Second Chance At Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Ella! Can you come outside?” He sounded mellow—yet stressed again. It was the voice he used to use in polite company that promised later commentary when they sat around the kitchen table at midnight and had cheese toast done under the broiler—or maybe popcorn with extra butter—or went to bed and had pillow talk, her head on his chest, his hand curled around her waist.

  This time, he’d have to handle his angst alone. Well, maybe they could still do the cheese toast or popcorn, but no hugging. No sharing a bed.

  “In a second!” Ella called to him. It hit her hard that she was about to meet someone she really, really admired. She promised herself she’d keep it together in front of Samantha Drake. She would be calm, cool, and collected, yet also somehow show the world-famous actor that she could never have a better fan, friend, or professional colleague than Ella.

  Pammy’s bedroom door opened. “Ell-aaaaa!” she called. “Can you get the wine open?”

  “J-Just a second!” Her mind started spinning a crazy, ridiculous fantasy: What if Samantha loved her so much, she’d want her in her next movie too, but in a bigger part?

  Oh my God, she thought as she grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, maybe it’s not so crazy-ridiculous. Maybe I’m actually poised on the precipice of a very big opportunity.

  Like Hank had said, when would she get this chance again? Why shouldn’t she try to make her fantasy become a reality?

  Maybe she was supposed to. Her nonnas always said, “Play the cards you’re dealt.” Mama said, “Don’t ignore the opportunities Fate puts in front of you.” And Papa used to say, “You’re a born star.”

  Papa was Papa. Of course, he’d thought his daughter was a star. But somewhere, deep inside, Ella believed it too. And she didn’t even feel like she was that deluded. After all, she’d proven herself time and time again on a very reputable local stage. How many stars went undiscovered in community theater?

  A lot. She knew that for a fact.

  She’d do this for every community theater actor who would never get the chance she was getting.

  But first, she called her girlfriends at Two Love Lane. Very quickly, she rattled off to them what was happening. Very quickly, she told them what her family had always said about opportunities, Fate, et cetera.

  “Your family has a lot of sayings,” Greer said with a chuckle.

  They had her on speaker.

  “They do,” said Macy, “but I agree with all of them.”

  “Me too,” said Miss Thing. “Here’s mine: Jump on it!”

  Ella grinned. “I could still be a matchmaker with Two Love Lane,” she whispered.

  “Of course, you could,” all three of them said at once.

  “While you’re on set, not just this one but future ones, you can pick up some high-flying clients for us,” Greer said.

  “And when you’re not making a movie, you’ll be back here, and you can pick up where you left off,” added Macy.

  “You’d be our traveling matchmaker,” said Miss Thing. “Love on wheels. Love in the air. Love—”

  “Okay, I get it.” Ella whispered. “Thanks for the support. You’re sure I’m not crazy?”

  “Just a little,” said Macy. “But so are all of us. That’s why we’re successful, right? We think out of the box. We go after what we want.”

  “You’re right,” said Ella.

  “Dang tootin’,” said Miss Thing.

  “Break a leg,” Greer added, right before they all hung up.

  Ella stuffed her phone back into her pocket and picked up on the stream of conversation again between Samantha and Hank.

  “So this friend of yours playing Wendy, did you ever do shows together?” Samantha asked him.

  Ella froze to hear Hank’s answer.

  “No,” he said. “But we cheered each other on.”

  “She and Pammy are friends?” Samantha asked.

  “No, we’re not!” Pammy called from down the hallway. She was clomping toward the kitchen. “Not yet! But I bet we will be. Especially if she lets me fix her mother’s mantel. It’s crooked.”

  She walked in right as Ella was uncorking the wine. Ella handed it off to her. “Here you go,” she said. “Pour me a glass too. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where’s the orange cheese?”

  “In the fridge,” Ella said, and left Pammy in the kitchen to get it out.

  It was time to meet Samantha Drake and tell her there was no way she, Ella Mancini, amateur actress and professional matchmaker, was going to dinner with Hank Rogers. Ever. Not outside of this carriage house, that is. She’d remind him that he was missing their house rules meeting too. And she’d do it with her head held high.

