by Stone, Jean
“Ornery as ever. Takes after his mother.”
“More like his godmother.”
Marisol hugged her. “I’ll ignore that and just say he’s missed you a lot.”
“I’m dying to see him, too. I’ve never been away from him for so long.”
“Honey, you’ve never been away from him at all. It was good for both of you.”
“Thanks a lot.” Zoe laughed as they made their way to the baggage level.
Just then a middle-aged woman dressed in khaki shorts and a multipocketed shirt stepped forward.
“You’re Zoe, aren’t you?” the woman asked.
Zoe was startled. “Why. Yes.”
“I can’t believe it. Colleen!” she shouted across the room. “Get over here, quick!” She turned back to Zoe. “Could I have your autograph, please?” She thrust the envelope of her airline ticket at Zoe. “Just sign anywhere.”
Zoe took the envelope. The woman quickly produced a pen. “Write ‘To Martha.’ Oh, God, I can’t believe this. Colleen!”
Zoe quickly signed “To Martha—Best Wishes, Zoe,” and dated it. She smiled at the woman.
“Thank you, thank you,” the woman twittered. “Oh, this is so exciting. I can’t believe my friend has disappeared.”
“Well, good luck to you, Martha,” Zoe said, and turned with a bewildered look back to Marisol.
“Zoe?” On the other side stood a teenage boy, not much older than Scott. He had red hair, a severe case of acne, and a wide, friendly grin on his face. A camera hung around his neck. “You really are Zoe, aren’t you? Wow. Wait till I tell the guys back home. Geez. Wait till I tell my dad!” He held up his camera. “Can I have a picture of you. Please?”
“Sure,” Zoe said, wondering how this kid who could only have been a baby when she’d made her last film could possibly be a fan. “I guess a picture would be all right.”
Marisol stepped in. “How about if I take one of the two of you together?”
“Wow. You mean it?”
Marisol nodded and reached for his camera. He quickly pulled it from his neck and handed it to her, then stood beside Zoe. Not, Zoe noted, too close. She moved closer and put her arm around him. He was trembling.
“Say cheese,” Marisol directed.
“Cheese,” said the boy.
Marisol snapped the shutter.
The boy looked at Zoe again. “Geez. I can’t believe this. Thanks, Zoe. Thanks a lot.” He retrieved his camera from Marisol and backed away, still watching Zoe as though this was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to him.
Poor boy, Zoe thought. He has no idea he’s just done more for me than I did for him.
Marisol was smiling. She dug into her purse and produced a set of keys. “Why don’t you get out of here before we’re swarmed? The car’s in Lot C, Green. I’ll wait here and get a porter for your bags.”
Zoe took the keys. She was filled with excitement, anticipation. It had been fifteen years since she’d felt this way. Fifteen years since she’d felt like a star. “I can’t believe they recognized me.”
“Honey, if your talent has come back as well as your looks, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I guess it won’t be long before we know, will it?”
Marisol grinned. “Less time than you might think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just what I said. I talked to Tim Danahy this morning. Your screen test is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”
Zoe stopped abruptly. “What?”
“You heard me. Now get out of here and get the car. In case you forgot, you had to let the chauffeur go.”
“Well, that’s one way to bring me back down to earth,” Zoe said, but as she headed for the outside doors, there was lightness, happiness, in her heart. Someone had recognized her. Two people! Her screen test was the day after tomorrow, and in a little while she’d see Scott again. She stepped on the automatic door opener, then went through the open glass into the warm sunshine.
She crossed the parking lot and tried not to let her excitement turn to anguish. The day after tomorrow the truth would come out. The day after tomorrow she’d know for certain if this was really going to work. She’d find out if she could play a convincing role of Jan Wexler, braving a tough exterior, yet, inside, alone and scared. She certainly had enough inner turmoil from which to draw. The day after tomorrow she’d know if this was really happening. If she was really going to be a star again.
The day after tomorrow seemed an eternity away.
