“It got ugly between Annie and me—lawyers and the whole nine yards. But in the end, she won. The town offered to buy the school from us; the Masters Academy had put Millertown on the map, and they didn’t want to lose it. Pabir’s grandfather bought the diner. And I never forgave Annie.
“I started traveling, ran around Europe for a while, spent a few years in Hawaii, a few more in Mexico, the Pacific Northwest, you name it. I was so mad at Annie, I never came home to see her baby when it was born. When Annie died, I was out of the country and I didn’t get back in time for the funeral. After that—I don’t know, it just seemed easier to stay away. Before I knew it, your mother was a teenager. The last thing she needed was me coming into her life to play the loving auntie.
“I settled in Oregon for a couple of decades. But eventually you want to go home. The first week I was in New York, before I even moved into my apartment, I rented a car and drove up here to see the diner. Pabir’s folks were still here.” Her eyes were full of tears. “I can’t tell you what that was like … seeing the school and the diner.”
“I can imagine.”
She wiped the tears away and shrugged. “The rest of the story you know.” She started to signal for the check but I stopped her.
“Not so fast.”
“What’s left to tell? I fell and broke my hip. I moved to Yorkville House, decided to tell my parents’ story, and found you. I got in touch. And here we are.”
“Did you know who I was? When you read my ad?”
There was a hesitation. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me we were related?”
I thought she was going to give me a clever answer or try to avoid one altogether. She looked straight at me. “What would I have done if you didn’t want to write the story?” She took a deep breath. “Or if you didn’t like me? I’m not as strong as I appear to be, Francesca. Most people aren’t.”
“Didn’t you think I should know who I was writing about?”
“I did think about that. But you were down in the dumps, and nepotism is bad for the soul. You didn’t need to get a job because you were family; you needed someone to hire you for your talent.”
“Someone who couldn’t pay me.”
“And look how beautifully you handled that! I’m so proud of you, Doll Face!” She beamed at me. Then she said softly, “I needed to give you time to know me. And to know Joe and Ellie. You were looking for a love story to write, and I gave you one—ours.”
“Who says I wanted to write a love story? I’m the antiromantic, remember?”
“Nah. You’re a true believer who got discouraged. And pissed off.” She signaled again for the check. “Now, let’s get out of here so you can go home and finish my book. At my age I don’t have forever to wait for you.”
CHAPTER 35
After that day in Millertown, I finished the book in record time. And I was more determined than ever to sell it. I mean, wouldn’t you be after learning that you’d been writing your own family history? But first I engineered a meeting between Chicky and Alexandra, which was a whole lot less operatic than Chicky was afraid it would be. You’ve got to love my mother. She’s got her faults, but carrying a grudge has never been one of them. You show her a little old lady who looks teary, and Alexandra melts. Besides, Chicky was family. In her own scattered way, Alexandra is a family person—as long as she doesn’t have to wash their dishes. I mean, she did name my dog after her mother.
When I told Pete about the unknown branch of our family tree, he said, “We come from theater people? Well, you’ve always been a drama queen.” Unfortunately, he was on the other side of the globe, so I couldn’t get my hands on him.
But now I had this book to sell. I shared my fears with my loved ones.
“I know it’s not going to be easy to find a publisher. I haven’t written anything in four years,” I said to Chicky.
“It’s still the same problem: I’m trying to sell a book about people who lived almost a hundred years ago and worked in vaudeville—which most readers today can’t even spell,” I said to Show Biz.
“But I’m a much stronger person now than I was. I know how to handle setbacks. Sort of,” I said to Alexandra.
“I’m going to fight for this,” I told Sheryl on the phone.
“I’ll never give up on this project,” I said to Lancelot on our morning walk.
“Defeat is not an option for Francesca, aka Doll Face,” I said to Annie.
The first step was to find an agent, since Nancy was doing the motherhood thing. I compiled a list of book agents who had made it a point to congratulate me when Love, Max hit big, and started making phone calls.
