Looking for a Love Story (10 page)

“Great.” I did another lame smile: Version Number Two, which is mixed with a dollop of self-deprecating humor.

“For a while after I finished the book I was out of commission—health things—but I never forgot about you. I asked Show Biz to giggle you.”

“Google,” he corrected.

“We found your website. That was when …” She seemed to trail off, but then she regained her train of thought quickly. “I learned a little more about you,” she went on. “And after that, I kept track.” Now her eyes were gleaming wickedly through her glasses and her mouth was quivering. I thought about asking what was so funny, but then I figured I didn’t need to know. I had a contract in my purse that I’d downloaded from one of the ghostwriting sites. As long as she signed it and paid me, she could have all the private little-old-lady jokes she wanted.

“Well, then, I guess we’re good to go.” I did Lame Smile, Version Number Two again. The smiles were getting to be a specialty of mine.

“Just one question,” she said. “What the hell happened to you?”

I felt the lame smile die. “I don’t know what you mean.” But I was pretty sure I did. “If you’re asking why I haven’t written anything since
Love, Max—
”

“If you were me, wouldn’t you want to know?”

She had a point. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to—or could—explain.

“I can give you some privacy,” said the ever-helpful Show Biz. The man was like one of those loyal family retainers on a
Masterpiece Theater
series.

“You want to make poor Show Biz go out into the hall?” Chicky asked. “He’s got to take care of that knee. As long as he gets ice on it after he dances, it’ll be fine. But if he lets it swell up, he’ll be limping around here like Quasimodo.” She leaned in. “He hurt it
a couple of years ago doing a revival of
West Side Story
out at the East Haddam Opera House.”

“Paper Mill Playhouse,” Show Biz corrected. “A pre-Broadway tryout. The show didn’t make it, and neither did my knee.”

“The point is, Francesca,” Chicky said, “everyone’s got something. Me. Brandon.” She paused. “And, I’m guessing, so do you.”

There was something about the way she said it that got to me. I looked into her smart blue eyes, which had seen so much more than mine had, and I knew there would be no judgments; nothing I could say would surprise or disappoint her. And all of a sudden I found myself telling her how I came to write
Love, Max
. I told her about Second Book Syndrome—and for the first time I didn’t try to make a joke of it. And then for absolutely no reason at all I told her about Jake. Except the part where I dumped the water on Andy. I thought that might sound like I was a tad unstable.

“All I ever wanted was to be happy,” I summed up.

Chicky looked at me for a long time. “Maybe you need another plan,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“From what you say, you’ve been trying to be happy for over twenty years, and it hasn’t worked out. Maybe you should just stop trying.”

“But everyone wants to be happy.”

“Nah. If you really listen to people, most of them are after something else … like, they want to be successful. Or rich. Or they want other people to need them. Sometimes it’s a religious thing; they want to kiss up to God so He’ll be on their side. Being happy, when you think about it, is kind of vague. And in my experience, it usually comes as a bonus while you’re doing other things. I’d say, pick something different to go for.”

“How about—being employed?”

“That’s nice and simple.”

“But first I need a job.”

“You have one … even if you didn’t remember who the hell I am. I like you, Doll Face.” She paused. “I like you as much as I hoped I would.”

CHICKY AND I
settled the financial arrangements quickly. The helpful ghostwriting site had been very clear about how payments should be structured, and Chicky and I agreed that she would pay me five thousand dollars as an advance, another five thousand after I showed her the first half of the book, and a final five thousand after I completed it to her satisfaction. She had material I could use in my research, including a few pictures of her parents that were taken during their early years.

“And Doll Face, I’ve got the whole story in my head,” she assured me. “I’ll tell it to you, and it’ll write itself.” She went back to the picture on the wall and looked up at it. “All my pop wanted was his moment in the spotlight. I guess a lot of people want that—that’s why all those schlubs on reality television are willing to let someone bring a camera into their house and take pictures of them doing things polite folks wouldn’t even talk about fifty years ago. The only difference is, my pop earned the right to be downstage center. And Mom was right there with him. They wrote his act together, and she was his stooge in the audience, so it really was the two of them.”

“What happened to them?”

“Now you’re trying to get ahead of the story.” She wagged her finger. “You have to be patient, Doll Face.”

She was enjoying this. Too much? It felt like some kind of octogenarian power trip—not that I’d had that much experience with eightysomethings. Whatever. She was the boss.

“Gotcha,” I said.

“When I was a kid,” she went on, “I promised myself someday I’d make sure Mom and Pop got the spotlight—you know, like they deserved. But I never could figure out how to do it. Then I realized everyone’s reading stories about real people nowadays, so why not write a book about them?”

There was a sinking feeling in the bottom of my stomach. I’d been thinking of this project as a personal memento, something she wanted for herself. Maybe she’d give a couple of copies of it as Christmas presents. It had never occurred to me that she was hoping to sell it. “You want to
publish
this … book?”

“Absolutely. And now that I’ve found you, we’re going to make it happen. Together.”

Anyone with half a brain in her head—in other words, anyone but me—would have said what Chicky wanted to hear, taken her money, and paid their co-op fees. But I’m my mother’s daughter. No way I could take a paycheck from a little old lady if she really thought she was going to find a publisher for a story about two long-dead vaudevillians and their equally dead art form. If that was what she was expecting, I was going to have to kiss the fifteen thousand bucks good-bye.

“You need to know,” I said, as visions of Annie and me living in a cardboard box raced through my head, “I can’t guarantee that this … project … will actually sell …”

“That’s so sweet,” she murmured. “You’re trying to protect me.”

“I just don’t want you to have any illusions.”

“I’d have been dead years ago without ’em, Doll Face.”

