by Tracy Ewens
“I’ll have a half of a turkey on marble rye and a cup of their minestrone soup. It’s delicious and”—she looked toward the massive revolving glass door—“I think the weatherman is finally right. It should rain by sunset. Soup takes the chill off.”
“I’ll have the same. Throw in some potato chips with mine.” He handed back the menu. “Meet you in the bar?”
Towner nodded and picked up the phone.
West ordered a beer and Towner stuck with water. This was the first time they had spent together sitting instead of shuffling through some secret corridor. West had a million questions stirring in his mind about his orderly and unflappable friend, but seeing as he wasn’t a fan of intrusion, he never wanted to bother her. Towner was a bit of a celebrity in his eyes, which was such an obnoxious word to him until he’d looked it up one night when he couldn’t sleep. Celebrity, according to the dictionary, was all the things he’d known it to mean, but it also referred to “an important person,” and “someone looked up to by a group with similar interests.”
West realized that night that he followed celebrities too. His parents, his family, were all important people. He cared about what they were doing, whether they were happy, and often pushed his way into their business. His acting coach wasn’t exactly a celebrity. That was more of a hero worship thing—the man was insanely talented. But Towner, she was a celebrity in West’s eyes. She was his friend in a life that rarely allowed for such luxuries. She had his back and never asked for anything in return, but he rarely peered into her life. Out of sight among the soft music in the bar, West decided he wanted to be Towner’s fan. That started with gathering more information, so he dove right in.
“How long have you worked here?”
She glanced at him through her small reading glasses. “Why?”
West grinned. “Making conversation.”
“We don’t normally talk about me.”
“That’s not true. I know you have four grandchildren and that you bring your lunch every day. I know you do not approve of my overnight guests by the way your smile is a little pinched, that you don’t drink coffee, and you collect owls.”
Her hand went to the long dangling gold necklace around her neck. It was one of three or four with different owl charms. They had ceramic eyes and appeared to come from the same designer.
“I do like owls.”
They returned to quiet.
“Two years.” She removed the lettuce from her sandwich and cut the half in half again.
West was surprised at the answer but had more questions so he didn’t hesitate.
“Were you born and raised in San Francisco?”
After taking a small bite, she ran her tongue under her upper lip, presumably to make sure she had nothing on her teeth. He recognized the gesture. His own mother did it often.
“No. My husband and I moved to San Francisco from New York thirty years ago.”
“For?”
“We owned a boutique hotel in Sausalito.”
“Owned?”
“He passed away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She wiped her mouth and pushed her half-eaten sandwich on white paper away from her, as if the mention of her late husband made her lose her appetite. He must have been young, West thought but didn’t say. Unless she married an older man. It was clear from the hint of pain that surfaced in her eyes that whatever the case, she had lost him too soon.
“How long ago?” West couldn’t help asking, but then changed his mind. “I’m sorry, did you want to talk about something else?”
“Seven years ago this May, and yes.”
“Okay. Let’s see… I am almost finished reading the script for yet another Full Throttle. I’m feeling an Oscar nod for this one.” West took a pull of his beer.
“That’s how it is with sequels and the like. Although I enjoyed the third one. The car chase in Mexico where the gentleman with that horrid gold tooth loses his arm. I was a bit glued to my seat with that one. Oh, what was the name of that one? Downshift, that was it. Right?”
Had West not been sitting down already, he would have fallen over.
“You watch the Full Throttle movies?”
“I do. Your costar, the older guy, what’s his name again…”
“The Hammer.”
“That’s his nickname, I’m sure, but yes. The body on that man is…” She fanned herself. “I’m pretty sure my cheeks are flushed every time I leave the theater.” She stood from her seat and balled up their sandwich remains. “I need to get back to my work.”
West held out his hands and took the trash Towner reluctantly handed over with a controlled smile.
“And you enjoy the movies?” West was stunned. It was as if Mary Poppins was casually mentioning that she enjoyed Eminem’s lyrics.
“Some of them. They’re not Harry Potter, but as I said, I appreciate The Hammer, and you of course, although my response to you, even in that fairly racy backseat scene, is more…”
“Motherly?”
“Oh, let’s not get crazy. You already have a mother. I’m more like your crazy aunt.”
West felt his expression fall at the reference and even though he tried to mask it, Towner noticed everything.
“What? Did I say something? Do you already have a crazy aunt?”
“Had one,” he said without even thinking. His mind was preoccupied with images of his childhood.
Towner touched his hand and West pulled himself away from the past.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Sometimes I say things without thinking. Do you want to tell me about her? I don’t need to go back right this minute.”
West smiled. As sweet as the gesture was, Towner already knew enough about him. Aunt Margaret was not someone he shared with people. She was his ultimate celebrity.
“Maybe some other time.” West stood and walked her back to the lobby. “You’ve shocked me with your knowledge of Snapchat, Towner, but you liking Full Throttle tops even that.” West was happy when the concern left her face and they were back to their comfortable distance.
“The exotic places your movies take place in and the cars. They’re fun. Do you like them?”
“I… don’t know.” She caught him off guard again.
