“Then why did you say that you’re going to have to call them back?”
“Because I need you to believe in you.” A pause settles and grows in the room, Tessa giving me a chance to proceed or nix the situation. This is the end game for me. If I can’t do this, then I’ve used up all my chances. “Think about it, okay? They need an answer by tomorrow. Filming starts three weeks after the Lake Tahoe Film Festival that you will be attending, but they want to begin read through a week earlier. The film is on a tight schedule.”
Tessa leaves the room without a backward glance leaving me to stew in the mess I’ve made of my life. But is that really the truth? Would any of this have happened if my parents hadn’t stolen everything from me? Would I be this way if they had loved me as a child and not a paycheck?
Emancipation is a strange thing to a child – it gives you back the control you deserve, but steals away any ounce of love that may have existed. Tessa’s family stepped in when I needed them most, never asking for anything in return.
And now, even though I feel as if I’m backed into a corner, it’s my chance to give them something in return. To see their belief in me make its rise.
In disgust, I grip the edge of the trashcan and carry it from the trailer, tossing the entire basket into the dumpster in the parking lot before I return to the film set.
I can do this. I can make my aunt and uncle proud and make Tessa proud too. And maybe, just maybe, I can believe in myself just enough to get through it.
CHAPTER TWO – LARSEN
There was a time in my life when I knew little about disappointment. My world had been cherries and gumdrops until my father died of a heart attack at the age of forty-three, leaving my mother and me to continue living each day for the next. At least, that was my plan.
Downward spirals are a hard thing to pinpoint. Is it one solitary event that launches someone over the edge to where they can barely see a glimmer of light beneath the heavy mounds of despair? Or is it a sequence of actions and emotions twisting like a corkscrew until the pressure becomes too much and you bury your true self away only emerging as the shell of what you want everyone to see?
For my mother, I’m certain that it was the former that sent her off into oblivion and left me with a woman that resembled someone I recognized, but none of the characteristics that made me love her.
I was fifteen when my mother decided to pack us up and move away from the only house, the only world I ever knew. Framingham, Illinois was the sidewalk-lined streets of idyllic USA with perfectly trimmed yards and garden parties every Sunday. I’m sure it’s changed in the nine years since we’ve left.
My mother claimed to have aspirations, old ones, ones she said my father suppressed when they ended up married and pregnant. This new woman acting as my mother wasn’t someone that I recognized. She wouldn’t listen when I begged to stay and finish high school. She wouldn’t listen when I told her that I could move in with our church’s pastor, his wife, and kids. She wouldn’t listen when I told her that I had no desire to go to Vegas or Los Angeles – that my home was in Framingham.
Despair is a peculiar thing – it takes on so many forms. It pulls the recluse from its hollow and the exhibitionist into solitude. I mourned for my father, for my family, for the loss of affection. But I also mourned the loss of my mother. When my father died, something in her shifted and she became someone I despised.
It didn’t take long for me to learn that drugs and alcohol became her comforts, and as we packed up the car to head West, she placed an oversized and overfilled duffle bag into the trunk of the car that I’m certain she paid for with the remainder of the house sale.
Remembering our journey leaves me shaking and sweating. An overwhelming urge to vomit rises in my throat, cutting through the memories that haunt me. The twisted metal. The orange and yellow blaze. The gripping fear. So much fear. But hope lingered. Without hope in the memories, I’d be no better off than the woman that birthed me.
I hear a knock at the door and then retching followed by a familiar bang.
Not again.
Stumbling from my bed, I brush the sleep away with the back of my hands. The darkness encases my apartment and as I look above the small stove, the microwave’s clock blinks with the numbers three zero zero. Great, only one more hour I could have attempted to get some shuteye. But what’s one more day working through the nightmares that plague me still?
Another thud sounds outside my door and I remember why I crawled out of bed in the first place.
I open the door to my apartment only to find my Uncle Jeff leaning against the frame. He’s not sturdy enough to hold himself up, nor am I quick enough in the early morning to catch him as he falls over my threshold.
Crouching down I take in the deep wrinkles on my uncle's tanned skin, reminding me of worn leather – soft and rough at the same time. In the last four years, he’s been through so much. That was when we lost Susan – his wife, friend, soul mate. The two did everything together and owned the majority of the businesses in town. Since her death, Uncle Jeff struggles to manage the trio of shops lining Main Street – the diner, convenience store, and auto shop. Well, in the past year it seems all Uncle Jeff can take care of is the latter while I’m doing my best to keep the other two afloat.
But the one good thing about our town is that everyone loved Susan, she was the proverbial town Grandma. They all felt the weight of her loss and they all step in when Jeff and I are overwhelmed. Which, for me, seems to be a daily occurrence.
Garbles sound between Jeff’s thin lips and I know that I need to get him inside quickly unless I want to clean a spot in the hallway. Hitching my hands under his arms, I drag him as carefully as possible to the couch in my living room and deposit his upper half onto the cushions. I repeat the motion with his feet and hips.
Of course, the moment I get him settled his tired eyes open into small slits and he stares at me, silently professing his apology. But I don’t need one. After everything he and his wife did for me, I’d carry the man to bed every day for eternity.
