“How can I help?” Liam asks.
“You can stand back and look pretty,” I say, jumping into his car, and starting it up.
“It’s a stick shift,” Liam warns me.
“Not to worry,” I say as I turn on the car and roll his tires over the chains. “My daddy raised girls who can drive a stick, shoot a gun, and beat you up.”
I spend the next few minutes getting all the chains on the car, and we’re back on the road in no time. We clear the roadblock in a few minutes.
I am so proud of myself, I am practically beaming.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Liam asks, smiling to himself at the sight of glowing little me.
I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say, practically giggling.
“Yes, you do,” he says, amused by me. “It’s like this little private joke in your head. Make fun of the guy who comes from a country of rain—”
“No, it’s not that,” I assure him. I take a few moments to try and put it into words. “I just love that after all this time, I finally found something that I knew how to do that you didn’t do better.”
“Ah . . . incompetence,” he jokes. “Gets the women every time.”
“No,” I say, laughing and lightly punching him on the arm. “The fact that you didn’t know how to do something, but you were so open to letting me help you . . . I don’t know . . . It’s like you’re perfect, but you’re not perfect. I like that. It’s very charming.”
“Okay, so if I am to understand this, you like me better because I didn’t know what a snow chain was, or how to put one on my car?”
I smile and blush a little as I shrug. “Actually, yeah.”
Liam chuckles, and shakes his head. “Charlie, I love ya, but American women are so strange.”
Twenty-seven
Take two-day vacations when you can fit them in.
The drive up the mountain was stunning. I’m not used to seeing so many trees, and all of them are covered in glittering snow. I’m struck by how much the snow appears to glitter. Southern Californians don’t get to see snow much. So when we do, it seems almost magical. I open the window to smell the clean, noncity air. I take a deep (albeit chilly) breath and I am relaxed, and in heaven.
Soon, we are driving slowly through the town of Lake Arrowhead, and around its scenic Lake Arrowhead Village, a collection of shops with architecture ranging from early log cabin to German cookie cutter. As I watch the snow silently fall onto us in the quiet town, I am struck by how clean the air is, how polite the other drivers are, how uncrowded everything is.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m a city girl. I always will be. But it’s wonderful to be able to take a day or two and just forget about the day-to-day problems of your regular life, and to recharge your batteries.
Liam pulls into the Lake Arrowhead Resort, which was built to look like a massive log cabin. A valet runs up to open Liam’s door. Liam hands him his keys, and tells him, “O’Connor and Edwards, checking in.”
He does that so effortlessly, I think to myself as he walks around to my side of the car, and we walk into the lobby. I have never been good at checking into four-star resorts. I always try to park my car myself, for fear the valet might lose it. And I always start to carry in my own bags before a bellhop offers to do it for me.
We walk into the expansive lobby, which is also designed to look like a giant rustic cabin, but with an artistic flair: Instead of real mounted animal heads (a decorating trend I always found disturbing), hanging above the front desk are sculpted white animal heads made to appear as though they have magically emerged from the white walls to see what the guests are doing. The hardwood floors are clean and shiny. Tasteful brown leather couches and chairs complement tables of various sizes carved from solid chunks of tree. And I’m not sure which adds the more romantic touch: the stone fireplace, or the floor-to-ceiling windows with spectacular views of the lake.
We walk up to the woman at the front desk with the name tag MARY, and Liam checks us in. He gets us connecting rooms, each with a king-size bed, each with views of the lake.
Then he says to Mary, “Miss Edwards will need to see the presidential suite, just to make sure it meets with Andrew Stanton’s specifications.”
Mary turns to me. “Oh, our manager, Ms. Owens, will show it to you personally. We are so excited to have your company coming here to film. And, if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable, you just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say, pleasantly surprised by her friendliness.
I sometimes forget that people outside of Los Angeles actually like moviemakers. They’re actually nice to us. In Los Angeles, filming on location brings out restrictive neighborhood associations, fuming commuters passing by and yelling, and irate neighbors calling the cops at 10:01 P.M. with noise complaints. But in places like Lake Arrowhead, Las Vegas, and St. Louis, people welcome the extra money a crew of a hundred can bring in. (Or, in our case, at least thirty.) Film permits are cheap, and accommodating. The locals have fun being extras, and see the free food from craft service and the hundred-dollar check at the end of the day as a fun bonus of an enjoyable day. People are excited to meet the actors. They don’t go around sniping about how inconvenient it is that Will Smith had to park a trailer near their house. Residents tend to be friendly. They’ll walk past to say “Hi,” to the crew, and ask questions about the film. And the local camera crews, set decorators, and grips welcome a job working on a big movie.
Truth be told, I’m surprised Los Angeles continues to keep as much work in town as it does. Other parts of the country don’t resent us.
The bellhop shows us to our rooms. My room has a similar feel to the lobby—very rustic, but also nice. Most everything is done in shades of brown: the desk and chair, the couch (although there is a muted quilt pattern on the ottoman.) My bedspread is even a muted shade of bronze. The bathroom is nicely sized, and comes with my own soft waffle weave robe. There is a lovely view of the lake that on another day I could have spent hours gazing at. But as much as I would have enjoyed throwing on the soft robe, and cozying up in here with a good book, I am here to work.
