Lucky Stars

by Jane Heller

  “I see you like old movies,” he remarked, thumbing through such classics as All About Eve, Some Like It Hot, and A Letter to Three Wives.

  “I do,” I said. “I can watch them over and over and never get tired of them. Why is that? Were actors just better then?”

  “Probably, but it’s the writing that sparkled in those films. It was sharp and funny and never lazy. The reason we remember Bette Davis’s ‘fasten your seatbelts’ line in All About Eve is because it was fresh, not some warmed-over, cliché-ridden drivel.”

  “Like the dialogue in Pet Peeve, you mean?”

  Jack smiled. “Why don’t we make a pact not to talk about that movie ever again,” he said. “I don’t want to be reminded of how much my review hurt you, and you don’t want to be reminded of how much my review hurt you, so let’s stick with All About Eve.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Want to watch it tonight? Or one of the others?”

  Tonight? “I thought we were going to dinner. You said you made a reservation someplace.”

  “We were. I did. But the idea of spending a quiet night here with you, watching a movie we both love, just struck me as being a much better idea. We could order in or rustle up something from your kitchen.”

  I groaned. “All I have are a gazillion cans of Fin’s premium tuna, and I can’t even look at them.”

  “What about popcorn? Got any?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Then I’ll cancel the reservation and you make the popcorn and we’ll spend the evening at the Stacey-plex Theatre.”

  “Okay.” Why not? Jack probably went out to restaurants all the time. Staying home would mean he wouldn’t have to sign autographs or run into people from the industry or be the guy with his own TV show. It would also mean I’d get to sit next to him on my sofa with the lights off.

  I microwaved the popcorn and set the bowl on the coffee table. “Which movie are you up for?” I asked.

  “How about A Letter to Three Wives. I’m in the mood for romance, and that movie has three of them.”

  He was in the mood for romance. Well, that made two of us. Still, I was not going to rush into anything, as I said. Jack Rawlins was bright and successful and wonderful to look at, and he was clearly interested in me, judging by his words as well as his actions, but I was taking this one slowly, no matter how great the temptation not to.

  I popped the tape into the VCR, dimmed the lights, and settled onto the sofa—onto the other end of the sofa from where Jack was sitting.

  “It’s not contagious,” he said with a laugh.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Whatever you think I’ve got.” He patted the cushion next to him, indicating I should slide over and sit there.

  “Oh. Fine. I just thought you might want to spread out.” I moved over next to him, affecting nonchalance.

  As I hit the play button on the remote and the opening credits rolled, I was so conscious of Jack’s physical presence that I could hardly concentrate on anything else. Nevertheless, I watched the movie, munched on popcorn, sipped some wine, and behaved myself.

  And then, a little over halfway into the film, my resolve suddenly and irrevocably deserted me.

  We had gotten to the part of the story that chronicles the relationship between Linda Darnell and Paul Douglas. Jack leaned over and said, “Look at the chemistry between those two. She’s determined to act as if she doesn’t love him and he’s determined to act as if he doesn’t love her, and the audience is fully aware that they’re crazy about each other.”

  His arm grazed mine as he made his point, and my body jerked involuntarily, the way your leg jerks when the doctor taps your knee to test your reflexes.

  “She has to act as if she doesn’t love him,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “She’s protecting herself.”

  “And he’s protecting himself,” said Jack, “which is what creates the sexual tension between them.” He made serious eye contact on the words “sexual tension,” and I made serious eye contact back at him, and there was no denying the electricity right there on that sofa.

  “What?” I said, thinking he had said something else.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  We refocused on the movie.

  A split second later, Linda Darnell and Paul Douglas engaged in a steamy (for the 1950s) kiss, a kiss that confirmed all their pent-up emotions. Jack turned to look at me at the precise instant that I turned to look at him and, like two love-starved maniacs, we went for each other, just flew at each other in that darkened room, the flickering black-and-white images on the TV screen our only light.

  “Listen,” I managed, as he was kissing me with such ardor that I had trouble breathing. “I hardly know you. I don’t want you to think I do this all the time.” Okay, so maybe I had been known to make out with guys on a first date, but never like this. Never as intensely or fabulously as this.

  “So if you’re not promiscuous,” he said as I sucked on his cheek, his chin, his lower lip, “it must mean that you really like me.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said as he stroked my thigh. “It might just mean that I like your cologne.”

  “I’m not wearing any,” he said after a luscious duel between his tongue and mine.

  “Then I can’t account for it,” I said, my body a mass of exposed nerve endings. “But please don’t stop what you’re doing.”

  What he was doing was rubbing up against me while he was kissing me. If it was possible to die of arousal, I could have.

  “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you at the store,” he said in a low moan.

  “I don’t think the redhead would have approved,” I said.

  “The redhead’s a friend,” he said. “Didn’t you notice how platonic we looked?”

  “I didn’t have time to notice,” I said, ecstatic with this news. “I was too busy hating you.”

  “Do you hate me now?” As he asked the question, he had his hand up my sweater and was unhooking my bra.

