What am I thinking about for my life? I could have told him that I wanted to be a songwriter, but what I was thinking about at that moment had nothing to do with music and everything to do with what it would be like to kiss Brett Goldstein. One of those serious kisses that goes on for a couple of days, or at least feels that way. I’d never kissed anyone that way. Not Sean, for sure. And you can bet that right then Sean was the furthest thing from my mind. He hadn’t contacted me since he’d said he couldn’t come to California. I hadn’t contacted him, either. We obviously had a tacit agreement just to let things fade away.
“It’s such a hard subject?” Brett prompted gently.
“I’d—I know this is stupid. I’d like to write songs.”
“Songs like Eminem, or songs like Lady Gaga?”
“How about songs like Lucy Wainwright Roche? Or maybe songs like Suzanne Vega?” I’d recently discovered this singer-songwriter from the 1980s and thought she was brilliant.
“ ‘Tom’s Diner.’ ‘Solitude Standing.’ ‘Marlene on the Wall.’ ” Brett rattled off the names of three Suzanne Vega songs, bam-bam-bam. Wow. “If she comes to L.A.? I’m your date.”
“It’s a deal.”
I put out my hand; he shook it. He didn’t let go. I didn’t let go, either. There was so much still to talk about. He had kind of opened the door to a conversation about religion, and I remembered how Mia had told me that it might be dicey for him, a Jewish guy, to be dating me, a Christian girl. Of course, it might not be dicey, since he was the one who had asked me out on this amazing date. I decided that the subject could wait.
There was the subject of my virginity, or lack thereof. Maybe Brett would be the best person to tell. It wasn’t really operationally relevant to Alex or Mia, but it was extremely relevant to us.
Those were the thoughts in my head as handshake turned into hand-holding. He had fantastic, large hands. Strong, groomed, confident. I loved how mine felt in his.
I felt a gentle pressure. A gentle pulling, as subtle as gravity but just as insistent.
I could resist if I wanted to. I knew that.
Instead, I let myself be drawn forward until I was a bare half inch from him, the heat of our lips rising and dancing like feathers on a breeze.
“Kiss me, Natalie.”
I did.
It was the best first kiss ever. Not that I had much of a basis for comparison, but still. He was gentle. His mouth was warm, his lips welcoming. I could feel his lips part, but thankfully he didn’t do that incredibly gross thing that some guys do, which is to act like your mouth is the bowl and their tongue the scrub brush.
There was none of that. Just the two of us clinging to each other by the lips. At some point, I felt one of his arms embrace me, his fingers sliding into my hair. I didn’t want it to stop. Neither did he. So it didn’t. Not until we heard the warble of a waking mockingbird did we come apart. A moment later, we were on to the best second kiss ever.
Three hours later, I was home; it wasn’t even nine-thirty. Brett had gone to the Working studio; he had a ten o’clock call to rehearse some scenes that would be shot that afternoon. Me? I’d slept practically the whole way home, with one of Brett’s hands cradling one of my own whenever it was safe enough.
There was another kiss when he dropped me off; I practically floated up to my bedroom, glad not to encounter any members of the Shelton clan en route. I intended to brush my teeth, I really did. Instead, I went right to bed and fell asleep in an instant.
I remember all my dreams. All of them were about Brett, and in all of them we were doing more than kissing.
CHAPTER TEN
I slept until ten. Deliciously. You guess why.
I awoke with a smile, stretched away any stiffness, put on some sweats, and bounded downstairs with more energy than anyone who’d slept as little as I had deserved to have.
I could smell the coffee even before I got to the kitchen. It was Folgers—old habits die hard—instead of fresh Sumatra, but the aroma was wonderful.
My dad was at the table, dressed for golf, the manuscript for his book and a legal pad in front of him. He was talking intently by phone to my mom, at the church office. When he saw me, he told her to hold on, put his hand over the receiver, and fired off a few quick sentences.
