Just Pru

by Anne Pfeffer

  “Pru, you have this amazing ability to see people for exactly who and what they are. You understand what makes them tick. You know precisely what’s important in a scene, and you can get an actor to bring that to life on a stage. It’s an invaluable skill for a director.”

  “You can do that, too.”

  “Not like you do. I’m a writer at heart. But you…you have this natural connection with people. I wish I knew where you got it.”

  “It’s from watching TV.”

  Ellen whooped. “You’re such a hoot! Anyway, Kyle would kill me if I poached you away from him.”

  “Yeah, right.” In addition to driving, I worked as an assistant for Kyle Ho, a friend of Ellen’s from UCLA. He was producing a musical about the 1989 protests at Tiananmen Square. The pay was minimal, but the work was fun.

  “Seriously. He says you’re the best assistant he’s ever had.”

  I doubted that. “How’s Blake?”

  He had hurt me by going to New York early without saying goodbye, but it turned out he had left an envelope for me with Ellen. In it was a note and a lumpy marijuana cigarette.

  This is the very one, he had written. Get stoned… it’s on me ha ha! But if you don’t smoke it, Prudence, which I know you won’t, keep it to remember me by. Your friend, Blake. I did keep it— in my memento shoebox in my dresser drawer.

  “He’s entertaining a couple of film offers,” Ellen said. “And he’s going to be featured in the “Up and Coming” section of Celebrity Outlook magazine.”

  I wished him well. Becca, too. She hadn’t gone with the others to New York, having snagged a pilot for an upcoming television series about a secret agent working undercover as a stripper. It sounded like a Pepper Hathaway knock-off, but I hoped to tune in, if I could find time between work, Adam, and my beach-running regimen with Storm, which we did faithfully together three days a week. I still weighed the same, but the poundage seemed to have redistributed itself. On a good day, I could squeeze into a size fourteen.

  “Tell Blake hi from me,” I said to Ellen. We hung up with promises to speak again soon.

  Hearing a car pull in the driveway, I took out two wine goblets and a bottle of Cabernet. Adam and I were going to make dinner then go for a walk by the water.

  The door opened. My hot boyfriend walked straight in and tackled me. “I’m really glad to see you,” he said and proceeded to prove it on the kitchen floor. It was a scene worthy of one of the steamier cable channels.

  Afterward, Adam washed the floor with a mild bleach solution while I tried to boil pasta. Some of it stuck to the pot, but I was able to salvage enough for a light dinner. We sipped our wine, then made our way down the steps and across the beach to the ocean. Adam talked happily the whole way about what he called Phase II of his business. He looked relaxed and carefree, walking along barefoot, his jeans legs rolled up, holding my hand.

  “Venture capital,” he said. Something about raising twenty-five million dollars to fund a high-tech start-up company. Or maybe it was a hundred and twenty-five million. I could never remember the exact numbers he spouted to me.

  “Are you going to be rich?” I asked.

  “Beyond your wildest dreams, baby!”

  “I’m going to have to stand guard over you, to keep all the women away,” I complained.

  “I’ve already found the woman I want.” We made out as the waves broke around our ankles and pulled the sand out from under our bare feet. But the January night was too cold for that. We started walking again.

  “The Prisoner’s going to Broadway,” I said.

  “That’s great! Ellen must be bouncing off the walls.” It was dark now, but lights from homes on the bluffs illuminated the beach, at least in part.

  “She is. She wants me to come work for her in New York.”

  His head whipped in my direction. “Do you want to do that?”

  “No. But I keep thinking about the future. I can’t be a driver forever.”

  We turned around and began to walk back toward the house, my toes squelching in the wet sand.

  Adam looked thoughtful. “Maybe you should take this theater thing more seriously.”

  “I don’t know. Ellen says I could direct or be a casting director or an acting coach. But you know who I keep thinking of?”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Abbot. He saved my life, Adam. He changed everything for me.”

  “What are you saying? You want to be a therapist?” We reached the steps returning to Adam’s house.

  “Maybe. I want to do something that matters to me.” Something I was willing to fight for, the way Ellen fought for her plays, or Adam his business. “I’d love to help people the way that he helped me.”

  Adam nodded, considering what I’d said.

  “I’d have to go to school.”

  “You always wanted to do that. Maybe this is your chance.”

  We bounded up the steps from the beach and settled down in the living room.

  Then, again, maybe I could do both things. If Pepper could swing simultaneous police and modeling gigs, why couldn’t I be a therapist and a director? I could work on interesting indie films and plays and have a small therapy practice on the side. Or offer therapy to my actors as part of their role preparation.

