Celluloid Memories (15 page)

Had Will Shelton broken
her
heart, too?

Savannah started sharply. How had she gone from the memory of Jordan Nash disappointing her to her father's possible relationship with another woman? Two other women? And what did
any
of it have to do with McCoy Sutton?

Savannah continued her pacing for another moment. She suddenly stopped, staring into space before making a decision and coming back to the moment. Clicking off the TV she got her purse and keys and headed for the door. She could get answers to at least one of her questions right now.

At the last moment she returned to the living room to get one of her father's albums. It was filled with pictures of people she couldn't identify. She was sure some of them were of that lady.

Once on the road, Savannah headed out in the same direction she and McCoy had used to follow behind a silver-gray Infiniti the day before. Keeping the scrap of paper with her notes handy she made her way to the street and the Cape Cod house. A light was on in the front room next to the door. The silver car was in the driveway. Savannah parked right in front of the house.

Huddled under her umbrella, Savannah approached the house. She held the album under her arm to protect it from the weather. She rang the bell and waited. She couldn't hear anything from inside, but belatedly she reasoned that the woman could have gone to a neighbor's house, or walked to a nearby church for Sunday service, or gone to the market.

Just as she was starting to have doubts about the wisdom of turning up on the woman's doorstep, the door was unlocked and opened, and a pretty, petite woman stood peering at her with caution from behind the edge of the door.

Her hair was relatively short but pulled back into a ponytail. The style made her look younger than Savannah knew she had to be. The appearance of gray at her hairline indicated that she colored her hair, but it was the only obvious sign of aging. Her eyes were dark, her medium brown skin smooth.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Savannah began at once, “You don't know who I am, but I've seen you before near my house and, well, I just wanted to introduce myself and find out…”

“What I was doing there,” the woman completed.

“…if there was anything I can do for you,” Savannah carefully corrected.

The woman regarded her silently and then nodded. “I know who you are. You're Will's daughter. Come in,” she said quietly and stood back.

Leaving her umbrella outside the door Savannah did as she was ordered.

Savannah followed the woman through a center foyer, a sitting room and a kitchen to another room at the back of the house. It was a solarium, small and cozy despite the gray skies beyond the wraparound windows. Savannah could see that on a clear, sunny day the space would be flooded with light. The woman sat in a wicker chair with floral cushions, the high curved back making her look even smaller. She silently pointed to a matching wicker chair opposite, on the other side of a small table.

Savannah became aware that there was music playing very softly and she looked around for a CD player or turntable but saw neither. She did see a console table against an adjacent wall where nearly a dozen framed photographs were arranged. Savannah spotted several images of her father posing alone, or of him and the lady together, she gazing up rather lovingly into his smiling face. She sat forward on the edge of her chair and turned to the other woman.

“I'm Savannah.”

“The youngest child. I'm Caroline Spencer. Your father called me Carrie.”

“Oh, my God. In the last month of my father's life when he was often sedated, he kept saying to me, ‘carry, carry.' I thought he wanted me to take something away, or bring something to him. I didn't know he was asking for you.”

Carrie closed her eyes briefly, as though the image of Will Shelton asking for her as he lay dying was too much to bear.

Savannah stared at her. Now that she was in the woman's presence she couldn't seem to formulate any intelligent questions. Too late, it occurred to her that questions might be too personal, an invasion not only of Carrie's privacy but perhaps a revelation of yet more secrets. Her father seemed to have been quite good at keeping those.

“I'm glad to know he remembered me.”

“Right up until the very end. Why didn't you come to see him?”

“I did, almost every day,” Carrie murmured. “He'd call me when you left for work. I'd drive over and stay with him a few hours. I know it was terrible not to let you know. But toward the end, I wanted him to myself for as long as I could.”

Savannah was speechless that the clandestine meetings had gone on for so long without her knowledge.

“No wonder he was sometimes so cheerful in the evenings,” she mused.

“When you agreed to come out here to be with him, Will was beside himself. He saw it as a sign that you'd forgiven him.”

“You sound like you know a lot about me and my family.”

“Oh, yes,” Carrie admitted. “Will talked about you and your brother all the time. He was very proud of you both. And he gave all the credit to your mother.”

“I…I…” Savannah started. The mention of her mother, and of her father obviously speaking openly about her, caught her off guard.

“You want to know why I keep returning to the house. I was hoping I wouldn't be seen, but—” Carrie shrugged as if to say, ‘so be it.' “—I couldn't go to the funeral. It was too hard.”

“I would have remembered you, I'm sure,” Savannah said. “You loved my father very much.” Savannah spoke kindly, but was surprised when tears almost instantly shimmered in Carrie's eyes.

