| |
LOVE TRIANGLE OR MÉNAGE A TROIS?
Grainy, unflattering pictures of one woman and two men stared back at me from the supermarket magazine rack. I recognized Lindy Dwyer, Wes Gabel, and Alex Winston—stars from the long-running Kids Network television show The Baker High Trio. Last week I’d heard a news blip the show had been canceled. Guess child stars can’t stay in high school indefinitely.
Before I could read more of the tantalizing story, the black conveyor belt began to move my groceries forward. A checkout clerk I hadn’t seen before greeted me without looking up by asking if I’d found everything I needed. Her spiked red and orange hair, the tattoo of a half sun underneath her right eye, and her nose piercing didn’t put me off, but I was sure the ultra-conservative geriatric crowd had different views. I started digging in my purse for my credit card.
“Oh, my God! You. Are. Her.”
I looked up to see who the clerk, whose name tag appropriately read Sunrise, was talking to. A flush crept up my neck when I realized it was me. Sunrise continued, “I just LOVE your books.” She bent down to retrieve a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter. “Serena is so AWESOME! Can I have your autograph?”
The Grammar Police, aka my mother, who often took up real estate—uninvited—inside my head, was telling me to politely correct the young girl’s use of “can.” But I let it slide and wrote Books open the world to you. CJ McKeena across the smear of what I hoped was chocolate on the inside cover. Sunrise finished scanning my purchases and presented me with the total of $289.74. It had been a while since I’d shopped for groceries; I’d been traveling the past three months speaking at writing workshops and conferences up and down the West Coast.
Sunrise waved the receipt to get my attention. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” I asked.
“Just wondering when your next book is due out.”
I flashed her my book-cover smile and said, “Soon.”
As I wheeled the cart to my car, I heard the words my mother always said when she caught me in a lie—Courtney Jane, no good ever comes from fibbing.
Truth be told, I didn’t have a book coming out soon. I didn’t have a plot. I hadn’t written one single word. My agent, Nancy Fenton, was under the impression I was nearing the finish line of the first draft of my latest manuscript, and that protagonist Serena Knight was again about to reveal the identity of the killer at the end of a twisting and turning plot that kept readers buying book after book. I’d cajoled Nancy into pushing the release date to late fall, pointing out that I still had titles on the best-seller list and sales hadn’t fallen off.
Even Serena Knight needed some down time.
Vowing to seriously start writing tomorrow, as well as to eat healthier, I pulled up to a drive-through and ordered super nachos and a sugary cinnamon doughnut chaser. I fished a deep-fried confection out of the bag on the drive home. Okay, two. Maybe I’d better work on that fibbing thing. I licked my fingers before punching in the security code to my gated community, where Nancy had rented me a guest cottage behind a McMansion in the hills outside Los Angeles. I had used the house as home base while fulfilling my speaking obligations and had until the end of June to vacate the premises.
My cell phone jingled, alerting me that Nancy was calling again. I had ignored two calls and a text while shopping. Knowing she was persistent, I answered. “Hey.”
“A car will be there in thirty minutes. No, make that twenty.”
“What?” I asked. “We must have a bad connection because I thought I heard you say a car would be here to pick me up.”
“And wear something Wyoming Western.”
“What is Wyoming Western?”
Nancy sang, “Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know.” I waited in dumb silence until I realized she was listening to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.” Nancy hummed a few bars before saying, “You know, something you would wear down on the farm at home in Wyoming.”
“We ranch in Wyoming. Someday you and I are going to take a road trip to Kansas and Nebraska and then to Wyoming so I can show you the difference between farming and ranching. We might even go to Montana so you can see the Big Sky cattle ranches.”
“Wow! Funny you should mention Montana because if you play your cards right, you can have an all-expenses-paid vacation to a fabulous private ranch where you will rub elbows with Hollywood stars, plus be paid a fat consultant fee to boot. Boot—get it?” Nancy actually chortled into the phone. “I’ll meet you in the coffee shop of the Turner Professional Building.” She disconnected without a goodbye, let alone an explanation.
I quickly put away the perishables and promised the nachos we’d have a soggy date later. Standing in front of my closet, I tried to decide what would constitute a Wyoming Western outfit. At home on the ranch, I’d be in well-worn cowboy boots, faded blue jeans, a T-shirt advertising a local bar, and a King Ropes cap.
I opted for a yellow and turquoise plaid shirt over a white tee and jeans. As always, my grandmother’s Black Hills gold cross was my only jewelry. I was pulling on boots as the limo drove up.
The Turner Professional Building was home to movie biz offices. Nancy had told me she was promoting my first non-series book, Trouble in Skull Canyon, to movie producers. My heart did a little flutter glancing at the glass and stone building. Maybe that’s what this meeting was about. Who didn’t like a Western saga with shoot-outs, a hanging, and, of course, several scenes of good old-fashioned knockin’ boots?
I spotted Nancy as soon as I walked into Bogie’s Beans. Today the strip of color in her white hair was chartreuse and matched the psychedelic swirl in her broomstick skirt. As always, the fragrance of patchouli oil hovered around her, reminding me of Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown comics. One evening over drinks and recreational Mary Jane for Nancy, she had regaled me with stories from her time spent at a commune in the hills outside of L.A.
It was a less-mellow Nancy today who dispensed with a greeting and launched into the reason we were meeting in the mecca of everything film. “Opportunity of a lifetime for you. Consultant on location for Geoffrey Stone’s latest film.”
“The Geoffrey Stone?” I asked stupidly. There was only one Geoffrey Stone associated with the movie industry. And right now, he was HUGE.
“Time to go,” Nancy said, standing. “Just smile and let me do the negotiating.”
A half hour later, a lucrative signed contract in my hand (that said “job description to follow”) and a pushed-back deadline for my non-existent book, I was singing, “Whoopee-ty-yi-yo. Eagle Landing, Montana, here I come!”
