The Redhead Revealed Read online

  “And now you live here in New York! That’s so great. We’ll get to spend so much more time together. Once I have this baby I’ll be able to come into the city more often,” she prattled on.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I live here. I live in L.A. In fact, I just finished remodeling a house there that I bought last spring, and I can’t wait to get back to it when this is all over. It’s still a work in progress, but I love it.” I sighed, my face breaking into the smile I always got when I thought of my cozy bungalow in the canyon.

  “Oh, I thought you were living here now. At least that’s what Michael said.”

  “Well, that’s mostly true. I mean, I’m here until the show is over, and then we’ll have to wait and see what happens with it. I’m having a blast out here, but I love L.A. It’s my home,” I said.

  She looked at me for a moment, then grimaced and rolled her eyes. “Jeez, guy, settle down in there,” she warned, taking a sip of her water and patting her stomach.

  “Is he…what is it that they do? Kick?” I asked, looking at her stomach nervously.

  “Yeah, you can say that again. He kicks and kicks so much. I must be cooking up a soccer player in here. Oof!” She rubbed her belly.

  I watched her hand curiously, wondering what it felt like to have a baby rolling around inside you, kicking. Weird.

  “Yes, you can.” She smiled.

  “Huh?” I asked, my eyes snapping up to hers.

  “You want to feel, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean…would that be strange?” I asked, backing away a little.

  “Grace, you used to stand guard while I peed on the side of the road. Nothing is strange.” She laughed, grabbing my hand and placing it on her belly.

  “Wait, I don’t know if I should—whoa. Wait, is that…is that a…kick?” I asked, eyes wide. It didn’t feel like a kick exactly, but more like a flutter. I imagine it would feel like a kick if it were my bladder taking the beating. Fascinating.

  This felt strange.

  I’d seen pregnant women walk around me every day of my life, and not once did I ever feel the compulsion to put my hand on there and feel. But this felt, strangely, normal. Stranger than that, it felt…nice?

  “Feels cool, doesn’t it?” I heard Michael ask. I looked at him with the deer-in-the-headlights eyes and nodded.

  He stood close to me, Abigail in his arms. He smiled.

  I smiled back.

  “That’s my brother in there,” Abigail explained, looking from my hand to my face.

  “It is? Does that mean you’re going to be a big sister?” I asked her, smiling.

  “Yep,” she answered.

  “Abigail, this is my friend Grace. Can you say hi?” Michael asked, leaning her toward me.

  I offered her my hand, and she shook it like a little grownup.

  “Hi, Abigail,” I said.

  “Hi, Grace. Your hair is red,” she said promptly, pulling at a curl that had fallen out of my bun.

  “Yes it is, and your hair is blond. You have very pretty hair, Miss Abigail.” I laughed, crossing my eyes at her.

  She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said, looking at Michael for approval. “She’s funny, Uncle Michael.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty funny,” he said, then winked at me.

  “She’s pretty tooo,” Abigail crooned.

  Michael flushed and cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. He snuck a look at me, then nodded his head. “Yes, Abigail, she’s very…pretty.” He hesitated, then finished with, “Just like you!” then gave her a zerbert on the cheek.

  She screamed and kicked to be let down. Off she ran, back to playing in the rows.

  “She’s super sweet, Keili, really. And you, Uncle Michael, you sure have a way with her. Although you always have preferred blondes,” I joked, poking the hair back into my clip.

  “Not so much blondes,” he said softly, smiling his shy smile. Then he went to help Abigail investigate a coloring book sticking out of her mother’s purse.

  Again, I was caught up in watching the two together. I became vaguely aware of someone calling my name.

  “Grace! Hey, Grace!”

  “What’s that?” I answered, distractedly.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I was asking if you ever thought about having kids,” Keili said.

  “Wow, that’s twice in as many weeks. What’s going on with the universe?” I chuckled, thinking of my conversation with Jack.

