Postcards From Last Summer

by Roz Bailey

  I glanced up at her, glad I hadn’t completely tuned out and missed this part of Susan’s speech. In the past year or so I’d come to realize that you could never completely catch up in a job like mine, with manuscripts arriving in the slush pile every day, scheduling issues, manuscripts to be line-edited, cover copy to be rewritten, marketing calling for next season’s concepts and catalog copy.

  “I’d told my kids that either the car or the grocery bills had to go, but they just refused to stop eating,” Susan went on, causing a rumble of laughter in the audience.

  My mind turning back to office tasks, I made a mental list of all the people to e-mail regarding Susan’s MADGI award. Marketing, of course, and the sales force would want to know, field reps . . . I closed my eyes, trying to turn it off. I loved my job and I was good at it; finding three best-selling authors in four years was not a bad track record. But lately I’d realized that, even if I spiraled to the pinnacle of an editorial career, it wasn’t going to bring me fulfillment. Social status, money, job security . . . sure, the bennies were sweet. But a voice deep inside me had begun to shout: More! I needed more. Something kinetic inside me needed to bust out and get moving, and I knew that the evolution of Lindsay wasn’t going to be brought about through an editorial career or, the more likely mistake, a man.

  “Thank you for this esteemed award,” Susan wrapped up her speech, “and thank you for helping me continue to do the thing I love best . . . writing.”

  As I joined the audience in giving the lovely woman a standing ovation, Susan’s words resonated for me. Writing . . . I’d always enjoyed it. Granted, I’d been stung when my romance manuscript was rejected, but I’d also been disappointed in myself for following a formula that didn’t feel right.

  I’d held the Muses at bay for a few years, but maybe this summer was the time to let them out. At last, a little something for myself . . .

  71

  Elle

  I know I’m going to hate myself for this, but . . .

  Elle rolled the mouse back and forth, letting the cursor hover over the Submit Payment button on PerfectPair.com. What did it say about her life that she’d encountered such a dearth of single, straight guys that she was about to resort to an online dating service?

  No, she wasn’t that desperate.

  On the other hand, she needed to pay to get any more information on the guys whose profiles she’d “sampled” on the site for free: the cyclist who wanted to show his special friend Manhattan from two wheels (cute), the java junkie looking for someone to hang with in coffee shops and share favorite books (hairy cute), the Yankee fan who had season tickets for two and needed a voracious Bronx Bomber to hold his mitt in his box seats behind home plate (very good seats). Plus she needed to pay to submit her own profile—the only way anyone was ever going to find her toiling away in this basement of a Chelsea brownstone, the wall-unit air conditioner whirring with a steady purr that was probably acceptable in the sixties when it was built but, here and now in the new millennium, was giving her a headache.

  Although the production offices of Truth and Justice were fairly standard desk-and-chair corporate cubicals in a suite at the Chelsea Pier, these offices for Judd Siegel Productions were dank holes in the basement of Judd Siegel’s brownstone, which Executive Producer Judd Siegel touted as the roots of his business and his childhood. “But when your roots turn gray, you’re supposed to get them colored, Judd,” Elle told him to his face, more than once. “New carpeting. Some fresh paint on the wall. Did’ya ever hear of interior design? It’s this post-Neanderthal technique for making the cave feel like a home.” The main floor contained a rather standard living room of black and gray leather sofas that reminded Elle of a therapist’s office, which was used for short meetings. Beyond that was a door to the back of that level and the upstairs—Judd’s living space, which few had seen. Elle cringed to think of how that area might be decorated, but she’d heard rumors of everything from a shrine to Judd’s ex-wife to mattresses on the floor surrounded by stacks of old newspapers and VCR tapes. Scary.

  She leaned back and the desk chair buckled under her.

  “For crying out loud!” She popped up and kicked the chair away, pulling over a free-standing file box to sit on in front of her laptop. On the screen the art deco flowers and diamond shapes—subliminal bride bait?—flashed at her from the home page of PerfectPair.com. Yes or no? Find love . . . or plug through the night all alone in this dark, creepy basement office?

