by Kim Fielding
“You’ve always told it to me straight. It’s one of the things I’ve valued about you.”
“Oh no, kiddo. I’ve held back. Not anymore, though. So hear me out.”
If she weren’t still clutching his shoulders, he might have run away. Instead he took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes?”
“You are a really great human being. Not because you know how to dress or because you can decorate the hell out of a house. And not because you have a lot of dough and show up on TV. You’re kind and sweet and generous, and you truly want to help improve other people’s lives.”
“Elaine—”
“Shut it. I’m talking. You need to take some time to improve your own life too, kiddo. Find some friends who appreciate you. Get a boyfriend who cares about the real Landry, not that famous guy. Open up and be your real self. Be happy.”
He tried to answer, but she kissed him on both cheeks. Sloppy kisses, the kind that left lipstick marks behind. “Be more of who you want to be instead of who you think you should be,” she said. One more kiss after that, and then she detached herself and got into the car, moving the envelope out of the way at the last second. She shoved it in her purse and rifled around for something, perhaps a tissue to wipe away her tears.
Jordan had been waiting in the passenger seat the entire time, and although he’d pretended to be focused on his phone, Landry knew better. He wondered what Jordan had made of the scene, and whether he’d heard what Elaine had said. Not that it mattered. She was just being emotional, was all.
Landry watched them drive away; Elaine waved at him from the bottom of the driveway before the gate closed. “I am who I want to be,” he muttered as he walked back into the house. Hell, he’d dreamed of this life for years. When he was a kid, instead of skulking in the library with anatomy books or explicit romances, like some of his classmates, he’d snuck looks at lifestyle magazines. Vogue. House Beautiful. Gourmet. He watched talk shows that included celebrity guests, taking careful note of what they wore and how they spoke. He sighed over photographs of mansions in Malibu and Beverly Hills.
And now here he was with his own mansion, and he was the one invited for interviews on TV. He got fan mail. People recognized him on the street and begged for autographs and selfies. His bank accounts were comfortably full. He was somebody.
Of course this was the somebody he wanted to be.
LANDRY looked up from his desk when a light knock sounded on the study door.
“Sorry,” Jordan said. “Didn’t want to interrupt, but I thought you might want me to be doing something.”
“Elaine made her flight all right?”
“Yep. And she gave me about a zillion instructions while we were driving there. I took notes. So now I know what kind of groceries you like stocked and where I should take your dry cleaning and how often you need a dentist appointment. In case you need me to do any of that.”
“Not right now,” Landry said, “although you could make a shopping trip later. Have you checked my calendar?”
“You have a lunch meeting at one with MacKenzye, another meeting in Burbank at four, and a reception tonight at eight.”
“Please set out appropriate outfits for each. We’ll leave for lunch in an hour.”
“Got it.” Jordan trotted off.
This was a test, and probably a hard one. Landry owned a lot of clothing and had particular tastes about what should be worn for which occasion. He hadn’t lectured Jordan on this subject yet. In fact, Landry hadn’t often expected Elaine to do this particular task, although she packed for his trips.
After fifteen minutes had passed, Landry went to his bedroom, where he discovered three outfits spread atop the bed as if a trio of well-dressed men had paid a visit and then suddenly dematerialized. One of the ensembles consisted of a pair of jeans, a white button-down, and a turquoise cashmere sweater. It wouldn’t do for any of his engagements. But the other outfits were variations on a theme—suit and silk shirt—and they’d be fine.
“Are these okay?” Jordan asked from the doorway. He appeared slightly nervous.
“The suits are fine, if a bit on the conservative side.”
“Not the sweater?”
“Too casual.”
“Oh.” Jordan scrunched up his face. “I thought, well, SoCal, so maybe too much formality was a no-go. Plus that color totally goes with your eyes.”
That made Landry blink. Yes, his eyes were an odd shifting blue-green mix, but he hadn’t expected Jordan to notice that detail. “I’d wear it for a weekend outing.”
