“When does shooting start?” I ask.
“Two weeks.”
“That’s fast.”
“That’s Hollywood, baby. They’re FedExing a script to you today. Want you on set for fittings end of week. Shooting in the desert, so you don’t even need to uproot your life.” He pauses. “Yet.”
Stu releases a resoundingwhoop!that echoes in his all-glass office in Beverly Hills. “I gotta know, though. How’d you pull this off, buddy?”
“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?”
Stu laughs.
“Let’s just say it was all timing,” I say vaguely.
“Good enough for me! Timing is everything in Hollywood! Barry Goggins is back! Let me know when you receive the script. I’m calling the director now!”
“I take it I’m being moved from Rolodex to speed dial.”
“FaceTime, buddy! FaceTime from now on! It’s a new era for you, buddy! We need to celebrate! Ciao, Barry!”
Stu hangs up, and I stand motionless—phone still fixed to my ear—by the pool. I stare at my reflection in the aqua water. How many times have I stood right here praying for this phone call? How many times have I wished for this dream to come true? How many years do I have left to make up for lost time?
I take a step toward the edge of the pool. The wind pulses through the palms, and my reflection breaks into a hundred pieces of aqua. Eventually, they remake a picture of a man standing on the precipice.
But on the edge of what?
Fame? Power? Stardom? Wealth?
Or something as unreliable as the San Andreas fault that runs beneath me?
A figure emerges from Zsa Zsa, a blur of white in the sun and the pool’s reflection.
“You look like you’re thinking of drowning yourself. Let me get seated first so I can enjoy the show. I’ve always wanted to know if your face work was water-resistant.”
Teddy.
Another figure.
“I’m back.”
Ava.
“Are you okay?” she asks, noticing the phone still pressed to my ear, my body as rigid as brittlebush.
“Undecided,” I finally say, lowering my cell. “I never dreamed I’d see you two together. This seems like the start of a horror movie.”
A raven settles on the yard.
“The Birds!” Teddy cries dramatically, covering his face as if he’s being attacked. “I always resembled Tippi Hedren.”
“After the attack,” I say.
“Well,” Ava says, “a little bird asked me to teach it to sing again.”
I eye Teddy.
“Chirp, chirp,” he says, flapping his arms at me with a mischievous smile.