“Gemma’s been picked up for improv class—she has her first showcase Saturday night, don’t forget it. Your brother’s been dropped at swim practice, hope you had a great time last night—this morning—whatever it was. I’m on with your mother and you’re not going to believe what’s happening. It’s fantastic!” Then he went back to his conversation, leaving me to pour myself what was probably my fourth cup of coffee of the morning and listen in.
“I know, I know.… I don’t know, rent a car I guess.… Maybe we should get a car and driver for me! Maybe Natalie can drop me there.… I’ll call you after each one.… What’s that song? Oh yeah. ‘I love L.A.’! But I love you more.… Okay. I’ll stay in touch. Bye.”
He clicked off and faced me, beaming. “You are never going to believe what’s happening.”
“You already played golf this morning and shot in the seventies?” My father was a notoriously poor golfer, though that never stopped him from playing. Plus, he was wearing golf-appropriate clothing—khaki pants and a green collared shirt. It wasn’t a bad guess.
“Better. Way better.”
“What could be better than that?” I wrapped my hands around the hot coffee mug and got a flash of my hand entwined with Brett’s as we walked together toward the observatory.
“Just this. I don’t know how it happened, or why it’s happening, but my cell has literally been ringing all morning. This production company. That production company. This studio. That studio. Everyone’s heard about my book, and everyone wants to meet with me!” He looked down at a yellow legal pad to his left. “Paramount. Universal. DreamWorks. De Niro himself! And this independent guy I liked a lot on the phone named Donald Zuckerman. Natalie?” His eyes blazed with pure joy. “It’s not just the one call from last night. The word is out!”
I remembered what Alex had said the night before. That there was a big grapevine of young development executives and assistants; that information about projects got shared along this grapevine like so much nitrogen fertilizer. That people did favors for each other, hoping one day they could call in a favor themselves.
“That’s fantastic! What are you going to do?”
My father relaxed a little. I realized that talking to me was helping him. That made me feel good. Not as good as the kisses with Brett had made me feel, but good all the same.
“Start going to meetings, I guess. Hear what they have to say.”
I went to the fridge for a yogurt, thrilled for him. Also, thrilled for myself, after the previous night with Brett. “Wasn’t your first meeting supposed to be today?”
“Yeah, but it’s been pushed to Monday evening.” He looked down at his legal pad again. “I’ve also got an eleven, a one, a three, and a five-thirty.”
I whistled. “That’s a lot.”
Then I got an idea. My parents had been so generous, letting me drive the Saturn whenever I wanted. He’d have enough to think about on Monday without having to worry about getting from point A to point B. How about if I became his designated driver? Between my growing knowledge of the terrain of Los Angeles and my iPhone GPS, I could make his life a lot easier. Besides, he might even want someone to talk to between meetings. My mother had Mondays off from the church, but she needed them to recuperate. Plus, there were often pastoral emergencies she had to tend to.
I made the offer.
My dad accepted happily. “I knew there was a reason your mother gave birth to you.”
Then I thought of something. I was hoping to start applying for jobs today. In fact, I wanted to get right to it after this coffee. What if my new employer—assuming that there was a new employer—wanted me to start on Monday? I’d be stuck.
I’ll just say that I can�
�t start until Tuesday, I told myself. It won’t be a problem.
At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.
Why is it that we always worry about all the wrong things?
After phone calls to Alex and Mia to tell them about my amazing date with Brett—Alex couldn’t talk, she was at a follow-up medical appointment, while Mia was at the California DMV, replacing a lost driver’s license (an experience she said was the equivalent of three hours in mythic hell)—I went up to my room, found the job applications from the day before and a pen, sat down on the floor, and went to work.
To my surprise, they were all essentially the same. In fact, it was kind of hilarious how the application for an über-hip restaurant on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood differed from an application for a basic burger joint only in typeface. Five of the applications, in fact, were absolutely identical, which made it easier.
I noticed that one of the applications was from Whitehall, the place that Brett had taken me to on our first date. Alex or Mia must have gotten that one for me, I realized. I hadn’t seen the bill, or the size of the tip Brett had left the waitress on his AmEx card, but it had to be major. A girl could make serious money there.