  She pulled the front door wide open. Hank and Samantha swiveled their heads to look at her. Ella had just made what anyone with a dramatic bone in her body would call an entrance. She clung to the doorknob. Did they feel it too? Her presence? As in, stage presence? No one could outdo Samantha, but Ella could open a door with aplomb.

  “Hello,” she said, and left her special “stage” spot. “I’m Ella.” She extended her hand to Samantha. Inside, she was starstruck. And terrified.

  And then she wasn’t.

  You are everyone’s equal. Papa’s voice came to her. Samantha was only human, like everyone else, and when she made a moue of concern at Ella’s proffered palm, that sealed the deal. Damned if Ella was going to withdraw her hand. She kept it stuck out. She was going to keep it stuck out as long as it took for Samantha to acknowledge it.

  After a half-beat’s pause, Samantha extended her own. “Hello.”

  So she wasn’t a big talker. Maybe the Brits, too, weren’t into shaking hands. Ella would have to ask Ford. Whatever the reason, she supposed Samantha was too famous to have to bother with the social niceties. Her handshake was weak at best. Ella only got the tips of her slender fingers with their long, tapered nails.

  “Will you be joining us?” Samantha was standing awfully close to Hank, who was looking at Ella in a way she used to find so gratifying, as if hanging on her every word. “We have several other people waiting. The director and her wife. And our executive producer.”

  Big shots, all. Ella would be dining with people who could make or break an actor’s career.

  Come, Hank was clearly saying with his eyes. Please, please come.

  But Ella had already told him she wouldn’t go. And Samantha’s tone wasn’t impolite, but it wasn’t encouraging either.

  Why wouldn’t Hank want to go alone with Samantha and those other VIPs to dinner? Her presence shouldn’t matter to him in the least.

  “No,” Ella began, “we have a house-rules meeting tonight, and I promised Pammy—”

  “Fine,” Samantha cut her off. “See you on the set in the morning, I suppose.” She started to walk down the porch steps.

  “I guess our house-rules meeting can wait,” Ella said. Some imp in her prompted her to. It was so obvious Samantha didn’t care about her being there at the yacht club. But Ella would go and talk to her, whether Samantha wanted her to or not. And while she was there she could angle for some notice from an up-and-coming director and producer.

  But then she had to consider whether this was a way for her to please Hank. And to be near him.

  No way. She certainly didn’t need to be near him for any reason other than professional ones.

  But then Hank lit up in the subtle way only Ella and his favored friends and family could recognize and appreciate. It involved a lopsided grin that was scarcely there—just a tilt of one side of his mouth upward—and the barest heightening of his eyebrows, a warmth in his eyes that was like a banked fire come to life.

  A strong crush feeling swept through Ella, which she tried to ignore by focusing on Samantha. She felt grateful to be living such a weird fantasy come to life: hanging out with an iconic movie star. And if she had to be with Hank again, troublesome as the idea was, at least he was also helping her get out of her comfort zone in general.

&nbs
p; She didn’t get back anything warm and fuzzy from Samantha when she made her pronouncement about going with them to the yacht club after all, but she wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, maybe, but not surprised.

  “Ella!” No one said her name with quite the determination Pammy did when she came out carrying an opened bottle of wine and two glasses. “You can’t leave me here alone with the orange cheese and the wine.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” Ella assured her, “although why don’t you accept Samantha’s invitation, too, and come with us?”

  “Yes,” said Hank. “Come on, Pammy.”

  “Indeed,” Samantha said faintly.

  Pammy stood still. “Uhhhhh … okay.”

  “We’ll wait while you change into something a little more yacht-club friendly,” Samantha said. “Can you make it quick?”

  Pammy looked down at her sneakers, her ripped and faded cargo pants, and the T-shirt with a picture of a goat and the words DON’T WORRY, I GOAT THIS. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said.

