by Mary Kennedy
I smelled the coffee brewing, my own extracaffeinated type, and greeted Pugsley, who heard my voice and came racing in from the balcony. Pugsley is the furry love of my life, a three-year-old rescue dog who understands my most intimate thoughts and feelings. He’s the next best thing to a soul mate and gives me what every woman craves—unconditional love and a ton of sloppy kisses.
Plus he’s game for anything, if it makes me happy. I can’t think of many guys who would curl up on the sofa with me on a Saturday night to watch Marley & Mefor the third time.
Mom’s voice pulled me back from my reverie.
“Guess again! Who called!” She held up my favorite WYME mug and dangled it just out of reach. WYME is the radio station that I left my Manhattan psychoanalytic practice for; I host a call-in show, On the Couch with Maggie Walsh. It’s a small south Florida market, and strictly a bottom-rungs-of-show-biz operation, but I love my job and I don’t miss those New York winters.
“Mom, I swear I don’t know.” I sank into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I said the first Hollywood name I could think of. “Aaron Spelling?”
“Don’t be silly. He’s already passed,” Mom said crisply. “It would take James Van Praagh to reach him now.”
“Then I give up.”
Mom shook her head. “You give up way too easily.” She paused dramatically. “Okay, that was Hank Watson on the phone.” She waited for a reaction, her blue eyes flashing with excitement, her magenta nails beating a tattoo on the table. “The Hank Watson.” She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows for emphasis.
She released the mug and I immediately crossed to the counter and poured myself a hefty cup of coffee. Ah, sweet bliss.
“Hank Watson!! Director Hank Watson,” she added, shaking her head in exasperation. “Don’t you watch Access Hollywood ? What in heaven’s name doyou watch? The History Channel? C-SPAN?”
“I take it he’s a film director.” I sipped my coffee, enjoying that first quick jolt of energy flooding my system.
“Not just any film director.” Her voice was gently chiding. “He’s a master of the horror genre. Didn’t you ever see Night Games? Or Highway to Hell? And what about A Night to Forget? He won the Okaloosa County Film Festival Award for that one.”
I frowned. These all sounded like B movies that probably played to three people in Kentucky before going straight to video. Only one name rang a bell. “A Night to Forget? Was that the old flick about the Titanic?”
“No, that was A Night to Remember,” she said with heavy patience.
“Okay, tell me about Hank Watson. And the phone call.” Pugsley jumped into my lap, hoping for a piece of croissant that didn’t materialize. Unless Lark had picked up some “bakery” before she left town, Puglsey and I were both going to be stuck with a healthy breakfast. Kibble for him and high-fiber cereal for me. Blech.
“Well, brace yourself, darling. Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Your mom’s going to be a movie star—again.” She sat down across from me, her cornflower blue eyes dazzling.
“A movie star?”
“It’s a speaking part,” she said, backpedaling swiftly. I raised my eyebrows. “No, it’s not an under-five,” she added quickly with a toss of her head. “It’s a small role, but you know what they say . . .”
“There are no small roles, only small actors,” I parroted.
She grinned. “I’ve taught you well.” She smiled approvingly. Some of Mom’s recent roles had been the dreaded “under-fives,” meaning she had fewer than five lines of dialogue. As an “under-fiver,” she’s relegated to lousy pay and the tiniest of bit parts. Last month she was a waitress in a Georgia barbecue joint (“Do you want hush puppies with that, hon?”), and just last week she played an emergency room nurse (“Get the crash cart! He’s flatlining!”).
In an industry rife with rejection (98 percent of Screen Actors Guild members are unemployed at any given time) mom has learned not to turn down work. You never know when another part will come along, and the competition is fierce. Five hundred people can turn up to audition for a two-line role.
“Tell me about the movie.”
I rummaged in the pantry, found a five-day-old Enten mann’s crumb-topped coffee cake and zapped it in the microwave for exactly five seconds. Then I cut a hefty wedge for each of us. Fiber has its place, but you can never go wrong with Entenmann’s. Breakfast of champions.
