by Jayne Denker
Then, with my platform Frankenstein shoes silent, I could hear a voice in the distance—male, talking and then stopping, obviously on the phone. Maybe he could tell me why this place was like a morgue. I went farther around the curve, and the voice got louder. Finally I found the open door and peeked inside.
Crap.
Mason, looking down at his desk while he talked on the phone. I recognized his distinctive profile.
I pulled my head back quickly. It was likely he hadn’t seen me, which was just fine. All that stuff Jaya had said about him being an admirer was still pinging around in my brain, and it muddled up my insides enough that I wanted to be as far from this guy as possible. It was the safest option.
I considered taking my shoes off to sneak away, tossed that idea, and instead lifted my foot high, optimistic that I could take slow, careful, and, most important, silent steps out of there.
Then, “Come on in, Ms. Sinclair.”
Crappity crap crap.
I turned around. The doorway was empty; he hadn’t gotten up from his desk yet. I could still make a run for it, I thought a little frantically.
“I know you’re out there. I can hear you breathing.”
I dragged myself into the doorway. He leaned back in his chair, his long legs spread wide as he rotated the chair with his heels.
I feebly lifted my hand in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. Back again?”
“Yep.”
“Please,” he gestured, inviting me into his office.
I inched forward. Mason’s chair was in the middle of the room, his desk against the wall to the left. The desk was nice and old, wood, but not quite an antique, and engulfed in piles of paper. As it should be, I thought. As usual, I started mentally set dressing “College Faculty Office.” I would have added wood paneling to the walls, and many-paned windows, to be sort of Harvard/Yale/Oxford-looking. These windows were long and narrow, running all the way to the floor, like the ones in the foyer, and didn’t open. That left enough room for several metal bookcases and a cheesy-looking ’70s couch straight out of the Bradys’ den: wood frame and mustard-colored cushions.
“Sit, relax. Want some coffee?”
“Uh . . .” I didn’t want to stay long enough for coffee.
He reached into a tiny fridge under a just-as-small wooden table where the coffee machine sat and came up with a jug. “I promise not to make it with tap water.”
“Oh, I was kind of hoping you would. It had a flavor.”
“And texture too. Bubble tea’s got nothing on chunky coffee. Patent pending.” He grinned at me as he poured the water into the coffeemaker. A smile wriggled onto my lips whether I wanted it there or not. I watched him put the water away and open up a bag of coffee. He glanced over his shoulder again. “What?”
I crossed my arms and leaned on the door jamb. “A college professor wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows—isn’t that a bit of a cliché?”
He laughed outright at this, and the spot behind my navel fluttered a bit. I realized I really liked his laugh. And his smile. Stop. That way lies madness. “I had a meeting with the trustees this morning, so I decided I should look the part. Sit,” he prompted again, gesturing at the Brady couch.
I perched on the edge of one mustard-colored cushion. Mason sat back down in his office chair, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled politely. “Ms. Sinclair.”
“Call me Faith.”
“Still hoping to talk with Alex, then, Faith?”
“Where is he today? In fact, where is everybody? It’s disturbingly quiet around here.”
“The students are doing a workshop at one of the local elementary schools.” I shot to my feet, but he held up a hand like a traffic cop. “No, I’m not telling you which one. And by the time you look up all the phone numbers and call around, they’ll be done. Relax, Faith,” he said again. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
I sat again, but I didn’t relax. “Mason, I don’t give up. I need to talk with Alex, and I’m coming back every day until I do.”
“I admire your dedication. But as I told you yesterday, that won’t be possible. Our—”
“—policy. Yeah, I heard you the first time.”
“We feel it’s important.”
I decided to put on my listening cap. “Explain it to me, then. Please,” I added.
“When Alex enrolled for the summer session, he said he wanted to be a regular student, no special treatment. He wanted to be anonymous, you could say. So we haven’t publicized the fact that he’s attending school here, and we agreed that we’d all protect his privacy.”
“But I’m—”
“Even from you. Actually, if I dare say it, especially from you.”
“What?”
“He said he didn’t want anyone from his past tracking him down. He wants to focus on being a student, wants to focus on his—”
“Don’t tell me. His ‘craft.’” The recollection of all his nattering about this stuff on set, and what it turned into—how his affectations influenced the whole show, and not for the better—made my words bitter.
Mason smiled knowingly. “That may have come up in his admissions interview.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s not a bad thing, you know.”
I shifted, crossed my legs, readjusted my pencil skirt. I noticed Mason’s glance went there for a split second, then he refocused on my face. I thought maybe I should try to use “feminine wiles” on this guy, then dismissed the idea. I may have been capable of many things, but flirting to get a guy to do what I wanted was definitely notone of them. I was more of a straight shooter—which got me a lot of guy friends and not one guy in my bed. Okay, a few, and usually in spite of my efforts, not because of them. But I never was able to amass a large collection of droolers, even if I wanted them. Which I didn’t. And I certainly didn’t want Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell included in the droolers category. No indeed, as my dear stepbrother would have said.
At least, I didn’t think so.
“Well,” I said, still matter-of-fact, “I need to talk to him. In person.”
