Just like in the movies, Brit thought, delighted.
But this director was like none she had ever imagined. "Do you call that a kiss? Let me show you!" And he lunged between the couple, grabbed Avalon and bent her backward in a long, involved kiss.
"Hey!" Julio grabbed the director's shoulder and hauled him away from the struggling actress.
Brit feared, for a moment, that there would be a fight between them. She had, after all, experienced the quick explosion between Frank and Rudi after the crash in the canyon.
"You're impossible!" Avalon shrieked, running from the set, sobbing.
"No, honey, you've got that backward," Laird called after her. "You're the impossible one!"
Julio stalked away sullenly.
"Damn! He's screwing up everything," Holtzbach mumbled, adding something about "back later." He disappeared with Laird, leaving Brit and Michael alone to poke around the set for the next hour.
When filming resumed, Laird seemed more subdued. Avalon was not in sight, and Julio brought out the flute.
"Great," Brit whispered to Michael. "This part's going to be good." She was disappointed that she hadn't had the chance to meet everyone yet, but things had been disorderly today. There would be other times, she reassured herself. As soon as the flute music began, Brit knew it was wrong. All wrong. She could not stand by and let it continue. She had an obligation to the truth.
Slipping to the director's side, she said, "Excuse me, Mr. Sutcliff, but this isn't the way it would be. It's all wrong."
Laird glared at her for a long second, then turned his horse-face toward the set, ignoring her.
Brit frowned. After a confused pause, she insinuated herself in front of his view of the set. "Excuse me, but I don't think this is the way it would be."
"And who are you?" he muttered between clenched teeth.
"I'm Brit Bailey. Bonnie was my great-grandmother and I — "
"I don't care if you're Bonnie, herself. Get out of my face."
Brit was not intimidated. "I'm an advisor for this movie and — "
"Who says?"
"Pardon me?"
"Who says you're an advisor?"
Brit was astonished. No one had informed the director of her role around here? She had been gone and completely forgotten. Well, she wouldn't stand for this. "Mr. Holtzbach hired me," she said, confident that his name would clear the way for her.
"Holtzbach can go to hell," Laird said.
Brit swallowed, momentarily stunned. She quickly decided to abandon the producer and simply state the facts. "In the first place, Knife Wing wouldn't be sitting on the trading post roof, playing his flute like that. This isn't Fiddler on the Roof. He wouldn't have been performing. He would play it in tribute to the world around him."
Laird folded his arms. "You're nuts. A real nut cake. Get out of my way."
"No!" Brit stood her ground. "I'm here to advise. I have to make sure Bonnie's story is right."
"Preposterous! It's as right as it'll ever get! Get out!"
Michael took her arm, but Brit jerked away and continued to face Laird. "And another thing. Native American flute music doesn't sound like a jazz clarinet jamboree. It sounds like . . ." her voice softened, "like the wind and the coyotes and the ancient spirits."
Laird stared at her. Silence blanketed the set. Everyone stared at her. Brit looked around and spotted Holtzbach. "Have you ever heard Native American flute music?" she called. "It doesn't sound like this. Tell him. Get it right."
Laird turned to Holtzbach and motioned toward Brit. "Would you get this nut cake out of here?"
"I'm afraid she stays," Holtzbach said, approaching. "It's in the contract. But we'll work it out. Maybe she's right, Laird. This is a little too commercial. Seems to me, it should have more of an eerie sound, like . . ."
"Like nature," Brit added enthusiastically. "Like the animals. And the birds. It's a beautiful, rather exotic sound, like none other."
"We can do that," Holtzbach said. "Give us twenty-four hours, and it'll be done."
Laird balked. "You have flipped, Isaac. You let everyone tell you how to make this movie. Everyone but me."
"Okay, Laird, what do you think?"
"I think it doesn't matter how it sounds. He plays the flute to entice her. And it works. Embrace. Kiss—if we can find an actress who can do that." He clapped his hands together. "Cut. End of scene. Fade to black."
