“But it’s pivotal. It’s what gives TechnoCat her strength and angst. We have to portray that!”
“But we’re targeting our primary advertising to people from the ages of thirteen to thirty-four. There are more exciting ways to drive them to a theater than to talk about cancer.” I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder while the art director handed me the phony water labels. I looked at them and nodded and the art director darted off.
I tuned back in to the voice in my ear. “I’m not stopping until I get the trailer I want! And the trailer I want focuses on cancer. I’m calling the president of marketing and the chairman of the studio and telling them you are being uncooperative!” The phone slammed in my ear. Be my guest, Stripe, I thought. The studio knew that TechnoCat had to open to at least sixty million dollars to make its money back. They would not support the cancer approach to marketing.
But I also knew that they wouldn’t directly tell him that. No, I knew I was going to be told to cut a cancer-ridden trailer so that boundless amounts of money could be spent on research. This research would prove what the studio knew all along: that not too many people would race to see a movie about cancer. But it deflected a confrontation with a valuable director and the director could then blame the appropriate party: the audience.
I sighed but was happy to see twelve Belgian-labeled bottles, filled with Evian water, sitting proudly on the catering table. Caitlin was in charge of making sure nobody, but nobody, touched the bottles except for Miss Nikki Strong. I checked my watch. Only seventeen minutes had elapsed. Not bad.
I reviewed the photo shoot list I had meticulously planned out over the past week. It had every detail of the day listed down to the minute. Shot one: Headshots (happy) 10:00 a.m. Shot two: Headshots (sad) 10:15 a.m. And on and on. After confirming we hadn’t lost one of the crucial poses, I finally took a break. All we could do now was wait for the star to come on set. Caitlin sat down next to me and checked her BlackBerry.
“Hey.” She nudged me while looking at an email. “Looks like Katsu got that promotion.” I barely looked up from my own emails. Katsu Tanaka was another creative advertising executive at Oxford Pictures. He was a few ranks below me and worked on the smaller-budgeted films. I didn’t pay him much attention.
“Yeah, he’s been bucking for senior vice president for a while now. I heard it was finally going to happen.”
“He didn’t get SVP, Jeannie,” Caitlin said. “This press release says he got executive vice president.”
“What?” I snatched her BlackBerry to see for myself. No way had Katsu skipped up two levels to EVP. That was unheard of. Furthermore, it meant he was now my equal. I studied the press release. How the hell had this happened? It wasn’t like Katsu had done anything spectacular for the studio—which meant he had formed allies in high places who were helping him with a meteoric rise. Working at a studio is a lot like playing chess. Most everyone is a player and trying to maneuver into a better position. I realized with a sinking feeling that somehow I hadn’t noticed a few crucial moves.
Before I could dwell on the situation, Nikki finally arrived on set. She blew air kisses on either side of the photographer’s face and ignored the studio people. I saw her eyes narrow and move to the water. She was making sure that we had jumped through the proper hoops for her. After all, she was the third most powerful female star in America, wasn’t she?
“Would you like some water, Miss Strong?” Caitlin inquired.
“No water today. I want a Diet Coke with two cubes of ice,” Nikki sniffed, and tossed her famous golden ringlets. I looked over at the catering table, where Diet Pepsi bottles were neatly lined up, and sighed.
The shoot finally ended around eight o’clock that evening. Since it was a Saturday, it had ended fairly early. After thanking the star for actually doing her job, I bolted out the door.
I was having dinner with Aidan tonight, and he had told me it was for something special. He was making me a gourmet dinner. He’s a great cook. I’m a lousy cook but a good eater, so it works out. At red lights I texted furiously, trying to get more information on Katsu’s promotion. But those who texted back seemed every bit as surprised as I was.
When I finally arrived at Aidan’s house he was already in full force, pulling something that smelled really fattening out of the oven. I just love a man in oven mitts. I hugged him and asked what I could do to help.
