Celluloid Memories (13 page)

“Fortunately, this little side trip has put us pretty much where we want to be. Inglewood is the next town south of here,” he informed her.

While he drove, McCoy talked a little about the predominantly black community they were passing through. Much of the area looked not only dated, but in some cases blighted. There was a stark contrast between here and where her father had chosen to live, Savannah realized, or the neighborhood where the lady of mystery apparently lived.

“This is an economically challenged area,” McCoy said, driving slowly. “It just needs incentives, some interest, ideas and cold cash to be revitalized. The folks around here are wary of that word. It generally means buying up property and homes and fixing up the neighborhood so someone else can move in.”

“I know. It was a big problem in New York once Harlem was targeted for gentrification. I have a friend who lives near Abyssinian Baptist Church who said she'd never seen so many white people in her life up there until they started coming north to buy the brownstones.”

“That's the nature of progress,” McCoy said to her. “It's not a racial thing, it's economic. What used to be commercial gets reinvented and rezoned for residential. What used to be a ghetto suddenly becomes chic and upscale.”

“Try telling that to a displaced family,” Savannah sighed.

“I have,” McCoy said quietly, as she shot him a curious glance. He didn't elaborate.

McCoy finally pulled up in front of a storefront. It was clearly named, the Shelton Repertory Theater Company.

“Here we are,” he said, parking near the corner just beyond the building entrance.

The rain had stopped, although it was still overcast and the air was humid and muggy. They got out of the car and walked back to the theater. As McCoy reached for the door, it suddenly swung open and two young adults exited together, so deep in conversation they never saw Savannah and McCoy before them. McCoy held the door to let Savannah precede him into the tiny foyer.

To her left was an open half door to what appeared to be a storage space doubling as a coat check. To her right was another door with a glass window that functioned as the ticket counter.

Savannah's attention was immediately drawn to the framed posters hung on the walls. She stepped closer to one that showed her father seated on a stool, surrounded by actors and actresses in costume from a play set in the twenties or thirties. Another photo showed him cutting the ribbon in a ceremony signifying the opening of the theater. She felt an unexpected lift of pride at her father's prominence in both pictures.

“Wait here,” McCoy said, lightly touching her shoulder. “I'm going to see who's around.”

He disappeared through a double door. Savannah vaguely heard voices in the distance just before the door closed shut behind him.

A small plaque on the wall over the ticket window read,
Founded 1987 by the Inglewood Troupers. Named in 1991 after Will Shelton, noted actor and teacher, for his guidance, support and unwavering commitment to the community.

Savannah read the sign several times. She had mixed emotions about the dedication her father clearly had for this theater, and for his efforts not only to bring entertainment but also to encourage the craft of acting right here. It was a side of him that she'd missed out on. The door to the interior of the theater opened again. McCoy called out to her.

“They're rehearsing, but the director would like to meet you. Come on in,” he coaxed her.

Somewhat dazed, Savannah allowed herself to be led. The theater itself was old, the seats wooden, the carpeting worn and torn in places. The house lights were on, and the space had a tired look, but she doubted if any of that mattered to the half-dozen people on the small stage who stood waiting for her.

Savannah glanced, nervous and apprehensive, at McCoy. He winked and placed his hand on her back, urging her forward.

“They're doing
Two Trains Running,
one of August Wilson's plays,” he whispered in an aside as they approached the front of the stage.

A middle-aged man stepped forward, hand extended, a broad smile on his tobacco-brown face. “Ms. Shelton, this is a real honor.”

And then, everyone on stage broke out into applause.

S
avannah walked silently beside McCoy, watching their shadows in the sand. The sun had come out after all, but it was still humid. The gentle hissing of the ocean, not even a hundred feet away, was calming. She'd expected the sand to be squishy and hot, but at this end of the beach, as it began to narrow inland, it was packed hard and was cool on the soles of her feet.

She tilted her face upward toward the sky, enjoying the melting warmth of the sun on her face. She felt a wonderful sense of well-being, peace and giddiness. Savannah couldn't help smiling to herself as she replayed in her head the way the small group of repertory actors had greeted her. She knew it wasn't really about her but about her father. Nonetheless, Savannah had experienced great satisfaction from hearing the clapping and had suddenly sensed what it must be like for actors to get that response from an audience. She'd done nothing to deserve the recognition, but part of her welcomed it.

She stole a glance at McCoy, who seemed just as pensive, yet comfortable with the silence between them. He had her shoes, each one stuffed into a pocket of his slacks. He held his own Docksides in one hand, gently swinging them with his gait. The lower legs of his pants were haphazardly rolled up to midcalf as he sloshed through the bubbling surf that rolled in from the Pacific Ocean.

