Wonders Never Cease (25 page)

The group paused to consider this.

“What are you suggesting we do?” Wes asked.

“We need to go talk to her,” Kemp said.

“No,” Wes said. “
We
need to go talk to her. Not you, Kemp—remember? I want to remind you again that you can never, ever meet Liv Hayden face-to-face. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

“Fine, whatever. You and Biederman can talk to her. You're her agent, Biederman—you must have had this conversation with her before. And you, Wes—you're her publisher. You're just taking an interest in the success of the book—she can't get mad at you for that.”

Biederman looked as if he had just swallowed sour milk.

“What's the problem, Biederman?”

“You're right, I have had this conversation with Olivia before—and I'm not looking forward to doing it again.”

“Just tell her to stick to the script,” Kemp said. “I'll give you guys a call later. I need to get back to work.” He popped the DVD out of the player and headed for the door.

The three men watched Kemp until the door closed behind him.

Tino turned to the other two men. “Does Bobby seem a bit edgy to you gentlemen?”

“The book comes out tomorrow,” Wes replied. “We've all been under a lot of pressure lately.”

Tino smiled. “I'd like to think that accounts for it.”

“Accounts for what?”

“I've known Bobby for several years. He's very intelligent, but also very foolish. He makes decisions without considering the end result—that makes him a very bad business partner.”

“But we're stuck with him.”

“Are we?” Tino held up the check for the waitress. “That's something to think about, now, isn't it?”

32

T
he elevator opened onto the rooftop pool at the Thompson Beverly Hills. Wes Kalamar and Mort Biederman stepped into the bright sun and quickly slipped on their sunglasses. The pool was a tiny rectangle of perfect turquoise surrounded by lounge chairs draped with generously oiled bodies glistening in the sun; beyond the lounge chairs was a spectacular 360-degree view of the city of Los Angeles—though no one seemed particularly interested. The pool deck was made of teak like the deck of a ship, and the white canvas sunshades that surrounded the pool looked like cocktail umbrellas in some exotic drink.

Wes nudged Biederman and pointed to the far side of the pool where a row of private cabanas stood like tents gently flapping in the breeze. In front of one of them, Liv Hayden lay stretched out baking under the midday sun.

“Follow my lead,” Biederman said. “I know how to handle her.”

They worked their way around the pool deck to the cabanas. “Sweetheart,” Biederman called out as they approached.

Liv rolled her head to one side and tipped her sunglasses down. “Morty. Wesley. You boys are overdressed.”

“I didn't bring my swimsuit,” Biederman said. “Something we should all be thankful for.”

Liv turned her face back to the sun. “What's new in the world of publishing, Wes?”

“It's all good news,” Wes said. “Things couldn't be better.”

“That's what I like to hear. The book's on schedule then?”

“Absolutely—it hits bookstores tomorrow. Don't forget the grand opening and book signing Saturday at the Americana at Brand over in Glendale.”

“Let's cancel that. I've been under a lot of stress lately.”

Wes turned to Biederman with a look of panic.

“It's very important, sweetheart,” Biederman said. “I wouldn't bother you with it if it wasn't. We've got a big event all planned—lots of press coverage. Think of it like a premiere.”

“Send a car, will you, Morty? I'm not driving all the way to Glendale.”

“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you want.”

“Have you boys been following me on
Oprah
?”

“Every day. Wouldn't miss it.”

“Be honest now—tell me how good I've been.”

“You've been terrific,” Biederman gushed. “I knew you'd hit it out of the park, and you haven't let me down.”

“Have I ever?”

“Not in twenty years. You were personable, you were profound—you were funny too.”

“I was funny, wasn't I? I think that's a new part of me.”

“You're blossoming like a flower right before our eyes.”

There was a brief pause here and Wes took advantage of the opportunity. “We do have one small suggestion,” he said.

There seemed to be a sudden chill in the air. Liv lowered her sunglasses and stared at him.

