Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) (35 page)

The preparations for the Fish Market ceremony—the final live episode of
The Fishbowl
—were complicated, as they involved bringing the Fish in from the Holding Tank to decide who should win the million dollars. Rand got in early that day to write Jeremy’s questions as well as the intro and final comments. Marcy instructed Rand not to mention Libby, who was still
persona non grata
, but when Marcy got a directive from the network to include Libby, remotely, as part of the reunion, she countermanded her original orders.

Marcy’s liaison with the network must have stroked her ego hard—when she got back from her lunch meeting, she was floating about six inches off the ground. Ratings went through the roof for the episode where Libby confessed, and the special interview with Jeremy. The honchos were so thrilled that the network ordered three more seasons of
The Fishbowl
. Marcy in a good mood allowed the production staff to breathe easier, which in turn made Rand relax a little.

By the time the live show started, Rand’s work was done. He could even have gone home, but everyone was expected to hang around and see who won. Marcy kidded herself that everyone cared about the outcome of the show. As Charlie put it to Rand once, “Not like any of us is going to win the million dollars.” Still, everyone stuck around.

The final two Fish, Chris and Susie, were sitting in the Kiss-and-Cry, spruced up and ready for the announcement. It seemed a bit neat that it was the Boy Next Door and the Girl Next Door in the finals. They’d booted Dylan out in favor of Kai, but she couldn’t win the critical physical challenges that decided which two Fish had a chance at the million dollars. Kai and Dylan had joined the Fish transported back from the Holding Tank.

Rand was amused to see that one of the cameras stayed in close-up on Dylan’s face for a good twenty minutes while everyone waited. Rand suspected the tech guys had started a drinking game—do a shot every time Dylan had to be bleeped. Rand just hoped they had a designated driver.

Rand and Debbie stood in a small cluster of people by the craft table. There was an array of monitors installed to their left so they could watch the finale. Rand tried to be subtle about it, but he was waiting for the final monitor to come live with the feed from the network affiliate in Philly.

“I guess you talked to her, hunh? That day you were in the ER after eating bad clams?” Debbie asked.

“Yeah. I went to the airport. I even had a ticket for the same flight.”

“You didn’t get on?”

“She felt we couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship.”

Debbie folded her arms, ready to argue his case for him. “Why the hell not?”

“She thinks I wasn’t serious about her.”

“What part of stealing someone off the set—twice—seemed casual to her?”

“No, she knows I care. But I never told her who my dad is.”

“So what? Did she know all along who your dad was?”

“The twin sister did. Lissa—the real Lissa—had torn some picture of my family out of People magazine years ago. You know—when they couldn’t get the Spellings, they settled for the Jennings.” He laughed quietly. “I think Lissa had a crush on my picture. Libby had no clue. Didn’t even remember the picture.”

Debbie nudged him with an elbow. “C’mon. Have you seen a teenage girl’s room? You couldn’t have found that picture with a bloodhound.”

He sighed. “Anyway, Libby figures this was just some summer thing. I tried to tell her it wasn’t, but she didn’t believe me. She wanted an answer to the basic question.”

“Which is?”

“Life, the universe and everything. In my case, what do I want to be doing and why?”

“She expects you to know that crap? Hell, I’m way older than you—although if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll shoot you like a rabid dog—and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

“I know. She’s right, though—I’m drifting and I don’t know why. Hardly an endorsement for a long-term relationship.”

“That’s just crazy. She could finish law school here. You aren’t going to work on
The Fishbowl
forever.”

“We never had a chance to work any of that out. Everything was so topsy-turvy. She accused me of not wanting to tell her about my dad. I never got to the bit about picking her so I could have a love interest in my screenplay. Can you imagine how that would have gone over?”

“Okay, so here’s my question. Why are you still hung up on her? Why, for example, are you staring at a test pattern,” she pointed to the colored bars waiting for the feed from Philly to go live, “just because eventually her face will be there?”

