We join the other actresses, who are all perfectly made up, though a little overboard I would say. I take a seat in the cold metal chair, and am about to ask my fellow actors if I could borrow a small mirror when the door to the audition room swings open and a clean-cut guy saunters out and addresses us.
“Lane Carson.”
“Oh, hi!” I say, hopping out of my seat and struggling to pull up the brake on Rory’s stroller. Why the hell did I put the brake on?
The guy surveys me with a perplexed look, I guess because I have a baby. “I’m Jay, the director,” he says.
“Nice to meet you!” I flash him my best attempt at a dazzling smile and steer Rory into the audition room, where five guys are seated at a table and a sixth is standing behind a camera. This is it! My nerves feel rattled and I’m trying with all my might to just breathe and be calm.
“On your mark,” the director says.
Oh! I leave Rory’s stroller and take my position. The director looks up from his notes. “Okay, so this is Ron, one of the actors; Michael, head writer; J.D. in casting; Pete in PR; and Zach, another actor. Oh and Johnny’s one of our camera men.”
“Hi guys!” I wave and again flash a brilliant smile. Most of them seem eager, leaning forward with expectant eyes, though one of the guys slumps in his seat, not bothering to even look at me. I can’t remember his role. I hope he’s not the casting guy.
“Aaaand slate yourself.”
I smile wide for the camera and take a breath, when a phone begins to ring. Eyebrows shoot up as the guys gaze around apparently in search for the culprit, and I’m outright mortified when I realize it’s coming from me.
“Uh, sorry,” I say, whipping my phone out to turn off the ringer. But I catch a glimpse at the caller ID—it’s a number I don’t recognize. What if it’s Billy and he’s in trouble or something? What if it’s Margo’s school and she fell off the monkey bars—or worse yet she’s gone missing. “Sorry, guys, this might be important.” I slide the answer bar and put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“What’s up, toots?”
No way. It can’t be. “Riley?” I croak in disbelief.
“Yeah! I’m calling from my new cell phone, toots. Pops just got it for me!”
I don’t believe this. “Riley, I don’t have time for this—I’m at an audition,” I hiss.
“For what?”
I catch the director’s eye—and he doesn’t look impressed, so I quickly hang up. “Sorry, I’m so sorry…”
“All right, slate yourself.”
“Hi, I’m Lane Carson and I’m self-represented,” I say, trying to regain a relaxed disposition. Rory is starting to squawk, and I try to block her out and concentrate.
“And, action.”
“What a beauty!” The actor whose name I don’t remember says his lines, and I turn my full attention to him.
“Thanks, this is Molly,” I say, trying to convey warmth and openness.
“I was actually talking about you.” I do my best to blush and cast my eyes downward, smiling. “But don’t worry; your dog’s pretty cute too. What breed is she?”
“She’s a shih-tzu,” I say, pretending to pat the dog.
“Oh. She’s really cute. I had a husky, but he died a few months ago. I still miss him.”
I peer at my fellow actor, trying to convey a growing interest. “How old was he?” I ask. Rory is screeching in the background. I should have faced her stroller toward me so she could at least see what’s going on. I wish I could just step away from my mark to turn her around.
“It’s your turn.”
Huh? Oh, shit. I scramble for my script and somehow find my place to finish the anticlimactic scene. I should really tell the writer not to quit his day job.
“Thanks, Lane, that will be all,” the director says, so as a last-ditch effort, I grace him with another broad smile and approach, my hand outstretched.
“Thank you so much, John,” I gush. I turn my attention to the panel of guys and attempt to shake their hands as well. “Adam, nice to meet you. Sam, what a great opportunity. Rick, thank you. Carl, great shirt. Matt, loved the script.” The guys are howling—yes, I have no idea who the hell is who. “Great camera work, David,” I say over my shoulder, as I wheel Rory around.
“Bye,” she yells. “Bye, byyyye.”
