by Karen Booth
Her spoon clanged in the bowl. “I’ll go for Chris, but it’d better not turn into a big long thing. I can’t listen to Grandpa talk about tools and nails.”
“We’ll swing by Leah’s afterward and pick her up. You can take my car and go to the mall or whatever it is that you two do.”
Her face lit up. “Deal.”
I parked in front of the building when Sam and I arrived an hour later, less than bowled over, like every other time Chris had driven me past it. A good decade beyond run-down, it’s most memorable design features were multi-colored layers of paint peeling from the bricks and a rusty loading dock door, smack dab next to the main entrance. The dirt and gravel parking lot meant everything was covered with dust—windows, sidewalk, and my still-new Volvo. I found it curious that Chris would purchase a building where his own new car, a decked-out black Ford F-150, would be exposed to so much grime.
“This place is a dump,” Sam said.
“It’s not that bad.” I sighed. By all reports, Chris’s little project was going to be a much bigger job than first anticipated. I hadn’t had the heart to tell Sam that by the look of things, her grandfather would be staying with us for at least six months, rather than the original three he and Chris had estimated. Some people might call that denial. “Don’t say anything to Chris. He’s very excited.”
I pushed the door open with a single finger to keep from getting my white shorts dirty. The room we entered was claustrophobic with chipped, speckled brown linoleum tiles and wood paneling. The sun strained through filthy windows, making it difficult to see much more than that. The distinct smell of stale cigarettes lingered. It was comparable to being inside a toaster oven, stuffy and much hotter than the sweltering day outside.
“Hello? Chris?” I called out.
“In here,” he yelled, as if I was supposed to have a built in homing device, his British accent echoing throughout the building.
Sam and I made our way through a towering doorway into a massive warehouse space. A mountain of building supplies sat inside the loading dock door.
“There you are.” Chris pulled me into a half-hug. “What do you think? Isn’t it great?” His excitement was exactly like that of a little boy who’d caught the biggest fish of his life.
“You weren’t kidding when you said it was a blank slate. Tell me what you’re thinking about doing.”
“Your dad and I were going over measurements, talking about where things are going to go, the control room, the isolation rooms. I think we’re going to be able to put in a pretty big rehearsal space.”
Sam looked completely miserable—like me, she’d never been big on dirt or heat.
“Grandpa, what is the deal with your face?”
My dad strode toward us from the far side of the room with a measuring tape, writing down notes in the darkness. “Why? Do you like it?” As he became more visible, I realized that Sam was on to something—he hadn’t shaved. He ran a hand over his graying stubble. “Chris suggested it. I’m trying something new.”
The only thing that kept me from fainting was the idea of collapsing onto the disgusting floor. Chris gave me one of his sly looks and winked. I took his arm and we walked to the other side of the room. “A beard?”
“I thought Rich needed to mix things up a bit.” He smiled—talk about mixing things up, no person had ever called my father Rich, but my dad seemed to like it coming from Chris and thankfully, Chris had never attempted to call him Dick. “I think Rosie from next door will like it too.”
I shook my head. “You’re still working on that too, huh?”
“Why not? Your dad deserves a little romance in his life.”
Romance wasn’t the first thing that sprang to mind when thinking about Rosie, the sweet yet sometimes ornery gray-haired lady next door. “I suppose. Although she might not be happy when she finds out we’re moving.”
“Maybe we leave your dad behind.”
“I like where you’re going with this.” I grasped his arm, leaning against him. “How much longer will you two be here?”
“We’re going to finish measuring everything out, but we can’t do much else until they switch the power on tomorrow and we get some lights and air conditioning going. Your dad’s electrician friend should be here in about an hour. The electrical is a big job, so we need to tackle that first.”
“I’m going to go home to get some more work done on the Amanda story.”
“How’s that going?”
“I don’t know. I got a message from Amanda’s publicist saying she needs to talk to me. I have the feeling she might recant some of the things she told me in the interview.”
“Sounds dodgy to me.”
I twisted my lips. Maybe it really was all too good to be true. Or maybe it was better if the things she’d told me never saw the light of day. “Tell me about it. I need to call Laura too and tell her I’m taking the job.”
“Did you call your sister? You keep forgetting to do that.”
Fuck. “No. I gotta do that too.” Call Julie. Don’t forget to call Julie. “Home by dinner?”
Chris put a hand at my waist and gave me a kiss. “Do you know how much I love the sound of that? Home and dinner?”
“Perfectly ordinary for the vast majority of people.”
“And extra special for me.” He reached around and parked his hand on my butt, pulling me closer.
I blushed. “You’re lucky it’s so dark in here. You know my dad doesn’t like seeing that.” He squeezed my ass and I felt like I might faint.
He whispered in my ear, “He’s lucky I can keep my hands to myself at all around his daughter.”
Chapter Nine
Richard and his friend Marty, each with clipboard in hand, shuffled through the dusty, open expanse of the former auto parts shop that would one day house my recording studio. It was hot as blazes outside, making the air indoors impossible to breathe.