And work I do.
The next six hours are the most exhilarating I’ve had in I don’t know how long. Liam and I ran around doing all the “boring” things a producer does, and I couldn’t have been happier. After years of making restaurant reservations, and scheduling private plane pickups, I was actually doing something that mattered to me.
We scouted various locations that Liam had seen pictures of, but needed to look at in person. I eliminated one of them immediately by insisting no ten-ton grip truck was going to get down a three-hundred-yard gravel road—that only went one way. When we scouted the Village, I secured the parking we’d need for the crew, not to mention found some locals who could drive trailer hitches in snow, and would be available to work on the movie. When Liam found a house that matched the protagonist’s childhood home from the 1950s, I pointed to the modern glass and metal monstrosity next door that could not be shot around. I then walked up to a home down the street that was perfect, knocked on the door, and secured the location for half of what Liam had budgeted in exchange for securing an introduction between Drew and, quote, “his biggest fan.” (By the way, she was ninety if she was a day, and was going to fawn all over him. Drew loves crap like that.)
Throughout the day, I was glowing. I felt useful. I felt like I was doing something new and interesting. And I realized, as I happily trotted back to my room that evening, that this was something I desperately wanted.
We get back to the hotel around six-thirty, and agree to meet at the hotel bar at eight. I decide to take a long, leisurely soak in the tub before dressing for the evening.
Unfortunately, I make the mistake of bringing my cell into the bathroom with me. Before I can close my eyes and inhale the smell of Ginger Citrus bubbles, my first call comes through.
Truthfully, I was surprised it had taken Drew all day to call. Usually
he calls me every twelve minutes. Which is why I have nicknamed myself his “beck-and-call girl.”
I pick up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“So who’s there? Is it a place to be seen? How’s the lighting?”
I look around my bathroom. “No one you’ll recognize, no, and very natural.”
“Did you get together with Liam yet?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
“Is that an ‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response,’ meaning, ‘Yes, but I don’t want you to think I’m a slut,’ or, ‘No, he doesn’t want me and I’m hiding in my room eating whatever I can scrounge up from the minibar’?”
If Drew hadn’t actually caught me once in a room with a Mallomar in one hand, and a small can of roasted cashews in the other, I’d take offense.
“It means that it’s none of your business,” I respond.
“You know what you need to do? Take him to the bar and get him drunk. With straight men, that’s pretty much a closer.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly. “How’d the shoot go today?”
“Okay, except they had to replace the focus puller. Hey, do I like olives?”
“You like the black kind, but not the green kind. Unless the green kind are Cerignola.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
And he hangs up on me.
Whatever.
I lie back in my steamy bath, revel in the bubbles, and think about Liam.
I’m back to being torn about what to do about him. We just had such a phenomenal day. And not only do we work well together, but he’s so fun to be with. I mean, on the one hand, he says he’s not ready for a relationship. And I’m not ready to get hurt again, so the point is probably moot.
But, on the other hand, most men are not ready for a relationship when they get into one. While women see relationships like a heated pool on a chilly day—something to dive into headfirst—men usually see relationships like garages: they have to back in slowly.
So, do I take him at his word, or not?
My phone rings again. It’s Drew. I pick up. “Hello?”
“What’s a knish?” Drew asks me.
“It’s basically a baked turnover,” I answer.
“Uh-huh,” Drew says, sounding like he’s writing down my answer. “And do I eat gefilte fish?”
“No.”
“Okkaayy,” he says, drawing out his words. “Kippered salmon, yes. Pastrami, oh yes . . . What do you think? Chocolate chip bagels? Yummy or weird?”
“Drew, are you trying to order dinner?”
“No. I was reading this article about breaking through your mental blocks to achieve greatness, and I need to change my dressing room again. According to the article, I should ‘surround myself with things I love.’ And for me, that’s deli food.”
I sit up in the tub. “I’m confused. What does that mean? You want to change your dressing room to a deli?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure if I thought this winter wonderland completely through,” Drew answers. “I nearly got frostbite yesterday using the bathroom. So, I’ve decided to turn the room into a deli. Either that, or a gift-wrapping room.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say urgently. “You love that dressing room. And we’re only there another week and a half; why change things now?”
“That, plus you still want Liam staying with you,” Drew offers.
Caught.
“I didn’t say that,” I say awkwardly.
“Get ’em drunk. Show ’em who’s boss. See you Friday,” Drew commands, then hangs up.
I hang up the phone, and once again try to enjoy a moment to myself.
Ten seconds later, my phone rings again. I check the caller ID. Kate. I pick up. “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s me,” Kate says, sounding totally stressed-out. “Can I bug you with a couple of quick wedding questions?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you think the guests would feel if we offered them a New York steak in a peppercorn sauce, instead of the classic filet mignon in béarnaise?”
