A man should never propose to a woman in a public place. Not unless he’d already talked to her about marriage and he’d caught her flipping through bridal magazines while doodling hearts around his name.
And even then . . . there were no guarantees.
I worked on a reality TV show called Vows, where a marriage proposal was a matter of contract—something the bachelor had to do whether he wanted to or not, and even then—with a few million dollars on the line and several nations watching—there were still no guarantees. Relationships were unpredictable, wretched things.
I opened my mailbox and rubbed at my eyes, which burned from staying up late the night before then getting up early and spending nearly the whole day studying flash mob marriage proposals. I wanted a few new ideas that might be useful and fresh for the next season of Vows. It was good to be well informed on the job—especially since I was now the second assistant director.
What I’d learned from watching guy after guy get down on one knee in front of basketball fans, circus patrons, and live studio audiences was that you’d better hope your mom wasn’t watching as the would-be girl of your dreams widened her eyes in horror, shook her head no, and ran like someone had called in a bomb threat.
I rubbed my eyes again, wished I’d been smart enough to have caught a small nap during the afternoon, and tugged the envelope out of my mailbox.
My heart went into some strange sort of arrhythmia after I caught sight of the return address on the envelope. It was from Ballad Studios. News about my screenplay. Ballad was one of the few studios that still wanted screenplay submissions in paper. Most were happy to work via e-mail, but not Ballad.
And I now held an envelope from them in my hands with a decision waiting for me on the inside.
I almost threw up on my own feet.
The sound of a car horn blaring behind me startled me enough that I almost dropped the envelope.
I tossed a quick smile to Lawrence, which would hopefully keep him from laying on the horn again. I had neighbors, and some of them worked graveyards. Some had children. None of them would approve of Lawrence and his car horn.
I wanted to turn around and go back into my house to read my letter in private, but Lawrence was taking me to the Walt Disney Concert Hall to see Holst’s The Planets. Hiding out in my apartment and reading this letter by myself wouldn’t exactly be the show of support my best friend from since forever ago had wanted when she asked me to the event. Janette had organized the concert and really wanted me there for opening night. Lawrence wasn’t all that impressed with me wanting to go see the Los Angeles Philharmonic do a musical rendition of our solar system, but I hadn’t really cared when I told him I didn’t want to do anything else for our four-month anniversary.
I had to go.
Besides, Lawrence would be insanely ticked if I missed our anniversary, which totally baffled me. Four months of casual dating was not a milestone to be celebrated. It was something to be commented on, shrugged over, not thought of again until you hit five months—if you hit five months.
Lawrence’s hand went to the horn again, but I waved, smiled, and headed his direction before he actually made contact with it. We probably wouldn’t hit five months. My dad wasn’t all that fond of Lawrence. When I asked Dad why, he said something about Lawrence being the poster child for an entitled white guy and left it at that.
Dad never made racial slurs, for obvious reasons. He was also a white guy, and he was married to my Barbadian black mom. Between the two of them, one of my brothers looked like a pasty European, and one looked like a dark-chocolate candy bar. I was caught between the two, which was nice because my naturally darker skin and my black eyelashes and brows meant my monthly makeup expense consisted of a tube of dollar store lip gloss—any flavor but cherry.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for good genetics.
I stuffed the letter in my purse and sent up a prayer that whatever the envelope contained wouldn’t make me cry anything but happy tears. Sad tears were simply not allowed.
Lawrence was out of the car and opening my door before I had time to properly paste on a smile. “What’s wrong, babe?” He brushed a quick kiss over my lips and motioned for me to get in so we wouldn’t be late.
“Nothing.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Please don’t let me be a liar.
He reached over and took my hand as soon as he was back in the car and turning off my road. Our hands were a contrast and not just in color. He had baby soft hands because he had a manicure-and-pedicure habit he couldn’t seem to kick. It was almost embarrassing that his hands were soft, pink things—something you’d see on a newborn—while my hands were calloused and one sported a bandage from moving camera and light equipment on my job.
“You look amazing, you know,” he said, which was always nice to hear.
I smiled and thanked him for the compliment. My mother taught me that pretty girls who never said thank you when they were complimented were ugly inside. She said she didn’t care how pretty I was outside if my insides hid a repulsive monster. She never let my looks go to my head, but sometimes it was nice to be told I looked amazing.
“How was your day?” Lawrence asked.