“We won’t know exactly what we’re looking at until we get the specs on the equipment. This is my first time doing a recording studio.” Marty tapped his clipboard with a pen incessantly.
“Of course.” I pulled my t-shirt away from my sweaty, growling stomach. “I have one more engineer friend to consult with and then I’ll order everything. You’ll have your specifications soon.” Thoughts of a wedding, babies, and electrical specifications had me foggy. Lunch. I need lunch.
“You know, I could coordinate this Chris,” Richard offered.
“That’d be brilliant.” Richard was always happier with his own domain and he’d undoubtedly been paying greater attention than I had. “Thanks for taking that off my hands.” He stood taller, straightened his glasses with new purpose. He and Marty ambled off, discussing watts and amperage.
My phone buzzed with a text. Samantha.
Hey Chris. Ran into Bryce at the mall. Don’t worry about me for dinner.
I shook my head, knowing precisely what Claire’s reaction to this scenario would be. Sam had been quick to figure out that I was a good buffer between her and her mother.
Ask your mum?
She’s writing. Don’t want to bug her. Xoxo
Smart girl. Very smart girl. No problem. Be safe.
Richard and Marty returned, Marty removing his sunglasses from their perch atop his head. “We can start as soon as you make the decisions about the equipment.”
“I guess I have my marching orders then.”
While Richard bid his farewell to Marty, I started up my truck and got the air conditioning going, taking a reprieve from the modern country station Richard favored by turning down the radio.
“We should run by the lumber yard since we’re on this end of town.” Richard hoisted himself into the car. “We can grab some lunch at the taco truck.”
“A man after my own heart.” My stomach agreed. The wheels of my truck kicked up dust as I pulled out of the gravel car park.
“You okay today, Chris? You seem a bit preoccupied.”
I glanced into the si
de mirror and changed lanes. “Oh, you know. Just thinking about the studio and the wedding. It’s a lot of excitement.”
“Don’t forget a new house.” He reached over and turned up the volume on the radio.
“So Claire told you?”
“No. Sam did. I’d noticed there was a fuse missing so I asked her if the power had gone out in her room.”
“I don’t think Claire’s totally sold on it.”
“As long as you get something solid, it’s a great investment. You have to be careful with some of this new construction. They don’t make houses the way they used to.” It seemed in Richard’s mind that they didn’t make anything the way they used to—cars, houses, relationships.
I found a parking space near the taco truck and we took our place at the end of the queue, behind a mix of laborers and office workers. “What are you in the mood for today, Rich? My treat.”
He made a cursory survey of the specials board. “The usual.”
Of course. The man never strayed from plan if he could help it. “What about the shrimp? The sign says it came up from the coast this morning.”
“Chicken will be just fine.”
“Carne asada? It’s delicious.”
“I think I’ll stick to chicken, thanks.”
“Got it.” We stepped forward, getting respite from the afternoon sun under the truck’s awning. “I’m going for the shrimp.” I placed our order and we found a seat at one of the picnic tables along the side of the dilapidated lumberyard building. “So, Rich, I was thinking it might be nice if you invited Rosie over for dinner one night.”
“Seems like you or Claire should be the ones extending invitations. It’s not my place.” He tucked a paper napkin into the collar of his neatly pressed, short-sleeved dress shirt.
I finished a bite of shrimp taco. “Well, I’m giving you the go-ahead.” I coughed, realizing I’d gone overboard with the hot sauce. “She must be lonely over in that big house, all by herself.”
“She seems to get along okay. Always out there puttering in that garden of hers, filling her bird feeders.”
I grumbled under my breath. “Of course, but she’s got to eat. Must get lonely cooking for one all of the time. You know what that’s like.”
He looked at me quizzically. “I suppose I do. I get awfully tired of bologna sandwiches, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Of course you do. We can’t leave poor Rosie next door eating sandwiches all by herself.”
Richard dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “Chris, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. I can see what you’re trying to do and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not? Rosie’s a lovely lady. Everyone can use some company. Maybe a little romance?”
“Romance? For goodness sake. I am not about to sully the memory of my wife by romancing another woman.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you sully anything.” You’d think I’d suggested he ravage Rosie on her front stoop. “We’re talking about dinner. Claire and I’d be there to make sure you two keep both feet on the floor.”
“Now you’re being crude.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. No, you need to lighten up. “I only thought you might be happier if you had some female companionship. That’s all.”
“I’m plenty happy.”
Except that your entire life revolves around your daughter and granddaughter. “Of course you are. I’m sorry.” I swiped my thumb across the beads of water on my Coke bottle. “Will you do me one favor, though?”
“What’s that?”
“Will you help her with the big bird feeder in her front yard? She asked me for help, but I don’t know the first thing about it.” Nothing of the sort had happened, but Richard never turned down a project.
“What’s wrong with it?”
You would have to ask for specifics, wouldn’t you? “Oh, I don’t know exactly. She was struggling with it yesterday morning when I went out to get the newspaper. She just needs someone who knows what he’s doing.”
