by Judy Baer
“Sounds like a real gem.” Now I was doubly curious about who was on the other side of the door.
Eddie is a good-looking guy with a soft paunch around his middle and hair that looks as though it had been combed in a wind tunnel. He is pasty pale but, his blue eyes are sharp and astute. He strode across the room to embrace Pete in a gigantic bear hug. “Hello, you little weasel who didn’t marry my sister, how are you?”
Pete reddened and I grinned. It’s okay for him to have the tables turned on him once in a while.
“Good. Great…how’s Kristy?”
“More beautiful than ever. You missed a good one there, buddy.”
“I suppose she’s married. Does she have a family?”
“Did I say she was married?” Eddie scowled at Pete. “For some unknown, unfathomable, ridiculous reason, you ruined her for other men. ‘Pete did this… Pete did that….’” he mimicked. “You don’t look like you have a romantic bone in your body. If I were a woman I wouldn’t give you a second glance.”
Pete appeared mightily relieved at that.
Then Frank stood up and rolled across the room toward us. Yes, rolled. Like an undertaker in B movie, the oily, smarmy kind that navigates across a floor smoothly and silently as he unctuously relishes the addition of one more body to his collection.
If Frank hadn’t been a television producer, he would have made a great character in a haunted house. I don’t often get a visceral response to people, but Frank immediately made my nerves jump. He looks the part of the emperor of cheap-shot reality television.
I don’t mind the cute reality shows. Really, I don’t. Thanks to Maggie, I watch the ones featuring aspiring singers and dancers. The rest? I’m not sure they’re worth the fifteen minutes of fame the contestants get.
“So this is Quinn.” Frank took my hand and kissed it. Then he licked his lips like a snake flicking its tongue in and out.
It took everything in my power not to wipe the back of my hand on my skirt.
Pete made the proper introductions and we sat down in a cozy little ring around a coffee table littered with salted-nut-roll wrappers, paper coffee cups and dried-up sushi.
“So, Quinn,” Eddie began, “Pete was telling me the truth. You are lovely. In fact, you remind me of my sister.”
I eyeballed Pete and he shrugged.
“Thank you.” I wished that Frank would quit staring at me as if I were sitting in an X-ray machine being scanned for defects.
“Did Pete tell you much about this show and what we’re looking for?”
“Frankly, no. He seemed to think that I wouldn’t come here today if I knew what you were up to.”
Pete glared at me.
“It’s a great premise, actually. You know, of course, that a chrysalis is the cocoon of a butterfly.” Eddie’s eyes lit with excitement. “That’s what we’re doing with the show—bringing people out of their cocoons, making them beautiful and showing the world what’s been hidden until now.”
“So it is another makeover reality-show.”
“This is different. We’re also going to track the contestants’ emotions, the how and why of what they decided to do. We want to mine their emotions, make them real people, not just a nose-job or a tummy tuck. Not only will we make these people look great but we’ll know why they choose the changes they do. It’s about their thoughts, feelings and motivations. Who is it they want to emulate? Who are their heroes? It’s about the whole person, not just the body. The beauty is just the frosting on the cake.”
Frank took up the sales pitch. “It’s the twist in the premise that’s going to make the show catch on. The hostess of the show is going to be the contestants’ role model. It will be a mentoring role, almost.”
I still hadn’t heard anything to convince me this show was much different from what was already on the television.
“These contestants will want to figure out what it is you have so they can have it, too. You know, charisma, charm, all that stuff. That’s why we need the perfect hostess.” Eddie leaned forward and impaled me with his baby blues. “You have it all, Quinn.”
“And, of course, there’s the grand finale.” Frank is thin to the point of gaunt, with sunken eyes and a beak of a nose. He rubbed his hands together as he spoke, as if already mentally counting the cash that would roll in.
Pete leaned forward expectantly, already into this stop-and-chop way to beauty.
“The last show will be a beauty and personality competition. Which of the new butterflies is the most beautiful? Who exhibits the most personal growth? The winner will get a modeling contract and a cash prize.”
“So you’ll be exploiting people who don’t like their looks and then pitting them against one another in a public competition?”
“Quinn!” Pete muttered.
Frank’s face turned one of my favorite shades of scarlet. Pete was apoplectic but I ignored him.
“We’ll make them proud of their looks,” Eddie continued, unfazed. “What could be better?”
I looked at Pete’s red face and refrained from voicing what I was thinking. When pride comes, then comes disgrace but with the humble is wisdom.
“I’ve heard about you ever since Pete started dating my sister,” Eddie said smoothly, and sent a dimpled smile my way. He’s sweet in a teddy-bearish way that’s very disarming. “‘My best friend Quinn…’ ‘Quinn says…’ ‘When Quinn and I were…’ That’s all Pete ever talked about. Sometimes I wondered why he just didn’t marry you.”
Pete gurgled something unintelligible.
“Pete and I like each other too much to start dating,” I said with a laugh. “There’s nothing like romance to kill a good friendship.”
“I like you, too, Quinn.” Eddie studied me from beneath beetled brows. “I can see what Pete’s talking about. You’re lovely, but you are also solid and sensible. I could see it in your pictures but even more so now, in person.”
