“Great,” Scott muttered. “Kids.”
“They have a right to eat too,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Scott averted his eyes from the family as the waitress bustled up with their food. Buttered his toast and took dubious bites of egg, picked at the well-fried hash browns.
“It does feel daunting,” Mira told him, working her way through her own meal with guilty pleasure. She loved English muffins, no matter what Scott said about the virtues of whole-grain toast. And who knew what they’d be eating tomorrow, or how hard it would be to make it? “But everyone will be in the same boat, surely,” she went on. “I can’t imagine they’d have chosen any survivalists or experts for the show. That has to be the appeal—to watch regular twenty-first-century people trying to live in 1885. Everyone else will be nervous too, and struggling as much as we are.”
“I’m not going to be struggling,” he retorted sharply. “I’ve done my homework, and I’m in great shape.” His critical gaze swept down her torso. “I’m just worried about whether you’re going to be able to handle it.”
So if they were voted off, it was going to be her fault? “I’ll do my best,” she said, a rare flash of anger giving an edge to her voice. “That’s all I can promise. But I’ll be doing that.”
Why did everyone doubt that she could do this? She was a hard worker, she got along with people, and she was pretty good at observing and evaluating their interactions. Surely all those things would help her. But her father, too, had thought little enough of her chances. And had been downright appalled at her choice to do the show in the first place.
“What? Why?” Dr. Steve Walker, plastic surgeon to Seattle’s finest, had demanded when she’d paid him a duty visit at his Mercer Island home to say goodbye. “What about your job?”
“I took a leave.” She could feel herself starting to get flustered already. So much for the self-assured announcement she’d practiced aloud on the drive across the bridge. “It’s only two months.”
“And what did Jeff say about that?” he pressed, referring to the partner who was her direct supervisor. And, unfortunately, Steve’s former patient and current golf buddy.
“Well, he wasn’t too happy,” she admitted. “But there’ll probably still be a spot for me afterwards, he said.”
“Probably? Probably doesn’t cut it,” he snapped. “I pulled strings to get you that job. And you’re going to throw it away in order to be on some trashy reality show that you probably won’t last a week on anyway? How is that going to make me look?”
“I’ve been at that job for five years, though,” she said, hating how defensive she sounded. Her father might have got her the job, but she wouldn’t have kept it if she hadn’t been good, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. “It seemed like time to reevaluate. And the show isn’t trashy. It’s on the History Channel! I thought it might be fun, and a good challenge.” She’d dared to hope that he might admire her for trying it. Clearly, though, she’d been wrong.
“It sounds fun to me too,” Becky, her father’s third wife and barely ten years Mira’s senior, said from her spot on the couch beside her husband. “Too bad you’re doing it with Scott, or I might just have decided to join you.”
“Like hell you would,” Steve growled.
“Oh, quit being so grumpy,” Becky laughed. “I didn’t do it, did I? And Mira’s right, it’ll be good for her. She’ll be putting herself to the test. I’ve seen that show, and so have you. It doesn’t look easy. The physical aspect, or the strategizing and maneuvering either. It’s a great challenge.”
Maybe it was the softening of age, or just Becky’s confident personality, but Mira still marveled at the way her husband’s frequent impatience seemed to bounce off his latest wife’s armor without making a dent. And at his obvious affection for her, the attention he paid to her in spite of, or maybe because of, the fact that she defied him so often. An affection and attention he had certainly never showed his first two wives, or Mira herself for that matter.
“I have seen it,” Steve said grudgingly. “You and I could have done it. But that’s because we’re tough enough to handle it. Whereas Mira . . . Well, Scott will figure out how to come out ahead, if anyone can. She can listen to him.”
Becky looked unconvinced. “Listen to your own instincts,” she counseled a few minutes later, hugging Mira goodbye at the door. “You’ll do great. And I really am envious. It sounds like a wonderful adventure. Go for it. Give ’em hell.”
