I didn’t unpack. As soon as my father had dropped me off, reassuring me that he’d call if anything changed during the night, and despite my jetlag, I set up the antique typewriter in the great room, facing it towards the mantel and the giant movie poster starring my grandmother. I poured a shot of bourbon and raised the glass at the poster. “Okay, Alicia Steele, you wanted the story to end. I’m going to end it, but in exchange, you’re going to take care of Marjorie. Deal?” My grandmother’s expression remained unchanged. “Good,” I said as though she were in agreement. “And no funny stuff either. You’re going to stick with me, right in the here and now.” I shot back the bourbon and poured another and started to type.
It was dawn by the time the screenplay was finished. I had to admit it felt good. And the world still appeared to be in colour and in the right century. Exhausted, I stumbled away from the typewriter and onto the sofa. It was soft and deep and that was the last thing I remember until my cell phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and dug it out of my handbag. It was my father.
“How is she?” I asked, dispensing with pleasantries.
“Good. She’s much better today. The cardiologist says she’s out of danger.”
Tears of relief flooded down my face and I sniffled. “I’m so happy. I’m going to shower and come down.”
“Take your time,” my father said. “She’s going to be fine.”
I hung up. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. I’d slept away the entire morning. Marjorie would think I’d forgotten about her. I ran into the bathroom and took a shower. I went to the suitcase for clothes but the lock was jammed again. The tiny key that had worked faithfully seemed to stick in the lock yet wouldn’t turn. I tried a dull kitchen knife to gently pry it open, but it was no use. It was exactly as it had been when I first went to London. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be jimmied, and it was far too delicate and too precious to bash open with a hammer. I ran into my old room and, sure enough, a pair of skinny jeans and some T-shirts were stuffed into a drawer. My hair was another story. The past several weeks involved a set of hot rollers. There was no time for that, so I left it straight and drove to the hospital, leaving the screenplay on the small table beside the typewriter.
“You look fabulous!” I said to Marjorie and hugged her gently to avoid tangling up the various tubes. She did look better than yesterday. Her eyes were bright white again and her complexion had life to it and, despite the tube in her nose, she’d managed to apply lipstick. That was my mother through and through.
“Thank you, darling,” she said; her voice had gained strength too. “Sorry I scared everyone so much.”
“Don’t think about that,” I said. “Besides, it brings us closer. Dad’s been hovering around you like a lapdog.”
I’d rarely seen my mother blush before, but there was no other way to explain the rosy glow that materialized on her cheeks.
“I prefer to think of myself as a working dog,” my father said. I turned to see him in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand and the newspaper. “A German shepherd or Rottweiler.”
“You’re more Dalmatian or golden retriever,” I teased, then turned my attention back to my mother. “I was just telling Marjorie that sometimes these moments test us and make us closer, and then you appeared, so I must be right!”
My father coughed. “You want to tell her or should I?” he said cryptically. I felt my stomach fall again.
“What is it?” I asked in a panic. “I thought you were going to be fine!”
“Hush, I am fine,” Marjorie said. “This is what your father means.” She raised her left hand. I could see the ugly IV needle stuck in her blue vein; the gauze had a tiny circle of blood on it.
“You have to wear the IV at home?” I guessed. Then more blushing from Marjorie.
“Are you blind, Clara?” she said and laughed. “Not my hand, my finger. Your father proposed to me again.”
My jaw dropped. Sure enough, my mother had quite the chunk of ice on her ring finger, a platinum setting to boot. Somewhere behind me someone wolf-whistled.
“Geez, that’s quite the rock, Marjorie.” It was my friend Sylvia with a giant vase of roses. “Sorry to muzzle in on intimate family moments, but this thing weighs a ton.”
My father took the flowers and set them on the bedside table. I was thrilled to see my friend and we embraced. Finally, I got it together enough to speak.
“That’s fantastic. It’s crazy but fantastic,” I said. They were the kinds of words you said when you didn’t know what to say. I’d never known my parents married. They split up when I was so young. “And congratulations!”
