17. Milt McAllister
17
MILT MCALLISTER
PRENTICE
I admit to being intimidated about meeting Opinionated O’Connor.
Nicky was easy. Ian’s girlfriend was darling. I went to dinner with her and Aftermath after the truck concert at the high school, and Nicky had been friendly and fun and easy to talk to. Within half an hour of meeting her, I felt like she’d gone to Caumsett High with Mal, Archer, Ian, and me.
But Archer’s girlfriend felt very different.
I saw her pretty much as soon as we entered the private terminal at LAX. She was a tall, queenly redhead who held herself as if she had twenty-nine million followers.
Which, of course, she did.
Still, when she saw Archer, her face lit up. I thought we were going to get an epic movie-star kiss until Charlotte spotted O’Connor.
The dog had been heeling, staying tidily at Archer’s hip through the chaos of the airport. But she broke her training when she spotted O’Connor. The dog launched herself down the concourse, scattering assorted billionaires and sheiks and movie executives to get to the redhead.
Showing more spirit than most of the other startled passengers, O’Connor stood her ground, laughing. “Charlotte!” she cried happily.
The dog attempted to regain control, but she was just too big, and the slick floor of the concourse provided no traction. In an attempt to slow down before crushing O’Connor, Charlotte simply sat midstride. O’Connor stepped neatly to one side as the Great Dane sailed past her, huge head turning to keep O’Connor in her sights.
Then her paws scrabbled on the marbleized floor and Charlotte was back up again, her head on the shoulder of the now-kneeling O’Connor, her tail wagging like industrial-strength windshield wipers on high.
Then Archer was there. He pulled O’Connor up and gave her a Hollywood kiss. Two absolutely beautiful people, ignoring the world around them and seeing only each other.
It might have gone on if Charlotte hadn’t butted her huge head into O’Connor. The kiss was broken by laughter, and Archer clipped a lead on Charlotte’s collar.
“So much for showing off how well-trained you are, you terrible, horrible, misbehaving doggy. Sit.”
Her initial excitement over, Charlotte went back to being a very good, very oversized pet. I had a flicker at the base of my brain—wouldn’t it be something for Charlotte to greet me with as much joy?—and then joined the impromptu receiving line that developed for introductions.
Nicky and O’Connor knew each other and exchanged hugs. Ian introduced O’Connor to his family and Nicky’s parents, and Mal presented his mother and then me.
“Miss O’Connor,” I said, trying not to gush, “thank you so much for helping with the launch of our arts program at the high school. Your posts made all the difference.”
“Just call me O’Connor, please. I want to hear all about it.” Her hand was holding my sleeve absently. She wanted to talk to me ? How thrilling! She turned to the group as a whole. “I saw the network’s luxurious little bus outside. I bet their rep is waiting for you past baggage claim. Let’s go down there, shall we? Can I call you Prentice?” She drew me down the concourse, and the others followed.
“Of course—absolutely!” I was walking with royalty!
“So, this Arts Council of yours,” she said. “I’ve looked into it. You’re small, but you’ve got a great mission.”
“Thank you!” I was in fangirl mode. Clearly, I needed to pull myself together. If The Arts Council could gain the long-term support of a social media influencer . . . yeah. That could be very helpful. I needed to find my A Game.
“So many kids posted videos of the truck concert, but they don’t have the rest of the story, you know? Tell me what the upshot was. Did anyone check out the website? Did you get any nibbles?”
I laughed, delighted with the news I had to share and also embarrassed that we hadn’t thought to update her. “Our little server crashed! The interest was huge and came from all over the country. The Council is accelerating our pilot program to include five more regions, and we’re scrambling to come up with resources for all the people who want arts programs.”
“That’s insane. Incredible! Your mission has really caught fire. Can I interview you? I’d love to do something more in-depth.”
“Oh! Oh yes, of course! But I think you really should talk to my boss, Kimmy.”
“Is Kimmy dating a man I now think of as my brother? I don’t think so. In addition to learning about your mission, I also have to vet you, Prentice. Make sure you know just how special Mal is.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Mal had his mother on his arm and her tote bag over his shoulder. He grinned at me.
“I definitely know how special he is,” I said. “He’s been rescuing me since first grade. Mal was my hero long before Aftermath.”
“Re-e-e-e-eally,” O’Connor drew out the word in consideration. “You’ll need to tell me everything.”
“I want to hear this too!” Nicky had appeared on my other side. She linked her arm through my elbow.
Any sense of being intimidated had evaporated. I felt seen and welcome—and eager to tell these wonderful women the stories of beautiful, large Mal when he was barely more than a toddler and still saving people from the bad guy. “Will we have time?” I laughed.
“Never been to a TV taping, huh?” O’Connor pointed to a man holding a sign that said macgregor , as Phil’s name would earn less attention than a sign reading aftermath . Even in the private terminal, people in LA were used to being discreet. The guy bowed and scraped and did all sorts of polite things to herd us onto a posh little bus that fit all fourteen of us in comfort (counting O’Connor and Charlotte).