He tucked his hands in his back pockets just for something to do. “Since she left, I’ve felt more alone than ever. You know, classic poor little rich kid crap. I have friends, but I’m not close to anyone. Then I met her and the crap went away. I found myself doing all those things you do in high school—I counted the hours till the next time I could talk to her, daydreamed about how she smelled, …”

“Stared at her for hours on end through a smoked window?” Debbie reminded him.

Rand remembered that bikini. “Oh, God, me and how many thousands of hormonal teenagers? That’s a disgusting image, thank you very much.”

“Those aren’t hormonal teenagers, those are our core demographic.”

“Don’t I know it. My college roommate called and asked to be introduced to Lissa. And he’s over thirty,” Rand said. “Lissa—well,
Libby
—turned out to be a fan favorite in the end. Huge ratings.”

“Speaking of which,” Marcy said over their shoulders, making Rand jump. He prayed she hadn’t heard their conversation and had only materialized at the magic word,
ratings
.

“The numbers for the big twin-drama reveal were sky-high. The network is thrilled. Looks like there may be a nice bonus in it for us,” Marcy said.

Money that would barely trickle down to the crew. Very generous of Marcy.

“Debbie, would you excuse us? I need to talk to Rand about something.”

“Gladly,” Debbie said, then escaped.

“Look here, Rand, you don’t need to keep the pretense going, you know,” Marcy said softly in his left ear.

What was up with the chummy routine? “Sorry, Marcy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. You know—the twin thing. You had to have known.”

“I had no clue,” he said mildly. It never paid to argue with Marcy—facts and logic were a deeply devalued currency in her world.

Marcy slapped him on the back. Her idea of chummy?

“Hey, look, ordinarily I’d have had your hide for a stunt like that, but wow did it pay off big time for us. I should have know Alan Jennings’ kid would know how to pump up ratings, hunh?”

Rand just shook his head. She hadn’t called him that for months, but it still made him feel as though he’d bitten down on tin foil.

“Look, Rand, I know I’ve ridden you kind of hard but hey, some part of my instincts must have taken root in you, hunh? So I talked it over with Leo and we agreed. We’re offering you co-executive producer credit. Big raise, too.”

That got his attention. He turned to Marcy and really looked at her. She was several inches shorter than he was, a fact he only noticed when she was very close. He disliked her, but he’d just taken that as part and parcel of working in the industry. Maybe it was, but maybe there was a way to do the work he loved without hating the people around him. And hating himself.

His peripheral vision registered that the last monitor was coming up—Libby. She looked as she had at that first audition, with a pretty top of some silky fabric. The bottom of his stomach dropped a foot at the sight of her.

He didn’t want co-executive producer credit, not even at five times his current salary. He wanted Libby. He wanted to kiss her again. There’d been the promise of something real in Libby’s kiss.

“Rand? You don’t need to give me your answer now,” Marcy said, worry in her voice.

“No, that’s not it,” he said absently. He pointed at Libby, smiling at the tech adjusting her mike. “There’s my future. I’m sorry, Marcy. I appreciate your offer—and tell Leo thanks as well—but actually I’m quitting. I’ll clean out my desk and be gone at close of business tomorrow, okay?”

She wheeled around to see what he had pointed at. “What? The Ditz? That’s it?” She was totally mystified, he could tell, as if she couldn’t imagine that two people could have anything that took precedence over money and prestige. Was Marcy even in a relationship? If so, it had never encroached on her work, that was for sure.

Rand nodded. “I’m in love with Libby Pembroke. I swear to you, I didn’t know that she was a law student. But I think I knew I loved her even before I loved her, if you see what I mean.”

Marcy nodded her head in that odd elliptical motion signifying yes and no simultaneously. “Whatever. Just tell the business office and they’ll cut you a check. I’ll tell them to add in your bonus as severance, okay?”

He smiled. “That’s very generous of you, Marcy. Thank you.”

“Oh, hell, who am I to argue with young love,” she grumbled sourly as she walked away.

Rand didn’t take his eyes off Libby for the whole of the finale.

As soon as the show was over and the feed from Philly went dead, Rand found Debbie and hugged her. “I’m going to Philly,” he said.

“Good thinking. Taking some vacation then?”

“Nope. Marcy offered me co-executive producer credit, so I quit.”

