by Elsa Kurt
“Mitch Ford? You old son of a gun, I see you trying to sneak off. Git on over here and have a drink with us.”
Mitch recognized the voice immediately. Chet Carney, old college roommate, a good ole southern boy from Atlanta, and successful voice-over actor. Mitch hadn’t seen him in years. However he always recognized his voice when it rumbled through his television speakers. It gave him a good chuckle every time, too. Time and rich living had given him a big round belly and a far receded hairline, but Chet’s rich baritone could still roll through a crowd like thunder.
Unlike Chet, Mitch elected to not yell across the hotel lobby, but waited until they were an arm’s length before exclaiming, “Chet, you wily old goat! Had no idea you were staying here. How the hell are you, buddy?”
“Not as good as you, you sly dog, you.” He turned to his two companions—a couple of shiny suit-wearers with gelled back hair and slick smiles—and introduced Mitch as, “My good buddy from back in the day.” To Mitch, he said, “Old buddy, this here is Eduardo and Emilio Ramirez. They own a big chain of car dealerships, and they want me to do their commercials. What do you think of that, huh?”
He refrained from laughing out loud at Chet’s pronunciation of the brothers’ names—Ed-do-ardo and Uh-mel-ayo—and merely gave a noncommittal, “Very interesting. Nice to meet you both.” Frankly, Mitch was a bit surprised. There was a time when Chet was doing voice work for big motion pictures and even had a steady gig narrating a highly popular nature series. A car dealership seemed to be a bit of a step down in Mitch’s opinion. And where was his agent? He opted to not voice his concerns, though.
The brothers shook Mitch’s hand, made polite conversation for a few more minutes, then said their goodbyes. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ford. Mr. Carney, we hope to hear from you very soon, yes?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, boys. I’ll let ya know asap. Take care, now.” Once the Ramirez brothers were out of earshot, Chet leaned in conspiratorially and said, “I thought they’d never leave. C’mon. Let’s you and I have a drink.”
One drink had turned into four, and four had turned into shots, and shots had rolled into bourbon. It was then that Chet told him what was going on. “Trina left me, Mitch. Just up and left. I swear, I didn’t see it coming. She must’ve been planning it for a while, though. She cleaned out the accounts, maxed all the cards, and cleared out the condo. Left me only my clothes and the DVR. What do I need that thing for, when she took all the televisions?”
Poor old Chet was in quite a state, and Mitch had felt awful for his old friend. The memories of their conversations—Mitch suddenly recalled spilling his guts, as well—flooded back. He even had a hazy recollection of telling Chet he’d get him a job on the Rebuilder Show. Mitch groaned as he tried to sit upright. He dropped his gaze down at himself—he was still in swim trunks. At least he’d managed to kick his sandals off. A knock at the door sent a fresh wave of stampeding elephants through his skull.
“Hang on, hang on,” he grumbled. Mitch stumbled to the door, slid the deadbolt and cracked it enough to see Sam’s bug-eyed face peering through. “Ugh, it’s you.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Sam said pushing the door wider and hurrying both himself and his ever-present video camera through. This time, he brought a much smaller, hand-held version. Instead of having it pressed to his eye, it was held out low in front of him. He kept glancing up and down from the small screen to Mitch. “I have been calling you all morning. I thought—wait. You’re in shorts? You’ve got to be kidding me.” He snapped the camera closed and looked Mitch up and down, then added, “Geez, you look like sh—”
“Thank you very much, Samuel. Gimme ten. I’ll—get me aspirin and coffee please—I’ll hop in the shower and be ready before you know it.”
Sam’s lips pressed together in a tiny, hard white line and his breath whistled through his nose a few times. He bunched his fists on his hips, kind of looking like the little teapot that tipped when it got all steamed up. Mitch gave him his trademark boyish grin and waited for Sam to give in.
“C’mon, buddy, help a dyin’ man out, here, will ya?”