  She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Her shift had started at six this morning and she was supposed to be out by six P.M. and headed east on the Long Island Expressway to Southampton’s beaches and breezes and friends and fruity frozen drinks. But when Becca had started stressing because her friends had set her up with a date and she’d been the unlucky production assistant chosen to wait for a messenger delivery, well, Elle crumbled. Becca had someone to meet; Elle had no one, no prospects, no friends of friends, no interested barista at the Starbucks she frequented, no single hygienists dashing about in white coats when she got her teeth cleaned. Pathetic.

  Just then her cell phone rang—Darcy. Elle flipped it open and said, “Do you think I should sign up on PerfectPair.com, or am I just going through a dry spell?”

  Darcy laughed. “You’re asking a woman with a four-year-old? The last time I dated, subway tokens were a dollar.”

  “They’re phasing them out, you know.” Elle rolled the cursor over the box again, back and forth. “Subway tokens.”

  “Oh, now I feel really out of it,” Darcy said. “When are you getting off? Maisy wants to say good night.”

  “I don’t know. They swore they were driving this package straight from the warehouse in Hunts Point. I wouldn’t mind waiting if I had something productive to do and if Judd would bring in Merry Maids once in a while.” She squinted in the shadows at a crack on the ceiling that reminded her of a map of Italy. Something black and furry seemed to be growing toward it, looping around a bookcase that contained dozens of overstuffed binders, production logs from days gone by. No . . . Judd needed more than a maid service. More like a demolition.

  “I called because I read the script,” Darcy said, “and I had to tell someone. It’s wonderful. Like, scary wonderful.”

  “Really?” Elle went to the Submit box and clicked. There. Now she could start making up the sales pitch to sell herself. “Didn’t I tell you that Noah Storm’s star was on the rise? Is the script funny, though? His last comedy was a little dark.”

  “I laughed, I cried, I peed my pants,” Darcy said. “Oops, maybe that was Maisy.”

  “Was not! Mommy!” Elle heard Maisy’s voice from the background.

  “And here she is to say good night.” Darcy promptly put her daughter on the phone, and Maisy proceeded to pin down the schedule for the following morning: pancakes and chocolate milk, followed by tooth brushing and then the ride out to the Hamptons. “Press any harder, Maise, and I’m going to make you a production coordinator.”

  Maisy giggled. “Okay.”

  The crack of the ancient door knocker sounded upstairs, and Elle hiked up the skinny, twisting staircase. “Gotta go, honey. See you soon!”

  After Elle had signed off on the package and ripped into it, she realized that its contents needed to be handled right away. The package, messengered from the casting director, contained a CD with auditions of out-of-town actors for parts in the Truth and Justice episode to be cast Monday morning. No one had mentioned that the incoming package would need immediate attention, but she suspected that Becca didn’t even know what she was supposed to be waiting for. She had no choice but to stay and e-mail the audition files to everyone who needed to see them.

  “Shiitake mushrooms!” she cursed, returning to the basement to get the work done. Elle had forced herself to clean up her language when Maisy started talking, knowing that the little girl learned so much through mimicking.

  Downstairs she turned on the cranky old office computer and set to w
ork downloading the CD and compiling the list of e-mail addresses for everyone who needed the disk. As she was working, she heard another noise upstairs—the door opening and footsteps—and she suspected it was another staff member.

  “I’m down here!” she yelled.

  “Who’s trespassing in my office?” came the booming voice of Judd Siegel.

  Elle moaned but kept typing on the keyboard. The last thing she needed was Judd staring over her shoulder.

  “Elle, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you went home hours ago.” His broad shoulders and tall frame filled the small office the moment he stepped in. Judd was one of those producers who’d come into the business with an established name—Judd Siegel, all-star quarterback for Boston College. After an injury sidelined him in the pros he’d gone to law school and worked as an ADA in Boston, just long enough to gather enough juicy material to spin into storylines of Truth and Justice.