“Well, you know Hank and I go way back,” she began. “Years ago, when I was getting my feet wet in Hollywood, Hank was making a name for himself as a director.”
“So the two of you started out together?” I broke off a corner of coffee cake for Pugsley, who was beating a staccato on the floor with his tiny feet. He wolfed it down and gave me one of those intent stares that pugs do so well, his dark eyes riveted on my face.
“In a way,” Mom said cautiously. “I’m much younger than Hank, of course.”
“Of course.” I plastered a nonchalant look on my face. According to Mom, she’s younger than everyone in Hollywood, with the possible exception of Dakota Fanning. “So he wants you to fly out to Hollywood to work on his latest flick?”
“No, something better! He’s going to be filming part of the movie right here in south Florida, in Cypress Grove. How perfect is that? He got a really good deal from the Florida Film Commission, and he can’t wait to start shooting here. You know, the sunlight, the ocean, the scenery—this place is paradise for a cinematographer.” She was as giddy as if she’d taken a hit of ecstasy. “Just think, Hank and I will be together again, just like in the old days.”
“I’m happy for you, Mom. What’s the movie called?” I wanted to take a peek at the Cypress Grove Gazette that was spread out on the table, but I knew Mom was on a roll and I figured I’d better play along. I couldn’t imagine anyone shooting a movie here, but I decided to take Mom’s word for it.
Cypress Grove is a sleepy Florida town, north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, and a pleasant ride to Fort Lauderdale. As the Chamber of Commerce says on their welcome sign, “Cypress Grove. We’re near everyplace else you’d rather be!” I never could figure out if that was said tongue-in-cheek. Maybe, maybe not.
“The film is called Death Watch, and it stars Adriana St. James. It will be wonderful to work with her again. I haven’t seen her in years, you know.”
I frowned. “Adriana St. James? Mom, I thought you loathed her. How can you stand to be in a movie with her?”
“Oh, that was nothing, a mere creative difference of opinion.” Mom reached down to pat Pugsley, her face melting into a dreamy smile. “You know how it is with us theatre people. One minute we’re discussing Larry Olivier and Hamlet and the next we’re arguing over whether Jeremy Piven really had mercury poisoning when he bailed out of that David Mamet play.” She gave a wry little laugh. “It doesn’t mean a thing, darling. It’s just the artistic temperament shining through. We’re bound to clash from time to time. We always kiss and make up.”
“Mom, you told me Adriana dumped a very large Caesar salad in your lap at Chased’s one night. She claimed you were sleeping with her husband. The whole story was on Page Six.”
“Oh, yes, the Caesar salad.” Mom frowned. “You know, I never did get that stain out of my Chanel suit. I had to donate it to charity. Just think, some poor homeless person is probably wandering around Rodeo Drive wearing a vintage Chanel with a really big stain on the skirt.”
“Mom, I don’t think homeless people spend much time on Rodeo Drive—”
Lola cut me off with a curt laugh. “Well, darling, no one could seriously believe I would sleep with her husband. What a dreadful little man! The funny thing is, I was probably the only woman in Hollywood who wasn’t sleeping with Marvin.” Mom chortled. “He had so many girlfriends, he made Warren Beatty look like a celibate monk.”
I took at peek at the Gazette. Nothing on the front page about the film. I quickly riffled through the sections, local, business, arts and entertainmen
t. Zilch. I’d have to call Nick, my reporter pal, the moment I got into work.
“The movie deal isn’t a secret, is it, Mom? Because there’s nothing in the local paper about it.”
“Well, maybe not in this paper,” she said. “Hank said the news is hitting the Hollywood Reporter today. And the Los Angeles Timesand the New York Times.” She reached over and tapped the Gazette with a manicured fingernail. “You’re living in a time warp, sweetie, a time warp. I wonder when the news will make it to this burg.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary Kennedy is a former radio copywriter and the award-winning author of forty novels. She is a clinical psychologist in private practice and lives on the East Coast with her husband and eight eccentric cats. Both husband and cats have resisted all her attempts to psychoanalyze them, but she remains optimistic. Visit her Web site at www.marykennedy.net.
