Table for one?” the hostess at 790 asks.
“For two,” I say, trying to sound as grown-up as I can.
Monica and I have been texting for a few weeks, ever since I “accidentally” found her number in Dad’s cell phone—but it was her idea to meet for lunch before filming started up again after the Fourth of July break.
I was going to tell Aunt Jill that I wasn’t feeling well so I had to leave the café early—but Beau pointed out that she might call and ask my mom if I was feeling better, and then I’d be busted. He has a lot more experience breaking the rules, and he told me that when you’re lying, less is more. So I just told Aunt Jill I needed to leave work a little early. She didn’t ask why, so I didn’t tell her. And if she mentions my leaving early to Mom, I’ll just say that I needed some time to be alone. After our heart-to-heart the other night, I know she won’t push or question me.
The restaurant I picked is just a few blocks down the beach from the café, so I got here in plenty of time to change into clothes that aren’t covered in flour.
The hostess grabs two menus and walks outside to the patio, which Dad says is the prettiest hidden gem in Destin. It isn’t touristy and it’s right on the beach with a view of the sand dunes and the water, which is like every shade of blue and green rolled into one. She pauses by a small table right along the edge of the patio, overlooking the beach. “This okay?”
“Perfect.” I take the seat facing the door so I’ll be able to see the moment Monica arrives.
I glance down at my phone: 12:05. She’s late. I guess that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re kind of famous. It’s hard to make an entrance if you’re the first one there. I make a mental note to start showing up just a little late to things. Except for class. Maybe I’ll get there right as the bell rings so I can have the effect without getting detention.
I’m already learning so much and she isn’t even here yet.
“Expecting one more?” the waiter asks. Usually, I’d be a little annoyed at the obvious question. I mean, there are two menus on the table. But today, I don’t mind.
“My stepmom,” I say as he sets down two glasses of water.
I’ve been thinking of Monica as my stepmom since I found out about her and Dad, because that’s really the best way to describe her. Plus, if she’d been married to my dad after I was born instead of before, that’s what she’d be. I shouldn’t be punished just because I was born inconveniently late.
Today is the first time I’ve actually said it out loud, and it’s pretty freaking awesome.
“My name is Gary,” he says. “Would you like anything besides water while you wait?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
If I were casting the role of the waiter for the first of what I hope will be many lunches together, this guy would totally get the part. He’s older than my parents, but you can tell he was a catch in his day, with his tanned, dark skin, and light blue eyes. His hair is gray, but not the bad kind. It makes him look distinguished, not old.
I’m looking at Gary when Monica walks in, but I can sense her arrival. The whole patio goes quiet except for some woman talking loudly about how she’d asked for no tomatoes. It’s like people are doing the Wave, but instead of standing and lifting their arms, they turn and stare.
Who can blame them—it’s Monica Whistler. Even if they didn’t know who she was before The Seasiders started filming in Destin, they know now. And anybody can clearly see that she’s somebody: it’s obvious in the way she walks, the way she holds her head up high, the way her white linen pants and flowery off-the-shoulder top look like they were literally made for her.
“CeCe!” She sounds almost as excited to see me as I am to see her. Now the heads turn and stare at me, wondering who the lucky girl having lunch with a celebrity is. And it’s me. I’m the lucky girl.
I stand up the way Dad does when someone he knows comes up to our table. I smooth out my outfit, a black and white sundress that I hoped would look nice but not too fancy.
“You look gorge.” Monica leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you.” I can feel my face turning red. “You do, too,” I remember to add as I sit back at the table, where I am about to have lunch with Monica freaking Whistler!
“You’re sweet, but I know I look exhausted,” Monica says as she sits down. “I took the red-eye back from L.A. last night, my agent insisted I go to this silly little party.”
I try to cross my legs the way I notice she does, but my knee bumps into the table, making it shake and send water splashing out of my glass. I’ll have to practice that move at the kitchen table when Mom and Dad aren’t around.
“Thanks for inviting me to lunch,” I say, after we order our drinks.
“Oh, please. I was tickled you said yes.” There I go, blushing again. I’m going to have to figure out a way to stop doing that. I take a sip of water, hoping that will help calm my face down. “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about the part not working out—I had no idea they already promised it to someone else.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her.
“It’s not,” Monica says. “But I’ll make it up to you. Your dad says you’re really good.”
“He has to say that.” I look down for just a second, but it’s enough for my glasses to fall down my nose. I push them up quickly, hoping Monica didn’t notice.
“Tom wouldn’t lie. Not to me.”
“You and my dad,” I say. “I still can’t believe he never told me.”