“No comfy jeans and old tee for you, huh?” Jordan looked down at his own clothing, which was exactly that: worn denim and a T-shirt bearing a faded image of what might be Bigfoot. It looked comfortable and suited Jordan fine when not in public, but Landry would look ridiculous dressed like that in front of other people.
“No,” Landry said.
“Okay. Let me give this another shot.” After getting Landry’s nod of approval, Jordan trotted into the walk-in closet. Landry followed but waited in the doorway, watching.
Ignoring the area of the closet with Landry’s suits, Jordan zeroed in on the shirts, sliding each hanger to one side so he could consider its contents. Three or four times he lifted a hanger off the pole entirely and held the shirt in midair. He glanced back and forth between it and Landry before returning the hanger to its place. A slight line of concentration showed between his brows, and he nibbled thoughtfully at his lower lip—neither of which should have made Landry slightly giddy, but they did. Even more disconcerting, though, was the way Jordan looked at him. As if Landry were a puzzle he truly wanted to solve.
Finally Jordan nodded. “This one.” He’d chosen a slim-fitting dress shirt with a tiny red-and-blue floral print.
“Why that one?”
“It’s bright and interesting. Like you. I bet you look amazing in it. And the cotton is really soft, so you’ll be comfortable wearing it. How much does a shirt like this cost anyway?”
Landry had to think for a moment. “Four or five hundred dollars.” That sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud. As if he were bragging.
But Jordan simply grinned. “Wow. Well, you’ll look like a million bucks in it. Now let me find you some pants.”
By the time they left for Landry’s first meeting, Jordan had changed clothes too. He wore khakis, a dress shirt, and a tie, all of which he might have purchased at Old Navy or Target. Landry would have to take him shopping soon. It wasn’t that Jordan looked bad, and he didn’t need five-hundred-dollar shirts, but Landry Bishop’s PA shouldn’t resemble a college student on his first day of an internship.
Although the Benz was familiar, the ride to lunch wasn’t, mostly because Jordan drove very differently than Elaine. More hesitant, with less swearing, and faithfully following his phone’s navigational directions instead of forging his own route. Also, he was male and handsome and smelled of something slightly spicy—deodorant or aftershave perhaps—and he chatted nonstop. He commented on the other drivers, on the homes and businesses they passed, and on how much he loved the Benz. Landry didn’t mind the talking, although he rarely responded. Jordan didn’t seem to expect him to.
The restaurant, which was in Hollywood, had not been Landry’s choice. It was new and very trendy, with a lovely dining room and a pretentious French-Vietnamese menu that promised far more than it accomplished. MacKenzye, a beautiful and somewhat talented singer, had chosen the place more for the exposure than the cuisine. It was the sort of place where someone at the top of the Billboard charts was supposed to eat lunch.
“Do you want me to park nearby?” Jordan asked as he pulled to a stop in front of the restaurant.
“If you can find a spot. If not, you can go home. We’ll be done here in an hour. Make sure you eat something too.”
Jordan’s smile was sunny. “Cool. I saw a taco place a couple of miles back.”
Suppressing a twinge of jealousy—Landry hadn’t had tacos in years—he got out of t
he car. “One hour,” he said briskly.
Despite the mediocrity of the cuisine, lunch went well. MacKenzye wanted to launch a line of cosmetics and moderately priced jewelry, and she sought Landry’s advice on how to begin and what to avoid. He’d coached other celebrities on similar topics. Some of them listened and some didn’t, but they all paid handsomely for the service. MacKenzye seemed like one who’d heed his advice.
Jordan picked him up promptly, but with a spot of salsa on his shirt. Now he smelled of fried corn and spicy meat. Landry caught himself licking his lips.
“Did your meeting go well?” Jordan asked as he pulled into traffic.
“Yes.”
“Cool. Those tacos were boss. Not fancy like whatever you ate, though. I bet you didn’t have paper napkins and a self-service Coke machine.”
“No, I didn’t.” Landry could picture the taco place—sticky floors, plastic tabletops, a long counter where customers could fill small containers with pico de gallo, salsa roja, salsa verde, slices of lime… maybe even some guacamole and sour cream. The tables would be crowded with blue-collar workers, families with little kids, teenagers joking loudly with each other. Mexican pop music would play over the loudspeakers. There would be no celebrities, and he’d be able to feed an entire family for what MacKenzye had paid for Landry’s beautifully composed but bland-tasting banh mi salad.