“Long Beach was a great place to grow up,” he reminisced. “It has beaches, restaurants, a boardwalk, and it's just far enough away from L.A. to make going there easy when I wanted to go in for some fun.”

“But you're glad you didn't grow up in L.A.?”

“That's right.”

“I'm surprised to hear you say so. You live there now.”

“Now it's by choice. I have a practice that's thriving in L.A. I live in a part of town that's really a different side of L.A. It's quiet and almost completely residential. There is the Third St. Promenade and the mall, there's still access to the beach, although that's become a major tourist attraction, but it's not intrusive.”

“I like it here. I can see and feel the difference,” Savannah commented. “Do you still have family here?”

“My younger brother lives in San Francisco. He's an architect. My mom is dead and my father, who's retired, lives in Oakland. My brother and I still own the house we grew up in. I don't stay there much anymore, but Cody uses it as a weekend getaway.”

They'd just finished lunch, although it was almost three-thirty, and McCoy had suggested they walk for a while. Suggesting the beach had been a nice surprise in Savannah's eyes. She'd only gotten to go to the beach once since coming to L.A., and only then because Donna had dragged her along shortly after they'd met at a yoga class Savannah had attended.

“This is my first time back here in probably six months,” McCoy said in a surprised tone.

“Are you saying this trip was just for my sake?”

“Mine, too. I was glad for a reason to come. And I did want to show you the college where your father taught.”

“I thought he just gave a lecture or two. I didn't realize he taught on a fairly regular basis,” she murmured.

“You sound a little resentful,” McCoy observed gently.

She shrugged. “I don't mean to. I'm really proud that my father apparently gave back so much. I'm glad that he was so admired and loved.”

McCoy glanced at her. “I hear a
but
coming.”

She shook her head. “No
but.
I guess I'm still getting used to the fact that I really know so little about his life in L.A.”

“I'm sorry. I never considered that doing this would be painful for you.”

Savannah smiled up at him. “Not painful. Embarrassing. I should have taken time to learn. I should have cared more.”

“I suppose you might say he could have done the same about you.”

“There's enough blame to go around, but what's the point?”

“How do you feel about his being a actor? Coming to L.A. and perhaps making a difference?”

Savannah swallowed before answering. “Awed,” she got out, letting it go at that. So much of what she was feeling simply could not be put into words, yet.

“The college here is where I first heard him speak. I wasn't into acting or anything. I just wanted to hear what the man had to say. The funny thing is, he didn't really talk about being an actor. He talked about making decisions and taking responsibility for those decisions. And something about having a backup plan when the first one explodes in your face,” McCoy chuckled.

“Heads up!”

Savannah and McCoy both turned sharply at the sound of the warning in time to see a volleyball arching through the air in their direction. Savannah dropped her shoulder bag and positioned herself below the falling ball.

“I got it,” she shouted, deftly catching it.

About to toss it back to a waiting player, Savannah suddenly changed her mind. She turned her body, held the ball in her open left palm, and with a calculated toss into the air, she sent it back toward the players with an underhanded punch of her clasped fists.

It put the ball right back into play, and the two sides gave her a cheer.

“Good move,” McCoy complimented her.

She turned to him, smiling and self-satisfied. “I'm not much of an actress, but I grew up pretty good at sports. I had to, to keep up with my brother and father when I was little. That was before my parents separated, of course, and he came out here.”

“A jockette,” McCoy mused, twisting away from her attempt to punch him in the arm.

Savannah retrieved her purse and fell back into step next to him. His cell phone rang again. The shrill sound intruded on the moment, and Savannah accepted that McCoy was popular and busy with lots of friends and contacts…and others.

“Go ahead and answer,” she said when he continued to ignore the ringing phone.

He did.

“Yes? I'm not in town right now…. I'm sorry, it will have to wait…. Not for another few hours…”

Savannah tried to pretend she wasn't listening, but it was hard not to construe the other half of the conversation. She slowed her steps, putting a small distance between herself and McCoy and his caller. If it wasn't who she thought it was on the other end, it was someone similar. She felt annoyed about the intrusion, even though she knew she had no right to.

“Look, I'll call you later…. I don't think that's a good idea. It'll be too late…. Fine…when I get back.”

When the call was finished McCoy did not apologize as she thought he might. She hazarded a sideways glance at him, wondering if he'd forgotten her presence. Taking a deep breath Savannah decided that the interruption was not worth spoiling what had, so far, been an interesting and fun outing.

She picked up right where they'd left off before McCoy's cell call, determined not to spoil the day.

“You said you're glad you grew up in Long Beach. What have you got against L.A.? Are you telling me you don't buy into its reputation?”

“Do you?”

“No, but I have an excuse. I'm from the east coast and a newbie. Maybe I just don't get it.”

