I stumbled down the steps and wove toward the tree where John and I had eaten. A sob exploded from my mouth, tears coursed down my cheeks. I practically ran away from the house, out past where the cars were parked, into grass and flowers. My knees buckled, and I went down, sobbing.
If Rick from People saw me now, he would know just how true Brooklyn Story was.
What would my life have been like if Vito had stuck around? Or if my mother and Grandma Ruth had left and he had raised me? Of if Tony hadn’t gone to prison? These alternate paths my life might have taken abruptly opened up inside me, shooting off into their own space and time like threads in a spider’s web. Pluck one thread and I would be there, in that Samantha’s life, in that Samantha’s body. But where was the thread to the life I so desired?
“Sam? You okay?”
John stopped next to me, and for the longest moment I just stared at his shoes, New Balance running shoes. I studied the way the cuff of his jeans brushed the tops of those shoes. I managed to nod and started to push to my feet, but he took gentle hold of my arm and helped me up. I finally looked at him.
“It’s all just a little close to home,” I said.
His hand moved away from my arm. “Brooklyn leaves scars. I understand. Let’s take a break and walk over to that swimming hole.”
“Hey, John, Sam.”
We glanced around as Paul trotted toward us, his bald head covered with a cap that was pulled down low over his eyes. His sunglasses held perfect reflections of John and me, and I was struck by how good we looked together.
“What is it, Paul?”
John’s voice held a certain tension, a what-the-hell-do-you-want kind of tension, and I could tell from Paul’s body language that he heard it. “Just, uh, that Sam’s getting paid a fee for every day she’s on the set, and that’s where she should be right now.”
“Excuse me, Paul,” I snapped. “But I haven’t even seen a check yet for the exercise of the option. First day of principal photography. That’s today.”
John frowned. “That check went out to you last week, Paul.”
He looked embarrassed and stammered, “Really? It’s probably still with my accountant. I’ll make sure you get the check by tomorrow. Direct deposit, Sam. My apology.”
“Good, now that it’s settled, we’ll be back in a bit.” John touched the small of my back as he turned away from Paul.
I knew that Paul stood there as John and I started walking; I could feel his eyes boring into my spine, felt the rage pouring off him. “He’s pissed,” I said quietly.
“Anger issues. It’s not unique to Hollywood, but it’s more prevalent out here.”
Yeah, you might say that. I even felt the moment when Paul stopped staring at us, at me; it was as if the weight of excessive gravity had fallen away from the air. “Definitely.”
“Look, I don’t want to interfere if you and Paul are still—”
“We’re not.”
He didn’t ask what had happened. I liked that. John didn’t pry. But even if he’d asked, what would I say? The relationship had been killed by an accretion of small, telling things—he was possessive, he presumed to speak for me, when he drank things got ugly, and, most of all, he thought he controlled me. That last part shocked me. I’d never thought of it in quite those terms before, but it was true.
Paul had discovered me; therefore, he owned me: that was his thinking. It was the way men undoubtedly thought in Neanderthal times. I saved her, she’s mine. In Jean Auel’s first book, Clan of the Cave Bear, which later became a movie with Daryl Hannah, this “ownership” was expressed clearly when the protagonist’s mate told her to “assume the position,” or something to that effect. She’d fallen forward on her hands and knees, her naked butt raised in the air, and he’d taken her like that, from behind. Taken her without regard to her pleasure, her body, her being. He owned her.
As we started walking over grass, I stopped and removed my shoes, a pair of fashionable black flats. Thank God, Christian Louboutin made those little show-stopping gems. I stuck them in my bag and pressed my bare feet against grass as soft as an infant’s skin. My toes vanished in the softness, my dark blue nails peeked up through it like little imps. “I love the color blue.”
“So do I. We now have something in common.” I smiled.
“I think we have more in common that you think.” John stared at me, those blue eyes piercing through me.
“My God, you sure make it feel unbelievably good,” John said. “I hardly ever went barefoot as a kid.”
“Kinda hard when the only grass is the size of a postage stamp.”
He tore off his shoes and socks, tied the laces together, and draped them around his neck. “Race ya.” We took off across the field, through the magical California light, laughing like fools.
He was fast, as nimble as Superman. I almost expected him to suddenly flap his arms and lift into the air. I used to be a fast runner, but I hadn’t been doing much physical exercise since we moved out here and I felt it—a shortness of breath, a tightness in my chest, a burning in my muscles.
The swimming hole came into view, a kid’s fantasy with those rope swings swaying in the breeze, the huge trees embracing water that reflected the vast sweep of sky. At the tips of the ropes were burlap bags stuffed with hay or cotton so you had someplace to sit as you swung.
John reached the hole first and leaped at one of those ropes; he swung way out over the water, whooping with delight. “C’mon, Sam,” he shouted. “Leap and swing.”
I found one final burst of speed, dropped my bag in the grass, and leaped at the other rope. It swung wildly out over the water; my hands started slipping, and in my head I heard strains from the theme music of Jaws. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone swimming. Suppose I no longer knew how to swim? How deep was this swimming hole, anyway? If I slipped off the rope and plummeted into the deepest part of the water, I might drown. Shit, drown.
