“It doesn’t matter.” Her eyes didn’t leave her phone.
I filled a large to-go cup with ice and poured the tea. Clipping some mint from a sprig, I started to dust the tea with some leaves.
“What are you doing?” I suddenly had her full attention.
I hesitated with the lid. “Um, getting your drink.”
“Um,” she exaggerated, “I didn’t want … whatever that is.” She motioned at the mint as if it were rat poison. “And for the record, I don’t really want your germs all over my tea.”
Without missing a beat, I set the cup aside and filled another cup. I handed her a mint-free tea and a napkin.
“A lid?”
I started to reach for the lid from her first cup, thought again, and grabbed a new one. Careful not to put my germy hands all over it, I placed it gently next to her cup.
She sniffed. “Is this the large?”
“Yes.” I caught Mr. Michaels’s eye across the room, suppressing a grin when he scrunched up his face at her.
The woman started to push a five across the counter, but her eyes caught on something behind me. “Oh!”
At some point, unnoticed, Adam had come through the door and was standing behind me. He’d seen the whole interchange between us. “Wow, Leila, you can be a real witch when you’re not kissing my butt.”
The woman’s face went from pale to a flash of red. “Adam! What’re you doing here?”
“Hanging with Carter.” He crossed to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “My girlfriend.”
The ice queen melted. She proceeded to bumble, explain, and apologize all at once, flashing me a toothpaste-commercial smile, a trained look that said, I didn’t know.
“You can go, Leila,” Adam interrupted, and she hurried from the café, leaving her tea on the counter.
My body hummed, either from the exchange with Leila or from Adam calling me his girlfriend. Probably both. “Who was that?” I dumped the tea in the sink, my hand shaking.
“That was my trainer. Who just arrived today and who will now also be leaving today.” He waved in the direction of her exit. It was sweet how offended he looked. “Please accept my apology on behalf of my ex-trainer.”
“Oh, she was nothing.” I pulled out a new creamer for the self-serve counter and gave it a little shake before heading to the stainless server.
He followed me out from behind the counter, causing only a minor stir. Our regulars had already learned to ignore us. “She was a she-devil. Why didn’t you say something to her?”
After refilling the creamer, I organized the little bowl full of sugar and Equal packets. “Because it’s not about me. She’s not mad at me. Dad says to just stare at them when they act like that and say, ‘Okay,’ and not take it personally.”
Adam shook his head, following me back behind the counter again. “No way. You should’ve refused to serve her.”
I didn’t mention the dozens of people who couldn’t refuse to serve him when he was being a jerk. “If we refused to serve everyone who acted like that, we wouldn’t have a café to run. Plus, come here.” I motioned him back into the kitchen. “We’ve made a sort of game out of it.” I pulled a heap of aprons from a hook, revealing our secret clipboard. “We send them to U.R.E.P.”
He frowned. “To Europe?”
I showed him the clipboard. “U.R.E.P. Unnecessarily Rude Entitled Person. That way, we can look at each other and simply say quietly, ‘Send her to U.R.E.P.’ It helps vent it out and not cost us customers.”
Under the heading, U.R.E.P., it read: Reason for travel and had blanks where Little Eats employees could vent. There were pages of reasons, written in different ink colors and in various handwritings. No one loves me, was a popular choice, as was, Too many pesticides in my food. “See, look.” I clicked my pen, took the clipboard, and pointed to the blank spot for Reason #437. “Poor me. You put mint in my tea,” I whined, and then Adam snatched the pen and said as he wrote, Because my boyfriend just left me for a B-list TV actress with better implants.
My eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a good one. Specific.”
He shrugged. “It’s true.”
I replaced the clipboard on the hook and covered it with the aprons. “See, we all have our coping strategies. No harm done.”
“She’s still fired.”
I pushed through the kitchen door. Turning, I smiled at him standing in the doorway, his long body casual, his arms crossed across his chest. “Thanks.”
Hunter Fisch wasn’t happy.