Get me out of here! Okay, lessons learned. Try not to bring babies to auditions if at all possible, and turn phone off. Right! Oh well. I’m sure there will be other auditions in the future. I fish Rory’s bottle out of the diaper bag and she accepts it with a big smile. I smile back.
“Oh, Rory. What can ya do?” Oh well. I drape the stroller with the plastic rain cover and make my way to the door, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the lobby mirror and my mouth drops in disbelief.
I gape at myself in utter horror taking in my ridiculous reflection. My hair is so flat it’s glued to the side of my head, and I have wide, long streaks of black makeup smeared down my face from each eye and mascara globs stuck to each eyelid. I whip out a baby wipe from the diaper bag and begin scrubbing my face. Once somewhat satisfied, I pull my hood on and step out into the rain.
By the time our bus drops us off at Kits Beach, the rain has seized and the sky is brightening. Instead of going right home, I stroll along the seawall to the playground and dry the baby swing with a change blanket.
“Here baby,” I say, pulling off the rain cover to pick up Rory. “Ooohh.”
Rory is nestled into the corner of the stroller sound asleep. I smile ruefully and turn in the direction of home. I pass Kits Pool. It’s still full of water, but grit and bird yuck litters the bottom. Seagulls float along, apparently enjoying their winter paradise. When I reach home, I steer the stroller up the pathway, wondering if I should just wait for Rory to wake up or risk waking her by pulling her out of the stroller.
I’m debating this, when I hear the click of heels and glance up—I don’t believe it. It’s Elsa, Micky’s mother, coming up the drive. I’m momentarily stunned. How did she know where I was? Has she heard from Micky? What does she want?
Elsa’s not the kind of woman to make house calls.
“Lane.” She greets me with a curt nod, and I lift my chin ever so slightly, returning her even gaze.
“Elsa.” CruElsa.
“I’ve come for my granddaughters.”
“What do you mean you’ve come for them? I need notice Elsa. Margo’s not even here!”
“I don’t mean I want to spend a little afternoon together. I mean I’ve come for them. After all the trouble you’ve caused.”
I widen my eyes in shock. “What are you talking about?” My voice is rising and panic is starting to build and compound.
What is she talking about?
Micky?
“You tell me. I come home after three months in Argentina only to hear some hysterical message on my machine.”
“What message?” I ask. What the fuck is she talking about?
“The kids. You wanted me to take them off your hands.”
“Elsa, what the hell do you mean?”
“You left me a message saying you can’t do this, you want me to come for the kids. You don’t know what you’re doing, and on and on.”
This sounds vaguely familiar.
As in very vague, like a distant dream.
Did I really call Elsa of all people and offer up my own offspring?
“Elsa, in case you haven’t been in touch with Micky, we’ve been going through a very difficult time, and yes, I was freaked. But he’s sorting himself out, I’m sure, and I am too. In fact, I’ve got it together and am starting my own business.” Take that! Elsa’s never worked a day in her pampered life, but she must have respect for my wanting to make a better life for my family. One look into her face shows a cold woman who doesn’t even hear me.
“I’m here for my grandchildren,” she repeats. “You’re not fit to care for them. And you never were.”
I stumble back, reeling as th
ough I’ve been slapped. I now recognize the fierce love I have for my girls, and I’m not going to let Elsa jeopardize anything. “Get off my property!” I scream at the witch.
She crosses her arms in front of her bony chest, her eyes narrowing and mouth forming a wicked smile. “This isn’t your property, Lane!”
“Get off my property!” I whirl around to find George glaring at Elsa and looking nastier than ever. Yes!
“Is this a good time?” A jovial voice interrupts all of us, and I turn with the others to find the loveliest Brad Pitt doppelgänger coming up the walkway. Elsa and I gaze open mouthed at this guy, who is nothing less than GQ material. He claps George on the back and turns to me with a grin. “Ready to do some cooking?”
I then notice the brown paper bag of groceries in his right arm. A lock of blonde hair falls into his blue-green eyes and he sweeps it away, while I stare, mesmerized.
