Chapter 29
SEA BLUE BEACH
We suppose you’re wondering what Harry said to Tuesday when he walked into her office. We’re not really sure. Town whispers only go so far.
Some think his memories of the Starlight finally got a hold of him and he toasted the Murdock deal.
Others say, “Surely he remembers how his drunk daddy got born again at a revival meeting hosted by the Starlight.”
Dale Cranston was overheard saying at Sweet Conversations that Harry went to negotiate with Tuesday. Had a check in hand, but she flat refused to take it. There’s still a lot of fight in that woman.
The petition signature verification is still in the works. Seems Marie Turner, the office manager, went into an early labor, which threw town hall into chaos. She delivered a beautiful baby boy, and Harry ordered blue balloons to fly from the radio antenna.
Since there’s no deadline on the signature verification, folks know darn well Harry is stalling, indicating a victory for Matt Knight and his five-person committee.
Dupree has been seen around town with a photographer, taking photos of the Starlight. He’s also had his crew working on a Starlight museum. Demolition or not, that would be nice.
Gazette editor-in-chief Rachel Kirby is making the rounds, talking to old-timers, going in and out of the courthouse and the library. Sooner or later, the Gazette will tell us what she’s working on.
Matt Knight is off to Hollywood. Harlow seems settled at 321 Sea Blue Way. She had Simon Caster digging up her flower beds and planting new shrubs and a bougainvillea.
We see her jogging about town, still in her old sweats, and hope she’s going to stay. She’s one of us.
As we all wait for the verdict on the petition, the Murdock people come and go. Something’s brewing. We all feel it.
MATT
HOLLYWOOD
“We’re ready for you, Matt.” The assistant director, a go-getter named Snow Snowden, handed him notes on the scene. “From Roger.”
“Is Cindy ready?” He folded up the edition of the Gazette that arrived last night and reached for the notes. While there was no news of the petition, the newsprint was full of Sea Blue Beach anecdotes. Like how Marie Turner, who’d just had a baby, sent her teenage sons to Suds Up, and they used too much detergent which flooded the whole place. So . . . “Suds Up!”
Why did he spend so many years avoiding home? Because of what happened with Booker. Then why didn’t he try to mend things? Why not read his next letter? If he ever sent one.
“Cindy’s ready,” Snow said. “So, lights, camera, action.”
Matt smiled. “Check the gate and we’re good to go?”
“The camera gate has been checked.”
Matt liked the old-time movie references, like checking the film gate to make sure it was clear of lint or hair or a bug.
He flipped open Roger’s note. Bro, get your head in the game. He made a face. His head was in the game. Sort of. Occasionally he was distracted with thoughts of the Starlight. With images of Harlow.
He’d not talked to her since that one Sunday. He’d picked up the phone to call her a few times but backed out. She’d forgiven him, they were on solid ground. Just let it go.
In other news, he called Bodie for an update on his case. “No word yet,” he said. “I think it’s going to blow over.”
“Matt, go to one, please.” Roger motioned him to the heroine’s living room. They’d been filming Date for My Daughter the last two weeks in a 1930s Hollywood Hills home.
And there had been issues. It started when one of the grips tripped over a lamp cord, which blew an electrical fuse, which started a small fire. Roger looked exactly like Doc Brown in Back to the Future, when his test of creating one-point-twenty-one gigawatts caught a tarp on fire.
After the fire brouhaha, the set and costume designer got into an argument over the color of the couch clashing with Cindy’s outfits. You’d think it would be an easy fix, but no. Last but not least, every time Roger called “Action,” the eighty-pound German Shepherd next door barked. So, Roger had them filming this evening scene at four a.m. because the dog was still inside, sleeping with its owners.
Matt portrayed Mitchell Davidson, a brilliant architect who believed in old-fashioned love and traditional American values. He played him upright and clean-cut, channeling his dad.
