by Sandra Kitt
“You know, this wasn’t supposed to be that difficult,” McCoy said with dry humor.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Maybe you just don’t want to be in my company.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“Good. Then all you have to do is say yes, Savannah.”
“Yes, Savannah,” she grinned broadly,
McCoy chuckled in her ear. “See you Saturday. I’ll pick you up around ten.”
It began to rain late Friday night, and was still drizzling on Saturday morning. Savannah fully expected McCoy to call and cancel. But by nine-thirty she had not gotten a call from him. Having failed at second-guessing him she hurried to get ready, donning a pair of stretch black pants, a lime-green cami worn under a white blouse that belted at the waist. Her ballet flats were faux leopard skin.
Savannah sat in the kitchen nursing an almost-cold cup of coffee, trying to pretend this little outing was no big deal. However, she was acutely aware of the fact that McCoy had been the one to reach out and touch her and extend the invitation. And she couldn’t deny that she was trying to figure out why.
While it was true that McCoy hardly acted like the Hollywood type with an ego and a short attention span, she couldn’t quite figure him out. He certainly had turned out to be more relaxed and laid-back than any of the men she’d met recently, here or on the east coast. And he had a sense of humor. And he was good-looking.
What was she missing?
The doorbell rang and Savannah nearly dropped the mug as she got up from the kitchen counter. She hastily placed it in the sink and went to answer the door. Passing a small mirror mounted on the wall near the entrance, she checked herself out. She used her fingers to tease up her short hair, and rubbed her lips together to redistribute what remained of her gloss.
Savannah opened the door.
McCoy was standing under the entrance, holding a closed wet umbrella. He was partially turned away, looking about the surrounding street with interest. He turned to face her, and for just a moment they silently appraised each other. His expression was easy and thoughtful, his eyes showing instant appreciation for her appearance.
Take that, Cherise Too-Gorgeous-To-Be-Real.
Savannah realized that this was only the third time she was actually seeing McCoy face-to-face, but she no longer felt as though he were a stranger. As a matter of fact, she was overcome with a sense of the familiar, and the uncertainty she’d experienced while waiting in the kitchen now gave way to shyness based entirely on something else.
“This is a really nice street,” McCoy opened.
Savannah felt relief at how smoothly he’d gotten them over that tiny awkward moment.
“Yes, it is. I like it here.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “Will Shelton was obviously not into big and pretentious.”
“Thank goodness. His house is not on the map of where the stars live, either,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”
“Another time. I thought we’d get started.”
“Are you sure you still want to go?”
“Are you trying to back out?” he arched a brow.
“No, I…”
“Then let’s go.” He deftly popped open the umbrella and held it up.
Savannah reached behind her for her handbag and a lightweight cardigan, on the chair near the door. She closed the door and locked it. McCoy kept the umbrella aloft to protect them both as they headed down the walkway to his car, idling on the curb.
“Sorry I couldn’t provide you with a sunny day, but it could clear up later,” McCoy said.
Savannah cut him a questioning glance. “If you had that kind of power I’d address you differently.”
His cell phone rang. He reached for it with one hand, and with the other held the passenger door open for her.
“Yes,” he answered shortly.
Savannah paid no attention to his conversation. She’d just caught a glimpse of a petite woman getting into an older car some ways down the block. The woman looked familiar.
“Is there a problem?” McCoy spoke into his cell phone. There was a pause. “Then I’ll speak with you later.” He snapped it close.
Down the block Savannah watched as the car door closed and the female driver turned over the engine. She quickly sat herself in McCoy’s car and waited until he joined her. She half turned in her seat to him.
“I know this is going to sound crazy, but…could you follow that car?”
He looked at her blankly. “You want me to what?”
Savannah glanced out the rear window. The car was already pulling away from the curb. “That silver car behind us. Quick! She’s leaving.”
McCoy put his car in gear and made a U-turn to head in the other direction behind the departing vehicle.
“Yes, ma’am. Follow that car. What movie is that line from?”
“I have to find out who that woman is. I’m sure I’ve seen her several times near the house.”
“Really. Is she stalking you?”
“Not me. I’m pretty sure her coming around has to do with my father.”
McCoy kept a safe distance, even allowing a car or two to get between his and the silver-gray Infiniti. The driver eventually entered another community of quiet, small but stately looking homes. It was a more modest version of where she lived, Savannah conjectured. The driver of the car now directly ahead of them eventually slowed down and signaled to turn into a driveway. The garage was detached from a split-level Cape Cod frame house, charming and neat, on about a quarter of an acre of land. The front of the house had been painstakingly landscaped with a variety of semitropical plants that thrived in southern California temperatures.
Savannah quickly made note of the street and the house number.
“Got it,” she sighed, settling back in her seat as they continued to roll slowly along the street.
“That’s it? You don’t want to confront her and find out who she is?”
Savannah felt conflicted. “I don’t want to scare her. She’s not a threat, and now’s not the time. I think it’ll be best if I introduce myself later.”
McCoy looked at her, concern etched in his eyes, and nodded his understanding.
