Seeing Stars (41 page)

“See, I
told
you,” Vee said. “I told you she’d have something for you.”

“I don’t see that it’s done me any good, though. I mean, it’s not like I could warn Hugh or Helene. All it did was make me crazy, and now this.”

“Sure,” said Vee. “That’s a bummer. So do you want Bethany to stay with us this time? When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” said Ruth. “But here’s the thing: we might not come back.”

“Really?”

“Really.” And as Ruth said it, she realized she meant it. “It’s just too hard. We thought she’d be working a lot more. I mean, she’s only booked the one costar role. Not even a commercial. In eight months. Hugh’s sick and he misses us, and now there’s this thing with his mother….”

“But it can go like that,” Vee argued. “Hell, they can go
years
with nothing, and then, bam! They book something huge.”

“Or they can just go for years with nothing.”

“There is that.”

“No, I think we’re done. Helene needs Hugh, and Hugh needs me.”

Vee was silent for a minute. “So does Bethany know?”

“Yes.”

“Was she okay with it?”

“You know, to tell you the truth I think she might be secretly relieved. There’s been a lot of tension at the studio with one of her friends, even though that seems to be over for now. And some of the other families are starting to leave for the summer, so it’ll just get lonelier and lonelier.”

“Don’t forget Clara.”

“I know, but you guys are too far away to see often, plus Clara has her own life. She doesn’t need Bethy dropped on her.” Ruth picked a piece of hair off her pants. “This is
so
not what I expected.”

“LA never is,” said Vee.

“I don’t know—we might end up coming back when Bethy’s legal eighteen. Then maybe she’ll have more of a chance.”

“Sure,” said Vee, but they both knew they didn’t believe it. “So anyway, call me sometimes. I’ll call you.”

“I will,” said Ruth. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Are you crying? Why are you crying?”

“It was such a nice dream,” said Ruth, and then she was sobbing. “I was so sure it was going to be—I don’t know what.
Phenomenal.
And all we’ve really done was press our noses against the glass.”

Vee made a sympathetic noise.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Ruth said. “I’m embarrassing myself.”

“Okay,” said Vee. “Love you, babe. Safe travels.”

“Yeah,” said Ruth. “I love you, too.”

To herself, once she’d gotten off the phone, she muttered, “Well,
that
was god-awful,” because it had been—unexpectedly so. She’d had no idea she would be so emotional about pulling up stakes and going home—far more emotional than Bethany was, when it should have been the other way around. Could this have been
Ruth’s
dream, all this time? Might Bethy have just been going along with it? Maybe Ruth had wanted it for herself, recognition by proxy; maybe she was no better than every other stage mom who was compensating for a hollow core by filling it up with someone else’s prospects.

Or maybe that was all just so much crap.

She went back to the apartment and finished packing, then ran a load of food, laundry detergent, and odds and ends to the studio for anyone to take home who could use them. She was relieved that Mimi wasn’t there. Mimi hadn’t seemed either disappointed or surprised that they were going. Maybe what she’d been surprised about was that they’d lasted this long. Ruth knew she’d had unrealistic expectations, and that Mimi was leery of that because it had a tendency to blow up in her face. It hadn’t seemed to matter that they’d been earnest and done everything she’d asked them to do. In fact, it was possible that their earnestness—which really amounted to colossal naïveté—had worked against them. Mimi tended to lean toward the realistic ones, the ones who were bracing for the long haul, the ones who were settling in, making lives here as well as careers. They’d never done that. They’d never even made the distinction, until now.

Chapter Twenty-five

C
ASSIE WAS THE ONE WHO DELIVERED THE NEWS
. S
HE TOLD
Quinn that when she couldn’t reach him by phone she asked her mother to drive her to his apartment building, and then wait for him to come back from wherever he’d been—which was Hazlitt & Company, getting his hair trimmed. When he saw her on the steps his heart began to pound. Why would Cassie be there with
bad
news? She wouldn’t be.

“Guess what?” she said, and then she actually
waited
for him to say, “I don’t know—what?”

“We booked it,” she screamed, and jumped straight up into his arms. He hugged her tightly and spun her around in midair. “We both did!” she screamed. “You’re Buddy and I’m Carlyle!”

He couldn’t imagine that anything would ever again feel as good as this moment did, right now. He’d booked the lead in a feature film being directed by Gus Van Sant.
Gus Van Sant!

Cassie’s mom got out of her car and gave him a big hug. “Congratulations, honey,” she said. “You two are about to blast off for the moon.”