  “The shirt,” Hank called after her. “And the shoes. And the pants!”

  “Everything?” Pammy yelled from inside.

  “Yes,” Hank told her.

  “This town ain’t Bend, Oregon, that’s for sure,” Pammy called back.

  Hank smiled grimly at Samantha, who, thank God, thought to scroll through her phone while waiting for Pammy. It gave Ella a little breathing room. Things were moving too fast. Just a few days ago, none of this was happening. She was living her normal life. And now …

  Her world was upside down.

  In the sixty excruciating seconds Pammy was gone—during which she let one F-bomb fly from her bedroom—Ella exchanged a look with Hank that said, This is going to be an interesting dinner.

  He silently concurred with his own look.

  Ten seconds later, Pammy came out in a cute sundress. “It’s my emergency dress,” she said, out of breath to Hank. “You can pack it and it doesn’t wrinkle.”

  “Shall we?” Samantha asked Hank, and stuck her hand through his elbow.

  “Let’s go,” he said to all of them.

  Ella could tell it was his apology for paying more attention to Samantha than to them.

  Why had she said yes to this crazy idea of working on the movie again? She was torturing herself.

  Ella discovered that Pammy was a fast walker. She was too. But they stayed behind Hank and Samantha all the way across the street to the yacht club.

  Who would dare get in front of Samantha Drake, unless it was to put a trench coat over a puddle for her so she could avoid getting her fine kid slippers wet, or her Jimmy Choos, or whatever it was she wore? The woman commanded attention.

  Even Pammy felt it. She leaned over to Ella and said, “If we walk in front of her, I’ll bet she’ll freak.”

  “Well, maybe not freak,” she whispered back. “But I think she likes to be in charge.”

  “Tell me about it,” Pammy said. “She’s obviously crushing on Hank already. As per usual.” She huffed. “You’re the only woman I know who doesn’t fall for him right away.”

  “Pammy, we used to live together.” Not long, only four months, and they’d started out saying it was all about saving money, and Ella’s family had had no idea because her mother never would have approved. They thought she was living with a girlfriend from high school (who covered for her).

  Dear God, Ella had been so young. Practically a baby. But their love had felt so big, so real. It had felt like a forever love. “I did fall for him at one time, remember?” she said to Pammy. “And it was pretty immediate.”

  “Yeah, light years ago that happened,” said Pammy. “Someday Hank’ll meet someone who doesn’t think he’s the cat’s meow right away, and maybe she’ll be the woman for him. If love even exists.”

  Hank and Samantha reached the door of the yacht club. He opened it for her, and she walked in with a toss of her head.

  “Guys!” Hank held the door open.

  “Go in,” said Ella. “I have to fix my shoe first.”

  “Okay,” he said, looking vaguely worried.

  “We’re fine,” Ella said, and winked at him. “Give us just a second.”

  He got her drift—she was going to prep Pammy. “See you in a sec,” he said, and followed Samantha inside.

  Ella pulled a lipstick out of her purse and applied some to her lips. “You want some?” She held it up. It was a nice neutral shade.

  “So this is the part where I go glam,” Pammy said.

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Ella said.

  Pammy rolled her eyes.

  “If you don’t believe in makeup, I respect that,” Ella said. “Or if you just don’t like it.”

  Pammy rolled her eyes again.

  “Okay, sorry I asked.” Ella put the lipstick away.

  “I’m not offended,” Pammy said. “I’ll take some so the rich yachtees and the fancy matrons inside won’t talk about me that much. They’ll talk anyway, but maybe not as much if I make an effort.”

  “Who cares about them?” Ella shrugged. “Do it for you.”

  “Whatever.” Pammy suffered through the application.

  “Smack your lips.”

  Pammy smacked.

  Ella leaned back. “There. You’re naturally gorgeous, but this gives you a little polish. And that might give you more confidence.” A car rolled past them, and someone inside waved at Ella. She couldn’t see who it was. “Before we go in, I just wanted to say you’re awesome, and don’t let anyone inside make you feel otherwise.”

