Catch a Falling Star (18 page)

serve
him
when he was being a jerk. “If we refused to serve every-

one who acted like that, we wouldn’t have a café to run. Plus,

come here.” I motioned him back into the kitchen. “We’ve made a

sort of game out of it.” I pulled a heap of aprons from a hook,

revealing our secret clipboard. “We send them to U.R.E.P.”

He frowned. “To Europe?”

I showed him the clipboard. “U.R.E.P. Unnecessarily Rude

Entitled Person. That way, we can look at each other and simply

say quietly, ‘Send her to U.R.E.P.’ It helps vent it out and not cost

us customers.”

Under the heading,
U.R.E.P.
, it read
: Reason for travel
and had

blanks where Little Eats employees could vent. There were pages

of reasons, written in different ink colors and in various handwrit-

ings.
No one loves me
, was a popular choice, as was,
Too many pesticides

in my food
. “See, look.” I clicked my pen, took the clipboard, and

pointed to the blank spot for Reason #437. “Poor me. You put

mint in my tea,” I whined, and then Adam snatched the pen and

said as he wrote,
“Because my boyfriend just left me for a B-list TV actress

with better implants.”

My eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a good one. Specific.”

He shrugged. “It’s true.”

I replaced the clipboard on the hook and covered it with the

aprons. “See, we all have our coping strategies. No harm done.”

138

“She’s still fired.”

I pushed through the kitchen door. Turning, I smiled at him

standing in the doorway, his long body casual, his arms crossed

across his chest. “Thanks.”

Hunter Fisch wasn’t happy.

And he’d been growing steadily unhappier for the past two

days. I’d never seen a famous director in action, and Hunter was

living up to everything I’d imagined about filmmakers — creative,

passionate, slightly crazy. Hunter was thirty-seven (I’d looked him

up on IMDb) and had made a name for himself directing family-

friendly fare like
At the Park
and
It Takes Four
, two movies I’d liked

a lot, actually. They were, as one critic said, “the right balance of

sweet and quirky.”

Right now, I was pretty sure he was feeling neither sweet nor

quirky.

At five eleven, he appeared taller, even from the edge of his

chair in Video Village where he was currently frowning at a moni-

tor. His receding dark hair was buzzed short, and he hid large

green eyes behind thick frames that seemed to shift from black to

purple. He wore designer jeans and a T-shirt, and his signature

move seemed to be swooping his beat-up Sundance cap and head-

set off his head and rubbing his hands manically across his stubbly

hair while he said things like, “I wonder if you could try that again,

but this time,
mean
it.”

I had a little crush on him.

I kept as quiet as possible from my own chair in Video Village,

139

where they’d given me a headset to hear action from the active set.

They were shooting in the hospital, and sometimes I liked to sneak

to the edge of the set and watch Adam while trying to keep out of

the way. Once, yesterday, Hunter had noticed me. “Do you work

for me?”

I’d pointed at Adam.

“She’s with me,” he’d said, giving his director a thumbs-up.

That was the last of Hunter’s attentions I’d received.

Right now, he was rubbing his head again. He left his hat and

headset on his chair and walked onto the set. “Um, great —

Stephanie?” He frowned at the actress in the hospital bed. “I want

you to try that again, and this time . . . I want you to be, well,

sick
.” I tiptoed over to where I could watch him talk to the actors.

The lens of his glasses reflected the scene: two actors and a hospi-

tal bed doubled and in miniature.

Adam, who had been crouched eye level with the tiny actress

tucked into the hospital bed, stood and stretched his arms above

his head, yawning.

Honey-haired Stephanie blinked bright eyes at Hunter from

the bed. “Can you elaborate?”

Hunter’s lips pinched. Carefully, he said, “You have cancer.”

His left leg shook slightly, like it always did on the rung of his

chair, artistic ADD.
“Cancer,”
he emphasized. “Very late stage.