And he’d been growing steadily unhappier for the past two days. I’d never seen a famous director in action, and Hunter was living up to everything I’d imagined about filmmakers — creative, passionate, slightly crazy. Hunter was thirty-seven (I’d looked him up on IMDb) and had made a name for himself directing family-friendly fare like At the Park and It Takes Four, two movies I’d liked a lot, actually. They were, as one critic said, “the right balance of sweet and quirky.”
Right now, I was pretty sure he was feeling neither sweet nor quirky.
At five eleven, he appeared taller, even from the edge of his chair in Video Village where he was currently frowning at a monitor. His receding dark hair was buzzed short, and he hid large green eyes behind thick frames that seemed to shift from black to purple. He wore designer jeans and a T-shirt, and his signature move seemed to be swooping his beat-up Sundance cap and headset off his head and rubbing his hands manically across his stubbly hair while he said things like, “I wonder if you could try that again, but this time, mean it.”
I had a little crush on him.
I kept as quiet as possible from my own chair in Video Village, where they’d given me a headset to hear action from the active set. They were shooting in the hospital, and sometimes I liked to sneak to the edge of the set and watch Adam while trying to keep out of the way. Once, yesterday, Hunter had noticed me. “Do you work for me?”
I’d pointed at Adam.
“She’s with me,” he’d said, giving his director a thumbs-up.
That was the last of Hunter’s attentions I’d received.
Right now, he was rubbing his head again. He left his hat and headset on his chair and walked onto the set. “Um, great — Stephanie?” He frowned at the actress in the hospital bed. “I want you to try that again, and this time … I want you to be, well, sick.” I tiptoed over to where I could watch him talk to the actors. The lens of his glasses reflected the scene: two actors and a hospital bed doubled and in miniature.
Adam, who had been crouched eye level with the tiny actress tucked into the hospital bed, stood and stretched his arms above his head, yawning.
Honey-haired Stephanie blinked bright eyes at Hunter from the bed. “Can you elaborate?”
Hunter’s lips pinched. Carefully, he said, “You have cancer.” His left leg shook slightly, like it always did on the rung of his chair, artistic ADD. “Cancer,” he emphasized. “Very late stage. You’re extremely ill. You know, as in not well.”
“Do I seem too healthy?” She glanced quickly at Adam, who shrugged and winked at her.
More head rubbing. “You seem quite well … which is a problem for this scene. Kelly!” Hunter called over his shoulder. Kelly, a petite makeup artist with cropped copper hair, appeared at his side. “Can we make her paler? More dark circles? Something?”
Kelly studied Stephanie, her nose ring flashing. “If you want it to be a zombie movie.” She gave a quick shake of her copper head. “It’s not the makeup.”
Hunter sighed. “Right. Okay, let’s try this again. And can we stop with whoever feels the need to sound like his own rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’?”
One of the crew, an enormous, sweet-faced guy named Thomas, who had clearly gotten into the Christmas spirit, gave his head a little shake, the bells on his Rudolph antlers shivering. He quickly tucked them away in a bag. “Sorry, boss.”
Hunter’s expression snagged somewhere between bemused and annoyed. “We’re going to have to
start calling you Tiny Tom.”
Everyone laughed dutifully and got back to work.
A half hour later, they broke for lunch.
I joined Adam outside in the tent that had been set up for cast and crew so they could grab a quick bite. Adam found a card table off by himself at the edge of the tent, next to a cutout window, and I sat in the seat next to him. Parker brought Adam a sandwich and a Diet Coke. He never seemed to eat with the rest of the cast, always preferring a sandwich to the meals craft services provided. He sat at the table, staring out at the fringe of pines on the hills beyond the hospital. Quietly, so only I could hear him, he sighed and said, “God, I hope this movie isn’t terrible.” He took a bite of sandwich. Turkey Gorgonzola with a balsamic spread. I’d made a bunch earlier for our café cold case and brought one for Adam. Studying it, he said, “This is a good sandwich. I bet you this movie won’t be as good as this sandwich.”
