[What's Luck Got to Do With It 01.0] Some Lucky Woman: Jana's Story

by Carmen DeSousa

  “Nah.” I released a long breath. “Last I heard, the screenplay was finished and Connie is supposed to send me a copy. Not that I have any say in the matter. Apparently, unless you’re a big shot like Stephen King or Nicholas Sparks, you don’t have any input. The contract states that HELL Pictures can change anything they want, right down to the names of the characters and what they drive. No wonder we always complain that the book is better than the movie.” I stared out the window for a second. “I hope Howard Edwards doesn’t allow his writers to eviscerate my story into some asinine chick-flick, since his life is a living, breathing contradiction of what I wrote. I should have held out for a different contract, but I figured if I turned down the offer, I might not ever get another shot.”

  Angela snagged a parking spot right outside the door to the therapy office. “Ah, that’s too bad you can’t be involved. Howard Edwards is a hunk and a half. I bet you’d like working behind the scenes with him.”

  “Have you listened to anything I’ve said? This isn’t about how Howard Edwards looks.” I shook my head. “I think those pregnancy hormones are flaring up again and you’re trying to live vicariously through me, aren’t you? You better call hubby to come home early from his business trip.”

  My cousin wiggled her eyebrows. “Just because I’m happily married doesn’t mean I can’t admire a fine specimen of man.”

  “That fine specimen of a man named his production company HELL Pictures. Who does that?”

  “A very successful man,” she retorted. “It’s not like he makes movies in Hell or about Hell, Jana. In fact, most of his blockbusters have been romantic comedies. He’s got a good eye.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, he has two of them. Some of the bluest I’ve ever seen.” Not that I’d ever admit it to Angela or anyone else, but I’d had a few fantasies about Howard Edwards the Second. Imagining what it would be like if he showed up at my door, wanting to discuss my story. But Howard was a Hollywood player, one of the worst according to the tabloids. And yet, every year he also graced the list of Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelors.

  Angela smacked the steering wheel, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Ah-ha! I knew you’d noticed him.”

  “His eyes. I noticed his eyes,” I reminded her. “And I’ll probably never even meet him, so what difference does it make if I noticed his blue eyes?” I released my seatbelt and reached for the door with my left hand. “I gotta go.”

  “You need help?” she asked. All teasing had taken a back burner to her concern for my health. We’d been like that forever. Although nearly a decade separated us, we’d always been close, always had fun bantering with each other. But when push came to shove, there wasn’t another person I trusted as much to have my back.

  I blew her a kiss as I exited the vehicle. “I’m fine. Love ya, cuz! See you in forty-five?”

  “You bet. Be nice.”

  My head still lowered, I gave her my best innocent look. “Me? I told you. Not a peep coming out of this mouth.” I made a point of locking my lips and throwing her the key. She laughed and backed out of the parking lot.

  After releasing a long breath, I pulled open the front door and saw Doctor Doom waiting in the reception area, arms crossed over that broad chest of his.

  I followed his gaze to the clock: 9:32. Two minutes late. Sheesh! But I was determined not to let Dr. Kijek upset me today.

  “Sorry,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m still not able to drive, so I’ve been reliant on others. I hope to get my driving privileges back next week.”

  Dr. Kijek turned and walked toward his office.

  Nothing. No comment. No smile. No chuckle. The guy was a pill, a bitter, chalky pill. Such a waste of a perfectly good body.

  As planned, I said nothing else while he started his routine. I simply gave him a yes or no, unless a question absolutely required a longer answer.

  As the previous days, he asked what my current pain level was. Was I still taking Percocets? How many a day? Had I done my exercises? And various other questions about my mobility.

  I stuck to the plan, simply responding with a yes or no, or a number, if I had to. I never realized how quiet his office was without my queries, which suddenly made me self-conscious of my breathing and the few yelps that slipped out of my mouth. Physical therapy freakin’ hurts! I screamed in my head.

  About fifteen minutes into the session, Dr. Kijek stopped and looked at me. “Are you in pain?”