Cindy played Clementine Sparks, an avant-garde interior designer, who believed in nothing traditional, especially love. Cindy owned the role. She was Clem. The girl from Midwest America who wanted to shed her family’s values.
The script was sort of an eighties version of The Goodbye Girl but with two young, urban professionals. Clem had just been kicked to the curb by her boyfriend and business partner. Mitch, the architect, just happened to be there when she found out.
Gradually, he felt more like Mitchell than Lt. Striker. Yesterday, as he read another back copy of the Gazette, Cindy smacked down the top of the page and peered at him.
“You’re such a square.”
“Why, thank you.” He meant it too. What’s wrong with being square? Foundations were square. Bricks were square. Dashing, rugged men sported jaws that were square. Boxes were square! Really, how much could one pack in a circle?
“Let’s get this shot before the sun comes up and the dog is out,” Roger said, clapping his hands. “Snow, are we ready? Someone fix the blackout curtain on the southern window.”
Matt moved under the lights of the small living room that was Clementine’s apartment and became Mitchell Davidson. He enjoyed this film. Enjoyed being busy. He felt lonely and empty in his big, lonely, and empty house. He spent most of his nights flipping through cable channels until he fell asleep.
A couple of nights ago, a former frequent guest, Groove, came around, looking to crash for a few days, but he was drunk and high. Matt gave him money for a hotel instead. He had to stop assuaging his guilt over his past by letting people crash and trash his place. He had to stop despising his success. If he could manage those things, maybe he’d find the courage to call Booker.
On his way home last night, he’d spotted a For Sale sign in the yard of a really cute cottage in the Hills that overlooked the city. He peeked inside and fell in love. The place felt like home. Like Sea Blue Beach. He called his Realtor first thing this morning.
“Matt, you with us?” Roger looked around the camera, where he confirmed the shot. “Cindy, love, how are you?”
“Call action, Roger,” she said. “Don’t talk to us like we’re children.”
“Action.”
The scene was Mitchell and Clem’s first kiss, and even though they’d filmed the happily-ever-after ending on the beach two days ago, Matt had to play Mitchell as a square, awkward yet eager man wooing Clem for the first time. The script called for Mitchell to dance around the kiss, but Matt could just hear the guys watching in the movie theater with their girlfriends, shouting, “Just kiss her!”
So he did. Mitchell snatched Clem to his chest, and without so much as a by-your-leave and the scripted romantic line, he tipped her chin up and kissed her. No hesitation. No waiting. No games. Eyes closed, Matt—er, Mitchell—became the guy who wanted to fall passionately, madly, squarely in love. Cindy—er, Clem—somehow became Harlow, and he was back at the Starlight. Desperately wanting to kiss her.
Matt broke away, stepping back.
“Cut! Wow, Matt, that was spectacular. Even I felt that one.”
Cindy bristled. “That wasn’t in the script. Clem is supposed to be the one—”
“Cindy, doll,” Roger said, “we’re leaving it in. Fantastic. Matt, your instincts are spot-on. Ellie, bring me the next pages. Let’s see if we have to tweak some dialogue. Take thirty, everyone.”
Matt retreated to the green room, and Cindy followed. “What was that?”
“Sorry, I suddenly envisioned all the guys in the movie theater, arm around their girl, holding their breath, begging this square dude to kiss this crazy, beautiful vixen. So I went for it.”
“Fine, your instincts are good, but—” Cindy touched her finger to her lips. “That was a real kiss, Matt. Not for Clem. Or me. Who were you kissing?”
“It was Mitchell kissing Clem.” Matt made a plate of cheese and crackers. “I’m just that good.” Bluffing, bluffing...
“I’ve been kissed as a character by a man playing a character, and that was not what just happened in there.” She grabbed a small plate, choosing slices of apples and a couple of carrots. “Are you in love with Harlow Hayes? Did she forgive you for Letterman?”
Matt choked on his cracker, spewing Townhouse dust all over. “What? No. I mean, yes, she forgave me, but I’m not in love. We’re barely friends.”