"No!" Brit gritted her teeth. "He has no intention of enticing her with the flute. He plays for himself and his relationship to his world. Bonnie must prove that she deserves to join his world, that she cares as much about his different world as she cares about him." Brit stopped. Both the director and producer were staring at her. So was Michael. And what was she saying, anyway? Who was she talking about? Bonnie? Or herself?
"She's got a minor point," Holtzbach said after a moment. "We'll study it, Brit."
"Study, hell!" Laird exclaimed. Defeat was apparent in his face and he hated it. His day had not gone well, and he was furious. Furious at everything and everyone.
"I want ... I want this to be right," Brit tried to explain. "It's important that Bonnie's story be accurate. There have been enough misconceptions about Native Americans out of Hollywood. I want her story to be truthful, which means different from the others."
Michael took her elbow. "Come on, honey. Let's go. Let them handle it. They know how."
"No, they don't." Brit ignored him and stood her ground.
"Look, Brit, darling," Holtzbach said. "We endorse your wishes for this movie. We want it right, too. We'll get a consultant, someone who knows the Indian culture."
"Zuni," she blurted with exasperation. "He has to know the Zuni Pueblo culture. Knife Wing was Zuni, and it's different. Every tribe's customs are different in some ways, similar in others. It's important to know—"
"Okay, okay," Holtzbach said, patting her shoulder to pacify her.
"I know someone who can do it," she said without thinking.
"Oh? You do? Who?"
"Jake Landry. He's an archeology professor at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Ar-izona. He's part Zuni and he knows."
"Sure, sure. Tell my secretary. We'll be in touch."
"Thank you."
Michael led her away, and she could hear Laird exclaiming, "You'll get nothing! I don't need a damned consultant!"
They were quiet in the car driving back to Brit's apartment. Too quiet. She knew that Michael was furious with her. And when she had given Jake's name as the consultant—it just slipped out, she didn't know how—Michael had tightened up all over. She could feel the tension between them in the tiny car and it accompanied them into her apartment.
"You really lost it, Brit."
She pressed her lips together stubbornly. Maybe he was right. But she would not give in to Hollywood's demands on her movie. "They are impossible."
"I don't understand why you had to intrude with your two cents' worth," he continued. "It didn't matter that much."
"What do you mean?"
"In the total concept of the movie, this is a minor element."
"It is not a minor element. Anything to do with the Indian culture and the relationship be-tween Bonnie and Knife Wing is major to the movie."
"This is not a documentary. It's a movie, for God's sake!"
"These people were real. They'll live again on the screen. Their story is real. I want it right when it's shown in theaters across the country."
"Today you could see that these men were already having major conflicts. Why couldn't you leave them alone just today?"
Brit glared at Michael, unbelieving. "The fact that they're not agreeing with each other, or have personality conflicts with the actors, has nothing to do with me. But when their power fight affects this movie, it matters to me. A lot."
"Why can't you let them do it their way?"
"Because they're wrong. Don't you understand?"
"No. I'm afraid I don't. You've already made your mone
y when they purchased the rights for this movie. You'll get paid as an advisor whether you open your mouth about a single item or not. Why can't you be satisfied with what you already have? Keep your mouth shut, collect your paycheck, and enjoy."
She turned away, more angry than she had ever been. This attitude was typical of Michael and at the heart of why she could not love him. Once she had seen this side of him, she could not ignore it. And the love—whatever love there had been between them—had perished.
"I just can’t," she said simply. She was tired of defending herself. If he didn't understand by now, she could proceed no further with him. "I think you'd better go, Michael. I believe . . . it's over between us."
"Yeah, you want to get rid of me," he muttered bitterly, "so you can call in your Indian to do the job. Consultant, ha! Pretty good, Brit. Quick. Gotta hand it to you."
"No, you're wrong." She lifted her head proudly. "Jake has nothing to do with us. We’ve been over for a long time. We just didn't have the sense, or the guts, to call it an end."
"Let's do that now. This is the end. Of us." Michael strode to the door and slammed it behind him.
The apartment was quiet, dead quiet. Then the whole place shook as another jet zoomed in close for touchdown at the nearby landing strip. Brit figured she had just about ruined her life, certainly her emotional stability, in the last twenty-four hours.
