by Peggy Webb
“I’d like to see you, Gloria. Can you join me in my box?”
“When?”
“This Saturday. Noon.”
“Yes.”
Only one word. And I hope it’s the right one.
Saturday, we’ll see.
First, though, I have to work a miracle so I can walk into the studio looking like America’s favorite TV goddess.
Roberta wasn’t kidding when she called the producer of Love in the Fast Lane an old fox. Three hours and the miracle of Max Factor later, I’m sitting opposite Claude Foxwort in his office, sometimes known as the fox’s den, where people come to get their heads chewed off, and secretly known as the fox’s lair where more than one nubile nymph has sought career advancement on the leopard-skin couch.
I loved everything about my job except Claude Foxwort. Sitting here now in a Vera Wang dress that shows I haven’t lost my figure, with a tote bag full of fan mail that proves I haven’t lost my viewer appeal, I try to keep my skin from crawling.
I’ve never had that kind of reaction to Claude. Before he wrecked my career and I wrecked my Ferrari, I handled him with amused tolerance. Suddenly I’m seeing him in stark contrast to Matt Tucker and Rick Miller. Even to Jackson Tucker. They were real men living real lives.
With his cleverly fitted toupee, his tanning-bed glow and his implanted pecs, Claude’s as artificial as a Ken doll. All facade and no substance.
“You’re looking rested, Gloria.”
As compared to what? My haggard looks when I left the show?
“Thank you, Claude. So are you.”
“So, Roberta said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes. I wanted to show you a small sample of my fan mail.” I place the bag on his desk. “This is about a tenth of the letters I’ve received, all demanding my return to the show.”
He waves his hand, dismissing my best plan to regain my role as Jillian Rockwell.
“We’ve had some letters, too. I’ll admit you were popular, Gloria, but the show was getting tired and old feeling. It needed a new look, new blood, fresh faces.”
“You mean young faces.”
“If you want to put it that way. Susan Star’s really igniting the show. Bringing in a younger audience.” He picks up a pencil and twirls it under his nose like a handlebar mustache, a little conceit I used to find funny and now find insufferable.
My lord, if I came back to here I don’t know how I’d keep from slapping him silly. What was I thinking, anyhow? I’ve always lived by the philosophy that when one door closes an even better one opens. Never one to batter at closed doors, I’ve always moved on, alert to new opportunities.
I stand up and smooth my skirt. “I wish you luck with the show, Claude.”
“Not so fast.” He’s now twirling the pencil like a majorette’s baton. “We might bring you back in a different role, say Susan’s favorite great aunt, somebody she occasionally confides in. With the right makeup and lighting, a little padding worn under your dresses, you could pass for sixty-five.”
I want to jump over the desk and beat him with his Italian leather loafers. Instead, I take a deep breath and say, “No thank you, Claude,” then gather my letters and march out.
My grandmother would be proud of me. It could be the best exit of my career.
Outside I sit in the hot sun resting my head against the steering wheel, gathering courage, marshalling my spirit. Roberta will be waiting back home to hear the news. So will Jenny and Angie.
I could turn this all into a big joke and leave them laughing. After all, I am an actress.
I back out of the parking lot and head toward North Hollywood, toward my friends who love me, no matter what.
Forget acting. I’m going to tell the unvarnished truth.
CHAPTER 13
Why is it easier to toot somebody else’s horn?
—Jenny
I am incensed listening to Gloria’s recital of Claude Foxwort’s cheap offer to turn her into somebody else, somebody who would confuse and disappoint her fans and undermine everything she’s built for us over the years.
“Why, you’re our hero.” I blurt this out, while Gloria sits, tense and quiet in the yellow chintz chair with the sun making gold streaks across her cheekbones. They look like knife blades. I almost envy her. If I looked like her instead of me, Rick wouldn’t let me out of his sight.
I should be ashamed of myself. Really. Sitting here thinking about my own problems instead of hers.