I could see the parking lot from where we sat, rows of film trailers, people moving equipment in and out of trucks. It would be lucky if ambulances could actually get into the turnabout. Hopefully, no one needed the hospital today for its actual purpose. “Won’t there always be people who will think a movie’s terrible and people who’ll love it? Believe me, there are people who don’t like that sandwich. A couple of the mouthy ones are on the U.R.E.P. list.”
He popped open the Diet Coke can. It hissed, releasing a sweet, chemical smell. “I need it to do well. I need this to be a good movie.”
Something in his voice felt ragged, frayed, and I leaned in a little closer. “Doesn’t it just matter what you think of it?”
He looked at me with a sort of pity. “That’s never what matters.”
“Why?” Out the window, white clouds drifted like feathers, the sky so pale the blue was more a faint tint than a color. When he didn’t answer, I said, “I mean, you can’t really control it. So why worry about it? I can’t control what people think of that sandwich, but I’m going to keep making them because I think they’re delicious.”
He nodded, licking some balsamic from his fingertips. “It’s a little different. This sandwich didn’t cost twenty-five million dollars to make.”
Hunter came over to our table. “You okay if we get rolling soon?”
“Sure.” Adam crumpled up the paper, drained his Diet Coke. He rubbed his hands together, looking at me with tired eyes. “Let’s do something fun tonight.”
Tonight was definitely not in the script. Parker had told me that Adam would be busy getting ready for a big scene he was shooting tomorrow. “Parker said you have to prep for tomorrow.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine. Besides, I’d rather do something fun with you.”
His words lit in my belly like a low flame. “My dad’s playing with his band at an old barn tonight. I don’t know if you’d think that would be fun, but it’ll be mellow. Loads of good food.”
He perked up. “Your dad’s in a band?”
“A Bruce Springsteen cover band. Glory Daze. D-a-z-e.” I made an apologetic face. “He thinks he’s very clever. But it’s pretty out by the barn, you know, if you’re in the mood for a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. And Jones is making his famous chili.”
“That guy doesn’t like me.” He pushed himself away from the table, leaving behind the crumple of sandwich paper and the empty can of Diet Coke.
Watching him, I wondered what it must be like to care what everyone thought of you all the time, to be so trained, your body some sort of social chromatic tuner. I gave him a quick smile. “Don’t worry, Jones doesn’t like most people. Oh, and, Adam?”
“Yeah?”
“You going to throw that out?”
the old barn belonged to Mr. Jensen, one of our regulars. He owned Blue Acre Farm, known for their apple juice, but I was more a fan of their pumpkin patch in the fall. Mr. Jenkins always had the best-dressed scarecrows, and his wife made a pumpkin pie that would make your mouth water from seven miles away. We served it at the café in the fall and it always sold out by midday. For years now, Mr. Jensen had been coming to Little Eats one or two mornings a week. He would wander in, still wearing his overalls and messy work boots, eat a bagel sandwich with egg and cheddar, and read a book. Then, he left a dollar and a haiku as a tip. I kept one of his haikus taped to my bathroom mirror at home.
Always bright smiling, her face lighting, shoulders bent to listen. Carter.
He’d written dozens of them for us. But that one was my favorite.
When we got around back of the red barn, Dad was setting up with Glory Daze on a platform stage built on the far side of a sprawling, flat, open space ringed with trees. In the fading evening, the band members moved as shadows, the bobbing string bulbs above them stippling their faces with light. The Jensens’ granddaughter, Lila, home from UC Santa Cruz for the summer, had turned the area into a fairyland. Lights looped through the fat oak that stood sentinel in the center of the space, then stretched like glowing wings across it. She’d placed bunches of wildflowers into dozens of metal vases and watering cans, setting them on any available surface. A long table sat against the barn wall, covered in faded floral tablecloths, and already piled with apple pies, salads, freshly baked breads, and clay pots of preserves. Nearby, over an open fire pit, Jones stirred a pot of chili the size of a wheelbarrow.
Adam’s eyes widened. “What’s the occasion?”
“Summer.” I grabbed his hand to pull him toward the stage, and his fingers laced through mine, not letting go, sending tiny shocks up my arm.
