Second Chance Love, page 8
Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at him. “Those yellow lines are there to tell people not to park there, you know. I thought you had a meeting tonight? I was just heading home.”
“Maybelle’s?”
Maybelle’s Home Cooking Diner was the source of much of his extra weight. He seemed addicted to the meatloaf, mashed potatoes, deep dish apple pie, and berry cobbler. After many years of dining on ramen noodles and mac and cheese, with only her white Persian cat Sebastian for company, she had come to look forward to dinners at Maybelle’s almost as much as he did.
Elizabeth shook her head, but took a step toward the car. Steve bounded around the back and opened the door for her, beaming.
As soon as they were settled in, Elizabeth said, “So I gather that Maybelle's is a key secret to your intense workout and dietary regimen?”
“No, it’s not. But when I think about going home and popping one of those healthy dinners in the oven, then eating it with no one but Suzi for conversation, well, that is not appealing to me.”
Elizabeth had almost been jealous of Suzi when they had first gotten together. The app knew more about Steve and his life than Elizabeth did. When they had gone to the movie Her with Joaquin Phoenix, she had found the moments about falling in love with an artificial intelligence rather disconcerting.
Then came the next step; one she should have seen coming. Steve had shown up at the bookstore the next day holding a prototype phone that wasn’t yet available to the public. He often tried to give Elizabeth gifts that could make her life easier, and Elizabeth made a practice of declining them. He had finally won the battle of the cell phone, though, piercing her resistance with the inarguable reality that a mobile phone would enable them to talk on the nights they were apart, since Elizabeth didn’t have a phone in her apartment.
When Steve had unboxed the sleek, black phone, she had said, “I said a phone. Something I can talk to you on. That looks like something out of a Ray Bradbury novel.”
“No, no, it’s a phone! Yes, it does some other, pretty trick stuff, but it’s still a phone. Watch.”
Steve slid his thumb across the black face of the phone. “We’ll set this to your thumbprint, so you’ll be the only one who can use it, but watch this.” Steve cleared his throat a little. “Hello, Max.”
A smooth baritone voice issued from the phone. “Hello, Steve. Is Elizabeth nearby? I am programmed to respond only to her voice after this initial conversation.”
Steve had nodded at Elizabeth. “Say hello to Max. He’s your Suzi.”
Many shades of doubt passed across Elizabeth’s face. “H…hello?”
“Hello,” Max said. “I recognize your voice pattern. May I call you Elizabeth, or do you prefer Lizzie? I know Steve calls you that.”
Elizabeth fixed Steve with a gaze that might have said, You have given me a slimy thing from the briny deep. “Eliz… Elizabeth is fine.”
“Very good. I will call you Eliz…Elizabeth, then.” Steve had found something fascinating in the distance and was making every effort to keep the smile off his face.
Elizabeth gathered her dignity. “No, just ‘Elizabeth’ will be fine. Thank you, Max.”
“You’re welcome, Elizabeth. Whenever you need me, say my name. I will respond.”
Over time and almost against her will, Elizabeth had come to like Max. He had served as her guide into the world of the Internet, new technology, and all that she had missed out on during her twenty-year hiatus from new things. Eventually, now that she knew it to be possible, she might even nerve herself up to write a book review on some website. Sometimes, Elizabeth wondered if Suzi and Max had any digital hanky-panky while she and Steve were asleep.
The diner wasn't far, and they walked up the steps and inside. First came the routine inspection and welcoming hugs from Maybelle, who showed them to their regular booth in the back. Elizabeth said, “Seriously, honey, I know we both love it here, but I think we need to cut it down to once a week. I can’t cook like Maybelle, but who can? I’m sure Max can find me some healthy recipes and show me videos on how to cook them.”
Steve reached across the table and took her hand. “It didn’t take long for you to become a 21st Century girl, did it? You always were adaptable. And you’re still my Always-Practical-Lizzie.” He sighed a little. “I know you’re right. It’s just… These last six months with you have been so wonderful that I still feel like I'm making up for lost time. I want to live. For so long, it felt like I wasn’t really doing that."
“Me too,” Elizabeth admitted. “Thank you for this time. It’s meant everything to me.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a brush-off speech.” Steve grinned. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Are you ever serious?”
“Sometimes. Right now, I am seriously thinking that we need to make plans for the 4th of July. It’ll be here before we know it. There’s so many places I want to go with you, and we haven’t been able to do any of them yet. I still feel bad that I had to cancel our Mexican cruise last month because this big deal came up. So, how about we fly to San Francisco and drive down to Monterey? I’ve heard it’s gorgeous there this time of year. Or maybe Sedona? We could let the summer sun burn out the last traces of winter from our bones? Or, since we’ve both got our passports now, we could fly to one of those resorts in the Caribbean for a few days. What do you think?”
“I think you are extravagant when you don’t need to be. They’ll have the fireworks display down by the river. Why don’t we just stay in town and watch them like we did when we were kids? We had so much fun. I could pack us a picnic, and we could spend the afternoon talking and reading and then watch the fireworks. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Sure it would, until the mosquitoes showed up and carried us away to feed their young.”