The first round of turndowns for Chicky’s book—and my family history—were very nice. I think every agent used the word charming. They all wished me well in this brutally competitive market. Results: zip. I then turned to Plan B and contacted agencies where no one knew my name. Zilch. I turned to Plan C, and contacted agencies I’d read about on the Internet. Nada. Finally, I started sending the manuscript directly to publishers—and you can’t characterize that as a plan; it’s more like walking into a court of law when you’ve been accused of murder and saying you’re going to be handling your own defense. The response to that effort? Zip. Zilch. Nada.
All those life lessons I’d been cherishing suddenly seemed like the kind of bad advice you get from television talk shows and astrologers. I was back to curling up in a fetal position in my bed—or would have been, if I hadn’t been afraid that Show Biz would find me there. And I still had to walk Lancelot three times a day. I called Chicky to give her the bad news. She summoned me to her room, and soon I was sipping tea and munching cookies and trying not to cry.
“I failed,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
“Do we have a good story, Doll Face?”
“Damn good.” I bit back tears.
“Then I want you to see something,” she said. She whipped out a TV remote and, after a few seconds of futzing with it, a segment of one of those shows that deal with the glorious world of entertainment popped up on her screen. “I saw this last night and I Tivo-ed it,” she announced proudly. What she had recorded was an interview with two kids—a boy and a girl—who had been hugely popular on their teen-oriented nighttime television show and were now not only a romantic item but were looking for a project to do together.
“CeeCee and I want to stretch and grow as artists,” said the young guy.
“And we have great chemistry,” said the girl.
“Yeah, we want to take advantage of that while we’re still hot for each other,” said her male counterpart. “We’ve already inked a deal with a producer. Now we just have to find the right script.”
“One that touches us here,” CeeCee indicated her impressive cleavage and presumably the heart beating beneath it.
Chicky paused the interview and said, “Well, what do you think?”
“If I were CeeCee, I wouldn’t be picking out an engagement ring just yet.”
“I meant, what do you think about them to play Joe and Ellie? I’ve watched them on their show, and they can act.”
“Chicky, what we have is a novel, not a screenplay.”
Chicky waved that one away like she was swatting flies. “You’ll rewrite it,” she said.
“Even if I could do that,” I went on, “I don’t have any connections in television—or in show business. Those two actors are coming off a hit series. Everyone in the world will be swamping them with ideas for scripts. Do you know how hard it would be to get them to read a whole book? And ours hasn’t even been sold.”
“Oh, I don’t think you should try to reach them. I was thinking you should get in touch with the producer. The one who has a deal with them.” Chicky looked down at her hands. “Because you happen to know her.”
For a second I was confused. “I don’t know any—” I started to say; then I stopped. “Andy Grace,” I said.
“Bingo.”
“The last time I saw her, we we
re at a very public function and I was dumping very cold water on her.”
“Yes.”
“I also referred to her as a postmenopausal slut.”
“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have some fence-mending to do.”
“I’m not the one who has to mend fences. I didn’t steal her husband.”
“Leaving aside the question of how much you really wanted to hang on to the man, she’s probably our only chance.” She turned to the picture of Ellie and Joe on her wall. “I thought you wanted to honor them, Doll Face.” She turned back to me. “Of course, if it’s too much to ask—”
“Stop trying to play me.”
“Damn, I’m losing my touch.”
“No, I’ve just been watching you in action for a while.”
“Okay.” Then she looked at me very seriously. “Francesca, give it a try. What do we have to lose?”
I looked at her picture of Joe and Ellie on the wall—my great grandparents. I thought about all the good things that had come into my life since I’d met Chicky.
“It’s worth a shot,” I said.
Maybe we do learn life lessons after all.
CHAPTER 36
Jake was the one who finally set up the meeting between Andy and me. Our phone dialogue went like this.