When we got to the edge of the stage, Dad paused from the mic check he’d been doing and smiled down at us. “You two should grab some of that sourdough bread before it disappears.”
Mrs. Jensen hurried by, trailing the scent of cinnamon, her white hair curled into a knot at her neck. “Oh, don’t rush them. There’s plenty more where that came from.” She stopped to plant a kiss on my cheek; at only five feet, she had to stand on her tiptoes. “Hi, darlin’.” She eyed Adam shyly. “Who’s your friend?”
Adam let go of my hand to shake hers, his eyes sparkling under his Lakers cap. “Adam.”
She gave his hand a quick shake. “Well, help yourself, Mr. Adam. That bread’s especially tasty with those strawberry preserves.”
“Will do.” He smiled, watching her scurry away. “Okay, she’s from central casting.”
I frowned at him. “What’s that?”
“You know, like if you were going to cast someone to play an old farmer’s wife — you’d cast her. She’s exactly what you’d imagine for the part.” At my blank look, he said, “It’s just an expression,” and moved toward the food tables. Around us, people started to fill up the courtyard, holding beers or homemade ginger ale in glass jelly jars.
No one seemed to notice Adam.
I came alongside him to survey the spread of food. “Do you ever look at the world and not relate it to the movies somehow?”
Pausing, he plucked a slice of sourdough bread from a basket, tore off a piece, and chewed it. “Not really.” He waved to someone behind me.
Turning, I saw Alien Drake and Chloe walk in through the open side of the barn.
“Hey!” Chloe called, running up to us. “Look at this!” She held up a copy of People. “It’s you! You’re famous!” The headline read: “Adam Jakes Finds a Little Love.” Under it, there was a picture of us kissing beneath the Fairy Tree. For how lame that kiss had actually been, I had to admit it looked really romantic in the magazine, the fringe of leaves making a halo around our faces. I scanned the short article. It made several references to Little Eats but didn’t mention me by name. I was just “small-town girl” or “Little local girl,” which made me feel like I should wear braids and sell hot cocoa in the Alps.
Chloe smiled at Adam. “Do you want to see it?” She held up the magazine.
“Nope.” He tugged at the brim of his hat, popping the rest of the bread into his mouth, his shadow shield spreading across his face.
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Chloe frowned, tucking the folded magazine into her patchwork messenger bag. She smoothed the front of her haltered sundress and, laughing nervously, she scanned the festivities. “I know. This isn’t very exciting. Everyone here is, like, a hundred.”
“I like it.” Alien Drake headed over to where Jones stirred the chili.
Chloe watched him, her eyes worried.
“You two okay?” I asked.
“He’s so grumpy lately.” She glanced shyly at Adam. “I think he’s a little jealous of Adam.”
Adam watched Drake’s retreat. “Well, I’m a little jealous of you guys — this place is unreal.” He sipped a jelly jar of ginger ale I’d handed him. “Seriously, this is the best ginger ale I’ve ever had.” He made it sound like ginger ale was something grand, something important. “But that stupid article” — he pointed at her messenger bag — “I couldn’t care less about.” He drained his glass, then left in search of a refill.
Chloe tried to hide her hurt feelings under a wobbly smile.
“Sorry.” I laced my arm around her. “He can be such a jerk sometimes.”
She pulled out the magazine again and stared down at the cover. “Well, maybe he’s used to being in People magazine, but we’re used to the Jensens’ ginger ale, so I guess it’s all relative.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks for showing me. He might be used to being in those silly things, but it’s weird to think of me being in one.”
“Right?” she managed. “That’s why I wanted you to see it.” Then, she rolled the magazine up and smacked me over the head with it.
“What!? Ow, Chloe!” It didn’t hurt, not really, but I couldn’t believe she’d just thwacked me with a magazine.
“How could you not tell me about the kiss! I could strangle you.”
I rubbed the top of my head. “Next time, use your words. No hitting. We’ve been over this.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “And we’ve been over what sort of information you never, ever fail to mention to your best friend. Kissing a movie star. You call me, got it?”
Catch a Falling Star Page 12
