The Redhead Revealed Read online

  “Not unless you go all Hollywood on me,” I answered, messing his hair.

  ~ ~ ~

  We spent another quiet, but not so quiet, night at his hotel, and the next morning I rode with him to LaGuardia. I sat on his lap in the cab, holding him tightly. This time it was going to be even harder to let him go.

  We’d spent the night catching quick cat naps between love and talk. I told him I’d like the chance to apologize to Marcia, and perhaps we could all get together for dinner the next time I was in L.A. Who knew when that was going to be, but I was hoping for Christmas.

  We were never going to have the kind of relationship that allowed us to see each other every day, at least not for the foreseeable future. And Jack would probably never come home from work with a briefcase after a hard day. He’d probably never cut the lawn on the weekend. And while I do own several aprons and make a kickass meatloaf, I’d likely never be the “little woman,” marinating in a traditional house in the suburbs.

  Neither of us really wanted that, but I did disclose a little fantasy I had about role playing: me in an apron and him with a briefcase. He agreed wholeheartedly, providing of course that I wear high heels like Donna Reed. And we both dissolved into laughter when I mentioned I’d also wear my pearl necklace. We watched as the Manhattan night gave way to a gray morning, then showered quickly and headed out.

  We knew there were still things we had to talk about and work through, but we were both optimistic now. We were a team. And when we pulled up to the airport and I had to let him go again, although I was sick to my stomach, I felt a newfound strength of spirit. I kissed him fiercely in the cab, wrapping my arms around him and telling him I loved him over and over again. Our antics in the Four Seasons elevator the day before, while romantic and sweet, were not smart, and we’d agreed to go back to being as discreet as possible. We weren’t hiding, but we wouldn’t flaunt it either. It just made more sense to use discretion.

  And besides, there was something wonderfully wicked about knowing he and I could have something private, just us. The entire world was clamoring to know about him, but we could have our personal life be just for us, for as long as we could keep it that way.

  “Call me when you land in L.A.?” I asked, sweeping kisses across his face as he held me tight.

  “Of course,” he answered, kissing me breathless.

  “And you behave out there, hear me? No more benders?” I teased, but I did have a legitimate twinge of concern over his coping method of choice when left on his own.

  “No more benders.” He smiled back.

  “Thank you, George.” I sighed into his neck, feeling the tears begin.

  “For what, Gracie?” He raised my chin to look at me.

  “For not giving up on me,” I answered, and he smiled my favorite smile.

  “That’s my schmaltzy girl,” he said, his eyes full of love.

  A horn blaring shocked us out of our reverie, and we laughed as our cabbie swore in three languages at the other driver.

  Jack kissed me once more, told me he loved me, and was gone. He disappeared into a sea of people inside the terminal, hoodie up and shades on.

  I was sad, but not as sad as I thought I’d be. I knew now we could get through just about anything, including the sort of terror I alone could produce. I knew now what it felt like to be without him, and that would never happen again.

  As the cab headed back into the city, my phone blipped. I had a text.

  Thanks for leaving me with a little schmaltz.

  Jesus, George.

  Chapter 18

  After Jack left New York, our relationship changed—for the better. We were more open and honest with each other. I held back nothing. I told him my thoughts and fears, and bolstered by my admissions, he shared with me as well. We talked every night, long past my bedtime, and while I did not think it possible, we fell more in love.

  He’d been all over the place and hardly in L.A. since he came to see me, and he was still busy with additional Time obligations. Box office sales from the first two weeks alone had ensured that the film was now a franchise, and the studio had already green-lighted the second installment. The script was being written, and they’d told him shooting could start as early as February. He’d also been in negotiations for several other studio films, all of which Holly was overseeing like a hawk. They were both exhausted, but very happy with the way his career was shaping up.

