It didn't help that Mike was really being insufferably smug and adult about the fact that he'd been promised some kind of job, however menial, on the set.
Jane finally escaped her bickering progeny by pleading mending that needed to be done so that she could go hide from them in the minuscule guest room where she kept the sewing machine. When she looked out that window around ten-thirty, the floodlights had been turned off, vans full of workers were just pulling away, and a security guard was standing in her backyard talking on a mobile phone.
She already felt exhausted from having the movie filmed in her backyard and the filming hadn't even started yet. She sighed, remembering that she'd meant to get Katie aside sometime this evening and break the news that she and Mel were going to New York for the weekend.
But she hadn't the energy left for another confrontation. And teenage girls, like dogs, could sense fear and use it to their advantage. No, this wasn't the time.
Mike was up at the crack of dawn and woke Jane to ask which jeans he ought to wear.
“Jeans?' Jane asked blearily, trying to get her eyes open far enough to discern some difference between the two pairs he was showing her. 'It's still dark. What time is it?'
“Almost six,' Mike said. 'I think the ones with the pocket torn off, don't you? The ones with the hole in the knee don't look serious enough.”
Jane sat up in bed, shielding her eyes against the vicious glare of the bedside lamp. 'Mike, I'd put those in the trash. They're both awful. You have a new pair in your top drawer. Wear those.”
He looked at her with surprise. 'I can't do that, Mom. They're new.'
“Yes. And outrageously expensive, I might add.”
Mike knew she was still half-asleep and was dreadfully patient with her. 'Mom, I'd look like a kindergartner on the first day of school in those. Too eager. Like a. . a. . kid.”
Jane shook her head, trying to clear it. 'Okay, okay. The one with the pocket gone. Take the cats with you—' she called out as he headed for the door.
Max, a gray-and-black tabby, and Meow, a yellow butterball, were not happy at being scooped up and removed from her bedroom. They felt it important to be on the scene when she got up in the morning, just in case she'd been sleeping with a can of cat food that she might open any second. The fact that this had never happened didn't deter them from believing that it might.
They muttered behind the closed door while Jane got dressed and they twined themselves around her ankles as she headed for the kitchen. She'd just plugged in the coffeemaker and started the can opener when there was a knock at the door. The cats howled protests at this interruption of her activities.
Maisie was at the door. 'Good morning,' she chirped.
“It's only six-fifteen! How can you say that?' Jane exclaimed.
“Oh, I've been here for a half hour already. Is your son ready? I have some things he can do. Send him along.”
Jane bellowed up the stairs for Mike and got him on his way, then got the cats fed and a cup of coffee inside herself before rousting out the other two kids. As soon as she heard movement upstairs, she took Willard out to his new dog run. He cowered and groaned in protest at first, but when he discovered that someone had tossed a half- eaten donut into the run, he settled in as if it were a home away from home.
Todd accepted the inevitable and went off to school without much fight. Katie tried to claim a horrific case of cramps, cramps that might well go down in medical history, but decided she didn't feel
When she had her car pools done, Jane returned to the house, put on a minimum of makeup, brown corduroy slacks, and a peach-colored sweatshirt before strolling into the backyard. Shelley was sitting on a lawn chair next to Maisie. They'd situated themselves next to a snack spread of epic proportions.
“Help yourself,' Maisie offered as Jane goggled at the long plywood table and the coolers beneath it.
There were drinks of every description: milk, buttermilk, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, apple juice, coffee, cocoa, a dozen kinds of tea in bags. There were donuts and fruit bars, little plastic bags of sunflower seeds and peanuts and candy bars. She counted six kinds of chips and four kinds of bread besides bagels, donuts, and sweet rolls. There were fresh fruits and vegetable crudites, cookies, cheeses, spreads, dips, and all the makings for every kind of sandwich imaginable.
“There's enough food here for a hundred starving people,' Jane said in wonder. Her stomach growled.
“That's about what we've got today,' Maisie said. 'Dig in. You can't make a dent.'
“Is this normal?' Shelley asked. 'All this food?”
Maisie nodded. 'It's one of the best things about the job. The food. You should have seen breakfast.'
“You mean this
“No, the caterers' truck just left. Breakfast was a hot meal for everybody a couple hours ago. I'd weigh three hundred pounds if I worked very often.”
They chatted with Maisie about her job and discovered that she was a military wife and an actor's daughter. She had combined the two with her nursing degree and had worked on many movie sets over the years as she followed her husband's postings. 'Fortunately he was assigned to desk workin L.A. several times back when nearly everything was done in the studio. I worked a lot then,' she said. 'And now that so much work is being done on location, the number of jobs elsewhere in the country is increasing.'
“You mean you live here in Chicago?' Jane asked. 'Is anybody else local?'
“Oh, yes. Quite a few. Transportation, extras casting, all the extras, catering, craft services,' she said, rattling off individuals by their jobs instead of names. 'All local. Even Jake there is local now.'
“Who's Jake?”
Maisie popped a donut into her mouth to free a hand and pointed to a tall man in his early forties who was leaning against a piece of fake building, obscuring their view of the set. He had shoulder-length maroon-red hair. As they looked at him, he made some semaphore-like gestures to somebody with his arms, then turned toward them as if he'd sensed their gazes. He was very fair-skinned, with lean, distinctive features that would have made him seem more likely to be in front of the cameras than behind them. He wasn't handsome in a traditional sense, but he was striking-looking and sexy in a bizarre, hazardous way. He looked like the sort of man who, in another age, might have come over from Ireland and led labor revolts.
— and cheated on his wife, Jane thought as he approached them with a dazzling, wolfish grin.
4
In spite of her better judgment, Jane was flattered at the interested look on Jake's face — until she realized it wasn't meant for her.
“Baby, you're killing me with those sexy outfits!' he said with a laugh.
Jane turned around to find a young woman approaching from behind. She was in her twenties and extremely pretty, but dressed and made up as a turn of the century escapee from a fire. Her long chestnut hair was deliberately disordered and there were sooty smudges on her face and arms. She wore a baggy gray dress with what Jane assumed were artificial sweat stains and ragged tears in the skirt and sleeves. 'You old flatterer!' this young woman said, blowing a kiss at Jake as she went by.
He watched her, then reluctantly turned back to Maisie, ignoring Jane and Shelley as if they were no more than inanimate objects. 'You don't happen to have seen Bobby's fancy watch, have you?' he asked.
“By 'Bobby' I assume you mean Roberto? The director?' Maisie said coolly. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Maisie wasn't crazy about Jake. 'If he hears you call him that, your ass is grass.'
“Oh, Bobby wouldn't mind. He and I are old chums. Seriously, he's lost his Rolex. He thinks he took it off when you bandaged up his finger this morning.'
“If he did, he just put it in his pocket. I didn't pay any attention. I think he got some coffee after I was through with him. Maybe he set it down over there,' Maisie said, gesturing to the loaded-down craft service table.
Jake wandered off, looking around the table and taking nibbles of half a dozen things.
“The director hurt himself?' Jane asked.
Maisie started laughing. 'It was, honest-to-God, a hangnail. He's just a raving hypochondriac. Oh, dear.