“We loved each other,” she said quietly. “But I didn't want you and your brother to know anything about me. I felt you would resent me. Will told me about the breakup of the family when he decided to try acting. He never stopped feeling guilty about it. He knew that you, especially, were very angry with him. I didn't want to make things worse.”

Savannah frowned. “How long have you and my father been toge—involved?”

Carrie raised her chin slightly, the little ball of it quivering as she held her emotions in check. “More than fifteen years. I was personal assistant to an actress who was well known at the time. Will was in one of her movies. We met on the set.”

“Fifteen years?” Savannah repeated, astonished.

“You want to know why we didn't marry,” Carrie said, staring into space, her eyes sad but shining with memories. “I was still married at the time. My husband and I weren't getting along well. Our only child had been killed while on a tour of duty with the navy. My husband began drinking. A number of years ago he was in a car accident, but survived. He's been in a special facility ever since.

“Then, it just seemed that it was too late for me and Will. I couldn't leave my husband. We tried to make the best of things. Will did ask me to marry him, all the time. He was a real gentleman. Wanted to do the right thing. But I kept saying no.”

“Are you sorry you did?” Savannah asked quietly.

Carrie silently nodded as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Savannah was far from feeling resentful. She was heartbroken for the couple, stirred by the story of unfulfilled love, poor timing and perhaps a misplaced sense of honor. Remembering the photo album, she retrieved it from the floor next to her feet and silently passed it to Carrie. She accepted it, holding it tightly to her chest.

Savannah knew she would have said thank you if she'd been able to.

It grew dark outside and continued to rain. Savannah helped Carrie make tea and sandwiches and they returned to the solarium to share it together. After the initial shock of learning who she was wore off, she found that she liked Carrie a lot. She could tell that the older woman must have been pretty in her younger day, with the kind of delicacy that would make a man want to protect her. But there was no doubt in Savannah's mind that Carrie was a strong woman, decisive and clear thinking, and still in love with Will Shelton.

Inside the solarium, where Savannah suspected her father and Carrie had spent many quiet comfortable evenings together, she found out even more about her father's life in L.A., the side that had nothing to do with moviemaking. Carrie told her that he'd been careful to keep the professional and private sides of his life separate.

Savannah didn't dare ask if Carrie knew anything about Rae Marie Hilton.

“He should have married you,” Savannah voiced at one point.

“I believe that things happen the way they are supposed to,” Carrie mused philosophically. “I only regret one thing.”

“What?”

Carrie looked at her wistfully. “That I never got pregnant again with Will while I was still young enough. I might have agreed to marriage then.”

Savannah didn't hear any self-pity in the announcement. But it did make her feel even more for her father and Carrie. It should have been so easy, and it wasn't.

She finally stood to leave, offering to help clean up, but Carrie insisted it wasn't necessary. Savannah was surprised to find that she didn't want to leave. She liked the older woman, with her quiet strength and graceful demeanor.

At the door Savannah asked, “Will you come for dinner sometime?”

“You don't have to worry about me. I miss Will, but I'm fine, really.”

“I'd like to think you and I can be friends.”

Carrie smiled at her but already she was closing the door.

“Call me, and we'll see.”

“D
onna, that is so great. I'm happy for you.”

“Thanks. Rehearsals start this week and there will only be three or four, so I really need to be on point.”

Savannah bit into her banana and, on her cell phone, listened to the exuberant details as Donna told of her latest opportunity.

“That's not a problem is it? I mean, you are a professional dancer.”

“Well, yeah. But I didn't tell my contact that I haven't done any real pro dancing in three years. Who knows? Performing at the awards show could lead to something else. First, I need to get my butt in gear. I'm up against women who are younger than me, a lot of them just coming off Broadway shows and regional tours. They're in better shape.”

Savannah continued to listen to Donna's comments as she finished her lunch and gathered the remains in the brown bag. She adjusted her sunglasses against the bright California sun, marveling that in February she could spend her lunch hour outside on a bench under the shade of a tree. Even as she responded to Donna's excitement, she smiled secretly to herself, enjoying the moment. The news that morning reported a storm on the east coast that had so far dropped nine inches of snow in the metropolitan area of New York.

“How did you find out about the dance number for the awards show?” she asked Donna.

“Well, as luck would have it, one of the choreographers is in my yoga class. He misses more classes then he actually attends, but I'm pretty laid-back about him coming and going. He's always preparing for something so he's in good shape anyway.”

“You never told me about him before.”

Donna sighed. “Unfortunately he and I play in different leagues, if you get my meaning.”

“He's gay.”

“And in a relationship.”

“With an actor?” Savannah hazarded a guess with the knowledge she'd gained about the culture of Hollywood.