E
VELYN DROVE UP TO THE CURB AS
C
ASSIE AND HER MOM
drove away. She got out without even turning off the ignition, and she was grinning.

“Son of a bitch,” she said.

A
N HOUR AND A HALF LATER
J
ASPER WAS LOADING UP THE
bong again, but Quinn could still tell he was majorly pissed off that Quinn had booked the movie. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Not that Jasper had been in the running for
After
; it was more of a cosmic thing. Statistically hardly any unknown actors landed leads, never mind in a major film. Maybe one out of the zillion actors in LA. Since Quinn was that one, Jasper was fucked. It made sense.

And it was
Gus Van Sant
!

Oh, man.

They’d smoked a ton of weed in twenty minutes and you’d think that would have mellowed him out, but Quinn couldn’t sit still. He wasn’t ready to tell Mimi his news yet—she wasn’t his manager anymore anyway; fuck her—and Evelyn Flynn already knew. He tried to think about who else to tell who’d give a shit. Not his family; not Nelson. Rory, probably, but that meant calling the house and he wasn’t up for that. He grabbed his wallet and told Jasper he was going out, and when he found himself on the street—and it was a great street, he was suddenly in love with it—he turned right. Toward Hazlitt & Company. Quatro would be happy for him. Quatro wasn’t an actor.

T
HE PLACE WAS PACKED—CLIENTS WERE SITTING AT EVERY
single station. Quinn stood in the reception area for a minute or two, watching Quatro work with a client who looked vaguely familiar—a character actor? Someone Quinn had auditioned with once? Then Quatro spotted him in the mirror, said something to the client, and came up to the front.

“Hey, buddy. Everything okay?”

Quinn just looked at him with an uncontrollable grin.

“You got it, didn’t you? You fucking
got it
?” Quatro gave a huge war whoop and grabbed Quinn’s arm. “Holy shit, man! It’s Gus Van Sant!” He started laughing and Quinn started laughing and they couldn’t stop.

The salon was riveted.

Quatro finally yelled, “This man has just booked the lead in a major movie being directed by
Gus Fucking Van Sant
!”

The place erupted into clapping and whistles and whoops.

“Oh man, oh man” said Quatro, clasping Quinn in a bear hug. “I am so proud.”

And then Quinn was crying and he had no idea why because he’d never felt this way in his whole life, not even close.

“I’ll tell you exactly why,” said Quatro. “It’s joy, buddy. It’s pure, unadulterated joy.”

E
VELYN
F
LYNN TOOK HIM TO
N
OBU FOR DINNER
. T
HE GUY
at the front recognized her, and they had a little how-are-you-you-look-great kind of moment, and then they followed him to a table in the back that was pretty much surrounded by potted plants—for privacy, was Quinn’s guess. Jennifer Aniston was sitting at the next table over.

Evelyn turned away menus and ordered for them both from a waiter who looked like Forest Whitaker when Forest Whitaker was still fat. Evidently Quinn was getting steak. He wondered what she’d have done if he were a vegetarian or a vegan or something—not that he would be; he loved meat. She’d probably have told him to eat it anyway, and he probably would have done it.

Quinn knew his life was never going to be the same. And he knew he owed that to Evelyn Flynn, who was breaking a piece of crusty bread into smaller pieces and dipping them in a little pool of olive oil like it was just another day.

“So?” she said.

“On top of the world.”

She smiled. “You should be. You’ve been given a tremendous honor.
And
a responsibility. Don’t ever forget that. This man is balancing his reputation on your shoulders.”

“Yeah,” he said, even though he’d never thought about that before. Then he worked up some courage. There’d been something he’d wanted to know from the beginning, only he’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her before. “Why did you do this?”

“This?”

“Me,” he said.

She thought for a minute. “When you act, it transforms you. You have the ability to disappear inside a character. That’s a gift—hardly anyone can do it. You can.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to be an actor?”

She smiled. “Not even a little bit. My talent is recognizing talent and knowing what to do with it when I’ve found it. I’m very, very good at that.”

“Can I still work with you?”

“You’ll have one of the best directors in the business. You need to work with him.”

“I’ll see you sometimes, though. I mean, will you come to the set sometimes once we’re back in LA?” Despite Van Sant’s feelings about soundstages and inauthenticity, Quinn had already been told they’d be doing some work here after all.

“Oh, you’ll see me now and then,” she said smiling. “But you won’t care very much.”

“Are you kidding? Yes, I will.”