He became so caught up in the mental image that he ended up less than annoyed at Jordan’s slangy use of boss. At least it wasn’t hella, and Jordan’s enthusiasm was… sort of cute.
Jordan braked abruptly when a car pulled out in front of him, but he didn’t honk. Didn’t even call the other driver anything evil. Instead, he was smiling. “I worked at a Mexican place for a while. It was kind of a dump, but it was walking distance from where I lived and I didn’t have a car. The best thing, though, was the Salvadoran bakery place next door. I spent three months practically living on guava pastries and leftover tortilla chips.”
“It sounds pleasant.”
Jordan laughed. “I’d rather work for you any day. Even without the pastries.”
Landry almost suggested they stop at a bakery he knew. It was on the way. But he remained silent.
BACK at home, Landry had a short period to answer some emails and change into a suit, and then it was time for his Burbank meeting. This one was with a TV producer who’d seen him on the Suzee Show and wanted to discuss the possibility of developing a local Landry show. Landry wasn’t interested. But it never hurt to hear a producer out, so he’d accepted the meeting.
Landry spoke to the producer while Jordan—who’d changed into a clean shirt—sat in the reception area. He was supposed to be arranging some future appointments for Landry, but judging from the laughter wafting in through the door, he was socializing with the cute receptionist instead. Landry told himself he was annoyed, not jealous.
“Is there going to be a Landry Show?” Jordan asked as they drove back home.
“Unlikely.”
“But you’re so popular!”
“I don’t want my own show.”
Jordan paused a few minutes before responding. “How come? I’ve seen you on TV. You’re great.”
“I have too much else going on. Besides, I’m not terribly fond of appearing on camera.”
Jordan stopped at a yellow light, although he could have sped through. They were going to need to discuss his driving habits eventually. But for now his forehead was scrunched in thought. “Is it stage fright?” he asked. “You certainly seem comfortable with it, but I guess you could just be good at putting up a front.”
“I don’t have stage fright.” He never had, not even as a boy, when he’d happily appeared in a series of school theater productions.
“Is it the makeup you hate? The hours? Or does the pay suck?”
It was a funny thing. People asked Landry questions all the time, mostly about what they should wear or what kind of crafts they could make out of dryer lint. Hardly anyone inquired about him—about what he felt and what he wanted. So Landry rewarded Jordan with the truth.
“I don’t enjoy selling myself. I have good ideas to share, but I can do that in print. I don’t like having to perform in order for people to listen to me.”
Many people would have scoffed at this. In fact, Steve had urged Landry for years to get a show of his own, and when Landry dragged his feet, Steve had shaken his head. “You look fantastic on-screen, Lan, and it’s the best way to promote your brand.” He’d couldn’t understand why Landry didn’t want to leap more fully into showbiz.
Jordan, however, nodded thoughtfully. “I get it. You’d rather do stuff instead of acting like you’re doing stuff.”
And that was it, quite succinctly. “Yes,” Landry said.
“You don’t mind the guest bits with Suzee and the talk shows?”
“No, they’re fine. Brief. They don’t rule my life.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Traffic was grueling, and because Jordan followed Landry’s instructions and avoided freeways, they crawled along surface streets. Jordan didn’t seem to mind. His grip on the steering wheel didn’t appear tense, and he didn’t flip anyone off. In fact, sometimes when the car was immobile, he stroked the dashboard lovingly.
“This is the nicest set of wheels I’ve ever driven,” he said. “Mostly I’ve had junkers when I owned a car at all. I had one piece of shit die on me while I was on the Alaskan Way Viaduct at rush hour. That was fun.”
“What did you do?”
“Walked away. Which was stupid, because later I got a bigass towing bill for more than the car was worth.” He sounded far more cheerful than the memory called for.
“Did you pay the towing bill?”