She had parted with Jake. She had ended a dwindling relationship with Michael. She had made enemies and doubters on the movie set. Nobody really trusted her, even Holtzbach. She knew no one here, for her real friends were back in San Diego. She was all alone. All alone in L.A., city of angels.
Chapter Thirteen
The weeks stretched into a month, and she hadn't heard from any of her Grand Canyon companions. Her days were busy and fuzzy. Her nights unbearable and hazy. Her only salvation was talking on the phone with her friends in San Diego. But even they couldn't really understand her unhappiness. They only knew that she was.
One night, the phone rang. Brit jumped for it, expecting to hear Ana's or Kelly's voice on the other end. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there on the floor, holding the Zuni bear fetish in her palm "for luck." But it was dark outside, so she must have been there for hours.
"Hello."
"Brit? Brit."
Her heart pounded, for the voice was vaguely familiar. Wonderfully familiar. "Yes?"
"Brit! Hiya, babe. This is Rudi."
"Rudi!" Brit felt such a sweep of happiness that she almost cried. "I'm so glad to hear from you. How are you and Yolanda?"
"It's a helluva adjustment, huh?"
She laughed, feeling close immediately. He knew what she was going through. "Only you two would understand that."
"Never better! It's like we're in love all over again. And get this—we weren't home twenty four hours, she hadn't even had her nails done, and she was begging me to take her back down there! Can you believe it?"
"Yes, matter of fact, I can." Brit smiled sympathetically as she gazed around her clean, comfortable apartment. "Sounds crazy, but I know exactly how she feels."
"We do want to make a trip back down in the canyon, but it'll have to be later. Probably next year. And we’d love for you to come along, too, if you want. Right now, we're behind schedule on filming the show and working our butts off on that. And we're doing something else. For that, Yolanda and I would like you to meet us for dinner. She's working up a new routine and needs a trustworthy audience. Remember the night around the campfire when she gave a rough draft?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, she's refined it and wants to try it out before taking it to the public. You're one of the ones she wants to be there. It'll just be close friends and family. Can you make it next Wednesday night?"
"Sure, Rudi. I'd love to. Where?"
"La Luna. Great Mexican food. Are you familiar with it?"
"I've heard of it," Brit said. She had heard that La Luna was the best, and most expensive, Mexican restaurant in L.A.
"Seven o'clock, Wednesday. We have a room reserved in the back, so ask at the desk. Okay?"
"Got it. And Rudi, thanks."
"Hey, we're like family, no?"
"Yes," she murmured. "Like family. I'm looking forward to it." Brit hung up with a smile on her face.
She missed them all, couldn't help it. They had experienced a lot together in those weeks in the canyon and had grown close, perhaps closer than any of them realized until now. It was difficult to shut the door on such a relationship. Initially, she had feared that the Romeros had done that. She understood that they were busy and had their friends and work. But this proved that they hadn't forgotten what they all shared and, most of all, hadn't forgotten her. Only Jake had, it seemed.
On the next Wednesday night, Brit stood beside the buffet table, nibbling. She didn't know any of the twenty-five or so people gathered, so she stood near the food and tried to act like she belonged. It was a feast fit for a king. Crab, shrimp, beef, chicken, and caviar shared the table with corn and flour tortillas, tamales, and refried beans.
When Rudi arrived, though, he grabbed Brit in a huge bear hug, then tucked her into the curve of his arm and introduced her to everyone as an old and dear friend. It was all she needed to be completely and wholeheartedly accepted. By the time Yolanda appeared, she felt at ease.
Yolanda was met with applause as she stood at one end of the room and greeted the group. "Hey, applaud yourselves for always being there for me," she said with an uncharacteristic seriousness. "You are the people dearest to me and I want you to know how much I appreciate you. Tonight, I'm going back. Back to the good parts of the good ol' days. This is something I used to do many years ago when I was trying out my acts. My sisters know how it was." She pointed to several women in the audience who giggled at the attention she brought to them.