  “No more than usual,” I said, forgetting my vow to respond to questions with only one-worded answers. I never was good at the silent game or holding back my true feelings.

  He nodded and went back to the stretches. Afterward, he reminded me of the stretches he wanted me to do on my own, then showed me a few new ones to do while he started working with another patient. “After those you’re free to go. I’ll see you next week,” he said, then turned to leave his office.

  As much as I wanted to hold my tongue, since we were getting along so much better when we didn’t speak, I had to ask a question. “Dr. Kijek?”

  He turned, offering me a slow blink, which I took as an eye roll. “Adrian’s fine.”

  Stunned by the fact that this arrogant man didn’t want to go by his title, I shook my head in confusion. “But you’re a doctor. You worked for that title.” I’d always been taught to respect people and their accomplishments.

  He shrugged. “How can I help you, Jana?”

  “Sorry.” I didn’t know why I was apologizing. I hadn’t said or did anything wrong. It seemed nothing I tried could tear down this man’s wall. Still, I persisted with my pledge to be nice when I asked my question, “I was just wondering if you wanted me to add those new stretches you showed me today to my home routine, or just continue to do the ones you had previously given me?”

  Dr. Kijek blinked a couple of times, only this time, he didn’t appear to be frustrated; he looked surprised. “Oh, yeah. You can add them. Do you need me to write them down?”

  I smiled. “No. I remember them. Thanks!” I scurried off before either of us could say something mean.

  Was that our first normal conversation?

  As I started to leave, I looked back to see Dr. Adrian Kijek watching me. He quickly turned his attention to his next patient, though.

  Chapter 18 – I Don’t Wanna Go

  One look at my caller ID had me dropping my head like a puppy who’d been caught rifling through the shoe rack. I could hide all I wanted, but it was no use. If I didn’t answer, the cavalry would be at my door.

  “Hi!” I attempted to sound cheerful. It didn’t matter if I felt like crap or felt great, I was in trouble just the same. If I pretended I was fine, maybe she wouldn’t feel the need to come over and cheer me up, since I knew she was in Tampa Bay today.

  “Jana, Jana, Jana, wherefore art thou Jana?” my agent, Connie McKewan, crooned through the phone line.

  Ugh! I was surrounded by Shakespeareans. “Same place I’ve been for months. Wallowing, popping pain pills, slogging through my day like a one-legged dog,” I said, forgetting that I was supposed to sound cheerful, as if it’d matter.

  “That’s not true,” Connie said through a chuckle. “A one-legged dog wouldn’t complain. He’d be happy he had one leg left.” She paused for a second, clearly waiting to see if I’d argue with her or laugh; either would have probably made her happy. I refused to bite, so she continued, “You said you’d be at the convention, young lady!”

  “I said, I’d try. And hey, I’m three years older than you are.”

  “The difference is I act it,” she shot back. “You’re being a baby.”

  “Connie!” I cried out, caving on my refusal to ignore her jabs. I knew she was just trying to get me to fight, but I was tired of fighting. I just wanted to be left alone while I healed. “I hurt.”

  “Get over it. I’m coming to get you.”

  “No …” I groaned. “Please don’t. I don’t feel like seeing anyone.”

  “I’m taking you out
. You need to show your face. The studio is spending big money on this picture, and everyone wants to meet the woman who wrote a book about living life to the fullest. If anyone saw you right now, we’d never sell another book. Since you ditched the conference you promised me that you’d attend, you could at least take me out for a few martinis.”

  I released a moan and J’Austen peeked up at me from the barstool where she’d decided to take her afternoon naps this week. I scratched her behind her right ear to let her know I was fine. Well, I wasn’t really fine, but no sense in upsetting my kitty when it was her naptime. I knew how grouchy I got when someone interrupted my quiet times. Like now.

  Going out with my agent was the last thing I wanted to do tonight. Connie’s idea of a few martinis was more like six and would keep me out way too late. I had episodes of GoT to watch.