“It's just a little thing,” Wes fumbled, “so little I really hate to even mention it.”

“Stop sucking up,” Liv said. “That's what Morty gets paid for. What's on your mind, Wes?”

Biederman tried to intervene. “It's just a small suggestion regarding content, sweetheart. We were just thinking—”

“I'm talking to Wes. Do you mind?”

Wes swallowed hard. “Well, it's just that—”

“Spit it out. I'm losing the sun.”

“It's just that the book is so perfect. The story is so beautifully crafted—the plot, the pacing, the dialogue, the transitions.”

“So?”

“I hate to mess with perfection—that's all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In your interviews with Oprah—yesterday and today—you've been introducing story elements that aren't even in the book. New thoughts, new ideas—conversations with the angel you never mentioned before.”

“I didn't remember them before. They're just coming back to me now. Every day I seem to wake up and remember something else. What am I supposed to tell Oprah, ‘Sorry, I can't talk about that—it's not in the book'?”

Biederman took over. “We just don't want to confuse people, that's all. It's like showing a scene in a trailer that doesn't appear in the movie. People get upset—they feel cheated. They think, ‘Hey, what happened? I loved that scene—that's why I bought a ticket.' Same thing here, Liv. You tell Oprah something new, something you just remembered, the viewer thinks, ‘I love that—I'm gonna buy that book.' But when she buys the book it's not in there. How's she going to feel?”

“She should feel lucky,” Liv said. “It's like bonus material at the end of a DVD. She gets the book and I throw in a little something extra free of charge.”

Wes tried again. “But these new things you're remembering. Sometimes they sound sort of—well—”

“What?”

“Contradictory. First the angel says one thing, then he disagrees with himself.

It's like he can't make up his mind.”

“Maybe he couldn't make up his mind. Maybe it's too deep—you know, one of those puzzles wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Something like that.”

Wes finally lost patience. “We just think it might be better if you stuck to the book. Okay?”

Biederman gave Wes a quick sideways glance. “What he means is—”

“I know what he means. I speak English.”

Liv got up from her lounge chair and stood face-to-face with Wes. She pulled off her sunglasses and began to study his face as if she was searching for a hair in her linguini. “You need to have a talk with your boy here, Morty—you need to tell him about me. Tell him what an actress is and what we do for a living. Tell him how we take some moron's empty words and bring them to life—how we interpret them the way
we
think they should read. Tell him how I fired three directors and divorced two husbands for committing the unforgivable sin:
overdirecting
. You tell him all that, and then maybe we'll try talking again.”

Wes just stood there, blinking, trying to think of some response. Fortunately, nothing came to mind.

She looked at both men now. “Let me make something clear to you two: This is not a movie, and this is not a book—this is something that happened to me. An angel appeared to me and entrusted me with a message—can you get that through your thick heads? This is my story, and I'm not about to change it just to satisfy some anal-retentive editor. I'm a messenger, okay? My job is to pass this message on just the way I got it. Find it a little confusing? Too bad—take it up with God. And it's not about money—not this time. That's your job, and I don't want to bother with it. I have a calling here; I've got something important to do for a change, and guess what?
I like
it
. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”

She gave Wes one last searing stare and then snatched up her towel and charged off toward the elevator.

The two men stood staring even after the elevator doors had closed—then Biederman turned to Wes. “I think that went well,” he said. “Let's ask Kemp if he's got any more bright ideas.”

33

N
atalie begged to be in the procedure room with her daughter during the MRI. She tried every appeal she could think of—as a nurse, as a mother, as a fellow UCLA employee—she even volunteered to undergo a strip search to prove she had no metal on her body that could damage the enormous electromagnet. But it was strictly against hospital policy, and she was politely but flatly refused and consigned to the waiting room outside.