"And my brothers . . ." Yolanda waved them away with one shiny-nailed hand. "They made my life miserable with their teasing, but I invited them, anyway. They married nice girls."
She paused while everyone laughed.
"Still, this practice was such a good idea, I'm renewing it. So, expect more invitations in the future. But you have to work for your dinner by giving me your honest opinions of the show. That's why you're here."
Everyone cheered happily. Obviously, no one minded this kind of work.
"Tonight we're celebrating. We just signed to do a special that Rudi and I designed after our little excursion to the deep pit of the Grand Canyon. It'll be called Our Great Grand Comedy, and it'll air in a few months."
Again, everyone applauded.
"Now, if you recognize yourself in any of these routines, just remember that I'll change your name, and no one will ever know, unless The Inquirer offers me big bucks!" She paused for more laughter, then proceeded with her act.
Brit was surprised to notice that Yolanda, who had always been cool in the spotlight, was nervous at first. But as each punch line drew more and more laughter and occasional applause, she calmed down.
After each act, Yolanda halted and discussed the comic qualities with the group. At first they were reluctant to criticize. But she insisted that they be honest, and soon they were telling her what they liked and disliked about the piece. Her secretary was nearby making notes. When she finished the complete program, waiters brought in dessert. Pies, ice cream, cake—everything was chocolate, except the flaming baked Alaska.
Finally Yolanda approached Brit with a hug. "How are you, honey? Ready to descend into the canyon again?"
"Whenever you are," Brit answered gamely.
"I would love to go back, but this time, Rudi's right. Next year will have to be soon enough. We have too much to do now. And it's great, huh?"
"Yeah, we have to get back to our real lives."
"You aren't dieting, are you, Brit? There should be black walnut chocolate chip ice cream. I ordered it just for you."
"I've got my eye on it," Brit said with a grin. "Thanks so mu
ch for inviting me here tonight, Yolanda. It's fabulous. And your show is going to be fantastic. I laughed until I cried tonight."
"You get the credit, y'know."
"Me?" Brit shook her head. "Why? I didn't write a word."
"You didn't recognize yourself?"
"The whiner? That wasn't me. It was you!"
"Me? Never!" Yolanda grinned devilishly. "Besides, it was your suggestion while we were still in the canyon that we look at the funny side of things. And that was before the mule ride!"
"Notice I wasn't laughing at that part." Brit shook her finger as if she were scolding. "Whoever said riding mules was funny?"
"I notice one of us is missing tonight." Yolanda’s gaze swept the room. "Jake. Have you heard from him? Oh, forget I said that. It's none of my business." She shrugged and grinned broadly.
Suddenly, the atmosphere turned somber for Brit. "It's all right. I haven't heard from him, and I don't expect to. We ... uh, said goodbye at the rim."
"Oh." Yolanda looked disappointed. "I always liked a good love story and had great hopes for you two. Like Bonnie's story. How's the movie coming along?"
Brit rolled her eyes. "I'm fighting an uphill battle. Those people have no idea how folks lived in the early West. They've seen too many fake western movies."
"Well, if you need any help, maybe Rudi can help. He knows a lot of people."
"Thanks. I'll remember that."
"Uh, Brit, I thought you should know we're flying Jake out next month for the show."
Brit looked surprised. "He agreed?"
"What could he say? I owe the man my life and I want him there. The least I can do is make fun of him!"
"Serves him right," Brit mumbled, dry-mouthed. "I can't think of a better compliment." In spite of her pain on learning that even Yolanda had talked to Jake, Brit managed to pretend it didn't matter. She wondered how she would react to seeing him, and if she could avoid him altogether.
"Hey, I've gotta talk to one of my sisters. She's pregnant again. I hope this one's a girl. Try that ice cream." Yolanda hugged Brit. "You're too skinny," she said, and disappeared in the crowd.
Brit heaped black walnut chocolate chip ice cream on her plate. She licked her spoon, grateful that the Romeros were still her friends. The ice cream was good, but better was the fact that Yolanda remembered what she liked. Remembered her. What they had developed in the canyon remained. A good friendship. It was too bad the love she thought she and Jake had developed didn't last.
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