  I decided to give Connie the one excuse I knew she’d understand: my appearance. “I can’t fix my hair or do my makeup with my left hand. I’ll end up on one of those, look-what-she-actually-looks-like celebrity magazines.” My doorbell rang, and J’Austen and I looked toward it at the same time. The only difference, I was excited at the interruption, whereas my cat hated company. “Oh, that’s the door, Connie. Gotta go. I’m expecting the cable guy,” I lied lightly.

  “Okay, precious. Call me back. Like it or not, I’m taking you out.”

  “Bye!” I hung up and nearly ran to the door, wanting to wrap my good arm around the person who’d saved me. J’Austen trotted past me, ready to tell off the visitor, I was certain.

  My excitement faltered as I peered through the peephole at the five-two strawberry blonde. Apparently, I’d signed over fifteen percent of my life, not just my profits, to the tiny woman I’d allowed to represent my books.

  “Surprise!” Connie yelled loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear, which was all J’Austen needed to know about the unscheduled visitor. In a flash, my kitty charged toward the bedroom, her back claws gaining purchase on my Berber carpet as though she were evading a predator. Connie was one of her least-favorite visitors. I could only guess that it was the high pitch of Connie’s voice, since as far as I knew, Connie had never pinched J’Austen. Cats were just like that. Especially mine. Then again, J’Austen was behaving more and more like me every day with her dislike of visitors, so maybe I was influencing her. If only I hadn’t answered my landline, I could have pretended I wasn’t home.

  “No one’s home. Go away!” I screamed through the shelter of my closed door.

  “You know I won’t leave until you open up, Jana.”

  I did know this. At least I had clothes on. Just my ever-present yoga pants and tank top, but it was better than my favorite tattered T-shirt she’d caught me in last time.

  Grudgingly, I opened the door, then narrowed my eyes at her mode of transportation. A limo.

  “Connie …” I growled. “I told you I don’t want any of my neighbors knowing who I am.”

  She skipped through the doorway, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her. “You should have thought about that before you allowed me to publish a bestseller in your real name.”

  Distracted by the suitcase, I narrowed my eyes. “You movin’ in?” Fear overtook me for a second. Twenty-four hours a day of Connie. God help me.

  “Nope! This is my get-Jana-looking-human gear.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Connie turned on her heel, her right hand on her hip, the other resting on her Gucci carry-on. “Do I ever kid around?”

  “Quite frequently actually.”

  She waved me off. “Go take a shower, then I’ll do your hair and makeup so we can go out.”

  My shoulders dropped, then my head. I knew there was no use, but I attempted to appeal to her softer side, which was usually buried too deep to reach by normal speech. It required an extra dose of showing, not telling, which meant I had to put my entire body in motion. “Please, Connie. I don’t wanna go anywhere …”

  Connie squared her shoulders, then crossed her arms, even tapped out a rhythm with her Jimmy Choos. She was better than I was at showing her emotions. “Go! You’re not dying.”

  “I’m still in pain, and I’m bruised from shoulder to elbow, and I feel …” I searched my mental thesaurus for the perfect words, words that would substantiate that I wasn’t good company for a night on the town. “Blah. Tired. Grouchy.”

  “Wear something with long sleeves,” she bounced back, as though she’d been ready for my argument. “And that’s what going out is supposed to do. Make you not feel blah.” Both her hands rested on her hips now. “Move it, sister! I’ll look through your clothes for something for you to wear while you scrub up.”

  Head still lowered, I did as she instructed, knowing there was no use in fighting. She’d probably drag me out of the house if I resisted. I’d call Angela, but she’d probably pick up my feet and help Connie carry me to the limo.

  Two hours later, I sat next to Connie in a stretch limo, a glass of champagne in my hand. Thankfully, I’d been limiting the Percocets to only at night, so I could get some sleep.

  I lifted my glass in response to Connie raising hers. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Who says we have to be celebrating anything?” Connie clinked her flute against mine, then tapped on the partition with her acrylic nails, waiting for the chauffeur to open the slider. “Do you know where the Roundup is?”

  The driver nodded.