“Cooking?” Elsa scoffs, her voice high pitched. “Lane doesn’t cook.”
The guy gives Elsa a broad grin and says, “Ah, well that’s all about to change. By the time I’m through with her, she’ll be Red Seal material.”
Me? Red Seal? Even I doubt that, but considering his confident, relaxed disposition, I’d probably believe anything he said. Rory is awake and starting to fuss, which is perfect timing.
“Well, shall we?” the guy asks, so I nod and shoot Elsa a triumphant look. She can’t argue with my parenting if I’m making moves like starting a business and taking cooking classes to better things for the girls.
She shakes her head in obvious defeat and turns to walk away, her kitten heels clip clipping along the cobblestone path. George is watching her leave, his face etched in a deep frown of a thousand lines.
“Thank you, George,” I say quietly.
“Monster-in-law?” he asks.
“Obviously.” I realize I didn’t really find out if Elsa has even spoken with Micky. How could I have forgotten to ask her?
Elsa’s Mercedes peels out from the curb, making an ear-piercing shriek. Crazy woman!
“So, what’s this about cooking?” I ask George and his friend.
“Right! Well, George asked me to give you some cooking lessons,” the guy says with an easy smile.
Uh-huh. So George must still be hungry.
I pull Rory out of her stroller, and the guy reaches for the diaper bag and swings it over his shoulder. I eye him with interest, still baffled by his unbelievable beauty.
“And you are…”
“Ah! Right. Of course. Sorry, I’m Liam O’Connell, and you must be Lane.”
“That’s right. Lane Carson. Nice to meet you.”
Inside, George retreats to his own quarters, and I float up the stairs in companionable silence with Liam.
Upstairs, Liam makes himself at home by unpacking his groceries, so I change Rory’s diaper. I glance around, relieved I did some tidying up last night. The bed looks impressive with the silk canopy layers, and everything else is pretty much in its place, though I doubt Liam would have minded otherwise.
“Do I detect an Irish lilt?” I ask, taking in his beauty.
“Sure, look it. I guess my name gave it away.”
“Yeah, that too.” I laugh. “And…so…how do you know George?”
His face breaks into a radiant smile and his bright eyes shine. “George is my granddad’s best friend. Or was, anyway. My granddad passed away about five years ago, but George was always a fixture in our family. He’s one hell of a guy; gruff yes, but with a heart of gold.”
George? A heart of gold? That might be an exaggeration. Though…I am grateful he came to my defense today. I glance at the clock, relieved I don’t have to leave anytime soon to pick up Margo. I join Liam at the counter, where he’s washing some vegetables. “So, what’s on the menu today?” I ask, wondering just how many cooking lessons I’m going to have with this guy.
“Well, I thought today we’d start with simple and fresh ingredients. Braided, wild halibut filets, baked zucchini, cilantro-infused Jasmine rice, and garden salad with an herb-garlic vinaigrette.”
I nod, my mouth watering at the mention of good food—it’s been so long. I guess this is how George feels, but amplified because he’s lived without home-cooked food for, well, who knows how long?
“Here, smell this!” Liam says, handing me a bunch of fresh organic cilantro. I hesitate, then take a whiff. It does smell pretty awesome. “Cooking is a sensory experience. An art. Now, what do you think the first step to cooking a good meal is?”
“Have a recipe in mind?”
“Sure. But first we start with a glass of wine.” He fills two glasses with white wine. Our eyes meet as we raise the glasses to our lips. Rory squirms in my arms, and to my surprise Liam reaches for her and cradles her into the nook of his arm. Normally this would be really weird; I mean I don’t even know this guy. But he’s a good family friend of George’s, and there’s something so comfortable about him, like I’ve known him all my life.
“So, are you a chef?” I ask, intrigued.
