The girl rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Got it.”
The guy behind us is not impressed to be in the presence of a soap actress. “Hey, can I get some service please?” Thank goodness for Mr. Tampons. His outburst gives us the opening we need to get away from the curious stares of the checker and the other onlookers who are trying to figure out if I’m someone they should recognize.
We walk out with our groceries. “So what do you think?” I ask. “Am I toast?”
“Oh, she’s going to tell everyone who’ll listen. And she’ll have the store cameras to back up her claim that you were in her line, so they’ll believe her.”
“Then we’ll sue her behind like you said.”
“Oh please. What’s the point? She’s a checker who makes minimum wage at most. What are you going to take from her? A ten-year-old car with a hundred thousand miles on the odometer?”
“Yes, I’ll give it to my sister. She needs a car now that she’s going to be a mother.”
“Then buy her one. It’s not that girl’s fault you had to go and open your big mouth in public. What did you expect?”
Oh, I hate it when she’s right. So I do the only thing I can do. I pass the buck. “I blame you for this. Why didn’t you stop me? Friends don’t let friends say dumb things.” My arms are about to fall off from carrying two full bags of groceries while Dancy hails a cab.
“Yeah sure. And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And for your information, I did stop you. From incriminating yourself.”
Oh yeah, she did do that, didn’t she? I give her a grudging nod. “Thanks.”
“That’s what friends are for.” She opens the door of the yellow cab as it screeches to a stop.
Oh well. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I’m going to try hard not to think about bad things and just be thankful that God gave me back my job. I’ll enjoy a worry-free day with my slightly weird family.
I’m miserably full as I walk into the apartment after Thanksgiving Day with the family. One thing I can say for Mom: the woman cooks like a pro. I mean really, Rachael Ray has nothing on my mom—except maybe a sweet smile and a great sense of humor. But, you know. That’s all.
Laini is watching a marathon of all the Thanksgiving episodes of The Waltons on TV Land as I waddle through the living room to the kitchen and slip plastic containers of leftover turkey, stuffing, gravy, and pie—glorious chocolate, pumpkin, and apple pie—into the fridge. So much for no fat, carbs, or chocolate. In one day I’ve fallen completely off the wagon.
Back in the living room, I drop to the couch.
She looks over at me. “So, how’s the family?”
“Dad announced he’s starting Weight Watchers on Monday.”
“Good for him!”
“Yeah, except he’s eating like he’s storing up for the winter. I swear he ate half of everything Mom cooked—including a twenty-pound turkey.”
I toe off my shoes. “Let’s see, what else. Oh, Shelly can’t stand the smell of turkey so she stayed in her room all day with the ionic breeze blowing on her. And Michael brought a girl without telling Mom.” I grin because really, the expression on Mom’s face was the best part of the whole day. “She has a tattoo on the back of her hand that says ‘bite me.’”
Laini’s eyes go wide. “Wow. I can’t believe your brother had the guts to bring her home.”
“Me neither. I think he really likes her. Her name is Joy.”
“What’s going on?” Dancy enters carrying a huge bowl of popcorn. “Who likes whom?”
I repeat the evening’s announcements.
“Well, you know what this means, don’t you?”
“What?” If anyone can find light at the end of the tunnel, it’s Dancy.
She grins and passes me the popcorn. Which I take because after all, I’ve already blown my diet today, so what’s a couple hundred more calories and a few more carbs? And fat from the butter. I grab a handful of the yummy stuff and wait for my friend to reveal her words of wisdom. She doesn’t disappoint.
“With Mike dating a bad girl, Shelly pregnant, and your dad eating diet food that presumably she’s going to have to cook, your mom is going to be too preoccupied to concentrate on you.”
The light flashes on. My brilliant friend is absolutely right. Finally, for the first time ever, the heat is off me. Hallelujah!