Debbie pursed her lips. “Yeah, I can see that. It’s not like the money would make up for losing Libby.”

“Exactly! I have to go buy another one-way ticket.” He gave her a swift hug and dashed off to get his computer.

Rand was scrolling through the various flights to Philly when it caught up with him—the caffeine, the sleep deprivation, the conversation with his dad, even the promotion offer from Marcy all slammed into him like a careening truck in a chase scene. What was he doing? Yes, flying to Philly, but not like this, a crazed lover. He was a single straitjacket away from being the killer in the big reveal.

In the movies, he’d be magically transported to South Philadelphia in the space of a scene change. In real life, he’d be psychotic if he tried to cross the country immediately. He could wait another day, maybe even get some sleep. He booked a flight for Saturday morning.

He stayed for the final meetings following the wrap, and even went to the blow-out party funded by the money from the pool, which clearly no one had won. Rand had to be told who’d actually got named Last Fish In The Fishbowl—Susie—he’d been so intent on watching Libby’s face on the live feed that he missed the big announcement.

Friday afternoon, the production team met to discuss the lessons learned from the season. Marcy must have had some sort of conversion—or the network’s bonus had been very large indeed—because she almost sounded appreciative of everyone’s contribution. When Marcy announced that she had reluctantly accepted his resignation, the team teased Rand, accusing him of abandoning them just as the show was getting smart.

“Did you know that the Codger, Jim, was some computer whiz who could buy and sell us all several times over?” Dick asked.

“Hunh,” Rand said with a straight face.

“It’s not just tits and ass, buddy.”

Rand nodded.

At the end of the meeting, someone asked Rand what he was going off to do.

“Make movies,” he said as he walked out the door.

They could track him on IMDb if they really wanted to know more.

Rand got to Philly late on a warm September afternoon. He checked into a hotel, but when he got to his room he was stymied. Call her? Go to her apartment? Call Lissa for backup? He couldn’t hide in his hotel room forever.

In the end, Rand walked down to The County Cork. Libby wouldn’t be there, but Rand figured he owed Barney an apology. Best to get that out of the way before tracking down his love. Besides, Rand was nervous. A beer would taste good.

It seemed a completely different bar, filled with people, noise, and a whiff of revelry. Saturday night, nice weather, and they had the end of
The Fishbowl
to celebrate, judging by the colorful Mylar fish balloons bobbing over the bar.

Rand slipped in and found himself standing in a crowd of partiers. He looked around for Barney, then spotted him behind the bar. Talking. Announcing something.

“Yeah, and she managed to fool those eejits in Hollywood. Ah, all right, and she fooled me too. Quite convincingly, I might add.” He turned to someone Rand couldn’t see. “You sure y’don’t want to pursue a career in acting, my love?”

Rand’s heart expanded painfully. She was here?

“Of course not. Being a lawyer is enough acting for anyone,” Libby joked.

Surrounded by laughter, Rand pushed his way to the bar. Barney noticed him first.

“Ah, and it’s your man,” he said, clapping Libby on the shoulder. “Go find him a nice beer and introduce him to Jack.” Barney literally pushed Libby over toward Rand.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then settled on an expression of neutral courtesy. “What can I get you?”

This felt familiar. “What microbrews do you have on tap?”

Libby’s lips pursed. Was she trying not to smile? Or resisting the urge to slap him?

“You like a hoppy beer, right?”

“Oh, just pour him something and then come join me. I’ve got a table,” a man announced in a commanding voice.

Rand looked around. It was the good-looking uncle. Jack something. He nodded at Rand, a flick of his head signaling that Rand should join them as well.

The crowd quieted, watching this new drama unfold. Then Jack frowned at them without really moving his facial muscles—how did he do that?—and everyone got very busy looking someplace else.

When Rand got to him, Jack held out his hand. “Jack McIntyre.”

“Rand Jennings.”

“Any relation to Alan Jennings?”

“I’m his son,” Rand said proudly. First time he didn’t have that uncomfortable urge to lie or duck the question.

“Uncle Jack!” Libby cried as she got to the table, Rand’s beer and glass on a cork-lined tray. “How do you know about Alan Jennings?”