Chapter Two
Two
I spend 10-hour days on the road still unable to focus on anything but the disaster my life has become. My mind plays it over and over in an endless loop. It doesn’t help that everywhere I stop, I run into former fans, “former” being the operative word, who are either angry at or sorry for me.
Like the woman at the Chevron station outside of Las Cruces.
“Oh my God, it’s Cassie Everheart.” Her round face lights with excitement, a reaction I have to admit always gives me a little rush. So does her daughter’s.
Over the last five years I’ve given tons of autographs; I think it goes with the territory. I’ve never understood the actors who court attention and want to be celebrities but don’t think that should involve any personal contact with the people who made them famous in the first place.
I smile and take a step toward her, wiping my hands on my jeans as I approach. Which is when the woman’s expression changes. “I’m glad to see they’ve let you out of rehab. I hope you can manage to stay sober. But such a shame that Jason moved on so quickly and is already dating that young rookie.”
I stand frozen while she turns and heads back to her car. The other customers eye me with either disdain or pity and I slink back to my car and drive off, wishing for an adult-size invisibility cloak. There’s never a wizard around when you need one.
I’m almost to Tallahassee, where my college roommate lives, when my phone lights up. I draw a deep breath and straighten my shoulders when the Psycho theme ringtone fills the car.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, darling. Where are you?” I’m pleasantly surprised and relieved that she doesn’t immediately mention the loss of Murder 101 , the boyfriend who defected to the winning team as soon as I was “released” from the show, or demand to know what I plan to do next. Natalie Anderson Ryan likes to “tackle problems head-on” and “discuss possible plans of attack” long before you’ve had a chance to absorb the problem in the first place. I developed the ability to tune out and remove myself from reality in self-defense. The fact that this survival skill helped me learn how to get into character quickly and become a better actor is a lucky by-product.
“I’m about an hour from Linda’s. I’ve been promising to visit for a while.”
“Well, you can stop off and say hello. But I need you here in Treasure Island before the end of the day.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s your grandmother.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you in Treasure Island? What does that have to do with Grand?” I swallow. “Is she okay?”
My grandmother’s name is Lillian Louise Wilde. She’s eighty-three now and has been a widow for almost six years. We call her Grand because she is.
“She came down to visit a friend on Treasure Island and has missed s everal flights home. Now that I’m here, she keeps going on about how much she loved family vacations on the west coast of Florida when she was a child. Yesterday, out of the blue, she announced that she wants to live here full-time, and I can’t make her listen to reason.”
I slow down for a semi that’s turning off the highway. “There’s really nothing unreasonable about someone in their eighties wanting to move to Florida,” I venture. I don’t add that Grand is an artist and “reason” is not her “go to” setting, because if anyone knows that, it’s my mother.
“Well,” my mother huffs. “If she were actually going to live down here, she’d be best off in a senior living scenario.” She huffs again. “I’ve been trying to get her to go look at Covington Arms, which is a lovely senior living facility in Tampa. It has all kinds of amenities and activities, including a beautiful restaurant with a gourmet chef, but she’s dug in and you know how hard it is to dislodge her.” This belongs in the category of “takes one to know one,” but I don’t mention this, either. Maybe I’m finally learning to think before I speak.
“I need you here so that you can help me convince her to make the right decisions.”
“Gang up on her, you mean?” Okay, maybe I’m not quite there yet with the “thinking before speaking” thing.
“Now, darling, there’s no need to get dramatic,” she chides. My mother enjoys the theater but is not a fan of real-life drama. She used to refer to me as “Sarah Bernhardt” whenever I “gave in to my emotions” as a child. It was my grandmother who gave me a Bernhardt biography for my sixth birthday and convinced me that being compared to Sarah Bernhardt was a great compliment.
“I need you to get down here and help make your grandmother see reason. Now. ”
I am, of course, not the most reasonable member of my family, as my mother has often pointed out, which goes to show just how desperate she is. Personally, I think Grand should be free to choose how and where she lives.
On the other hand, I currently have no life. No career. No plans for anything beyond my visit with Linda. And Tallahassee’s only about a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Treasure Island and Pass-a-Grille, where my friend Kyra, her mother, and what I still think of as “the ladies of Ten Beach Road” live.
“I can drive down tomorrow afternoon.”
“Now would be much better…” My mother’s voice gets muffled. The next voice I hear is my grandmother’s.
“Don’t let your mother rush you, Sydney. As much as I’d love to see you, I’m perfectly fine. And completely capable of making my own decisions.” She says this with her usual gusto. But there’s a bit of a tremor in her voice that I’ve never heard before.
“I’d love to come down and hang out with you, Grand.” I realize as I say this just how true it is. My grandmother has always been a “force” and an important part of my life. She was a bold woman before bold was considered beautiful. “I can drive down tomorrow afternoon and be there in time for dinner.”
“That would be lovely, Sydney. But not necessary .”
“I know, Grand. But I am at a bit of a loose end. Would you mind if I came?”
“Of course not. I’d love for you to visit. You’re always welcome wherever I am.”
“Thanks, Grand. I can’t wait to see you.” I smile again, realizing that this, too, is true.
I’ll go down, try to keep my mother from steamrolling Grand, grab some girl time with Kyra, and make sure she knows that Tonja Kay is still on the warpath. Maybe even sip some pina coladas on the beach and get my act together. It’s such a perfect plan that I ignore my mother’s loud—some might say overly dramatic—sigh of relief in the background as I hang up.
This is the first thing I’ve looked forward to since that awful read-through.
· · ·
I call Kyra from the road the next day and arrange to meet her for a drink out on Pass-a-Grille before I have to face my mother, which means that once I cross over the Howard Frankland Bridge and get my first glimpse of water, I continue south until I can exit onto the Pinellas Bayway, which deposits me onto Gulf Boulevard directly across from the Don CeSar Hotel, the huge pink wedding cake of a building built in the 1920s.
