Festman's higher-ups were predictably outraged at everything that had transpired. Their stock price has plummeted, and I bet that hurts the bastards most of all. Without a single public volley being fired, the naval sonar contract moved from Festman Gruber to North Vector. That Senate vote on decibel limits is fast approaching, and Kazakov seems to have a pretty good sense of which way it'll go.
Thank you, Keith Conner. Your life for a cause. James Dean never saved the whales. But in a weird way, you did.
Trista Koan got another movie greenlit. It's about frogs in the Amazon being killed off by global warming, and they have some new kid, a crossover pop star, doing the voice-over. He's not supposed to be half bad. When his last album went gold, he replaced Keith on that billboard outside The LaRusso Agency, and maybe, if he's lucky, it'll still be there next month.
I turn at Roscomare and drive up the hill, passing couples walking dogs, gardeners loading pickups, that McMansion with Tudorbethan mock battlements. Paul McCartney whispers words of wisdom from my banged-up speakers, and then the on-the-hour news breaks in. One of the Lakers got caught with a transvestite in a Venice Beach bathroom stall. I turn off the radio, let the breeze blow past my face and clear all that scandal and prurient interest from the air.
I stop off at Bel Air Foods and walk the aisles, checking items off my mental list, whistling a tune. I'm almost at checkout when I remember. I go back and grab some prenatal vitamins.
Bill rings me up. "How you doing today, Patrick?"
"Great, Bill. You?"
"Never better. Working on the next script?"
"Nah." I smile, at ease in this moment with myself, the world. "I love movies. That doesn't make me a screenwriter."
His gaze lingers on the vitamins as he slides them across the scanner, and he looks up and gives me a wink.
I drive home, pull in to the garage, and sit for a time. To my left, up on the shelf, Ariana's wedding dress is visible through the sealed clear-plastic bin. I open the glove box, remove the job-offer letter, read it again to make sure it's real. I think about our venerable and flawed kitchen table, the freshly painted baby blue walls of my former office, and, flooded with gratitude, I cry a little.
Juggling the grocery bags, I walk out front to the mailbox. A jolt of apprehension strikes me as the lid drops, but the mail today--like yesterday and the day before--is just the mail. I tuck it under my arm and stand, regarding the house I have fallen back in love with.
Next door there is a Realtor's sign in the Millers' front lawn. They are liquidating their assets to make the paperwork easier. Beyond Martinique's silk drapes, I can see a young couple inside being shown around. Their whole lives ahead of them.
Near the fresh-turned soil beside our own front lawn lie a pair of slender gardening gloves and a trowel. I start up our walk, a baguette sticking out of one of the grocery bags like in a postcard of France. I think about all the things I used to chase for all the wrong reasons. And how by standing still I now hummed with a vitality I'd never known.
On the porch I set down the bags and pull from one the bouquet of mariposas. Lavender. I step forward and ring the bell like a suitor. Her footsteps approach.
Ariana opens the door. She sees me, sees the flowers, and extends a hand toward my cheek.
I step across the threshold, into the warmth of her palm.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank my splendid editor, Keith Kahla; my publisher, Sally Richardson; and the rest of my team at St. Martin's Press, including but certainly not limited to Matthew Baldacci, Jeff Capshew, Kathleen Conn, Ann Day, Brian Heller, Ken Holland, John Murphy, Lisa Senz, Matthew Shear, Tom Siino, Martin Quinn, and George Witte. My UK editor, David Shelley, and his gifted crew at Sphere. Uberagents Lisa Erbach Vance and Aaron Priest. My beloved attorneys, Stephen F. Breimer and Marc H. Glick. Rich Green at CAA. Maureen Sugden, my copy editor, for improving my grammar, my diction--no doubt even my posture. Geoff Baehr, my technology guru who at times feels like the technology guru. Jess Taylor for early remarks. Philip Eisner, who lent me his considerable reading talents. Simba, my faithful Rhodesian ridgeback, the perfect underfoot writing companion. Lucy Childs, Caspian Dennis, Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., Nicole Kenealy, Bret Nelson, M.D., Emily Prior, and John Richmond for performing various invaluable tasks. And finally Delinah, Rose Lenore, and Natty--my collective heart.
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They're Watching (2010) Page 36
