Frowning, Dayle glanced down at the script in her lap.
Maggie started to reach for her crossword puzzle book. “I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can tell.”
“No, it’s okay. Really. You’re helping me figure this out, you are.”
Maggie sat back. “Well, then here’s my two cents. You’re a big star, Dayle. You could help launch this film. I know what the script’s about. It’s a movie that might make a difference for people like my son. If I’m picking away at you, that’s why. I have a personal investment in the subject matter. People will talk, and it’s a risk. I know you have an image to maintain, Dayle. But you shouldn’t rationalize your way out of doing this film.”
Dayle felt herself blushing. Maggie McGuire could see right through her. She shrugged. “Well, maybe I’ll feel more of a personal investment myself once I meet Sean Olson this afternoon.”
“I hope so,” Maggie said with a knowing smile.
“They’re still back there,” Dayle said to Hank, glancing out the rear window. “What’s it been—twenty-five minutes?”
“More like fifteen, Ms. Sutton,” he replied, his eyes on the road ahead. The glass divider between them was down.
He was driving her across town to Sean Olson’s office. A white Corsica had persistently remained two cars behind the limo ever since Hank pulled out of the studio gate. Dayle couldn’t quite see their faces, but two men sat in the front. “Do me a favor and keep a lookout, okay, Hank? I’m getting a crick in my neck.” Dayle turned forward.
She didn’t know this Sean Olson. Dayle almost hoped to be unimpressed by her; then she could turn down the film role. Why risk her career, her reputation, and even her life to play this stranger? She had no personal investment in Sean Olson at this point, and she wanted it to stay that way.
Sean Olson’s law office was above a HairCrafters salon on Hollywood and Vine. Hank announced that they’d eluded the white Corsica at about the time he started searching for a parking place. Usually, he’d just double-park, and escort Dayle to the door. But he didn’t leave her side nowadays, so they had to park the limousine in a lot down the block.
Two flights above HairCrafters, they could still smell the perfumed hair products and chemicals. The doors along the hallway were old fashioned, with windows of bubbled glass. On the door numbered 307 someone had taped a sign, written in green marker: SEAN OLSON, ATTORNEY—COME ON IN!
She and Hank went on in. They heard a woman singing “Moon River,” along with the radio. The small waiting room was a shambles. Paint-splattered plastic tarp covered every piece of furniture, and there was more of the same beyond the open door to the office. Dayle cleared her throat loudly.
“Who’s out there?” someone called.
“Us,” Dayle said, stopping in the office doorway.
The woman stood barefoot on a stepladder with a paint scraper in her hand. She wore jeans and a frayed T- shirt that had WORLD’S GREATEST MOM written across it—along with a photo of herself. She was a very attractive woman, slender and tall with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. A red bandanna covered her hair, but from the tacky photo on her T-shirt, it appeared wavy, chestnut-brown, and shoulder length. Dayle guessed she was in her early thirties. Poised on the ladder, she put a hand on her hip. “And who is ‘us’?” she asked, staring at them.
“I’m Dayle Sutton,” Dayle said. “I have an appointment with Ms. Olson.”
Stepping down the ladder, the woman scrutinized Dayle, then let out an embarrassed laugh. “Ha! Well, hi. I’m Sean Olson.” She tore off a work glove and shook Dayle’s hand. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”
“Our appointment was for today, Monday,” Dayle pointed out.
Sean Olson shrugged. “Well, move aside some tarp and pull up a chair.”
“Um, nice meeting you,” Hank said quietly. Then he touched Dayle’s arm. “I’ll be out by the stairs, reading the latest, Ms. Sutton.”
“Thanks, Hank. Let me know how it is.” Dayle waited until Hank left, then gave Sean Olson a cool smile. “He’s a big fan of true crime and detective novels. Looks like I caught you at a bad time.”
“Oh, don’t sweat it.” Sean pulled back a piece of paint tarp to reveal a minirefrigerator. “What can I get you? I have Evian, Evian, Diet Coke, Evian, Lemonade, Evian, and Evian.”
“Evian, please.”
“Sorry about the looks of the place. I just moved in. Kind of a dump, but at least I won’t have to go far to get my hair done.” She handed a bottle of Evian to Dayle. “Everything has gone to hell because of this move. Some of my law books are still in Eugene. But I’ve passed the California state bar, thank God.”
Dayle raised her Evian bottle to toast her. Pushing aside the tarp, she found the corner of a gray leather sofa and sat down. “I like your T-shirt,” she lied. She wondered to whom Sean Olson was The World’s Greatest Mom.
Sean glanced down at the photo of herself. “Isn’t it awful? I’m going straight to hell for wearing it while painting. My kids gave this to me, and for the last few months I’ve been forced to wear it on practically every family outing. I figure after this week, I can say it has too much paint on it. They’ll probably run out and buy me another just like it—except in pink.”
“How many kids do you have?” Dayle asked.
“Two.” She reached under the tarp covering her desk, then pulled out a framed photograph and handed it to her. “Danny, eleven, and Phoebe’s seven.”
The sweet, gawky, dark-haired boy and the little redheaded girl were quite cute, and Dayle said so. The screenplay hadn’t mentioned any children or an ex-husband. Maybe the kids were adopted, or conceived by artificial insemination. Sean offered no explanation.
She took the framed photo back, then sat on the edge of her desk. “So are you here to check me out?” she asked.
“Well, yes. Also I might ask the director to take you on as a technical advisor—that is, if you’re interested.”
Sean frowned. “Depends. Would I advise you movie folks about how true-to-life everything is?”
“Probably,” Dayle answered, puzzled by a sudden edge in Sean’s voice.
“Well, I’d probably last two hours on that set before you guys kicked me out on my butt.” She took a swig of Evian, then shook her head in resignation. “You know, for years I’ve watched this story get twisted inside out, soft-pedaled, commercialized, and bastardized by Hollywood and I’m fed up. How can you even stand this business? You want the truth, Ms. Sutton?”
Dayle laughed. “Do I have a choice?”
“I think you’re all wrong to play me. You’re a glamorous superstar. This part requires a serious actress, maybe someone from the theater. I’m not trying to insult you—”
“It’s comforting to know that,” Dayle said, sitting straighter. “For the record, Ms. Olson, I’m a serious, working actress with theater origins—”
“Are you going to play me as a lesbian?” Sean interrupted.
“Yes, I was planning on it.”
Sean put down the Evian bottle and folded her arms. “I’m so sick and tired of this Hollywood hypocrisy. Talk about a bunch of phonies. Are there actually lesbian sex scenes in this latest script?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dayle heard herself say, suddenly defending them. “The scenes are thought- provoking, and necessary to the story line.”
Sean rolled her eyes. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Dayle stood up. “Your slams against Hollywood don’t impress me. They’ve paid you a lot of money. I think you’re the hypocrite, Ms. Olson. You’re also rude.” Dayle headed for the door.
“Listen, I should explain…,” Sean started to say.
But Dayle kept walking and pretended not to hear.
She hated asking Hank to escort her up to the apartment. Lately, she even had him come inside until she’d turned on the lights. Of course, Hank loved playing her protector. But Dayle found it humiliating.
They stepped into the lobby together, and the doorman greeted them. The spacious atrium was decorated with a modern cubic fountain sculpture, several tall potted Fichus trees, and three long, leather-covered sofas.
Sean Olson sat on one of the couches, reading a book. Dayle’s first instinct was to breeze toward the
