by Stone, Jean
He leaned across the desk in a fatherly fashion. Zoe wanted to slap him across his peach-fuzzed face. “You still have two weeks before the balloon payment is due. Why don’t you wait and see what happens with the contract, then get back to me?”
Pain throbbed behind her eyes. “What difference would it make? Even if I can come up with a hundred thousand, you’ve just about told me I couldn’t refinance because I don’t have an income.”
“If you can guarantee the hundred thousand, we could take another look at it. But right now it seems as though you can’t really guarantee it.”
Zoe couldn’t disagree.
He pulled some papers off his desk and handed them to her. “In the meantime you might as well look this over in case there’s a possibility we can work something out. It’s an application for refinancing.”
Zoe took the papers and stood up.
“I wish this could be easier, Zoe,” he said, apparently now feeling as though having the upper hand gave him credence to call her by her first name. “But rules are rules. And these days the banking industry is governed very strictly. I’m sure you understand.”
Zoe nodded and started to walk away.
“We look forward to doing business with you,” John Burns, Assistant Vice President, Consumer Lending, called after her.
On the way home Zoe stopped at a convenience store and bought three packages of Twinkies and two Ring-Dings. She ripped off the cellophane in the car and devoured the sugar and the fat and the empty calories. While she was savoring the buzz, she decided she wouldn’t tell Scott about her trip to the bank. She wouldn’t tell Marisol. She wouldn’t tell them until the last possible moment that they were going to lose Cedar Bluff. She had two weeks. She could pray for the role in Close Ties. She could pray for a miracle. She licked the last of the sweet stickiness from her fingers and headed toward the canyon.
The next morning Zoe stood in the wings at the studio sound stage. She had been coiffed and made-up and costumed in sweatpants and an NYU T-shirt. The ideal attire for an activist Mom of the nineties.
She was nervous. Marisol had wanted to come—“Girl, you might need some good old moral support,” she’d said last night—but at the time, Zoe wanted to do this alone. She wanted to prove how far she’d come, she wanted to prove her strength. Now she wished she’d let Marisol come.
“Zoe, darling.” Tim Danahy had approached from the side. “You look positively superb. I knew you could do it.”
“Looks are one thing, Tim. It’s what I can do out there that will matter.” She pointed to the stage with a finger that, surprisingly, did not tremble.
“And there,” he added as he motioned to the massive cameras that stood on the stage peering at an empty set of gray seamless paper.
“No backdrop?” Zoe asked. “No props?”
Tim shrugged. “Guess not.”
Zoe didn’t need to ask why. She knew the producers weren’t interested in how she could act in the right setting. They knew she could act. What they didn’t know was how she’d look to the camera. This screen test, without a doubt, was going to focus primarily on one thing: Zoe’s face. She said silent thanks to Alissa Page for forcing her to try salt scrubs and mud packs, for flushing her with gallons of mineral water until the excess fluid drained her puffiness, until her cheekbones had returned to their prominent position beneath her blue-black eyes. She hoped that yesterday’s binge on Twinkies and Ring-Dings hadn’t obliterated Alissa’s hard work.
“Danahy?”
Zoe and Tim turned around. A tall, lean man with a silvery mustache and brown freckles on the top of his balding head approached them.
“Cal. Nice to see you again.” Tim extended his hand to the man’s large, long-fingered one.
“And you must be Zoe,” the man said as he pulled his hand from Tim’s and gave it to her. “Cal Baker.”
“The director,” Zoe heard herself say.
He smiled. His teeth were large and narrow, like his fingers; his green eyes were pleasant, unmenacing. But Zoe knew that the biggest directors rarely—if ever—came to a screen test. Cal Baker’s appearance could mean only one thing: they were going to be tough on her, they weren’t going to take any chances. Zoe wondered if her quivering insides were noticeable.
“Shall we get started?” Cal asked.
She started to follow his long gait when Tim put his hand on her arm. “Listen, kiddo, I’m going to disappear. I’m no good at these things. I get too nervous.”