  Over time, the fallout from the pictures of him with the blonde died down, and shockingly, there was no fallout from our elevator groping at the Four Seasons. Whether those ladies had just not gotten the money shot, or they decided out of the kindness of their quilted hearts to keep the pictures for their own private collections, they never made the papers. Or TMZ. Or Access Hollywood, or anywhere.

  I stretched out leisurely in my seat, removed my ear buds, and put them back in my bag. It was December seventeenth, and I was almost home. It was time to return all belongings and make sure my tray table was in its upright and locked position. I looked out the window at the familiar landscape and thought about the last time I’d been on a plane bound for California. What a disaster.

  I finished the last of the warm chocolate chip cookies so thoughtfully provided to first-class passengers and sipped the last of my complimentary wine. Why I always felt the need to indulge in free alcohol I’ll never know, but I was pleasantly sauced. And happy.

  As I gazed out at the unmistakable terrain of California, the plane banked left, and I saw the ocean for the first time. I thought about the last month, and what had now led me back to L.A.

  The show? Well, it went…well.

  When the reviews came out, I was thrilled to see it had been well received. They thought I killed it too! We still didn’t know if the show would be picked up or not, but this was encouraging. For all three weeks, we sold out every night, and the show was beginning to generate quite a bit of buzz. The Village Voice even wrote a little piece, which highlighted Michael as a talented writer and yours truly as a new voice in the world of musical theater. We were flying high.

  So when we got word that the show wouldn’t be picked up for a full production—at least not right away—we were all a little surprised. Although, as Michael explained patiently during a teary cast meeting, sometimes even the best shows never see the light of day outside a workshop. But it was a tough pill to swallow. We’d worked so hard, and I’d put everything I had—and some things I didn’t know I had—into making Mabel real.

  Nevertheless, the cast bid each other tear-soaked goodbyes, and Michael and I parted ways in a much better place than when we’d parted years ago. He had another project lined up, and he was headed to Connecticut to spend the holidays with his family, including Keili’s new baby. We promised to keep each other in the loop, and he said he’d let me know if he heard anything. I knew this time we’d keep in touch.

  Which led me to here and now, back on a plane to L.A. I had some freelance writing projects I could pick back up, and Holly was already beginning to line up auditions for me in the new year. The life of the actor—always so close and yet so far away.

  Ah, well. Actually, part of me was quite pleased to be heading back to L.A. My New York adventure had been grand and exciting, but I missed my home, I missed my friends, and I missed my Brit. He’d soon be back in L.A. as well after another quick UK press tour for Time (evidently London missed their Brit too). I couldn’t wait to be alone with him, in my home, in our bed.

  I knew it would be hard to find another role as perfect as Mabel had been, but I’d adapt. And although it was little scary not knowing what would happen next, after so many years of knowing exactly what the next day would bring, I kind of liked not knowing. Plus, since I’d killed it with Mabel, I felt pretty sure I could do just about anything.

  The plane began its final descent, and as I yawned to keep my ears clear, I indulged in a little daydreaming about my George.

  Since I’d opened the floodgates, we’d talked a lot ov
er the past weeks about some of my, and therefore some of our, issues. I actually finally had the nerve to bring up having kids again on the phone late one night. Being the emotionally mature one, turns out he’d been waiting for me.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to bring this up again, Crazy. Come on, out with it.” I could hear him grinning through the phone.

  “Christ on a crutch, you know me well.” I laughed, feeling my face burn a little at the knowledge that he was always—and would apparently always be—one step ahead of me.

  “I know you better than anybody, but I can’t read your mind,” he said. “So tell me what you’re thinking. What you’re really thinking, Grace.”

  “Hmm, well, the thing is, it’s not that I suddenly want kids or anything—I’m still pretty convinced that I don’t…” I trailed off, trying to consolidate my own thoughts before throwing them out all over him.

  “But,” he prompted.

  “Don’t but me, mister. I guess I’ve just realized that while I’m still pretty sure I don’t want kids, my chances of having them are also getting considerably smaller.”

  “Right, well, being forty-eight doesn’t help matters,” he said, the smile evident in his voice.