“Not in a few weeks. Not once you’re working. Because I guarantee you this: you’ve never worked as hard in your life as you’re going to be working on this movie.”

Their steaks arrived and they ate and drank and then she drove him home, which was still Jasper and Baby-Sue’s apartment. When he was about to get out of the car, she put her hand on his forearm. It was the first time she’d ever touched him. Then she let go.

S
HE TOOK THE LONG WAY BACK HOME TO
S
TUDIO
C
ITY,
driving uncharacteristically slowly; normally she kept her speedometer at between ten and fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit and saw traffic tickets as a necessary evil, but tonight she felt strangely melancholy. This was the difficulty of allowing a client into your heart. You could go only so far with them before you crossed a line into the inappropriate. She had already begun engineering the hand-off to a full-time manager who could mother him and counsel him and shield him and coach him and find him decent housing in LA while he was on location. If there were a couple of weeks between the loss of his apartment and leaving to shoot on location, she would still let him stay in her guesthouse, but in the end, and possibly as a cosmic nod to her unprecedented willingness to breach her solitude, it appeared that she might not need to house Quinn after all. She didn’t know how she felt—oddly let down as well as hugely relieved. In the long run, she’d move on and so would he. And that wasn’t the worst thing she could think of. The worst thing was to get so attached to a boy like Quinn that you mistook symbiosis for love.

After

I
N HOLLYWOOD
, D
ILLARD
B
UEHL BACKED THE
H
UMMER
up to the freight door at the Grove. The day before, he’d hired a couple Mexicans to help him move out the big furniture: the couch and club chairs and beds and bureaus. Angie hadn’t let him hire a moving company; she said they needed to keep their expenses down, now that she was going to be needing care. Even hospice wasn’t free. So he’d be driving the truck cross-country himself; Laurel had gotten her license a week earlier so she could help Angie with the Hummer. He didn’t like the thought of either one of them driving, but Angie had been insistent: she didn’t want to get sicker a moment before she had to. That day was coming, but she’d be damned if she’d meet it halfway. Until then, she told Dillard, she’d drive.

Dillard had offered to close up the Atlanta house and come live with them in LA so Laurel could keep working on being a star. But the girls said no, that Laurel didn’t want a Hollywood career anymore, and Angie already had an appointment with her oncologist in Atlanta. It was time to go home. He guessed she needed to feel like she was in control; the best thing he could do for her and for Laurel, she told him, was to do exactly what he had always done in summer: boil and sell peanuts. He didn’t particularly want to do that, now that he knew why Angie had looked so bad the last time he’d seen her in LA. But he’d do it like she’d asked him to, because there wasn’t anything else he could do for her. Later, yes. But not now.

He brought down several loads of bedding and the last of the odds and ends—framed posters, the Roomba, an oasis of potted plants that they’d be giving to Mimi for the studio on the way to dinner. They’d stay at a hotel tonight, so Angie could get a good night’s sleep before setting out tomorrow.

When they drove up, Mimi and Allison were waiting for them in the studio parking lot. Dillard pulled in as close to the studio doors as he could, because some of the plants were heavy and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. They all climbed out—Angie too—and started pulling out urns and pots and tubs full of greenery. Angie had a green thumb, as it turned out, and the plants had thrived under her care.

“You better not kill them,” she told Mimi. “I’ll be checking on you.” Mimi had smiled—wanly, Dillard thought—and held out her arms for a hug. Angie and then Laurel embraced her. Just eight months ago they’d stood in this very place and speculated about the first movie that Laurel would star in. But even then, Angie had known about the cancer, and Laurel had, too. He couldn’t understand that, how they’d been able to be so festive.

Because they’d chosen to be, Angie had told him. Because they were that strong, Dillard thought. He hoped they’d be able to teach him that as they went along, because they were clearly built of tougher stuff than he was.

Allison gave Angie a hug first, and then Laurel, and for a minute the two girls clung to each other.

Mimi took Angie’s hand briefly and said something too low for Dillard to hear but that made Angie smile, though sadly; and then they released each other and Angie made a beeline for the car. Even for her, strength could get you only so far. Dillard had to look away. Usually when you said a difficult goodbye you could comfort yourself with thoughts of something pleasant that lay ahead. But he couldn’t think of a single thing to look forward to without fear and dread. Angie was dying and he was not and there wasn’t a thing he could do to reverse the roles or change the outcome. But Angie had told him very firmly that there wasn’t going to be a funeral before she was gone. She wouldn’t put up with that. And he guessed she was right.