No way. Not now, as my life was just starting to shape up rather nicely.
I swung my legs up, up, and wrapped them tightly around the burlap bag. The rope seemed to be gathering speed and momentum, the shore blurred, John swung past me in the other direction. A thrill zipped through me.
“Pump your legs to keep the rope moving, Sam,” he yelled. “So we can leap back on shore.”
He made it look easy. But when I pumped my legs, nothing happened, the swing started slowing down. I pumped harder, nothing. Then, suddenly, John swung toward me, reached out, and grabbed hold of my rope, pulling it so close to him that our legs pressed together.
“Relax into it,” he said. “You’re trying too hard. It’s like you have to become the rope, the breeze.”
“Sounds Zen,” I quipped. “The Zen of rope swinging.”
He leaned toward me and his mouth brushed mine, a light, cool touch that I felt in every pore of my body. “I’m going to give you a hard push, and as the rope swings back toward shore, just leap off.”
“Got it.” I still imagined myself floundering out there in the middle of the water, my body unable to remember the basics of swimming.
“Hold on tight, Sam.”
I clutched the rope, and suddenly I felt like I was sailing through space and time. I dropped my head back, peering up into the belly of the blurring skies, the blurring branches and leaves, green and blue melting together into a rapturous collage of color.
I realized I was laughing, that John was laughing, and our laughter rang out through the sunlight and shadow, a promise that the best was yet to come. As my rope swung back toward shore, he shouted, “Jump now, Sam!”
But my speed was slowing again, so I let my legs drop and pumped them hard and furiously, working up enough speed so the rope flew out over the shore. And then I let go.
I landed on my hands and knees in a bed of cool moss and seconds later, John landed besi
de me on his hands and knees. We looked at each other, both of us laughing again, and then he rolled onto his back and folded his hands under his head and I did the same.
“I could stay here all day,” he said.
I could still feel the touch of that kiss. “Same here. When I was growing up, I used to daydream about spots like this.”
He turned his head, looking at me. Our eyes locked. In that moment, I felt some long-forgotten memory struggling to escape the box into which it had fallen years ago. Brooklyn . . . something about Brooklyn and this man.
What I felt just then must have shown in my expression because he frowned. “What? What is it?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why you seem so familiar to me. And, I’m sorry, but your explanation about Frank’s Pizzeria just doesn’t cut it.”
He started to say something, but we both heard a car racing up the road, the horn blaring, and sat up.
Paul’s car.
He leaped out of his car and strode toward us, everything about him angry. Before he reached us, another car screeched to a stop behind his vehicle. Prince got out and trotted after Paul.
“Hey, Paul,” Prince shouted. “Hold on, man.”
“This doesn’t look good,” John muttered.
“No shit.”
But it was becoming typical for Paul. How had I ever been so blinded by him? And felt I owed him for optioning my novel?
“Stay here, Sam,” said John.
He strode away from me, and for a moment I stood there, as motionless as a fly on a wall. Male bravado? Been there, done that, screw it. I didn’t need male bravado. I wasn’t some damsel in distress waiting to be rescued. If I could write my way out of Brooklyn, then I could sure as hell make it clear to Paul that we were done, finished, the end. It was obvious that Flannigan hadn’t given him the message that day and Paul had been too wasted to hear what he didn’t want to hear. Just what I needed—another obsessed Tony Kroon on my hands. This had to end.
I hurried to John’s side. He seemed surprised that I hadn’t hung back. “Thanks, John, but no one has to fight my battles for me.”
“I feel like decking the asshole.”
“It would just make things worse.”
We were close enough now to Paul and Prince to hear their exchange.
“. . . fire your ass if you can’t control yourself, Paul.”
“How about controlling her?”
“We’re talking about you,” Prince snapped.
“Fuck off, George. And you can’t kick me out as producer. “I’ve got a contract—”
“Contracts can be broken.” Prince’s voice: sharp, firm. “What’s it going to be?”
“What’s the problem?” John asked when we reached them.
Paul spun around, seething. I could almost imagine him foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He stabbed his finger toward me. “She’s the problem. She fucked her way into this entire gig, she—”
“Time for you to shut up,” John said, his voice quiet but like ice, and started to move toward Paul, his hands fisted.
I touched his arm, stepped closer to Paul. “I’m only going to say this once. You were so drunk that day at your house when you tackled me that you must not have heard what I said, Paul. But Flannigan heard it, and apparently he never told you that we are done. You and I are history. You don’t own me; you don’t control me. I can’t make it any clearer than that.”
Prince looked embarrassed.
John looked pissed.
And Paul? He looked stunned by the news, as though he couldn’t quite wrap his ego around the fact that he—the great producer Paul Jannis—was being dumped by a woman. And that he was being dumped in front of witnesses. That was probably what stunned and humiliated him the most.
Then that dark, moiling rage poured into his eyes, taking shape like some massive shadow. I suddenly understood that Paul was actually two people, and his darker self had subsumed the other self, swallowed it whole.