Movement in the corner of her eye, a sudden clatter, wrenched Mira from her thoughts, had her turning toward the next table. The oldest boy, who’d been struggling with his meal, had knocked the corner of the plate with a clumsy hand, sent it tipping over the edge of the table and falling to the floor, knocking over his glass of orange juice along the way. Juice and scrambled egg flew, a fair amount landing on Scott’s pant leg. He reached down with a look of disgust on his face to wipe the light material with his napkin, and glared across at the family.
The brothers had turned as well at the noise. Now, the shorter one got up. Came over and picked the plate up off the floor, set it on a nearby table together with the overturned glass. He smiled at the boy, who was scarlet with embarrassment and attempting a flustered apology.
“Could happen to anyone,” the man said cheerfully as the waitress hurried over to clean up. “Here.” He reached for the plate of toast at his own place. “I’m not eating this. Something for you to work on while they bring you another egg or two.” He winked at the boy, sent a reassuring smile to his parents before sitting down again.
“Sorry,” the boy’s mother said to Scott, seeing him ostentatiously dipping his napkin into his water glass to clean the spots that remained on his pants. He nodded curtly, but didn’t respond.
“It’s all right,” Mira told her hastily, her embarrassment rising at Scott’s ungracious response. “No harm done.”
“Let’s go,” Scott told her. He shoved his chair back, knocking into the chair of the darker-haired man sitting directly behind him, causing his own eggs to fly off the fork he had begun to lift to his mouth.
The man reached for his napkin as Mira watched, wiped egg from his shirt, then grinned across at the boy, who smiled happily back at him. “See? What did I tell you?” the man said. “Could happen to anybody. And yes, you’re excused,” he said pointedly to Scott, who, Mira realized with chagrin, still hadn’t apologized. Well, no chance he was going to now.
Back in the room, she set quietly about brushing her teeth, checking her hair. Scott came up behind her as she straightened up after rinsing her mouth, wrapped his arms around her from behind and reached around to kiss her cheek.
“Sorry. I’m just really stressed about all this,” he said. “You still in it with me?”
She smiled reluctantly back at him. “Of course. And I do understand. I’m nervous too. But . . . I was embarrassed back there, for that boy. I wish you’d told him it was OK.” She didn’t mention the man. She had the feeling he could fight his own battles.
“I can’t help it. I don’t see why people have the right to take kids like that out in public and make everyone else uncomfortable. They should get a babysitter or something, don’t you think?”
“No,” she said, stepping out from the circle of his arms. “I don’t. Maybe you just shouldn’t look, if it bothers you.”
“Well,” he said with his best smile, “I guess I’ll just look at you. You look pretty good.” He took her hand, turned her to face him, then bent down and kissed her. “Still got that focus?” he asked. “I need you at a hundred percent. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
“Yes. I said I would, and actually, I’m looking forward to it. The chance to take a real break, think about what I want to do next.”
“Recharge your batteries, get a better attitude so you can go back and grab that promotion,” he suggested.
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”
Introductions
Mira
gave a final tug to her dress, checked that all her buttons were fastened one last time before following Scott into the hotel ballroom twenty minutes later. Two rows of chairs sat unoccupied save for one middle-aged couple, talking intently together. Several other people were standing around, looking at the cameramen, the twisting cables attached to huge light setups. Somehow, it made it all seem real. They hadn’t even started yet, and they were already being filmed.
Mira smiled at a tall, broad, older African-American man who moved forward, his kind expression a contrast to his powerful body. “Hi,” he said. “Another brave soul taking the plunge, I see. Stanley Douglas.”
“Mira Walker.” She offered a hand that he accepted, pressing it gently and quickly before releasing it. Clearly a man who knew his own strength, and was used to harnessing it. “And Scott Mitchell,” she added.
“My son Calvin,” Stanley said, gesturing to a smaller, much leaner version of himself standing nearby, his expression less amiable than his father’s.
“The token Black men,” Calvin said. “It’s just us and the Latinas, I guess.” He nodded to two women talking to an older couple nearby. “Minority Number Two.”
