“Mr. Tames?” Jessica said.
“I’m here.”
“Thanks, Jessica,” I said. “Jim, what’s up?”
“Olivia, we have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Randall’s pulling out.”
“Shit.”
He was talking about Scott Randall, the director, who had agreed to do Max’s film, A Disputed Life.
“Shit is right,” Tames said. “I have to tell you, Olivia, this makes me very nervous. We’re 40 days out from shooting. And, by the way, why can’t I get Max on the phone?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know he’s at his mother’s house. Maybe he’s turned off his phone. I haven’t talked to him in a day or so, either.”
That wasn’t true. I had talked to him, and I knew Max wasn’t taking any business calls for a few days. As much as a micromanager as Tames was, Max probably figured the call wasn’t that important.
“So what is Randall blowing us off for?” I asked.
“A cable mini-series,” Jim said.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope. They’ve greenlit two seasons in advance. They want the first four episodes shot earlier than they thought.”
“So it’s not something he arranged prior to agreeing to do the movie with us.”
“Right,” Jim said.
“Then there’s really no conflict. He’s just blowing us off, pushing Max’s project to the back burner.” I was getting pissed, feeling more defensive of Max’s work — and his professional reputation — than I’d had to deal with so far. “You know what? If he’s that uncommitted to Max’s screenplay, then we wouldn’t want him anyway. I’m going to call you later this afternoon and we’ll straighten this out.”
“I was wrong about 40 days until shooting,” Jim said. “It’s actually 39.”
“I’ll get on it,” I assured him.
I hung up and went back inside the mall to Grace and Krystal.
Grace first noticed the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Work problems,” I said. “I’ll handle it later.” I smiled and hooked my arm around Krystal’s. “Let’s go eat and talk more about this baby.”
NINE
Two days after Christmas, I was packing my bags early in the morning when my parents came into the bedroom.
“Need any help?” my mother asked.
“No, I got it, thanks.”
They sat on the bed and after about twenty seconds of silence, my dad said, “Olivia, we’re really happy you came home for Christmas.”
I was kneeling on the floor, folding some clothes. I looked up at him. “Me, too.” I managed to get the words out in a sincere tone because I truly was glad that I had gone to their house for Christmas, but not for the reasons they probably thought. No, I was glad because the trip had solidified in me a resolve to shed any guilt or shame I had about the choices I’d made for myself.
Mom moved off the bed and sat down beside me, putting her arm around my shoulders. “We just want what’s best for you.”
I finished folding the shirt and added it to the stack of other ones. Sighing, I said, “We’ve been over this so many times. It’s really exhausting.”
“We’d hate to see you end up like Krystal,” Dad said.
I felt a furious burning growing inside me suddenly. I looked up at the ceiling, then back down at him. “Really? You’re comparing me to Krystal now?”
“No,” my dad said, “it’s just an examp — ”
“It’s not just an example,” I interrupted. “You’re clearly worried about that. And, by the way, which part? The drugs? Porn? Her getting pregnant?”
My mom looked shocked.
“That’s right,” I said, “she’s pregnant. And it didn’t happen in LA. It happened right here, in this upstanding, conservative, moral town of ours. You know, the same place my ex-boyfriend came from? The one who very well might have killed both Krystal and me if I hadn’t defended myself? You guys have the wrong idea about me, about LA, about Max…everything. Let me show you something.”
I opened the side pocket of my suitcase and took out Max’s baby spoon.
“This,” I said, “is what his mother gave me for Christmas. And you know why? Because she said she knows that I’m the one for Max and she wanted me to have this so when we’re married and have a child, something from his childhood will carry on.”
My mother was much more into the spoon than my dad was. Maybe just due to men not being into things like that as much as women are. I don’t know. And, frankly, I didn’t really care. I was making my point, standing firm, letting them know I had things under control.
I said, “The last couple of days, you guys have asked me twice about my work and you seem fine with that. Actually, Dad, you even seemed impressed. I can handle my personal life just like I handle my professional one. I’m not the vulnerable Olivia you guys think I am…or maybe even want me to be.”
“We don’t want you to be anything other than what you want to be,” my mother said.
I looked at her, my eyes widening. “Then trust me. Support me. This is all going to be fine.”
. . . . .
“Damn, I missed you, Dreamgirl,” Max said as he took me in his arms.
“I can see that,” I said. “But maybe you better calm that thing down until we get home.”
We were standing on the tarmac at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Max had pulled his car up to the plane. He held me tight and I could feel his erection pressing against me.
“We could get back on the plane,” he said. “Runway sex?” He took my earlobe between his lips and I moaned softly.
“If you’re this excited now, maybe this would be even better when we get home in an hour.”
“An hour. That’s how long it normally takes by car.” He turned and opened the door for me. “Better buckle up tight. This is going to be the fastest ride of your life.”
During the drive home, Max asked me how the trip was.
“About as expected. And it made me pissed most of the time. The goodbye at the airport was kind of sad, though.”
I had fought back tears as my mother hugged me. My dad had simply put his hand on my shoulder as my mom and I embraced. I had felt that tingling sensation in the back of my throat that I always get just before I cry, but I had managed to suppress it. Mom smiled through her tears. Dad gave me his best effort at conveying the fact that he cared — lips pressed together in a firm line, head cocked to the side a little, as if to say, “I’m sorry,” but of course he would never actually say the words.