“Thanks, Mac,” Savannah said with a wry smile. “I promise I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Whenever you’re ready. Now you’ve got me curious.”
Anxious to get past the unexpected detour and the mysterious lady, Savannah asked McCoy where they were headed first.
“Fortunately, this little side trip has put us pretty much where we want to be. Inglewood is the next town south of here,” he informed her.
While he drove, McCoy talked a little about the predominantly black community they were passing through. Much of the area looked not only dated, but in some cases blighted. There was a stark contrast between here and where her father had chosen to live, Savannah realized, or the neighborhood where the lady of mystery apparently lived.
“This is an economically challenged area,” McCoy said, driving slowly. “It just needs incentives, some interest, ideas and cold cash to be revitalized. The folks around here are wary of that word. It generally means buying up property and homes and fixing up the neighborhood so someone else can move in.”
“I know. It was a big problem in New York once Harlem was targeted for gentrification. I have a friend who lives near Abyssinian Baptist Church who said she’d never seen so many white people in her life up there until they started coming north to buy the brownstones.”
“That’s the nature of progress,” McCoy said to her. “It’s not a racial thing, it’s economic. What used to be commercial gets reinvented and rezoned for residential. What used to be a ghetto suddenly becomes chic and upscale.”
“Try telling that to a displaced family,” Savannah sighed.
“I have,” McCoy said quietly, as she shot him a curious glance. He didn’t elaborate.
McCoy finally pulled up in front of a storefront. It was c
learly named, the Shelton Repertory Theater Company.
“Here we are,” he said, parking near the corner just beyond the building entrance.
The rain had stopped, although it was still overcast and the air was humid and muggy. They got out of the car and walked back to the theater. As McCoy reached for the door, it suddenly swung open and two young adults exited together, so deep in conversation they never saw Savannah and McCoy before them. McCoy held the door to let Savannah precede him into the tiny foyer.
To her left was an open half door to what appeared to be a storage space doubling as a coat check. To her right was another door with a glass window that functioned as the ticket counter.
Savannah’s attention was immediately drawn to the framed posters hung on the walls. She stepped closer to one that showed her father seated on a stool, surrounded by actors and actresses in costume from a play set in the twenties or thirties. Another photo showed him cutting the ribbon in a ceremony signifying the opening of the theater. She felt an unexpected lift of pride at her father’s prominence in both pictures.
“Wait here,” McCoy said, lightly touching her shoulder. “I’m going to see who’s around.”
He disappeared through a double door. Savannah vaguely heard voices in the distance just before the door closed shut behind him.
A small plaque on the wall over the ticket window read, Founded 1987 by the Inglewood Troupers. Named in 1991 after Will Shelton, noted actor and teacher, for his guidance, support and unwavering commitment to the community.
Savannah read the sign several times. She had mixed emotions about the dedication her father clearly had for this theater, and for his efforts not only to bring entertainment but also to encourage the craft of acting right here. It was a side of him that she’d missed out on. The door to the interior of the theater opened again. McCoy called out to her.
“They’re rehearsing, but the director would like to meet you. Come on in,” he coaxed her.
Somewhat dazed, Savannah allowed herself to be led. The theater itself was old, the seats wooden, the carpeting worn and torn in places. The house lights were on, and the space had a tired look, but she doubted if any of that mattered to the half-dozen people on the small stage who stood waiting for her.
Savannah glanced, nervous and apprehensive, at McCoy. He winked and placed his hand on her back, urging her forward.
“They’re doing Two Trains Running, one of August Wilson’s plays,” he whispered in an aside as they approached the front of the stage.
A middle-aged man stepped forward, hand extended, a broad smile on his tobacco-brown face. “Ms. Shelton, this is a real honor.”
And then, everyone on stage broke out into applause.
Chapter 7
Savannah walked silently beside McCoy, watching their shadows in the sand. The sun had come out after all, but it was still humid. The gentle hissing of the ocean, not even a hundred feet away, was calming. She’d expected the sand to be squishy and hot, but at this end of the beach, as it began to narrow inland, it was packed hard and was cool on the soles of her feet.
She tilted her face upward toward the sky, enjoying the melting warmth of the sun on her face. She felt a wonderful sense of well-being, peace and giddiness. Savannah couldn’t help smiling to herself as she replayed in her head the way the small group of repertory actors had greeted her. She knew it wasn’t really about her but about her father. Nonetheless, Savannah had experienced great satisfaction from hearing the clapping and had suddenly sensed what it must be like for actors to get that response from an audience. She’d done nothing to deserve the recognition, but part of her welcomed it.
She stole a glance at McCoy, who seemed just as pensive, yet comfortable with the silence between them. He had her shoes, each one stuffed into a pocket of his slacks. He held his own Docksides in one hand, gently swinging them with his gait. The lower legs of his pants were haphazardly rolled up to midcalf as he sloshed through the bubbling surf that rolled in from the Pacific Ocean.