When planning a catered party, the only hard and fast rule about the menu is to avoid the rubber chicken.
“I think that sounds delicious,” I tell her.
“Okay, and do you think we could replace the Chilean sea bass with salmon? I know it’s boring, but since the Chilean sea bass is so overfished, I would feel more comfortable with salmon.”
“Then go for it,” I tell her.
“Great. And finally, what do you think it means if I may have accidentally slept with Jack?”
I sit up in the tub. “I’m sorry. You what?”
“I may have accidentally slept with Jack,” Kate repeats. “What do you think it means?”
It means you’re still in love with him, you moron, I think to myself.
But I answer more diplomatically. “What do you think it means?”
Kate’s voice cracks the tiniest bit as she makes her rationalization. “I think it means that we were together for a lot of years, and we have a history. I had a weak moment when I was stressing out about my wedding, and I took comfort in the love of a friend.”
“Wow. Put a joint in one hand, and a martini in another, and you could be my mom explaining to me why she keeps sleeping with my dad.”
“Oh, Will’s at the door. I gotta go,” Kate says quickly. “Are we still on for Charlie’s Angels Night?”
“We are.”
“Great. We’ll talk more then.”
“Wait. Kate?”
Kate brushes me off. “Never mind,” she says quickly. “I shouldn’t have called you. I’ll see you Saturday. Bye.”
Kate hangs up on her end. I debate calling her back, but I’m tempted to yell at her and tell her she’s being an idiot. And we all know:
You’re never going to win an argument by telling the person they’re stupid. Be nice at first, and try to win their trust.
Then nail them with the truth.
Besides, if Will is there, we won’t get much accomplished. I lie back in my tub, and try to relax again.
I spend the next thirty minutes getting ready for my dinner with Liam. I wonder if men would be flattered or horrified to know we can spend fifteen minutes just trying to get our eye makeup looking perfect for them. (And let’s not even get into how long a woman can spend working on her hair. )
Don’t overpack.
After debating between the three dresses I packed for our one night stay, I finally opt for a little black dress I picked up at the Beverly Center and a pair of sparkly Jimmy Choo stilettos I got for my birthday.
Knowing we are not to meet until eight o’clock, I decide to sit around my hotel room until 7:56. I don’t want to look too eager for the dinner, and I want to make an entrance. That said, I spent twenty minutes pacing around the room, chomping on nicotine gum, and being, well, too eager.
The room’s digital clock hits 7:56, and I grab my sparkly bag, and leave the room.
I arrive at the entrance of BIN189 at precisely 8:00. I walk through the entrance, past the glass wall of displayed wine bottles, and over to the restaurant bar.
Liam is sitting in the lounge area, wearing a beautiful dark gray suit, and sipping a martini in front of a roaring fire. In the seat across from him, I see he has ordered me a glass of red wine.
“Hello, dear,” Liam says, standing up to greet me. “You look lovely.” He gives me a quick kiss hello on the cheek, then says, “I ordered you a Merlot.”
I look lovely? Don’t know what that means. Does it mean he thinks I look beautiful, and he can’t help but notice that I recently shaved my legs? Or, is lovely a euphemism men use when describing blind dates with good personalities?
“Thank you,” I say, taking a seat. “So, have you been here long?”
“Just long enough to fascinate myself with people-watching,” he says, taking a sip of his martini. “I cannot believe how many first dates are here tonight.”
I turn
in my seat to check out the people in the bar, lounge, and adjoining dining room. Many of the women are dressed to the nines like me. No one wears four-inch stilettos and a short black dress to a lodge in the middle of the mountains unless they’re trying to get laid.
“Actually, there aren’t any first dates here,” I inform him, speaking like an anthropologist, and absolutely sure of myself. “A few second dates. Mostly third dates. And, of course, some people are here for their first romantic getaway.” I look around further to test my hypothesis. “Oh, except that table,” I say, pointing to a slightly overweight gentleman in an ill-fitting suit and his date. “They’ve gone out so many times without sex, the poor guy’s ready to explode.”
Liam laughs. “Well, all right then.” He points to the guy in the ill-fitting suit. “How can you tell with him? Do we men give out signals of desperation?”
“It’s not him, it’s her,” I say authoritatively to Liam. “She’s dressed dowdily, low white pumps, nylons, a tasteful blue dress with a way-past-the-knee hemline. Plus that, her hair is barely brushed. This is a woman who’s not putting too much energy into the date. Which means she’s only dating him because he’s nice, not because there’s any chemistry between them. And, if there’s no chemistry, he might as well pack it in now.”
Liam makes a show of checking out my dress. “Let’s see: hemline above the knee, no nylons, insanely high heels.” He smiles at me mischievously. “Am I to assume I might get lucky tonight?”
“Hey, if you hadn’t just told me earlier today you weren’t looking for a relationship, we might be ordering room service right now,” I say lightly as I take a sip of my wine.
Liam laughs. “Fair enough.” He looks around the room. “What date do you think people assume we’re on?”
I ponder his question a moment. “Second,” I answer.
Misery Loves Cabernet Page 23
