Madison Avenue Shoot (2 page)

We exited the terminal and walked across to the garage where Grady had parked. Frank had insisted on wheeling my suitcase himself, and I was happy to let him, but Grady and I kept a sharp eye on his progress in case the bag became too unwieldy to handle. He managed it well—only one tip over—and the look of pride on his face when Grady opened the trunk was worth any bumps and scrapes the suitcase might have endured.

“I’m learning Italian, Aunt Jessica,” Frank informed me from the backseat as Grady negotiated airport traffic, looking for the entrance to the highway.

“You are?” I said. “That’s wonderful. I’m all for teaching languages in the elementary grades.”

“I’m learning Spanish in school,” he said, “but my friend Michele is teaching me Italian. His name is spelled like a girl’s name, but if you say it, it’s like three names in one, Mick-
Kay
-Lee. That’s how they say it in Italy. He lived in Italy for a lot of years. I can count up to twenty already. Want to hear?”

“Of course,” I said, winking at Grady while Frank recited the numbers in Italian.

“Michele lives upstairs in our building,” Frank said after reaching
venti
. “He’s cool. You’ll have to meet him.”

“I’ll be happy to,” I said.

Grady glanced at his watch. “Donna has dinner planned for six thirty. Would you like to stop at the hotel first?”

“Is there time? I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“It’s rush hour, so it may be tight. But if nothing else, we can drop off your suitcase and have them hold it for you.”

“Let’s do that,” I said.

A little voice from the rear piped up. “But what about my . . . um . . . present? If you leave your bag at the hotel . . . ,” he trailed off.

“Frank Fletcher,” Grady said sternly. “I don’t want to hear selfish thoughts like that. I think you should apologize to Aunt Jessica.”

“Sorry, Aunt Jessica.”

“I did promise him a present,” I said. “How about this? You let me off at the hotel while you park the car, and I’ll meet you at the apartment.”

“You don’t have to indulge him, Aunt Jess. Frank’s a big boy. He can wait.”

“I know he can, but I can’t. I want to see if he likes what I brought him.”

There was a whoop from the backseat. I turned to see Frank cover his mouth with both hands, but his eyes were gleeful.

The hotel overlooked Union Square, a large plaza and park downtown in an area that was both commercial and residential. It was Wednesday; a colorful farmers’ market was winding down in the square across from the hotel. Shoppers were snapping up end-of-the-day bargains from vendors who were reluctant to haul their unsold products back home. Gaily striped awnings announced booths selling apples, vegetables, breads, cheeses, and other goodies. Grady turned off Broadway and pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, maneuvering around the trucks double-parked on the busy street.

“Checking in?” asked a handsome young man dressed head to toe in black as he opened the passenger door. “You go right in. I’ll bring your luggage.”

“We made good time, so there’s no need to rush,” Grady said, climbing out of the car to open the trunk. “You have the address and our phone number?”

“Of course.”

“You really can’t get lost.”

I laughed. “You’d think I’ve never been here before,” I said. “I used to live here. Remember?” I gave him a peck on the cheek, waved to Frank, and walked into the hotel’s granite reception area, passing a concrete trough of grass trimmed to five inches high, the only touch of color in the steel-gray lobby. The bellman followed with my suitcase, which he parked next to a massive column.

“Thank you,” I said, handing him a tip.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

The front desk was busy, so I took my place on line and looked around. The decor was decidedly modern, all hard edges and walls soaring up to tiny pinpoint lights like stars in the ceiling thirty feet above. The people working behind the desk were young and fashionable in their black garb, the women perfectly made-up, the men with spiky, shiny hair, thanks to a generous application of gel. The atmosphere was more my agent’s style than mine. Matt knew all the “hip” places in the city. But I was always up for something new, and staying in a trendy New York hotel might be fun.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the smallest hotel room I’d ever seen.

