Talk of the Town (30 page)
Andy smiled like he believed maybe I could, then he turned and went out the door, whistling a little tune under his breath.
The mail wagon was clearly not built for passengers. The cargo compartment of the remodeled army jeep was filled with mail containers, packages of all sizes, two huge rolls of what appeared to be plastic sheeting, aluminum cans gathered from the side of the road, and a supply of dog biscuits in blue buckets marked Small and Large. Some of the dog biscuits had spilled, so that the floor was a crunchy mixture of dog food and dribbled soda pop. A skinny black kitten was moving warily around the compartment, licking dried soda and eating crumbles of dog biscuit. In the cab up front, a basset hound scratched at the sliding window and licked his chops, hoping to make a meal of the kitten. When it wasn’t searching for food, the kitten arched and hissed at the dog.
“Sorry about the animals,” the postman, Harlan Hanson, apologized as he ushered Carter and me into the back with the kitten. “Sheriff’s wife called and said her dog, Flash, was on the lam again, and if I saw him, could I pick him up and drop him back at home? The little cat was stuck in a cardboard box out by the county line. So far he and Flash ain’t gettin’ along too good.”
Picking up the kitten as Carter and I climbed into the cargo area, the mailman examined it momentarily, then handed it to me, saying, “Here. He’s a skittish little thing.” Then he shut the tailgate as we perched atop the plastic mail containers. Checking the lock, he rapped twice on the window, which was opaque with dust. “Stay down and hang on,” he ordered before moving to the driver’s seat. The vehicle started with a cough and a wheeze, and muted light flooded the compartment as the auto shop owner threw open the garage door. We squealed backward onto the street, did a
Miami Vice
–style one-eighty, and sped down the alley, honking while dodging obstacles and news crews. A hail of obscenities flew after us, and in the cab, Harlan yelled, “Yeeeeeee-haw! Take that, you nosy buggers!” as we fishtailed onto the street.
The kitten dug into my arm until finally I pulled him loose and tucked him in my lap atop the Prada handbag that only days ago had been one of my major concerns. Now the Prada seemed like a shallow symbol, a trapping I’d hoped would make me into something I wasn’t.
The mail wagon whipped around a corner and flew over what felt like a speed bump. The cat, the Prada, and I went airborne and landed mostly in Carter’s lap. A second turn sent the Prada rolling to the floor, where it fell with a dull thud into a puddle of goo. Carter’s arm caught my waist, saving me from the floor, and we hovered in what might have been a romantic clutch if not for the cat squalling between us.
The postman opened the sliding window, and Flash stuck his head through, barking. Cat claws went through my bra, into my skin.
“We got a few on our tail,” the postman hollered over Flash’s barking. “I’m gonna slow down and do some deliveries. By the time we run the riverside loop and drop Flash at home, they’ll git bored and move on. Y’all just lay low back there and keep out of sight.”
Both Carter and I glanced at the dust-coated back window. Not much chance of anyone seeing through that.
“Hit the deck!” the postman hollered. “They’re comin’ around the front.”
Carter and I fell back against the rolls of plastic, with the cat suspended spread-eagle between us.
Sucking in a breath, Carter pulled his shirt, and the cat’s claws, away from his chest. Overhead, the window slid shut, Flash quieted to a dull whine behind the glass, and the vehicle slowed.
“I bet you’re wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into,” I said, carefully unhooking the kitten from my beautiful periwinkle silk summer sweater, another designer leftover from Wardrobe. The vehicle rolled along the roadside, moving in the slow stop and go of mail delivery.
“The thought did cross my mind.” Carter’s attention strayed to the kitten. Holding it and his shirt suspended in one hand, he rolled onto his side and braced an elbow, waiting patiently for me to break the link between us or for the kitten to relax, whichever came first. “All I caught on the way downstairs was that Amber Anderson’s on her way to town and we’re headed somewhere to meet up with her before the horde of reporters finds her. Somehow, there’s a gravel truck and a horse trailer involved. I don’t quite have that part figured out yet.”