“Personal trainer. But you were close. He's also a wannabe actor. Isn't everybody? Except you and Kay,” Donna chuckled.

Savannah joined in.

And McCoy,
she silently added. Otherwise, it was true. The film industry was definitely the biggest employer in the city, and everybody wanted in. She stood up and deposited the used lunch bag into a nearby bin.

“Why don't you come to the taping of the awards? I could probably get you in,” Donna said.

Savannah grimaced even though Donna could not see her reaction. “Sounds too red carpety for me. Too crowded. Too ‘it's all about me.' I'll watch it on TV.”

“I hope you change your mind. It'll be fun to get all dressed up and be seen. A lot of the big names come out for this one.”

“You know I'm not impressed by that.”

“Kay said we should come over to the restaurant tonight to celebrate. Are you busy?”

Savannah began a leisurely stroll back to the security entrance to the studio, displayed her ID and walked through the gate. “I was going over to the Film Institute to do some research.”

“Bo-o-ring.”

“I'm working on something, and I can only get to the Institute after work for a fast hour.”

“So take tonight off. Come have drinks with us.”

“Fine,” Savannah gave in. “I'll see you there. Bye.”

Savannah was well aware of the importance of the particular awards to African-Americans, and the ceremony that Donna would be performing for. She'd watched it on TV herself, recognizing well-known actors and actresses, singers and musicians, and a host of up-and-coming talent. She had not spent a lot of thought on all the young hopefuls who were in the limelight, up on stage accepting awards or being interviewed and photographed as if they were visiting royalty. She was well aware that, for many, it was their fifteen minutes of fame.

Where were they now?

What happens to dreams deferred, or deflated?

“Savannah, wait up.”

Getting off the elevator and hearing her name, Savannah glanced over her shoulder. Jogging down the corridor to meet her was Taj.

“I've been looking for you.”

“I'm just getting back from lunch. Why?”

Together, they walked in the direction of Savannah's cubicle.

“I got some information for you.”

Once inside her small office, Taj began searching through his jeans pockets until he found a business card, bent and slightly soiled. He held it out to Savannah. She looked at it skeptically.

“What's that for?”

“Read it and you'll find out,” Taj suggested.

Savannah gingerly took the card and frowned at the information.

“Who's Punch Wagoner?”

“You're kidding, right?” Taj responded, as if she was out of her mind. “The man is one of the hottest agents in L.A. He handles a lot of black talent. He became famous about ten or twelve years ago when he made the careers of several folks.”

Taj rattled off three or four names.

Savannah handed the card back to him. “So?”

“Baby
Girl,
” Taj said dramatically, as if she was breaking his heart. “Don't you get it? The man read your script,
Fade to Black.
He wants to meet with you ASAP.”

Savannah stared at Taj and swallowed. “You're serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Taj said, using an old phrase to make his point.

“What did he say about it?”

“Nothing to me. I'm just the messenger. You gave me your script to read, I thought it was good enough to show Punch. He thought it was good enough to send you his card. I've been trying to catch you for the last two days. If I were you I'd call him
yesterday.
”

“Oh, my God,” Savannah murmured.

She actually had very mixed emotions to Taj's news, one of which was uncertainty. Another was elation. Another, fear. She'd only wanted Taj to read her work because she knew he'd be honest. Was the writing good or bad? Did the story make any sense? It was quite a leap from that to a professional and, at least by Taj's comment, famous agent showing interest. What, exactly, did that mean?

“I thought you'd be excited,” Taj said, somewhat bewildered. “That's why you wanted me to read your script, right?”

“I don't know. I just wanted your opinion. I guess I'm just a bit overwhelmed. This is like two or three steps ahead of me,” Savannah said quietly, looking at the business card. Then she forced herself to smile at Taj. “You've been great. Thank you for reading it, and for showing it to…to…”

“Punch Wagoner,” Taj helped her out. He shook his head at the irony. “Do you know how many people would kill to have a meeting with him?”

“How do you know him?”

“I interned with him when I was in college. It's because of him that I got this job. He read your script because I asked him to.”

“Then I'll give him a call.” Savannah said, coming to her senses and talking rationally.

“And?” Taj coaxed broadly, waiting.

Savannah looked at him and began to laugh. “I owe you drinks.”

“Keep this up, Baby Girl, you'll have to buy me the whole damn bottle.”

 

Disappointed, McCoy snapped shut his cell phone without bothering to leave a message. He didn't want to leaves messages for Savannah. He enjoyed getting her on the line and hearing the surprise in her voice when she recognized it was him.