7
This heat is really getting to me. Golly. I never realized how stifling gauze can be under all those lights. What is it, anyway? Nothing but transparent strips of cloth, but here I am sweating like a pig beneath the layers.
When the director, Blythe Cannon, yells “Cut,” I wade through all the wires and tubes that make the scene “authentic” and practically make a dive for the water table. I grab a paper cup and position it quickly under the spout, my dry mouth yearning as the clear liquid spills into my cup. I raise it toward my face. At the same time I see something orange flying toward me. There’s not even a second to duck or jump back.
Crash! Splash!
What the… ? Oh, it feels kind of refreshing, having water poured all over my face and down my hospital gown. A nice cooling off, if you want to know the truth. Almost as good as the anticipated drink.
A child’s scream of terror fills the set, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Since when do they let kids in here? And what’s the deal with the screaming? A rolling blob of orange captures my attention. I look down and there’s a Nerf football on the floor.
Outrageous! Apparently I’ve been the victim of a poorly aimed game of catch. Irritated, but willing to let it go, I’m about to turn back to refill my water when pain slices through my shin bone. I look down, and shock is a mild word for how I’m feeling as I stare at a scowling little boy of no more than six or eight. And it really doesn’t matter because the little twerp kicks me. It’s highly doubtful he’ll make it to whatever his next birthday is supposed to be if I get my hands on him. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“You can’t eat my sister, mummy!” He yanks up the Nerf and spirals it at me. “Hey!” I duck. “Would someone get this kid away from me?”
“Sorry about that. Jeffy, leave Miss Brockman alone. She’s not a mummy. That’s her costume for her hospital scenes.”
I turn at the sound of authority and look right into the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Such a deep, deep blue they are practically navy. His appearance is understated, which I find myself unbelievably attracted to—501 Levis, a black T-shirt, and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt to even out the look. I wonder who he plays and how can I convince Julie to let me dump Rudolph and start up a romance with this man. I can just imagine the chemistry. As a matter of fact, I’m already feeling it. There’s something so familiar about him. As though we’ve met in another lifetime.… Oh, wait. I don’t believe in reincarnation, so that’s not it.
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry about the kids. They, um, apparently thought you were a mummy.”
“A mummy?”
He lifts his hand and points to my face. Darn it! I forgot I was wrapped up. I look hideous. No wonder he doesn’t seem all that interested.
I catch a whiff of his amazing aftershave, and I’m at a total loss for words. My stomach is dipping and diving, and I desperately need that drink of water. “Yes, well,” I hear myself saying. “Children should be better supervised, you know?” I glance down at his left hand. Score. No ring.
He takes a clean cup from the dispenser, fills it with water, and hands it to me in the most charming, gentlemanly manner. “I’ll be sure to remember that from now on,” he says, his face suddenly without expression. “Sorry again.”
Remember? What’s he going to remember? My phone number? No. I didn’t give it to him yet. Oh yes, that children should be better supervised. But why would he need to remember that?
“Let’s go, kids,” he calls. “Your day is over.”
I’m left holding my glass of water as the two hoodlums, a boy and a girl, take their places, each on one side of t
he beautiful man and slip their chubby little hands into his.
What just happened?
“Wouldn’t you love to do a romantic scene with him?” Tonya says. I was so focused on the hot guy walking away from me, I didn’t even see her walk up, to be honest.
“What character does he play?”
“Who, him? Don’t you know who that is?”
Sounds like someone important. And he just handed me a cup of water. Obviously attracted to me, despite my mummified appearance. Oh my goodness. Now I remember where I’ve seen him. That’s the guy I was staring at when Brian showed up at church and completely humiliated me a couple of weeks ago.
So not only is this man gorgeous. He’s a gorgeous Christian. Do you know how rare that is? And look, he’s good with kids. He can be the part of us who makes us the favorite aunt and uncle. We most likely won’t have children of our own for at least ten years.
I’m immersed in my fantasy life with Mr. Whatever-his-name-is, when Tonya totally pops my balloon.