Zoe stopped. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’ll be back. That’s a promise.”
She watched him leave. She felt like a child abandoned by her parent on the first day of school.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, people appeared. Lights flooded the studio. Voices shouted questions, barked orders. Zoe took a deep breath, held it, then let the air slowly escape. “Relaxation breathing” they’d called it at the spa. She wondered how many times she’d have to do it before it worked.
“Okay, Zoe,” came Cal Baker’s voice. “Let’s get you onstage for lighting.”
Zoe stepped forward, trying not to think of the years it had been since she’d been in front of a camera. She found her mark and stood patiently, while lights and shadows swooped around her. It was not, she remembered, unlike her very first screen test.
Except that Eric had been there.
They had gone out for breakfast but ordered only coffee and juice in order to save their money for a post-screen-test celebration. He’d received a hefty check the day before—$387.23 for a razor-blade commercial—and he planned to take her to the Brown Derby for lunch, if they could get in.
The studio wasn’t unlike this one. The set had been bare. The commotion had seemed ludicrous. She’d been nervous then, too, but not really scared, for back then Zoe had had nothing to lose. And when she had looked to the wings, Eric had stood there, smiling, holding in his hand the rabbit’s foot he’d brought from back home in Minnesota, squeezing it tightly, praying maybe even harder than she that she’d get the part. It had been like that with them. She’d wanted only good things for him, he for her. They’d taken on each other’s pleasures and pains as though they’d been one body, one soul.
Now, when Zoe looked to the wings, no one was there.
“Sound check,” a voice called from somewhere in the rafters.
Zoe cleared her throat. “Testing,” she said. “Testing for sound level.” She hoped that didn’t sound stupid; she didn’t know what else to say. She couldn’t remember how it was done.
No one said anything else. Zoe stood and waited. And waited.
She tried to recall the lines of the scene. It opened with Jan Wexler standing alone in her cluttered kitchen, gazing out the window into the alley below, wondering why only a handful of her neighbors had shown up for her meeting. She was to speak only a few lines, but they needed to be powerful.
Zoe closed her eyes and decided to run through the script again in her mind. She was Jan Wexler. By the window. Looking out at her neighborhood. Wistful, pensive, sad. And frightened.
Zoe’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t remember her first line.
She stared at the camera. The red light wasn’t yet on. She flicked her gaze around the studio. No one was paying attention to her.
Help me! she wanted to scream. Someone help! What is my first line?
She looked to the wings. Still, no one was there. Panic surged through her. She thought of Scott. Of Cedar Bluff. Of that patronizing John Burns at First Pacific Savings and Loan.
“Okay, Zoe, let’s give it a run-through.” It was Cal Baker’s voice. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. What was her line? What was her damn line?
She thought about Eric’s grin. She thought about his squeezing the rabbit’s foot. And then Zoe became a young woman again, eager, confident, with nothing to lose.
She looked up to the camera. “Ready,” she said, then began to recite.
“They don’t want to get involved. It’s their own damn neighborhood, their own damn families, but they don’t want to get involved.” She raised her fists and shook them. Heat rose in her cheeks. “Close your eyes! It’ll go away! Ha! Not until they murder one of your kids. Or maybe two.” The words exploded from her mouth. She raved when she should have raved. She stuttered when she should have stuttered. Then, finally, she broke down in sobs so real they shook her soul. Zoe became Jan Wexler, inside, where it mattered. How she looked to the camera no longer concerned her, for Zoe was in character now. She was Jan Wexler.
“Bravo!” came applause from the wings as Zoe concluded the scene. It was Tim Danahy. He marched onto the stage.
Zoe blinked a moment, fighting her way back to reality, the same way she had to whenever she’d performed such an engrossing scene, whenever she’d been able to become someone else, someone who existed not only in the writer’s mind, but also in hers.
“You were marvelous,” Tim said as he hugged her tightly. “Simply marvelous.”
“Thank you, Zoe,” Cal Baker called. “We’ll be in touch with Tim.”