“Then why do you talk about her every day?”
“What? You’re crazy. I think Clem’s gotten under your skin.” He never talked about Harlow. Not even when one of the crew mentioned Matt’s blabbermouth appearance on Letterman.
A few others came in for sodas and snacks. Snow popped in for some grapes. “We’re almost done with the changes. Brush your teeth and get ready for the next scene.”
“Snow,” Cindy said, “I was just telling Matt how much he talks about Harlow.”
“Which is ridiculous,” Matt added. “Back me up, Snow. Tell her. I never talk about Harlow. Ever.”
“You talk about her all the time,” Snow said. “Okay, not all the time, but at least once a day.”
“More like three, four times a day.” This from Jenny, one of the makeup artists, who pulled a cold soda from the cooler.
“You keep count?”
“Oh yeah, we have a running pool. It’s up to two hundred bucks on how many times you’ll mention her during the shoot.”
Back on set, Roger said, “Matt, the kiss actually plays perfectly into the character development. I don’t know how we missed it. Ellie has the new pages ready.”
Matt studied the changes. This particular scene is a few weeks into the relationship, with Mitch and Clem cooking together and more than the food was heating up.
“Let’s get this in one take.” Roger perched behind the camera. “Cross your fingers that the dog stays asleep. Matt, stay on script this time. Quiet! Lights. Speed. Rolling annnnnddd...” The clapper snapped, and Roger called, “Action.”
Mitchell was supposed to wrap his arms around Clem as she stirred her Italian grandmother’s tomato sauce. Instead, Mitchell-slash-Matt moved next to Clem-slash-Cindy and said, “When have I ever mentioned Harlow? Give me an example.”
“Cut!” Roger shot from behind the camera. “All right, who told him? Does he know about the Harlow pool?”
“He knows,” Cindy said. “He kissed me like he was kissing someone he loves.”
“I do not love her. We called it a day.”
“Harlow this and Harlow that.” Cindy poked Matt’s chest. “Especially when we’re going over a scene. I’m trying not to be insulted, but you act like she’s a better actress than I am. ‘When Harlow played Bryn in Talk to Me Sweetly, she was so honest and sincere.’ Or ‘Her house in Sea Blue Beach is a lot like this place—it’d make a great set. It’s a remodeled 1902 cottage.’ Now, how would I know the year Harlow’s house was built if you didn’t tell me, Matt? We also know she’s not a roller skater, but she finally got out on the Starburst floor with your granny.”
“Starlight.”
“Whatever. Am I right, everybody?” Heads bobbed. Every last one of them.
“Thank you, Matt and Cindy. Can we please shoot this scene? The sun is coming up and that dog will cost us another day of shooting. Our budget is shot.” Roger was starting to sweat. “Back to one. Brandi, touches, please.”
The makeup artist ran from behind the lights, checked Matt and Cindy for shine, smoothed their hair, then ducked back into the shadows.
“Action.”
“So what if I mention her?” Matt said. “It doesn’t mean I’m in love with her. I mean, we’re friends. Sort of. She’s a really special—”
“Cut! That’s not the line, Matt.”
“Matt, why so defensive?” Cindy said. “It’s okay to admit you’re falling for her. You have a lot in common. Fame. Sea Blue Beach. Wanting a family. Saving the Starburst from demolition.”
“The Starlight. Geez, Cindy, how hard is that to remember?”
“All I’m saying is if you love Harlow Hayes ... ” More poking on Matt’s chest. “Go. Get. Her. You know Xander Cole will pull out all the stops. I’ve met him. He’s a force to be reckoned with, and he has a history with her. You win points in the better-looking category, but he’s got way more money.”
“Clearly you don’t know Harlow at all. She’s not some opportunistic fortune hunter.” Matt paced around the set, thinking . . . thinking . . . “Okay, let’s say I wanted to talk to her. What would I say?”
