Chapter Nine
Nine
A U-Haul pulls up in front of Grand’s garage just after four o’clock the next afternoon. It’s towing Grand’s Cadillac convertible and is driven by Kyle Donovan, the twenty-something grandson of a longtime friend of Grand’s. A second young man sits beside him.
The guys hop out and Kyle wraps Grand in a big hug then introduces his college buddy Nate. Her car, her possessions, and her moving crew have arrived.
I’m almost sorry my mother isn’t here to see this. But I take a quick photo so that I can remind her what Grand is still capable of in case push once again comes to shove.
It takes them just minutes to back her car off the trailer, maneuver the U-Haul into place, and raise its rear door.
“Why don’t you show us what’s coming out and what you’d like where before we start unloading,” Kyle suggests.
“Sure,” Grand replies. “Come on in.”
We tromp up to the first floor, and Kyle and Nate head right for the sliding doors.
“Wow. That’s one sick view,” Kyle says.
“That’s for sure,” Nate adds.
“It is, isn’t it?” Grand agrees. She does not ask whether they’re referring to the actual view, the boats, or the bikini-clad girls riding in them.
Kyle and Nate are a dynamic duo, cheerfully carrying out the previous owner’s furniture that Grand no longer wants then unloading and carrying up Grand’s furniture, clothing, and box after box of dishware and accessories. She then shows them into the bonus room behind the garage, where she wants her easels and art supplies. Numerous canvases, wrapped in brown protective paper, are stacked against one long wall.
Two hours after they arrived, the U-Haul is filled with the former owners’ furniture and they’re ready to hit the road.
“Are you heading back to Atlanta?” I ask Kyle.
“Not yet. We’re going to drop the furniture off at Goodwill, turn in the U-Haul, then have a mini vacation on Clearwater Beach.”
Grand hands Kyle a wad of cash then hugs both boys. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Have fun at the beach and call if you need anything while you’re in the area. And don’t forget to give my best to your grandmother when you get back.”
· · ·
After they leave, Grand and I tweak the furniture placement but decide to leave unpacking and decorating until tomorrow. Tired, but satisfied with what we’ve accomplished, I pour us a bowl of nuts and glasses of wine and we plop down on Grand’s sectional to watch the national news.
It’s the usual: natural disasters, the latest political scandal, a sink hole swallowed a house. Personally, I wish the anchors would stop telling the entire news story in the tease up front. The tease is meant to keep us tuned in and whet our appetite for the story, not force us to listen to the story twice word for word. Just sayin’…
After the last commercial, Phillip Drake’s face and a shot of his Missing Madonna appear briefly on the screen. Something about the artwork feels strangely familiar, but given how many times it’s been splashed across the TV screen in these days after Drake’s death, it would have to be familiar, right?
Grand remains silent as yet another glimpse into Drake’s life and career is shared. Then his son, who’s somewhere around my mother’s age, appears on-screen and makes an impassioned plea for the return of his father’s most famous work.
“He looks so much like Phillip,” Grand says quietly as the newscast ends. Her eyes shimmer with tears.
I turn off the TV. “Phillip Drake wasn’t just someone you ran into a few times in the New York art scene, was he?”
“No.” Grand swallows. “At one point I was madly in love with him, and I thought he felt the same.” Her smile is sad and wistful. “He was so talented and so handsome. And he had this incredible energy that lit up everything and everyone around him. I thought we were meant for each other.” She pauses. “I was young and inexperienced. I thought he was a knight in shining armor.” She sniffs. “But in the end, it turned out he wasn’t half the man I thought he was.” Her face hardens for a second. “And I doubt that painting would have ever been so famous if it hadn’t gone missing.
“Anyway…I came home…disillusioned…and ready to do all the things my parents expected of me.” Her lips tremble. “Then I met your grandfather, who was the opposite of Phillip, and we built a wonderful life together.”
My grandmother begins to cry.
· · ·
Images of Phillip Drake, his missing painting, and my grandmother’s tears fuse into my dreams so that I toss and turn most of the night. I wake up way too early and pad downstairs past Grand’s closed door to the kitchen, where I make myself a cup of coffee, which I carry back up to bed. There I google “Phillip Drake,” past and present, and learn everything I can about the man who broke my grandmother’s heart.
· · ·
We don’t start unpacking boxes until almost noon, but we’ve set up the kitchen and hung a good bit of art when, wonder of wonders, my agent calls back. The news is not good.