McCoy lifted a corner of his mouth into a halfhearted smile. He was silent for a long time, staring down at the sand then out to the Pacific Ocean, before responding.

“Life in L.A. isn't as easy and carefree as it seems. It can take up a lot of energy. You spend a lot of time trying to figure out if a person is for real, or if they have some angle they're working, an agenda. Everybody wants something from somebody else.”

“I'm surprised to hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“You're a lawyer. Don't you ever stop to think how people see your motives? You happen to live in L.A., but you could be anywhere and people might feel the same about you. Lawyers are self-serving. In it for the money.”

“Touché,” McCoy murmured.

“That's not how I meant it, Mac. I spent a lot of years hating L.A. because it took my father away from me. But that's not what happened. L.A. is just a town that promises to make your dreams come true. People buy into that. Sometimes it happens and sometimes not. I bet there are as many heartbreaking disappointments as success stories, but who wants to hear about those?”

He stopped walking to look at her. “Does that mean you forgive your father?”

“Yes. I think I have, finally. I understand what drove him better than I used to. I still wish he'd stayed with us back east, but that's the little girl in me talking. Now I know why it wasn't possible for him.”

“Then you don't mind me showing you some of the places where he left his mark?”

“Of course not. I needed a different perspective. It was all good.” She smiled up at him. “Really good.”

He stopped to face her.

“We probably should start heading back.”

She nodded silently, remembering the recent call. Of course he had plans for tonight.

“I know this is short notice, but would you see a film with me tonight?”

She was instantly surprised and alert. “A movie?”

He smiled. “You make it sound like you haven't seen one in so long you've forgotten the experience. Or the film.”

“I do go to screenings sometimes, thanks to my friend Kay.”

“What else have you been doing for fun?”

“You don't want to know. Nothing very exciting.” But the craft show did come to mind. She'd met Domino Hagan that night. And McCoy.

“Then you're overdue. How about it? If you're free.”

“Thanks. I'd like that.”

They turned around and retraced their steps down the beach until they reached the point where they'd entered. By the time they got back to McCoy's car, Savannah was feeling genuinely pleased about having been asked to the movies. The curious phone call notwithstanding, she felt as if she'd just been asked out on a date, a first since arriving in L.A.

How sad is that?
she thought wryly.

The drive back to L.A. was chatty and casual, the conversation covering a wide range of topics, everything from how she'd met Donna and Kay to McCoy's out-loud thinking about whether or not to get a cat. Savannah was surprised and showed it. She hadn't thought of McCoy the lawyer as a pet person, but the idea once again changed her perception of him. Up several more notches for the better.

She paid no attention to the traffic or where they were headed since she wasn't the one driving. Savannah was eventually aware of the fact that McCoy was a more careful and defensive driver than she would have given him credit for. To be honest, Savannah also recognized that she was enjoying being a passenger in his car. She enjoyed being with him.

“Oh, I know where we are. The Third Street Promenade is a few blocks from here,” she announced, once they'd gotten off the Santa Monica Freeway.

“Correct.”

“Are we going to the Cineplex there? What movie did you have in mind?”

“We're not going to the Cineplex. And I want the film to be a surprise,” McCoy said.

Savannah's curiosity was heightened even more when they continued driving right through the commercial area of Santa Monica, and into the community itself. She frowned.

“McCoy, where are you…?”

As he turned off the street into the driveway of a four-storied building, and the iron gate began to retract electronically, Savannah realized this was where he lived.

She was still trying to digest this and the implications, when he parked his car in a designated space and turned off the engine. He turned to look sharply at her.

“I hope you don't mind. I should have been more clear….”

“Yes, you should have.”

“But to be honest, I also wanted to surprise you. If you're still okay with this, you'll find out what I mean when we go inside.”

Savannah looked long and hard into his eyes searching for subterfuge, or even a message. But McCoy's gaze met hers openly and steadily. No flinching, no suave posturing, no overblown confidence or expectations. She relaxed and nodded.

“You're being a bit melodramatic, but…this is L.A. Let's go.”

The building where McCoy lived was a modern wonder of white and glass. When he told her there were only two apartments per floor, she understood at once that her father's entire house could probably fit in McCoy's square footage. She would have been right.

The rooms were large, open, with the windows facing south and southwest. That meant his apartment got the cooler afternoon sunlight and spectacular sunsets. The furnishings were modern but comfortable. A leather sofa and love seat, faux suede club chairs. And there was a nice kind of hominess to the way his possessions lay about that made the space warm and lived-in. It did not have the look and feel of someone who was into acquiring material objects. But Savannah could see that there were several older pieces, possibly family heirlooms, hand-me-downs or antiques that fit in nicely.