  “No, forty-eight is rather old to begin a family. And it’s not that my clock is tick-tick-ticking, but when you realize the baby-making years are beginning to wind down, it’s a little scary. Just because I know the options are somewhat limited, I suppose. But seriously, what if you decide ten years from now that you want kids? You’ve changed your mind. At that point, for me, it’s not so possible. You could be giving up a lot being with me, ya know?”

  I twisted down lower in the bed. He was in San Francisco doing press, and I was in New York, trying to seek comfort from a duvet as we talked about this very sensitive topic.

  “Well, first, I’m flattered that you think you’d still have me ten years from now, so thanks for that.” He laughed, and I smiled underneath the covers.

  “And sure, it’s possible that I might change my mind. Who knows? At my very young age, there could be a lot of things I’m undecided about. There’s one thing, though, that I am fairly certain about?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You. I’m fairly certain about my redhead.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. I’m fairly certain about my Brit.”

  We’d finally gotten to a place where we were totally honest with each other, even if we didn’t have all the answers. This is what I meant about falling more and more in love.

  The plane touched the ground, and I felt my heart swell. Christmas in L.A. was unlike Christmas anywhere else, and I couldn’t wait.

  ~ ~ ~

  Holly had some open time in her schedule that afternoon (amazing!), so she was the one who got to fetch me from the airport. As I walked through baggage after collecting my stuff, I texted her to let her know I was ready. She texted back almost immediately.

  Thank God you’re home.

  No one has cooked for me in ages!

  I’ll be there in 5.

  Your favorite bitch

  I smiled to myself and gathered my bags. I’d shipped most of my things back, so they’d be arriving within a day or so. I was so happy to get back to life in L.A. and finally make my house a home that I exited the airport with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face.

  Outside in the California sunshine, I breathed deep: smog and oranges and excitement. Yummy. I felt the breeze and sunbeams on my face, and I was home. Holly waited at the curb, flipping off several people honking at her. I almost didn’t recognize her. She leaned against the hood of a brand new car, looking fierce. She was on the phone as I approached.

  “No, dear, you’re not hearing me,” she said. “He cannot take a meeting tomorrow…No. He’s not meeting with anyone until after the holidays…Nope. Not gonna happen…Okay, we’ll speak again after the new year. Great. Kisses,” she said, rolling her eyes and clicking her phone shut.

  She finally spied me and grinned. “Asshead!”

  “Dillweed,” I answered, nodding. I dropped my bags, and we hugged it out.

  “Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.” She giggled as we embraced.

  “Me too.” I laughed, then jumped as we heard another round of honking start.

  “Oh, settle down! We’re moving, we’re moving!” she yelled as we piled my bags into the back of her new wheels.

  As I settled into the plush leather seat of her Mercedes, I sniffed. I loved new-car smell. “So what’s up, Hollywood?” I asked, running my hands along the wood grain on the dashboard, admiring the lines of her newly chic ride.

  “Shut it. It was time to upgrade, and I totally deserve it,” she said, swerving out into traffic and heading for the freeway.

  “Yes, you do. I’m amazed you lasted as long as you did, frankly. You’ve wanted one of these since college.” I dug out my phone and began texting the Brit to let him know I’d landed.

  “Are you texting Jack?”

  “Yep, I told him I would when I got in. Why?”

  “He has some interviews this afternoon. He’s so glad to be almost done with this press tour. I got him on an early flight from Madrid, and he should be here sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s what I heard. I’m so glad we have these few days here together before he goes to London,” I said as I sent the text.

  Sweet Nuts,

  Just landed and headed HOME!

  What the hell time is it where you are?

  I don’t care—call me before you go to sleep.

  Love you and miss your body more.

  Dorothy Zbornak

  “He’s leaving on the twenty-third, right?” she asked, weaving in and out of traffic with the reflexes of Danica Patrick. L.A. driving could prepare anyone for that circuit.

