Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (39 page)

I watched TT’s scheming unravel before my eyes as Kelly yelled, “Let’s go, Calysta. Now!”

Hands on my hips, I said, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere without Gretchen.”

“You’re really pushing it.”

Rock sailed in with a nurse.

“What’s all the commotion about?” asked Erroll, peeking in. “It’s upsetting the rest of the house.”

“I’m sorry, Erroll,” Kelly soothed. “But I’m not at liberty to discuss Calysta’s expulsion. Please go back to your room and go to bed.”

“Expulsion? Calysta? What a pity. Don’t worry, I’ll find you, dear,” he called out, shuffling off in his Valentino slippers.

As Kelly pointed, saying, “
Her
,” a scowling Rock, loaded for bear, charged toward me.

Kicking and screaming, with Gretchen on his back, we all slammed into my frilly Barbie bed, breaking it. It was déjà vu: my Soap Opera Wedding of the Century scene minus the cake.

I felt a prick in my side, the room tilted, and the next time I woke I was in Derrick Taylor’s bed. There’s a lot to be said for dream catchers.

W
hat’d they give you?”

Derrick’s deep sexy voice cut through the fog as I struggled to regain consciousness.

My mouth bone-dry, I was feeling drugged within an inch of my life, as his strong, familiar arms cradled me into his chest.

“C’mon, Calysta, today’s a big day, wake up,” Derrick said, kissing a glass of orange juice to my parched lips.

“How’d I get here?”

“After those folks knocked you out, and I mean you were out
cold
, they tried to call your emergency contact but Weezi’s out of the country, so they called your lawyer Sly, and he called Dwayne, and Dwayne called Shannen, and she called me.”

“It’s nice to know I’m so loved.”

“They shoulda called me from the get-go. No one had to ask
me
twice to go collect your fine behind, even though, and I ain’t gonna lie, I was bizzy and Laquisha was pissed off,” he finished, giving me a mischievous grin.

Too much information
, I thought, but I had to admit, lookin’ at Derrick’s silky, chiseled bare chest was like medicine for whatever was ailing me. Hair in all the right places. No beady cuccah-bugs for him, uh-uh . . . this was a brutha so vain he permed his chest. With him sitting next to me on the bed, close enough for a snake to bite, and the top button of his Calvins unfastened, there were no words to describe this lothario other than I could drink him with a straw.

We do anything last night?
Nah, though Derrick was too many things, he would nevah, nevah, nevah steal the cookie and ask for it later.

“Man, my head feels like a cement block.”

“Been sleepin’ there like you dead to the world. Bet this espresso will straighten you right out,” Derrick said, passing me a mug. “Better drink this octane on the move too ’cause Veronica already hit me on the hip ten minutes ago, sayin’ she was sendin’ the car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t ask how she knew you were here. Sly musta called her.”

Derrick
been
had Veronica’s number tryin’ to play it off. He wasn’t foolin’ me. Truth was the soap heiress was just as curious as the rest of us and wasn’t gonna let wealth and society get in the way of a hot urban romance. And who could blame her, really? As discreet as the lusty pair were, everyone knew about their flash-in-the-pan Peninsula Hotel dalliance during his soap-a-licious back-in-the-day days.

“What car? Ohmagod, the vote!” Swinging my legs off the bed, I headed for his black-on-black granite
double-vé çe
.

Showered and having thrown on the suit Veronica left at TT earlier, I wolfed down toast, feeling almost human again.

“Looks like your ride is here, babe,” Derrick said, stepping back from the balcony. “Wonder what happened to her last . . . never mind . . .”

“Walkin’ me out?”

“Sure.”

“Morning, ma’am,” the chauffeur said as he tipped his hat and opened the door.

“Thank you, Derrick. I-I . . . just want you to . . .”

He gave me a deep French before saying, “That should hold ya till I ‘catchupwitchu’ later, superstar.”

Sliding across the posh Bentley leather seat, I plucked a newspaper sandwiched between a
Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
from the driver’s seatback. Attempting to take my mind off the Barringer vote, I scanned the front page of the weary
Los Angeles Times,
reading about President Obama’s health-care overhaul, foreclosures, and the Ballet Nacional de Cuba appearing at Lincoln Center.

