Chapter 12 Be More Like Meryl Streep #3
“What about the initial pull to LA? What about loving being the center of attention at the debutante ball suggesting to you that you wanted to be a performer?”
“I think that was just immaturity. Self-centeredness.”
“Really?” He was surprised to hear that. Blair was a lot of things, but self-centered didn’t strike him as one of them.
“I’m not saying that to put myself down. It was just being a teenager.”
“Hmm.”
“Why are you asking this? What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I did call my mom the other day, after you told me I should, and she said that being my mother was the greatest honor of her life and that it had nothing to do with In Time. It threw me for a loop.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is, right?”
“I get it. You know your kids. And if you like them, you can fall down the rabbit hole of wondering how they turned out so well. It feels a little mystical.”
“It isn’t, though, is it?” he asked. “By which I mean, don’t you have to take the lion’s share of the credit?”
“Some of it, sure. But I also think kids make themselves. That’s probably what your mom meant. She thinks you’re amazing; she thinks you wrote an amazing book. She probably feels lucky to be your mom.”
Speaking of mothers and kids…
There was no way to make this subtle, but here was the perfect opportunity to put on his secret-agent hat. Esme thought she could just slide in and surprise her mom the day before Thanksgiving. She didn’t realize that Blair would want to be prepped on the whole feast-the-next-day front.
It did occur to him that this level of manipulation was above and beyond the call of duty.
Well, out with it. “Do you… want to do a Thanksgiving dinner?”
Blair’s face lit up. “Yes! Oh my stars, yes!”
“My intention here is not to trap you into hosting a dinner.” No, her daughter was going to accomplish that. “I’ll help.”
“I don’t need help. And it’s not a trap. It’s an excuse to do a great dinner. Tiffany is single and mad about it, so we can invite her, too. A Thanksgiving for strays.”
“The Island of Misfit Toys.”
“That’s Christmas. But the vibe is correct.” She clapped her hands in glee.
He had to tamp down a smile, which wasn’t a familiar spot for him to be in. She was going to be so happy when Esme showed up.
As they were making their way out of the restaurant, one of the women who’d clocked Blair stood abruptly as they passed, causing Blair to startle.
He reached for her hand, pulled her behind him, and gave the woman his best Excuse me? face.
The woman apologized and launched into an awkward speech about how big a fan she was. “I loved you in True Colors. That movie is like my personal bible.”
“Aww.” Blair sounded amused.
“Can I get a picture?”
“No picture tonight, but can I sign something for you?”
Blair had to tug her hand from Jack’s grasp, and he watched her write “Britt Moone” on a receipt the woman produced.
“Good night,” he said loudly when the woman seemed on the verge of another monologue.
He rested a hand on Blair’s back and steered her out of the restaurant, picking up the pace when they hit the main room.
“Who the hell is Britt Moone?” he asked once they were safely in her car.
Barb Tybee, Britt Moone. How many names did she have?
“An actress. People confuse us a lot. Blair Kellermoon, Britt Moone. She’s blond, too, and short. But she’s from New Jersey.”
“You just signed her name!”
“It’s easier that way. Then I don’t have to listen to a big apology. And that woman thinks she met her idol—she doesn’t have to be disappointed that it was just me. Win-win.”
“You are—”
She turned and shot him a look. “What?”
Good question. What had he been going to say? He settled for “Something. You are something.” It was an imprecise word, and not what he meant at all.
When they got home, Blair suggested a drink by the pool, and Jack thought, why the hell not?
While Blair was inside getting drinks, he stretched out on a lounge chair and thought about his book.
It felt less heavy than it had a day ago.
He supposed that was the “getting out of one’s own head” bit.
It wasn’t rocket science, but it made him mad that he was so…
ordinary. He wanted to be above having such simple, easily influenceable appetites.
But lighter: he would take it.
A rustling in the trees drew his attention. It wasn’t the army. Just a generic bird.
He sat up. Holy shit, he had an idea.
She emerged from the house but stopped in her tracks near the edge of the pool. “What happened to the pool?”
He followed her gaze to the water, which was green.
“Was it like that when I swam this morning?”
“I… don’t think so.” He would like to think he’d have noticed such a color, especially in the bright LA sunshine, but he had to allow for the possibility that black birds and black bathing suits had blinded him to green water.
“Well, that doesn’t look good.” She handed him a martini. “I didn’t ask about garnish, but I don’t have any lemons, so you get an olive.”
This was the part where normally, he would take his leave. The idea he’d just had needed tending. But what if, he wondered, he didn’t do that? What if he just let the idea sit for a while? Rattle around in the background?
“Olives are great, thanks.” He nodded at the trees. “Though I will point out that you have lemons right there. Unless those are fake. They kind of look like it.”
She stretched out on the chair next to him. “You think they look fake?”
She had changed into jogging pants and a sweatshirt and big fuzzy socks. It was kind of cute how she bundled up in such mild weather. “They’re so perfect, they seem not real. Like a wax figure of a person.”
“They’re real, but there’s something going on with this tree.” She got up and went and picked a lemon. “The fruit used to be fine when I was here the first time around, but these days, they’re all woody. If I cut this in half, it would be almost solid inside.”
“That tree looks perfect, but it’s not perfect. That supports my point, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does. It’s driving me crazy, though. I used to make the best lemon pie from these lemons.”
“Mimi’s recipe?”
“You know it. Lemon filling so tart it’s on the border of being too much. The first bite makes your brain get its sweet and sour signaling mixed up.”
“That sounds fantastic.”
“There’s nothing stopping me from buying lemons and making that pie, but it feels like a comedown. But I should do it. It’s just a tree. What do you think about lemon pie for Thanksgiving? No, don’t answer that. I’m vetoing it. Lemon doesn’t go with Thanksgiving.”
She came back, but this time she left an empty chair between them. He wondered why.
“I think today really helped,” he said. “With the book, I mean. It was good to get out.”
“Toldya.”
“You remember the night I arrived, you asked me if I wanted the desk to look out at the pool or be against a wall? You asked me if I was the kind of writer who was inspired by looking at stuff or if I needed to cocoon.”
“Yeah, and you said you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. I still don’t, not really. But not cocooning today was nice.
It’s funny, my dad was an extreme cocooner.
Still is, I’m sure. He used to write a book every two or three years, and there would always be a stage where you weren’t allowed to talk to him.
When those times coincided with my visits, he would have Mary the librarian come over and bring me dinner, or he’d send me to this friend’s house who also lived on the lake, which was fine—he had a daughter my age and we were tight.
But why even have me stay with him if he was going to be so absent?
I wasn’t even allowed to knock on the door to his office.
” Ugh, he sounded like a boy talking about his hurt feelings. “I didn’t get it then.”
“But you do now?”
“I guess I do. He did what he had to do.”
She snorted.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking that his so-called cocoon method sounds very male. I imagine women writers wouldn’t have that luxury.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, I imagine they can’t just abandon their domestic responsibilities. If they were to do that, they’d be monsters, whereas men who do that are quirky geniuses. Same with Method acting.”
He was aware that he sounded like a broken record, but all he could do was ask the same question. “How do you mean?”
“Method acting—where you immerse yourself so fully in your character that you live as them full-time. I mean, that’s actually a bastardization of the Method, but that’s what it’s come to mean for a lot of people.
So for example, if you play a psychotic villain, you become a psychotic villain.
You treat everyone on set like crap and swan around demanding people not make eye contact with you or whatever. ”
“Really?” He’d known what Method acting was, but he’d never thought about how it played out in practice.