He grabbed her arm. “Whoa, Ellie, let’s not make this bigger than it is.”
She met his gaze dead-on. “Then if it isn’t bigger than it is, what is it?”
He shoved aside their plates and drew her into his arms. “I want to laugh, but I’m afraid you’ll take it the wrong way. The truth is, I work in a business where people look different every day. And of the women I’ve dated, some have changed their styles so often, they make you look like a stick in the mud.”
“Like Vi?”
“Vi, yes, she changes her style. Not such a surprise as she runs a clothing shop.”
Clothing shop. As though the sexually charged, overly perfect French woman wasn’t perfect enough, she now had a business that rivaled Ellie’s fledging clothes-design business.
“So, after this week, can I visit you at Dark Gothic Roast, see you in your element?”
Visits? Is that what their future held? She clutched at the bedspread, needing something to hold on to, forcing herself to stay cool, composed. “Sure, come visit.”
“You said it’s moving soon? To here?”
“Plan is to move into a storefront near Boyle Heights.”
“East L.A.?” he said, incredulous. “Ellie, why in God’s name would you want to return there?”
She was starting to feel as though she were on an emotional roller coaster. One moment she was tied up in knots making the big confession that she thought would be a fireworks display, but instead sizzled and sputtered into nothing but smoke.
Now she was suddenly embroiled in the topic of her upcoming business move, a discussion that for her was harmless, boring even, but it had suddenly exploded in her face.
“You sound angry,” she said, surprised.
He exhaled sharply. “I don’t know if angry is the word. Astounded, perhaps.”
“Critical?”
“Critical, you bet your ass! Moving back to the hood is just plain dumb. Gangs aside, you’re a businesswoman, or so you’ve told me, and you want to move into a region where nearly thirty percent live below the poverty level? Where the hell do you expect to get customers to buy your products?”
With a sickening jolt, she realized this issue, not the one of her looks, was the lack of acceptance she’d been so fearful about. His jaw was tight with tension, his eyes were cold with disbelief and anger.
It’s none of his business, she told herself. But as soon as she thought that, her insides caved in because deep down, she’d hoped the two of them would return to their community, their roots, together.
“I don’t want to explain my reasons,” she said quietly, collecting the plates to give herself something to do. “I already told you and Jimmie the reasons why. Suffice to say, the neighborhood is changing for the better, and I want to be part of that change. Mom’s going to be the bookkeeper for my business, hopefully for the others I rent to, as well. It’s an opportunity for her, too, because she’ll own stock in the business, be a part of something that’s growing.”
He nodded, a smirk on his face. “You should talk to Jimmie about renting some of that space for his indie company.”
“The company he wants to partner with you?”
“An independent film company is a small dream, Ellie, with small returns. Just like your moving back to the hood is a small dream, Ellie, with even smaller returns. I dream big. That’s the difference between you and me.”
She felt raw and exposed, resentful and hurt. The plan she’d been nurturing for months—frightened but excited at the venture of expanding not only the coffee business, but other ventures—had just been unilaterally trashed.
She slid off the bed, picked up the plates. “I’ll, uh, take these back into the kitchen. It’s late, and you have to get up early, so why don’t you get into bed.”
As she left, she remembered Magellan’s words that day she and Bill had been on the stage—Cinderella didn’t make it home before midnight, but the story didn’t end there.
Boy, did he have that wrong. Cinderella didn’t make it home before midnight, but she should have because the story didn’t just end, it had just come to a grinding halt.
AT SIX THE NEXT MORNING, Ellie slipped inside the beach house, trying not to make any sound so as not to wake anyone.
“El, is that you?” Candy, dressed in a white bikini bottom, a white shirt tied around her waist, did a double take at her hair. “You dyed it black again?”
Ellie nodded, shutting the front door behind her.
“Wearing your burlesque skirt with a Sin on the Beach T-shirt?”
“Yeah, it’s the new goth beach look. Part Sandra Dee, part Elvira.”
Candy laughed, then gave her friend a saucy look. “So if you’re sneaking in, that must mean…”
Ellie wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. “Bill and I had a date, yes.”
“You sound a little—”
“Just tired, that’s all.” She didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. As she filled the coffeepot, she glanced at Candy. “And unless you’ve started sleeping in your bikini bottoms, I think you just sneaked in, too.”
Candy blushed. “Yeah, but it’s not serious, of course. Just—”
“I know. Sensible sex.” Maybe she should have tried that plan with Bill. Made a lot more sense than her midnight one, that’s for sure. “How’s our Sara? Did she sneak in, too?”
“Not yet.” Candy sat at the kitchen counter, grinning like a kid. “Pretty good vacation, eh?”
“Sure is.” Ellie busied herself pouring coffee into the filter, getting down the mugs.
“I have a business luncheon today. Do you have another call on the set?”
She did, but she didn’t want to go. “Yes.”
“Cool. I bet Bill drools every time he sees you in one of your killer bikinis.”
“Yeah,” she said softly, thinking how he was anything but drooling when he’d dropped her off. This morning they’d been pleasant to each other. Quite civil, actually, in an aren’t-we-being-grownup-despite-our-devastating-tiff kind of way.