At the lower right-hand corner was a tiny blurb about Maeve Fielding.
Please turn to page E14 for more . . .
I flipped the pages, sidetracked by my horoscope, which read:

An unexpected change will throw you off your stride today, but being a fearless Taurean you will quickly regain your balance. Be flexible and bend with the breeze. According to love planet Venus, there’s an exotic romance coming your way if you put your strong charisma to use.

Page E14 had a
“To the Readers”
correction notice:

On Tuesday, regrettably we incorrectly stated that soap opera legend Maeve Fielding was shot and killed on the set of
The Rich and the Ruthless
by former soap star Roger Cabott. Fortunately, Maeve Fielding is alive and recovering. In lieu of flowers, Ms. Fielding has asked
that donations be made to the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment, Inc. Comments are welcome at latimes.com/readersrep.

“Ms. Jeffries, did you happen to feel that tremor last night?”

“Tremor?”

“Yes, ma’am, it was pretty substantial.”

“Guess I’ve gotten used to them.” Cracking the tinted window, feeling the breeze against my face, I asked, “Haven’t I seen you before?”

Looking into his rearview mirror, he answered, “Yes, Miss Jeffries, my name is Otto. Mr. Barringer’s personal driver. We’ve not met formally but of course I know who
you
are. Mr. Barringer’s favorite.”

I smiled inside.

“Mr. B’s going to be all right.”

“I hadn’t heard one way or the other.”

“My intuition’s never wrong.”

“Music preference, Miss Jeffries?”

“Keep it where it’s at, love classical.”

We drove for twenty minutes.

“Here we are.” He quickly crossed behind the sleek car, but I wasn’t ready to venture out.

“Otto, would you please give me a few seconds?” I asked through the window.

“Yes, of course.”

The window glided shut. I lowered the illuminated mirror above, checking my mascara, and thought about what Augustus had said, “All the people and situations of your life have only the meaning you give them . . . and when you change your thinking, you change your life, sometimes in seconds.”

I knocked on the window to signal the driver.

The Century City Oppenheimer & Berger Law Offices were located
on the thirty-second floor in a soaring glass luxury office building, on the corner of Avenue of the Stars and Constellation Boulevard.

As I stepped out of the upholstered elevator, my heels sank into the plush cream carpeting. Nervously, I smiled at the receptionist, who greeted me, “Hello, Ms. Jeffries, they’re expecting you, you can go in.”

“Calysta darling, we are ever so grateful you agreed to come,” Katherine Barringer said in her lilting voice, giving me a warm hug, pecking me on both cheeks as I entered the wood-paneled office.

“Yes, thank you again, Calysta,” Veronica added.

Auggie crossly cut his eyes and stayed in his seat, arms folded, watching me.

My heart pounded, keeping it together. I wondered what Randall had told him, if anything, about my past.

“Auggie, aren’t you going to stand and greet Calysta?” Katherine asked.

“Stop treating me like I’m a child, Mother,” he said, annoyed. “
She
has no business here. Dad has really lost it. This is ridiculous.”

A distinguished man dressed in an immaculate pigeon gray suit entered the boardroom. “Good morning, Katherine, Veronica, Auggie.”

“Make that Augustus,” Auggie corrected. “I don’t want
anyone
calling me Auggie Jr. anymore.”

“Yes, fine. Ms. Jeffries, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mason Oppenheimer, the Barringers’ family and business attorney.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, returning his firm handshake.

“Would you like coffee? Something from the buffet perhaps?”

“No, thank you. Couldn’t eat a thing.”

Mason led me around the burlwood boardroom table, seating me in a tufted leather chair, before taking his place.

“The necessary documents describing why we’re here today have been distributed and received, and it is my esteemed privilege to serve the Barringer family as well as Barringer Dramatic Series.” Mason calmly
slid his diamond-cufflinked shirt, revealing the time to be exactly 9:05 a.m. on his Bulova. “I’ve been requested to call this meeting by Augustus Barringer, Katherine Barringer, and Veronica Barringer to carry out and shepherd the extraordinary and important proceedings at hand in swift and dignified fashion.”

“You call this swift?” Auggie snickered. “Let’s get down to business already.”

“Yes, as I was saying, since we all have extremely demanding schedules, I won’t unnecessarily delay the agenda.”

I shakily took a sip of water, pre-poured in cut crystal on the table, and without glancing in his direction, felt Auggie’s resentful stare.

“Today’s meeting is to vote for the sale of Barringer Dramatic Series. In an unprecedented arrangement, Calysta Jeffries has been appointed proxy for Augustus Barringer Sr. and will be voting
ex parte
, on his behalf.”