“I ought to march down there and jerk a knot in that old fox’s tail,” I say, meaning it.
Angie, who usually thinks only of her own impossible teenage dreams, gets up in arms.
“Mom ought to organize a great big protest. She’s good at that.”
A week ago I’d think Angie meant that as an insult, but change seems to be working its magic. I really think she means it as a compliment, though I’ll never know.
She’s moved on to topics more interesting than the trials and tribulations of grown-ups.
While she prattles on to Gloria about Marshall, I mull over the possibilities of a protest. Forget that I don’t know anybody in Los Angeles except Roberta and Gloria. Forget that I don’t know my way to the corner store, let alone the studio where my favorite soap opera of twenty years is filmed.
I’m good at organizing, so good I’ve organized myself out of a marriage. Still, it’s not only something to think about; it’s something to fill my time, the long, lonely stretch of hours while I wait for heaven knows what.
A miracle?
Maybe I’ll give this protest a whirl. If I can’t work a miracle for myself, please God, let me work one for the woman who is now telling my teenage daughter she doesn’t recommend accepting Marshall-the-magician’s offer for burgers and fries in parts unknown.
“Why don’t you invite him over for a swim?” is the next part of Gloria’s advice, which sounds reasonable to me. And safe.
“That way, we can get to know him,” I say, and Angie makes a face as if I’ve just stepped in something foul.
“Come on, Mom. I’m not a baby. I don’t need a chaperone.”
It seems like I take one step forward with her and three steps back.
In Mooreville, I knew everybody. If Angie mentioned a boy, I not only knew his parents and where he lived, but I knew whether he went to church and how often. I knew if he had ambition or was just coasting along, looking for trouble.
“I just want to know if he’s a nice boy.” I turn to Roberta. “Hubert probably knows him. Can you ask your husband?”
“Next thing I know,” Angie says, “you’ll be calling the FBI.”
“I already did, baby girl.”
Roberta says this in a way that makes my daughter grin. Why can’t I do that? Why do I always say the exact thing that will start a fight?
“You’ve got three chaperones,” she adds. “Not one. But as pretty as you are, Marshall wouldn’t notice us if we were a herd of elephants lined up at the patio door begging for peanuts.”
“You’re the best.” Angie hugs Roberta and Gloria, then hesitates as if she thinks I might be carrying the black plague.
“I don’t bite,” I tell her, and she’s grinning when she leans down to give me a peck on the cheek.
I wish I could tell Rick. We’re making progress here, I’d say. We’re both learning the light touch.
I wonder what would happen if we applied that touch to our marriage. If I laughed with Rick more and accused him less. If he accepted me as I am and expected less. Maybe there’s no such thing as miracles that fall out of the sky. Maybe there are only miracles we make ourselves.
I stand up, the rest of the long day stretching before me.
“Well, who’s in the mood for an apple pie?” The fruit basket is filled with nice, tart Granny Smiths, and I know the cupboard is as well-stocked as Rick’s restaurant. I’ve checked.
“If you go near that kitchen, I’ll break both your arms,” Roberta says.
“Okay,
okay.”
I don’t go near the kitchen; I go to Universal Studios on the typical tourists’ tour with Gloria while Angie stays home to swim and call her friends, including Jackson, I’m sure. But that doesn’t even bother me now. Roberta stays behind to “shovel through a ton of you know what” in her office. Her words. Not mine.
Strolling around Universal’s lot finding out that King Kong is made up of tricks and Gilligan’s Island is little more than a small pond on a small lot, I feel a sense of loss. What I love about the movies is the sense I’m watching something magical.
Listen, I know this is silly, but when I was ten I still believed in fairies. And unicorns. And Cinderella finding her Prince Charming.
In a way, I still believe in those things. I just don’t know how to recapture the feeling of magic in a world of pie crusts and dog poop and Wet Jet mops.
“I don’t want to make pies anymore.”
“What?”