“He’s a stage dad.”
“P-pardon me?” It sounded almost like she said he was a stage dad. Which is ridiculous because that would mean— “Those kids are his?” I shriek.
“Yeah, I think he does other work too, like computer something or other, maybe, but mostly he takes care of those two monsters.”
“He wasn’t wearing a ring.” What is it with people not wearing their wedding rings? I think I’m going to start a movement to make it illegal. Leave your ring off once—get a warning. Twice—pay a hefty fine. Three strikes, you’re out—off to jail for at least a year with marriage classes mandatory for rehabilitation. Four times—the chair. No, that’s too harsh. Still, four-time offenders should at the very least be locked up and the key totally thrown away. Forever. I don’t think it’s at all unreasonable to make people pay for breaking marriage vows. I mean, if you break any other kind of legal contract you can at the very least be sued. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but if there were consequences for breaking up marriages, maybe people would stop doing it.
Tonya reaches for my wet gauze, which I admit is starting to irritate. “He isn’t married.”
“What? Don’t tell me he adopted those two?” Why would a gorgeous, single, Christian fellow like that adopt not one, but two kids? He’ll never find a decent woman with those two hanging on to him like a couple of spider monkeys.
Tonya gives me a look that doesn’t say a lot for my brainpower—which is especially insulting coming from a girl like her. “His wife died a year ago. She was a piece of work, let me tell you. Always coming to the set in slinky outfits that showed her ‘girls’ off—if you know what I mean. I don’t know what David ever saw in her. I think they were separated for a long time before she died though. I never saw him until afterward.”
“David—so his name is—”
She gives a nod. “David Gray. And believe me, they’ve tried to get him to audition, but he’s not interested. He’s an independent consultant for some software company. Works flexible hours from an office at his house. As near as I can tell, he hates days on the set. As a matter of fact, he says when the kids’ contracts are up, they’ll have to recast Felicia and Rudy’s twins because his will be gone.”
“Felicia’s twins?” I laugh. “I’m Felicia. You must mean someone else.” I toss her a patronizing smile as David and his children walk through the stage door and out of my life.
Tonya’s silky eyebrows go up. “Hello? They were two when you were killed. Don’t you even remember you had twins?” She grins. “Some mother you are. Of course, these twins are not the same ones that played the newborns. These two came right after you left the show.”
Okay, I vaguely remember babies on the set from time to time. But it’s not like we really dwelt on it. And weren’t they kidnapped for the first year of their life? So we didn’t exactly have much interaction.
It all comes rushing back now. I did have twins. How could I have forgotten that scene? It was a very touching elevator scene during a power outage whereby Rudy was forced to deliver his own babies. I was performer of the week in Soap Opera Mag for the very real way I portrayed a woman in labor—which I admit was rather ingenious, particularly since I’ve never actually been in labor.
But there’s no time to relive that glory moment. I have to think. To wrap my mind around this new happening. Let me figure this out. If those two kids who just threw a Nerf at my head and kicked my shin—which still hurts by the way—are supposedly Felicia and Rudy’s kids, that means… oh, Lord. They’re going to be my kids, which means a lot of interaction.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I might as well borrow the bunny suit from my former employer and start hopping.
I can do this,” I say confidently. Laini, Dancy, and I are having dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria in an elegant restaurant called Peacock Alley—my treat because it’s my turn a hundred times over.
“Okay.” Dancy sips her glass of peach tea and nods like she knows what she’s talking about. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go to a day care and ask the workers to teach you how to get along with kids.”
“What?” I practically choke on a bite of salad. “No one in their right mind is going to let me anywhere near their kids.”
“She has a point, Dance.” Laini chomps a breadstick. “Maybe you should just ask for another kidnapping story line. That should buy you a good six months at least, as long as it takes things to wrap up on soaps.”