“Great. Max said they were down to the final bachelor pick, so we’ll start filming in the next month.”
His smile turned down for a moment. “Oh. That’s too bad. That means we’ll never see each other.”
We’d had this argument before. He’d been complaining about my job more and more as time ticked down to when I’d have to start keeping erratic working hours.
His hand hit the horn as someone cut him off.
I imagined my father raising an eyebrow at Lawrence’s behavior and winced inwardly.
I know, Dad. Not what you want for me.
I met Lawrence at a bookstore. It was part of why I liked him. I did a lot of reading on set because I wasn’t allowed to make any noise during a take, yet I was required to be present for every one of them. A handsome guy in a bookstore, holding a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in his hands, seemed like a miraculous discovery. When he asked for my number, I nearly girl-screamed. And I never girl-scream. I leave that silliness to the bachelorettes mugging for reality TV.
It turned out the book had been a gift for his sister. But I hadn’t known that when we’d gone on our first date, though I’d suspected by the end of the second date. By then we’d already become semicomfortable with each other. He was easy enough to talk to—which was weird, considering how little we’d known of each other. But he was safe and polite, to me anyway. He wasn’t always nice to everyone else. But to me . . . he really tried hard to be a gentleman.
And I wanted a gentleman for myself. I wanted a man like my father.
Lawrence was a gentleman, but he wasn’t anything like my father. He had a way of making other people feel uncomfortable. He snapped at waitresses, belittled cashiers, and treated the world with disdain in general.
And he didn’t read books.
He actually laughed at me when I told him I was in a book club in Newport with a bunch of other women. At least, he laughed until he realized I wasn’t laughing. Then he was all kinds of supportive. But I’d seen the scorn, and I couldn’t unsee what I had already seen.
The time apart would likely be good for us. Lawrence might decide to move on to someone who didn’t work sixteen-hour days for three straight months. I shot him a sideways glance as he continued to whine about me going back to work. He talked pretty much nonstop the rest of the way to the concert hall. I let him. He liked talking more than I did.
“Told you we needed to hurry,” Lawrence said as he finally found parking and opened my door for me.
I laughed. “We’re fine. Don’t panic. Janette wants me to support her, but she didn’t say we needed to be an hour early. Relax.”
“I’m relaxed.” He smiled and rolled his shoulders, but he didn’t fool me. He was as relaxed as a hurricane hitting land.
We entered the concert hall and found our seats right up front.
Janette looked beautiful with her brown hair twisted up in an elegant knot at the side of her head. Her form-fitting black gown accentuated her vampire pale skin. I caught her eye and waved. She waved back but returned to talking quietly with someone in a tuxedo. Knowing she was busy, I went back to chat with Lawrence.
At least, I tried to chat. His right leg jiggled in an almost spastic rhythm as he scanned the concert hall. I put my hand on his leg to calm him down. “Are you okay?”
But he ignored that question too. He moved to his feet and mumbled, “I’ll be right back.”
He speed-walked toward the aisle, where he passed Janette with barely a glance. Janette raised an eyebrow at his lack of cordiality but shook it off and moved in my direction.
“You guys having issues?” she asked.
“Maybe he has to use the restroom. He’s been kind of weird all night.” I stood and hugged her. “Soooo, are you nervous?”
She laughed and kissed my cheek before she let me release her. “I thought I would be, but I’m really not. Super weird, but I’m just excited to be here. We’ve received permission to use dozens of NASA pictures for the visual display.”
“It’s great you get to do what you love for a living.”
I apparently didn’t hide the envy in my tone because she gave me a half smile. “You’ll be there. Just give it some time.”
“Time . . . right.” I leaned over and pulled the envelope out of my purse. “I got a letter today from Ballad Studios.”
She ripped the envelope out of my hands. “No way! What does it say?” she asked. I snatched it back at the same time she frowned. “You haven’t even opened it yet.”
“I’m waiting for the right moment. I want to have a nice evening, you know, enjoying your music and science. If I open it and it’s bad news . . .”
“Why are you putting that kind of talk out into the universe? Why can’t you assume this letter holds your every dream come true?”
I leaned back a little on the arm rest and sighed. “Because I’ve received so many letters like this before—well, e-mails anyway. I don’t think this is any different just because it’s on paper.”
She gave me a hmph and swatted my shoulder. “There you go again, putting out all that negativity. Have some hope.”
“Janette . . .” The whine had overtaken my voice, but she was too good a friend to swat me for that too. “I’m just so tired of failing.”