Archer grabbed O’Connor and dragged her to the back of the bus, where he could kiss her in peace, and I sat behind Gerta and Mal, next to Ian’s younger brother, Finn, who was eager to talk to me about painting and sculpture as after-school activities. He was in art school and a total charmer.
The building we were brought to was the least remarkable-looking space in the world. Perhaps there was a massive milt mcallister show marquee on the other side, but the underground garage we drove into didn’t have a single identifying sign. Once we were through the security screening, we were escorted upstairs to a hallway as long and boring as any average office building. Unremarkable people scurried here and there with no sense of importance at all.
O’Connor appeared at my side and picked up where she’d left off. “You’ve never been to a taping, right? I’m telling you, we have lots of time. Come on in.”
We were shown into a living room, which was a strange thing to find off a very corporate hallway. There were sofas and chairs, large TVs on the walls, and a snack area with a coffeemaker and a fridge for drinks. A nice guy introduced himself as a producer named Kyle and immediately pulled Aftermath into a corner to talk to them. That left the rest of us clustered around O’Connor, who seemed to know what she was doing.
“I got the schedule when I let them know I was joining Archer,” she said. “This is our greenroom. There’s a bathroom with a shower through there. We can hang out here until the taping, which will be at five. The guys will be interviewed and sent into hair and makeup. We’ll be shown to seats in the front of the audience before taping. Meanwhile, we just sit around, which is why I want to interview Prentice about her arts program. Hang on, let me get a room.”
She disappeared, striding down the corporate hall as if she knew exactly where to go.
I checked in with Mal once the producer left. He gave me a quick kiss when I told him O’Connor wanted to interview me. “Have fun,” he said. “O’Connor’s okay. One of the good ones. You can trust her.”
“And you’re okay if I go? Do you want me to hang with your mother instead?”
Mal looked at his mother, tucked into a sofa and in deep conversation with Archer’s mom. “Our families have known each other for years. She’s okay. Don’t worry about us. See if you can get O’Connor to support The Arts Council again.”
“That’s what I was thinking!” I kissed him again and followed O’Connor when she reappeared and beckoned.
Nicky wanted to come with us but felt she would be abandoning her parents, who really didn’t know anyone else but Ian. O’Connor gave Nicky a one-armed hug and promised to give her access to the full recording.
Probably by virtue of her queenly presence, nobody at the Milt McAllister Show asked O’Connor any questions. They just set her up in a small office, brought in a light lunch with bottles of chilled water and white wine, and left us alone. Then O’Connor grilled me.
Oh, she wasn’t rude at all. Just the opposite—she was extremely flattering. She wanted a level of detail into The Arts Council’s mission that nobody outside the organization had ever found particularly interesting before.
And the wine went down so easily.
Before I realized it, I was being entirely indiscreet about the entire Furneau family—about patriarch Jack, who pretty much ran the known financial universe. About his soon-to-be ex-wife, Gigi, and her longing to be a part of my mother’s circles.
And of course about Johnston Furneau, who thought I belonged to him like some kind of possession.
“And that’s who Mal has been rescuing you from?” O’Connor poured me another glass of wine.
I came briefly to my senses. She was too easy to talk to. “Seriously, are you going to use any of this?”
O’Connor shrugged. “Probably not. My followers prefer their tales of obscene wealth to come with more scandal than you’ve got going on here. No one in your story has had butt-enhancement surgery. No one’s married an NBA star. I’ll bet there’s not a single gold toilet anywhere in your community.”
I laughed at the thought. Bitsy Luce on a gold toilet? My dear.
“So,” she said, “I can pretty much guarantee your secrets are safe with me, and I’ll definitely give you a heads-up if I use any of them. But now that we’re done talking about The Arts Council, the only reason I’m still recording is because Nicky wanted to hear this. Okay?”
Her eyes were open and sincere. She leaned forward confidingly, and I matched her pose. O’Connor was trustworthy; I just knew it. And she had Mal’s respect. “Okay.”
She laughed. “We need to get you some media training if you’re going to stick with Mal. But never mind that now. Tell me about the bullying.”
I was confused. Was I being suckered?
O’Connor read my hesitation. “We’re both dating members of Aftermath. I’m not going to screw with you. I’m just interested. So, Mal was your hero even before Aftermath?”
Her questions were a match to dry tinder. I couldn’t get the stories out fast enough—including how my own parents hadn’t taken the bullying seriously. “The school wouldn’t call Johnston out because his family is so powerful. So really, the only person who helped me was Mal. Yeah, he’s my hero.”
O’Connor wore a soft smile. “He’s an amazing guy, there’s no doubt. Archer says Mal won’t take advantage of groupies because he’s afraid they want more than a quickie. He’s too nice to disappoint them.”