He burst out laughing, a loud, unnatural sound that echoed beneath the canopy of the trees, mockery. “You poor sucker, John. I knew that day at the restaurant that she had the hots for you. This is how she operates. This is her MO. She’ll use you until you’re no longer useful to her and then toss you aside like a piece of Kleenex. You’ll see. You’ll find out how it is.”
I felt the tension rippling through John’s body and knew he wanted nothing more than to punch Paul. Instead, he ignored Paul and looked over at Prince. “Hey, George, can we get a lift with you?”
“Sure thing.”
Prince turned to head back to his car, and for a long, terrible moment, Paul, John, and I just stood there in silence, the air so thick and dark I found it difficult to breathe. Paul was no longer laughing. Daggers shot out of his eyes, and they were tipped with poison.
John grasped my hand and, walking past Paul without acknowledging him in any way, we followed Prince to his car. Paul was left standing alone in the sunlight.
As we got into Prince’s car, I glanced out at Paul, still standing there, staring after us, as motionless as a pillar of salt. In that moment, I felt a sudden and terrible certainty that he might try to kill me. His humiliation; rage; unresolved issues with his son, his ex-wife; and the mess he’d made of his life had slammed together in a way that made me the person responsible for his misery.
Couldn’t Prince see that?
But Prince didn’t say anything, didn’t make any reference to what had happened. Maybe he had seen far worse in the past. Maybe this was business as usual in Hollywood and didn’t warrant comment. Maybe he felt it would be intrusive.
I sensed that John felt disturbed by it, but he didn’t say anything, either. Then again, it wasn’t his fight. If that was the reason for his silence, then great. It meant he thought I could fight my own battles. Or it meant that Hollywood was where nuance reigned supreme, and no one called anyone on anything because, if you did, you jeopardized your own ass.
But in jeopardizing your own ass, money was usually at stake. That wasn’t the case for John. He had money and clout.
As we got out of the electric cart, John said, “George, maybe it’s time to fire Paul.”
“He won’t do anything more,” Prince said. “Trust me on that. He knows he’s close to blowing it.”
Right then I understood that if Gallery broke their contract with Paul, it would cost them dearly. It always came down to money. Profit.
“Are you thinking the film would be compromised?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Prince said.
Later. When I wasn’t around.
SEVEN
Isabella’s friends started arriving for the sleepover around five that Friday afternoon. Within minutes, they were all outside on the patio, sitting around the pool, music blasting from a CD player. Isabella and I had laid out a banquet of food that they could pick at all night if they wanted, and the fridge out there was jammed with bottled water, juices, and more snacks. Isabella’s bedroom and the den had sliding-glass doors that opened to the patio, so they wouldn’t even have to come through the house.
Marvin, Clara, and I were sitting around the kitchen table, going through the script and making notes about the breakdown of scenes for next week’s shooting. After what had happened with Paul at Gallery Studios, I had been back to the set just once, when neither he nor John was there. My dinner with John was tomorrow night, and my anticipation grew by the hour. Tomorrow, Liza and I were going shopping; I didn’t feel confident about my own judgment when it came to an outfit for dinner with John.
I hadn’t heard much from him since that magical hour at the swimming hole. I hadn’t heard from Paul, either, not that I expected to, and Vito seemed to have dropped out of my life for good. Just as I thought that, my cell belted out “Made to Love” by John Legend. It seemed to be the John-and-Samanth
a theme song for the moment. Marvin and Clara glanced up from the script. They knew what that ringtone meant.
“Well?” Clara said. “Aren’t you going to find out where he’s taking you for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Suppose he’s canceling our dinner date?”
Marvin rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break, Sam. I saw the way he looked at you. He’s not canceling any dinner date.”
I got up, unplugged my phone from the charger, clicked on his text message.
How’s the sleepover going?
Noisy!
My son & his girlfriend came into town. You mind if they join us for dinner tomorrow?
Sounds good.
Dress casual. Place w/tables on the beach. Will pick u up @6:30.
Perfect.
“Okay, what restaurant in Malibu has tables on the beach for dinner?” I walked back to the kitchen table.
“Beats me.” Marvin circled something in the script.
“La Playa,” Clara said. “I’ve never eaten there, but I’ve heard the food is fantastic. I think the place is owned by a Chilean couple.”
Beach, parking lot, swimming hole, a picnic table: it didn’t matter to me where we ate.
The sliding-glass door suddenly slammed open, and Isabella and Lauren stood there dripping wet, their eyes glinting with joy. Lauren was blond to Isabella’s dark hair, and was an inch or so taller, with dimples in the corners of her mouth when she smiled.
“Mom, we’re going to walk down to the beach, okay?” Isabella asked.
“We’ll be careful, Ms. DeMarco,” Lauren said.
“Take your phones with you. Be sure to wear shoes. That path to the beach has a lot of rocks. Be back by dusk.”
“Right-o!” Isabella said.
Right-o? Where had that come from?
As Isabella and her buddies all headed to the beach, I stepped out onto the patio to put together a platter of munchies for Clara, Marvin, and me that included a bowl of salad and some leftover pizza. As I was carrying it back into the house, my phone pealed. No number IDing the caller showed on the screen. I hesitated, but curiosity, of course, prompted me to take the call as I put down the food.
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