by Judy Baer
Pete is right. The emptiness in our friend can’t be filled with approval, compliments or fame, only God. Unfortunately Maggie thinks she’s so broken that even her Original Manufacturer can’t help her.
We stared at each other miserably across the kitchen table and clung to our mugs of coffee as if we hoped they’d keep us afloat in a stormy sea.
Pete called the next morning to check on us.
“She’s still sleeping,” I told him. “She took the dog to bed with her. He’s a great tranquilizer.”
Dash is not only unfailingly sweet and genuinely comforting; he’s also comatose eighteen hours a day and makes everyone around him want to fall asleep, too. A sleeping pill on four legs.
“Glad to hear it,” Pet said, sounding relieved.
“I hope we convinced her that any man who breaks up with her because he found someone else deserves a Scummy, but it has to hurt.” The Scummy is the award Maggie and I have always given out for our bad dates. It’s like an Emmy or a Tony, but no one wants it on their mantel.
“How about you? Are you okay?”
“Just tired. I got up early to find some scripture that might help her.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and cradled the phone receiver between my shoulder and my ear.
“Pete, how did you and I find God when we were in college while Maggie missed the point of Him.”
“She never thought she was ‘good enough.’ She’s always waited to ‘do better’ before she approaches God.”
“My mom insisted on cleaning our house before the cleaning lady came.” I recall the puzzling behavior with amusement. “There’s no way I would have cleaned my room if there were a chance someone else would do it for me. Refusing to allow God into our lives until we try to clean ourselves up first isn’t much different.”
“He can wipe away our dirtiness and sin and yet we don’t allow Him to do it until we’ve tried and failed ourselves.
“It is reverse vanity, isn’t it? Some people think they’re too good for God, that they are okay without Him while others think they’re too bad for God, that even He isn’t big enough to clean up their messes—like Maggie.”
“Pete, you’re the best. Have I told you that lately?”
“About fifty times last night. I’m almost beginning to believe it. Listen, Quinn. Remember that B-I-G thing I was talking about? Why don’t you come to the studio this afternoon, and we’ll take a ride? I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”
“What about…”
“I’d rather you came alone.”
“I suppose I could. Maggie wants to go to her mother’s for a couple days.”
Pete’s wary silence spoke louder than words.
“Don’t worry, none of her sisters are there. Besides, you know how close Maggie is to her mother.”
“I wish that woman hadn’t been so blind to what was going on with her girls.”
“Mrs. Tamburo doesn’t have a mean bone in her body and she wouldn’t believe any of her children did, either. Besides, I watched those girls work. They never teased Maggie when their parents were around. They were too crafty for that.”
“Then get her on the road and come to meet me. Don’t say anything about this to Maggie, okay?”
“What’s so secretive that I can’t tell my best friend?”
“Just don’t, please?” He paused. “And I thought I was your best friend.”
“One of two. Don’t try to distract me.”
“Okay, okay, but you still can’t tell her.”
That weighed heavily on me as I said goodbye to Maggie. Glad as I was she’d decided to get away for her own sanity, I was also relieved that she wouldn’t be around when I met with Pete’s mysterious friend. I’m not good at keeping secrets.
I probably could be better at it, but I’ve found that one of the best wrinkle-preventers is complete honesty. I never have to crease my forehead trying to remember what I’ve said. The truth is always easier than a lie. A great little tip for anyone in my business.
After numerous hugs and kisses and fervently acknowledging that Randy had made the biggest mistake of his life by dumping her, I watched a teary Maggie drive down the road to her parents’ house.
Lord, go with her, soothe her and keep her safe!
Chapter Four
“I don’t like this, Pete.” My heart raced as Pete and I drove in his vintage Jag to the mysterious undisclosed location where Pete insisted my life would “change forever.” Pete likes old cars. They need to be in tip-top shape and good-looking, but otherwise, the older the better. I’ve always thought it would be nice if men had the same attitude toward women—that they get better with age.
We passed one of the dozens of parks around the city and I saw a family of geese waddling down the sidewalk. A guy on a bicycle nearly crashed into a tree trying to avoid them. I’ve seen entire streets clog up while a mama and her babies made their way across the road.
Excitement fizzed around Pete like Alka-Seltzer in water, but the farther we drove the more concerned and uneasy I became. I like my life. Changing it forever isn’t all that appealing to me—even if one of my best friends in the entire world might think it’s a good thing.
“It’s time to tell me what this is about, Pete. I’m not big on surprises. Since Maggie’s not here, you can tell me what’s going on.”
“Relax, Quinn, you’re in good hands. Would old Pete steer you wrong?”
“Aren’t you the one that insisted a band could never be too loud to hurt your ears, that Enron would be around forever and that there was no possible way to improve on Oreos—just before they started making Double Stuf? And aren’t you the one who insisted that we would wake up on the first day of January in 2001 and be back in the Stone Age, that Game Boy and iPod would never last and that high-definition television was just some geek’s passing fancy?”