“You think the four of us are the only people of color who applied?” his father asked. “And yet they selected us, us four individuals. Nobody’s asking you to represent your race, just like nobody’s asking Mira here to represent hers.”
“Pop,” Calvin sighed. “You don’t really believe that.”
“That’s how I choose to look at my time here,” his father corrected him. “I can’t be fussing about what anyone else thinks.”
“Have you met the others?” Mira asked, uncomfortable with the topic.
“Yeah.” Calvin raised his voice a bit, caught the eye of the woman and girl to his left. “Lupe and Maria-Elena Garcia, do I have it right? I’m trying to remember names.”
“That’s right,” the woman said, coming forward to meet Mira and Scott. “I’m Lupe, and this is Maria-Elena, my daughter. I’m so excited,” she said, patting her considerable chest with her hand and laughing a bit at herself. “I can’t believe they chose us. I didn’t think we had a shot.”
“Demographics,” Calvin began, then subsided at a warning glance from his father.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Mira heard Scott mutter. Turned to see what had incurred his displeasure now, and felt her breath catch.
It was the two men from the coffee shop. She could see the moment when they caught sight of Scott, clearly surprised and not any more pleased than he was. Her own sudden shortness of breath had nothing to do with the potential awkwardness of the situation. Something about the dark, slightly tough look of them seemed to go straight to her . . . heart.
“Who are they, do you know? Because they are, like, totally smokin’,” Maria-Elena said, sounding a bit breathless herself, brown eyes wide in her plump, pretty face.
“And way too old for you,” her mother said.
“Mommm,” Maria-Elena protested. They are not.”
“They’ve got to be thirty, at least. Too old,” her mother repeated, to the accompaniment of an exasperated sigh and an eye-roll from her daughter.
A door at the front of the room opened, interrupting whatever would have come next. Mira recognized the man who came through it instantly. Cliff Talmadge, the show’s host. Just as blond and surfer-handsome as she recalled him, and with a magnetism about him that drew the eye, but smaller than he appeared on television.
“Hi, everyone,” Cliff said to the faces that quickly turned his way. “If you’ll take a seat, we’ll get started.”
Scott steered Mira to the opposite side of the rows of chairs from the dark-haired men, next to the middle-aged couple who’d remained firmly planted there as the others had mingled.
“Looks like we’re mostly here,” Cliff said, looking around. “Go see if you can round up the last two, would you?” he asked a young man hovering nearby who seemed to be some sort of production assistant. “Never mind. Here they come now.”
Everyone turned to look behind them. The two young women certainly made an entrance. Blonde, tanned, and thin, they immediately made Mira feel frumpy. No question why these two had been chosen. They looked around, seeming not in the least discomfited at being the last to arrive, and immediately made a beeline toward the two dark-haired men, giving an almost identical flick to their hair as they took their seats.
“So, now that we’re all here,” Cliff went on smoothly, “Welcome to America Alive: 1885.” A smattering of applause greeted his pronouncement. “We’re here to take you back into the nineteenth century. With a couple small differences. Because of course, they didn’t have these guys around then.” He gestured to the two cameramen, one of whom was filming him, the other with his lens pointed towards the group on the chairs. “Let me introduce Mike and Danny, our lead cameramen. They’re going to be your shadows, together with some other guys you’ll meet as we go along. I know it feels strange now, but trust me, within a few days you’ll have forgotten all about them. That’s their job, to be invisible. But anything you don’t want them to see . . . Well, you’d better not do it.”
A nervous laugh or two, a murmured burst of conversation at that one. Cliff began to speak again, broke off at a hand raised in the audience by the man sitting next to Scott. “Yes?”
“I’m sure I speak for all of us,” the man said, “when I ask why we were selected in groups of two. That’s never happened on America Alive before, as you know. I believe we’re all curious. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind enlightening us now.”
“Ah,” Cliff answered good-humoredly. “That’d be telling, wouldn’t it? We’ve got to keep you guessing a little, and the audience too, now that we’re into our fifth season.”