But it had sucked all the same.
He’d given her a quick kiss on the lips goodbye, she’d said something casually cheery like “Have a great day,” but her move to East L.A. had definitely built a cold wall between them.
“Well,” Candy said, heading off, “gotta hit the shower, get ready for the luncheon. It’s so cool you and Bill got together after all these years. I swear, El, it’s like one of those Disney movies, where despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, true love wins out.”
“Yeah,” Ellie muttered, “a real Cinderella story.”
She flipped on the coffeemaker, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
16
ELLIE WASN’T SURE if she was a sucker for a challenge, a fool for an insurmountable obstacle or if she had too much time on her hands. But here she was, eight hours later on the set, playing a semigoth, sorta-glam beach babe extra. Which meant she’d spent the day sashaying around in a string bikini that barely covered her goth tats, fluffing her dyed-black-over-blond hair and slathering sunblock on her fake tan.
Peter, the happy-go-lucky assistant casting director made a twirling motion, which she’d come to recognize as a time-out signal.
“Okay, people,” Peter said, the lighted cigarette in his hand weaving smoke into the air every time he gestured, “take fifteen. And I don’t want anyone—” he pretended to look over all of them, but let his gaze linger on Ellie so she’d get the message “—fraternizing with any of the crew, including the director. Understood?”
He’d made this speech every break, as though, given the opportunity, Ellie would break loose from the pack like some kind of rabid beachnik and make a beeline for Bill as she had yesterday.
Which she’d never do, of course.
It was bad enough she’d shown up for work.
The carriage had turned to a pumpkin, the horses to mice, but Cinderella obviously had a stubborn streak, because she’d returned to the ball minus the magic
.
Ellie wandered over to a cluster of chairs and umbrellas—the extras’ break area—and sank onto a white plastic chair, shielding her eyes as she looked out at the ocean, that vast blue entity that had witnessed her and Bill’s heated lovemaking last night on its shore. It saddened her to realize it would never happen again.
“Hey, Ellie, what’s up?” asked Gus, sitting in the chair next to her. He stretched out his long tanned legs. He wore his customary red board shorts, but today his T-shirt read Surf Shack, which Peter had fretted about and quibbled over before the shoot, citing some contract fine print about extras not wearing logos other than ones for the show’s sponsors, but giving in after Gus eloquently argued that the Surf Shack, being a real Malibu hot spot, gave the show a touch of authenticity.
“Doing okay,” she lied.
“Me, too.” He pulled a comb out of his pocket and raked it through his white hair. “Tell you the truth, I was surprised you showed up on the set today after that little brouhaha yesterday.”
The little brouhaha being the tension between her and Bill when she’d been one pestering body too many at the director’s station. Funny to think there was that brouhaha, then last night’s brouhaha…Was the problem that she and Bill were just too passionate to be together?
Nah. Passion was one of the better things about their being together. More and more, she was realizing their problems were, oddly enough, cultural. When most people had that problem it was because of different cultures. Their problem was their common one. He hated East L.A., she dug it. His whole thing was about overcoming his past, hers was about returning to it.
“We got over that brouhaha,” she said casually. But would they ever get over the culture issue? She didn’t think so.
“Outside,” murmured Gus, a surfer term referring to large waves building far from shore. He slipped the comb back into his pocket. “Looks like a gnarly wave headed straight for Bill.”
She looked over. Sure enough, Sullivan, his face pinched, was marching across the sand toward Bill. The group hovering around him instantly scattered.
Blasts of Sullivan’s words could be heard all through the set.
“Why the hell did you?…I don’t care!…I told you no and you did it anyway!”
Bill’s voice was low, the words unintelligible.
“Don’t care!” Sullivan boomed. “And furthermore, you’re fired!”
Ellie clutched the arms of her chair, watching as the two men stared each other down. She held her breath, expecting the next sound to be fists smacking.
But Sullivan abruptly turned and marched back to his trailer.
“This job meant everything to him,” she whispered.
“Not that I don’t feel sorry for the guy, but maybe that’s part of his problem,” Gus said.
An eerie silence descended over the set, the only sounds the creaking of a boom mike and the distant crashing waves.
After a moment, Bill ripped off his headset, snatched up his notebook, and without even a glance at the crew or the actors, walked away.
Ellie stood, her heart pounding, imagining his devastation. Despite what had happened between them, her heart reached out. He’d told her how, starting with film school, he’d spent years honing his skills and working toward a job such as this one where he’d finally have the opportunity to prove himself as a director.
And now that opportunity had been torn away from him.
She disagreed with his need to dream so big, but she wasn’t so small as to abandon a friend.
“Tell Peter I’m leaving,” she said to Gus.
“You coming back?”
“Nope.” She started walking after Bill. “My beach babe days are over.”
BILL HEARD Ellie’s urgent pleadings behind him, but he kept walking. He didn’t want to talk to anybody, deal with anything. His throat scalded with the words he’d held back, the accusations he’d wanted to scream at Sullivan. The guy was a line producer, not a creative producer. Which meant he was the bean counter, the budget-meister, the money cop who watched the bottom line and never had anything, anything, to do with the artistic aspects.