“Okay, so I’m not perfect one-hundred percent of the time.”
“Pete, you’re perfect zero percent of the time. Did you forget about original sin?”
He ignored that. It is well known that all of Pete’s sin is very original. “I want you to promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this. Don’t say no until you hear them—and me—out.”
“What do you take me for?” I asked waspishly as we passed the silver, yellow and blue cars of the Metro Transit light rail on the Hiawatha Line as it picked up passengers. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this already and I don’t know where we are going or what we are doing. If you’d give me a hint…”
He sighed dramatically to indicate just how put upon he was and how patient he’d been. “The reason I’m not telling you where I’m taking you,” he said with studied patience, as if he were talking to a recalcitrant child, “is because I’m afraid you might not go if I tell you. And if you don’t go, you’ll never know what an interesting opportunity this is.”
“‘Interesting opportunities’ with you have, over the years, included that case of food poisoning we got from eating egg-salad sandwiches.”
Pete looked injured. “I didn’t think you could get food poisoning at a church bazaar—divine protection and all that.”
I closed my eyes and a veritable parade of images marched before my eyes. The time I trusted Pete to convince me that skateboarding was easy and when I believed that he actually had taken dozens of slivers out of people’s fingers. Gullible is my middle name.
“And you wonder why I’m suspicious. You’ve been dragging me into crazy schemes since we were kids. I should have learned by now and moved somewhere that wasn’t so accessible to you.”
“You love me and you know it. Besides, this is one time that you really can trust me.”
How our friendship has made it this far without imploding was beyond me. God is our glue, no doubt about that.
“Here we are.” We pulled up in front of the one of the Cities’ finest hotels in the heart of downtown Minneapolis.
“Now that we’re here,” he eyed me cautiously,
as if I might still jump out of his car and run, “and I’ve made sure you are going to meet my people, I can tell you the story.”
“Your people? As in let’s have your people contact my people and set up lunch? Very Hollywood.”
“I’m glad you wore a suit.” He eyed me appraisingly. “It makes you look…professional…reliable….sensible…in an eye-catching sort of way, of course.”
“This had better be good.” I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned at him, not liking the way this was going.
“Eddie Bessett and Frank Bernhardt are in town today.”
“Good for them.” If Pete had expected a dramatic response, he didn’t get one. I’d never heard of either of them.
“Bessett and Bernhardt? B & B Productions? The largest, most successful producer of reality shows on cable today?”
“And I’m supposed to know them how?” I was beginning to feel a bit guilty for not being as excited as Pete.
“The Dollar Show? Hide-and-Seek? 30 Days to a New You? Fairy Godmother? Don’t you ever watch television?”
I recalled a show on which people were given a dollar bill and told to turn it into as much money as they possibly could in a week’s time. At the time I’d likened it to the parable of the talents in the Bible in which the good servants made their master’s money grow while he was away and the lazy ones just sat around, awaiting their employer’s return.
Hide-and-Seek, on the other hand, was basically an Easter-egg hunt for adults. The producers of the show hid cash and jewelry in unlikely places, and people had to find it.
“Fairy Godmother? Isn’t that the stupid show where they land on someone’s doorstep with a lady in a puffy dress and a tiara who says she’s there to help them find a prince or princess and make their dreams come true?”
“That’s the one. Isn’t it great?” Pete beamed at me as if I’d won a spelling bee.
“Unless she lands on my doorstep and offers to do laundry, I’m not interested. Pete, those reality shows are mostly vapid, inane…”
He clamped his hand over my mouth. “Shh. You don’t want anyone to hear you.”
“Why? Are Misters B and B hiding in the backseat?”
“Practically. They’re doing auditions. They’re casting for a hostess for their new show Chrysalis. Their production crew’s eyes are everywhere.”
Chrysalis. At least that’s a pretty name, much better than The Dollar Show. Of course, everyone loves to watch things that have to do with money.
I opened my purse and pulled out my cell phone. “I’d better check my messages.”
Pete grabbed the phone from my hand and snapped it shut. “Pay attention, Quinn!”
“To what? This has nothing to do with me, Pete.” He was testing my patience. “I know zilch…nada…about reality shows other than that they put people in ridiculous situations and tape them making fools of themselves for fifteen minutes of fame. If I want to see that, I can watch the news.”
All this drama and intensity over…what?
“This is your big chance, your opportunity to get out there and be seen. Quinn, you are a knockout. Drop-dead beautiful…”
“You make it sound like I have a rather violent appearance, Pete.”
“You are a stunner!”
“See what I mean?”
“If you could get the gig as hostess for this new B & B production, it would guarantee that you would have as much modeling work as you wanted and television work, too. You’d be a minor celebrity.”
As usual Pete let his overactive imagination and his love for me take him too far down a crazy path. “Very minor. What good would that do me even if I did want to audition…and I don’t.”
“Quinn, what do you want to do more than anything?”
Pete already knew my answer, of course. “To teach. To get to these kids who are isolated and falling behind because they can’t be in school.”