“Steve Larson, you have turned into a fuddy-duddy in your middle years.” Her voice scowled, but her eyes sparkled. “Besides, you have planned every single thing we’ve ever done. I'm competent to plan a simple outing. Let me take care of our Fourth, okay?”
Steve wasn’t often beaten at the negotiation table, but he was smart enough to know when to quit. He nodded. Elizabeth changed the subject. “So, what kind of earth-shaking happenings occurred at Larson Industries today?”
“I know things are usually pretty boring at the office, but we actually had big doings today. Do you remember my trip to Japan?”
“Last December? Of course.”
“Well, today was the culmination of that trip. About a year ago, Suzi was monitoring some online chatter about a resort development in the Philippines that was nearly finished when the builders ran out of money. They had tapped every resource they could find, but couldn’t get enough capital to button things up. All they had was an unfinished resort that was leveraged to the hilt and beyond. They went under, and the bank that had underwritten the bulk of the loans took ownership, but they didn’t want to carry such a big fixed asset on their books. And the last thing they wanted to do was open a resort subsidiary to finish the place and run it. The bank was ready to horse trade, if someone had the resources.”
Elizabeth nodded. I spend my days dusting and reading books written more than a century ago. He spends his days looking for deals that are worth millions or maybe billions. At night, though, when it’s just us, we’re the same.
“I knew it was too big for us. We didn’t have the kind of capital to swing a deal like that, so I reached out to some Japanese investors that I had met at a conference a few years ago, to see if they were interested. They were, and we’ve spent the last six months hammering out the terms and new financing with the bank. It’s the biggest deal we’ve ever done, by a factor of ten, and we closed on it today. I think that’s worth a celebratory meal, don’t you?”
“What do you do now? Are you going to try and operate a beachfront resort in the Philippines from here?”
“No, that would never work. That’s not my expertise. I put deals together, not operate resorts. We ended up paying about forty cents on the dollar. There’s a lot of meat on the bone for all of us when we sell it. We’ll put in the last few million that’s needed to finish it up, and then it will be attractive to a big buyer. Maybe one of the resort or timeshare chains. It’s a jewel of a setting, forty acres right on the ocean. Even with our investors, it’s stretched us thinner than we’ve ever been, but when we sell it, it will make more money for the firm than we’ve made in the last three years combined.”
Does it really matter that your company earns $200 million this year, instead of $50 million? I guess it does, to him.
“Congratulations, then.” She lifted her water glass and clinked it against his. “Let’s celebrate.”
“I believe I will. With some meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
Chapter Sixteen
Three weeks later, Elizabeth was sitting in her normal spot behind the counter, enjoying the morning’s first cup of coffee, when Gail slammed through the door with above-normal exuberance. “I got a callback. A callback. That’s what they call it when they think you’re so wonderful that they want to see you again.”
"Oh, for Bed and Breakfast Bullies?”
Gail put one hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows half an inch. “No, that’s not what it’s called and you know it. For Guest House Gestapo. There were about a thousand people at that tryout at the mall. They put us all in front of a video camera and asked us a lot of silly questions. The guy who was running the auditions said he was going to have to send a runner to buy more tape after my first answer. I think he was kidding. Anyway, they must have liked what I had to say because now they’re flying me out to Los Angeles to be interviewed by the executive producer. That’s what they call the woman who’s in charge of the whole thing."
Elizabeth hurried around the counter and hugged Gail. “That’s so exciting! Congratulations. I can’t think of anyone that deserves to be on television more than you.”
“Well, it’s not the same as having an old boyfriend turn up and sweep you off your feet and, oh, yeah, he’s a millionaire, but I’ll take my thrills where I can find them.”
Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. They’re putting me up at a hotel, and paying for my airfare and everything. I’ve got Dalya all set to take my place at the store. I’m taking this afternoon off too, so I can go home and pack and get ready. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t get any work done today anyway.”
She hustled to the door and was gone before Elizabeth could say goodbye. “Call me,” Elizabeth shouted into a slipstream perfumed with incense and lavender.
The following Wednesday, Gail walked back through the front door of the Prints and the Pauper. Without a word.
“Well?” Elizabeth said.
“Well, what?”
“Oh, don’t you be coy with me. Are you on the show?”
“I don’t know yet. They sent me back home last night and told me that if I made the show, I would know this week.”
Elizabeth looked at her more closely. “Don’t worry. They’d be crazy to pass on you."
"Are you so sure?" For once, no self-assurance. I have never seen this. This is solemn Gail. I miss Tropical Storm Gail.
"Someday I’ll be able to tell people that I knew you when—"
The door to the shop slammed open hard, sending a few bargain paperbacks tumbling to the floor.
Elizabeth stepped toward the door, a warrior-priestess ready to defend her temple from barbarian invaders, but a young man pushed past her. He had sandy blond hair and a million-watt plastic smile, and sported a gray suit with a red tie. Immediately behind him came a burly man aiming a camera as if it were a surface-to-air missile launcher. The parade continued with a guy wearing a Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers t-shirt, carrying a long boom with a microphone attached to the end of it.