Somehow the three of us managed a group hug, another first, as Sylvia, never without some form of photographic equipment, snapped us with her smart phone.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Sylvia said. “I brought you a welcome-home gift, Clara.”
“You didn’t have to,” I said kindly.
She stuck her head out into the hall for a second. “Actually, it was something you picked up in London but left behind. You’ve got to learn to pack more carefully.”
Before I could react, Niall walked into the room.
“Hello, everyone,” he said and looked respectfully at my parents. “I’m Niall Adamson. Trinity told me which hospital you were in. And Sylvia found me waiting outside the door.”
“I told him not to be so English and polite, and to just follow me,” Sylvia explained cheerfully.
“I hope you’re feeling much better, Mrs. Bishop. And pleased to meet you, Mr. Bishop.” He shook both their hands as they looked at him with a mixture of confusion and friendliness. He was back in his slightly wrinkled, striped button-down and dark jeans. His hair was its normal wavy blond mess. And he was sexy as hell. I felt all sweetness and swooning and knew I was smiling. A reaction not lost on my parents.
“I take it he’s a friend of yours?” my father asked pointedly. Maybe he had some Rottweiler in him after all.
“A friend?” Marjorie scoffed. “From what I see, this young man is in love with Clara and she’s in love with him.”
Now it was my turn to be in full blush mode. I had no choice but to stare at my feet. I expected Niall to be the same shy retiring type that I was, but he didn’t seemed fazed by my parent’s bluntness.
“That is true, Mrs. Bishop,” he admitted with a sort of glee in his voice. “Though I’m not sure she loves me.”
I looked up, unsure what to do. Where was the fictional Clara when I needed her? As if sensing my dilemma, Marjorie shook her head.
“Clara, what’s gotten into you?” she said. “You don’t need those clothes to make you behave like the woman you are. Just be yourself.”
I locked stares with Marjorie. What did she mean exactly? She gave me a knowing nod. It was enough for me to know to ask more later. I stood up; my hair had dried into long loose waves and now flowed down my shoulders. The clothes were different, but the attitude was the same if I let it be. So I let it. I walked across the small floor space and stood practically on top of him; our noses nearly touched.
“What took you so long?” I practically purred.
He smiled that lopsided, cheeky grin of his. “To tell you I loved you or to arrive from London?” he teased.
“Either. Both,” I said playfully.
“The flights were booked tight so I had to fly standby,” he said.
“And the other thing?” I asked.
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t taking your husband back,” he said and looked at my parents. I checked too. Marjorie was smiling; my father was glaring.
“I won’t be doing any such thing,” I said and grabbed his hand. “You can count on that.”
“This is all very romantic,” my father said after he had cleared his throat. “But your mother needs to rest. Shall we all go to dinner?”
“I’d love that!” Sylvia said. We all looked at her. “That is, unless it’s strictly a family thing.”
“Of course you may join us,” my father said, then looked Niall up and down more carefully. “I take it you’re an Englishman?”
Niall nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And what is it you do?”
“I’m a reporter, like your daughter.”
“Clara is a screenwriter,” Marjorie corrected him.
Niall nodded politely, and he, Sylvia and my father padded out of the room, with me close behind. Marjorie called me back.
“Clara, how is the writing going?” she asked me. I stopped and turned back to her.
“Mom, even from a hospital bed you’re asking?”
“Well?” she asked again. It was like she knew. Only she couldn’t possibly.
“As I matter of fact, I did finish a new script,” I admitted.
“Can I read it?”
I hesitated. Back in film school she was my most severe critic. When I think about it, she was partly to blame for why I stopped writing. After everything I’d gone through to finish The Woman Scorned, the last thing I needed was her cutting it to shreds. But this one was as much hers as mine. It was part of the family. It was time she knew what happened to me while I was away, and how I’d done everything in my power to alter fate and had failed. I could have said any of that, but all I said was “Of course. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” she said emphatically. “After dinner go home and get it.”
“But you should rest,” I pointed out, a little alarmed by her intensity.
She shook her head. “I’ve done nothing but rest for three days now.”
“You’ll have it tonight,” I said and kissed her on the forehead.