HIM: You want me to ask Andy to take a meeting with you? Why the hell would I do that?
ME: Because you remember me fondly?
HIM: Think again.
ME: Oh. (I make my voice quiver) Well, I’m sorry, Jake. Really so sorry. (There follows a section in which I do some ad hoc fake weeping, while Jake, who was never a bad person—just really, really shallow—attempts to console me.)
HIM: Francesca, I’ll ask Andy. But I don’t think it will do much good. That video of you … when you—
ME: Doused her?
HIM: It’s still getting hits on the Internet.
ME: (unable to swallow a giggle) Really?
HIM: You think that’s funny?
ME: No! Absolutely not! Can you smooth it over for me, Jake? I know I don’t have any right to ask you, but could you? (Wistfully) For old time’s sake?
HIM: (Big pause) It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll see what I can do.
ME: I don’t know how to thank you.
HIM: Francesca?
ME: Yes?
HIM: Cut the bullshit.
ME: Okeydokey.
He called back two hours later to tell me to buy my plane ticket.
THE SCENE WITH Andy was going to be difficult, I knew that. For starters, if Jake was right, my crack about her being a postmenopausal slut was still circling the globe. Any woman who took good care of herself the way Andy did was going to be pissed about someone mentioning that she was postmenopausal—the slut part probably hadn’t bothered her all that much. And then there was the fact that I was still angry at Andy. As I’d said to Chicky, she had stolen my husband. And I don’t care how evolved you are, no one can survive being replaced with their ego intact. Well, no one except my mother, the feminist icon. Most of us can’t help asking all those What-does-she-have-that-I-don’t? questions. And the answers we come up with at three in the morning aren’t likely to make us real chipper.
But I had to be chipper—and conciliatory, if not placating—when I had my sit-down with Andy. So I have to admit I was pretty nervous on the trip to LA. To give myself strength, I reread the story I’d written about Joe and Ellie. And as I read, I finally knew what I wanted to say.
ANDY AND I met in her office, which reminded me of the sleek room Jake and I had once put together for my office in New York. She looked exactly the same way she had the last time I’d seen her—although drier. And she’d had her chin done.
“I want you to know there is no way in hell that I will produce anything you’ve touched,” she said, after she’d closed the door behind me. “I’m only meeting with you because Jake asked me to.”
“I know that,” I said. “You’re doing it for him, because you love him. You and Jake are perfect for each other.”
I think that threw her a little. “You don’t know whether we are or not.”
“I knew him pretty well, and you were my friend. And you two being together—it’s so obvious, I should have seen it from the beginning.”
“I didn’t take him away from you. No outsider can break up a relationship that’s working.”
“Absolutely not. That’s why I want to thank you.” That threw her more. “It took Jake four tries at marriage, and I don’t know how many times you’ve given it a whirl … but the two of you finally got it right. And I’m not just saying that because I want you to read my project.”
“Do you really think I’m going to believe that?” But there was a trace of doubt in her eyes. Maybe she could tell that I meant what I was saying.
“I don’t care whether you believe me or not. You did me a favor. Jake probably wouldn’t have left me if he hadn’t had you to go to, and I never would have left him because I didn’t know what a marriage should be like. We might have stuck it out. And that would have been too bad. Now what he’s got is great. And I have a chance to find that someday. So, thank you.” I put my manuscript on her slick glass coffee table. “This is a love story—a real one. You should read it. I think you’ll like it.” Then I walked out.
CHAPTER 37
“Where shall I put the hand wipes?” Sheryl demanded, as she bustled into the bathroom. “You can’t put out finger bowls at a buffet. Which is why I always prefer a sit-down dinner party.”
“Hand wipes?” I repeated vaguely. I was busy putting a pink daisy in my hair.
“Show Biz says he’s serving barbecued ribs,” Sheryl said patiently. “We have to have some way for people to clean their fingers.” She turned to my mother, who had just come in. “What do you think, Alexandra?”