“Stay out of my way,” he said and waved me off to the couch as he handed me a glass of wine. “It’s a Chateau Margaux 1966 so make an effort to appreciate it.” Aidan knew that my tastes ran to bologna, Miracle Whip, and potato chip sandwiches. He’d been trying to educate me, but it’s hard to rehabilitate a midwestern girl.
“I’m making a pork tenderloin roast stuffed with figs, rosemary potatoes, and grilled asparagus,” Aidan shouted from the kitchen. “Sorry, no chocolate soufflé tonight. I got stuck in a production meeting and was late getting home.”
I leaned back and felt all the tingling tensions of the day begin to ease away. I decided that, for tonight anyway, I was not going to worry one bit about Katsu Tanaka and firmly put him out of my mind.
The table was set with white linen, candles, and china I didn’t even know Aidan had. Red roses were in a crystal vase. I couldn’t imagine what was going on to prompt such an elaborate dinner. “What are we celebrating?” I asked.
Aidan set the loaded plates down on the table. “You’re just going to have to wait until after dinner.” When we were finished with the food I thought I had it figured out.
“Did your new movie get green-lit by the studio? Is that the reason for this great dinner?”
“No.”
“It’s not?” I asked. Why else would he go to all this trouble? Aidan pulled a small box out of his jacket pocket. He held it in both hands and took a deep breath. So did I.
Aidan looked into my eyes. “Jeannie, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
I stared at him. My normal tendency would have been to say yes so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. But I’d already answered one proposal that way and my first marriage had turned out to be a disaster. I’d been seeing Aidan for two years and I was madly in love with him and, I was pretty sure, he with me. But I knew all too well how things could change.
“I . . . uh . . .”
“That’s very eloquent, Jeannie. Is that a yes or a no?” Aidan smiled at me.
“Can I think about it?”
He sat back and looked at me. “You have to say yes. I rented china and everything.” When I started laughing, he joined in. Then he said, “Honey, I love you. I know it didn’t work out for you before with Walker, but it’s no reason not to try again.”
I said, “My work schedule already finished off one marriage. I don’t want that to happen again.” I was in pain for him and myself. I stared at my empty, dirty plate.
“I have a similar schedule myself, in case you hadn’t noticed. That’s all right; we mesh that way. We’re both high-speed, high-pressure kind of people and we like that. It gets the adrenaline running.”
“Work is only a part of it,” I said haltingly. “It’s sort of about my family.”
“You don’t think they’d like me?” Aidan grinned. “How would you know? It’s been two years and they’ve never even met me. I can force them to like me, you know. I can be very charming when I want to be.”
“Oh, they would like you in a heartbeat. It’s just that, well, they’re kind of unusual.”
“What is it? Someone in your family chopped up his wife into small pieces and was sent up the river?”
“No,” I sighed. “That was our next-door neighbor.”
Aidan sat back at that. “So what is it?”
“My family isn’t like your family. Your family seems to have everything under control at all times.” I pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. “But stuff just happens to my family. I think of it as really funny but apparently other people don’t. Like Walker, or most of the other spouses in m
y family. A lot of them are ex-spouses now. My family seems to be very trying on the people we love.”
“Give me an example.”
I looked at him long and hard. “I’ll give you one story. But you should be warned that there are lots more.”
He topped off my wine and then his. “I’m ready.
Chapter Two
Sunday, June 22, 1986
Mom, phone for you. It’s Elizabeth,” I called from around the kitchen door. Then I left the phone on the counter and sat back down in my official place for the wedding shower. I was the ribbon keeper. The ribbons were not-so-carefully entwined on a paper-plate bouquet. Anna opened the next package and appropriately cooed at the toaster.
“Williams-Sonoma! Exactly what we wanted!” She beamed at Teeni, who was balancing a mimosa on her knee. That about wrapped up the present opening. Thank God, because Anna had broken fourteen ribbons, by my careful count—which by bridal-shower superstition means fourteen kids, and I just didn’t know how my brother, Evan, would feel about that. Sammie was refilling champagne. Mom had managed to convince Sammie not to wear her skintight, peg-leg jeans and ripped zebra-striped shirt with the safety pins all over it. But there wasn’t a lot Mom could do about Sammie’s pink spiked hair. Sammie crossed her eyes at me when she walked by. All we had to do was get through the toilet-paper wedding dress contest and we were free.