I don’t even realize that a small tear has rolled down my cheek as I watch the man I hold closest to my heart wither away into a shell of himself, not until his weak and trembling hand reaches up to wipe it away.
“You’re a good girl,” he whispers then turns over to face the back of the couch.
When he’s sober tomorrow, I’ll find out where he found the alcohol. No one in town is allowed to serve or sell to him – his own proclamation as the town mayor. It rings especially true with the anniversary of Susan’s death only a month away. Makes me wonder how far he’s traveled to find a bottle to lose himself in, or who snuck him some when he was desperate enough to beg.
I hate to see him this way. It’s tiring for him and for me, an endless loop of sorrow, begging, then a small splinter of joy.
The clock on the microwave beckons me for another glance and I give in, groaning when I know that I’ll be unable to attempt any more sleep. Might as well get up and get the diner started for the 5 a.m. morning crowd.
I take a quick shower, tossing my long blonde hair into its typical ponytail and then donning my yellow polo shirt and black pants. It’s going to be hot in the diner but if I’m the one stuck making the food again then I’d rather not have oil splatter on my bare legs.
When I emerge from my bedroom in the back, I turn the corner and find my uncle still resting in the same spot where I left him.
The darkness of the early morning engulfs me in its blanket of shadows. I never used to be frightened of the dark. The way it sucked away every ounce of light was part of some childhood fantasy that I found beautiful. But now? Now the darkness leaves me in a state of fear – a nightmare that I dread being caught in.
I rush from the ledge of my building’s entrance, down the two streets of concrete and trees, until I’m finally able to twist the key into the lock of the large metal door. As if by mental memory, I begin prepping the three large coffeepots, cinnamon buns, and waffle batter. I
’m not even sure I know what I’ve completed until the buzzer in the back sounds and in walks Joanne, our morning waitress.
“Mornin’,” she calls out as she grabs her nametag and pins it perfectly onto her matching yellow polo shirt. “No, Tucker?”
From what I can tell, our morning cook has zero desire to make it in this morning, just as he’s been absent for the last two days. I’d fire him and his twin if there were anyone else in town that could cook worth a damn and needed a job. Unfortunately, that just leaves me. I offered to teach Joanne how to cook the menu, but she complains that the steam and grease mess with her hair.
No one takes into account that I’m trying to run all three businesses and complete my nursing school prerequisites. It’s been slow going, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time – ever since my brush with death.
My eyes close instinctively at the thought of my accident, how the shadows had loomed around me, pulling me into their darkness. The panic attack is on the verge of overtaking me again – twice in one day, definitely not what I need. But I’m saved when Joanne reaches her thin arms around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. She might not realize that she just helped me fight my demons before they got too close, but I’ll clench her offering with all that I am.
“Time to open up. I’ll call Tucker in a bit and make sure he shows up this afternoon. No sense in you working both shifts.”
“Thanks, Joanne. I’ll get the front door. I can already see Officer Tawny ready for her early morning cup-of-Joe.”
I greet the small crowd as they scatter across the linoleum floor toward their booths and tables of choice. It’s the same every morning. Nothing changes. Even their responses to my welcome are the same. Sometimes this town leaves me feeling as trapped as I had been in the car – almost stagnant in the day-to-day motions.
But it’s the beginning of the summer, which means new Fish in town, the people that pop in and leave just as quickly. One of the things I look forward to each year – the season of travelers. Shady Pines lies on US-50, known as The Loneliest Road in America; the nickname stemming from a desolate part of the highway as it travels through Nevada, it’s not so bad here in Colorado. We’re not a main stop for many, but every once in a while we get travelers that halt their journey and take in the scenery of our picturesque town.
As I refill Officer Tawny’s cup with her second helping of coffee, I ask her if she thinks we’ll have more traffic this year than before. The dwindling crowds have been difficult for all of the businesses – mostly due to the highway adding a new welcome center about a mile away from us. But instead of offering reassurance, her head shakes slightly before she takes a sip of her beverage.
The remainder of the morning I spend in the back concocting the orders while Joanne runs interference for the customers. Many ask about Jeff and I hate having to stretch the truth by telling them that he isn’t feeling well.
It’s after the morning rush passes that I settle into my life. Shady Pines is a mix of young and old; people who have lived their entire lives in the area, never leaving the place they call home and the newbies, such as myself, that found their way here and haven’t left. The migrants that lose themselves in the splendor of smalltown America.
I plate myself and Joanne an early lunch of an open-faced turkey sandwich and hover around the front counter watching the people slip past the wide window overlooking the street. The meat is flavorless as I bite another forkful of local deli meat, not realizing that I’m staring into oblivion.
Some of our regular customers linger at the counter, requesting their coffee refills and I happily serve them, it’s still the breakfast hour for many. They’ve grown to accept me as one of their own, assuring me that I fit in here as well as anyone else despite the lingered stress and snickers from the Fish.
John, a man that reminds me of the proverbial Santa Claus – long white beard, rosy cheeks, and wire-framed glasses, takes a seat directly in front of where I’m perched against the counter.