“What about your dream of starting a tutoring academy? What about helping dozens of kids a month instead of just a few?”
“Of course that’s what I want! But I don’t see how…” My voice trailed away. “Oh.”
“The pay is good. You could start the academy now. They are starting with six shows. Quinn, it’s perfect! You’d have time plus money for the other things you want to do.” Pete sat back, crossed his arms across his chest and studied me now that he had my full attention. “And you have the look. You’d be perfect for this show. Perfect.”
I squirmed a little. Too many compliments in one sitting and I’m ready to run. I can’t help it that my features are well-proportioned, my teeth even and my hair willing to do whatever I ask of it. That’s like bragging about having a belly button or an elbow. I can’t take the credit for my looks any more than I think I might be responsible for a flexible, working knee or a good digestive system.
“You are making me very uncomfortable, Pete.”
“This is not shallow praise, Quinn. This time, you are perfect. They are looking for a woman who is traditionally beautiful and who has not had any plastic surgery. A natural beauty.”
“What on earth does that have to do with being a host on a television show? Everyone in fantasyland improves on nature.”
Pete’s pained expression finally got to me.
“Quit looking at me like a wounded puppy. You’d better just get on with it and tell me what this show is about. And why do they want someone who’s not had plastic surgery?”
“The idea is that the hostess is a perfect specimen. She’s who the contestants will emulate, the beautiful person they want to be.”
“And why is the show named Chrysalis?”
“Because it is about taking someone from their ugly cocoon and turning them into a beautiful butterfly.”
Perfect specimens—cocoons, butterflies—shades of entomology. “Maggie is the reality-TV buff. You should talk to her, not me.”
An odd expression flitted over Pete’s features. Then he opened the door of his car. “I think I’ll let Eddie and Frank’s staff explain this to you. I’m not doing a good job.”
“It’s ‘Eddie and Frank,’ is it?” I teased as he held open my door. He relinquished the car to the valet and escorted me into the ultramodern foyer of the hotel. “When did you guys get so chummy?”
“Remember when I lived in California for two years after college? I used to date Eddie’s sister before I moved back to the Cities from Los Angeles. His sister Kristy and I didn’t last, but Eddie and I still call each other once a year just to check in. I hadn’t heard from him for a while so I figured he’d gotten too big for me. Then he called to say they were coming here to search for talent. He thought that because I’m a photographer I could help him in his search for a beautiful woman.”
He hurried me toward a bank of elevators. “And while they’re talking to you, just think about starting your tutoring academy. If you don’t take it, how long will you have to cut back your teaching hours while you earn a living wage?”
He knows how to get me where it hurts. I thought of Nathan in his big cast, of his mother Linda, of the children who couldn’t get that kind of special attention. Flattery doesn’t impress me but Pete goes for the jugular when he brings up my students. My footsteps were uncertain as we walked into the elevator.
B & B Productions had, it appeared, taken over an entire floor.
We walked off the elevator into a beehive of activity. There were lovely women—reality-show-host wannabes—sitting on chairs, couches and around the conference tables. People with clipboards and harried expressions dotted the area. Most were talking on cell phones and none were talking to each other. No one seemed to be enjoying the beautiful view of the downtown skyline or even the gigantic television screens on wide pillars. One individual did sit at a black grand piano plunking out a tune, but as soon as someone called his name, he jumped up and disappeared.
Eddie and Frank—Bessett & Bernhardt—B & B—were holding court behind closed doors, and an assistant would usher so
meone out and call in another hopeful every few minutes. Each woman was lovelier than the last. They went through the bevy quickly. At this pace, they would run out of hopefuls soon. Apparently Eddie and Frank were fussy.
Good. If they were that particular, I’d never meet their standards. They could reject me and I wouldn’t have to have the no-I’m-not-going-to-do-this conversation with Pete. I owe him that much. Ever since I’ve known Pete, he has had my and Maggie’s best interests at heart. If I could choose a brother for myself, it would be Pete. He’s doing this because he thinks it is right for me. The least I can do is politely hear what the famous Eddie and Frank have to say.
In twenty minutes the room was empty of applicants. Eddie and Frank were efficient at weeding people out, I’d give them that. The thought cheered me considerably. We’d be home in time for me to walk Dash.
Then the young woman with the clipboard approached us. “Are you Quinn?”
“Yes, but how—”
Pete elbowed me in the ribs to quiet me.
Obediently I shut my mouth and stood up. Exactly what, I wondered, had Pete told them about me?
Chapter Five
Eddie and Frank were holed up behind the double doors that led to the master suite. The outer room was now empty of wannabes. Only worker bees wearing earbuds and muttering to invisible people in other parts of the country were left.
“Eddie’s a great guy,” Pete whispered as an assistant checked to see if the principles of B & B Productions were ready for us. “But keep your eye on Frank. FYI, he fancies himself a ladies’ man and doesn’t like to take no for an answer. He’s a manipulator, according to Eddie, but he knows how to get things done in the business.”