Now he shut the Hummer’s heavy door behind her. They lifted their hands to Mimi and Allison and some of the other kids who’d come out to the parking lot as they pulled away.

S
LOWLY, SO
L
AUREL WOULDN’T NOTICE
, A
NGIE OPENED
her hand to see what Mimi had put there. In her palm was a single clear glass marble.

I
N
W
EST
H
OLLYWOOD
, Q
UINN
R
EILLY STOOD JUST
beyond the patio at Los Burritos, wavering. He’d be leaving for Portland in the morning—Gus, anxious to get going, had moved the production schedule up so they could start shooting two weeks earlier. He and Cassie and her mom, Beverly, would be driving to LAX at four a.m. He’d already said good-bye to Quatro, who’d given him a camera as a send-off gift.

“You better take pictures every damn day and e-mail them back to me,” he’d said, coming to the front of the salon to give Quinn his gift and pull him into a close hug, pressing his head against Quinn’s head like a kiss. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me, too,” Quinn had said, and he meant it. Quatro had been the beginning of all the good things that had happened to him in the past nine months. Quinn had made him promise that he’d come to Portland for a visit before the shoot was over.

The other good thing to come into his life—besides Gus and
After
and everything he still had to look forward to—was the little Hispanic girl. So now he stood on the sidewalk in front of Los Burritos, nervous and undecided, watching her wait on a tiny, dark-skinned man who looked like he’d come from somewhere high in the Andes. There wasn’t anyone else in the place, so when she handed the man his change Quinn took a deep breath and went up to the counter.

“
Hola!
” she said brightly. “
Cómo estás?
”

“
Bien, gracias—y tú?
”

“
Bien.
Your talking is much better.”

“You’re a good teacher,” he said. He could feel his face heating up the way it always did.

She smiled shyly. She’d told him her name was Marcela. He thought that was pretty. “What would you like?” she said.

“No, nothing. I brought
you
something.”

She looked at him uncertainly. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and opened it. The little chili lay on his palm.

“Oh!” she said. “It’s very pretty.
Muy bonita.
”

He extended his hand. “It’s for you.”

“Me?”

He pointed at her little chili earrings.

“Ah!” Her face lit up. “To go together.
Muchas gracias.
”

To go together.
He liked the way that sounded. Then, though he hadn’t planned to say anything, he told her, “I’m going away for a few months.”

“Yes?”

“I’m doing a movie. I’m the lead in a movie.” His face was probably beet red; he felt stupid saying it, even though it was true, because it sounded like a lie. “Gus Van Sant is directing it.”

“That’s good?”

Quinn nodded.

“Oh! Good, then.” The girl closed her hand around the charm. “Then I’ll know why I don’t see you.”

He nodded, but then he had no idea what else to say, so he just turned around and started to leave.

“Wait,” she said. “
Tu nombre?
What’s your name?”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn?” She pronounced it like
queen
, but he didn’t mind. “Quinn what?”

“Quinn Reilly.”

“Okay. I watch for you.”

Then someone came up behind him, and just like that it was over. She tucked the charm into the apron of her uniform and smiled at him and he ducked his head because he didn’t know what his face should be doing and then he was back on the sidewalk, excited and relieved.

He wondered how he’d feel about leaving LA. He’d been here for four years. And now he was going to be someplace new, even if it was just Portland, doing something he’d dreamed of every single day for years. By the time he came back here, he wouldn’t be the same actor anymore. He probably wouldn’t even be the same person.

He shoved his hand deep in his pocket. It felt empty without the chili pepper charm. He was glad he’d given it to her, though. Maybe she’d be wearing it the next time he saw her.

That would be nice.

I
N
V
AN
N
UYS
, A
LLISON MADE WINGS OF HER ARMS AND
soared around Mimi’s living room. “Look at me—I’m flying!”

They’d been sitting together in the living room, where Allison was watching
Saturday Night Live
while Mimi went through the day’s breakdowns on her laptop. Tina Marie was snoring in her basket across the room. Allison had offered to make them a snack, taking wing on the way to the kitchen. Mimi just shook her head. The girl had been in high spirits ever since Mimi had laid out her new life. Far from objecting, she had settled into a state of almost manic proactivity. She’d wanted to register for school right away, though the new school year wouldn’t start for months. She’d cleared out all her monologues, sides, résumés, headshots, and even her Mimi Roberts Talent Management tote bag; and when Mimi told her that wasn’t necessary, Allison had pointed out that she was on hiatus, wasn’t she? Why would she need that stuff? And of course she was right.