Monica leans forward and looks me in the eye. I resist the urge to break her stare and push my glasses up even though they haven’t slipped again. “It wasn’t his fault; it was all mine. And it’s one of the biggest regrets in my life.”
Before I can decide whether or not it would be appropriate of me to ask what happened, Gary the waiter comes back with our drinks.
Monica’s whole face changes as she lifts her glass of champagne, and I can tell the opportunity is over. “To the beginning of a very long friendship,” she says.
I clink my glass against hers and take a sip of my Arnold Palmer.
“I brought you something.” Monica reaches into her giant black purse and hands me a hardcover book. The author’s name is in bright yellow letters along the top: Stella Adler. And at the bottom in the same bright letters it says: The Art of Acting.
“Thank you.” I hug the book to my chest before looking down at the cover again.
“Have you ever heard of Stella Adler?” Monica asks.
“She wrote this book,” I say, hoping the obvious answer is the right one.
Monica smiles, but not in a way that makes me feel stupid. “She was one of the most important and highly respected acting teachers in the country.”
“Did she teach you?”
“Not directly, no. But I took classes at a studio where they teach her method.”
“Wow.” I open the book to the table of contents and scan the names of the chapters: The World of the Stage Isn’t Your World; Acting Is Doing; Instant and Inner Justifications; Learning a Character’s Rhythm. “There’s so much to learn.”
“This is only the beginning, but it’s a good start.”
“Thank you.” I wish there were better words to show just how much I mean it. “This is the best present anyone has ever given me.”
Monica smiles and I smile and we’re smiling together, and I wish I could freeze this moment, where things feel so good I can almost forget how bad everything really is.
When Gary the waiter comes back to take our lunch orders, Monica asks for the Tropical Chicken Salad with the dressing on the side and I get the same thing because as much as I love their crab cakes, I love saying, “I’ll have what she’s having,” even more.
While we wait for our salads, Monica tells me about all kinds of things—like the fact that she left Florida and moved to New York with just two suitcases to follow her dreams. That winter, she moved out to L.A. when it got too cold for her Florida blood. She said it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always pretty, but she did it thanks to her stick-to-itiveness.
“There are some parts I’m still sad about not getting,” Monica tells me.
“Which ones?” I ask.
She lifts her chin and looks down at me, as if she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m worthy of hearing her deepest, darkest secrets. She smiles and glances around to make sure no one is listening, then she brings her voice down just above a whisper. “Let’s just say I would have been starring in a major motion picture opposite George Clooney.”
Monica lifts her hand and waves it like a fan in front of her face.
“Wow,” I say, trying to think through all the movies George Clooney has been in. Maybe one of the Ocean movies?
“It’s not all about talent, you know,” Monica says. “A lot of it has to do with hard work, and a little luck from being in the right place at the right time.”
“I know all about that,” I say. “If I hadn’t forgotten my towel at home that day, I never would have known you were my stepmom.”
I wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth, but I obviously can’t, so I take a giant sip of water instead. I wait for Monica to say something, to correct me. When she doesn’t, I look up and see her smiling, her eyes a little misty. Maybe she likes thinking of me as her stepdaughter, too.
Before I can say anything else stupid, our salads arrive. The conversation shifts back to the book, and Monica tells me more about Stella Adler and how her acting method teaches you to make your connection with a character more intense by emotionally recalling moments in your life when you had a feeling similar to the character’s. She says you can use your imagination, but it’s the connection to something real in your life that can push you from good to great.
While listening to her every word and trying to remember everything she says, I’m also studying everything she does. The way she cuts her lettuce into tiny, bite-size pieces, how she sets her fork down between each bite, dabbing the corner of her lips every so often with a napkin. Mom doesn’t look that ladylike when she eats a salad. And even though she orders her dressing on the side, she ends up dumping it all on, which makes it just as bad for you as a cheeseburger.
Monica only eats half of her salad, so I only eat half of mine, even though I’m still hungry. And when Gary asks if she wants a box for the rest, she says no. So I do, too.
After lunch, I say we should do it again sometime, and Monica says, “Absolutely,” before giving me another kiss on the cheek. “Next time, maybe you can come down to the set first?”
“Oh my god, really?” I say, trying not to squeal.
“It would be fun.”
But she’s wrong. Lunch was fun. Going to the set would be epic. The only thing that could make this day any better is if one of the people here who I could totally tell was sneaking a picture of us sent it in to TMZ. That way I wouldn’t have to brag for everyone to know that I’m someone important now.
I know that probably won’t happen, but a girl can dream.