“Well, you should ponder. I imagine it takes a lot of hours to make one of your films.” She nodded to the small woman who had been handling the concierge desk in her absence.
“Four to five months,” West said, still trying to figure out if there were any of his movies he liked.
“That is a long time. Well, thank you for lunch, Westin. It was fun spending time without you attempting to pay me. I enjoyed your company.”
“And I yours.” West found himself standing taller and using his big boy words around Towner. As hip as he knew she was, her presence and experience almost commanded a taller spine.
Her lips pursed in a way that he recognized as “if that’s all.” West turned to leave, but she called his name so he glanced back.
“If you don’t appreciate your films, perhaps you should be doing something else. Money never made any man happy.”
“Are you sure about that? I don’t know a lot of happy poor guys, do you?”
She seemed to think about her response for a beat. “There are all sorts of stops between rich and poor. Don’t be so all or nothing. You’re too young for that.”
“My aunt used to tell me black and white was boring,” West said, seeing no harm in sharing a little.
Towner nodded. “Smart lady.” The phone rang and she was gone in a dance of manners and hospitality.
West wasn’t sure celebrity was the right word. Towner was a genie, or Yoda.
Meg had been selected to give a TED Talk in October, which was a huge honor, but she found it ironic people kept asking her to speak when her passion was being quiet enough to capture images. There probably wasn’t money in silence and since Meg had arrived home, money seemed to be at the forefront of everything. Pr
ice lists for her pieces going up in the exhibit, speaking fees, and of course the “jumbo paycheck” tied to the three engagements with Westin Drake. The first of which started in less than four hours.
Examining herself in the full-length mirror recently installed on the back of her bathroom door, Meg wasn’t sure how she was supposed to look anymore. She swore if she had not babysat her niece Olive two nights ago, she would be back in her North Face parka and on the next plane to anywhere.
Should she wear her hair up or down? Who gives a shit? a distant part of her brain exclaimed. She pulled the sides of her hair up, wondering if a half and half was the answer.
For crying out loud, she needed to calm down. It was clothes and makeup, not open-heart surgery. She turned her face from side to side and wondered if blush was supposed to look that way. Grabbing a tissue, she wiped both of her cheeks and instantly felt better. After a few more stops in front of the mirror, she decided to wash her face again, put on the heaven of her coconut oil, and pull her hair back in a ponytail. She wore the plain black skirt she and Anna had found at a shop near Berkeley. It flowed like Meg’s favorite skirt but was more professional. “Professional flow,” Anna had joked.
Meg pinched her cheeks, a trick her mother employed right before their Christmas picture when they were younger. Her mind wandered off as she put on her earrings. She needed to find hand-poured candles for the wedding favors. Anna wanted to order them online, but Meg was trying to inject recycled materials and small businesses where she could. She had lost count of how many times the wedding planner rolled her eyes at each suggestion, but the candles were a win for Meg, so she needed to deliver.
Finally satisfied that she had found a balance between comfort and presentable, she put a tamale in the microwave and reviewed her remarks on energy conservation and four simple ways to reduce energy consumption that could directly benefit wildlife. She’d thought about e-mailing it to West last night but decided if she couldn’t get this right on her own, she shouldn’t be getting paid. Besides, they weren’t at the late-night e-mailing stage of the relationship. Relationship? Like that was going to happen. What, was she going to get all mushy now that he’d mentioned he grew up in a small town?
That was ridiculous, she thought as the microwave dinged and she tossed the tamale from one hand to the other before it landed on the plate. Westin Drake was an actor, a celebrity. It was his job to reach out and touch people, so to speak. Meg needed to remember that, although she was curious about his life. Not the celebrity part—that seemed next to unbearable—but the way he navigated it. He was like an animal in the wild, constantly on the move for a kind of protection—car rides, corner tables—she thought, looking out the small living room window as she stood eating.
Meg shook her head and decided she’d spent enough time thinking about Westin Drake even though she did like the beard he was sporting in the meeting. It made him look less pretty and a whole lot more… attainable. There she went again. She refocused and rinsed off her plate. Looking down at her hands, she wondered again if she looked, in the words of Amy, “a bit more polished up.”
Her nails were clean and trimmed short since she was used to spending her work days on her stomach or up a tree. She wasn’t scouring a muffin basket or sipping on a pumpkin spice latte, although she’d recently tried one of those and they were good. But Meg was getting a little sick of the veiled comments about her appearance. Amy had sent her a few pictures from her first engagement, and it was true after objectively looking at her image that the new skirt was a good idea. That didn’t make any of this less confusing or irritating.
She’d hoped to find a job where her past work and even future projects closer to home spoke for themselves. She had recently spent money she didn’t have on sheets for her new bed, which brought home the need to earn more, but so far, it seemed her hairstyle was more important than her pictures or even what she had to say about them.
Chapter Nine
West lightly bumped her shoulder when the guy responsible for the electrical system in the Next Generation smart house droned on in way too much detail about the design. She gave him a sideways glance and a smile teased her lips. He honestly needed to get his shit together. He’d been thinking about her on and off, mostly on, since dropping her at her apartment. Last night he’d figured out the attraction. Being around Meg was like slipping out the back door of a smoky bar and into the refreshing air of an endless night sky. Damn poetic if he did say so himself. Turned out he was full of flowery thoughts when he couldn’t sleep.