The annoyance on his face faded. “Claire’s mother Sara loved birds. I was always repairing the feeders at the house. Darned squirrels break everything.”
“You know the squirrels in North Carolina. Bunch of meddlesome troublemakers.”
“I’ll go over there this afternoon after I call Marty and ask him when he’s coming down to look at the studio.”
I cleared my throat, giving him a chance to catch his own mistake, but he didn’t. He just kept eating. “Rich, we saw Marty an hour ago. Do you mean you’re going to call him to go over the plans? Because he won’t be back in Asheville until at least five.”
His face flushed. “Yes, of course that’s what I meant. I got off track when you wouldn’t stop talking about Rosie.”
Maybe he really does like her. “Don’t worry. I’ll try to keep my thoughts about you and Rosie to myself.”
Chapter Ten
The story on Amanda Carlton was to hinge on her new movie, a screen adaptation of the blockbuster, sappy-sweet romance Lonely Coast. She’d managed the impossible, landing a role that dozens of top actresses had vied for, while stepping beyond the action genre that had launched her career. There was already talk of an Oscar nod. Amanda’s publicist wanted to stand on a mountain and shout it to the world. I was to be the megaphone.
From the beginning of the interview, Amanda had been as difficult to keep on task as a toddler at Disneyland. Over and over again, she returned to the topic of her dad and her adolescence. It wasn’t news that Amanda’s father was a piece of work, but something told me to let her talk. That was when things got interesting.
Her dad hadn’t been in her life since she’d moved to Los Angeles. As far as he was concerned, she was worse than dead, she was an ungrateful whore. Lovely words from the man who’d lived off her waitressing money for the previous two years. Little did he know that a year later, the so-called ungrateful whore would be one of the highest paid actresses in Hollywood.
Behind quiet tears, Amanda admitted to me that her father had betrayed her. “It was stupid,” she said. “I was drunk. At a party. Some guys from school were egging me and another girl on. First they wanted us to take our tops off. They kept pouring shots.” Amanda’s hands trembled to unwrap a piece of gum she’d dug out of her purse.
“Do you want me to stop the tape?” I asked, but she never answered. She merely went on.
“They got us to kiss. I don’t remember much after that, but one of the guys took photos of everything. She and I both had our clothes off. We were all over each other.” She shook her head. “Somebody gave the photos to my dad. That was horrifying enough. Then he…” She choked back tears. Her pale blue eyes had gone glassy.
I’d leaned forward, placed my hand on her knee, but she never looked at me. It was the oddest situation—the talk we’d had before the interview started, the one where she’d wanted to hear all about Chris, had created a familiarity that might not have been fair to Amanda.
“He blackmails me,” she continued, with a bite to her voice. “He threatens to send the pictures to the highest bidder unless I buy them from him. At first it was one picture. Then another one. I always think I’ve bought them all, but he always has more.”
She could forget her dreams of positioning herself as a true leading lady if those pictures ever saw the light of day. I’d sat in silence, scrambling for the right thing to say. All I’d been able to come up with was, “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
“Do you have a good relationship with your dad?”
Under any other circumstances, that question might have solicited sarcastic laughter. “He’s a very sweet man. I love him very much.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I am.”
Then she’d started to cry again. “It really makes me miss my mom. I miss her every day.”
I knew exactly how she felt. I missed my mom every day too. I hadn’t felt so torn while conducting an interview sinc
e the day I met Chris and learned the secrets of his failed marriage. “I’m sure this has been difficult.”
Now that I was more than halfway done with the story, which was due to my editor in forty-eight hours, I had a voicemail from Amanda’s publicist Valerie. I tapped my pen against my creaky old desk, not deliberating so much as delaying.
“Valerie? This is Claire Abby returning your call.”
“Yes, Claire. Thank you for getting back to me. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t realize that Amanda had told you about everything with her father. That’s very delicate information. Information I would prefer was not in the story. I’d really like this piece to be about the positives in her career right now. She’s poised to take off. I don’t think she realizes the ramifications of what she shared with you.”
“I asked her more than once if she wanted me to turn off the recorder. She seemed very cognizant of what she was telling me. She volunteered all of it.”
“I understand, completely. Believe me, I know the situation Amanda has put herself into. I think she thought that she could end the blackmailing if she publicly revealed what her father has been doing. The problem is that it will also force her father’s hand, and I have no doubt that he will fight back and the only ammunition he has is those pictures.”
“You’re putting me in a really tough position here.”
“Look, Claire, Amanda is a young woman. She’s still learning the ropes and this was a huge misstep on her part. You have a daughter, don’t you? You wouldn’t want her to destroy everything she’s worked so hard for just because she misspoke in an interview, would you?”
Fuck. Do I even have a choice? There’s no way I can be cutthroat about this. “Okay. I understand. I will respect her privacy, but is she available to do another thirty minutes over the phone later today? I’m on deadline and I’m not sure I have enough material to flesh this out. She wouldn’t stay on the topic of the movie.”