  “Well, I’d like to say I came to read the future in that funky mold you’ve got growing on the ceiling, but alas, I had work to do. You wanted out-of-town auditions? You got ’em!” She nodded at one of the auditions, which she’d opened in a box on the monitor while the rest downloaded. “These just came in from Xavier Casting. Check out this guy’s hair—very Albert Einstein.”

  He folded his arms and hunkered close to the screen, staring intently. “Could work for us. But why is this coming in so late? Xavier knows I want audition materials no later than Wednesday.”

  She held up her hands. “Not my fault.”

  “I might have to let Xavier go. They’ve been getting lazy, lethargic.” Arms folded, he paced across the small office, his heels clumping on the threadbare oriental rug.

  “Whatever you say, boss. But while you’re making a note of it, you might want to make an appointment for a haircut and an industrial cleaning crew. Your hair is getting way too shaggy to be respectable, even in film circles, and this place . . .” She pinched her nose. “Stinkeroo.”

  “You just finish those auditions, Elle. I can handle my personal life.”

  When the team doesn’t handle it for you. Elle had become accustomed to the “handling” of Judd Siegel in the years she’d worked on Truth and Justice. A writing producer, Judd would be running 24/7 if his team didn’t protect him from the smaller details, the crises of an actor too sick to shoot or a reel of film stolen from a PA’s car. Having seen Judd’s genius at work, Elle understood his success, but she refused to be fazed by the barked orders and suck-ups creating a bubble around him.

  Elle kept working on the download, trying to get this finished and get out of here before Judd concocted some other project that would keep them both working here until late into the night.

  “There’s no excuse for being this late. Shit, they could’ve thrown off our entire week’s shooting schedule,” he said, still pacing, his long shadow occasionally falling over Elle’s corner, then receding.

  As she worked she heard him talking on his cell—presumably leaving a message for Xavier Casting, his gruff voice restrained until he clicked off and bellowed, “Aw . . . don’t tell me!”

  Elle hunkered down to her task, trying to ignore him.

  “Is this yours?” he asked.

  She paused, turned to spare him a look, then froze. Freakin’ frog fingers . . . she’d left her laptop on the PerfectPair.com site, the screen flashing hearts and flowers now. “Oh, that. I was bored,” she said, quickly turning back to her work and hoping he’d drop it.

  No such luck. “You can’t be serious.” He moved up behind her and she swore he was sucking the oxygen out of the little room with every big breath. “Would you really pay to meet some loser?”

  “Now wait a minute.” She swung round to face him. “Just because you haven’t used a service like that doesn’t mean that everyone who does is a loser. I happen to have a good friend who found her husband through a Web site like this.” Actually, a friend of a friend—Lindsay’s sister’s friend—but he didn’t need to know that.

  “What’s wrong with people today that they’ve abandoned the art of conversation, the personal exchange in the marketplace, polite civilities on the street? I said good morning to a guy who met my eye on the subway the other day, and do you know what he did? He gave up his seat. Got up and moved to the other end of the car, because my greeting made him that uncomfortable.”

  “You probably made him nervous,” she said. “I know I’d be freaking if some two-hundred-pound man was eyeing my seat.”

  “One-eighty, and I was just being friendly.” He grinned, a dimple emerging on one side of his face. “But his seat ended up going to a pregnant woman. There’s a happy ending for you.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is that online dating is unnatural. Forget about cyberspace and hook up with someone from your world, your everyday life. Christ, you live in Manhattan! This island is crammed with people, half of them men.”

  “And a lot of them are very happy with each other,” she said.

  He shook his head, dismissing her tangent. “You know what I think? Women today are just too cool for their own good. If you’re not meeting anyone, you’re just not sending out the right signals, Elle.”

  “I’m not meeting anyone because I spend twelve hours a day working on a TV production team. Right now the sexiest thing I have going is the hot storylines of Truth and Justice, and that’s just sad.”

  “No shit?” He winced. “Sorry to hear about that. But really, if you want to get with someone you gotta be open to it, Elle. In this random universe, you have to be ready for simpatico to strike: Talk to the guy in line at the coffee shop. Look someone in the eye on the subway. Share a cab with someone heading in your direction. Put yourself out there.”

