Catch a Rising Star (6 page)

“Gee, thanks.”

“And he said he’d be interested in hearing from you.” By the lilt in his voice, it’s pretty obvious Freddie knows he’s done
a good thing. No. Not just a good thing. A great thing.

“Thank you so much. Give me the number.”

“What are you going to do for me if I give you the number?”

“Now, Freddie!” Freddie always likes to play this game. Usually, I just laugh it off, but this time… hey, I have a lot
at stake. “Or I’m writing your number on the ladies’ room wall at the nearest truck stop.”

“Sheesh! Looks like you lost your sense of humor when you lost your job. Or did that happen when you went all Christian on
me?”

For some reason my face goes hot. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my relationship with Christ. It’s really not. It’s just that
Freddie makes fun of all the Christians on the set. I used to laugh at his antics, but now… “Freddie! Give me the number
or I’ll find another trainer to help me lose these twenty pounds.”

“Twenty! Oh brother. Girl, what have you been eating?”

“Never mind about that.”

He gives me the number and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Meet me at the old Bally’s on Fiftieth tomorrow at one.”

“Are you trying to kill me? I just had my appendix out.”

“Good grief. What a baby. Fine. Call me when you’re ready.”

“I will.”

“So, you still on that Christian kick?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. I guess I’ll have to deal with it.”

I can’t help but smile. Who knows? Maybe God will use me in Freddie’s life.

Just then Laini gives me the slash across the throat motion and points toward the hall.

“Gotta go, Freddie. The nurse is coming.”

I disconnect and bury my phone under the covers just as the nurse steps into the room.

It rings almost immediately. I look up, guilt-ridden, but keeping my eyes widely innocent. “Hello, nurse. How are you today?
I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Tabby.” I stretch out my hand, then grimace at the pull in my abdomen. “Ouch.”

“Take it easy,” the nurse says. “And you might want to answer your phone.”

“Phone?” I lay my hand over the hard lump beneath the paper-thin blanket. “Why would I have a phone when it’s clearly against
the rules?”

She slips the blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Which rules would those be?”

I stare. Am I imagining things due to the pain? “The ones about not using cell phones on planes or in hospitals.”

She smiles. “Planes, no. Hospitals, yes. Shh. Let me listen.”

I hush until she gives me the nod and takes the stethoscope out of her ears.

“You mean I can use my cell phone?”

“Sure. As long as it’s not back in radiology.”

Now I feel pretty darn stupid.

“Well,” she says, smiling brightly. “I can tell by your face that you must be feeling better.”

“Yes, I am.” Not so much physically, but definitely emotionally.

She has no idea just how much better I’m feeling.

Tabby Brockman is back in action!

B
ack in action is a bit of a stretch, I’m afraid. It’s been a week since I got out of the hospital, and I still feel like I’ve
been hit by a Mack truck flying down the highway at a few hundred miles per hour. And that’s putting it mildly.

To make matters worse, I still haven’t heard a word from Kyle Preston, the agent who is supposedly hot to trot for a chance
to represent me. Methinks my dear friend Freddie may have overstated the man’s interest a bit. I’ve left three messages on
Kyle’s voice mail and guess what? Not a peep out of the megacute agent. I’m about to get desperate and call Anita Madison
to take me back. I mean if Julie Foster is willing to write for my character again, who is Anita to stand on principle?

Still, in the spirit of fair play and my own aversion to crawling back to the woman who dumped me, I’ve decided I’m going
to try Kyle’s number one more time and let him know this is his last chance. If he doesn’t call me back this time, it’s his
loss. I pick up my cell phone just as the little sucker rings and scares the blazes out of me. Well it isn’t so much a ring
as it is the theme song from
Friends
. Yes, I’m still hoping for a reunion show. And no, I’m not obsessed. Much. Anyway, so the phone blares out, “So no one told
you life was gonna be this way…” and I jump, which hurts my stitches. “Hello!” I growl because who has the audacity to
call me and scare me half to death when I’m just about to use my phone?

“Tabitha Brockman, please.”