I was making a careful list of where I was applying so I could do in-person follow-up the next day, when my iPhone sounded. A call, not a text. Brett.
Yay. No. Let me revise that. Yay!
My heart pounded, doubling its pace in a couple of seconds. Who needed aerobic exercise? All I needed was for Brett Goldstein to call me. “Good morning, Shelby driver,” I answered, with flashes from my nap dreams returning unbidden.
“Excellent. You’re awake.”
“Unless I’m a bot, which I’m not.” I was displaying uncharacteristic wit, I thought.
“Did you sleep at all?”
I smiled, thinking about that sleep. “A little. How’s it going at the studio?”
He laughed. “The usual controlled bedlam. One of our actresses went down with a back problem, so the writers are sending new pages as we speak. It’s giving the script supervisor a nervous breakdown, and slowing us down, big-time.” He hesitated a moment. “I was wondering if you had lunch plans. For today.”
Let me say, as a brief digression, that it is remarkable how many things can fly through your mind in a millisecond. Or at least, how many things can fly through my mind in a millisecond.
He likes me. He likes me a lot. He just saw me and he’s inviting me to lunch. Is it even possible he likes me as much as I like him?
And one more thought: Maybe I’ll get to kiss him again.
“Are you asking me?”
I could almost see him grin through the phone. “Actually, there’s someone on the set today I want you to meet.”
“You,” I joked.
“More famous than me. Natalie? If you get your butt over here in the next hour, you can meet Katherine Heigl.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I got to the studio forty-five minutes later. Brett was waiting for me at the security entrance and stuck a VISITOR badge to the blue denim jacket I’d put on over my T-shirt and jeans. “You’re dressed like a writer,” he joked.
“You’re dressed like your character,” I retorted as the guard buzzed us through a secured door that let in those who should be let in. Brett wore a black jacket, a white shirt, a red tie, and black trousers.
“Funeral scene,” he explained simply. “We’ve been working on it all morning. Craft Service?”
“If I can get a picture with Katherine for TMZ,” I told him. The conversation was as easy as it had been at five a.m. at the observatory. Maybe even easier. “What’s she doing here, anyway?”
“She’s a good friend of Kent’s; he asked her to play herself in a scene, and she said yes,” Brett explained as he led me through the first-floor corridors toward Craft Service.
“What’s the scene about? Are you in it?”
“It’s a funeral, and she’s delivering a eulogy. She’s friends with the victim. For a while, people suspect she’s the killer, but my mom proves the murderer is actually her ex-boyfriend. It’s a revenge setup.”
“Sounds like something from Days of Our Lives.”
Brett laughed. “With a higher production budget and no one buried alive. Here we are.”
He pushed through a set of double doors; we crossed a narrow walkway into the Craft Service tent. I’d eaten here before, when I’d visited the Working Stiff set with my sister and dad. Kent Stevens himself had invited us, before the falling out with my mother. Now, as Brett and I stepped over to the two food trucks that were serving up hot entrees, I wondered what Kent might say if he saw me here.
I told Brett I couldn’t imagine Kent would greet me warmly.
“Nah.” He scoffed. “Kent’s got more important things to think about. Like keeping Katherine Heigl happy.” He motioned with his chin toward a table twenty feet away. “She’s over there. Let’s get some lunch and say hello.” He said it like saying hello to Katherine Heigl was like saying hello to a supermarket cashier.
I looked—okay, I stared—at Katherine, who was surrounded by an admiring clutch of cast and crew. She wore a sleek black dress, appropriate for someone who might be delivering a eulogy at a funeral. Her blond hair was brushed out, thick and lustrous. That some in Mankato once compared my looks to hers struck me as a bad joke.
“If I’m going to meet her, can we do it before we get food?”
“Sure.” Brett nodded. “How come?”
I smiled wanly. “I’m afraid I’ll drop my lunch on her dress and everyone will hate me.” Brett laughed; it was a deep-throated, comforting laugh that embraced me as securely as a hug. “I love how your mind works, Natalie. Not to worry. The costumers have two of everything, in case of a wardrobe malfunction. But let’s say hi now anyway.”