  “Someone else was asking you about having kids?” she asked, digging through her bag to find crayons for Abigail, who then took them to Michael.

  “What? Oh, well, yes, actually. My boyfriend and I were talking about it,” I said, smiling as I always did when I used the word “boyfriend” to describe Jack.

  “Boyfriend? Oh, yes, Michael mentioned you were seeing some guy. Quite a bit younger than you, I hear?” she asked, her face very curious.

  “Yes, he’s younger than me, but it’s actually pretty great. He’s an actor too. He’s, well, I hate to use this word, but he’s awesome.” I smiled again, thinking of my George.

  “How much younger?” she prompted.

  I sighed, irritated that everyone was so preoccupied with this—including myself.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Oh, well, hell—have your fun then, girl! For now…” She trailed off.

  “For now? What does that mean?” I asked, looking at her carefully.

  “Exactly what I said. Have fun! I’m a little envious of a fling with a young guy—wow. But I mean, come on, what can you possibly have in common with a twenty-four year old? Other than s-e-x…” She sighed, smiling at the thought of s-e-x with a twenty-four year old, no doubt.

  I knew what she meant, and since I’d known her so long, I didn’t take offense. But Jack and I had more in common than just the s-e-x, didn’t we? Sure we did.

  Keili stayed for rehearsal, and we spent a little more time together over lunch. She promised to email and keep me updated on the baby. She was due right before the show went up, so it was doubtful she’d make it back to the city before she gave birth.

  I was very glad to have seen her, but she’d planted a seed.

  She’d planted several.

  Chapter 8

  Jack had started his trek around the world. He was truly amazed at how many fans turned up to see him everywhere he went—and he was more than a little freaked out by it.

  “Grace, I mean, it was just this blast of screaming. I could barely tell which end was up. I couldn’t really tell where it was coming from. And then the outside doors opened while I was going through the hotel, and there they all were,” he explained late one night, calling from his hotel in Chicago.

  He was basically living out of a suitcase at this point, on the promotional tour for Time.

  “I’m not surprised, love. You’re their Joshua. They love you.” I sighed into the phone, wishing I were there with him.

  “It’s just so weird. I mean, literally last year I could barely get into a casting director’s office, and now?” He laughed mournfully.

  “Hey, you’re about to have that town by the balls. When this movie opens you’ll be bankable. Everyone’s gonna want to work with you. Wait and see.”

  “I know, I just…Jesus, if they only knew—” he started to say.

  “If they only knew what? If they only knew you were an amazing musician? If they only knew you’re the funniest motherfucker this side of London? If they only knew how much you love your Fatburger?”

  “Grace, please. No one cares that I like Fatburger.” He chuckled.

  “Oh, really? I know teen girls, and I know how their minds operate. New Kids fan, remember? I guarantee if you mention your favorite fast food, at some point it will be mentioned again. Us girls? We love that stuff. I still remember who Joey McIntyre’s favorite singer was, and I haven’t read anything about him since 1991.” I laughed, thinking of the issues of BOP and Teen Beat I used to read cover to cover.

  “Girls
are weird,” he muttered.

  “I heard that,” I warned.

  “Good, I ruddy well meant you to. You’re all mental, and somehow I ended up with the craziest one of all,” he said, teasing me now.

  “Tread carefully there, or I’ll make you watch my Hangin’ Tough Live tape.”

  “Tape? Like an actual videotape? Wow, like, from the eighties?”

  “You’re on thin ice, fucko,” I said, lowering my voice to let him know I was serious. I tried to stifle a yawn, but he caught it.

  “You need to get some sleep, love. You sound exhausted. How are the rehearsals going?”

  “Good. They’re good. Everything is pretty well set. No more rewrites so it’s getting easier.” I snuggled under the covers. This was the time of night I missed him most.

  “You’ll be ready to open?” he asked, covering his own yawn.

  “Yes, I think so. Sweet Nuts, you sound tired too. Why don’t we go to sleep?”