Okay, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but he sounds suspiciously like the bill collector from Visa. I’m ashamed to say I
racked up about eight thousand dollars while I was still employed by the soap—I mean a girl has to have her Prada and Jimmy
Choos right? It’s all about image. I can’t walk into the Emmy awards wearing a Gap shirt and Payless shoes. Who do you think
I am—Sharon Stone?

Paying the minimum every month is definitely a trap, but what’s a girl to do? Unfortunately, I missed the last payment, minimum
or otherwise, due to my loss of job and recent medical malady. I’m just about to slather on the appeal for sympathy when I
realize… he’s still going to want to know when he can expect payment.

Making a split-second decision that I’m totally not proud of, I deepen my voice. “Tabitha? Why—um—no. Tabitha just stepped
out, I’m afraid. May I take a message?”

Oh, the guilt. But faced with the necessity of begging a bill collector to wait a few weeks until I can get back to work and
subsequently receive a paycheck, what was I to do? The impending demand for payment is more than I can stomach today—literally.
And do you
know
the minimum payment on an eight
thousand
dollar credit card?

“Oh, she isn’t there?” The voice sounds rather amused. “Well, tell her Kyle Preston called, will you?”

“Oh, Kyle is that you?” A better liar would have at least said good-bye and called him back as “Tabitha.” But I’ve never been
able to pull off deception. It just doesn’t work for me. Which is a good thing, I guess. For the most part.

A chuckle reaches my ear, and I feel my cheeks warm. “You’ll have to do a better acting job than this if I’m going to get
you a good deal from
Legacy of Life
.”

“I wasn’t acting. I was lying,” I defend, feeling as though my reputation has been besmirched.

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, and I’m not good at lying. I am, however, very good at acting.” I’m about to make the spiel to convince this man that
I am his dream actress, when it suddenly dawns. “Wait, did you say you’re going to take me on as a client?”

“Well, of course. Why else would I have called?”

How am I supposed to know? I don’t really know this guy, do I? But that’s okay by me. As long as he gets me back where I belong—on
the number one daytime drama in the country.

“Now, Tabitha, I know you’ve just had surgery, but we need to get the ball rolling on this. I’ll fax over a copy of my agent
agreement. Sign it and fax it back to me. That will get things started.”

We talk for another few minutes and he asks me questions like, “What was your salary per year before you were killed off?”,
“What size was your dressing room?”, “Boxers or briefs?” He laughs, “Just kidding.”

Very funny. Whatever. The guy might be cute, but he’s definitely not my type. Well, except for the drop-dead gorgeous thing.
But I like more depth. Less oily-car-salesmanship. So I agree with myself that this will be a business-only relationship.
Even though he didn’t ask for more anyway. Better to be prepared, I always say. Or at least, my mom always says that.

I got a new agent; I got a new agent.” I sing as Dancy pops in at noon to bring me egg drop soup.

“He finally called?” She gives me a thumbs-up and hurries past. “Be right back.”

“Yep,” I holler after her retreating form as she heads into the kitchen. “I just faxed back my contract with his agency, and
Freddie is passing along my contact information to Jerry, the producer, as we speak.”

Dancy returns carrying a tray with my soup, transferred from the plastic container to a decent bowl (not that I mind plastic,
but Dancy was raised on fine china so we humor her), and a soupspoon and a glass of iced tea, transferred from Styrofoam.

“Thank you,” I say. I’m truly grateful for the way the girls are taking care of me. The alternative was going to my parents’
house while I recover. And that would have been, you know, detrimental to my recovery.

Perched on the arm of the couch, Dancy gives a little frown.

“What?” I say, because I know that look.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.”

“Oh, sure. Out with it.” Anyone who brings me egg drop soup can say anything she wants without fear of my anger.

“Are you sure you want to go back to that show?”

I laugh. Surely she jests. She deadpans back at me. Okay, maybe she’s serious. “Are you kidding?” Not only will I be paying
my bills—going back to
Legacy of Life
means I return to the show that fired me. I am no longer a reject. I’m a commodity. A hot one, if I do say so myself.

A shrug lifts those perfectly shaped shoulders that Laini and I both envy. “You weren’t all that happy when you were working
there, Tabs. I don’t know. Do whatever you want, but I think you’d be happier trying the stage or maybe some prime-time acting.”