You’re extremely ill. You know, as in
not well
.”

“Do I seem too healthy?” She glanced quickly at Adam, who

shrugged and winked at her.

More head rubbing. “You seem
quite
well . . . which is a prob-

lem for this scene. Kelly!” Hunter called over his shoulder. Kelly,

140

a petite makeup artist with cropped copper hair, appeared at his

side. “Can we make her paler? More dark circles? Something?”

Kelly studied Stephanie, her nose ring flashing. “If you want it

to be a zombie movie.” She gave a quick shake of her copper head.

“It’s not the makeup.”

Hunter sighed. “Right. Okay, let’s try this again. And can we

stop with whoever feels the need to sound like his own rendition

of ‘Jingle Bells’?”

One of the crew, an enormous, sweet-faced guy named

Thomas, who had clearly gotten into the Christmas spirit, gave his

head a little shake, the bells on his Rudolph antlers shivering. He

quickly tucked them away in a bag. “Sorry, boss.”

Hunter’s expression snagged somewhere between bemused

and annoyed. “We’re going to have to start calling you Tiny Tom.”

Everyone laughed dutifully and got back to work.

A half hour later, they broke for lunch.

I joined Adam outside in the tent that had been set up for cast and

crew so they could grab a quick bite. Adam found a card table off

by himself at the edge of the tent, next to a cut-out window, and I

sat in the seat next to him. Parker brought Adam a sandwich and a

Diet Coke. He never seemed to eat with the rest of the cast, always

preferring a sandwich to the meals craft services provided. He sat

at the table, staring out at the fringe of pines on the hills beyond

the hospital. Quietly, so only I could hear him, he sighed and said,

“God, I hope this movie isn’t terrible.” He took a bite of sandwich.

Turkey Gorgonzola with a balsamic spread. I’d made a bunch

141

earlier for our café cold case and brought one for Adam. Studying

it, he said, “This is a good sandwich. I bet you this movie won’t be

as good as this sandwich.”

I could see the parking lot from where we sat, rows of film

trailers, people moving equipment in and out of trucks. It would

be lucky if ambulances could actually get into the turnabout.

Hopefully, no one needed the hospital today for its actual purpose.

“Won’t there always be people who will think a movie’s terri-

ble and people who’ll love it? Believe me, there are people who

don’t like that sandwich. A couple of the mouthy ones are on the

U.R.E.P. list.”

He popped open the Diet Coke can. It hissed, releasing a

sweet, chemical smell. “I need it to do well. I need this to be a

good movie.”

Something in his voice felt ragged, frayed, and I leaned in a

little closer. “Doesn’t it just matter what you think of it?”

He looked at me with a sort of pity. “That’s never what matters.”

“Why?” Out the window, white clouds drifted like feathers,

the sky so pale the blue was more a faint tint than a color. When he

didn’t answer, I said, “I mean, you can’t really control it. So why

worry about it? I can’t control what people think of that sandwich,

but I’m going to keep making them because I think they’re

delicious.”

He nodded, licking some balsamic from his fingertips. “It’s a

little different. This sandwich didn’t cost twenty-five million dol-

lars to make.”

Hunter came over to our table. “You okay if we get roll-

ing soon?”

142

“Sure.” Adam crumpled up the paper, drained his Diet Coke.

He rubbed his hands together, looking at me with tired eyes. “Let’s

do something fun tonight.”

Tonight was definitely not in the script. Parker had told me

that Adam would be busy getting ready for a big scene he was

shooting tomorrow. “Parker said you have to prep for tomorrow.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine. Besides, I’d rather do some-

thing fun with you.”

His words lit in my belly like a low flame. “My dad’s playing

with his band at an old barn tonight. I don’t know if you’d think

that would be fun, but it’ll be mellow. Loads of good food.”

He perked up. “Your dad’s in a band?”