A queen-sized bed covered in pristine white sheets and comforter dominated the space. On one side was a square table, which appeared barely large enough to hold my laptop computer and perhaps a piece of paper. On the opposite side, stuffed between the bed and the window, was an upholstered chair. The lamps flanking the headboard were hung on the wall, as was the telephone. At the foot of the bed, also mounted on a wall, was a small flat-screen TV. If I wanted to sit in the chair to watch television, I’d have to climb over the bed or risk knocking my shoulder into the TV as I squeezed by. There was no bureau, not even a nightstand with drawers. Instead, hanging in the closet was a canvas organizer with four shelves.

The bellman had spread a cloth on the bed to protect the linens, and heaved my suitcase onto it. Where I was to put its contents, and even the bag itself, was going to take some arranging. After he left with tip in hand, I scouted the rest of the room—what there was of it. The tiny bathroom had a glass shelf under the mirror on which I could put at least some of my toiletries. The rest I’d have to leave in their black nylon travel pouch hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.

The narrow closet held only five hangers, all it could accommodate since it already contained the canvas shelves as well as an ironing board and iron—an exercise in optimism if ever there was one. Where an ironing board could be set up in this miniature room was anyone’s guess.

I unpacked what I thought I would need in the next day or two, slid my suitcase under the bed—the only place available where I wouldn’t trip on it—tucked the books I’d brought for my nephew and his wife in my shoulder bag along with the gift for Frank, and exited the room.

Grady and Donna’s apartment building was only a block and a half away, and I had plenty of time to get there. I crossed Broadway and wandered among the remaining booths of the farmers’ market, stopping to sample a tiny cup of cider offered by a vendor. Before he finished packing up, I purchased a half-dozen Honey-crisp apples to bring to my hosts. At an adjacent stall, I bought a jar of wildflower honey made in Maine from a beekeeper who, I discovered, lived only ten miles from Cabot Cove.

“I can’t believe I had to travel all the way to New York to find your honey,” I told him.

“We come down here every fall and hit all the farmers’ markets in the city,” he said. “We stay for two weeks or until we’re sold out. The wife and me, we have a trailer we park on the West Side.”

“Do you save any honey for us in Maine?”

“Oh sure,” he replied, chuckling. “We sent a few cases to Charles Department Store before we left.” Charles Department Store was a treasured landmark in Cabot Cove.

“Well,” I said, “I’m giving this jar away to relatives here in the city,” I said, admiring the hand-drawn label and the little piece of gingham tied over the lid with a strand of raffia. “I’ll make sure to get another one from the store when I get back home.”

“Say hello to David and Jim for me when you see them,” he said, referring to the brothers who owned Charles. “Tell ’em Hollister sends his regards.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Hollister.”

Frank was waiting on the front stoop when I arrived at Donna and Grady’s building. “Can I help you carry anything, Aunt Jessica?” he said, eyeing my packages.

“You can take the apples,” I said.

“Okay.”

He reached up and pressed a call button on the panel next to the building’s front entrance. At the answering buzz, he pushed through the door and held it for me. Their apartment was on the first floor, down the hall from the mailboxes and the elevators. Frank skipped ahead of me, swinging the bag of apples. I followed with a wince, crossing my fingers in hope the plastic wouldn’t rupture before we reached the kitchen.

“Oh, Aunt Jessica, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Donna said, embracing me and relieving me of my packages. “Frank, please put those on the counter and go wash your hands.”

“You found us,” Grady said, taking my coat from my shoulders.

“Of course I did, although I dropped bread crumbs along the sidewalk so I can find my way back to the hotel,” I said, laughing.

“Goodness, Grady, she used to live here,” Donna said. “You don’t forget how to get around the city that fast.”

“I know, I know, but she’s been back in Maine for a while,” he said, sighing. “Anyway, I was just kidding.”

“Aunt Jessica, if you left bread crumbs, the pigeons will eat them up,” Frank said from the kitchen, where he’d placed the apples in a bowl.

We laughed. “I have no doubt that you’re right,” I said.

“Are your hands clean, young man?” Grady asked.

Frank held his palms up for inspection. “Kind of,” he said.

Donna pointed to the bathroom. “Wash. Now.”

He ran down the hall.

She looked at Grady. “Why is he being so good?”