“Good idea! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just hop on over to the set of
CSI
and see if they’re looking for any help. Or wait, I know. I’ll put in a call to Spielberg. I’ve been meaning to get back
to him anyway.”

“Mock me if you will,” she says. “But we both know you haven’t tried that hard to get another regular acting job.”

“Hey, a lot you…”

I was going to say “know about it,” but she holds up her hand to shut me up. “I know working at the bookstore didn’t leave
you much time to go on auditions, so don’t get mad. But now that you have a new agent, maybe he can help you land a gig you’d
be happier with.”

This woman works in publishing, which isn’t too much different than showbiz. She knows the way things are. Why is she busting
my chops? “Dance, the reason Kyle Preston even looked twice at my résumé is because
Legacy of Life
wants me back. If I tell him I don’t want to do it, he’ll drop me like a bad habit.”

A grin tips the corners of her baby doll lips. “Bad habits are hard to drop. That’s why people have so many of them.”

Okay, that was sort of funny. But I’m not even close to being in the mood for her quips. “Yeah, well. That was a bad example.”
She’s only looking out for my happiness, I get that, but the girl needs to understand that not everyone thinks I’m as wonderful
as she does. “Trust me. Kyle Preston won’t be interested in another has-been soap actress looking to trade up.”

“So you do see being on a soap as the bottom of the barrel.”

“No. I see dressing in rabbit suits and hopping around the kiddie room as the bottom of the barrel. I see soap acting as a
way to pay my bills and gain a little bit of fame.”

“Fame…” She gives a snort.

“Okay, fine. I’m not going to be insulted. Ever heard of Kelly Ripa?” I give her that look that clearly says, “Try to deny
it, babe.”

“Not until she joined Regis.” Oh, she’s giving me the look right back. Dancy hates all soaps. Or really anything having to
do with romance. Which I happen to think is a conflict of interest since she spends most of her days proofreading romance
manuscripts.

“Okay. What about Meg Ryan, huh? She started on soaps and look at her now.”

“Yes, and she got famous
after
she left the show. Because of that movie
Innerspace
.”

“No. She met Dennis Quaid because of that movie. She got famous because of that scene in
When Harry Met Sally
.” And I can’t believe my so-called friend brought that up. She knows how upset I still am about that particular Hollywood
split.

“Oh yeah.” She stands. “Look, it’s not that I don’t support your decision to reprise the role of Felicia Fontaine. It’s just
that you sort of changed after you started on that show last time. And it took a while after you left to get back to the Tabby
we knew and loved in college tent theater.”

Is that all? How cute is she? Filled with tenderness, I give my friend an affectionate smile. “Honey, I’m much older and more
mature now than I was right out of college when I got that part. I’m not so easily swayed anymore.” Is it my imagination,
or is that my mom’s patronizing tone coming out of my mouth?

“I’m sure you’re right.” Still, she doesn’t look all that convinced.

“Okay, out with it. What’s bothering you the most?” Better to just get everything into the open up front. I’m not one to avoid
confrontation (unless it’s with Mom) and neither is Dancy (except with her mom and dad), so if anyone can have a heart-to-heart
with me, it’s her.

“Here’s the thing, Tabs. You were a Christian last time you worked there, but you didn’t stay strong. I highly doubt there’s
been much of a spiritual reformation on the set since you left. How are you going to handle the temptations without compromising?”

“Such lack of confidence,” I say, trying to lighten her up with a grin.

“No. I have complete confidence in you. But we both know how easy it is to get sucked into compromising. You sure you’re ready
for this?”

I give a shaky little breath. Because, you know, I’m not one hundred percent positive I can stay the course. Carry my cross,
hold to the rock, and all that other Christianese designed to keep us steady. I
think
I can, but can I really? “God’ll keep me strong, Dancy. I have to believe He’s the one who called me back to the show.”

You know, maybe like Lazarus. Back from the dead.

“Okay, I have to get back to work,” Dancy says, popping up from the couch. “I’m sure you’re going to do great. Maybe you’re
right, and this is God giving you a second chance at being a light in that place.” She gives me a little smile. “Besides,
Laini and I are right here to knock some sense into you if it seems like you are being influenced by bad… influences.”