  “That sounds good. If I were there, what do you think we’d be doing now?” he asked. I could hear his covers rustling. Somehow, knowing we were both doing the same thing made me feel better.

  “Hmm, right about now you’d be turning me on my side.”

  “Yes?”

  “And sneaking your hands under my shirt.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And now you’d probably be surrounding my boobies with your hands.”

  “Definitely.”

  “And now you’d be groaning.”

  “Because your boobies feel so fantastic?”

  “No, because I just turned on Golden Girls, and it’s the episode where Rose tells Dorothy and Blanche about the Great Herring War.”

  “And on that note, I will say goodnight. Say goodnight, Gracie.”

  “Good night, Gracie.”

  He paused, and I could hear him turn out the light.

  “I love you, Jack.”

  “I love you too, Grace.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The next week was hell for both of us. I was in rehearsal all day, every day, and usually well into the night. He was on his monster promo tour, all over the country. I checked in on him each day via the internet, and my Sweet Nuts just looked exhausted. But he was having fun too. As a great tie-in to the time-traveling aspect of the film, the studio had booked personal appearances for Jack in the science centers and museums across the country. These places had never seen such giddy crowds! This was truly the most exciting thing he’d ever gone through, and when he told me how nervous he was, or how much it freaked him out when everyone screamed at him, I simply reminded him this was awesome.

  He was experiencing something hardly anyone in the world could appreciate, and the more he gave to his fans, the more they loved him. They loved that he said whatever he wanted, that he was self-deprecating, that he was funny and silly—and, boy, did they love that he was British.

  “I’m just about to get in the shower. What’s your schedule like today?” I asked one day when he called to check in. He was somewhere in the Midwest, although he wasn’t sure exactly where. Different city, different hotel every day.

  “Mmm, taking a shower are you?”

  “Yes, George, settle down. Although I do miss showering with you,” I said, knowing the reaction I’d get.

  “Stop it. Killing me!”

  “You know how much I love to wash your hair. It makes me a little crazy,” I purred into the phone, grinning like a cat. “That’s something only I get to do.”

  “Maybe I should include that in the interview I have this afternoon. I can tell them all about this nuts girl that gets off washing my hair while I hold on to her boobies—for balancing purposes only,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t dare. That hair and those coconuts are mine and mine alone,” I laughed.

  “Mmm, don’t remind me, Grace. Not right now. I have a meet-and-greet in twenty minutes, and I don’t think I could explain away my current state of excitement.”

  “Easy there, trigger. Only two more days and you can channel your excitement my way.”

  He was going to be in town for literally twenty-four hours, at least sixteen of which were taken up by promotional and press obligations. I would be in rehearsals. The only time we’d have together would be night. Which was fine by me. I’d take what I could get.

  I’d watched daily as his confidence grew, and the mobs increased. He’d had to start traveling with security, and each night his hotel was crawling with Joshua-lovers. He used aliases at each hotel, never checking in under Jack Hamilton. Once he used my name—a dangerous little game. A few times he used a combination of Holly’s name and my name, and then? Then he really starting having fun with it.

  In the same week, in different cities across the country, if you were looking for Jack Hamilton, you could have found him under the names:

  George McHair

  Johnny Nuts

  Sheridan McGeorge

  And, my personal favorite:

  Sophia Patrillo

  Finally, he was in New York. I was on pins and needles all day, not only because he was here, but because I didn’t know when exactly I was going to get to see him. Rebecca was in town as well, having joined him for part of the movie tour, and we’d tentatively planned to meet at an Italian restaurant for dinner. He was once again in a hotel, this time the Plaza.

  Nice.

  We texted most of the day. He was all over town—on The Today Show, at Seventeen magazine, MTV Studios, radio stations—you name it and he was there, ending the day with a Super Sexy Scientist Guy event at the Museum of Natural History. One of his last texts made me blush…a lot.