“You said that yesterday. What I don’t understand is why. I mean . . . the rumors that were going around when he left the show . . . the two of you were hardly best friends.”
That was an understatement. I started to spout my usual line about “a mutual parting of ways,” but for some reason I felt like being truthful. So instead, I said delicately, “There is . . . some truth to that. But a lot of time has passed. I don’t think we bear each other any ill will, after all, and—”
“That’s funny. He seems to see things differently.”
That brought me up short. “He’s been talking to you? About . . . ?”
Mason held up a hand again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Whatever is between the two of you is just that—private, between the two of you.”
“You make it sound all kinds of sordid. It’s not.” As soon as those words were out, I flinched. Way to protest too much, Sinclair.
“No, I . . . Look, my motivation is purely to protect one of my students, not dig for gossip. Alex asked for privacy, and that’s what I’m going to make sure he gets.” He looked me squarely in the eye. “So, I hate to say this, Faith, but it’s really unwise to keep coming back.”
I stared back, and for the first time I noticed what a nice, warm shade of brown his eyes were. To shake off the unnerving melty sensation making its way through my torso, I got tougher. “Like you can stop me,” I smirked. “It’s a free country.”
“To a point. If you’re harassing a student—”
“I’m not harassing—”
“If what you’re doing disturbs Alex, then it’s harassment. And then I can have security escort you off the campus and ensure you aren’t allowed back on the premises.”
Oh God, please not more security guards escorting me off premises. That was getting so old.
“But I don’t really want to have to do that. And I’m sure you don’t w
ant that kind of publicity, right?”
His tone was so hard all of a sudden, my mouth dropped open. This guy meant business. Low blow, hitting me in the publicity bone. Too bad he didn’t take the writing job—I got the impression he could have held his own really well in Hollywood.
I sat up straighter. “Okay, there’s a very good reason I’m looking for Alex.” He waited patiently, and I felt like a kid who was trying to shovel some lame excuse for why she didn’t turn her paper in on time. My words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m . . . I’m not with Modern Women anymore. Honestly, I got kicked off the show—never mind why.” I wasn’t about to go there. “You probably figured that out when we, er, met. One of my producers, Jaya Singh, is in charge now. She’s a good friend, and really brilliant—”
“I met her when I interviewed at the studio. She was very gracious. Really lovely.”
“Yep, that’s her. She’s engaged, by the way,” I added impulsively, as my brain screamed in protest. But I didn’t stop there. For some reason I felt compelled to add to the lie I had just spit out for no good reason. “To a woman. Wedding next year.” Oh shut UP. What in the world was I doing? Jaya wasn’t engaged, and she wasn’t a lesbian. Last I heard she was hooking up with the guy who owned the taco truck that parked outside the studio gates at lunchtime. “Anyway,” I rushed on, to cover my stupid side comment, “even though she’s doing a good job, the season finale was . . . less than popular, let’s say. We’re not sure what kind of reception we’re going to get during the fall season, so she suggested we bring Alex back to renew interest in the show.”
“And if you bag him, you’d earn forgiveness and maybe get your job back.”
Hey, way to think like a producer. Good boy. “It’s a possibility,” I hedged, not very convincingly.
Mason thought for a moment. “Brilliant idea,” he said, completely sincerely.
He agreed with me—hurdle cleared! “Right?” I enthused.
“But . . .”
Whoops—hurdle notcleared. Hurdle tangled in feet, face plant imminent. Oh great googly moogly, what? Was he going to debate this?
“You’re forgetting something.”
Apparently he was going to debate this. Okay, bring it. “Go on.”
“I’m not hearing anything in this plan that’s beneficial for Alex.”
Uh . . . what? I looked at him like he was nuts because, let’s face it, I thought he was nuts. What was he talking about, “beneficial for Alex”?
“What I mean is, so far you’ve been talking about your future, and ratings for the show, but what if Alex returning to the show isn’t good for Alex? Don’t you want what’s best for him?”
I took a breath. “Okay, Dad, look—Alex is a big boy. I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. But I think I should be able to present the idea to him and let him decide for himself. I mean, it’s not like I’d be dragging him back to a Victorian workhouse. He’d be back on the show where he made his name, the fans would go nuts, he’d have a steady paycheck again, not to mention movie offers—”
“And if that’s not what he wants?”
“Why wouldn’t he want that?”
Mason smiled placidly, which irritated me. “Faith, Alex is here to learn to be a better actor. He chose to come here. He chose to leave episodic television behind and pursue live theater. For now,” he added. “Or maybe for good. He doesn’t know yet, but he should be allowed to find out in his own time, on his own. Don’t you want to honor that?”
No, I do not want to honor that, I wanted to yell, but I was determined to appear as calm as he was. I took another breath. It wasn’t helping; it was just making me light-headed, which didn’t mix well with being pissed off. “Obviously, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “you’re not getting it.”
“Oh, I think I am. It’s pretty self-serving, isn’t it? You’re putting yourself first, your show second, and Alex’s interests a distant third. It’s not that hard to figure out.”