Not only did that stroke his ego, it made him feel he was right about her. She was not like the thousand and one other people who arrive in L.A. in droves looking to grab the gold ring.
Any
gold ring that signified success, fame and fortune. It pleased him that, as far as he could tell, Savannah Shelton couldn't care less. For someone whose father had been famous in a brutal business, that was no mean feat.

McCoy looked at his watch and knew he'd have to leave. He was out of time to try to reach Savannah and ask her out to dinner. As a matter of fact he'd so anticipated being able to reach her and have her say yes that he'd gone ahead and made reservations. So much for putting the cart before the horse, he thought wryly.

At his desk McCoy pushed a button on his phone console and his assistant answered.

“I'm about to leave. Call Jeff Peterson at the Four Seasons. If he's not there yet, leave a message that I'm on my way. He's to stay put until I get there. We have some issues to discuss.”

“Will do.”

“Have there been any other calls for me while I was out at the building site? Any messages?”

“Just the client you're representing on the sale of that commercial building on Sepulveda, about the closing next week.”

“Right,” McCoy said, leaning over his desk and swiveling his desk calendar so that he could read it. “Call Mr. Pierce back and let him know it's Tuesday at eleven. I've got the paperwork. Remind him to bring his checkbook.”

The assistant chuckled. “Sure. Oh, and Ms. Daly called again.”

McCoy grew alert. “You didn't tell her I was seeing Jeff Peterson tonight, did you?”

“Never said a word. She thinks her brother is arriving tomorrow. I guess he had his reasons.”

“Good,” McCoy said brusquely, relieved.

“She did say she'd try to reach you at home later.”

“Thanks for the warning. Not that I needed it.”

“She is persistent and single-minded. You have to give her that,” Colin volunteered his opinion.

“Unfortunately, that's exactly what it takes.”

Forty minutes later McCoy stepped out of his car, handing the keys over to the valet. He strode with purpose past the liveried doorman, who nodded to him politely as he entered the lobby. It was an elegant, traditional-looking setting that spoke not only of wealth and privilege, but also of good taste. A beautiful older woman followed by three or four assistants passed by, leaving in her wake the scent of expensive perfume. McCoy never gave her a second look, although he recognized her as an Oscar-winning actress and Hollywood icon. He headed right to the front desk to have Jeff Peterson paged. The desk clerk handed him the house phone.

“Hey, man…I'm down at the front desk…Suite 1532? I'm on my way up.”

Thanking the clerk, McCoy headed for the elevators. He was pleased and proud that one of his best friends had done well enough for himself professionally to be able to afford the nosebleed rate of a five-star hotel, as well as all the other toys and distractions that money can buy. But places like this made him uncomfortable. McCoy recognized that with power, fame, status or political pull came world-class benefits. To his way of thinking they also meant giving up privacy and more than a little bit of yourself. He'd never believed that the trade-off was worth it.

The door to the suite opened as McCoy stood poised to knock. An athletic giant filled the frame, a broad grin exposing perfect teeth in a celebrity-handsome face. He was dressed in Armani slacks and polo top. The soft suede loafers on his boat-sized feet had probably been specially ordered and made in Italy.

“My broth-
ah,
” the deep voice boomed, ending on a laugh as he opened his arms.

“Jeff. Good to see you,” McCoy acknowledged the man, who was easily three or four inches taller than he.

The two men clasped hands and drew together in a chest-and shoulder-press greeting.

“Come on in.”

Jeff Peterson had already settled into the absurdly large room, his presence spread everywhere. An expensive leather suitcase was open on a luggage stand, an equally expensive attaché rested on the bar top. The forty-two-inch flat-screen TV was tuned in to a basketball game, and every light in the room was on, as well as those in a connecting room. There was also a room-service cart beautifully laid out with a platter of snacks. In an ice bucket rested a bottle of champagne.

“When did you get in?” McCoy asked in wonder, looking at the extravagant spread.

“About twenty minutes ago. I had someone call ahead.”

“Nice to have money,” McCoy cracked, sending Jeff into a boisterous laugh.

“You're not exactly a pauper yourself. Remember when we were freshmen we used to talk about living large?”

“Let's just say we have different ways of enjoying the fruits of our labors,” McCoy grinned, seating himself in one of the fancy, but not very comfortable, chairs.

“Look, bro. You know I'm always glad to see you and hang out, but I have this thing going on a little later.”

“Who is she?”

Jeff hemmed and hawed. “She's in broadcast TV out here. One of those newsmagazine shows.”

McCoy shook his head indulgently. “You just got here. When did you have time to meet someone?”

“She recognized me at the airport. You know LAX is always crawling with photographers. Someone was taking pictures and she came over and introduced herself. Wanted to know if I'd consent to an interview later.
Hell,
yeah.”