“He knows Aunt Jess has a present for him.”

I held up the little box I’d wrapped in silver paper and tied with a red ribbon.

“Ah,” she said. “Do you mind if he doesn’t open it until after dinner? I’d like him to be on best behavior during the meal.”

“Whatever you say is fine with me,” I said.

We put the box with Frank’s gift by his place at the round table, a visible incentive for him to mind his manners, and I looked around at the apartment. The table was next to a galley kitchen, closed at the far end, which Grady and Donna had painted a buttery yellow. It was a typical city layout with scant counter space, but including a good-sized refrigerator and stove. Adjacent to the dining area was the living room with two windows flanking a flowered sofa and leather-top coffee table. A cozy armchair was set against one wall opposite a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. In addition to books—some of them mine—the shelves were filled with keepsakes from their travels and framed family pictures, mostly of Frank as a baby, but also of their wedding, including one with the three of us together. There wasn’t space in the living room for much more, but they had hung pretty prints on the walls, and the room was cheerful and warm.

“This is charming,” I said.

“It’s small, but we love it,” Donna said. “The neighborhood is close to Grady’s office and Frank’s school, and there are always a million things to explore in New York City on weekends.”

“New York’s an exciting place to live, isn’t it?” I said. “I enjoyed my time here, and I miss the city every now and then. But I found I’m happiest back home in Cabot Cove.”

“And you can always visit New York,” Donna said, setting a salad on the table.

Frank showed off his best table manners throughout the meal, although he couldn’t resist reaching out once or twice to play with the ribbon on the gift box. But he pulled his hand back quickly whenever Grady aimed a frown in his direction.

“How’s the new job?” I asked over dessert, a delicious pear upside-down cake Donna had made.

“Going well so far,” Grady said. He’d just started working for a payroll company in the advertising industry. “It seems pretty straightforward. Carl, the boss, is training me on all the union requirements, pension and welfare deductions, that sort of thing. I’m fine with the regular accounting. It’s the industry-specific stuff I needed to catch up with, and I have. I’ve got about ten production companies I’m working with directly. One of them is Eye Screen. They’re one of the biggest shops in the business. Do you know them?”

“No,” I replied, “but I can’t say that I’m familiar with the names of any commercial-production companies—or many film-production companies, for that matter.”

“They’re shooting a commercial next week and he’s going to bring Frank to visit the set,” Donna put in.

Grady grimaced. “I only said I was
thinking
about it.”

“Awesome!” Frank said. “Can I be in the commercial?”

“No!” his parents chorused.

“You’ll have to promise to be quiet as a mouse,” Donna told him.

“If you’re not, they’ll kick us off the set and my name will be mud,” Grady added. He looked up at Donna. “I’m not sure I should take him. It’s the first time I’m going to be on a shoot. Maybe I should just see how it goes before I bring him along.”

“You already said you would, Grady.”

“Yeah, Dad. I’ll be good. I know how to be a mouse.” Frank wiggled his fingers in front of his nose and made little squeaking noises.

Grady smiled fondly at his son. “Very funny, sport.”

“What is the commercial for?” I asked.

Grady looked uncomfortable for a moment. “It’s for Permezzo, the international credit card.”

“I have one of those,” I said. “I use it when I travel abroad. Their concierge service is very helpful.”

“They’re making a big advertising push in America. The agency awarded Eye Screen the job to make a series of spots. They’re using celebrity testimonials. You know, TV personalities, famous people.”

“Who’s going to be in the commercials, Dad? Anyone I know?”

Grady shrugged. “Anne Tripper and Stella Bedford, for two.”

“I never heard of them,” Frank said, clearly disappointed.

“I’ve seen Tripper on TV,” I said. “She writes those industry exposés. I’m not sure about Bedford, although the name sounds familiar.”

“You must know her, Aunt Jessica,” Donna said. “She’s the lady with the barbecue cooking show on the food channel. The one who always dresses in overalls.”

“Oh, yes, I know who you mean. I don’t believe I’ve seen her show, but she’s written a cookbook.”

“Several cookbooks, actually,” Grady added.