Kyra’s mother, Maddie Singer; Nicole Grant; and Avery Lawford managed to nurse a Mediterranean-style home named Bella Flora back to life when it was all they had left after losing everything in a Ponzi scheme. Not long after that grueling renovation, megastar Daniel Deranian bought Bella Flora for Kyra and their son, Dustin, which definitely contributed to Daniel’s wife, Tonja Kay’s determination to do as much harm as possible to Kyra, her family, and her friends (apparently including yours truly).
I turn left onto Gulf Boulevard, take a short right then a left onto Gulf Way, which hugs the beach and the Gulf of Mexico and leads to the southernmost tip of Pass-a-Grille, where Bella Flora sits. I drive slowly behind a long line of cars with out-of-state plates and pass a seemingly endless row of parked cars that face the sidewalk and the low concrete wall bordering the beach. Wooden walkovers span the dunes, protecting the sea oats and leading onto the soft, white sand that stretches down to the Gulf.
As I inch along, I lower the car windows to take in deep breaths of the salt-tinged air that’s so different from the lighter, drier air of Southern California.
Even this small thought yanks me back to LA and dredges up all the images I’ve been tamping down the entire drive: the Craftsman bungalow that I fell in love with and turned into my dream home, my life, my career. Thinking of all the things I’ve lost makes my chin quiver. Hot tears turn the sand and water into a blurry mass. Despite the sunshine and the welcoming caw of gulls, I am bereft and pathetic.
I’m so not ready for my mother. For her desire to fix me. To fix my mistakes. To force me to plow forward when all I want is to curl into a ball and hide. It’s hard enough to handle her relentless need for action when things are going well.
I pass the concession stand and the Hurricane. In my humble opinion, this is not the best name for a restaurant on a sliver-shaped barrier island on the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s been around since the seventies, and although they’ve turned it into a massive New England–ish version of its original self, it’s a great place to watch the sunset.
Eighth Avenue, which I guess qualifies as Pass-a-Grille’s “Main Street” even though it’s barely two blocks long—like all the other streets that stretch from the Gulf to the Pass-a-Grille Channel—is dotted with shops, restaurants, and galleries.
I really, really need that drink, maybe even two before I face my mother. Just a small bubble of insulation between me and her opinions. So when I find an open parking spot practically in front of Harley’s, a bastion of bikerdom and thirsty locals, I take it as a sign that the universe approves of me imbibing a little liquid courage.
It’s three thirty when I step through the front door and inhale the mingled scents of alcohol and fried food. It’s dim inside, the sunlight no match for the dirty, salt-caked windows and partially closed blinds. The walls are shadowed and papered with black-and-white photos of the people who drink here and the motorcycles they ride.
A couple of tourist types are shooting pool beneath a flat-screen TV. Four old-timers occupy a table, nursing beers, their eyes on the television.
A waitress in short shorts and an even skimpier halter top is at the register ringing up a sale.
The bartender looks up from the beer mug he’s refilling. Lean and lightly muscled, he has a mane of sun-streaked blond hair that hangs just past his shoulders. His features are even, his cheeks covered in blond stubble. If I had to guess, I’d place his age somewhere between thirty-five and forty.
He nods in greeting. “Welcome to Harley’s. My name is Alan Jay, but folks just call me A.J.” He’s about to turn away when he blinks and does a double take. “Oh my God. You’re…it’s Cassie Everheart!” His face splits into a grin. “Man, I felt so bad when you ended up in rehab. Some people just can’t handle their alcohol. In fact, I recorded your last episode when they lead you away—we’ve replayed it, like, a million times. You know, it’s kind of a cautionary tale.”
Now, there’s a piece of good news. “Gee thanks. Glad everyone enjoyed it. Maybe I can get you a video of my root canals. Those are a real hoot, too.”
He laughs appreciatively then picks up the remote and aims it at the TV. Before I know it, there I am in high-definition, head up, tears streaming down my face, leaving the precinct for the last time.
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “But I never would have thought you’d lose it like that over a guy.” He says this as if he actually believes I’m Cassie Everheart, not the actress who plays her.
“I’ll have a shandy, thanks.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not even sure you should be in here. And you definitely shouldn’t be drinking so soon after getting out of rehab.” He moves back behind the bar as I slide onto a barstool. “Why don’t you try this instead?”
I take a first sip and realize that, despite the slice of lemon and the little umbrella hanging off the side of the glass, he’s served me straight lemonade. There is not a single drop of liquor in the glass.
“I think you left out an important ingredient,” I sigh.
“Sorry. Just trying to help you stay straight. How’s everything going?”
“Things have been better.” I drink the first sips, slowly trying to imagine there’s at least something that resembles alcohol in it. But while it quenches my thirst, it doesn’t make my life feel less pathetic or the world any less hostile.
I take another long sip and realize I need a restroom.
“Man,” he says with another shake of his head as I get up, “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Right. Well. My friend Kyra will be here soon, too. If I’m not out yet, could you bring her a margarita on me?”
“Sure thing. Is she a detective, too?”
The smile forming on my lips disappears when I realize he’s not joking.
I get up and go to the little girls’ room. This is what it says right on the door. Not exactly what you’d expect in a biker bar, right? Neither is the inside. I close my eyes, but when I open them, it still looks like a Laura Ashley catalog exploded in there—all pink and flowery with a skirt around the sink and potpourri on top of the toilet tank. I imagine the biker babes blinking in disbelief when they stomp in dressed in their leathers, but it’s a small calming oasis of femininity and at the moment I’ll take my calm any way I can get it.