“Sorry, Syd,” he says. “Tonja Kay is still on the warpath. There’s just nothing I can do right now. But if you lay low long enough, maybe she’ll get back on her broom and fly after someone else.”
“I hear you, but I’m not independently wealthy and not at all inclined to give up on my acting career,” I say through gritted teeth. “Surely there are casting directors out there who remember the kind of ratings we racked up on Murder 101 and how beloved the character I created was. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be your job to remind them of all those things.”
“No one’s forgotten anything,” he says. “But no one’s going to cross her, either. However, given that you’re currently as far from Hollywood as you can get without falling into the ocean, you might be able to pick up some work down there. Personally, I’d recommend a disguise and a name change.”
“So you’re no longer representing me?”
“I didn’t say that. However, I do think my getting involved right now would call attention to you in a way that neither of us would like and could prove counterproductive.”
“You are a liver-lilied chicken,” I say.
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I also know when not to rock the boat. Take care of yourself. If we’re lucky, this, too, will pass. Ciao!”
I hang up with a sigh. Ciao my ass.
· · ·
The next day while Grand is out for lunch with Brian, I go online and make a list of casting calls in the Tampa Bay area. Then I promise myself I’m going to go to at least one.
There are several national commercials being cast with upcoming shoots in Clearwater and Tampa, a reality show called Bosom Buddies (yes, like the old sitcom) that will shoot in Sarasota that is looking for “real people,” or more precisely, “actors between the ages of 25 and 30 who can act like real people who have been looking for love in all the wrong places and just want to be friends.” Possible nudity is required.
A grocery chain is casting a female in my basic age range to do point-of-sale cooking videos for their store. Happily, no actual cooking ability is required as the female only has to act as if she’s cooking, or has cooked. I’m really good at this, having disposed of the evidence of food delivery before my dinner guests arrived, on more than one occasion.
Scanning further, I find two local theater companies casting for female supporting characters and a dinner theater, which I didn’t realize existed anymore, that’s looking for a woman in my age range to play the female lead in a musical version of Romeo and Juliet . After what I’ve been through with men and, most recently Jake, I’m not sure I can convincingly act as if I believe in true love or that any man would be worth dying over. But with my career in the toilet, this is not the time to get picky.
· · ·
“See you later, Sydney,” Grand calls as she heads for the stairs. “I’m going to go over to play a round of golf with Brian so that he can assess my skills.” She says this with a straight face even though she isn’t really dressed for golf. But then the course next door is just a small par 3 so maybe golf attire isn’t required? Except that yesterday when she was going to walk on the beach with Brian, she wasn’t dressed for that, either. I’ve been so focused on trying to figure out how to salvage even a semblance of my career that I’ve mostly left Grand to her own devices. And Brian’s. Hmmm…
Days later I’m still trying to figure out which casting calls to show up for and what sort of disguise might help me land a role, when my phone rings. It’s my mother.
“Hello, darling. Can you put your grandmother on? She hasn’t been answering her cell phone.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I try to remember where Grand said she and Brian were going this time. “She’s out.”
“How can she be out every time I call either one of you?”
“It’s very social here,” I point out.
“But where is she?”
For the last week and a half I’ve lied to my mother every time she’s called. I have not told her that my grandmother is dating a man I’ve come to think of as “the silver fox” and that it seems entirely possible that if she continues seeing him as often as she is, she could conceivably end up having S-E-X with said “fox.”
The truth is, I’m torn between saying “Atta girl” and asking Grand for details and wanting to believe she would never ever consider sleeping with anyone who wasn’t my grandfather. But it’s hard to begrudge the new smile that lights her face and the ease with which she’s making new friends here in Casas de Flores.
“I’m pretty sure she’s playing mah-jongg,” I say.
“Mah-jongg? Again? I didn’t even know she knew how to play.”
“One of the women here taught her and invited her to join the group.” This part is true, though she’s spent far more time with the silver fox than with the mahj ladies. “Like I said, it’s a very social place. And, well, I think it’s great that she’s busy and making friends already.” I don’t mention that soon she could be making love, too. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do,” my mother replies. “All of this is just so…out of the blue. She never stops and thinks before she acts.”
“That’s Grand all right. And I don’t see that changing at this point or at any point really. She’s made it to eighty-three, Mom. Don’t you think it’s time to let go and let her be who she is?”
My mother’s sigh is long and suffering.
“Honestly, she’s happier here than I’ve seen her since Grandpa died. And I’m not going to let anything happen to her. I promise.”
As we say goodbye, it doesn’t occur to me that this could ever be a promise that I won’t be able to keep.