“We’re done,” West said as the guy finally finished up and the tour group of movers and shakers, as well as deep pockets, began clapping and filing toward the refreshments on the patio.
“Don’t we have to talk with people?” She looked around.
“Nope. It’s four and we are off the clock. So says the contract.” West guided her through the crowd, careful to avoid too much contact. There were cameras everywhere. Christ, he sounded like some paranoid recluse. She halted quickly to allow a server with a tray full of food to pass, and his body was flush up against her back. West ignored the jolt and the coconut. They were friends, colleagues on assignment, he clarified, if only to himself.
West waved to the CEO and some other guy in a Next Generation polo who screamed marketing. They were mingling in the crowd and when the guy nodded in a way that suggested it was either his signature move or he was running for political office, marketing and sales was all but confirmed. West pulled Meg out into the early evening.
The car was waiting, and as he’d said, the job was done. He should have dropped her off and gone home. The default idea that he should call someone and go out for the night entered and left his mind in a flash as they made their way toward Vince. A club or dinner sounded boring, and Meg was anything but. He was having a hard time reading her, though, so they drove in silence for a few minutes before he asked.
“Do you want to go to the top of Sixteenth Avenue? There’s a Mosaic Tile Project near Moraga and if you haven’t seen it, you should.” Holy shit, his heart was racing while she appeared to calmly consider him. She seemed to struggle for a response and West felt foolish, which was something that never happened to him anymore. People, especially women, wanted to be around him, jumped at the chance. Certain people anyway.
He wasn’t sure why his ego was front and center or why the hell with everything at his disposal he was inviting her to look at stairs. Dinner, a tour around the bay on his yacht. Those were dream dates, the kinds of things women wanted. He didn’t have a yacht, but shit, he’d get one if that would work. Still waiting for an answer, he realized Meg didn’t want any of those things. He didn’t know what she wanted.
“I have never seen the steps,” she finally said. “But I thought you stayed off the streets.”
West started breathing again in relief. “It’s not a busy area and I’ll keep a low profile.”
“Do you know how to do that?” she asked with a humor and confidence she rarely displayed in public. Maybe they had more in common than he knew.
“I’m an expert.”
“Honestly? You’re not going to wear some rubber mask, are you? Those things freak me out even on Halloween.”
“No mask. Are you up for it?”
She nodded, and West leaned forward to tell Vince the change in plans. The car was quiet, nothing but the muffled street noise mixed with the jazz Vince always had on low. West glanced over and saw a smile barely there on the edges of Meg’s lips. He’d take that as excitement, and his ego sat tall and reminded him he could be fascinating too with a little effort.
“Do I look polished?” Meg asked as they watched the sunset atop 163 steps tiled in swirling blues and greens and smack dab in the middle of the city. West had put on a baseball cap and pulled the collar of his jacket high. They even found one of his sweatshirts in the trunk of Vince’s car to go over her blouse. It was cold for a summer evening and when she scooted closer to him, West forgot she’
d asked a question.
“Well, do I?” she said as their legs touched.
They were both entranced by the setting sun and trying to stay warm without crossing a line neither of them had set but they both understood.
“No.”
She laughed.
“You asked.”
“Well, what image do I project then?”
Spring, he thought, or the rich colors of the hills after a deep all-day rain. She looked alive and somehow despite her work, she didn’t appear to notice the world could be a dreary place. Probably best to keep that to himself. The last time he waxed poetic to a girl, he was in the second grade. Trudy Chapman dumped her carton of milk in his lap and ran to tell the teacher. West learned that night at dinner with his family that navigating women was confusing business for all guys.
He had more experience now and knew humor was the escape route for most female situations. It was harder to throw things if they were laughing. Taking a slow breath, he turned to Meg.
“Right now, you seem comfortable. You are having a good time thanks to an incredibly charismatic guy who showed you yet another cool place you haven’t been to.”
“I am having a good time, and this is a supremely comfortable sweatshirt.” Meg pulled her hands into the sleeves. “Since you are obviously avoiding my question, tell me who made these stairs. You know you’re dying to.”
“I am. I should have been a tour guide.”
Meg grinned and ran her fingers along a section of tile. West resisted the urge to put his arm around her for at least the sixth time since they sat down.
“It was a project through the parks trust. Two women and then over two hundred neighbors joined in and added their touches. It has been around since 2003 or 2004, if I remember correctly. I stumbled upon it when I first moved here and was lost on a jog.”
“What an awesome surprise.”
“It was,” he said, facing her again. He needed to see her cheeks pink with cold and her wide blue eyes one more time before the sun finally gave way to darkness. She stared ahead and he could see the puffs of air leaving her lips. He wanted to kiss her, and not on the cheek this time. Something else he kept to himself. They weren’t on a date. They were… Yeah, he had no idea what they were doing, what he was doing. Standing up to create some distance, he put his hands in his pockets and Meg stood next to him.
