Celluloid Memories (5 page)

“You think I'm wonderful and gorgeous? That's so sweet,” Cherise responded.

As if she didn't know.
McCoy silently shook his head. “But a director or producer might not see you as anyone out of the ordinary here in L.A.”

“Then I guess it's up to me to convince them how unique I am.”

McCoy's brows rose. He heard the ironclad confidence in the coy tone. Also, there was a ring of steel determination. Many a young black starlet came to L.A. with dreams of fame and wealth clouding her judgment. Most of them never got to first base. His guess, however, was that Cherise had quickly figured out how the game was played. He'd be a fool not to bet on her. But she'd be a fool to try and play him for her own ends.

Once again McCoy heard an impatient driver behind, reminding him that the light had changed. He glanced in his rearview mirror at a prototypical California blonde behind huge dark glasses, riding with a buff black man in equally dark shades at the wheel of a Mercedes coupe.

Welcome to the land of make-believe,
he thought.

Well, why not? Los Angeles was a town of outsized egos, and even bigger dreams. He knew that a lot of people, black and white, came here because almost anything was possible. L.A. was a place where it was definitely okay to be yourself. Or, someone else. It could be a forgiving place. Short-term memory of past transgressions failed if there was an opportunity to make money.

Off the top of his head McCoy could remember the names and faces of a lot of talented black folks who'd tried to make it here and had failed. He knew from experience that L.A. could break a person's heart.

As he pulled into the garage of the high-rise building where his office was located, McCoy unexpectedly wondered what in the world had brought someone like Savannah Shelton to L.A.?

He didn't believe for a moment that it was to follow a dream.

S
avannah dropped two rolls of paper towel in her shopping cart and slowly continued down the narrow aisle looking for sponges and Formula 409. She found the items, adding them to the growing pile. Then she stood with her arms braced on the handle of the cart, while she perused her list.

But instead of the remaining five or six things she still needed to purchase, Savannah's focus shifted to the memory of the box she'd found in her father's closet. It was a cardboard suit box that she'd thought would contain shirts or sweaters or other clothing he no longer wore. Instead, when untied and opened, the box protected two piles of papers, each carefully wrapped in aging and yellowed tissue.

She'd resigned herself to the necessity of reading the contents to make sure that no important documents would be thrown out. But the papers had turned out to be an astonishing number of letters, articles and several journals, written in a shaky but feminine hand by one Rae Marie Hilton.

At first Savannah had assumed that a former lover had written the saved letters to her father. It was a possibility that was understandable, if demoralizing. There had been no time to read more than a few of them. The tone of the letters was desperate and fearful. They were also very personal, but had nothing to do with a love affair between Rae Marie Hilton and Will Shelton. It was all about Rae Marie's career as an actress, and the terrible secret she guarded that would have destroyed her.

Savannah blinked and stood straight. She was anxious to get back home and resume reading. There was a mystery in its contents that she wanted to get to the bottom of.

Right now, there were food items written on the bottom of her shopping list. Savannah expertly navigated the aisles until she was in the food and produce section of the market.

She was once again slowly scanning the shelves when someone turned the corner ahead. A man ambled along, carrying a handbasket already nearly filled. A quick glance revealed several varieties of cheese, boxes of crackers and cocktail bread, containers of olives and three bottles of wine. The basket looked heavy, and Savannah's curiosity was drawn to the man toting it so effortlessly.

He was wearing black jeans, a pale-yellow polo shirt and Docksides. His sunglasses were folded and hooked into the neckline of his shirt. His only jewelry was a heavy sports watch on his right wrist. His dark hair was thick with a slight wave in the texture, but cut short.

Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Unable to place him, Savannah shifted her cart to wheel past, as he continued examining the shelves.

He glanced at her briefly, nodded and stepped back to allow her room.

Savannah suddenly became very aware of the fact that she was not dressed as fashionably as the man, even though he was in jeans. She was conscious of her exposed bare legs in a pair of khaki shorts, her olive-green cami visible through the front opening of a white camp shirt. The shirt had been added just before she'd walked out the door because she would have been too self-conscious if her nipples could be discerned through the tank's fabric. As it was, she felt decidedly under-dressed in the stranger's presence.