  “I’m a world-class woodworker,” Pammy said. “I never forget that I totally rock. It’s a hassle trying to blend in sometimes, is all. I don’t want to bother, but there are moments when I need to try. Like when I’m with Hank and all his VIP friends.”

  “I get your frustration,” Ella said. “But back to what you were saying about Hank. He isn’t so superficial that he’ll fall in love with someone just because she’s a challenge. Oh, and love exists.” Ella knew. She knew from experience. She’d just watched the (Former) Love of Her Life opening the door for another woman.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever experience it,” Pammy said.

  “If you remember only one thing I ever tell you, Pammy, it’s this: Let go and let love.”

  “Okay, Miss Love Doctor,” Pammy said. “I’ll let go and let love. As if that’ll ever happen. Shall we go inside? I’m starved.”

  Ella was too. But not for love at any cost. She had her pride, and whatever Hank said about wanting to catch up with her, to be friends, she was going to keep him at arm’s length.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Three o’clock in the morning, and Hank was still awake. How could he sleep with Ella next door? He never slept well the night before he first joined a movie set anyway.

  There was a knock on the wall behind his headboard.

  Ella.

  All kinds of ideas swirled through his head, every one of them totally inappropriate. Get real, Rogers. She’s not going to jump in the sack with you.

  Nevertheless, he felt some hope that maybe, just maybe, Ella was at least thinking about him too. Even if she just wanted to chat, he took that as a good sign. He reached up and knocked back. “Hey,” he said in a daytime voice, “you’re up too?”

  But there was no answer. That was weird.

  Maybe he should check on her.

  He got out of bed, threw on a robe—because he was in the habit of sleeping in the buff now that he could afford luxury Egyptian cotton bedsheets—and opened his door. Good. No squeaky hinges. He padded ten feet to his left to her door, which was closed, like his.

  He thought back to just a few hours before, how she’d gone upstairs after she’d sat at the kitchen table with him and Pammy. They’d talked about Samantha and how she and Pammy had stood outside the yacht club after dinner and waited for Samantha’s assistant to come pick her up. Samantha had told Pammy all about her ex-husbands. But when the assistant drove up an
d Pammy offered to take Samantha out to play pool at the Blind Tiger, Samantha had clammed up and ignored her. Didn’t even say goodbye after Pammy opened the car door for her.

  They all decided that Samantha was insecure. Bada-boom. Instant analysis. And then they’d gone out for one round of pool at the Blind Tiger themselves, and had a couple of drinks when they should not have, but it had been a lot of fun. Especially with Ella, even though she was doing her best not to talk directly to him. Pammy was her buffer.

  Even so, she beat both him and Pammy at pool, and according to the bet they’d made, that meant she didn’t have to do the dishes the next two days back at the house, a heady prize to win.

  Now Hank wondered, should he open her bedroom door? Or just knock?

  He’d better knock. Of course. What was he thinking? He needed to consider her a virtual stranger. That night, at the dinner table, he’d been mesmerized by how much she didn’t need him. In his head, in between bursts of conversation with his tablemates, he’d cursed the worst curse words he could think of and downed more Scotch.

  The truth was, he kept finding out over and over in the two days since he’d come to Charleston, Ella was great without him.

  Really great.

  Her door remained closed. He stared at the panel probably thirty seconds more, imagining her in a silky negligee, and then headed back to his room.

  But right before he crossed the threshold, her door opened, and she poked her head out. She looked very sleepy. Her hair was every which way. He saw the edge of a floral nightgown, the strap sliding down her shoulder.

  He stopped. Tensed.

  “What’s going on?” she said in the throaty midnight voice he remembered so well. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, sure.” He tried his best to sound like a good guy who didn’t have errant sex thoughts. “I heard you knock on the wall. So I thought maybe you needed something. You know, like a glass of water.”

  She drew in her chin. “A glass of water?” She gifted him with a small grin. “I can get that myself. But thanks.”

  “No problem,” he said.