“How often did you see him?”
“Like once or twice a week before I moved out of the neighborhood. You know, sometimes it was with my friends. They liked him too. Sometimes on the steps to his building. We talked on the phone. Every time something really big happened, I called my mom, my sister, and then Jimmy.”
“What about your dad?”
“I was twelve when he died. Kind, humorous, always joking, upbeat. Never a down moment.”
“You make him sound nearly perfect.”
“A life as wrinkle free as a new starched shirt. I still idolize my father. But you know, there was one thing about him. I couldn’t get him to be serious, I guess. I don’t bring it up. My mom, my sister, and I, we just remember him as the perfect dad.”
“But?”
“Well… it doesn’t matter now… he died of cancer. Bowel cancer that spread everywhere. It was hard.
“I think I cried harder when they lowered Jimmy into the ground. Because my dad was so horribly sick, dying was deliverance from misery. Jimmy dropped through a trapdoor out of a happy life into the grave. I suppose the special thing about Jimmy was that he had no reason to love me and no nudge from mother nature. He didn’t want fame or money. I guess he just wanted to enlarge his life with other people.
“Later, after my first big movie, Jimmy reminded me that I was just a girl from McLean, Virginia. Of course I would tell him that I was reminded of that every time I went to a party. I didn’t sing or do the hoochy coochy or quote Shakespeare. So I’d say: ‘Look, Jimmy, I go to a party and I’m a big deal that doesn’t do anything.’ Then he’d smile at my poor floundering ego. Jimmy died four years ago.”
“Jimmy’s talk must have taken. On those TV shows you always protest that you’re an ordinary gal with an unusual job. Ah, shucks-no special insight, wisdom, or wit, you tell them. Of course nobody believes a word of it. Especially me. Then for the rest of the program you’re expected to be very witty and wise in addition to being humble.”
“I really do feel regular.”
“Get over it. And don’t tell us about it on TV. Maybe you once were normal, but you can’t be normal or ordinary or whatever the hell you call it when you sneeze and the entire world offers you a hanky. If you act with kindness despite all that-now, that is golden.”
“So, Mr. Publicist, what should I say when they stick a microphone in my face?”
“On national television, you can tell us that you were blessed with some good luck but that you still like being with your family and friends. You like doing the usual things. And for God’s sake don’t bat your eyes and act as if you suddenly woke up and noticed you were famous. That’s crapola again.”
“How long have you been waiting to say that?”
“Probably all my life. So then you had your mom and your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“What was your mom like when you were growing up?”
“Catholic workaholic.”
“Who always wanted to be a movie star but taught drama instead.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Peter told me.”
“Peter? Oh, ho. So you do know each other. And you know each other well.”
“Big clue there, huh, Sherlock?”
“So how did you meet Peter?”
“No more clues for now. I want to know about your mother… she was a wonderful inspiration in your acting career… you can skip that part.”
“You are tough.”
“I gather your mother was working a lot when you were little?”
“I had a baby-sitter or day care.”
“Are you close with your mother?”
“Very.”
“When you were growing up?”
“My mom was working her head off to make ends meet like any kid, I was probably disappointed a little.”
“But you got over it.”
“Yeah. I wrote a poem about it.”
“Always embarrassing.”
“Especially when you quote it in junior college English class.”
“Can you still quote it?”
“No.”
“Come on. Your memory for scripts is legendary.”
“You would make fun of me.”
“Because you’re not a poet? No. Amateur poems can be very touching. I have a feeling about this one.”
“I do not believe this. You are beer and football. Maybe hot cars or hot boats and maybe… maybe French restaurants where you order in French. You’re a man of contradictions. But I won’t stretch to poetry.”
“How about I’m a collector of information?”
“I see. Poetry as fact-gathering. That’s an emotionally challenged point of view.”
“Touche. Touche. What about your brother?”
“Jason departed my life shortly after my twenty-second birthday. There was a major fight. His wife was asking for custody of Grady, their baby girl, and I got into it on her side. I thought he was an arrogant bastard at the time.”
“You seem almost obsessed with saving your brother from his own decisions.”
“I am.”
“So when did you change your mind about him?”
“When Sydney, his ex-wife, told me that she had lied a little.”
“Now you lost me completely.”
“I’m too worn out to talk about such a heavy-duty subject. Your cuts look awful. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what Jimmy would have said. Okay, back to you, Sam. You were married and divorced and you don’t want a repeat.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kids?”
“My only son died.”
“I’m sorry. Do you talk about it?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Friends who are girls but no girlfriend.”
“I see.”
“What about you? How are you and Lane Rollins getting along?”
“He’s kind, thoughtful, caring, and a great companion.”
“Doesn’t sound good.” He grinned.
“You see there? That grin. You’re a know-it-all arrogant bastard.”
“So I’m right.”
“How do you get that out of what I said?”
“You say more than is in your words.”
“I don’t know your name and you’re asking about my love life?”
They spoke of other things, and Sam revealed more than he intended, but he thought he managed to receive more information than he gave. Still, he did reveal that he was in the information business, and he knew that she was a perceptive woman and that she had an idea about him, and that for her and for this little game, that was something of a score.
“It’s right through there.” Sam pointed to a patch of sky through a fir stand.
“When we get out of here, I have to figure a way to get Jason.”
“Have you considered just taking him?”
“I can’t. We had a falling-out and it’s public. So I don’t look good trying to take over. See, Jason had this fascination with France, even became a citizen. He hooked up with DuShane Chellis’s company, Grace, and when he started having problems-mental problems-they convinced him to make Roberto the guardian of his person and Grace Technologies the guardian of his estate. It’s all legal. I visit only with their consent.”
“Yeah, there are international treaties,” Sam said. “If the Canadians granted him resident status they’ll honor the French law and courts. And as a matter of national pride the French won’t want Americans taking over their brainchild.”
“I know. I looked into it.”
“You need some attorneys and a good investigator.”
“My immediate concern is just walking into Echo Bay without knowing if they’re there.”
“They’ll be there. And with a story, concerned about you, looking for you. They’ll try to work the law. They aren’t stupid. And they won’t run off into the bushes somewhere and let you control the media and the government. No way.”
“I hope what I’ve done hasn’t put Jason in a bad spot.”
“Nothing is going to happen overnight. Jason is in no immediate danger unless there is a whole lot we don’t know. He has to be critical to their program. You and I just play it cool. Relax. Don’t let them see any weakness or anxiety. You act normal. Pretend you’re about to shake hands with your ex-husband’s new fiancee.”