“You’ve seen photos of me?” I turned. “Pete?”
“I just sent a couple, that’s all.”
I’ll throttle him later. It would be much too messy to do it now.
“And now Pete has made up for his idiotic move not to marry my sister.” Eddie turned to Pete, who was busy writhing uncomfortably on a low-slung couch. “He found our host for Chrysalis.”
“He did?” Then it dawned on me. Eddie was talking about me. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m not looking—”
“Quinn!” Pete’s voice was strangled. “Don’t say no without thinking about this! It’s a terrific opportunity. What about the tutoring academy?”
“We’ve been auditioning all week and nothing has clicked,” Eddie added enthusiastically, “but when you walked in here, I knew.”
“Me, too,” Frank echoed.
I tried not to fidget. The man is a character straight out of Edgar Allen Poe.
“There are lots of beautiful women, Quinn, but you’ve got something special. You can be a role model for these contestants. We want this show to be about an emotional—maybe even spiritual—change, as well as the physical one.”
The very idea gives me the chills. People are shooting pretty low if it’s me they want to emulate. Be like Jesus—that’s one thing. But be like Quinn? The only thing I want people to see is Christ who lives in me.
Eddie wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across the table to me. “Here’s what we’re willing to pay you.”
I stared, dumbfounded, at the figure.
They’ll pay me this to be a pretty face? Unbelievable.
Pete ushered me out of the suite quickly, volubly assuring Eddie and Frank that I’d consider the offer and get back to them. I didn’t even have time to summarily turn them down.
Out in the car, he turned on me, his eyes flashing. “What were you trying to do, blow everything? I was afraid I wouldn’t get you out of there without you turning them down flat!”
“I would have, but you hauled me out so quickly that I didn’t get a chance. We don’t need
another television show that touts beauty and gives the message that people aren’t okay unless they look like models. When are we going to realize that people need to do their cosmetic surgery on the inside first?”
“There’s no way to get ratings with that.” He flung himself across the wheel of the car. “You heard Eddie. This is also about emotional change. He was particularly interested in you when he found out you were a Christian. He said that would probably give you depth.”
I massaged a sore point on my temple.
Fortunately Pete didn’t pursue the conversation further, sensing that I’d reached my limit of patience. Although he wouldn’t give up, he did know when to back off.
When I arrived at Linda’s house to tutor Nathan, she met me at the door with a wide smile.
“You look pleased with yourself,” I commented.
She started to hum that refrain from Fiddler on the Roof, “Matchmaker, matchmaker… He liked you, I could tell.”
“If you are talking about Jack Harmon, and I know you are, I liked him, too. He’s a very pleasant man. I wish him all the best. I congratulate you on having lovely neighbors. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do and your son is waiting for me.”
“Jack didn’t call you?” Linda’s face crumpled in disappointment. “I thought he would. I thought he might like the idea of a tutor for Ben and then at least you two could get to know each other.”
My head began to hurt again and Pete wasn’t even around to blame.
“You said he’s not over his wife.”
“Even if you two weren’t interested in each other, Ben could benefit from your help. When his mother was alive, they kept busy all day long. After their homeschooling stopped for the summer or when Ben was able to go to school, they just kept on learning. They visited parks, museums and the zoo. Ben and his mother went to every play at the children’s theater and all the exhibits and the science and art museums. That child can already name all the Impressionist painters, identify their work and give biographies of their lives! Jack would take them to music in the park, concerts and rodeos. Emily taught him to play the piano and Jack helped Ben float on his back.
“But when Emily died of a brain tumor, it all stopped. Jack doesn’t have enough hours in a day to be both mother and father. Even little Ben sees his dad burning the candle at both ends. He has actually told his father to ease up. Out of the mouths of babes, I’d say.”
As Linda chattered on about Ben and his father, my mind drifted back to Chrysalis and to my wariness of anything that puts emphasis on outer attractiveness at the expense of inner loveliness.
Eddie wants a role model for the contestants to emulate, but what does that mean? Will people fake personality changes until the show is over or get down to the nitty-gritty and make lasting changes? And what about God? He is the only One who can create significant transformation in anyone’s life. He did in mine.
Gradually I tuned back in to Linda, who was still babbling.
“Ben Harmon is so patient and cheerful despite his physical issues. I’m no expert on juvenile arthritis, but I know he has joint pain, swelling and a lot of stiffness, especially in the morning. Ben has fevers, fatigues easily and misses a lot of school. He goes through cycles when his condition worsens then, after while, he improves again. It’s a roller coaster for both him and his father.”
Linda poured more coffee and absently pushed a carton of cream my way. “Sometimes I weep for that little boy. He’s such a trouper. He never complains, even when I know he is hurting.”
“Did you know his mother well?”
“Emily? We were neighbors, of course, but because we had boys the same age, we ended up in a lot of the same places—the swimming pool, the playground, school functions.
“I remember when they first discovered Ben’s illness. He’d come down with an unexplainable rash and a high fever. It was quite a shock to discover he had juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. They did a lot of blood tests and studied his bone marrow to rule out other conditions. Finally, they did a bone scan in an attempt to explain Ben’s bone-and-joint pain.”
