Farewell, Dorothy Parker (26 page)

Everything.

If only she had known. If only they had told her they would be discussing
A Foundling’s Story,
she could have prepared some notes. But she was blank. Violet didn’t have a single thing to say.

She replayed the question in her mind.
Why did you hate this movie?

She hadn’t hated it, had she? Didn’t her review make that clear? She had admitted that it made her weep.

She took a deep breath and offered a weak smile. She immediately sensed that it was a failed attempt at charm.

Everyone was waiting for her to stay something. She picked up her water and took a sip. Bad move, she knew. It was the classic stall, the action of someone who knows they’re in the hot seat and simply can’t handle it. Worse yet, her hands were trembling.

She tried to remember what she had written on her index cards. Was there anything that could help her? Could she possibly make one of her clever sound bites work here?

Damn. There was nothing.

Wendy Whitney stared her down expectantly. She had to say something. There was simply nothing worse than dead air time.

“I didn’t hate it,” Violet finally said.

“The public certainly thinks you did. Let’s take a look at some of the comments moviegoers posted on
Enjoy
’s Web site.”

Violet glanced at the monitor, where Wendy’s face had been replaced with an image captured from the comments section of the magazine’s online review page.

“A commenter who calls herself AnnapolisMom says, ‘How could you call the direction cloying when you admit it made you cry? That is completely hypocritical! This is a sweet, beautiful movie, and I don’t understand why critics can’t just admit that.’

“And that was one of the kinder ones,” Wendy continued, as a different post appeared on the monitor. “Another commenter says, ‘Violet Epps is a moron.
A Foundling’s Story
is the movie of the year!’

“And here’s one that poses the question ‘What do you call a thousand movie critics at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.’ ”

The monitor now showed the newswoman and Violet on the set.

“How do you respond to this?” Wendy asked.

“Um…people are entitled to their opinions?” Oh, no. Had she really just done that? Had she really intoned her statement as if it were a question? It was like a goddamned virus.

“Is that a question?” Wendy asked.

“What?”

“Are people entitled to their opinions or not?”

“That’s what I said.”

“All
I
heard was a question.”

God, this was a train wreck. “People are entitled to their opinions,” Violet repeated. “Definitely.”

Wendy Whitney laughed. “Very democratic of you! Okay, let’s talk about your review. It sounded as if you liked
A Foundling’s Story
but didn’t want to admit it. Is that a fair assessment?”

“Yes. I mean no. I didn’t really
like
the movie.”

“Didn’t it make you shed a tear or two?”

“Certainly, yes.”

“But you thought it was terrible.”

Violet took a deep breath. She knew she had to stop equivocating and say something with conviction, even if it was controversial. After all, Dorothy Parker would.

“Yes,” Violet said. “Objectively, it was a terrible film, with too many flaws to count.”

“A terrible film that touched your heart. It makes me wonder what a movie has to do to get a
good
review.”

“It has to live up to its potential,” Violet said, pleased with herself. That sounded good. Her brain was actually working. Was it possible Dorothy Parker’s mettle was actually rubbing off on her? “And I think there’s some solid material in
A Foundling’s Story.
But it could have been much, much better.”

“So what do you say to the people who think it’s perfect as is?”

“Like I said before, they’re entitled to their opinion.”

“Which isn’t as valid as yours because you’re a movie critic?”

Violet took a deep breath. They were looking for controversy, and she was going to give it. She was paid good money for being a person with opinions, and, damn it, she had them.

“In a way, yes. And if that sounds condescending, I apologize, but I’m a professional reviewer. I studied writing; I studied film. I’m paid to understand what makes a movie work or not work. So I stand behind my review of
A Foundling’s Story.
It’s not a perfect movie—far
from it. And if the public disagrees, that’s okay. I still contend that it’s easy to make people cry. A good filmmaker needs to do much more than that.”

“To please
you,
perhaps.” Here, Wendy Whitney turned from Violet to face the camera. “For the rest of us,
A Foundling’s Story
is a gorgeous testament to the human spirit. As for the critics? Well, people like Violet Epps might
claim
they’re not condescending, but I’ll let her words speak for themselves. Here’s a direct quote from
Enjoy
magazine…”

The monitor showed a paragraph from Violet’s review, but it wasn’t an image captured from the magazine’s Web site. It appeared in a crisp, fancy, scrolling typeface, which Wendy Whitney read out loud:

Wait a second, Violet thought. That’s out of context. Where was the part where she admitted that she had cried right along with the rest of them? Without that, the review did indeed sound condescending. It changed the entire tone of the paragraph. Her self-deprecating charm had given way to judgmental arrogance.

“Excuse me,” Violet said, but her mike had been turned off. The camera was now on Wendy Whitney, who was speaking directly to the audience.

“Fortunately, as Violet Epps so democratically stated, you’re entitled to an opinion, too. So make your voice heard. Visit the Web site at enjoymagazine.com and let the critics know what you think. Violet Epps, thank you for joining me. I’m Wendy Whitney.”

There were two long seconds of silence, and then the lights went off. Wendy unclipped her microphone and dropped it in her chair.

“Thanks so much,” she said to Violet, extending her hand. “That was fabulous. You’ll get tons of responses.”

Violet remained in her chair, head down, almost catatonic. What had just happened? That went by so fast.

Ambush, she thought. I was ambushed.

She felt someone looking at her and knew it had to be Sylvia Merrill. Would she fire her on the spot, or would she make Buck do it?