The waiting room felt small, cramped, like everything at UCLA. Everyone said it would be so much better when they finally moved across the street to the new million-square-foot Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, but until then everyone just had to squeeze in, and the MRI department was no exception. The waiting room was neat, even pleasant, but the looming walls seemed to echo and amplify Natalie's anxiety and she felt suffocated and claustrophobic. She couldn't imagine what Leah must be feeling inside the narrow tunnel of the massive magnetic resonance imaging machine. There was nothing to do in the tiny waiting room but wait—that was the worst part of all. Natalie divided her time between praying, staring at the clock, and checking her cell phone for messages. There were none.

She looked at her watch again.

Kemp knew about the MRI; he knew the day and the time. They'd been talking about it all week—at least, she had. Natalie had mentioned it every time there was a lull in the conversation just to make sure he knew. She even wrote it in big letters on the calendar on the refrigerator: MRI—THURSDAY, 3 PM. Kemp was still asleep when she left with Leah for UCLA, but she didn't wake him. Why should she have to? She had told him a dozen times, and she wasn't going to beg. He knew about the MRI and he knew what it meant to her. He knew, all right, and if he didn't bother to come it was because he just didn't care.

The door to the waiting room suddenly opened and Natalie jumped. She turned and saw Emmet's smiling face in the doorway.

“Are visitors welcome?” he asked.

Natalie let out a breath. “It's an MRI, Emmet—Leah can't have visitors.”

“She's got all kinds of company in there,” Emmet said. “I came to visit you.”

There were two rows of chairs on opposite walls but Emmet took the seat right beside her so that their legs were almost touching. Natalie expected to be annoyed but instead felt relieved and reassured by his nearness.

“Thanks for coming,” Natalie said. “It was sweet of you to think of it.”

“You asked me to come,” Emmet said.

Natalie blinked. “I did? I don't remember.”

“Asked me plain as day.”

“I guess I've had a lot on my mind lately. At least you remembered. I'm glad you did.”

“Brought you a gift,” Emmet said, hoisting a brightly colored bag and setting it upright on his lap.

“For me? Leah's the one who deserves a gift.”

Emmet shook his head. “Let me tell you something I learned a long time ago: It's easier to suffer yourself than to watch someone you love go through it instead. Am I right or am I right?”

Natalie nodded. “I'd trade places with her in a minute if I could.”

“'Course you would. That's why I figured you might need something to cheer you up a bit.” He held out the bag to her and smiled.

Natalie took the bag and peeked inside, then reached in and pulled out the gift. It was a glossy hardcover book. She turned it over and looked at the cover, where huge embossed letters proclaimed,
It's All About You
.

Natalie groaned.

“Just came out today,” Emmet said. “Had to wait in line to get it for you.”

“It was very thoughtful of you,” she said, sliding the book back into the bag.

“Have you heard about this book? It's in all the papers.”

“Yes, I've heard about it.”

“Olivia Hayden—she's that movie star who came in with the head injury a few weeks back. Remember her?”

“I remember.”

“You'd never in a million years guess what happened to that woman right here in our hospital—right there on our floor. Seems while she was in that coma, an angel of the Lord appeared to her—stood right over her bed and spoke to her plain as day. Now how 'bout that?”

“Yeah,” Natalie said. “How about that?”

“She was Mr. Kemp's patient, as I recall.”

“That's right.”

“I remember he took real good care of her. I noticed he spent a lot of time with her night after night.”

Natalie said nothing.

“I suppose you noticed that too.”

She just shrugged.

“That ever bother you?”

“Why should it?”

“Just asking. Mind if I ask you something else?”

“Go ahead.”

He paused. “Do you know what an angel is?”

She glanced at him. “Excuse me?”

“An angel—do you know what that is?”

“I guess I . . . I'm not really—”

“An angel is a messenger—nothing more, nothing less. He goes where he's told to go and he says what he's told to say. He has no words of his own—he's only a messenger. That means you won't find an angel comin' up with a whole lot of nonsense—like you find in that book. Not a real angel, anyway.”