“Oh sure. Like the fans are going to stand for Felicia being gone for three years, finally coming back, and then the kids are stolen?” Dancy forks her salad. “No way. We want to see happily ever after. The perfect little family of four. At least for a while. You can’t toss the kids to the wolves just because our friend here is scared to death of anyone under the age of eighteen.”
Laini and I stare at Dancy.
“What?” she asks.
“You hate romance. You hate soaps.”
She shrugs. “I watch Legacy. So sue me. Sheesh.”
I can’t believe it. “Why didn’t you ever just say so?”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings after the way they dropped you. But you’re the one who got me hooked on the show in the first place.”
“Dan, I never asked anyone to stop watching it. Good grief. I never stopped watching it myself.”
I turn to Laini with an is-there-something-you’d-like-to-tell-me look. She stares back with total innocence. “Oh, not me. The only thing I know about that show is what you’ve told me. As far as I’m concerned, soaps just cause college freshmen to look for unrealistic romance and dowdy housewives to fantasize about a life they’ll never have with men that are way out of their league in the first place.”
I dip a fat shrimp into cocktail sauce and allow the taste to explode across my tongue. “Hey! How would you feel if I talked that way about accountants? All those budgets making people fantasize about how they might actually get out of debt. Utter garbage!” I toss a napkin at her.
She laughs and catches it easily. “Touché.”
“How’s the job search going?” Dancy asks offhandedly as she takes another sip of peach tea.
Laini pauses a second then looks from Dancy to me. “Actually, I’ve decided to get out of accounting. I’m going to go back to school for interior design.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. How can Laini just change careers like that? Presto change-o. Two weeks ago, Laini was talking about starting her own company. Now she’s decided to get out of accounting altogether?
“I never really liked numbers, you know. I was just good at math. Dad was a hotshot accountant and after he died, I don’t know, I just felt like I should follow in his footsteps. It seemed to mean a lot to Mom.”
“Oh,” Dancy and I say in unison. It’s terrible to be at a loss for words when your best friend is baring her soul. But to be honest, I don’t know what to say and knowing me, if I tried to make her feel better
I’d end up making it a lot worse. Dancy’s the one who usually comes through in these situations. But she seems preoccupied with her chicken marsala. I give her a little kick under the table.
She frowns and shrugs. Looks like it’s up to me. “Okay, where did this whole idea of interior design come from?”
“I’ve always loved decorating. You know that.”
It’s true. Hers is really the only style in our little apartment that has any class to it. I’m hopelessly color-blind, and Dancy always has her nose in a book. She’d be fine with white, bare walls.
“Remember during college theater—I made the sets?”
Dancy gives a little laugh. “I remember you always had paint on your hands or in your hair. And Robert Candor was always yelling at you for using the wrong colors.”
Laini jerks her chin. “Robert. What did he know about designing anything? Besides I read somewhere recently that all men are at least partially color-blind.”
“So based on your job in college tent theater, you’re going to give up accounting?” Dancy asks.
In my mind’s eye, I see our red-haired friend covered in paint and carrying plates of cookies and pastries to practices. “Hey, you were really great. Wasn’t she, Dan?”
“Yep. Very talented.” She slips another bite into her mouth and keeps her gaze on her plate.
I scowl at Dancy. What’s her deal tonight?
“Laini, I think you have a real shot at it, if you’re sure you really want to give up accounting. I support you one hundred percent.”
“Thanks.” Laini beams. “I always wanted to be an interior designer, but my parents weren’t too keen on the idea. I took some classes when I could slip them in without Mom and Dad realizing they were paying for extra classes.”
“Sneaky,” Dancy says and reaches for another slice of bread—so far she’s eaten an entire basket by herself. If anyone recognizes emotional eating when she sees it, it’s me.
“Dancy, are you okay?” I ask.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Laini and I exchange a look. Dancy’s voice trembles and her lower lip is quivering. “Okay, fine. I didn’t get the promotion.”
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