The entire crew chorused, “I. Love. You.”
Giovani, the craft caterer, shouted, “Will you marry me?”
“There you go, Matt.” Cindy punched his arm. “Don’t play a romantic hero—be a romantic hero.”
“But I humiliated her. I don’t think she can trust me.”
“Then earn it back.”
“Please, Matt, Cindy, let me know when I can film my movie.” Roger collapsed into his director’s chair.
“Sorry, Roger. I’m good to go.” Now Matt was starting to sweat. Could he admit it? That he loved Harlow even if she didn’t love him?
Roger called action, and as the scene started, the phone chimed through the tiny house.
“Don’t stop, keep going!” Roger said. “And who was supposed to disconnect the ringer? You’re fired.”
“Matt, it’s for you.” One of the crew handed him the portable receiver.
“Unbelievable.” Roger hung his head and spewed a few finely chiseled words.
It was Harlow. Matt stepped outside and faced the view of Hollywood.
“Hey, what’s going on? How’d you get this number?”
“Cosmo. Matt, they’ve verified the signatures. There’s a town hall meeting tomorrow night.”
“How’d we do? Any indication? Wait, Harlow, you’re in Sea Blue Beach?”
“Buckhead wasn’t home. Sea Blue Beach is home. I didn’t tell you because . . . well, anyway, I’m working at the Starlight, helping Tuesday.”
“Oh, okay, good. Great. Are you back with Xander?”
“Matt, did you hear me? Town hall, tomorrow night. And no, I’m not with Xander.”
“I’m on my way.” He tossed the phone to the nearest grip. “Roger, I’m off. Be back in a few days.”
“Matt, where are you going? We’re filming a movie here ... Matt!” Roger followed him out the door. “Matt Knight, you’re fired!”
“No, you’re not, Matt,” Cindy called. “You go! Get Harlow!”
TUESDAY
OCTOBER 1967
Groovy was the “vibe” at the Starlight tonight. From the bell-bottoms and long hair to the USA and USSR outer space treaty to the music where the Beatles reminded everyone that all we need is love.
Spike, who’d just taken over the Starlight’s concession business, had grown out his afro and sideburns, and wore bright colored bell bottoms.
Manning the ticket booth, Tuesday watched over her kingdom, dressed pretty hip for a gal of her age, wearing an orange-and-pink polka blouse with brown slacks and Keds. Out on the floor, her new gal, Darcy, got after a couple of hoodlums who crashed one another into a corner.
It seemed to Tuesday that kids today were angsty and full of themselves. Baby boomers, they called them. Every day she heard stories of how this younger generation made their demands, expecting more for less.
With sound systems replacing the Wurlitzer for skating music, Dirk played for churches and social gatherings. He’d amassed quite a fan base along the North Florida coast and lower Alabama. Tuesday still had him come in on Monday and Thursday mornings for the older crowd.
Back to the young ones. The war in Vietnam made them angry. Their parents made them angry. It seemed they longed for something more meaningful than the old traditions and a steady paycheck. When they found no answers, they smoked weed, snorted cocaine, and gathered en masse for the Summer of Love.
The airmen from Eglin still called the Starlight their home away from home and raced around the rink like daredevils, doing backflips and leapfrogging over each other. She saw LJ in all of them. He’d been gone twenty-seven years, but she missed him like it was yesterday.
The British government recognized his contribution to the war with the Distinguished Flying Cross. Leroy also earned a few medals posthumously. She added them to the collection he’d amassed from the first world war.
From the stories she’d heard over the years, Leroy had landed smack in the middle of a fight when he hit the shores of Normandy. The letter she received from his commander said he died while taking out a hill of Germans. Well, didn’t that sound like her man.
She missed him. Not in the everyday way. She’d lived so much of her life without his presence. She missed the anticipation of seeing him, of hearing his voice. Sometimes while standing at the kitchen sink, she’d glance up, expecting to see him. But it was nothing more than a phantom memory. With all the goings-on in the world today, she’d sure like to hear his opinion.