Violet got busy unclipping her mike, just to have an excuse to avoid facing Sylvie.

“Ms. Epps?” said the young man with the headphones. “You can go now. It’s over.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, Violet thought, but when she looked up, Sylvia Merrill was gone.

Chapter 30

Violet needed to see Dorothy Parker and talk to her about what had happened on live television. She knew her mentor would have some words of wisdom, and hoped to be inspired by her courage. She wanted to be able to walk into the Enjoy office the next day ready for battle, armed with ten reasons why they shouldn’t fire her. And if it didn’t work, if nothing she said made a difference, she wanted to find the strength and dignity to leave with her head high and her spirits intact.

Also, she needed an outlet for her fury over what Andi—the lying, two-faced little shit—had done to her, and knew Dorothy Parker would be a perfect sounding board. No doubt her friend would share her outrage over Andi’s audacity in accepting the TV appearance on her behalf, when she had expressly told her to turn it down. This wasn’t just insubordination. This was betrayal. This was
All About Eve
with Wi-Fi.

As she merged onto the highway, heading out to the Webers’ house, where she would pick up the guest book and reunite with her mentor, Violet remembered a conversation they had had about getting fired. Dorothy Parker was incredulous that Violet had never lost a job.

“Not once?” she had said. “You’ve never been fired in your whole life?”

Violet thought about her summer jobs as a kid and about her professional résumé, which wasn’t very long, as she had worked for only four companies. With one notable exception, she had hunkered down and made each office her home.

“Never,” she said. “Though I did quit one job after only five months.”

It was her second employment out of college. Her first had been as an editorial assistant for a small academic book publisher. The pay was terrible, but she enjoyed learning about the business and made some good friends. Then an acquaintance told her about a powerful PR executive who was looking for an assistant, and got her an interview. The salary was nearly double what she had been making, so she took it. But she soon learned that her new boss was a brute and a narcissist. In fact, the whole company was like that. From the first day, Violet knew it was a mistake, but it took five months of nearly suffocating under the pressure of all those giant egos before she worked up the gumption to hand in her resignation. From there, she took a pay cut to work for a local magazine, but it was the best move she ever made, as it led to her career as a movie critic for one of the nation’s biggest entertainment weeklies.

“So you’ve never made mischief?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“I don’t think I have it in me.”

“My dear, I’ve read your reviews. You have barrels of it. In fact, you have so much of it, it scares you.”

As usual, Dorothy Parker saw right through to the truth. Violet had never even told her about the childhood trauma with Ivy that scared her into shutting down, but the legendary writer intuited her fear.

“How do you do it?” Violet asked. “How do you feel free enough to say what’s on your mind?”

“Drinking helps.”

Violet frowned. Here was a chance to learn something she had always yearned to know, and her mentor was being evasive. “Is that a wisecrack?”

“Loathsome, aren’t I?”

“So what’s the real answer?”

“The real answer is that it’s very much like drinking, as it’s intoxicating. Standing tall, opening your mouth, and saying exactly what’s on your mind makes you feel more powerful than a hundred soldiers and a thousand kings.”

Maybe, Violet thought, but if she tapped into that power, would she resurrect the horrid child within her—the one who spoke without regard for feelings? The one who could inflict enough pain with her words to cripple the relationship with the person whose love she most coveted?

On some level, Violet knew it was possible to be courageous and outspoken without turning into a monster. She even knew the secret to finding that balance was somewhere inside her, obscured by the complex tangle of anxieties about losing the people she loved. But she couldn’t uncover it on her own.

Violet parked her car in front of the Webers’ house and thought about Dorothy Parker. Soon they would be face-to-face again, and Violet would open up about the childhood trauma with Ivy that had frightened her into submission. She felt certain that her friend’s searing intelligence would see right through to the truth, and help free Violet of her demons.

She approached the house and rang the bell. Malcolm answered the door wearing a sweatshirt and the skinny jeans Delaney had warned her about. Violet tried not to stare. Or cringe.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “We saw you on TV this morning.”

Violet winced. “It was a train wreck.”

“You were great!” He turned and shouted toward the back of the house, “Wasn’t she great on TV today?”

“Her suit was the same color as the chair!” came Sandra’s voice.

“Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “You’re a star.”

“Thanks,” Violet said, and left it at that. She wasn’t very well going
to tell him that the next time he saw her she would probably be unemployed.

“Are you here for Delaney?” he said. “Because she’s at school.”

“I know,” she said. “I came to pick up that box I gave you. My friend who was supposed to pick it up got sick. I’m, uh…going to bring it to her.”

“She was already here,” he said.

“What?”

“The woman. She came by this morning and picked it up.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“You can ask Sandra. She showed up just after your TV appearance. In fact, it was kind of strange. She just appeared in the doorway. We didn’t hear her ring the bell or even knock.”

A woman who appeared out of nowhere? It couldn’t be…could it? Violet went cold.

“Did she say her name?”

“Daisy something. Petite thing with dark hair and a dress that looked…What’s the word? Retro? But very authentic. She must have bought it at a thrift shop.”

Violet had to hold on to the door frame, as the truth became clear. Of course. As long as the guest book was inside something, Dorothy Parker could carry it anywhere. Violet remembered watching her walk into the 7-Eleven carrying it in the tote bag. And now she was walking free in the world. She could be absolutely anywhere, doing anything.