“What can they do for him? I’m not terribly familiar with juvenile arthritis.”
“Medication, physical therapy and exercise. They’ve avoided injections and surgery so far. Emily was determined not to let the disease impair Ben socially or emotionally. She became as adept as Ben’s physical therapist in helping him with range-of-motion exercises.”
I tried to imagine how difficult life must be for this father and son. Ben Harmon was just the kind of child I wanted to help.
Chapter Six
As I got into my car, I recalled my conversation yesterday with B & B Productions. I could help a lot children like Ben if I had an entire team of tutors. I was already close to the maximum number of students I could take. I tried to swat the idea away like a pesky mosquito. Unfortunately, Pete’s nonsense had drilled its way into my consciousness, like the words to an irritating song that just won’t go away.
Just as I reached for the ignition, my cell phone rang.
“Quinn? It’s me, Maggie.”
“Hi, sweetie, how are you doing?”
“Going crazy. Why is it that the minute an adult woman walks into her mother’s home she becomes a child again?”
Every time I visit my own mother, I go directly to her cookie jar. The first time I found store-bought cookies instead of homemade, I thought I would faint dead away. That, more than any other single event, made me realize that Mom had moved on—to the golf course, to the gym, to watercolor painting and to how-to-make-sushi classes.
“What’s she got you doing?”
“Making my bed, washing my hands before dinner, telling her where I’m going to be every hour of the day…”
“That doesn’t sound so bad. You make your bed and wash your hands, anyway.”
“…cleaning my plate at dinner, raiding the cookie jar, drinking her sinfully good malts. I’m going to look like the Goodyear blimp before I get out of here.”
I closed my eyes and suppressed a groan. She doesn’t need ten pounds to add to the problems she’s already dealing with.
“How’s everything else?”
“My sisters haven’t been around, if that’s what you mean. It’s the only bit of good luck I’ve had lately. I haven’t asked what any of them are up to—flying off to somewhere on their brooms, no doubt.”
Her voice grew soft. “Or do you mean has Randy called to beg me to come back? No.” The breath she drew had tears in it. “Or are you asking if I’ve come to grips with the breakup?”
I knew better than that.
“What did I do wrong?” Maggie’s voice broke. “What’s wrong with me? He found someone prettier, taller and thinner than me, I just know it. Someone with a pert little nose and big blue eyes. A blonde. I’d bet you anything it’s a blonde. I know he’s not dating someone who looks like me.”
“How do you know that?”
“What guy would? He just woke up and realized there was something better out there.”
“There is nothing ‘better’ than you.”
“You know what I mean,” Maggie said obtusely, and wouldn’t elaborate further.
“Snap out of it, Maggie. You aren’t going to let Randy’s bad taste influence you, are you?”
“Let’s talk about something else.” Maggie went into diversionary mode. “What have you been up to?”
I opened my mouth but closed it again. I was about to tell her about the Chrysalis interview but thought better of it. What she didn’t need to hear today was about women so desperate to be different that they were willing to go on national television and put themselves in the hands of the sycophantic, smarmy Frank to make it happen.
News of a beauty contest was not going to cheer Maggie up, either. Telling her about it would be like opening the lion’s den on Daniel if he hadn’t been bathed in consistent prayer and praise. When King Darius’s men tossed Daniel in with the lions no harm came to Daniel b
ecause he trusted God. When Maggie gets into one of these moods, all sense of prayer and trust seem to flee from her.
“When are you coming back? You had enough toiletries, makeup and hair supplies in your suitcase to stay a month.”
“A month for you, maybe. I need a lot more support equipment than you do.”
I bit my lip until I thought I might break the skin. Maggie doesn’t even realize how she sounds, anymore.
“I’ll be back soon. There’s no use running away from this. Randy is gone. I only hope that my mother is right.”
“About what?”
“That I’m ‘better off without him.’ She’s said that a lot over the years and, in retrospect, she’s usually been right. I think I’ll come back to the apartment tomorrow evening,” Maggie continued. “I’ve got to work out at the gym. Next week we start the shoot for the health club. I need to be in shape for that.”
After we hung up, Maggie and her issues lingered in my mind.
Lord, help her, will You?
With Dash at my side I lay on the bed reading Anna Karenina, my current stab at the classics, when Linda called. Dash loves the classics. I think it’s the smell of the leather bindings on my burgeoning collection. They are elegant both inside and out. Dash, from somewhere in his royal background when greyhounds were the chosen dogs of the queen must have gathered a little DNA that causes him to enjoy fine literature. After all, both Shakespeare and Chaucer made greyhounds famous. Dash knows style and sophistication when he sees it.
Greyhounds hold particular fascination for me because of what I call their “religious background.” During the Middle Ages they nearly became extinct due to famine and disease, but they were saved by monks and priests who protected them and bred them for noblemen in their monasteries. They are also the only breed listed in scripture, which pleases me to no end.
Suspecting it might be Pete, I almost didn’t answer the phone when it rang, Ever since our meeting with the movers and shakers behind B & B Entertainment and Chrysalis, he’s been on my case nonstop to accept their offer.