“You’re probably better off not knowing,” I said, and he chuckled. I felt the warmth of his breath on my neck, and a tingle slid over my skin. Our position suddenly seemed intimate, cozy despite the bouncing packages and the kitten. It should have felt strange being here with him, but it didn’t. “If I told you the plan, I’d have to kill you.”
Repositioning his hand, he held the cat a little closer to me. “You could just swear me to secrecy.” The words were warm and comforting, like a promise. Somehow, even lying on a roll of sheeting in the back of a mail truck, not knowing where he was headed, he oozed confidence—not the arrogant sort, but the kind that made me feel like the day would somehow turn out all right.
The next thing I knew, I was sharing the plan, including the fact that, right now, Amber was AWOL and my tyrannical boss was headed this way. “So now my life is in the hands of a twenty-four-year-old college intern who’s been fired once already and thinks he knows where Amber might be,” I finished, thinking that for all any of us knew, Amber could be halfway across the country right now, or halfway across the world, getting married to Justin Shay in Paris, Rome, or back in Vegas at the Love Me Tender Chapel, tying the knot as an Elvis impersonator crooned “Wedding Song.” They could honeymoon in the Beulah suite, all three of them. I wouldn’t need it once Ursula—
“It’s not your life, Mandalay.” I felt Carter’s words as much as I heard them. “It’s just your job. There’s a difference.”
The tide of my emotions turned abruptly, like a rogue wave striking shore, then slowly draining back out to sea. Carter was right. Whether we bagged the Amber Anderson segment today or not, the sun would still rise tomorrow. “You’re right,” I said, feeling shallow and artificial, a Hollywood girl who’d built the core of my existence on superficial things. Compared to what Carter’s family was going through, a job failure didn’t amount to much.
Suddenly humbled, I pretended to be busy working the cat claws out of my sweater.
“I’m not lecturing,” he said softly. “It’s just that this last year has opened my eyes a little, made me realize how easy it is to get . . . caught up in things.” I imagined his face as he said those words—the subtle play of light and shadow, the earnestness in his eyes. “When something happens like what’s happened to Chris, you don’t have any choice but to quit fighting the sails and let the wind move the boat—drift on faith for a while.”
I looked up at him, felt myself being drawn in by his closeness, by something else I couldn’t explain.
Drift on faith
. Amber had rehearsed a song with that line in it for show number eight. It was a metaphorical tune about little boys building leaf-and-twig ships and sending them down the river, dreaming of where the wind and the water would take them. I’d closed my eyes and just listened as Amber’s voice filled the rehearsal room, weaving a story of childhood dreams, of growing up, losing yourself to the world, then searching for the truths of your own soul.
Amber’s voice coach vetoed the number, saying it was too soft and the judges wouldn’t like it. That week, Amber sang “Wind Beneath My Wings” instead. She dedicated it to her brothers. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and the judges loved her. Even so, I wished she’d performed the song about the boats.
“Here,” Carter said, handing me the kitten as it relaxed and released its hold on his T-shirt. “I think it likes you better.” He glanced toward the window as the kitten curled up on my chest and started purring. The vehicle had stopped. Up front, the postman was trying to convince Flash to disembark.
I stroked the kitten, still thinking about Amber and the song. I realized now that I had wanted Amber to sing that song not because it displayed a particularly outstanding vocal range or ability, but because the lyrics were capable of evoking emotion, of making people think. Amber’s one true advantage in the competition was that despite all of her shortcomings, she had a sense of purpose deeper than just winning a million-dollar recording contract and making herself a star. She wanted to say something to people. She wanted to make a difference.