  I was about to discuss the idea with Adam when my cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Pru?”

  The whole room seemed to tilt, as if an earthquake had shifted the ground beneath us. “Mom?” The word fell from my lips before I could think. A few months back I’d written my folks a note with my new phone number and address. My mom had called me once, just for a few minutes, when Lloyd wasn’t home.

  “We wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” Her voice sounded older, wavering.

  “Thank you!”

  “Lloyd, come get on the line with us!” Her tone made clear she would not accept any answer other than yes.

  After some crackling and rustling, I heard them both, sounding tinny and far away.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” Phyllis asked.

  “I’m fine.” I told them about Ellen’s news and her repeated job offers to me.

  “That’s wonderful.” My mom’s voice trembled. “Good for you.”

  “Prudence?” It was my dad. “What’re you up to these days?”

  “Staying at Ellen’s and working two jobs.” I filled him in on some of the details, strategically leaving out the frequent stayovers at Adam’s house.

  “Tiananmen Square? Are you working for the Communists?”

  “No.”

  “Well… two jobs, huh? Sounds like you’re staying busy.”

  He was trying. More, in fact, than I’d ever seen him.

  “The other thing is….” I found it hard to continue. “I might want to go to school and become a therapist.”

  “You mean, like that Abbot?” Lloyd barked.

  “Yes.”

  “Prudence, don’t try to take on too much,” Phyllis cautioned. “You remember when Saundra Gibbons over on Sycamore Street had that breakdown? She’s one of those family counselors….”

  “She’s an alcoholic,” I said. “I’m not. And I wouldn’t be a family counselor. I’d be a therapist like Dr. Abbot. Maybe get a Ph.D!” I’d only just thought of that, but why not? I could do anything I wanted.

  Shocked silence on the other end while Adam gave me a thumbs up.

  “Well don’t expect me to call you Dr. Anderson,” Lloyd grumbled.

  In my entire lifetime of living with him, I’d never heard him crack a joke. Was he joking now? I didn’t think so.

  My mother jumped in, her voice small. “We miss you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Adam, who sat quietly next to me, listening, stroked my hand.

  “You’re not moving to New York, are you?” Phyllis quavered. “You’re already so far away.”

  “I’m not going to New York.” I bit my lip. A whole sea of emotions crashed over me. “Listen, if I can
get away, how about if I come up there?” I couldn’t believe I was saying this. “Just for a long weekend,” I added quickly. “My one job is flexible, but the other, I’ll have to clear the time off with my boss.”

  “We’d love that!” she said.

  We talked for a few more minutes, then started to say goodbye.

  “Bring something pretty,” Phyllis said. “Now that you’re involved with the arts, we’ll get dressed up and do dinner theater at the Clayton Playhouse. They serve steak on Saturday nights!”

  “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

  Lloyd spoke for the first time in several minutes, his voice gruff. “We’ll look forward to your visit.”

  Strangely enough, so would I.

  After I hung up, Adam pulled me close to him on the sofa. Chuck appeared in the doorway then silently launched his huge body into the air. He hurtled through space, landing with a thump on the cushion beside us.

  “Hey, big guy,” Adam said, scratching the cat’s cheek. He had made his peace with Chuck, knowing how much it meant to me. He was prepared, though. A drawer in an end table held a ready supply of hand sanitizer, wipes, and lint rollers.

  Chuck drew his legs in under him like a contented hen, while his rumbling purr filled the room. I put my head on Adam’s shoulder.

  I’m so lucky, I thought to myself. I have so much ahead of me. I’d stack my life up against Pepper Hathaway’s any day.

  Adam stroked my hair. “D’you have a good birthday?”

  “It was wonderful.” I gave him what had to be a cow-eyed look of total adoration. I couldn’t help it. He just brought it out in me.

  That dimple appeared in his cheek. The best thing of all, I thought, as Adam took me into his arms, was that this wasn’t a TV show.

  It was real life.

  And it was mine.

  The End

  Dear Readers,

  I loved writing this book for you, and I hope you loved reading it. If you did, please send your ratings and reviews to goodreads.com and amazon.com. They are what make it possible for other readers to discover and enjoy Just Pru.

  For information about my other books, go to www.annepfeffer.com. If you’d like me to notify you when I’m publishing a new book, please click the “subscribe” button on the Home Page.

  Finally and as always, thank you for reading!

  Best regards,

  Anne