In his honor and LJ’s, the boys from Eglin skated for free, and Spike gave them half off. On this particular Saturday afternoon, the rink was full of young men in their jumpsuits or jeans and a button-down, demonstrating why they’d been selected to fly. One young man in particular, Gene, showed up at the Starlight every spare moment.
“Evening, Miss Tuesday.” He set his skates on the front desk and looked toward the rink and his fellow aviators. “Boy oh boy, this place reminds me so much of my rink back home.”
“So you’ve said.” Gene was a repeater. Told his stories over and over. But Tuesday didn’t mind. She hoped some British mama had listened to her son talk about home all those years ago. Gene’s ruddy cheeks and peach-fuzz mustache told her he was probably LJ’s age when he ran off. “I know your mama is proud of you.”
The music changed from the Four Tops to Simon & Garfunkel. “Everybody’s feeling groovy.” A half dozen airmen lined up to sling one another from the back of a line to the front. From the lobby, a group of teen girls with bright blue eye shadow, pink lips, and hair teased to the ceiling entered with their skates dangling over their shoulders by the long laces.
The session only had an hour left, so Tuesday charged them half price, then tapped Dominic, the kid who spun the records, to keep an eye on the ticket booth.
Back in the office, she straightened her desk, inspected a pair of old skates, and accepted a hamburger from Spike.
“I was thinking of replacing the tables and chairs, Tuesday.”
“It’s your concession, Spike. Let me know if I can help.”
Burt, who now only worked part time, brought in the mail and gave a little hip swing to the start of Little Eva’s “The Loco-Motion” on his way out.
Seeing how the mail consisted of bills, she opened her accounting ledgers and fished the checkbook from the bottom desk drawer. Might as well pay the piper.
She’d just written the last one when Dupree came in with ten-year-old Matty and dropped a manila envelope on her desk. Matt gave her a big hug, then grabbed his skates from the cupboard.
“Can he stay with you tonight, Ma?” Dupree said. “I’ve got to finish up a job in Fort Walton tomorrow, and I want an early start.”
“Of course he can, Dup. Anytime. Matty, I saw Booker on the floor a few minutes ago.” He shot out of the office, skates clattering. “Two peas in a pod, those two.”
“Yeah, they’re good buddies.” Dup kicked out the chair in the corner and sat with a thump. “You think I should find a girl to marry, Ma? Give him a mother?”
“What about the gal you took to dinner last week?”
“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “She was sweet. Pretty. But not Mimi.” He cut her a grin. “Or you.”
“Well, you’re going to have to cast a wider net than Mimi and me, Dup. There’s a gal out there for you. Until then, we’re getting along all right, aren’t we? The three of us.”
“Sure, but I think Matt feels it, you know? That the other boys have a mother, and he doesn’t.”
“He has a mother. She’s in heaven.” She held up the manila envelope. “Now where did this come from?”
“Your mailbox. I stopped by on my way here. I put the rest of your mail on the kitchen table but thought you might want this one.”
“You mean you wanted to know what’s inside.”
There were two letters inside. One was from a Mrs. Mary Lou Brodbeck. And one from ... Leroy.
The thin, soiled envelope had yellowed with time. Yet somehow, when Tuesday’s trembling fingers brought it to her nose, she could have sworn it bore the fragrance of his cologne and hair tonic.
“Ma, what is it?”
“It’s from your pa.” She passed over Mrs. Brodbeck’s letter. “Here, read this. I’m shaking.”
Dear Mrs. Knight,
I can only imagine your surprise to find a letter from your husband more than twenty years after he wrote it. Apparently, he’d given it to my husband, who stored it with his things. They were together in Normandy, and after the war, Julius didn’t talk much about D-Day or any of it, only that he’d fought alongside some of the best men on earth.
Julius recently passed, and I found this letter to you from your husband among his things. No matter how delayed, I pray you will find it a comfort. I know I would.