She scanned the sea of parked cars, then walked in the direction of the sign for Lot C, Green. She knew Marisol was as excited as she was about what lay ahead. And probably just as anxious. For no matter what Marisol said, she had as much at stake as Zoe. She’d invested her savings in Zoe; she’d invested her faith. Without Zoe, Marisol’s future was bleak. Marisol was too old to go back to work in the fields, she was too crippled with arthritis to clean people’s houses. She’d have to go back to living in the projects, hoping to earn enough money working the clay of her pottery to get by.
Yes, Marisol had as much at stake as Zoe. Which was why Zoe had decided she wouldn’t tell Marisol about her plans to find Eric yet. She didn’t want to spoil their much-needed optimism.
Later that evening Zoe and Scott were in the study. While Zoe had been away, Marisol had had the room entirely redone. Fresh paint, pale green this time, a cushy celery carpet, bookcases stained in dark mahogany. There were a new desk and chair to replace William’s old one, and the sofa and lounge chairs had been recovered in cheerful stripes and a floral print. The money to do it, Zoe was certain, had come from Marisol’s dwindling savings.
Because of her friend’s compassion, Zoe was determined to use this room, to enjoy it. And not to stare at the wall where William’s blood and brains had been.
She thumbed through the mail of the past six weeks. Ads. Catalogs. Bills. Lots of bills. Scott sat on the floor, surrounded by piles of old photographs and news clips from Zoe’s era of fame.
“You haven’t looked in those old boxes for years,” Zoe said.
“I know. But I figured I’d better get used to seeing my mother as a star. Besides, I like this stuff, even though it’s all BS.”
Zoe’s eyebrows raised. “BS? Just what are they teaching you in school?”
Scott laughed. “BS. As in ‘Before Scott.’ ”
Zoe rolled her eyes.
“Gotcha, Mom.”
Zoe smiled and slit open the next envelope. The contents offered her an opportunity to save 35 percent on long-distance charges to the area code she called most often. She wondered if that would include L.A. to Hibbing, Minnesota.
“Hey, Mom. Here’s the time you got the Oscar.” Scott held up a yellowed newspaper article. With it was a picture of Zoe, smiling, standing beside William, holding the golden statue high.
“It says, ‘Zoe received both a standing ovation and the Best Actress Award for her exemplary work in Muldoon.’ ”
What the caption didn’t reveal, Zoe knew, was that at the time of the photo she was two months pregnant, alone, terrified out of her mind, and completely unaware that her problems hadn’t even begun.
She nodded and went back to her mail. The next envelope was from Home Life Insurance. Her heart started to pound. This was the company that held the policy on William. Could it be the check? So soon? Would they simply send a check for half a million dollars by regular mail? She tore open the flap and pulled out the contents.
There were several pages. They probably need more information, she reasoned. Of course, they wouldn’t send a check for that amount without more information. She opened the cover letter.
“Dear Ms. Hartmann:” the form letter began. “Regarding your claim on policy #BAS73239908–4927, please note that we have been unable to process settlement due to the following.” There was a list of items, each preceded by a small box. Her eyes quickly scanned to the item checked in red felt marker. �
�Claim denied.” She blinked. Surely there was some mistake. Next to the words was the type: “See Section ___.” With the red marker someone had penned in “14–D.” In parentheses it read “See reverse side for details.”
Zoe’s hand began to shake as she turned over the sheet.
“Hey, Mom,” Scott said.
Zoe held her breath.
“Who’s this guy standing between you and Dad?”
“Not now, Scott,” she snapped. “I’m reading my mail.”
Scott mumbled something like, “Well, excuse me,” while Zoe’s eyes ran down the small print of the back side of the letter. She saw Section 14. A. B. C. D. She squinted her eyes, hoping she was reading wrong. But though tiny, the words were clear: “Cause of Death—Suicide. Exempt from coverage.”