Sam let out a big puff of air through his mouth, dropped his fists and stomped over to the hotel telephone on the nightstand. “Hello, yes, this is Room 217. Could you please send up coffee, orange juice, and aspirin? That’s right. Thank you.” He put the receiver back down with more force that Mitch thought necessary and turned to him with his arms spread wide. “There, Mr. Ford, sir. Is there anything else, I, Samuel the Servant, can do for his Majesty?”
“Oh, stop that, now. I had a rough night, got a little carried away. Cut a guy some slack. Geesh.” Mitch shuffled to the bathroom, closed the door, and started the shower.
Sam, from outside the door called out a muffled, “Oh, don’t worry, I know. Half the world knows, too.”
Mitch—in the shower at this point—cocked his head and frowned. Now, what’s that supposed to mean? He knew he’d find out soon enough. With as quick a movement as a hung-over man in his forties could, he washed up and then dried off. He half opened the bathroom door and called out, “Hey, Servant, toss me my clothes on the bed, there, will ya?” Sam whipped them at his head. Nice, yet another person throwing things at me.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the idling limousine. Mitch waited for the aspirin to kick in, and Sam waited for an explanation. Mitch knew this by the way Sam was doing his whole tight mouth, nostril flair breathing thing again and tapping his closed camera. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen Sam this agitated. It had to have been during the Leanne phase. He’d gotten plenty mad at him then. Rightfully so, as it happened—Mitch had been a tad bit off the deep end—but what was he so fired up about now?
“Mitch, how long have you and I been friends, hmm?”
I guess I’m about to get my answer.
“Um, about eight years, I think?”
“Mhm. Mhm. And how long we been working together? About the same, right?”
“Yeah, that—”
“And in all those years, how many times have I had your back?” When Mitch opened his mouth to answer, Sam held up a finger and continued. “I’ll tell you. Countless. Count-less. That’s how many. You know how I’m able to do that, Mitch? Because you keep me in the loop, Mitch. You give me a heads up, Mitch. Did you give me a heads up you were going on a bender last night—an in public bender, mind you?”
“Well, I—”
“No, you didn’t. Did you keep me in the loop when you were offering a job to Chet Carney last night? Nope, you didn’t. So, now, because you decided to go off the deep end over Katharine’s little romantic dinner picture on social media, I—the guy who somewhere along the line became your personal assistant without the added pay—am answering to corporate, doing damage control, and being your babysit—”
“Wait. What picture of Katharine’s little romantic dinner on social media? And what damage control?”
For a second, Mitch could see the entire whites of Sam’s eyes. Then he slapped his hand over them and threw his head back. “Look at your phone, Mitch,” he groaned.
So, Mitch pulled out his phone and began scrolling. It wasn’t long before photos of him sloppy drunk at the hotel bar—a bottle of bourbon in hand, no less—and him being carry-dragged through the hotel lobby between the hotel manager and bartender popped up. They had captions like, “Star of Hit Show Hits Rock Bottom” and “Looks Like the Rebuilder Needs Rebuilding!” Then, “Is KatMitch No More?” and “Despondent Star Turns To Blonde, then Booze After Break-Up.” That one had a split picture of Mitch and Leanne on one side, and his drunken stupor on the other. As the pièce de résistance, there was even a grainy video of him standing on his bar stool, raising a shot glass, and shouting, “Drinks are on me” to the mostly empty bar.
After the chagrin of those photos came the next blow. Several pictures of Katharine and a dark-haired, clean-cut, muscular looking man having dinner. They were gazing at each other, not the camera, an
d smiling. In the next, they were caught in the act of clinking glasses together, and the last, looking in the direction of the camera, blinded by the flash. These captions were no less snarky: “Looks Like the Writer Has Begun A New Chapter!” and “Life After KatMitch…You Go Girl!”.
Most, if not all, of the accompanying stories revolved around speculations—who dumped who, which unnamed companion was the cause of the break-up or the rebound, and so on. Mitch reread the last one and rolled his eyes. Then he enlarged the photo of Katharine smiling. She looked radiant. Happy. The guy was alright, sure. Not the “Hunk-O-Rama” one of the captions proclaimed. Mitch scoffed out loud, then became aware of Sam’s eyes on him.