“Excuse me.”

Savannah stopped at the voice behind her and looked over her shoulder. His voice sounded familiar, too.

His lips were slightly pursed as he frowned at the stocked shelves.

“Would you happen to know where I'd find the mustard? I like the spicy kind.”

“I think it's two aisles that way,” Savannah responded, pointing. “French's Brown Spicy…”

He was shaking his head. “Grey Poupon.”

“That, too.” She turned to continue on her way.

“Excuse me.”

Savannah stopped and turned again. He was staring at her.

“Have we met before?”

“That line is so lame,” she said easily.

He laughed, sheepishly. “You're right, but…”

There was something in the bend of his head as he briefly glanced down. Something in the shape of his mouth. Now she remembered.

“Yes, we have met before,” Savannah spoke up. She recited the day, approximate time and the circumstances. He'd rear-ended her on the expressway almost a week earlier.

“Right, right,” he nodded, still staring at her.

This time, Savannah stood still while his gaze made a quick but thorough assessment of her. She tried to read into his silence, as he appeared to be remembering the incident in full. She was prepared to go on the defensive for what happened that night, and for the way she was dressed now. Then she changed her mind. Why should she care what he thought?

Another man turned down the aisle, his wagon holding not only food but also two very young children who were happily babbling to each other while their father shopped. He rolled by, his sudden appearance breaking the silent moment.

The man took several steps toward Savannah and suddenly thrust out his arm and hand in a firm take-charge manner.

“McCoy Sutton.”

Savannah wasn't sure why, but she felt relief. She did the same, grasping the offered hand.

“Savannah Shelton.”

“Well,” McCoy said simply.

“Fancying meeting you here,” she added dryly.

McCoy hesitated before suddenly breaking out into laughter. Savannah relaxed at his unexpected response, and didn't bother hiding her smile.

His gaze traveled up her, then down, and then up again. He lifted a brow as he looked into her eyes. “You don't look any the worse for that night.”

“I'm okay. There's a small dent in my rear fender, but I wasn't going to hunt you down because of it. And you?”

He spread his arms open. “Not a scratch. Same with my car. If you send me an estimate for the repairs to your fender, I'll take care of it.”

Savannah, who'd had several conversations with herself about what she'd say to McCoy Sutton if she ever ran into him again, was thrown off guard by the sudden offer.

“That's nice of you,” she said stiffly, “but I'm not going to bother. It's a leased car. The dent comes under the heading of normal wear and tear.”

“Your call,” he conceded. He pointed to her cart. “Doesn't look appetizing. I hope you're not finished.”

“No, I…” Savannah hesitated. An explanation would have been too long, and unnecessary. “No.”

McCoy partially lifted his basket. “Friends for dinner. This is for the munchies-and-drinks part.”

“Oh,” she said. She found his explanation amusing. “Why not cater? Isn't that what people do in L.A.?”

“Some do. I like to cook. It's therapeutic.”

She was surprised by his confession. The man she'd encountered the night of the accident had hardly seemed the cooking kind. Behind McCoy, Savannah suddenly saw an absolutely beautiful young black woman approaching. She couldn't believe that anyone would actually go shopping dressed as she was.

Her straight and expertly shaped long hair lifted and moved as she walked. She was wearing an above-the-knee fashionable take on the shirtwaist dress in tan, cinched at her small waist with a wide black patent leather belt. It was unbuttoned at the throat to show cleavage. Her sandals were at least three inches high, with thin straps that wrapped around the ankles several times and tied in front. Her finger-and toenails were lacquered to match her lip gloss. She was dressed to be seen…and appreciated.

“I was waiting at the raw bar. What's taking so long?” she opened, tilting her head around McCoy's frame, and smiling into his face.

Belatedly realizing that McCoy had actually been in conversation with someone, the stunning beauty looked at Savannah.

Savannah felt she might just as well have been invisible for all the interest she didn't see in the young woman's eyes. McCoy introduced them.