Gloria and I have moved on past the sharks that won’t bite, the Red Sea that’s not a sea, and the Psycho house. We’re standing in a gift shop in front of the Wizard of Oz display.
“I love cooking. I love that Rick’s customers enjoy my pies. But I’m tired of being separated from him all day.”
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
I guess couples get so used to each other, we think our partner can read our minds. We forget how to say the important things. We hide the truth because it might cause change, and change is hard.
“There are a few things I haven’t told Tuck, either. But I plan to.”
She tells me about the invitation to Del Mar, and I click my heels together as if I’m wearing the Ruby slippers and have discovered the magic of home.
She ends up buying two small hand puppets from the Oz collection.
“One for you and one for me,” she says.
Both are the Cowardly Lion. They’re cute and cuddly with big medals pinned over their hearts that say Courage. Wearing our puppets on our hands, we link arms and head toward her Ferrari.
Leaning back against the leather seats I suddenly feel as if I can go anywhere. Even into a future that holds a little magic.
Is it possible Mom was once young?
—Angie
WHEN Mom walks in wearing this Cowardly Lion hand puppet and a grin that makes her look ten years younger, I can’t believe it.
Something else I can’t believe. She kicks off her shoes, rolls up her pants legs and dangles her feet in the swimming pool, even though there’s water everywhere and she’s getting the back of her slacks wet.
“Hey, you,” she says and I say hey right back. “Did you get in touch with your friends?”
So that’s her ploy. She wants to find out if I talked to Jackson.
“Yep. Marshall’s coming over later. I talked to Sally, too. And Jackson.”
Brace yourself. Here comes the tsunami.
“Is everything all right back home?”
Wonder of wonders. I think this California air is making Mom soft. Or maybe it’s old age.
“Mom? When you were young, what did you dream about?”
“Your dad.”
“Besides him.”
She sighs. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very ambitious.”
“Come on, Mom. You must have wanted to do something?”
“A party planner. That’s what I wanted to be.” She leans down to splash me. “Sorry to disappoint you, kiddo.”
I feel like a mean old Grinch who has stolen her Christmas.
“I think it’s cool. And I’ll bet you were good at it.”
“Once upon a time.” She gets up, feels the seat of her pants and says, “Whoops. Look at me.”
As she goes inside, I resolve to be nicer to my mom. Even adults need affirmation.
If I leave the safety of the known, will I tumble or will I fly?
—Gloria
I LEFT this morning with my mind at ease. Of course, Roberta’s going to run the fort while I’m gone. She always does.
Still it’s my guests I’m thinking about. But Jenny’s finally relaxing, and Angie’s scrapbooking and making new friends. Marshall’s a nice kid.
Both the Millers stood in the driveway waving when I left. Angie even handed me a card she’d painted herself. A blue bird, flying over a little village that looked like Mooreville.
“Thank you for showing me how to fly,” she’s written, then “Love, Angie.”
Love. I like to think she means that. And I like to think she has her feet more solidly on the ground, and that maybe I’ve played a small role in her growing up.
I hope so. If I have helped Jenny and her daughter, then it’s more than I’ve accomplished in twenty years on TV. Scary thought.
I enter the city limits and the excitement of seeing historic Del Mar Race Track takes my mind off everything.
Built in 1937, this track was the brainchild of Bing Crosby, Pat O’Brien and Paramount Studios. The old-time greats, including Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Dorothy Lamour and Ava Gardner, graced its stands.
As I park my car and make my way among the crowd in the grandstand built in Spanish Mission style, I sense the mystique of the track’s Hollywood past. And I feel a part of it all.
Up ahead I see Tuck in his owner’s box, binoculars in his hands, scanning the crowd. Looking for me?
I duck behind a post, not ready to see him yet, not sure what I’ll say or even what I want. Reaching into my tote for the program, I pull out the Cowardly Lion.
Just speak your heart. That’s what I imagine he’d say if he could talk.