Zoe stared at the paper. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. She pulled out the other sheets that had been included with the letter. There must be another explanation. There must be. But the other sheets were applications for more life insurance. Suicide, no doubt, exempt from coverage.
She turned back to the letter and read it again. There was no mistake. The claim had been denied. The air in the room grew heavy. Zoe couldn’t catch her breath. She would not get the half million dollars. She would not be able to make the balloon payment on Cedar Bluff.
She’d had less than an hour’s sleep. First thing in the morning Zoe sat on the bed in her magnificent white bedroom with the two walls of windows that drew the overpowering redwoods and the breathtaking cliffs into the room, and, in privacy, she placed a call to Tim Danahy. She had to find out if there was any hope that she could still make things work.
“Your friend told me you were getting back yesterday,” he said. “So, tell me, are you beautiful?”
A twinge of shame ran through her until Zoe reminded herself that Tim’s question wasn’t necessarily triggered by her unattractiveness six weeks ago, but by the simple fact that beauty was Hollywood packaging. And without a glamorous package, the contents mattered little.
Still, an appealing image of a Twinkie flashed through her mind.
“I’ve lost weight, if that’s what you mean.”
Tim laughed. “Good girl. And I expect you’re all set for tomorrow?”
Tomorrow. Right. In her angst over her financial problems, Zoe had nearly forgotten that she’d have to land the part first, before she’d need to worry if it would pay her enough money to keep Cedar Bluff.
“Yes. A couple of questions, though. What scene will I be doing?”
Tim told her. Zoe was pleased. It was a scene she was especially comfortable with.
“And another thing.” She closed her eyes to shield her embarrassment. “Do you know how much I’d get?”
“As in money?”
Zoe opened her eyes. God, why was this so difficult to talk about? “Yes.”
“I’ll try for two hundred thousand. Two-fifty, tops.”
Two hundred thousand dollars. Zoe had made five times that on her last film, fifteen years ago. “That’s all?” she asked meekly.
Tim laughed. “This is TV, Zoe. And comebacks, well, I think you know it’ll be a while before we can get you back into the big-money league.”
Zoe’s throat swelled with suppressed tears. Tears, she realized then, don’t start in the eyes. They start in the heart.
Tim told her where to be tomorrow, and when.
“I’ll see you there,” he said, and, as if with a last-minute thought that she might need some encouragement, he added, “I know you’ll be great.”
After Zoe hung up the phone, she stared out the windows at the peaceful, majestic landscape. Cedar Bluff was home to her. It was familiar. This was the view she’d watched, mesmerized, for hours, days, weeks, months, years, while she was recuperating, while she was hiding. She’d studied each tree, each bough. She’d learned each rock, each jagged edge. And now it could all be gone.
If Tim was able to get only two hundred thousand, Zoe would see only one-seventy. After his commission. Before taxes. It was not nearly enough to cover the balloon payment. It was not nearly enough to save Cedar Bluff, or her life.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Maybe she could convince the bank to refinance Cedar Bluff. She could give them a hundred thousand dollars instead of five. Maybe, just maybe, they’d agree to it. Then all she would have to do was get the part. And she’d be able to hang on a little longer.
Until when? Zoe thought as she rolled onto her side and picked at the thick down comforter. Until she was able to go through another screen test? Pray for another part?
She pulled a pillow toward her and rested her forehead against it. Would it really work? And was it really worth it?
Don’t give me no shit. Marisol’s words once again.
Zoe sat up. One thing was for certain—the only way it could possibly work was if she tried. She went to her dressing room and took out a short black silk dress, which, though fifteen years old, was thankfully back in style. She slipped it over her head. It fit. She stepped out of the dress, quickly showered, then applied her makeup and did her hair in true star-quality fashion.
Less than an hour after she’d talked to Tim Danahy, Zoe drove into the parking lot at First Pacific Savings and Loan.
The inside of the bank was so quiet it could have been a library. Zoe stood by the counter and glanced around. She spotted the customer-service desk.