“No, but I love to cook,” he says. I’m mildly disappointed because he didn’t say what exactly he does. “So, first things first, I’ll prepare the halibut. You can use another white fish for this dish, like sole or cod, but I caught this halibut myself.” Liam gives Rory a pat on the head and passes her back to me. He then pulls out his own knife from its protective case and slices the halibut into three long strips, leaving the tops connected.
“Nice fish.”
“I’m an entreprawneur.”
I frown inwardly at his mispronunciation but decide to let it slide. “Oh yeah?” So that’s what he does. Another ruthless businessman.
“So now, I braid the halibut filets.” He swiftly folds the fish into a braid. “We’re going to bake this. I’m going to cover it in heaps of butter, lemon, and fresh fennel.”
“I don’t have any butter,” I say.
“No worries, Lane, I do.”
“So is this cooking class a onetime thing?” I ask, trying to feign indifference.
“Ah, no. You have me daily for two weeks at least.”
I gape at him, wide eyed. Two weeks! Though this Liam guy is perfectly charming and nice company, I have things to do!
“Liam, I thought maybe you could help me cook another meal or two, but fourteen more? There’s no way!”
That George—always assuming I’m at his disposal!
My phone pings and I race for it, letting Rory down by a pile of toys. It’s a text.
Hi Lain
Thanks for coming down today. Sorry but another actress was cast. Better luck next time!
Jay aka “John”
Though I was expecting this, the disappointment stings. You’re not good enough, Lane.
18
The soft afternoon sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the thick layer of dust coating each worn surface in the living room. Living in an environment full of filth should drive the admiral in George batty, but truth be told, he is getting too old and too tired to really care. The sound of laughter is a welcome interruption to his mundane thoughts. He shuffles to the front bay windows in time to see Lane and Liam with Rory, making their way up the sidewalk, Margo skipping along in front, her purple backpack bouncing on her back.
Oh, to be young and carefree again. He smiles in spite of himself. How things have changed for him during the past three months. Now there is life, laughter, and the pitter-patter of little feet in his home again. And now Liam is back in Vancouver after much travel. Best of all, tonight George is going to enjoy a feast. What excitement indeed.
He watches with interest as Liam and Lane exchange a private laugh at something he can’t hear. Where the hell Lane’s husband has gallivanted to, George will never know. But one thing is for sure, he’s got to be an imbecile for leaving her and the kids. What kind of man can’t own up to his mistakes and take care of his family?
Margo hops up the front steps and peers through George’s wind
ow, eyes searching. His heart soars because the sweet child remembered him. They lock eyes and both wave wildly for a brief second before the front door flings open and everyone clambers inside. Nobody calls for him, so he stays frozen at the window. Soon dinner will be served—the anticipation is almost too much to bear.
Oh, that Lane! He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. He has to admire her tenacity and ingenuity, as crazy as she is. How she could negotiate a rent reduction when she knows she’s a miserable cook is beyond him. He has to laugh at the horror of a so-called dinner she cooked the other night—burned canned sauce with mush toast. But, he probably would have given the woman the rent decrease even without the dinners—hell, he didn’t need the money. To think he’s sat in this godforsaken house for over thirty years by himself, and now it teems with life again.
Sometimes a cat for company just isn’t enough. Where has that damn cat gone off to now? He turns from the window in search for his beloved feline companion, when a sudden and overwhelming pain shoots up his left arm. The agony halts him in his tracks, and his face knots as the pain grips him.
“Lane—” He tries to call out, his voice hoarse and weak. He steadies himself on the back of the sofa and struggles to breathe through the pain. Another shock shoots through his upper body, this time assaulting his arm and chest.
No! This can’t be the end already!
He looks around with frantic eyes, and against every bit of strength he can muster, he collapses on the floor, his twisted and rigid body betraying him. He tries to focus on Piper’s wail of meows as she rubs her soft body along his, her incessant cries echoing in the room. He tries to focus on this, but the pain takes over—it’s all he feels, all he sees. It is all consuming. “Lane.” His whisper is hoarse with desperation as he clutches his chest in anguish.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 15