“So, you didn’t know about her date?” Sam asked warily.
“No, Samuel. I did not. I ran into an old college buddy, we got a little…out of hand. End of story. She—Katharine—that’s, uh, good for her. That’s, you know, great. Great for her.”
Sam’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead so far that it risked disappearing into his hair, but he said nothing.
Mitch added, “I’m serious, Sam. She’s a free woman. The whole KatMitch nonsense was a media creation. It wasn’t real.” Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Obviously not to her, it wasn’t.”
Sam, for some reason, decided to cut Mitch some slack and back off. He spent the rest of the car ride making phone calls—strategizing with Justin, giving a mea culpa on Mitch’s behalf for offering a job to someone, and rescheduling the appearance they were already an hour late for. Mitch had been staring out the window as Sam did all of this, but he turned back in surprise at the last call.
“You rescheduled? Won’t that add more time to our stay in Atlanta?”
“You in a hurry to get back to Connecticut, or something?” The eyebrow rose again.
“No—well, yes, actually. We’ve got a build to finish. The family is counting on us. Besides, the sooner we’re done there, the sooner we move on.”
“Sure thing, boss. I’ll get right on that.” There was a not-so-subtle snarkiness to his tone until he added, “Oh, and good news. They’re going to consider your friend for the voiceover work for the show.”
Before Mitch could respond, Sam was back on the phone. In the end, he’d not only rescheduled the reschedule but moved two more interviews up. Mitch appraised his friend with a new, more appreciative eye. “Personal Assistant, huh? Not a bad idea, you know.”
“Paid Personal Assistant, you mean,” scoffed Sam. “And I still run the camera crew.”
Mitch chuckled as he nodded. “I will make the request.”
“Yeah, well, do it quickly while you’re still the network darling.” Sam tried to keep a straight face, but soon he was laughing alongside Mitch.
Relieved to have everything settled, Mitch sat back and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long, busy day, but it was just the thing he needed. Distraction was to be his friend until he could get his head straight again, and not scrambled by images of Katharine Evans. On a date.
TWENTY-TWO
THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR
Nine days had gone by since Mitch had left for Atlanta. A skeleton crew milled around the Genoma property—clearing debris, filling the dumpster, and any other odds and ends they could busy themselves with until their boss returned. Katharine knew all of this because she’d been regularly spying on them, under the guise of trimming her already well-maintained shrubs and bushes. On day ten, Brandon—aka Shaggy—caught her.
“Uh, Miss Evans?”
Katharine jumped back, letting the whip-like forsythia branches snap back in her face. “What—I’m not doing anything. I mean, I’m not looking next door if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I—no, you want me to trim those back? You said last month to let them grow, but—”
“That would be fine, Brandon.” She strode away, trying to appear composed.
“Excuse me, Miss Evans,” stammered her landscaper, “can I, um, have the trimmers?”
Katharine looked down at the hedge trimmers still in her hand, then up at Brandon. He looked as if he expected a beating. She surprised them both by laughing. “Sorry, Brandon. I’m a little out of sorts lately.”
Brandon accepted the tool gingerly, perhaps fearing this nice version of his employer was a ruse. “It’s okay, Brandon, I’m not going to bite. I’m sorry for being such a jerk since the first day you came to work for me. I’m not good at people-ing.”
Brandon stuttered and blushed. “Aw, it’s all good, Miss Evans. And so you know—anytime someone called you the dragon lady, I stuck up for you. I told them, ‘Miss Evans is just a lonely, friendless person, and she always pays me on time.”
Katharine blinked rapidly, then said, “Ah. Yes Right, then. Well, um, thank…you, Brandon. For…that. So, okay back to it, shall we?” She turned away and walked back to the house, her head cocked slightly. When Brandon called out to her again, she only half-turned.
“Hey, Miss Evans? I heard Mr. Ford got back into town last night. They’re probably gonna start work again next door.”