“Long Beach was a great place to grow up,” he reminisced. “It has beaches, restaurants, a boardwalk, and it’s just far enough away from L.A. to make going there easy when I wanted to go in for some fun.”
“But you’re glad you didn’t grow up in L.A.?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say so. You live there now.”
“Now it’s by choice. I have a practice that’s thriving in L.A. I live in a part of town that’s really a different side of L.A. It’s quiet and almost completely residential. There is the Third St. Promenade and the mall, there’s still access to the beach, although that’s become a major tourist attraction, but it’s not intrusive.”
“I like it here. I can see and feel the difference,” Savannah commented. “Do you still have family here?”
“My younger brother lives in San Francisco. He’s an architect. My mom is dead and my father, who’s retired, lives in Oakland. My brother and I still own the house we grew up in. I don’t stay there much anymore, but Cody uses it as a weekend getaway.”
They’d just finished lunch, although it was almost three-thirty, and McCoy had suggested they walk for a while. Suggesting the beach had been a nice surprise in Savannah’s eyes. She’d only gotten to go to the beach once since coming to L.A., and only then because Donna had dragged her along shortly after they’d met at a yoga class Savannah had attended.
“This is my first time back here in probably six months,” McCoy said in a surprised tone.
“Are you saying this trip was just for my sake?”
“Mine, too. I was glad for a reason to come. And I did want to show you the college where your father taught.”
“I thought he just gave a lecture or two. I didn’t realize he taught on a fairly regular basis,” she murmured.
“You sound a little resentful,” McCoy observed gently.
She shrugged. “I don’t mean to. I’m really proud that my father apparently gave back so much. I’m glad that he was so admired and loved.”
McCoy glanced at her. “I hear a but coming.”
She shook her head. “No but. I guess I’m still getting used to the fact that I really know so little about his life in L.A.”
“I’m sorry. I never considered that doing this would be painful for you.”
Savannah smiled up at him. “Not painful. Embarrassing. I should have taken time to learn. I should have cared more.”
“I suppose you might say he could have done the same about you.”
“There’s enough blame to go around, but what’s the point?”
“How do you feel about his being a actor? Coming to L.A. and perhaps making a difference?”
Savannah swallowed before answering. “Awed,” she got out, letting it go at that. So much of what she was feeling simply could not be put into words, yet.
“The college here is where I first heard him speak. I wasn’t into acting or anything. I just wanted to hear what the man had to say. The funny thing is, he didn’t really talk about being an actor. He talked about making decisions and taking responsibility for those decisions. And something about having a backup plan when the first one explodes in your face,” McCoy chuckled.
“Heads up!”
Savannah and McCoy both turned sharply at the sound of the warning in time to see a volleyball arching through the air in their direction. Savannah dropped her shoulder bag and positioned herself below the falling ball.
“I got it,” she shouted, deftly catching it.
About to toss it back to a waiting player, Savannah suddenly changed her mind. She turned her body, held the ball in her open left palm, and with a calculated toss into the air, she sent it back toward the players with an underhanded punch of her clasped fists.
It put the ball right back into play, and the two sides gave her a cheer.
“Good move,” McCoy complimented her.
She turned to him, smiling and self-satisfied. “I’m not much of an actress,
but I grew up pretty good at sports. I had to, to keep up with my brother and father when I was little. That was before my parents separated, of course, and he came out here.”
“A jockette,” McCoy mused, twisting away from her attempt to punch him in the arm.
Savannah retrieved her purse and fell back into step next to him. His cell phone rang again. The shrill sound intruded on the moment, and Savannah accepted that McCoy was popular and busy with lots of friends and contacts…and others.
“Go ahead and answer,” she said when he continued to ignore the ringing phone.
He did.
“Yes? I’m not in town right now…. I’m sorry, it will have to wait…. Not for another few hours…”
Savannah tried to pretend she wasn’t listening, but it was hard not to construe the other half of the conversation. She slowed her steps, putting a small distance between herself and McCoy and his caller. If it wasn’t who she thought it was on the other end, it was someone similar. She felt annoyed about the intrusion, even though she knew she had no right to.
“Look, I’ll call you later…. I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’ll be too late…. Fine…when I get back.”
When the call was finished McCoy did not apologize as she thought he might. She hazarded a sideways glance at him, wondering if he’d forgotten her presence. Taking a deep breath Savannah decided that the interruption was not worth spoiling what had, so far, been an interesting and fun outing.
She picked up right where they’d left off before McCoy’s cell call, determined not to spoil the day.
“You said you’re glad you grew up in Long Beach. What have you got against L.A.? Are you telling me you don’t buy into its reputation?”
“Do you?”
“No, but I have an excuse. I’m from the east coast and a newbie. Maybe I just don’t get it.”
McCoy lifted a corner of his mouth into a halfhearted smile. He was silent for a long time, staring down at the sand then out to the Pacific Ocean, before responding.
“Life in L.A. isn’t as easy and carefree as it seems. It can take up a lot of energy. You spend a lot of time trying to figure out if a person is for real, or if they have some angle they’re working, an agenda. Everybody wants something from somebody else.”
