Meet Me at the Starlight

Chapter 22

MATT

David Letterman: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the star of Flight Deck, Matt Knight.”

On a rainy April day in New York, movie star Matt Knight stepped around the giant fake column, into the lights and applause, and bowed to Paul Shaffer and the World’s Most Dangerous Band, and to the audience members who were on their feet, applauding and whistling.

Letterman: “You got more applause than I did.”

Matt: “I thought that’s why you had me on the show?”

Letterman laughed. Matt adjusted his tie.

Letterman: “It’s good to see you, man.”

Matt: “It’s good to be here. Thank you for asking me to fill in for your preferred guest, Emilio Estevez.”

Matt sensed the audience leaning into their banter as Dave tried to explain how Emilio couldn’t make it due to filming delays. There was a collective, feminine sigh, which Matt reacted to and got a laugh. Brat Packer Emilio was a hot ticket these days.

Matt: “Sure, rub it in. He’s working and I got fired.”

Letterman: “Come on, you got fired. But who cares, Flight Deck is still killing it at the box office. Are you cashing all your checks? Buying a yacht? A small European country?”

Matt: [chuckling] “I’m taking time off, visiting family.” No need to spoil the shtick by confessing he’d been rehired for the Cindy Canon movie.

Letterman: “And where is that? San Tropez? You’re so tan!”

Matt: “A small town in North Florida. My grandmother owns an iconic skating rink there. I’m on a quest to save it from ‘progress.’ Some of the locals want to tear it down and put up a parking lot.”

Letterman: “We’d heard you grew up roller skating. It’s still somewhat of a craze but I thought Xanadu killed the sport. [Laughter mingled with boos.] So, how do you plan on saving this rink?”

Matt: “The old-fashioned way, a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington sort of thing. We’re getting up a petition for the locals to sign so we can put it to a vote.”

Letterman: “You’re not using your star power, getting some of your buddies to come to town? I mean, I might be willing—”

Matt: “No, man, this is for the hometown folks. I’m just a regular Joe there.”

That got a light sigh and applause, and Matt soaked it up. From the moment he’d walked on set, the showman in him yawned and stretched awake. He sensed the crowd clinging to him, and he needed it. He was eager to please. Bring on the wow factor.

Letterman: “So you’re having fun in your hometown. So, what, what else are you doing?”

Hint: Entertain us, Matt.

Matt: “Well, it’s a lot of work saving a hundred-year-old rink built by a prince.”

Letterman: “A prince. What kind of town is this? Host to a prince and the great Matt Knight.”

Matt: “Don’t forget Harlow Hayes. She recently moved to Sea Blue Beach and is working at the Starlight, helping my grandmother and me.”

The mention of Harlow sparked Dave and the audience.

Letterman: “Harlow Hayes? The Harlow Hayes? What’s her reaction to Xander Cole and Davina breaking up again? I just heard about it today.”

Matt: “Dude, he flew down to see her.” [Matt shifted in his chair and the set became his living room.]

Letterman: “Really? So the romance isn’t over?”

Matt: “Who knows? Harlow’s smart. I don’t think she wants to be with a man who broke up with her by locking her out of their penthouse. Cole wouldn’t even let her go up to get her things. Security escorted her out and left her on the street. What a putz.”

Matt, what did you just say? He tried to replay it in his mind but the lights, the audience, Dave’s voice jammed his concentration.

Letterman: “He locked her out? Dang. So Harlow’s in Sea Blue Beach. Are you two an item?”

The audience leaned into the question, tugging on the actor, Matt Knight.

Matt: “No, no, we’re just friends.” [He winked at the crowd.] “For now. But yeah, she’s doing great, getting on a diet plan, working toward being the new CCW It Girl.”

Dude, what are you doing? Stop talking. Take it back. Say you’re joking. Call cut!

Letterman: “So the Billionaire and the Beauty could get back together, but the Bad Boy might give him a run for his money.” He turned to the audience. “Remember you heard it here first!”

Matt: [pushing a big laugh from his gut] “Haha, no, no, we’re friends. Y’all, I’m just kidding ... about everything. Made it up. Ha. I’m an actor, I lie for a living. I don’t know anything about Harlow’s life. Nothing at all.”

