said easily. "I see how you look at her."

  "This isn't about her."

  "That's right—it's about you and her."

  The flight attendant passed down the aisle handing out headsets for the movie.

  "Are you going to join us for the in-flight entertainment, sir?"