Last week she’d helped Reba and Hillary pack their things to ship home, since neither family had found the girls housing. The night before they left LA, Allison and Mimi had taken them out for dinner at the Olive Garden—Reba’s favorite restaurant, based on the bottomless breadstick basket—and as a farewell gift Allison presented each of them with a scrapbook full of headshots of all Mimi’s clients, plus little goodie bags with snacks to take on the plane. Once they were gone, she cleaned the bedroom and bathroom until the porcelain and chrome shone; organized her closet by color and outfit; and then turned her attention to the rest of the house. At least she could hire herself out if Hollywood failed her, Mimi thought wryly. In Hollywood, good housekeepers were always in demand.

“Look at me, I’m flying!” Allison soared out of the living room and into the kitchen. Mimi smiled and went back to work.

I
N
S
EATTLE
, R
UTH PASSED BY
B
ETHANY’S ROOM WITH A
stack of warm folded towels and saw her sitting on the end of her bed, gazing out the window at the apple tree in their neighbor’s yard.

“Are you okay?”

Bethy nodded. “It’s weird, though. Doesn’t it seem like we were never there at all?”

Ruth thought about the mute testimony of their depleted bank account, but she knew what Bethy meant. “Do you miss it?”

Bethany nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes.”

Ruth still missed it every day, even after being home for three weeks. She missed Vee and Bob’s Big Boy and the gentle waiter whose hand she’d once taken, and feeling that at any moment their lives and prospects could change, and always for the better. She even missed Mimi. She was surprised at how often she heard the woman’s voice in her head. Mimi Roberts was a survivor, someone who’d learned to adapt and even flourish in Hollywood’s toxic environment. Except for Allison, the rest of them were gone: Quinn was in Oregon filming; Hillary and Reba were at home with their families; and Laurel, Angie, and Dillard were in Atlanta. They’d heard that even with aggressive chemo, Angie wasn’t expected to live more than four or five more months.

“I miss Allison,” Bethy said. “I’m glad she’s coming to visit.” They’d agreed she could come to Seattle and stay with them for a couple of weeks in August.

“Have you heard from her lately?”

Bethy nodded. “She said this year’s boot camp kids are total losers. She has to help Mimi with the little kids’ classes and stuff—she isn’t even doing any of the workshops. She says it’s okay, though, because she’s done boot camp like a million times. Mimi’s taking her up to Big Bear for a week, and then she’s going back to see her mom. She says she doesn’t want to go, but Mimi’s making her. It’s just for a couple of days, though.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s looking forward to seeing her mother.”

Bethy just shrugged. “She says her mom doesn’t even care if she comes or not, now that she’s rich and divorced and stuff.”

“I’m sure it’s not that simple,” Ruth said, thinking, though, that it probably
was
that simple. She wasn’t as naïve as she used to be. She had assumed that since she and Vee Velman had been mainly telephone friends even in LA—they’d probably seen each other in person only six times in all those months—they would just carry on in exactly the same way even if Ruth was in Seattle. But although they’d talked a few times since Ruth had been back, the calls had been short and surprisingly empty, and Ruth could see that in another call or two the friendship would just peter out, one more relationship based on shared circumstance. It was a shame, but Ruth understood it.

Bethy had moved on. “Rianne broke up with her boyfriend,” she was saying.

“Again?”

“Yeah, but she says this time it’s for good. So we were thinking we might go to Belle Square later, if that’s okay with you. She said her mom would drive us, if you can pick us up.”

Ruth nodded. “I’m glad you’re friends again.”

“Me, too.”

“Do the kids here know you’ve been on TV?”

Bethy shrugged. “Nah.”

“But don’t you want them to know?”

“Not really.” Bethy looked away, out the window.

“Why not?” Ruth cried. “You’ve done something absolutely amazing.”

Bethany picked at a slub in the fabric of her bedspread, and then Ruth finally got it: who wanted to be different at fourteen?

Ruth turned to go down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Just let me know when you’re leaving and what time you want me to pick you up.”

She stowed the towels in the hall linen closet and then headed for the back bedroom. Helene Rabinowitz would be going home from the rehab center tomorrow, finally, with her brain largely intact, and Hugh’s diabetes was under control. Last night Ruth had ordered twenty pounds of clay and told Hugh that she planned to start sculpting again. He’d kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Good for you, Ruthie. I know this isn’t easy.” And it wasn’t. But last night she’d begun to clear out the back bedroom, where their things were still sitting right where they’d left them three weeks ago.