“You aren’t failing. You’re working your way through the sludge. Everybody has to pay their dues, love. You aren’t the exception. But paying dues doesn’t give you the right to give up. Every day, you’re closer to being a full-fledged screenwriter. Soon, people will be buying tickets and eating too much popcorn at a blockbuster movie you wrote.”
“I hope so.”
She hugged me again. “I know so.” She looked around when she released me. “Is that boyfriend of yours lost or something?”
I glanced around as well, picking through the dresses and suits to try to find a clue as to where he might have gone. “No idea. Like I said. He’s been acting weird all night.”
Her pale blue eyes fixed on me. “And things are going . . . okay for you two?”
I gave a wimped-out, one-armed shrug rather than an answer.
“Hmm.”
“What are you hmm-ing about?”
She gave me the look—the one she’d been giving me since we were kids with crooked pigtails and badly painted fingernails. “You just don’t seem like yourself with him. You guys don’t do things you like to do when you’re together.”
I let that statement settle before pointing out the obvious. “We’re here tonight. That’s something I want to be doing.”
“Well, sure, but I bet this wasn’t his first choice, and I bet he tried to talk you out of it.”
I didn’t confirm her suspicions. It was bad enough that she was right, but I didn’t need her to give me the other look—the one that gloated while remaining compassionate.
“We’re fine,” I assured her. “But don’t worry about me losing myself to the ego of some guy. We’re down to the final bachelor pick on Vows. We’re a little behind on production schedule, but I have to go in for the final auditions. It’s back to work for me, which means no dating life.”
Janette scowled. “That’s not any better. You lose yourself to a guy or you lose yourself to work. Either way you lose. You should open that letter. It might have a million-dollar contract in it.”
“I’m okay! I’ll open it when I get home. Stop worrying, Mom.” I smiled wide for her, and then I frowned. “Wait a minute. Did my mother put you up to this conversation?”
Janette at least had the good sense to blush over getting caught. It was hard to be mad at her when her cheeks pinked up like that. Some people passed us to get to their seats, which distracted me just long enough that Janette was able to slip away with a wave and a, “I gotta get back to check on the orchestra. We’ll talk later.”
“Yes, we will.” I shot her a look of my own—the one that said I meant business—but she just smiled and waved as though we had nothing left to discuss.
I hated that my mom and my best friend were such good friends. It was tough keeping secrets when the two women I was closest to compared notes.
Lawrence returned, looking flushed and winded.
“You okay?” I asked again as we took our seats. Was he sick? I edged a little farther from him, just in case. With the new season of filming about to start, getting sick was not an option for me.
“Fine, why?” He took my hand in his, which I reluctantly let him do, figuring I would wash my hands later if he really did have the flu or something.
Would he notice if I dug out the bottle of Purell from my purse?
As that thought crossed my mind, the lights went down and the bows fluttered over the string instruments. I loved the warm-up noises of an orchestra, so I pushed aside my misgivings about possibly ill boyfriends and studio contracts and settled into my seat to watch the performance.
Janette had chosen well. I loved Holst’s work, and The Planets was my favorite. When the lights for intermission came up, I sighed deeply. This was what I needed, something relaxing. It was putting me in the frame of mind I needed to go home and have the courage to open my letter from Ballad Studios.
The conductor called our attention to the front before patrons could make the dash to the restrooms. He made a point of giving a special thanks to Janette Rallison for coordinating the event and to the patrons who supported the arts—naming several large benefactors—and then he said something odd.
He called up Lawrence Reynolds to make a special announcement.
Lawrence let go of my hand after flashing me a brief smile. He made his way to the front as my heart rate stopped altogether before skyrocketing into something that had to have resembled a heart attack. No. Please no. He couldn’t be doing what I thought he was doing. My mind flashed back to all of the marriage proposals gone wrong that I’d watched on YouTube the night before and all morning and afternoon. I sank lower into my seat. My face heated up; my hands gripped the armrests of my chair. My head shook no while my mind raced for an exit strategy.
Lawrence stood too close to the microphone, so his voice boomed out.
And then he said the words I didn’t want to hear.
“Victoria Winters, will you marry me?”
The word no stuck in my throat until it felt like I’d choke on it. I didn’t think my eyes could open any wider.
There was only one thing to do.
I ran like someone had called in a bomb threat. And hoped his mother wasn’t watching.