“What I meant was—”

“I know what you meant. Just you write this story. The rest will take care of itself.”

“But—”

“Francesca, sometimes life hands you a gift. You don’t question it, you just take it. I have faith in you.”

I told myself I’d tried my best to tell her the truth, and it wasn’t my fault if she didn’t want to hear it. Besides, I liked hearing that someone had faith in me—no matter how misguided. “Okay, then,” I said. I took out the contract and we signed it. Then, for good measure, we shook hands. The deal was done.

I have a job!
sang my heart.
I’m going to stop at Allie’s Chinese Diner on the way home and pick up an order of shredded duck. With extra sauce. Or maybe lobster lo mein. It’s been so long since I’ve had takeout, maybe I’ll get both. And something chocolate for dessert
.

“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” Show Biz said, breaking into my happy reverie. “My shift is over for today.”

“Thanks.” I turned to my tiny benefactress. “See you tomorrow morning,” I said.

“You betcha, Doll Face.”

CHAPTER 9

Show Biz was planning to hang around the Upper East Side. “I have a date for dinner, and I live out in Rockland County, so there’s no point in going home and then coming all the way back into the city,” he explained. “The commute is a pain in the ass.”

It had been a long time since I’d been out of my apartment, and all of a sudden I didn’t want to go back. “How about a cup of coffee?” I asked. He nodded and we headed for a greasy spoon on the corner. There was a Starbucks that was nearer, but neither of us considered it. Since I believe the invasion of chain restaurants and stores is eroding the soul of Manhattan, I gave us both points for that.

“Chicky seems like a sweet old soul,” I said to Show Biz, after we’d ordered our coffees.

“Chicky, sweet?” He gave a little hoot of laughter. “Not exactly.”

“She was very nice to me.”

“I saw.” He frowned a little.

“Was that unusual? She seemed awfully friendly.”

“She is—in a way. But total strangers don’t usually get a nickname on the first date—if you know what I mean. It took me three weeks to get mine.”

“Then I guess I’m honored,” I said politely. Show Biz did another frown. “What?”

“I think there’s something about you….” He paused. “You know how we found out you were looking for a job?”

“You said you read the post on my website.”

“Yeah. But here’s the thing. From the moment Chicky read your website, she’s been making me check it out for her. Like every couple of months. Just to see what you’re doing. She said she wanted to keep up with you because she liked
Love, Max
so much.”

“What can I say? It is a fabulous book.”

But I had to admit Chicky didn’t strike me as the type to become a devoted fan. And there was that feeling I’d had a couple of times—that she wanted more from me than just a business arrangement, which had been a little strange. But when I thought about it, I realized that what we were doing
was
more than mere business. She was trusting me with cherished memories and dreams she’d had for decades. So I wasn’t going to dig into it. I had a paycheck and Chinese takeout in my future, and I didn’t want to start looking for a job again.

“You’re awfully good to Chicky,” I said, deftly changing the subject. “She’s lucky you’re her friend.”

“No, I’m the one who’s lucky. I wouldn’t have my job without Chicky. She pushed for me to get it.”

“You knew her before you started working at Yorkville House?”

“Chicky and I met at a rehab center—physical rehab, that is—after I ripped up my knee. We were both in the same boat; I’d just lost my big Broadway shot, and she’d just blown her dream for her golden years. She’d come to New York after living all over the globe, because this was going to be her home for her old age. She told me that this was always her plan, which was why she never put down roots anywhere else. On her first night in her new apartment, she went out to shop for groceries. She tripped on a curb and broke her hip. So we both wound up in physical therapy doing leg lifts. And we bitched together.” He laughed a little at the memory.

“When Chicky was ready to leave the rehabilitation unit at the hospital, she didn’t have anyone to help her at home, and they didn’t want to release her back to an empty apartment. They were going to send her to a nursing home, which she really didn’t want, so I said I’d check up on her every day. I stopped by for six weeks until we were sure the new hip was working.”

“Like I said, she was lucky you were around.”

He shook his head. “I was in worse shape than she was, I just didn’t know it. Chicky’s tough. After her fall she realized she shouldn’t be on her own, so she moved to Yorkville House because they would look after her. It wasn’t what she’d wanted for herself but she was realistic.

“Me, on the other hand? I couldn’t admit my dancing days were over. I had a nice apartment in Alphabet City, and a boyfriend who was willing to carry us both until I figured out a new line of work. But there are a lot of doctors in this town who will give you enough pain pills and steroids to get you through anything and I found them. I was three quarters stoned all the time, and even with the meds I was out of my mind with pain because I was insisting on taking dance classes every day.

“My boyfriend walked, which was the only smart thing he
could have done, and since I couldn’t last through an entire audition, I wasn’t getting any work, so I couldn’t pay the rent. Chicky knew all about it and she was worried. So one night I get this phone call.” He segued into a really good imitation of Chicky’s growl.
“Hey, Show Biz, I’ve got you a job at the old ladies’ home if you want it. Should be right up your alley; you know how good you are with old farts. At least give it a try—for me.”
He picked up his coffee cup and smiled down at it. “She’d talked them into hiring me at Yorkville House. I didn’t have any training as a health care aide, but she promised them I’d get it.” He took a swallow of coffee. “I got the job, quit the dance classes, and canceled my subscription to
Show Business Weekly
. I also stopped the pills. It took me a year to kick them, but I did it.”

One look at his eyes told how much it had cost him.

“I moved to Rockland County, where I could afford the rent. And I got the health care training, the way Chicky said I would. Now I’m taking classes at night to get my degree in geriatric social work. My big dream these days? Move back to Manhattan. That’s it. I love the city and I hate the frigging train.”