“Excuse me!” Elizabeth said, but the young man pushed right past her. His smile turned up another half notch. Before Elizabeth could react, Plastic Smile took a position opposite Gail.
“Gail Weathers, I am Skip Corcoran. Congratulations! You have been chosen to be on Guest House Gestapo! You have one hour to pack whatever you can fit into this bag.” He handed her a green duffel bag with the Guest House Gestapo logo printed on it, a fist superimposed upon stylized chains.
Gail squealed, jumped, and clapped her hands like an unhinged person. And now her whole body is smiling. Such unbounded joy!
“Do you have anything you’d like to tell our viewing audience?”
With great difficulty and iron self-mastery, Elizabeth suppressed a belly laugh.
“Hi! I’m Gail, and you’re going to be seeing, and, I guess, hearing, a lot from me this summer on Guest House Gestapo. I have been waiting my entire life for this opportunity to come along, and you can bet your sister Sadie’s very last dollar that I am not going to blow it now that I’ve got it…”
The verbal avalanche caught Skip Corcoran by surprise. His smile faded when her voice did not. Finally, Skip leaned forward toward the camera and said, “Cut. Wrap. Let’s go on to the next one.”
Gail was still talking, holding the duffel bag.
Chapter Seventeen
That Friday night, Steve picked up Elizabeth at the shop and drove across town to his condo. As soon as Elizabeth was buckled in, Steve said: “So, tell me again, why we’re going straight home instead of stopping for our normal Friday night blue plate special at Maybelle’s?”
“Several reasons, actually. One, we agreed we would limit ourselves to Maybelle’s once a week, and we went last night. More importantly, though, tonight is the premiere of Guest House Gestapo–the night Gail becomes a star!”
“I know, I know. I’ve got it set to DVR. We don’t need to be there to watch it live.”
“I was talking about it with Max a little while ago, and he told me that these kind of shows sometimes require people to call in and vote for them. I want to be there for her in case she needs it.”
Forty-five minutes later, Elizabeth had made a fair effort at a chicken stir-fry. They were eating on the deep leather couch in front of Steve’s 60 inch Samsung, waiting for the show to begin.
“How long’s it been since you’ve watched a television show?”
“Oh. Let me think.” Elizabeth twisted her mouth to the left, then right. “I went over to Gail’s for a Christmas dinner a few years ago, and we watched It’s a Wonderful Life. It was very good. Just like I remember it as a kid. Does that count?”
Steve laughed, and said, “No, not really. How about a series, like Law & Order, or The Sopranos?”
“The Sopranos sounds good. Is it about Beverly Sills?”
Steve looked at her closely, but couldn’t tell if she were serious.
“I remember watching Sex and the City," she added, "but that was probably a while ago.”
“Well, things have changed a little bit since you were last watching television. They call this 'reality TV,' but it has almost nothing to do with reality.”
Just then, a TV-themed version of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries blasted out of the surround-sound system, showing a sequence of names and faces behind mock prison bars. "There she is!" exulted Elizabeth, as Gail's open-mouthed smile tracked across the screen. When all the contestants' names and faces had passed, Skip Corcoran appeared on the screen. He flashed his Brylcreem smile, then assumed a tone of mock severity. His voice was low, pitched as though taking the viewer into his confidence.
“Good evening, America, and welcome to the premier of Guest House Gestapo, the show where contestants will be pushed, prodded, tested, and…for all but one, ultimately broken. Behind me is the guest house, where nineteen people are about to find their lives changed…forever!”
The theme music blared again, and the camera zoomed in on a large, stone-built house. A linked GHG was projected on one wall above a fist with crossed chains. The scene faded out, replaced by a small Australian-accented reptile who seemed to be selling insurance.
“Well, that was cheesy,” Elizabeth said.
“That was pretty typical for these sorts of shows. The whole idea is to put people with divergent backgrounds into a closed environment, ratchet up the pressure and see who breaks.”
The commercials eventually ended. When the show came back on, Skip Corcoran was standing in front of a studio audience. They applauded as though he had just uttered the most profound words in human history.
“Welcome back, America. Tonight, you will be witnessing one of the greatest social experiments ever attempted, and we’ll put you right in the middle of the action. We have placed over fifty cameras and twice as many microphones inside the guest house. From the moment the detainees enter the house, privacy will be a distant memory. Now, let’s meet our detainees!”
A curtain behind Skip opened to reveal nineteen people standing, smiling and waving. The camera started at the left side of the group and panned slowly to the right, pausing for a moment on each face. Gail was fourth from the left. She had promised to send a message to Elizabeth that she was thinking of her, and when her moment in the sun arrived, she mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. Then she laughed, but the camera was already moving on.
“She looks beautiful,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, but one of these things is not like the other. Everyone else looks like they are auditioning for an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, and Gail is a little more, um, mature.”
“She knew it was going to be that way going in. She thinks it’s an advantage. Maybe she can be the house mom.”
The contestants were a melting pot of backgrounds and races. There were two people dressed in business suits. One was wearing jeans and a cowboy hat. A surfer dude wore nothing but board shorts and a smile. The only other person that looked to be over thirty was a small, bald man dressed in an ankle-length robe, tied around his middle with a rope.