As she walked toward the desk, Zoe felt the discreet stares of bank customers, tellers. They were not tourists; they belonged there. To them another star walking into the bank should be just that. Another star. No big deal.
So why were they staring?
I thought you were dead, Alissa had said. Maybe that’s why everyone’s staring now. Maybe they think they’re seeing a ghost, Zoe thought.
A young man seated at the desk looked up at her and, with only the briefest double take, asked, “May I help you?”
Zoe sat down in the chair facing him. “I’d like to speak with someone about my mortgage.”
“I can help you.”
He can’t help me, Zoe thought. He doesn’t look old enough to be a cashier in a supermarket, never mind someone knowledgeable enough to deal with the finances for Cedar Bluff.
“It’s a complicated matter,” Zoe said with a genuine smile meant not to injure his feelings. “I believe I should speak with a bank officer.”
He tapped the nameplate that sat on the desk. “John Burns. Assistant Vice President, Consumer Lending,” he said proudly.
Zoe’s smile vanished. She was in trouble. “I need to talk about refinancing.”
He asked for her name as though he didn’t know it, and her street address. Then said he’d be back in a moment.
The moment took fifteen minutes. After the first five Zoe wanted to stand up and scream. She’d never thought she’d be the type to shout a goddammit-don’t-you-know-who-I-am command. That kind of behavior was reserved for the Alissa Pages of the world. Right now, though, Zoe wished she had that ability, those guts, that self-confidence—or whatever it took. But she quickly reminded herself that she was there to ask a favor—a big one. She had to accept that she was at the bank’s mercy, because for the time being Zoe was the underdog, the subservient one. The beggar.
He finally returned with a file, sat down at his desk, and entered some data into a computer. Then he sat back and frowned at the screen. “You have a payment due in two weeks,” he announced, as though this must be news to her.
“Yes. I know. That’s why I’m here,” she said.
He swiveled his chair around to face her. “Will you be able to make the payment?”
Zoe cleared her throat. “My husband has recently passed away. There has been a problem with the life insurance.”
“I see,” he said, knitting his youthful, unwrinkled brow. “Well, we do understand that crises arise, and we try to accommodate our customers. How long do you think it will be before you can make payment?”
&nb
sp; Probably never, Zoe wanted to say. “I was wondering if we could negotiate. If I could come up with, say, one hundred thousand dollars, that would leave a balance of only four.”
“We’d have to refinance completely,” he said.
“What would that entail?”
“It would be as though you were applying for a new mortgage. We’d have to go through the same kind of paperwork.”
“What about the equity I have in the house?”
He opened the file. “The property has been evaluated at two million six. That, however, was a few years ago. It’s probably less today.”
“The five hundred thousand that’s due in two weeks would pay off the mortgage, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“With over two million dollars in equity, it seems as though I shouldn’t have a problem refinancing.” Even Zoe was impressed with the authoritative, confident sound of her voice.
“Refinancing all depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On your present income.”
Her confidence burst like a soap bubble in the air, dissolving into bits of worthless matter, disintegrating into nothingness all over his desk. “I don’t have an income,” she said quietly, then added, “at the present time.”
“None?”
Zoe stared at the open file in front of him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I have over two million dollars in equity. If I pay you a hundred thousand, then refinance the balance of four hundred thousand and can’t pay it, the bank would end up with property worth six times what I owe.”
John Burns smiled. “Ms. Hartmann, the bank doesn’t want to own your property. They want you to own it. They want you to be able to pay for it.” He folded his hands across the papers. “Surely there must be something you could put up as collateral. Stocks? Bonds?”
Zoe felt humiliation seep into her. She shook her head.
“Where do you plan to get the one hundred thousand?”
“I’m an actress, Mr. Burns. I am up for a part in a movie. The one hundred thousand would come from my paycheck.”
John Burns smiled as though he’d heard this story before. “Are you under contract yet?”
“No.”