“The light’s about to turn red.”
“It’s still yellow,” she pointed out as she sped through the intersection. “I thought you were going to be nice.”
“I can’t when I’m worried about getting killed. Are you sure you have a valid driver’s license?”
“Yes. Issued by the state of California.”
“Well, that explains it.”
Behind her sunglasses she rolled her eyes and changed the conversation. “Did you have cavities?”
“It wasn’t that kind of appointment. He just wanted to check my implants to make sure they are still okay.”
Chelsea knew about dental implants. She had a friend who’d knocked out her front teeth in a surfing accident. The dentist had drilled screws into her upper jaw, then stuck porcelain crowns on the spikes. If a person hadn’t known she’d had her teeth knocked out, you wouldn’t be able to tell. “How many do you have?”
“Three implants and four crowns.” He pointed to the top left side of his mouth. “I’m lucky.”
She wondered what he considered unlucky.
Tuesday afternoon she took her portfolio to the talent agency in downtown Seattle. She met with the owner, Alanna Bell, who reminded Chelsea a little of Janeane Garafalo. But the Janeane of ten years ago, before the actress had turned all bitter about life.
“What’s your real hair color?” Alanna asked as she riffled through a file folder.
“The last I checked, it was brown.”
“I could find more work for you if your hair isn’t two colors. Would you be willing to dye it if I asked you?”
She looked at all the posters and signed photographs on the wall of Alanna’s office. The vibe in the agency felt good. Right, and she should know. She’d met her fair share of sleazy agents. “I’d consider it, yes.”
“I see you’ve studied at the Theater of Arts.”
“Yes. As well as a few years at UCLA.”
Alanna handed her a monolog from White Oleander. Chelsea wasn’t a huge fan of cold readings, but it was part of the business. She took a deep breath, cleared her head of everything but the words in front of her, and read: “The Santa Anas blew in hot… ” When she was through, she set the paper on the desk and waited as she had countless times before. But this time there was something different. Strangely enough, sitting in the agent’s office a thousand miles from Hollywood, cold reading, she felt the teasing nibble of the acting bug. Only it was calmer than it had been in years. She didn’t have to prove anything to anyone here in Seattle. Least of all herself. There was no pressure to meet the right people or compete for the right part that would launch her career. Here she could just act. She could relax and have fun with it. Something she hadn’t done in a while.
k' w“I might have some background work for you this weekend.” She glanced down at Chelsea’s resume. “HBO is sending up a crew to shoot around the Seattle Music Experience.”
Chelsea groaned inside. She wasn’t a fan of standing around in the background for hours, but it was a start and wouldn’t interfere with her real job. “Sounds great.”
“I assume you have a union card?”
Chelsea dug it out of her wallet and slid it across the desk. After several more moments, she shook Alanna’s hand and drove to Medina. Keeping her head in acting and exercising her craft before she returned to L.A. was a good idea. She’d heard of well-known actors and actresses who, after a few big movies, had left the spotlight to act in off-Broadway shows, only to return rejuvenated and with a clearer head. She’d never understood it before, but now she did. Her own head felt clearer. Chasing the dream for ten years had robbed her of the joy of acting. The fun of getting to play someone else for a while.
She drove down Mark’s street and pulled up next to the curb. It was a little after two, and Mark stood in the middle of his long driveway, one hand on his cane, the other on his hip. Instead of his regular uniform of white T-? shirt and jogging pants, he wore a dark green polo and jeans. A beige ball cap shaded his eyes and cast a shadow across the lower half of his face. Derek stood several feet away, hockey stick in his hands, pushing a puck from side to side. Chelsea parked on the street to give them plenty of room. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and the bottom of her Burberry kilt skirt as she walked toward him. A pair of dark glasses shaded her eyes from the sun.
“How long do I have to do this?” the boy asked.
“Until you can do it and keep your head up,” Mark answered, looking so big and imposing next to such a skinny kid.
Chelsea stopped in front of him and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Do you guys need anything?”
He looked at her, and the shadow from his hat slid down his nose to the bow of his top lip. “Like what?”
“Water? Gatorade?”
Slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted. “No. That isn’t what I need.”
“Then what do you need?”
From within the shadow of his brim, his gaze lowered from her eyes to her mouth, down her chin and throat to the front of her white blouse. His attention felt almost like a physical caress. Her stomach got all light and her breath got stuck in her lungs as his gaze paused mid-chest before sliding to her skirt and bare thighs. Within the shadow of his hat she felt the heat of his brown eyes, and she half expected him to say that what he needed was her.
“How was your meeting?” he asked.
“What meeting?”
“With the talent agent.” He turned to watch Derek and she could breathe again. “Isn’t that where you went?”
Oh, that meeting. “It was good. She wants me to do background work at that Seattle Music Experience by the Space Needle.”
“What k’s background work?” he asked without taking his attention from Derek.
“It’s just like it sounds. It means I stand in the background looking like I’m doing something important.” She pushed her hair from her face. “She asked me to dye my hair one color.”
“Head up and roll your wrists,” he called out to Derek. “Did you tell her no?”
She glanced up at him and her mouth parted in surprise. “You hate my hair.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You said I looked like a Russian just off the boat.”
“I was talking more about your clothes.” He looked down at her, and once again the shadow of his hat slid to the bow of his top lip. “Your hair’s not so bad. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Is this you trying to be nice again?”
“No. If I was trying to be nice, I’d tell you that you look good.”
Chelsea glanced down at her white blouse and Burberry kilt. “Because it’s more conservative than what I usually wear?”
He chuckled. “Because your skirt’s short.” He pointed his cane at Derek. “You can stop now. I think you’re ready for some passes.” He walked into the garage, and when he returned, he had a hockey stick in his right hand. He thrust it toward Chelsea. “Derek, you’re going to feed passes to Chelsea.”
“Me?”
“Her? She’s a girl.”
“That’s right,” Mark agreed, and she half expected him to say something sexist. “She’s little and quick, so you better watch yourself.”
She took the stick and pointed to her feet. “I’m in three-inch heels.”
“You don’t have to move. All you have to do is stop the puck.”
“I’m wearing a skirt!”
“Then I guess you’re going to have to be really careful not to bend over.” Beneath the shadow hitting his top lip, he grinned. “I wouldn’t mind, but we have to keep it clean ’cause Derek’s a minor and I promised his mom.”
“The things I do for this job.” She kicked off her shoes and lowered her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose.
Mark walked several feet away and pointed to Derek. “Move down ice. Bring the puck up and just feed it to her.”