The audience deflated. Letterman’s expression hardened. No one believed him.

Matt: “So, are we doing Stupid Human Tricks or what?”

His adrenaline shut down so fast he couldn’t move. It was Booker Nickle all over again. Only worse, if possible. What was wrong with him? He’d patted his chest and promised her no one would ever know.

He just told millions of people Xander Cole treated her like toilet paper on the bottom of his shoe. Tomorrow it would be in the newspapers. Harlow, I’m sorry. He pictured her sitting on the window seat, so vulnerable and honest. Sorry wouldn’t be enough. He’d betrayed her. Fool. Stupid. The studio began to spin. His skin was on fire. Fix it. Fix it. How, how, how?

While he sat there in a pit of panic and self-loathing, someone shoved a pair of skates at him and pointed to the obstacle course. Matt tried to focus, but he felt like he was going to implode. Somehow, he managed to speak.

Matt: “Dave, what are we doing? Last time I did a Stupid Human Trick I almost broke my nose.”

The audience aah’d with sympathy as he removed his shoes and tugged on the skates. Anything to distract from his big, fat mouth. Why did he do it?

He managed not to kill himself during the Stupid Human Trick—which involved skates, ping-pong balls, a bungee cord, and Velcro—though death might have been mercy.

Afterward, he cornered the producer and begged him to cut out the Harlow segment. “She’ll be humiliated. Please don’t air it. Please.” The guy smiled, promising to give it a look.

Matt sat like death-warmed-over through a dinner meeting Cosmo set up last minute with the producers of a spy-thriller in development. Why didn’t he blow that secret instead of the one about Harlow?

On his way back to the hotel, he rehearsed a groveling apology, but nothing—no words—came close to fixing the damage. So, he resigned himself to the truth: Harlow Hayes would probably never speak to him again.

HARLOW

The rink had been closed for thirty minutes, but she remained at the ticket booth, flipping through a book that had arrived from Dad in the morning mail. High Output Management. He’d stuck a note inside.

Har,

Take a look at this. I think you’d like it. You’ve got a business mind. Let me know what you think.

Love, Dad

“You hanging out for a while, Harlow?” Spike quietly set a hot dog and Diet Coke on the booth. “The dog’s all beef.”

She smiled. “You spoil me.”

He winked and nodded. “We all need a bit of spoiling now and then.”

Nora also stopped by on her way out. “I left the sound on for Tooz.” She motioned to Harlow’s book. “Aren’t you going home?”

“In a minute.” She closed the book and tucked it under her handbag, ready to go home. “Spike brought me a hot dog.”

She took a small bite, but she really wasn’t hungry. Ever since Xander and her binge, food and home didn’t feel so cozy. She replayed that day over and over, how she barged out of the house, a woman on a mission. Then Matt witnessing her disgrace. Yet he’d been so gracious and sweet, acting like it was no big deal.

“I want you back.” What was she to do with Xander’s confession? Did she love him enough to overlook his betrayal?

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!

“Harlow, you’re still here.” Tuesday paused by the booth. “Did Matt tell you to stay? Keep an eye on me?”

“No, I just...” She gave her a soft smile. “Didn’t want to go home yet.”

“Put on your skates. Join me on the floor.”

“I don’t have skates.” She moved from behind the booth. “I’m interrupting your tradition. Tuesday Knight at the Starlight.”

“I’d like a little company.” There was a weight in her words, as if some royal command had to be obeyed. “Look in my office, in the cupboard. Bottom shelf.”

“Really, Tuesday, no. Harlow Hayes can’t skate.”

“Harlow Hayes can do whatever she wants to do. Tonight, it’s skating.” Her smile smoothed the lines on her face. “Come on, what are you afraid of, really? Get out there with me. It’ll do you good. Besides, I’ve always wanted a daughter. A granddaughter will do.”

Tuesday had played the trump card. “Okay, you win, but you have to promise not to laugh.” She’d spent so many years traveling, posing, and being viewed only for her exterior that being wanted for herself was irresistible.

In the office cupboard, Harlow found a large, battered box imprinted with the word Richardson. Inside was a beautiful pair of white, well-worn boots.