“Well, yeah, ’cause I didn’t want the city or anyone coming after me. And it sucked because I lost my job since I couldn’t get to work. That was one of the times I had to move back in with Mom and Dad.”
Landry shuddered at the idea. He’d left home shortly after graduating high school and hadn’t set foot in Nebraska since. But as soon as that thought crossed his mind, so did a flash of guilt over Missy’s unread email, which remained in his inbox.
Thinking about Nebraska made him want to curl up in bed and binge-watch old sitcoms. And eat tacos. No—chimichangas. Stuffed with cheese and beef and smothered in sauce. With refried beans on the side and an oversize, salt-rimmed blended margarita.
“We haven’t discussed meals,” he said, probably more loudly than necessary.
“Want me to stop somewhere to pick up dinner?”
Yes, Landry wanted that very badly. But he shook his head. “I’ll make something. What I meant is we haven’t gone over the arrangements for when and where you’ll take your meals.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not picky. I can make myself sandwiches and soup and stuff in the pool house.”
Jordan’s apartment did have a kitchenette, but sandwiches and soup would be about the limit of what he could prepare. The refrigerator was tiny, as was the sink, and there was a two-burner stove and a microwave but no oven.
“Do you like to cook?” Landry asked.
“I’ve worked in enough restaurants that I can throw a few things together, but just basic stuff like burgers and spaghetti.” He was stopped at a light and risked a quick glance Landry’s way.
Landry thought carefully about how to word the next bit. It was a dangerous thing to offer, but his heart knew it was the right thing to do. “When I’m eating dinner at home, you’re welcome to join me. If you like. It’s not a job requirement unless we have urgent work to do.”
Cue Jordan’s familiar wide grin. “Really? Thanks! I’d like that. Eating alone sucks. Plus I’ve seen some of the recipes you come up with. Yum. Oh, unless you want me to cook.”
Actually, that hadn’t occurred to Landry. Elaine never prepared his meals. But then, she hadn’t lived with him either. It would be convenient if someone else made dinner now and then. “Why don’t you make something for tonight?
Just make it quick since I have that reception at eight.”
“Sure!”
When they arrived home, Jordan headed straight for the kitchen while Landry went to his study. After several minutes of dithering, and in an attempt to quell his curiosity over what Jordan was doing, Landry read and responded to a long list of messages. Then, finally, he reopened Missy’s email.
Hi Wormy,
The twins just got over a cold which means now it’s my turn, and the house is practically knee-deep in used tissues. Gross. At least Rod hasn’t caught it yet. He’s a bigger baby than the twins when he gets sick. Tiny little cold and you’d think he’s dying of the plague. I was pregnant with twelve pounds worth of babies and I didn’t whine as much as he does over a sniffle.
You know Wes Brunken who used to manage the Dairy Queen? Well, he quit his job and ran off with Carlene Hansen. Did you know her? She was in my grade at school and she used to work for the city doing billing and stuff, but she quit a while back. I forget why. Anyway, the two of them were both married to other people, but they ran off to Rapid City together. Good thing neither of them had kids, and from what I hear Carlene’s husband was kind of relieved, but Wes’s wife is real broken up over it. Plus Wes is way too old for Carlene. I think so, anyway.
Oh, and speaking of locals, did you hear about Jaxon Powers? I know he was a few years older than you but you totally had a crush on him even before he became a rock star, didn’t you? Anyway, there was some big spy thing that happened with him in some country in Eastern Europe. He got shot and everything. But now he’s giving a huge pile of cash to Peril schools for their arts programs. Who would’ve thought someone from little old Peril would be so famous and important? I guess you have to step up your game if you’re going to be Peril’s #1 most famous person. Hahahaha. LOL.
Aunt Trudy’s been working on some kind of top secret project. She won’t say what. You know how she is. But I’m giving you warning cause I think the project’s going to involve all of us, and especially you, and if you don’t cooperate none of the rest of us are ever going to hear the end of it. I know Peril’s not very interesting compared to Hollywood, and I know we’re not exciting like your movie star friends, but we’re still family, Landry Francis Bishop. So don’t let us down.