Again, Brett took me by the arm. As we approached the crew members around Katherine, they parted like the Red Sea for us.
“The talent has its privileges,” Brett whispered.
Then we were in front of the star herself.
“Katherine, I’d like you to meet someone,” Brett told her. “This is my friend Natalie Shelton. Natalie, Katherine Heigl. Natalie’s a big fan of your work.”
Katherine was incredibly gracious. She rose and shook my hand, then told me how lucky I was to have Brett for a friend. She picked up my slight Minnesota accent and asked how I’d come to live in Los Angeles. We made small talk for a minute or so; I was so nervous I wasn’t even sure what I was saying. Then it was time for her to go to hair/makeup, but not before she shook my hand again.
“She’s so … normal!” I gushed as I watched her stroll away.
“Yep. She’s a pleasure to work with, too.”
“Excuse me. Brett?”
A stocky, bearded guy had approached us. From his build and his outfit of Converse, T-shirt, long shorts, and red plaid flannel shirt, I would have bet he was a stage crew guy who moved scenery around. Turns out I was glad I didn’t have money on my bet.
Brett made the introductions. “Hi, Crash. Come here and meet Natalie. Natalie Shelton, this is Crash Cameron. Music supervisor for the show.”
Crash shook my hand eagerly. “It’s great to meet you, Natalie. Brett tells me you’re a heckuva songwriter. A real up-and-comer, with a huge catalog of originals.”
What?
A heckuva songwriter? An up-and-comer? A huge catalog of originals?
The biggest venue I’d ever played was a Christian coffeehouse in Mankato.
“She’s the next big thing,” Brett said supportively.
“Doesn’t surprise me at all,” Crash agreed. “She’s got the bloodline.”
What was he talking about? Bloodline?
Crash looked at me meaningfully. “You’re Marsha Shelton’s daughter, right? Talent runs in families. She’s a talented preacher, you’re a talented writer.”
“You go to our church?” I asked, drawing the obvious conclusion.
Crash laughed. “Oh no. I’m a
n atheist. Not an agnostic, an atheist. Want to know the difference between an atheist and an agnostic? The atheist isn’t afraid of what people will think about his atheism.”
I smiled, though I’d heard a version of that line more than a few times. “Then … how do you know my mother?”
“I’m big on camping. Love to lay in supplies for a week and head out in a canoe. I take a radio with me for company,” Crash confided. “Last summer, on the boundary waters between Minnesota and Canada, I heard your mother’s radio show. Like I said, I’m an atheist, but she’s the best believer I’ve ever heard in my life.”
I nodded. I’d heard this about my mom before, too. “That’s her.”
“You tell her I said so. Anyway, if you’ve got anything that might be right for the show? Burn it on a CD and give it to Brett. He’ll give it to me. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” I told Crash.
“Cool. See ya.” Crash took off.
“Thanks, my man,” Brett called after him.
I was both flying and a little depressed. What Crash had just suggested sounded great. It also was incredibly unrealistic, because there was no way Kent Stevens would even consider allowing one of my songs in his show, even assuming that song was good enough.
Speak of the devil in a gray suit and black T-shirt. I saw Stevens approach the beverage table. He poured himself a glass of sparkling water on ice. Then he spotted me. He got a strange expression, as if trying to figure out how he knew me, before an enigmatic smile spread across his face.
Then he was approaching us.
“Natalie Shelton, Natalie Shelton.” Though I was obviously with Brett, I got his undivided attention. “Welcome back to Working Stiff!”
Nice as nice could be. Good lord. What was up?
“Hello, Mr. Stevens,” I said, using his last name though he’d once told my family to call him Kent. I figured it was best to be ultra-polite.
“Kent, Kent, Kent!” He laughed. “How soon you forget, Natalie.” He gently put one hand on Brett’s right shoulder, and the other on my left one. “It’s nice to see you two together. If it’s okay with you, Brett, can I have a word with Natalie here?”
Little Lies Page 8