  “No.”

  We kissed some more. I couldn’t get enough of him. I loved the way he inhaled me with every kiss, loved how he stopped every few minutes to look at me, to take me in, loved how he said my name in a soft, whispery voice.

  “You know what would be great?” he said.

  “What?”

  “If we could do this all night.”

  “I don’t have a curfew. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “There’s just one problem,” I said. “I want to take this slowly. In fact, I’m determined to take this slowly.”

  “I’ll go very, very slowly,” he said, unzipping my slacks and slipping his hand inside them.

  When I woke up at two o’clock in the morning, we were still on that sofa. I was stark naked and being spooned by Jack, who was stark naked, too, and drooling on my shoulder. The television was still on and the popcorn was still sitting in its bowl, and our clothes were strewn haphazardly on the floor.

  My first thought upon surveying the scene was that I had done it again: rushed in instead of heeding my own advice, and that I would pay the price. Sure, Jack and I had created real magic in the sex department, but what if it had meant more to me than it had to him? What if he was a love-’em-and-leave-’em type? And, speaking of types, why couldn’t I be one of those dopey Rules girls?

  I slipped out of his arms and stepped back into my clothes, resigned to the fact that my hoped-for romance would likely become a giant flameout, based on past experience.

  As I was turning off the TV, he stirred, then peered at me, not quite awake but getting there. Here it comes, I thought, preparing myself for the awkwardness, the weirdness, the feeling of wanting to crawl down a drainpipe. Brace yourself, Stacey. He’s going to say what a nice evening he had and promise to call you, then grab his clothes and head for the door.

  In that instant, I decided that I wouldn’t give him the chance; that the smarter thing to do—the most selfpreserving thing to
do—would be to thank him for a nice evening and then kick him out.

  “Jack,” I said, handing him his clothes. “That was fun, but I have an early day tomorrow. I hope you understand.”

  He laughed. “Get over here, would you please?” He threw his clothes back onto the floor.

  “I’m serious,” I said, handing them to him again. “I really enjoyed our time together, but it’s better if you leave now.”

  “Why?”

  “I already told you. I have to get up early.”

  “For what?”

  “For an audition.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. What are you auditioning for, a church choir?”

  “Oh. Stupid me. What I meant was that I have to get up early for work at the store.”

  “Really? Don’t most stores open later on Sundays?”

  “Yes, but the salespeople have to come in early. We have to set up, make sure the merchandise is displayed properly, the usual.”

  “Stacey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re pulling a Linda Darnell.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re acting as if you don’t care about me, so you can protect yourself.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “What’s ridiculous is that you’re standing there with your clothes on. Take them off and come over here, would you?” He held out his hand to me, pulled me back onto the sofa, and finger-combed my hair off my face in a gesture that was exquisitely tender. “You know, there are no guarantees in life, especially when it comes to relationships, but I think things are going pretty well between us so far, don’t you?”

  I nodded reluctantly.

  “So what do you say we play this out, see where it leads? I’d like us to do that, Stacey. I’d really like us to do that.”

  He kissed me soulfully on the mouth, purposefully. It was a wet, damp, humid kiss, and it sapped all the resistance out of me.

  “You win,” I said, taking off my clothes.

  “We both win,” he said. “There’s just one little matter before you get comfy.”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a bedroom? With an actual bed in it? This sofa’s hell on my back.”

  “Yes, I have an actual bed,” I said. “Follow me.”

  seventeen

  Over the next few weeks, Jack and I embarked on the kind of feverish romantic adventure that was as exhausting as it was exhilarating. Sleeping was out of the question, thanks to our incessant and extremely satisfying lovemaking, and eating was merely a means of survival, since the very act of falling in love triggers an odd sort of nausea. Discovering tiny details about each other, however mundane (Stacey to Jack: “You had a little red truck when you were a kid? That’s so cute.” Jack to Stacey: “You were on the girls’ field hockey team in high school? How athletic.”), was like unearthing buried treasure. On a more serious note, Jack confided that he was now estranged from his parents, who were as distant emotionally as they were geographically. He also confided that he was in constant contact with his younger brother, who, it turned out, had suffered a spinal-cord injury as a child, was in a wheelchair, and was supported not by his parents but by Jack—a revelation that made me admire him all the more. I confided that I had always been at odds with my mother, given how domineering and intrusive she was, but that I was beginning to appreciate her positive qualities and, as a result, was more accepting of her than I was irritated by her. I also confided that, while I had dreamed of being an actress since I was five, I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I was probably not going to “make it” in a major way and that I would have to find another career at some point—a very tough admission.

  There were a lot of confessionals between Jack and me in those early days. We filled in the blanks, rounded out the picture, shared information both personal and professional. Everything we did and said seemed miraculous to us, as is the case with new lovers, and we spent an inordinate amount of time discussing how thrilled we were to have found each other, particularly after our bumpy start.