Right about then was when I lost it. But I didn’t shout. Instead, my voice sounded deadly, even to me, and the quaver underlying my words just reinforced how incensed I was. “I don’t do that, Professor Mitchell. I would do anything—anything—to keep that show going, and right about now it needs some serious help. I’m trying to make sure those people who come to work every day can keep on coming to work every day. My cast and crew are the most important people in my life. I’m doing it for them.” He was silent, gazing at me steadily. Before I could stop myself, I continued, “People not in show business give people in show business a bad rap. They assume we’re all . . .” Hollywood asshats, said Bea’s voice in my head,“. . . selfish, ruthless, heartless, willing to throw our own grandmothers under a bus to get a hit. That might be true for some people, but not for me.”
Mason, quite serious, interlaced his fingers in his lap and nodded slowly. “You’re right. Of course. I apologize.”
My brain didn’t process his words immediately; it took a few seconds, and in the meantime I charged on, “I’ve seen the other side, you know. I was brought up in the Hollywood studio system. My mother was—” and then I realized what he said. It was like my brain went into a skid, I was so blindsided. “You . . . you do?” I asked stupidly.
“I absolutely do.” Here he smiled politely. “And I am very well acquainted with your mother’s esteemed career. I’m a big fan of her movies.”
“Oh,” I answered grimly, latching onto something so familiar. “A Moner.”
He half-laughed. “A what—a ‘moaner’?”
“Moner,” I repeated. “Not ‘unnnhhhh,’” I, well, moaned. Mason crossed his legs and shifted in his chair. “Moner as in ‘fan of Mona.’ It’s what I call her devotees.”
“I see. Well, yes, I guess you could call me that. It’s a weird name, though.”
“Hey, cut me some slack—I came up with it when I was twelve.”
“Do you consider Alex a Moner too?”
“I consider him an opportunist,” I muttered, thinking of how he used to try to pick my brain about my mother. “Why are you asking about Alex?”
Mason got up to pour the coffee. “Because yesterday you said it was a coincidence that you and I had met before. But it wasn’t. I’d met Alex last year, at a Mona Urquhart film festival in L.A. When he decided he wanted to attend college, he contacted me. I was more than happy to have him join our program.”
“Doesn’t seem like a very big one.”
He turned back around, holding two white mugs with gold-and-blue IECC logos on them. “It is pretty small,” he admitted, handing one to me. “There are only about a dozentheater students. Three faculty members, one of whom is on sabbatical at the moment. One I have to share with the accounting department.” He smiled, amused, eyes twinkling. “And I also teach some film courses. We do what we can. But Alex likes it here, likes the personal attention.”
I bet he did.
“But,” he went on, “sometimes we find ourselves stretched a little thin; we use adjunct instructors when we can. Which makes me wonder . . .”—he paused to take a sip of his coffee, then went on—“if you would be interested in giving a lecture on your mother’s film oeuvre?”
My brain, barely recovered from his apology, started flailing helplessly again, but it was too late—this time it went splat into a brick wall. “Wait—what?”
“A lecture,” he repeated. “About your mother’s movies.”
“No,” I snapped.
“Just like that? ‘No’?”
“Just like that. No.” I was furious again. God, these adrenaline swings were going to kill me.
“Can I ask why not?”
I wanted to take his disingenuousness and shove it up his . . . But I went for sarcasm instead. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not getting a convenient two-for-one deal.”
He took another sip of coffee, his other hand tucked casually in his pocket. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talkin
g about.”
“First Alex, then me? Pretty good deal for a backwater college. And my presence you can publicize.” Absolutely brimming with righteous indignation, I heaved myself to my feet and thrust the mug back at him.
He caught it and skipped backward to avoid coffee sloshing all over his shoes. “You can be really cynical sometimes, you know that?” he said mildly.
“I’ll try not to lose sleep over it.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, that wasn’t what I—” His office phone rang. “Just a second. Please.”
And I was supposed to wait for what? To go another couple of rounds with this guy? Forget it—I had a pounding headache already.
“Hi,” he said into the phone. “Yeah . . . That’s definite, then? . . . Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”
I flung my bag over my shoulder and started for the door. He held out his hand to stop me while he said to the caller, “I understand . . . Nope, can’t be helped . . . No, I think we’ll be okay. Keep in touch; maybe we can figure something out at a later date . . . Yeah, take care.” When he paused again, then said, “What’s that?” I’d had enough. How could I stomp out in a snit if I had to keep waiting for him to finish his phone call? Didn’t he know anything about dramatic exits?
I escaped into the bright white corridor, heading for the doors, my shoes ringing on the linoleum.
“Faith!”
I kept walking.
“Faith, hold up!”
I spun around. “What for?”
“Well,” he said, a little breathlessly, “I . . . I just . . . think—”
“You know, you make no sense. You irritate me, you insult me, you stonewall me, you threaten to throw me off campus, and then you invite me to give a lecture. You make nosense.”
“I know. You’re right. It does sound contradictory.”
“And self-serving,” I spat, happy to throw his own words back at him. “You don’t want me here, until you think you can get something from me. Then the rules change. You’re just like everybody else.”