  “No. Uh-uh! Not there, Connie!” I shrieked. “For years, I’d limited my visits to the Roundup for dance lessons only. As soon as the classes ended, I fled. I just wasn’t into the bar scene anymore.

  “Aww, Jana, you’re such a spoilsport. What happened to that adventurous author I signed?”

  “It’s too crowded. If someone bumped into my arm, I’d probably break down and cry.”

  Connie jutted out her winter-rose-tinted lips, which I was pretty sure she’d chosen to match her purse and luggage. “But where will we find cowboys?”

  I laughed. “Wannabe cowboys, maybe! I hate that place. Too loud. Too many young kids.”

  She took a long swig of her champagne, then smiled. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”

  The driver cleared his throat. “Umm, excuse me, ladies? Where would you like me to take you?”

  Connie glared at me, then sighed. “Just take us to Bar Louie.”

  Finally getting my way, I smiled. As far as bars went, Connie knew that Bar Louie was one of the few I liked. Probably because it wasn’t really a bar. More like a hyped-up TGIFridays, without the kids. Well, sometimes kids were there, which I really didn’t understand. I loved kids, but I really didn’t think they should be in places where drinking was the center focus. Restaurants, sure. But while Bar Louie served food, drinking was the order of the day — and night.

  I felt comfortable at Bar Louie. The rock-themed bar/restaurant, which was adjacent to the local mall, never felt like a pick-up joint. It felt like a place where ladies could go out after work and have a few drinks. Not that I knew what that felt like, since I’d never had that opportunity. Truthfully, I should be grateful that Angela and, on occasion, Connie, invited me to hang out.

  The limo driver parked as close to the front door as possible, and I stepped out, trying to ignore the stares. After all, who goes to the mall or Bar Louie in a limo? If it were April, passersby might think it was prom night. But it wasn’t even close. Maybe the gawkers would assume we needed to buy an outfit before going out, or that we were a very small bachelorette party. Scratch that. A two-person bachelorette party would be rather sad.

  Connie brushed imaginary dust off my shoulder as she looped her arm through mine, leading me inside the dark restaurant. “You look great, Jana! Don’t you feel better?”

  I stared down at my yoga pants and super sheer, distressed-look Steelers shirt. Wouldn’t have been my choice in nighttime dress, and it definitely wasn’t Connie’s first recommendation, but since my arm still wouldn’t move any better than a B
arbie doll, it was the best we could do.

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “If I had breasts like yours, I’d wear stuff like that all the time. I have to resort to push-up, molding, designer bras and dresses to make me look like I have half of what you have.”

  “Shh …” I cringed as we made our way through the entrance. Connie’s voice already tended to travel across great distances. The last thing I needed was for her to tell the entire restaurant about the size of my breasts. Spotting an open booth at the rear of the establishment, I darted for it before Connie could direct me to the bar.

  Plopping down before she had a chance to stop me, I picked up a menu.

  Another sigh escaped her throat. Was that three sighs?

  I stared up at Connie’s crossed arms. “If I keep making you sigh, why did you insist we go out?”

  This time she rolled her eyes, but then slid down in the booth across from me, picking up a menu, too. “Ooh. Five-dollar martinis. I forgive you.”

  “Forgive me? I’m the one who’s sick.” I earned another wave of her bejeweled hand with that remark.

  “I’m starving. How ’bout we split a chicken quesadilla and a flatbread?”

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” I said.

  Connie gave the waiter our order, along with a request for a Grand Lemon Drop Martini.

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke,” I said when the waiter turned to me.

  Another sigh, this time accompanied with a frown, practically slapped me across the face.

  “Fine!” I said, handing the waiter the menu. “Just bring me whatever she ordered.” I guess I wouldn’t be taking any Percocets to sleep tonight.

  If she could purr, I was sure that Connie would. She liked getting her way. Actually, now that I thought about it, maybe that’s what J’Austen didn’t like about Connie. Maybe she thought Connie was a cat, an extremely large, vociferous cat. I giggled to myself, imagining the two of them in a scene in a children’s book. Maybe I should write a children’s book featuring my cat.