  Of course, there was the real world to contend with. Jack not only had his show to tape once a week, but he regularly screened movies and boned up on the guests he had to interview and took meetings with a variety of industry types. And I continued to go on auditions— getting a job here, a job there—and to work part-time at the store. Still, we stole as much time together as we could. No matter how hectic our days, there were always the nights—those precious hours when it was just the two of us, getting to know each other, getting to touch each other, getting to trust each other.

  One night, we were stretched out in bed at my place. Jack was reading the notes his producer had prepared in anticipation of an interview with Jeff Bridges, and I was reading the latest issue of People in the hopes of understanding the appeal of Jennifer Lopez.

  I looked up and said, “Oh, by the way, I’m finally meeting my mother’s boyfriend tomorrow night.” While Jack hadn’t seen my mother since her appearance on his show—he and I had been keeping a low profile, not ready to go public just yet—he had certainly expressed interest in her.

  “How are you feeling about her having a man in her life?” he asked, putting his notes aside and sliding across the bed to be closer to me.

  “Conflicted. I want her to be happy, obviously, and, while no one can replace my father, she deserves to be with someone, especially after so many years on her own. On the other hand, I don’t know anything about the guy, so I can’t help being a little wary.”

  “What’s his name? You never told me.” He was massaging my shoulders as he asked the question, and my knots of stress melted with every stroke of his fingers.

  “Victor,” I said dreamily. “Victor Cheever. No, Chester. No, wait. His last name is like cello or something. Chellus. Right, it’s Victor Chellus.”

  Jack brought a halt to the massage. I turned to glance at him.

  “What’s the matter? Got a cramp in your hand?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Just taking a break.”

  “Good, because I was enjoying that. So, have you ever heard of this Victor Chellus? My mother claims he’s a producer—or used to be. According to her, he’s a man of many talents.”

  “The name’s vaguely familiar,” said Jack, resuming the massage, “although everyone in Hollywood claims to be a producer.”

  “You’re telling me. But you’re not aware of any specific projects he’s produced?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Maybe you could ask around about him. Would you do that, Jack? My mother isn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp when it comes to dating, and I don’t want her getting mixed up with some phony. Any background stuff on him would be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, why don’t you and I concentrate on us.” Jack moved his hands from my shoulders to the small of my back and began to knead my muscles there.

  “Hmm. That feels wonderful,” I purred. “To think that you’re brilliant and a skilled masseur, too. I only hope my mother’s as lucky with her man as I am with mine.”

  I met Mom and Victor at Il Pastaio, an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills that’s impossibly crowded every night of the week. This particular Thursday night was no exception. People were stuffed into the place, our table for three shoehorned into a tight corner, and the noise level was ear-splitting. Before her celebrity, my mother would have bitched and moaned. (“Don’t they know there are fire codes? Don’t they give you any elbow room? Don’t they care that it’s hot enough in here to roast a chicken?”) But because the waiters treated her with the utmost unctuousness and because the clientele gawked and pointed and regarded her as the icon she had indeed become and because—this was the key—it was Victor’s favorite place to dine—Il Pastaio was the site of our introductory dinner.

  “Ah, Stacey! We meet at last!” he boomed in a deep baritone of a voice, punctuating every word with an exclamation point. He also stood to greet me, and instead of sha
king my hand, which would have been appropriate for an initial encounter, he opened his arms and folded me into a bear hug. Clearly, he was the affectionate type. He was short, only an inch or so taller than I am, and chubby around the middle, and he wasn’t handsome in a conventional sense. What made him attractive was his air of playfulness, the impishness in his hazel eyes, the way he threw back his head of wavy, shoe-polish brown hair when he laughed. His wardrobe left something to be desired—his outfit represented nearly every color in the Crayola box—but I attributed this garishness to exuberance. Of course, if one of my boyfriends had ever appeared at our door decked out in a red blazer and a green shirt and a Dodger blue baseball cap, my mother would have been appalled. How times had changed.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said, sitting down.

  “Your mother and I have ordered drinks. What about you?” he said, raising his bushy eyebrows, which were dyed to match his hair.

  I told him I’d like some water. I intended to keep a clear head.

  “Well, well,” he boomed again, as if he were speaking into a bullhorn. “So you’re Cookie’s daughter, her pride and joy.”

  Cookie?

  “Victor calls me that,” my mother explained with a shy little giggle. “It’s a pet name. Because I’m as sweet as a cookie.”

  My mother wasn’t the sort of person to whom you’d give a pet name. And “sweet” wasn’t an adjective I’d ever heard used in connection with her, but never mind.

  “I’m Stacey, yes,” I said to Victor, wondering if she had a pet name for him and, if so, whether it was Shrimpy. “My mother tells me you’re retired now, but that you used to be a producer?”

  He nodded, sipped his vodka on the rocks. “I’ve put together a few projects over the years,” he said. “Producing is really about squeezing money out of people, and I’m pretty good at that.”

  “Victor’s been in several businesses,” said my mother, patting his arm. “He’s a genius when it comes to spotting a potential moneymaker and turning opportunity into reality.”