Tim kept one arm around her and escorted her off the stage. “Fantastic, Zoe. Utterly fantastic.”
“I thought you were going to disappear,” she said. “I thought you were no good at these things.”
Tim laughed. “I only said that so you wouldn’t know I was here. I didn’t want to make you nervous. And you weren’t at all, were you?”
Zoe suppressed a grin. “No. It was easy,” she said.
“That’s because you’re a star. And now you’re my star.”
They threaded their way through the backstage maze of cables and props.
“I was really okay?” Zoe asked, but knew that she had been. She had been more than okay. She had been great.
“I think it’s a shoo-in. As long as the camera agrees.”
Zoe tried to stop the feeling of elation that surged through her. Maybe this was going to happen, after all. Maybe she really could be a star again. Maybe she could keep Cedar Bluff. Maybe she could have it all. Again.
“How soon will we know?” she asked, hoping that Tim would say, “This afternoon.” She didn’t think she’d be able to wait until tomorrow. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep.
“It won’t be long,” he said as he guided her toward the dressing rooms.
“How long?”
“Ten days. Maybe two weeks.”
Zoe stopped. Ten days? Two weeks? Didn’t anyone know she had only two weeks? “Why so long?” she managed to say.
Tim shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’re auditioning others. Not to worry, though, you were great. Trust me.”
Zoe felt sick.
“Now, get in that dressing room, take off that makeup, and change your clothes. Then I’ll treat you to lunch in the commissary.”
The commissary? Well, it wasn’t exactly the Brown Derby, but, then again, Tim Danahy wasn’t exactly Eric. And Zoe, maybe, wasn’t still Zoe after all.
9
It was the most disturbing case Meg had worked on in her twelve-year career. Arnold Banks, unlike the staid, neurotic little man his name suggested, was six feet two inches of good looks, charisma, and arrogance. He referred to Meg as “his girl,” and had a habit of touching her on the arm, shoulder, or hand while he spoke. She wondered if he’d ever heard the term “sexual harassment.”
She sat in her office, pondering the evidence. Clearly, the man had done it. According to the deposition given by his mother’s companion and personal secretary of thirty years, “No one but Arnold was allowed to see his mother for the last two years of her life.” The companion had been fired at that time but sneaked back twice to see Mrs. Banks. “Her room smelled of feces, and there were bruises on her face,” the deposition read.
One thing the Banks staff agreed was that, in recent years, Arnold’s mother had grown unpleasant and demanding. Meg wondered if her own mother would have become that way, had she lived past fifty. She wondered if Gladys Cooper could ever have driven Meg to strangle her. It was a technique Avery had taught Meg: Put yourself in your client’s shoes. It was supposed to make defending the guilty more palatable.
Janine entered Meg’s office. “Not much mail today,” she said, placing a small pile on the desk. “Once this trial gets under way, that’ll change quickly.”
It seemed as though the world had finally forgotten Holly Davidson. But Janine was right. The Arnold Banks fiasco would turn the spotlight back onto the firm. And onto Meg. “Thanks, Janine,” Meg said as the receptionist left the room.
Meg picked up the mail, eager for a distraction. Tucked among the number-ten envelopes was a small linen one, hand-addressed to her, and marked “Personal & Confidential.” It was postmarked Los Angeles. Meg frowned for a moment, then smiled. Zoe. She ripped it open and began to read:
“Dear Meg,
It’s hard to believe it’s been over a month since we were together at the Golden Key.…”
The letter went on to relate her success at losing weight, her on-again-off-again bouts with sugar and fat, and her screen test. Yes! Meg wanted to say out loud. I knew you could do it. But when she turned to the second page, Meg’s elation dissolved.
“I have at least ten days, maybe two weeks, before I’ll know if I have the part,” the letter continued. “Rather than sit around here and drive myself crazy, I’ve decided to start my search for Eric. I guess I’ll go to Minnesota—it seems like the best place to start.
“Have you made any progress yet?”