“Put a roll of paper towels on the sink, in here,” my mother said.
“We’ve got over fifty guests coming,” Sheryl said, in the tone of one explaining what green looks like to the color-blind. “There is no way you’re going to fit all of them in this little powder room.”
“Okay, everybody but Francesca out of the bathroom,” Show Biz said, sticking his head in. Then he turned to me and added, “And you better get a move on. We’re on a schedule; we’ve got to feed the crowd before the movie starts.” He disappeared, and I raced into the bedroom to pull on my dress while Annie watched. That was when I noticed how easily the zipper was going up. Six dog walks a day and Show Biz’s smoothies for breakfast seemed to have tightened my hips. And the best part was, I hadn’t even known it. For the first time since I hit puberty, I hadn’t been weighing myself every day. Or every hour. I’d been too excited about other things.
“Like the movie,” I said to Annie. “As in my movie. The one I wrote. Based on the book, which I also wrote. About my family.”
It had taken Andy two weeks to convince CeeCee and her boyfriend that Chicky’s book was the project of their dreams. And it had taken me another two months to write the script. Then it had taken another eight months for the LA folks to shoot the movie, edit it, and do whatever else they do. Tonight it was going to air on television.
We had rented a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard and a ton of chairs, and Show Biz had ordered enough ribs to feed our entire zip code. Then, in his role as mine merry host, he had invited everyone Chicky and I had ever met to watch our movie with us. Sheryl, her husband, and Nancy had flown in from the West Coast. My brother and his family had flown in from Reykjavik (I still don’t know what the hell he does there). Alexandra and Lenny had picked up Chicky at Yorkville House, along with the staff and all the ambulatory residents of the center, including the Swinging Grandmas.
“Paying off this extravaganza will probably take every dime I’ve earned for the screenplay,” I told Annie, “but I don’t give a damn. I’m soaking in the moment!” I took my lucky scarf—the pink chiffon with the ruffles—out of my drawer and wrapped it around my shoulders. “I�
�m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” I said, to my image in the mirror.
“Looking good, Doll Face,” growled a familiar voice behind me. I turned to see Chicky. She was wearing a green satin pants suit, and her golden curls were recently tinted and gleaming.
“You look like a million bucks yourself,” I said.
She fingered her lapels, which were liberally sprinkled with sequins. “Just giving ’em a little glitz and glam,” she said. Then she held out a thin rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I want you to have this, Doll Face,” she said.
I knew what it was without opening it. “I can’t—” I started to say. But she reached up to put her fingers on my lips.
“I want you to keep them with you,” she said. “I think they will be good for you. Remind you of things you need to remember. And now I can pass them on to family.”
So I took the package, unwrapped the picture of Joe and Ellie in the gilded frame, and I set it on my bureau.
“Tomorrow I’ll get the super to hang it on the wall,” I told Chicky.
“It’ll look good there,” she said.
And we went in to watch our movie.
EPILOGUE
Part of me wishes I could finish with a big happy ending tied up in a pink bow. On the other hand, the only way you really have an ending—happy or not—is if you’re dead, so that’s not a great plan.
Here’s where my life is right now.
Our movie was good. It got nice reviews, and even though it was only a cable flick it did well in the ratings. As a result, Andy has thrown me some more work punching up other people’s scripts. It seems I’m really good with dialogue. (And be proud of me, because when I went out to Hollywood I saw Jake, and it was obvious that Andy wasn’t the only one who had had her chin done, but I didn’t make one crack about group rates on surgery or adjoining beds in recovery. Honest, not one.)
I have a couple of ideas for novels I’d like to write. Especially now that Nancy has decided she wants to get back into the business and she’s opening her own agency. So I’ll probably start the old merry-go-round again. And I’ll probably be work-obsessed, and there will be days when I’ll forget to shower. But I may finish another book, so what the hell.
Looking for a Love Story Page 25