Yours sincerely,
Mary Lou
Dupree lowered the letter. “A lot of the fellas wrote home before a big offensive. Even me. But thankfully, you never had to read it.”
All these years, she’d longed for a final word from Leroy, but when the military returned his things, almost no personal effects were included. Dupree surmised they’d been lost along the way. Typical army. Leroy was buried in Normandy with his brothers-in-arms.
But this . . . this letter finally brought him home.
“You read it.” She offered Dup the letter, then pulled back. “No, I will.” Tears filled every part of her as she unfolded the army-issued stationery.
My darling Tooz,
Slowly, she lowered the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
“Ma, don’t you want to read it?” Dupree pointed to the door. “I’ll step out if you want.”
“You know, I think I’ll save it for later.” She stood, tucking the letter into her pocket. “What’s another couple of hours when it’s been twenty-three years? Now, I should make my rounds, make sure we’re shipshape.”
Dupree pulled her close as she passed. “You deserved better from him, Ma. But I’ve reckoned with my anger toward him over the years. He loved us. He sure as heck loved you.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Dupree. I’ve had such a life.” She rested against his thick chest that held the heart of a loving, kind man. “A man who loved me, two swell boys, the prince, and the Starlight. Still the best part?” She leaned back to see her son’s face. “Immanuel, Dupree. Life and the devil tried to take me down, but Immanuel raised me up. What’s better than knowing a prince, I ask you? Knowing a God who knows me.”
Her son rested his cheek on her head. “You’re the strongest person I know, Ma. Matty and I ... Where would we be without you?”
For a moment, when Dupree smiled down on her, it was Leroy, and Tuesday Knight had zero regrets.
She made her rounds as the last session ended, locked up the money bag in the safe, then found Spike closing up concession. When she was alone, Tuesday tied on her skates and cued up Jim Reeves on the hi-fi. His melodic voice echoed through the empty rink. “I come to the garden alone.”
Except she wasn’t really alone. Immanuel was with her. And tonight, so was Leroy.
When the song finished, Tuesday sat in the middle of the quiet rink and read the letter.
June 4, 1944
My darling Tooz,
I’m writing to you with a dull pencil on a piece of paper I borrowed from Lt. Durban. We’ve been in the thick of it, but I’m fine. I told you I’m too ornery to die. I survived the Great War and being a thug for the mob, so the Huns don’t scare me.
I miss you more than ever. When I was running all over God’s creation before this mess, I knew I could get to you anytime I wanted. I don’t have that luxury now, and I regret every moment I was away.
I dreamed about you and the Starlight. Guess it was a few nights ago. I’m going to make it up to you, Tooz. I mean it. I’m done disappointing you. I’ll live like a regular Joe so we can grow old together. Maybe spoil a few grandkids. What do you think?
Anyhow, being as I am in a war, there’s something I need to get off my chest. If the worst happens, I don’t want to take this business to my grave.
Tuesday closed her eyes. Was this where he confessed his affairs? Murders? Did she want to read on?
I didn’t buy the Starlight for you. The prince gave it to you when he went to fight the Great War. Maybe he knew he wasn’t coming back. Hoboth was the caretaker until your thirty-second birthday. Guess age is the way they do things in royal families. So there it is. The Starlight was always yours. Hoboth was coming up the drive with the deed when I pulled in.
You’re probably wondering why I told you I bought the Starlight. I wanted you to be proud of me. I knew the men I’d worked for weren’t honorable, and I wanted to do one thing you could hold onto all your life. Yet sitting here now in the middle of a world war, I wish I’d done things differently. Can you forgive a slob like me? I’d like one less sin on my account should I face the Almighty sooner than expected.
If I don’t come back, remember how much I love you. I never strayed, Tuesday. Not once. With that, I’ll sign off. Give my love to everyone there, and keep the Starlight on for me.
Your loving,
Lee