  Grace

  I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight tonight.

  Are you ready for that, Crazy?

  Sweet mother of pearl…

  George

  Get. Over. Here. As. Soon. As. You. Can.

  Make me see God!

  Last one:

  Grace

  Will pick you up at the theater at 9 for dinner.

  Will be in a black town car.

  Panties are unnecessary.

  That motherfucker. I still had four hours of rehearsal. How the hell was I going to get through this?

  ~ ~ ~

  As I clicked my phone off, I giggled a bit. I could feel my face flushing. He never failed to get a reaction out of me, which was exactly his intent. As I smiled to myself, I noticed Michael watching me. He nodded to my phone.

  “What?” I asked, still flushed.

  “Hot date?” he asked, taking the seat next to mine.

  “Um, well, yes. He’s only in town for a day, so we’re going out for dinner. He’s so busy right now. You should see the schedule they have him on.” I brushed my hair back from my face and tucked it into a sloppy bun, my constant hairstyle these days. There was one piece that never quite made it in, and I was forever fussing with it.

  “That’s good. I mean, good that you get to see him for a night,” Michael said, watching me futz with my hair. “Your schedule’s been pretty busy too. Is he going to make it back out for the show?”

  The curl fell out again. I pushed it back. “He says yes, but who knows with the amount of press he’s doing. He’s heading to England for the London premiere, and then to France. So I don’t know. I know he’ll try.” I sighed, feeling myself slump in my chair a little.

  “Well, you’re going to be amazing. I know he’ll want to see that,” Michael added, still watching me struggle with my stupid curl.

  “Thanks. We’ll see. I’m starting to get really nervous,” I admitted, making my eyes huge to mask how nervous I truly was.

  “You’re not going to ruin another pair of my shoes are you?” he asked.

  I immediately laughed. When we were in college, I had the lead in a musical—my biggest role since junior high. Michael was running the light board for the show, so he watched us rehearse each day. He’d offer me his critique each night as we walked home. His opinion was always important because
as much as he enjoyed my singing, he was never just a Yes Man. He always gave honest feedback.

  Opening night I showed up at his apartment, shaking. I was so nervous that when he opened the door, I threw up on his shoe. After he removed the unfortunate Adidas, we sat on his couch and listened to Toad The Wet Sprocket. He wrapped his arms around me and told me everything would be fine. That I would kick ass and take names. That I should never second-guess my talent. To trust myself.

  In the end, I did kick ass. But I still tend to get nervous on opening night.

  “Well, we’ll see won’t we?” I said, smiling as I returned to the present. “It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been on any real kind of stage, so I’d steer clear of my mouth.” I laughed, and the curl fell out one more time. “Blasted hair,” I muttered. We both reached for it at the same time.

  He got there first. As I stared with wide eyes, he tucked it back into my bun, his hand lingering maybe just one second too long.

  In that second, things began to change for us.

  He looked at me with those brown eyes I remembered from all those years ago. Those brown eyes that used to light up when we’d laugh together. Those brown eyes that would deepen when we argued.

  We’d been such great friends. We spent countless hours alone together—doing laundry, watching movies, cooking dinner—but the friendship we had was never anything more. Although I had very strong feelings for him that were definitely more than friendly, he seemed not at all interested in me romantically, so I kept them to myself.

  But when I was onstage it was a different matter entirely. Every so often I would catch him looking at me, when his guard was down. The way looked at me when I was singing gave me hope that someday he might come to return my more-than-friendly feelings. I was head-over-heels in love with my friend Michael, and I wanted nothing more than for him to want me in the same way.

  And then, that night came. In those brown eyes I had once, just once, seen my love for him mirrored back. Those brown eyes had closed tightly in passion during our one night together.

  I’d thought of those brown eyes occasionally over the years, wondering what had happened to him and where he was. And now I’d come to know those brown eyes, trust those brown eyes, all over again. This time in New York.