Meg set the letter down and leaned back in her chair. Zoe was right. It had been over a month. What was Meg waiting for? It’s not as though she was so engrossed in her case that she was too busy. Maybe now was the time. If Zoe had the courage, why couldn’t Meg? She did want to see Steven. She did want to know if she still had feelings for him.
She slid open the desk drawer. The card lay flat, opened. His name. His signature.
Was she afraid? And if so, was she afraid she still loved him—or was she afraid that she didn’t? Would it be worse to know that the feelings she thought she still had were, in reality, long gone—that she no longer had an excuse for not loving another man?
There was a rap on her door. She quickly closed the drawer.
“Come in.”
It was Danny.
“Turkey in a pocket?” he asked.
“What?”
“An invitation to lunch. You available?” He produced a paper bag from which the pungent aroma of Santo’s Deli escaped. “I’ve got pastrami for myself. Lots of nitrates and nitrites. The turkey was supposed to be for your boss, but he bailed out on me.”
“You two have been spending a lot of time together,” Meg said.
“Big case.” He rolled his eyes as he walked in. “Insider trading. So are you having lunch with me or not?”
“Sure. Have a seat.” She touched the drawer to be sure it was closed tightly. “How’s the case going?”
“It’s going. Wish I was working on Banks with you, though.” He dug into the bag and pulled out two waxed-paper bundles, then inspected the contents, pushed the turkey across the desk toward Meg, and sat in the chair facing her.
“Tea?” she asked.
“I’d prefer a beer.”
“Sorry,” she said as she stood up and walked to the microwave. “I’m fresh out.” She wished she could talk to Danny about Steven. She wished she could ask for his advice, for a male perspective. He was her friend, and she should be able to confide in him, shouldn’t she?
She popped two mugs of water into the microwave. Maybe she couldn’t tell him because she was afraid he’d discourage her.
“So how are things with Banks?” he asked.
Meg laughed. “Oh, God. I feel like he’s all over me. He can’t open his mouth without touching my arm.” Why was it so easy to talk to Danny about men who didn’t matter?
“Maybe you need a flyswatter.”
“Or maybe I s
hould wear Mace instead of perfume.” She listened to the hum of the microwave. Maybe she could just tell Danny that, like Alissa, she too had decided to seek out a man from her past, a man she had loved. Danny might be pleased to know there had been someone she’d once been capable of loving. It wasn’t as though she’d have to tell him who it was. It wasn’t as though she’d have to get specific.
She dipped the herb tea bags into the hot water and returned to the desk. “Have you made any headway for my friend?” She sat down and tried to act indifferent.
Danny bit into his sandwich and shook his head. “Not much,” he mumbled through the pastrami. “Haven’t had the time.”
“Oh.”
“What’s with her, anyway? Is she some kind of kook?”
Meg swallowed a bite of her sandwich. “No. Not really.”
“Is she going through her change of life or something?”
“I don’t think so.”
Danny chewed slowly, thoughtfully, then shook his head. “It kills me, it really does. These socialite ladies who are nothing more than overglorified housewives. They’ve got nothing productive to do. They’re bored. So they look for the most bizarre ways to put some excitement into their lives.”
Meg sipped her tea and wondered how it happened that she and Danny so often thought alike. But now part of her needed to come to Alissa’s defense, maybe because part of her understood. “We don’t really know Alissa’s motivation,” she said quietly. “I don’t think it’s fair to judge her.”
Danny laughed. “Motivation aside, it just seems a little stupid to me that she’s trying to find someone from her past. I mean, past is past. Who cares?”
Meg took another bite of her sandwich. Suddenly the turkey tasted awfully dry. Past is past, so who cares? I care, Danny. I care about finding the one man in my life I was able to love. And maybe Alissa does, too. She pushed the sandwich away.
“Hey,” he said as he gulped his tea. “I’ve got to drive up to New Haven tomorrow to check something out on the case. Got time for a ride?”
“I can’t. I’ll be out of town tomorrow.” Meg said the words before she realized she’d made the decision.