Mom had returned. “Jeannie, help me with the cake in the kitchen, please.” She stepped by me so fast I dropped the ribbon plate. I bent to sort it out. “Now, please.” I looked up past her knit dress, which clung untidily to her hips. This was not about cake. Oh God. It was Elizabeth. Now what? The psychic healer thing? That biotechnic religion of hers? Car broke down again? There were so many possibilities it boggled the mind. Sammie followed, sensing drama, and she, Mom, and I sat at the kitchen table in family-conference mode.
“It’s Lucy,” Mom started.
“No, it was Elizabeth on the—” I interrupted.
“It’s about Lucy.” Mom paused and took a long pull of her cigarette. She’d been smoking for about her whole life. She swore it had never hurt any of us. She ignored the secondhand smoke warnings, but it’s probably the reason all five of us kids are so nearsighted.
“Lucy’s eloped.”
“Don’t you have to run away from home to do that?” I asked. Of course, she already had, I suppose. Mom continued with what she knew of the story. She was usually at her finest in a crisis. A born doer. If it was only a small problem, she needed to blow it up into something worthy of her skills. If she only had a little bit of the story, she would darkly fill in the details with her worst imaginings. If Elizabeth didn’t answer her phone in L.A. for a day or two, then Mom’s assumption was that she’d been killed in the big car pileup outside of San Diego that she’d heard about on the Channel Thirteen local news. No matter that Elizabeth had never mentioned going to San Diego or had never even been there. Mom would fret so sincerely that soon you would be right there with her in the fret-zone. Then Elizabeth—or whoever the current object of attention was—would randomly call, only to be scolded for worrying her half to death. But give Mom a great big, full-on, real-life problem, and she’d be the epitome of grace under pressure.
Apparently Elizabeth had driven to Monterey to visit Lucy. While she was in Lucy’s barracks, she realized she had forgotten to bring any underwear with her. So, like any good sister who is desperate for undergarments, she started rooting around through Lucy’s locker and found the marriage certificate.
“Is she sure it’s real? You know, not like a fake one you would get at Six Flags?” I asked. Mom paused to give me a look.
“So there it is. She’s eloped.”
So far Sammie hadn’t said anything. Staring out the picture window she seemed fixated on a speedboat blaring by on Bear Lake.
“I give. To who and why?” I finally asked.
“His name is Chuck. That’s all Elizabeth saw.” Mom got up to knock her cigarette ash into the ashtray on the counter. Then she cupped one hand under the other elbow. Cigarette held aloft, she mused, “Chuck? On a marriage license? Maybe his real name is Charles.”
Several giggling women came into the kitchen with dirty cups and saucers. Teeni had spilled red wine on herself. She really should have stuck to the mimosas. They were much easier to clean up. Mom went to the fridge for soda water, grabbed the Morton’s salt, and began fussing over the stain. She’s the consummate hostess. Years of practice, I guess.
Anna, my sister-in-law-to-be, came in with more dirty plates.
“Honey, you’re the guest of honor. Put those down right now,” Mom chirped from her stain-fixing crouch.
“Six days until the wedding,” Anna twittered. “I can hardly believe it after all these years.”
Us either, I thought. The way we figured it, she had finally worn Evan down like water smoothes a stone. Anna’s mother stroked her hair and spoke quietly in her ear in French. She was probably saying something mean about us. Like about how Sammie had joked around during the wedding shower about the word “nuptials” and how erotic sounding it was. And it is. “Nuuuup” is up, then “tiiials” is down. Nuuuptiiials, nuuuptiiials. Up down, up down. It sounds like humping in the backseat of a Chevelle. Mom had looked disapproving, but I could tell she wanted to laugh. Instead she had just put her hand firmly on Sammie’s knee and gave her a look. She had perfected this method in church. If any of us were acting up, she couldn’t exactly yell at us down the pew. She just put her hand on the nearest knee and we had to pass it down until it got to the right person. It usually worked.