“Tuesday,” she said, carrying them out to the floor, “aren’t these yours? I’ll just get a pair of brownies.”

“Those were the first pair I ever owned. Leroy bought them for me and the boys one Christmas. Weren’t we something with our Richardsons, skating at the Starlight, in a Depression-era small town.”

“I’m sorry the town wants to knock it down.” Harlow joined Tuesday on the bench under the image of Immanuel and kicked off her shoes.

“All my life, people tried to knock me down, but Immanuel saw me through.”

“It’s sort of hard to trust in an image on the wall, Tuesday.” Harlow tugged on the first skate.

“Give it time. He’ll be the image in your heart soon enough.” Tuesday pointed to the skates. “Lace ’em up good. I’ll fire up the music.”

Working the rink night after night, Harlow had fallen in love with the fashion of skates—well, not the rentals, let’s be real—but the beautiful white boots the girls wore, accented with pom-poms. Still, she must be aware of the skates’ trickery—luring her in only to drop her to the ground the moment she moved.

Remember the day she passed out flyers? Exactly.

On the floor, Tuesday skated gracefully to “Clair de Lune,” arms wide, one leg raised gracefully behind her. “Come on, HH,” she called. “You can’t learn without effort.”

Harlow shoved up from the bench, grabbed the pony wall, and stepped her way onto the rink. She wanted to skate to the music. It was so lovely and peaceful. But for now, she’d be grateful to not fall. Glancing toward Tuesday, who was on the other side, turning in gentle circles, Harlow pushed off.

“I want to be like you when I’m eighty-seven,” she hollered.

“Then you’re in the right place.”

“What did you want at twenty-nine?” Glide right, left, trip, stumble, right, left, wheels clattering against the floor, then smack on the ground, face-first.

Tuesday rolled up and offered Harlow a hand. “What all women want. To be loved, give love. I wanted to be a family with Lee and the boys.”

“If anyone ever asked me,” she said, shoving onto her feet, trying not to use Tuesday for balance, “I would’ve told them all I wanted in life was a family. What’s better than being a mom, raising the next generation? Talk about a legacy.”

“You know, I think deep down Matty wants a wife and kids as much as anything.”

“Are you matchmaking, Tuesday?”

“Now why would an old woman like me try matchmaking?” With that, she skated off.

“Yeah, I hear you.” Harlow glanced back at Immanuel, who seemed remarkably and unrealistically alive for a painting. “Hey, are you going to help me learn to skate or what?”

First Tuesday got her into skates, and now she had her talking to a wall. Still, for a split second, she felt him smile. But since he wasn’t real—she didn’t care what Tuesday said—it had to be in her imagination.

For the next hour, she inched around the rink, arms like wings, braving a move away from the wall only to go down hard. All the while, Tuesday Knight skated freely around her.

Two women facing the end of everything they’d lived and worked for were leaving it all on the rink.

By the time they’d removed their skates, shut off the music and lights, and headed into the Starlight’s parking lot, Harlow had made it around the rink a dozen times without falling or reaching for the wall.

“You did well,” Tuesday said.

“Did I?” Harlow rubbed her butt bone. “I’ll be bruised in the morning.”

Tuesday glanced at the night sky, dotted with the stars, like a celestial Morse Code, then juggled her old pocketbook for a set of car keys. “What more evidence do we need than this night sky? God is with us, and that’s a great, great comfort.” She walked toward her car. “Are you going to watch Matt on Letterman?”

“I stopped watching late-night talk shows when I became a punch line.”

“Matt wouldn’t allow that to happen, Harlow.”

“Even so, good intentions can get lost. Matt can tell me about it when he gets home.”

“Well, you know best. Can I give you a lift?”

“Thank you, but I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful night.”

Harlow waited until Tuesday was in her car and driving off before making her way across the Starlight’s parking lot toward Sea Blue Way, feeling lucky, even a bit proud, to have skated with Tuesday. Wouldn’t Matt be surprised when he got home?

She’d just walked through the door when the phone rang. “Harlow, it’s Matt.” He sounded funny, like he was weak and far off. “I have to tell you something.”