“This is Cherise Daly,” he said. But before he could announce Savannah's name, Cherise spoke.

“Are you in the business, too?”

“The business?” Savannah frowned. “Oh, you mean the film industry. No, I'm not.”

“I didn't think so. I've been auditioning like crazy lately. I'm about to sign a contract to do a pilot for a TV show. McCoy's been so great about helping me,” she cooed, leaning into his arm.

Savannah forced herself to smile. “Congratulations. I hope you get the part.”

Cherise turned her attention to McCoy. “I'm ready to go. What else are you looking for?”

“A few more things and then we're done. Why don't you wait for me at the checkout?”

“Okay. Bye,” Cherise threw over her shoulder at Savannah as she swished away.

“She's very beautiful,” Savannah said honestly.

“She's very young,” was McCoy's response.

“Actress, right?”

“Is there any other kind in this town?” he asked. Then he looked speculatively at Savannah. “But you're not, as you said, in the business.”

“By choice, thank you. You'd better go. I think she's getting impatient.”

“Before you go I'd like to ask you something, if you don't mind.”

Savannah, curious, nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Any chance you're related to Will Shelton, the actor?”

It was the last thing Savannah had expected to be asked. But oddly enough the very question gave her a certain satisfaction. And it cemented the resolve she'd recently made not to sell her father's house. The question also confirmed what she was starting to find out about her father. She may have grown up resenting his choices and his career, but clearly there were people who knew and remembered Will Shelton with admiration and respect.

“I'm his daughter,” Savannah said.

A slow smile curved McCoy's mouth. “I thought so. It occurred to me a few minutes ago that you looked familiar to me for a reason other than the accident last week. You have your father's eyes and smile. Did you know that?”

She didn't. No one had ever pointed that out before. She felt a sudden wave of emotion that went deep into her genes and family history.

“How could you see something like that? Did you know my father?”

“Only from his movies and TV roles,” McCoy said, shaking his head.

“I always thought I looked like my mother,” she said.

“Then you come from good-looking parents and got the best of both. You certainly hold your own.”

Savannah wondered if McCoy was coyly making fun of her, but saw only light and interest in his gaze.

“I heard that Shelton was ill. How's he doing?”

“He passed away some months ago,” Savannah said. Again, she felt on the edge of emotion. She delicately cleared her throat to keep the sudden feelings at bay.

“I didn't know. I don't remember reading anything about his death in the trades.”

“There was a small item in his union paper. Other than that he didn't want any announcements. There was only family and a handful of personal friends at the funeral. His agent was the only industry person in attendance.”

McCoy frowned. “Why? Sooner or later word will get around. He deserves more attention and recognition.”

“I don't know,” Savannah said. “He just didn't seem to want to make a big deal about the fact that he was dying.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure you know your father was a very fine actor. One of the unsung good guys in Hollywood.”

“Thanks for saying so.”

McCoy merely nodded, not pursuing the questions that Savannah could see he really wanted to ask. She was not about to admit her ignorance of her father's life and career in L.A. Who he knew, and who knew him.

That box of curious letters came to mind. Who was Rae Marie Hilton?

“You're keeping Denise waiting.”

“Cherise,” McCoy corrected.

Whatever.

“Nice meeting you.”

Savannah didn't wait for him to say anything else. This was the part where he might say,
Let's keep in touch
or
I'll be in touch
or
May I have your phone number
or even
It was nice meeting you; good luck, and farewell.

“I'm sure we'll see each other again. This is really a small town,” McCoy said smoothly. “Take care.”

They were headed in opposite directions. Savannah suddenly stopped her cart.

“Mr. Sutton,” she called out.

McCoy turned. They began walking back toward each other. Savannah had this eerie feeling that the only thing missing from the scene was them jogging in slow motion, with classical music to herald their coming together.

“McCoy. Call me Mac, please.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

“Are you sure?”

She shifted uncomfortably.

“I'm just teasing. Frankly, I had visions of you tossing the whole thing in the garbage.”