“He kind of said the same thing to me. Groupies. Damn. There’s a lot to think about with a hot rock band, isn’t there?”
My astonishment made O’Connor laugh. “You didn’t follow my series when I was first teaching Archer how to be a good date?”
“Of course,” I protested. “Everyone did. He kissed with his teeth.”
She half closed her eyes in smugness. “Not anymore. He’s definitely cured of that. But before that, Archer met a lot of interested fans. And a guy as handsome as Mal? He could have his pick. But he doesn’t.”
Was I entitled to feel smug about that? Maybe not, but I was certainly pleased.
“Still, there came a time when you all graduated, and Mal wasn’t around to defend you. What happened then with Johnston Furneau?”
I nodded, thinking back on a massive time of transition in my life. “Yeah. It was rough for a while. We ran in the same circles, you know? We’re both sailors out of the same harbor, and there are dances and parties and like that. That first summer was . . . god, it was miserable. Once Mal was gone, Johnston became unbearable.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, well, he’d tell his friends that I was his girl-in-training, only sometimes he’d say his wench-in-training.” O’Connor’s wince told me I had a sympathetic audience. “He took to telling my father how to invest his money, which my father thought was hysterical. My dad didn’t take Johnston seriously, of course.”
“You said they didn’t believe that he was bullying you.”
“They’re good parents—it’s not that. And they’re not scared of Jack Furneau. But my mother couldn’t imagine a better husband for me than Johnston. She thought I was being dramatic or looking for attention or something.”
“Happens all the time.” O’Connor nodded. “We train our girls to believe it’s wrong to stand up for ourselves. Wrong to ask for help.”
I wrinkled my nose. The years of loving parents who refused to see the monster that lurked just outside of their vision . . . it had been a hard time. “Anyway, we were at a party at our club on the Fourth of July. Everyone was there. Lots of booze, and the more advanced kids probably were doing more than that. I was kind of a nerd,” I explained. “I didn’t smoke pot or anything.”
“Got it,” she said neutrally.
“That evening, Johnston was all hyped up, and whatever girl he’d come with was sick in the women’s locker room. Probably too much alcohol. He decided it was time to exercise his rights.” I inhaled to lower my blood pressure. That time was past. Things had changed. “He backed me into a corner of the game room when everyone was outside watching the fireworks. He grabbed my arms and held me against the wall. He told me he was going to instruct me on my ‘wifely duties.’ ”
“Motherfucker,” O’Connor breathed.
“Absolutely. The good thing is that this was the catalyst for me seeing a whole series of therapists. And counselors. And self-defense trainers. Things changed after that very moment.”
“Good for you. But what happened that evening? Did he . . .?”
“He did not.” I remembered the moment with burning pride. “I kneed him in the balls—hard. And I’m pretty strong too. I think I ruptured his testicles.”
“Yeah you did!”
“And I had this weird moment. Johnston was doubled over, and then he fell to the floor. He threw up. I was ready to run out of there when I had this really strange image of Mal. I could see him so clearly, standing in the doorway to the hall. And O’Connor, Mal had never been to the yacht club before this. It was pure imagination on my part.”
“What was he doing? In your vision?”
“He was nodding at me. He was approving.”
“Of course he was. He wasn’t there to protect you, so you needed to do it yourself.”
I nodded, smiling at the memory. “So, I kept on taking care of myself. Got some help. Saw some therapists, like I said. Learned how to stand up for myself. Learned how to handle a bully like Johnston.”
“I’ll bet he leaves you alone now.”
“Nope. Still thinks I’m his future wife. But now he’s better at keeping his distance.”
“I’ll bet. He still thinks you’re his wench-in-training?”
I shrugged. “I have a legacy from my grandmother. He wants it—or he wants to ‘manage’ it for me. He likes the idea of marrying the Furneau and Luce money together, and I’m the only one he can do that with. But he doesn’t get the same energy out of me that he used to, and I think he’s still trying to figure out how to handle that.”
“Shit, Prentice. I started out wondering if you were good enough for Mal, and now I’m wondering if he’s good enough for you! Does Mal know all this?”
“Thank you. He knows a lot of it. I don’t mind if he hears this recording—or Nicky, or Ian.”
“And Archer. I can play it for Archer, right? I mean, they already love you, and now I do, too, but I think they’d be fascinated to hear your story.”
I nodded in agreement. “I’m an open book. Telling it is part of what helps me to be strong. None of this is a secret.”
“You’re awesome. I mean?—”
There was a knock on the door, and an extremely famous head appeared as if it was just another day.
“O’Connor!” Milt McAllister himself came in to shake her hand. “I heard you were here and just wanted to say hi. I used your post when I interviewed that Italian director. It was excellent. I’m sorry—I’m interrupting.” He turned to me, and his hand came out again. “How are you? I’m Milt. And you are?”