I suddenly knew why I’d been pulling for Amber all season, even though her naïveté was such a liability. Once upon a time, I was the girl who believed one person could make a difference. I was going to take the news business by storm, rise to the top, use my power to expose wrongdoing, stamp out hatred, promote understanding, end homelessness, improve education for LA’s inner-city kids. Back then, the list was endless. Every story was personal to me, every job advancement a chance to have a bigger impact, move a step closer to my goal.
When had the goal become just about advancement and not about changing the world? What had happened to the idealistic schoolgirl who felt an inner calling? When had my life become a quest to prove that I’d left behind the shy, knobby-legged, imperfect little sister with the Coke-bottle glasses and the big ideas? Somewhere during the past few years, I’d forgotten the things that girl dreamed of. I’d convinced myself she and I were not the same person and the sense of inner fulfillment she yearned for didn’t matter.
I’d let my boat drift into a tiny whirlpool of self—self-need, selfdoubt, self-satisfaction, self-advancement. I’d surrounded myself with an ocean of people who spun in their own little pools, who made me feel all right about my life.
The truth was that I was drowning in my self-created vortex, and that was why, when Amber had drifted by, I’d grabbed on without wanting to, without meaning to, without even realizing it, really. I wanted someone, something, to pull me out of the pointless spin. Amber was a breath of fresh air, a person motoring along on a direct, if somewhat naïve, and lofty course, following a calling.
“This segment seemed like a chance to make a difference,” I admitted quietly, focusing on the kitten and not on Carter. “I wanted to come through for Amber and her family because they need the break, because Amber’s music is about more than just hitting the recording-contract jackpot. But the truth is, I also needed it for me. I needed this job to count for something.” It seemed strange to admit something so close to the center, so newly realized and fragile. Carter would probably laugh. He’d think I was kidding, considering that I worked in reality TV. Hardly the place for such idealistic talk.
He reached across the space between us and scratched the kitten, his hand touching mine. “It’ll work.” As usual, he spoke as though he believed it, believed he could find Amber, defeat a horde of reporters and paparazzi, and make the show turn out all right just because he said so.
I turned my hand over and his fingers interlaced with mine. It felt natural, as if my hand were created to fit perfectly in his. I looked into his eyes and felt myself falling. The whirlwind of thoughts in my mind, the shifting packages, the gentle rumble of the engine idling, even the purring kitten seemed far away. “Thanks for coming,” I whispered.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” The words seemed intimate. His face grew contemplative, as if something were on his mind and he was trying to decide whether to say it.
I wanted to know what he was thinking.
Up front, the truck door slammed. Carter and I jerked upright like a couple of teenagers caught making out. The window slid open and the postman poked his head through. “All righty, now we’re on our own. Y’all dig in your spurs and hang on, because we’re runnin’ late and I’m gonna take the back way. It’ll be a bumpy ride down about five miles of dirt road.” Closing the window, he revved the engine and we left town behind in a squeal of burning rubber, the jeep whipping around corners and up and down hills like a San Francisco taxicab, while Carter, the cat, and I bounced and rattled around in the back.
By the time we reached our destination, I was starting to feel sick, the package compartment was filled with a fine haze of dust, and the kitten was stuck to my sweater again. When the postman opened the door, Carter and I tumbled out unceremoniously. The kitten jumped for solid ground and made a break for it, bolting through a newly planted flower bed and disappearing under a white two-story farmhouse that was just as I’d hoped it would be. Blinking in the sunlight, I took in the old red barn, the aged whitewashed fence around the yard, the towering, twisted live oaks with their long branches starting high on the trunks and bending toward the ground. I suddenly felt better about the day. If we could find Amber, my plans just might work out after all. So far, I hadn’t heard from Ursula, which meant she was still en route somewhere. With any luck, we could have this thing bagged before she found her way here.
Overhead, the cloudless April sky seemed to promise that everything would turn out all right.
The cell phone rang in my purse, and I rushed to dig it out as Harlan headed toward the front porch, looking for Imagene. Carter wandered a few steps away to study an old iron-wheeled tractor that was sitting like a rusty statue outside the barnyard.