  She turned back to the downloading files, rolling her eyes. “If that’s not an invitation to be stalked . . .”

  “See that? I suggest the simplest courtesies and already you’re defensive.”

  “You don’t have a clue what it’s like to be a woman in New York City.” She sagged in relief as the download completed. “And my work here is done.” She shut down the computer and went to gather up her laptop.

  “Listen to me. When you get in the cab now, talk up the driver. Don’t be a snob. You just never know when you’re going to connect with someone.”

  She clicked her laptop closed. “You’re just plain crazy.”

  “And you’re not following my instructions,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her.

  Elle headed toward the stairs. “I’m off the clock, and I think I’ll walk.” Turning back, she winked. “That’ll give me more of a chance to chat up vagrants and drug dealers lurking in doorways and alleys. Romance could be lurking just around the corner.”

  72

  Lindsay

  By the time I pulled myself together and boarded a train to Southampton Saturday morning, the weather was changing, clouds shifting, cooler air blowing in. As the train emerged from the East Side Tunnel, raindrops slanted across the window and the bluish gray sky on the horizon promised more of the same. Great. What was that expression Ma used to say? If I had any luck at all, it’d be bad luck. I pulled out a manuscript to edit—a light one, at two hundred pages—and settled in to make the ride productive.

  Skies seemed brighter as I emerged from the train at Southampton a few hours later. I arrived at Elle’s house to find Elle, Milo, Darcy, and Maisy splashing in the pool.

  “You made it!” Elle called.

  “Aunt Lindsay, come play Marco Polo!” Maisy climbed up the ladder and splatted over, water dripping from the pink bikini bottom drooping below her slender belly. Her curly blond hair sprang out in golden crinkles that framed a wide, expressive mouth.

  Milo swam over to the side and shielded his eyes. “Hey, old friend.”

  “Old buddy, old pal.” I smiled down at him. “How’s tricks?”

  “I can only tell you that this water feels fabulous,” Milo said. “After the humidity we’ve
been having, I couldn’t wait to get out of Manhattan and peel off the sweat. Raj and I drove out last night. He’s staying with friends but he’ll join us for dinner.” Raj was an aspiring actor who currently worked as a makeup artist on Truth and Justice, where he and Milo had met two years ago. Their first encounter had been a bit bloody, as Milo was dressing an unusual set—an S&M chamber where the victim had been held prisoner—where Raj was brought in to apply realistic bruises and bloody gashes to the body. A tube of fake blood was clogged, and when Raj tried to work it the plug popped and red gel splattered all over the set . . . and Milo’s pants. “Sorry!” Horrified, Raj tried to rub out the stain, which only made it worse. Milo thought it was all very funny, and he asked Raj if he wouldn’t mind going to lunch with a grip who looked like he was bleeding to death. Raj said he’d love lunch, as long as they stopped into the Gap for jeans on the way. “The show will pay for them, ducky, and besides, you could use something tapered to show off that ass.” And they’d been together ever since.

  I went over to a lounge chair beside Darcy, who seemed engrossed in a script. “Don’t tell me that’s the new Noah Storm comedy?”

  Darcy grinned. “Life After iPod.”

  “Do you know if it’s been cast yet?” I teased. “Who might have the female lead?”

  “I can’t believe any of this is happening to me,” Darcy said. “I’ve never been so excited about learning lines before. I get to throw pies at the Union Square market, and there’s a very funny scene where I emerge from the ocean in a business suit and drip my way down the road—I really shouldn’t talk about it, but the role is packed with comedic possibilities.”

  “Need help memorizing them?” I slipped off my sandals and fell back in the chair. “I’ll help you rehearse.”

  Darcy peered over her sunglasses. “But then I’d have to kill you. The script is top secret. But you know what you could do to help. Take that little Tootsie Pop over there and run her around on the beach for an hour or so. She’s been bugging me to take her down to the ocean, but I’m afraid to tear myself away. Noah’s starting rehearsals this week and I want to appear to be prepared, at least for the first week.”