“A Bruce Springsteen cover band. Glory Daze. D-a-z-e.” I

made an apologetic face. “He thinks he’s very clever. But it’s pretty

out by the barn, you know, if you’re in the mood for a little bit

country, a little bit rock and roll. And Jones is making his famous

chili.”

“That guy doesn’t like me.” He pushed himself away from the

table, leaving behind the crumple of sandwich paper and the empty

can of Diet Coke.

Watching him, I wondered what it must be like to care what

everyone thought of you all the time, to be so trained, your body

some sort of social chromatic tuner. I gave him a quick smile.

“Don’t worry, Jones doesn’t like most people. Oh, and, Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“You going to throw that out?”

143

twelve

the old barn belonged to Mr. Jensen, one of our regulars. He

owned Blue Acre Farm, known for their apple juice, but I was

more a fan of their pumpkin patch in the fall. Mr. Jenkins always

had the best-dressed scarecrows, and his wife made a pumpkin pie

that would make your mouth water from seven miles away. We

served it at the café in the fall and it always sold out by midday. For

years now, Mr. Jensen had been coming to Little Eats one or two

mornings a week. He would wander in, still wearing his overalls

and messy work boots, eat a bagel sandwich with egg and ched-

dar, and read a book. Then, he left a dollar and a haiku as a tip. I

kept one of his haikus taped to my bathroom mirror at home.

Always bright smiling,

her face lighting, shoulders bent

to listen. Carter.

He’d written dozens of them for us. But that one was my

favorite.

When we got around back of the red barn, Dad was setting up

with Glory Daze on a platform stage built on the far side of a

144

sprawling, flat, open space ringed with trees. In the fading eve-

ning, the band members moved as shadows, the bobbing string

bulbs above them stippling their faces with light. Mrs. Jensen’s

granddaughter, Lila, home from UC Santa Cruz for the summer,

had turned the area into a fairyland. Lights looped through the fat

oak that stood sentinel in the center of the space, then stretched

like glowing wings across it. She’d placed bunches of wildflowers

into dozens of metal vases and watering cans, setting them on any

available surface. A long table sat against the barn wall, covered in

faded floral tablecloths, and already piled with apple pies, salads,

freshly baked breads, and clay pots of preserves. Nearby, over an

open fire pit, Jones stirred a pot of chili the size of a wheelbarrow.

Adam’s eyes widened. “What’s the occasion?”

“Summer.” I grabbed his hand to pull him toward the stage,

and his fingers laced through mine, not letting go, sending tiny

shocks up my arm.

When we got to the edge of the stage, Dad paused from the

mic check he’d been doing and smiled down at us. “You two should

grab some of that sourdough bread before it disappears.”

Mrs. Jensen hurried by, trailing the scent of cinnamon, her

white hair curled into a knot at her neck. “Oh, don’t rush them.

There’s plenty more where that came from.” She stopped to plant

a kiss on my cheek; at only five feet, she had to stand on her tip-

toes. “Hi, darlin’.” She eyed Adam shyly. “Who’s your friend?”

Adam let go of my hand to shake hers, his eyes sparkling under

his Lakers cap. “Adam.”

She gave his hand a quick shake. “Well, help yourself, Mr. Adam.

That bread’s especially tasty with those strawberry preserves.”

145

“Will do.” He smiled, watching her scurry away. “Okay, she’s

from central casting.”

I frowned at him. “What’s that?”

“You know, like if you were going to cast someone to play an

old farmer’s wife — you’d cast her. She’s exactly what you’d imag-

ine for the part.” At my blank look, he said, “It’s just an expression,”

and moved toward the food tables. Around us, people started to

fill up the courtyard, holding beers or homemade ginger ale in

glass jelly jars.

No one seemed to notice Adam.

I came alongside him to survey the spread of food. “Do you

ever look at the world and not relate it to the movies somehow?”

Pausing, he plucked a slice of sourdough bread from a basket,

tore off a piece, and chewed it. “Not really.” He waved to someone