Katharine’s heart knocked hard against her chest, but she merely nodded and continued to the back porch. Mitch was back. Would he avoid her or seek her out? Never mind him, how was she going to handle it? After nine days of mostly uninterrupted work, her self-imposed media and electronics semi-blackout—and those numerous pesky trips across the backyard to the tree line—Katharine had managed to complete book three of the Chelsea Marin Chronicles. It had gone off to the editor that very morning. All she could do now was wait for the first round of draft edits to come back. Usually, she dreaded the wait, but this time around, she would be kept busy by all the book signings and appearances Tori had rescheduled for her.
Tori’s response to Katharine’s ‘off the grid’ text was filled with capital letters and exclamation points. Katharine stayed firm, though, citing her need to finish the next installment of the series before momentum and interest were lost. In the end, Tori caved, but with a caveat—Katharine was to do whatever appearance she was scheduled for without complaint. So, it was with great trepidation that Katharine went into the house and picked up her phone to call Tori. She picked up on the first ring.
“Girl, it is about time you got back into the real world. You know how busy I’ve been, dealing with your drama?”
“Hello to you, too. And what drama? I’ve been holed up for over a week. I’ve been living on Thai, pizza, and Chinese deliveries. I could not possibly have any current drama to speak of.”
“Mhm. Hang on.” The was some rustling and clicks and taps on Tori’s side of the phone line. Then, “Okay, put me on speaker and open your email.”
Katharine did as Tori ordered. She’d sent several links and Katharine warily clicked on the first one, holding her breath. Once the images filled the small screen and she skimmed the story, she released the trapped air in her lungs with a rush. “Oh, is that all? We knew that lady was taking pictures. Love the ‘You Go Girl’ part.”
“Now click the next one.”
Katharine did. Her mouth pulled down and her eyebrow lifted. “Well, that’s not very nice. A Jezebel? Really? Are there really t-shirts out there that say, ‘Team Mitch’ and ‘Team Katharine?’”
“One more.”
For a third time, Katharine clicked on a link. This one took her to a series of photographs of what appeared to be Mitch in a most unflattering state of being. His hair was disheveled, he appeared to be waring swim trunks, and in his hand, a bottle—undoubtedly alcohol— hung from his slack grip. He was supported by two, less than amused looking men. Katharine enlarged the picture. Even overly pixelated, she knew it was him. She scrolled through the captions, reading each aloud to Tori as if she hadn’t been the one to send them to her.
“Star of Hit Show Hits Rock Bottom. Is KatMitch No—”
“Yes, I know. I’ve read them all. Twice. Here’s the gist, Miss I-Was-Off-The-Grid. While you were playing in your little Chelsea Marin world, Justin and
I have been playing the roles of Mitch Ford and Katharine Evans in the social media world.”
Katharine pressed her palm against her forehead and groaned as she listened to Tori give a catalog of ‘heated banter’ she and Mitch had been exchanging on Twitter. Apparently, they were making veiled, passive-aggressive, yet somehow cute snipes at each other and the fans loved it. They were taking sides—hence the team shirts— and the hashtags #teamMitch and #teamKatharine had been trending since Wednesday.
“So, I use hashtags now,” Katharine laughed.
“Really? I tell you all this and all you want to know is if you use hashtags? Yes, you use hashtags. Are you happy?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied Katharine.
“Good, and now you are mostly up to date.”
“Mostly?” Katharine braced herself. This was Tori’s style—drop little bombs, let the dust settle for a moment, then drop a nuclear bomb. “What else?”
“The W.T. Taylor Gala for Literacy. It’s in four days and… you’re a guest speaker.”
Katharine plopped down in the nearest chair. Well, at least it couldn’t get worse.
“There’s more, Katharine. Mitch has been added as a guest speaker, too.”
Katharine made several, unintelligible sounds, then through clenched teeth asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to ruin my day with?”
“Alright, sunshine. I don’t know what is going on with the two of you, but if you don’t communicate before the gala, it’s only going to be that much worse. I mean, the whole media thing is great publicity and all, but I’m telling you as your friend, and not your publicist—talk to the man.”
“I can’t. You saw the pictures of him with the Amazon blonde. He’s moved on.”