“Unprecedented, how about outrageous?” grumbled Auggie.

“Before we commence,” Mason continued, “I would like to remind everyone that if a unanimous vote isn’t reached, there need be only a majority shareholders’ agreement.”

Butting in, Auggie said in disgust, “Which means if Dad’s foxy-proxy decides to vote the wrong way, it’ll swing Barringer Dramatic Series away from the twenty-first century and into the edge of night, killing our chances of ever selling these shows for a competitive price. That is unless you want to come to your senses, Mom? Sis?”

A dignified Katherine said, “Auggie, please, let’s get through this,” while Veronica pursed her lips, fixing her brother with a frosty look.

The room crackled with tension as Mason Oppenheimer called for the vote to begin. “Please give a simple ‘yea’ to sell, ‘nay’ to hold, or ‘abstain.’ Mrs. Barringer?”

“Nay.”

“Veronica?”

“Nay.”

“Augustus Jr.?”

“Yea, obviously,” he said, obnoxiously drumming his pen on the polished wood.

“Calysta Jeffries.”

Stemming my nervousness, I swallowed hard, thinking of Grandma Jones and what it would do to her, the publicizing of the Greenwood scandal.

“-ay,” I said softly.

Everyone leaned in.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Jeffries, I didn’t hear you,” Mason said. “Would you repeat your answer clearly?”

Facing the attorney and clearing my throat, I said, “Nay.”

“What?”
Auggie stood up, knocking his seat over, menacingly circling the table.

“Please compose yourself and sit down!” Mason reprimanded. “The final vote is in favor of keeping Barringer Dramatic Series family-owned.”

“Thank God,” Katherine said, blinking back tears.

“I’ll need each of your signatures,” Mason said, handing me his heavy Montblanc pen.

Snapping, Auggie yelled, “You’re dead!”

“Auggie, that’s enough!” cried Veronica.

“It’s Augustus, you moron! You just made the biggest mistake of your life, Calysta! I’m going to crush you like a bug. I’m gonna make sure you
never
work in Hollywood again!”

“Mr. Barringer, if you don’t—” Mason boomed.

“Are you guys friggin’ kidding me? What about . . .” He stopped, checking himself, realizing he couldn’t mention blackmail.

“Auggie, stop it!” Katherine pleaded, trying to calm her son down, as he pushed her away.

“How dare you,” Veronica interceded, getting between them. “You’re out of control and an embarrassment to the family.”

“I’ll say and do whatever I damn well please. And this isn’t over!” Auggie shouted, as he was escorted out by security.

“Wow,” I said.

“Katherine, are you all right? Veronica?” Mason asked, concerned.

“Understandably we’re shaken,” Mrs. Barringer responded. “But I’m more concerned about you, Calysta. Are you—”

“Oh I’m fine. Honestly, compared to what I’ve been through, this was a cakewalk, threats and all. Lemme sign those documents.”

Standing with the Barringer women in the foyer, Mason warmly shook my hand reassuringly, saying, “Thank you, Calysta, you’ve done the right thing. I’ll be in touch, Katherine. Good-bye, Veronica,” before heading toward his office.

“I can’t apologize enough for my son,” Katherine repeated. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Mom, stop covering for him. He understands; he just doesn’t care. Auggie’s spoiled and selfish and has no respect for what you and Dad have given him. He thought he’d sell our family business out from under us and head off to Tahiti, but instead he got the shock of his life and so did Edith and the rest of those vipers. We’ve saved Dad’s legacy and we’re incredibly grateful to you, Calysta.”

“Here’s to chick power.” I winked.

“But what was all that nonsense my bratty brother was babbling about?”

“I have no idea.”

“My husband will be so relieved this is behind us.” Katherine sighed. “We appreciate everything you’ve done, dear,” she said, gently kissing me.

“It was an honor, Mrs. Barringer,” I assured her.

Turning to Veronica, she said, “Now, let’s talk about Hyannis this summer instead of going to Càte d’Azur. I think spending time at our
camp on the Cape will do your father a world of good and we’ll be close enough to his doctors should he need them. Besides, you can join us—”

“Mom, I guess you didn’t hear the latest, it’s going to be a crash course in international soap opera business affairs for me.
R&R
just picked up a licensing deal with the BBC and new affiliates in Sydney, Greece, and Nigeria and I’ve agreed to take those meetings.”