  “Yep.” I sighed. I was glad he was going home for some time with his family. He needed it. When I saw him in recent interviews, my Brit just looked totally exhausted. But still pretty…oh, still pretty.

  “But you have all this week with him. Any plans?” she asked, missing a Bentley by mere inches on the 405.

  “Nope, just the Christmas dinner on the twenty-first.”

  Since most of our friends were staying in L.A. for the holidays, I’d volunteered my house as Holiday Central. We were having a dinner party to celebrate together, and everyone was in charge of something. Jack and I were cooking, and Holly was bringing wine. Nick was providing the entertainment (which terrified me a little), and there would maybe be a few more dropping by.

  We chatted and laughed and giggled and swore as we made our way through the Hills of Beverly and on up to my house. As we turned on to Laurel Canyon and the trees closed in around us, I was reminded why I loved this street so much. Growing up in the Midwest, it was easy to think of L.A. as a very cheesy, very plastic, very shiny place. And it was, in certain parts. There was definitely some cheese in this town. But I truly believe you see what you want to see. And if you looked past that, L.A. was beautiful. The pocket neighborhoods, the architectural mishmash, the palm-lined streets. And then there were the canyons: Coldwater, Topanga, Benedict, and finally Laurel. There was something mystical about Laurel Canyon: the way it wound around the mountain, the houses dug into the landscape, the ancient trees, the stillness at night.

  And there was my bungalow. Cozy and warm. When we pulled in, I sighed contentedly.

  “Happy?” Holly asked as she shut off the engine.

  I heard birds chirping. I inhaled and smelled…lemons.

  “Hell, yes,” I answered.

  She helped me get everything inside, then paused when she saw the Post-it on my fridge next to the picture of Jack and me in Santa Barbara.

  “You wrote yourself a welcome home note?” she asked, laughing.

  “I sure did. I knew I’d be coming back,” I said, gazing at the picture of me and my Johnny Bite Down.

  “Okay, fruitcake. I gotta head back to the office. There’s a war going on abou
t who’s gonna play the lead in some remake. Can you believe this town? Adios, asshead!” she fired over her shoulder as she walked to the front door.

  “Adios, dillweed,” I shot back, and began to plan which bag to unpack first.

  “Hey, Grace?” she said

  I looked up at her. “Yeah?”

  “Glad you’re back.”

  “Me too, dear.”

  I smiled, and she showed me her middle finger as she left.

  I looked around, and my eyes settled once more on the Post-it.

  “Welcome home, Grace,” I said out loud with a smile, and then I went to work.

  Well, actually, first I just walked around my house for a while, overwhelmed by everything I had to do. But then I sprang into action. Thankfully, the housekeeping service I’d hired before I left had kept ahead of the dust, and the house was basically clean. But having never been lived in, it was missing some essential items. I put my clothes away and made a list. The list to end all lists.

  After list-guided trips to Target, The Container Store, and Ralph’s, I spent the rest of the day and most of the evening putting stuff away and arranging. My things from storage were arriving the next day, and I was anxious to start hanging pictures and personalizing. But even now, my home was beginning to look lived in. Clothes hung in the closets. There was soap in the soap dish and peanut butter in the pantry.

  At ten-thirty that night I stood in the shower with my eyes closed and my hands braced against the wall. I was beat. The strain and ache of the day had taken its toll, and my brain was still partially on East Coast time. I stood under the water, letting it beat down and wash away some of the knots in my neck. I mentally planned everything I still had to do, everything I wanted to accomplish before Jack came home tomorrow. As I packed my tired ass into bed, I started another list. Included in the boxes coming from storage were all my Christmas decorations, which would need to be put up. I’d done some of my Christmas shopping in New York, but I still had a lot to do. Before I turned out the light, I reviewed my list from earlier today, crossing out what had been completed, and adding to it a bit. I still needed to get my Christmas tree and get my boughs decked with holly. Holly the greenery, not the best friend…