Unfortunately, the invisible executive producer had given Sullivan free rein to be whatever he wanted to be.
Bill cursed, pissed at the entire film industry that broke people’s souls, pissed at Sullivan who’d micromanaged the shoot to failure, but mostly pissed with himself because he’d gambled his career on this gig and lost.
“Bill, please wait!”
“No, Ellie!”
“C’mon, I’m your friend.” A short yelp. “Ow, ow, ow!”
Blowing out an exasperated breath, he turned, glowering at her. Ellie, black hair flopping in her eyes, was jogging in place, her face tight with pain.
“What the hell—” He looked down at her bare feet, his frown deepening. “What is it with you and shoes? Either you’re wearing heels too high, wedgies too unmanageable or you’re barefoot on hot sand. Are you crazy?”
She winced, blinking back the pain. “Probably, but that’s beside the point. I was worried about you. Didn’t want you to go.”
He saw the twelve-year-old girl again, who’d run out barefoot in the middle of the night, desperate to know if it was really true, was he leaving….
Shaking his head, he walked back to her. “C’mon,” he said, opening his arms, “I’ll carry you.”
“No! That’s not why I followed. I wanted to be here for you, not—”
He lifted her into his arms, shifting her weight to get comfortable, then turned and continued walking, this time more slowly, across the sand. Sunbathers looked up. A guy with a boogie board cut in front of them, grinning.
“Bill, please, put me down.”
“No.”
“You’re under enough stress, you don’t need to be carrying me.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t need to be searing the skin off the bottom of your feet, either.” He blew a drip of sweat off his lip, tightening his grip on her.
He walked in a straight line across the beach as though he had a purpose, as though he knew his goal. But in truth he was lost, more lost than he’d ever been. But he kept moving forward because it’s all he knew to do, aware only of the hot sun on his skin, the salt in the air, the feel of Ellie in his arms.
Ellie.
He tightened his hold on her, holding her closer, needing her as he never had before.
“Ellie,” he whispered, his voice fractured, “I’m nothing.”
“No!” She cradled his face with her hand. “You lost an opportunity, but you didn’t lose yourself.”
He snorted a laugh. “You don’t understand Hollywood. Newbie director gets fired from first gig? It’s like a death sentence. Nobody will hire me now. Nobody.”
A couple of kids, carrying bright plastic buckets and shovels, screamed and laughed as they waddled in front of their parents toward the shore.
“Maybe,” she said, treading carefully, “this is a sign for you and Jimmie to start your company.”
He walked a few moments in silence. “Never did like Sullivan. The man has an ego the size of Manhattan.”
If Sullivan’s ego was Manhattan, thought Ellie, Bill’s was Texas.
That’s when it hit her. This wasn’t just about losing a job, an opportunity. It was about being big, which to Bill was synonymous with success. Directing a big film, being an A-list Hollywood power player, being a big name…because anything less—such as running an indie company—was too small to be significant.
As sad as she was for him, she was suddenly irritated, too. The kind of irritation that comes from caring and having your hands tied behind your back. She’d thought earlier how Bill was driven to overcome his past. At some point he’d decided, unconsciously or not, that he couldn’t do that unless he was bigger, better than the next guy.
No wonder he felt like nothing. In his mind, he’d lost all his power.
MINUTES LATER, they reached the entrance to the festival. Bill, flushed and breathin
g hard, set her down on a shady patch of sand underneath an awning. “Let’s go in. I’m parched, need something to drink.” He looked at her feet. “And we need to get you some thongs.”
“Thanks.”
Catching his breath, his gaze traveled up her legs, lingering on the snug bit of material between her legs, his problems pushed aside enough to remember her taste, her cries of pleasure, the way her body trembled just before she came.
“Look,” he said, meeting her eyes, “about this morning…”
She shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“It’s just that…where we grew up…”
She quietly nodded, took his hand. “Bill, I think I understand more than you know. Let’s get that cold drink.”
THEY MADE A PACT to avoid reality.
For as long as they were inside the festival, they were not allowed to discuss or worry about Sullivan or Sin on the Beach. Comments about goths or anything gothic were fine as long as a certain someone didn’t start obsessing whether she was acceptable as one. To ensure they didn’t stumble into a tension-fraught conversation, neither was allowed to say the words “director” or “East L.A.”
That settled, fifteen minutes later they meandered down the midway sipping their drinks, Ellie in a pair of new black thongs, two people who for all appearances didn’t have a care in the world.
Suddenly Bill halted, tugging her to his side. “Ellie, look!”
He pointed to the three screens outside the Hot Shot Photo Contest, each displaying photos that randomly changed every few minutes.
Ellie nearly choked on her drink. “Oh, no.”
Bill grinned. “Oh, yes.”
Ellie’s face filled one of the screens, looking shy but obviously excited. Or maybe she just remembered how excited she’d been.
“Please tell me you only downloaded the G-rated photos,” she murmured.
“I only downloaded G-rated, promise. This is great. They’re showing all the downloaded entries until the winners are announced at the end of the festival.”
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