Waving his hand in front of me, he laughs when I startle. “Mornin’, Larsen. What’s good today?” It’s the same question he asks every morning. And just like every other morning, I giggle against my better judgment.
“Same menu it’s always been, Mr. Turner. I don’t think it’s changed in the fifty years that Uncle Jeff has been running this place.”
“Ah, too right. What you got cookin’ up for today’s special?” He grins, knowing that I like to keep my daily specials a secret until the dinner crowd arrives. John is one of the many customers that come in for at least two out of their three meals a day. Many keep a running tab and coffee mug of their own ready and waiting.
“You know I can’t tell you that, John,” I joke as I fill a glass with Coke for him, little ice.
The routine. It’s something I’ve come to love and dread at the same time – my own Groundhog Day on repeat.
“Well, a little birdie told me that it’s your homemade beef stroganoff.”
Setting the glass in front of him, the corner of my mouth perks up at his assumption. “And what birdie might that be?”
“My nose knows.”
Shaking my head, I turn back to my lunch. “Sure, it does.”
“So,” he continues,” I’m surprised to see you here so early.”
“Well, school’s out for the summer and I figured I could help out a bit more.”
“You help out enough,” the old man grunts as he takes a sip of his drink.
Just as I’m about to rib him some more the door to the diner opens wide and a group of twenty-somethings ambles in discussing the heat outside. Cole catches my eye first. He always does with his clean-cut image – a walking Captain America.
Smacking John on the back as he passes, Cole asks him how he’s doing before the group takes a seat at a corner booth. I wish I had known that he was going to come in today, I could have at least tried to look presentable even though I know that he’s never looked at me more than once.
Cole is one of the teachers at the local elementary school. See? Captain America – shaping our youth.
I hurry from the counter and move toward the grill. Along the way, I grab a baseball cap from a hook and tug it low on my face.
“Hey, I need you to grab table twelve,” Joanne mentions as she snaps an order sheet with a clip and sends it my way.
“Why can’t you do it?” I ask, my hands shaking as I reach up for her order.
People and I have never mixed well. Not since my accident and I do my best to avoid any newcomers, and Cole.
“Tucker said he needs me to pick him up so he can work the rest of the shift. Said he got into it with his brother.”
Tucker and Tacker are notorious for their ongoing fights – usually leaving me in the lurch since they both work here. Tucker more often than Tacker, who travels with his freelance photography gig.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she calls out, already grabbing her car keys, leaving me staring at her retreating back with her order receipt in my hand.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself as I rip the hat from my head quickly followed by my elastic band holding my hair from my face – yanking harder than normal. Twisting my hair between my fingers, I tie off a braid and let it rest over my shoulder, blocking the scars that run up my neck. I wish there were something that I could do about my exposed arms, but other than grabbing my uncle’s windbreaker and drowning in it, I’m left with no options.
Reaching into my back pocket, I grab my order notebook and head to the table of men and women that look to be my age – forcing a smile the entire time. The skin surrounding my mouth is tight on the right side as the scar tugs against the muscles.
“Sorry about that. My waitress had an emergency. What can I get you?” I ask in one breath – never looking up from the notepad in my hand.
“Hey, Larsen.” Cole’s voice slides over me like butter and I can feel my cheeks redden at his acknowledgment. “These are my friends from college. They came up
for a visit. Figured I’d show them the sites.”
Studying the notepad in my hand, I train my gaze to the paper. “Oh, sure. That sounds fun.”
Cole gestures around the table, introducing the two males and one female who sits happily perched beside him. I notice how closely she leans her body against his arm. There is a familiarity there. One of intimacy that I wish I had. Once he’s done they order glasses of water and a few burgers.
Smiling to the group, who don’t let their gaze linger too long on my scars, though I can sense their pity by the slight downturn of their brows, I turn my back to them to make my way behind the counter and get their drinks.
“Hey, Larsen. You’re studying nursing, right?”
“Yep,” I reply, not lifting my head from the soda fountain, but peering at them from beneath my lashes.
A smoky feminine voice wafts through the space and I nearly drop the glass in my hand in surprise. I realize that it’s coming from the woman seated next to Cole, staking her claim on him as she rests her hand on his forearm.
“That is such a coincidence. I work in human resources for a hospital. We’re always hiring nurses.”
Despite the sick feeling I’m getting watching her touch the man I have a crush on, my ears perk up at her admission.
“Really? Where are you located?” I ask as I bring their drinks to the table.
“I live in Southern California right now. Not too far from Los Angeles and where I grew up.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know about living in California, but I’d love to hear about what you all look for in nurses. I’m doing an online program, so I’ve still got a few semesters to finish.”
Removing her hand from Cole’s arm, she turns and reaches into her bag. I look at Cole with confused eyes until he smiles and I turn my gaze away.
“Here is my business card. When you’re done with your program give me a call. I’d be happy to help you find a facility that has openings.”
Taking the card from her hand, I stare at the white cardstock with blue embossed words. The raised letters feel expensive against the tips of my fingers. “Really? Why would you help me?”
The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance Page 2