“When will we find out?” Scott asked abruptly, almost interrupting Cliff. “How we’re going to be divided, or whatever it is that you’re not telling us? How the game is going to be set up?”
“We’ll get into all that later,” Cliff promised. “Right now, let’s have you get to know each other a bit. Maybe you two would like to start,” he said to the man who’d spoken first. “Just tell us your names, a few words about where you’re from and what you do, why you came on the show. Besides the million dollars, of course,” he added to another laugh.
“Martin Deveraux,” the man, thin and fortyish, said.
“And Arlene Filippi,” the heavier dark-haired woman next to him cut in. “We’re from Boston,” she went on. “We’re keenly interested in the negative impact that modern technology has on personal relationships and family dynamics. In fact, we’ve set up our own home as a technology-free zone, and we try to keep our children’s life simple too. No TV, no video games, no iPods,” she said proudly. “When we heard about this show, we felt it was the perfect chance to truly experience life as our great-grandparents lived it, and to model that simpler lifestyle for the rest of the country.”
Mira heard a snort, and turned to her right to catch the devilishly dancing eye of the man sitting beside her. He raised his eyebrows comically, and she had to fight the urge to giggle. But it was their turn now, and Scott was speaking.
“I’m Scott Mitchell,” he said. “And this is my girlfriend, Grace Walker.”
“Mira, actually,” she broke in. “I prefer Mira.”
“I’m an attorney in Seattle,” Scott went on, “and . . . Mira,” he added after a pregnant pause, “works for a management consulting firm. I came on the show because I enjoy a challenge. And by that, I mean I enjoy winning. I’ll just warn everyone now,” he went on with a jocularity that, Mira thought with an inward squirm, probably didn’t deceive anybody, “that I’m a pretty fierce competitor, in and out of the courtroom. I’m in it to win it.”
The introductions went on. The couple next to them were brother and sister, it turned out, Rachel and Kevin. Lupe and Maria-Elena, Stanley and Calvin, she’d already met. The blondes, Chelsea and Melody, were former college roommates (“sorority sisters
, betcha anything,” Kevin murmured beside her, forcing her to suppress another giggle), and were currently “breaking into acting” in Los Angeles. And then the two dark-haired men. Mira leaned forward to get a better look as the taller one spoke.
“Alec and Gabe Kincaid,” he said easily. “Brothers. Twin brothers, actually. San Francisco Bay Area, these days. I’m a computer geek. And Dr. McDreamy here,” he said, slapping his brother on the shoulder, “is the real deal. A real live doctor. Anybody want to break a leg or have a baby out here, Gabe’s your boy.”
That had her sitting back in her seat with a thump. And the blondes leaning in a little closer as Gabe put up a hand in protest.
“I’m not here as a doctor,” he said. “Let’s get that clear right up front. My malpractice insurer would kill me if I started doing anything medical out there. I’m sure there’s help standing by.” He gave Cliff a quick glance that was answered with a nod. “You get a blister, I’ll take a look. Anything worse, call for help.”
Mira was still readjusting when the final couple began to introduce themselves, but looked up in surprise as she heard the woman give their names. Hank and Zara. Hank and Zara Carrington, to be exact. Wow. Her mouth formed the word as she exchanged a wide-eyed glance with her friendly neighbor.
Although she hadn’t yet been born during their heyday, Mira had grown up listening to the sound of Hank and Zara’s smoothly intertwined voices on the folk rock albums her mother loved. She hadn’t recognized them by sight, of course. The photos on her mother’s CDs must have been taken thirty-five or forty years earlier. Zara’s trademark long hair shone silver now, pulled back from her thin face in a braid nearly as long as Mira’s own. Beaded silver earrings drew attention to a long, graceful neck, and her body still looked lean and strong. Her face might be more weathered than it had been in her heyday, but her dark eyes shone with the same luminous glow, the nose and chin still faced the world with determination, and the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth gave mute evidence of her habitual outlook.
Welcome to Paradise Page 2