“Gloria.” Suddenly Tuck’s hand is on my arm, his solid six feet pressed close in the crowd. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” Courage. Truth. “Did you see me hiding?”
“Who can blame you? I’d hide, too, if I were you. Let’s get something to drink.” He steers me deftly back through the crowd, our bodies touching, a necessity with throngs of people milling about. Mine is on fire.
His? Who knows? I can’t see his face without stopping mid-throng and causing a major collision.
In the dim light and coolness of the lounge, he says, “Margaritas all right with you?” then orders two and leads me to a corner booth. We sit elbow to elbow. Sip our drinks. Look at each other without embarrassment and with a great deal of curiosity.
And rampaging desire.
Now I see his clearly. In the darkening of his eyes, the intense way he has of seeing past my skin and bones all the way to my heart.
He reaches for my hand, turns it over, kisses each fingertip then lets his lips linger against the deep groove in my palm. It’s called the heart line, and not without reason. His kiss sears through my skin, my bones, my racing blood and brands my heart.
“I’m selfish,” he says.
“No. You’re a courageous man who raised a son alone, built a racing empire and kept your feet on the ground.”
“I wanted you all to myself. You’re a strong, desirable, talented woman. I’ll always want you all to myself.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think, may never have another coherent thought in my life. Only this. Tuck. Just his name. Like a whisper. A song. A star.
“When you were in Mississippi, I made the same mistake with you that I made with Jolene. My ex-wife.”
There’s no thought of pretending. Courage and truth are my two new mottos.
“Jenny told me she was an opera star who returned to her career.”
“I wanted her to choose me. I wanted all or nothing at all.” He kisses my palm again, and thank God, thank God, he doesn’t let go. “That’s what I wanted of you. I was so jealous at the barbecue when the reporters came. I was arrogant and foolish enough to think you’d give up being the nation’s TV goddess for a horse farm in Mooreville, Mississippi.”
I could say something like, You don’t do yourself justice. I could wax eloquent about Tuck’s Farms and claim I’d like nothing better than to spend the rest of my life there.
Instead, I cut to the heart of the matter.
“Do you still feel that way?”
“About you? Yes. About choosing me? No. You’ve worked as hard for your success as I have for mine.”
I take back my hands, wrap them around the glass. Distant and guarded.
“Tuck, you’re looking at the former goddess of daytime TV.” I tell him about being replaced by a younger woman, my unsuccessful attempts to regain my spotlight. The funny thing is, in the telling I don’t feel like a failure; I don’t feel like a woman who has lost a career.
Instead, I feel as if I’m on the brink of something new, a woman stepping through one door and peering behind three more to see what she’ll discover.
He recaptures my hand, holds on. His touch feels true and safe, and I try to explain the rest, the feeling of being poised for a different future but still uncertain what that future is.
“I’d like to tag along while you find out.”
“I’d like that, too.”
“Good. Now let’s go to the stables so you can meet Tuck’s Golden Boy.”
I’VE NEVER seen a more beautiful horse, a more beautiful day. Surrounded by the smells of hay and horses, sweat and nerves, anxiety and hope, I fall completely into the moment.
Tuck lets me pet the stallion’s soft muzzle, and introduces me to the jockey, Ramon, a tiny, dark-eyed man in the purple silks of Tuck’s Farms. I also meet the stable boys and his assistant trainer, Largo Johnson, a big, gentle man I trust on sight.
There’s a whole world here I’ve never imagined. I can see how it sucks you in, demands loyalty, commitment and total immersion.
Those are the qualities I see in Tuck as he pulls his jockey aside to talk about the horse, its needs, its quirks, its fighting spirit.
“You’ll have to hold him back, Ramon. He wants to burst out of the gate running wide open. Talk to him, tell him he’s winning, he’s a champion. Talk him over the finish line. First.”
After Ramon leaves, I say, “You really talk to horses like that? And they understand?”
“Who knows what goes on in the mind of another creature? Even humans.”