Later, Mom and Anna were saying good-bye to the guests out in the front hallway. Sammie and I watched the women in the kitchen trickle out. Then Sammie pushed her punked-out, pink-streaked hair out of her eyes. “At least we can thank Elizabeth for getting us out of that T.P. wedding dress game.” She stared out the picture window. “But why would Lucy elope?”
“Why does she do anything?” Lucy is two years older than me. Last year, she came home from Western Michigan University to announce blithely she had joined the army. She told our parents they had said she could leave if she didn’t like it. Later, I realized Lucy knew you couldn’t just up and leave. She was far too smart not to have asked those questions. She was just hoping Mom and Dad didn’t know, to give them some hope. But of course they did know. After finding out she had already signed all of the papers, they just hugged her and said they supported her decision.
But later, when Lucy was gone, Mom sat at the kitchen table staring at her coffee and asked, “What kind of girl joins the army?” I knew what she was thinking. In her mind, the army was for people with no other prospects—not for girls who wore Kelly green sweaters with their initials embroidered on them in pink. First and middle initial on either side of a large last initial.
Dad read the paper in the adjoining TV room, trying to veer away from the storm that was my mother “in mode,” as we called it. “Couldn’t it at least have been the Air Force?” he grunted. For reasons unknown to any of us, Dad had always had a thing for planes.
Dad tended not to say a lot. He viewed his four daughters with equal vigor and love, but we belonged to our mother. Evan was his son, and his son was his. I once asked him why he started talking to us more when we got older. He said that we weren’t that interesting until we were eighteen. Then he went to smoke a Tareyton and sit in his half-finished gazebo down by the lake.
“Call her. See if she says anything,” I demanded from my place at the table. It had been my place since I graduated from my high chair.
“I talked to her last night and she didn’t say anything, so why would she now?”
“Because now we have info, and we’re nosy.”
I sat tracing the familiar brown laminate of the kitchen table with its roosters painted in the four corners. I’d sat at this table next to Lucy forever. She’d pinch me or whisper mean things. Once she told me that she was going to tell her best friend, Terri,
to tell her little brother, Jason, that I didn’t get my period until I was sixteen and that I was frigid. It wasn’t something to make the boys come running. Unless maybe they figured you couldn’t get pregnant.
There’s a semi-tacky sign hanging above our back door. It has dorky flowers painted on it and says PEOPLE NEED LOVING THE MOST WHEN THEY DESERVE IT THE LEAST. I thought it was true. So I never really blamed her for her torment. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault that she had been born into a stick-thin, size-zero family. Not that she was fat. Far from it. She was actually quite tiny herself. But she never saw her thighs that way. If bulimia or anorexia had been popular then, she would have had it. She never focused on her amazing dark hair and big blue eyes. She only saw her faults. I thought I had it all figured out about the real reason she joined the army: enforced exercise. She figured she’d be working out six hours a day. She’d be doing push-ups, running, the works. But in my mind, Lucy screwed up. She scored too high on the entrance exams. Before she knew it, she was at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, sitting on her butt learning to speak Russian. Sure, she had gone to boot camp at Fort Dix, but even after the ten-mile marches and everything, Lucy said she didn’t lose any weight. Apparently, army food is on the starchy side. And now she’d eloped.
Mom stuck her head through the kitchen door long enough to say that we were wanted in the hallway. Sammie and I dutifully lined up at the front door, hugged everyone good-bye, and thanked them for coming. Mom stared at Teeni’s backside wobbling its way down the front walk. “Think we should have taken her keys and driven her home?”
“Cripes, it’s only four blocks, in broad daylight.” Sammie shut the door firmly. “How much trouble could she get into?”
We resumed our places in the kitchen. But I popped up from my chair a moment later and headed for the cupboard below the kitchen sink. Grabbing the Ajax, I sprinkled the blue stuff over the kitchen counter, wet a sponge, and went to work.
Born Under a Lucky Moon Page 2
