I released Butch, and he stepped away sheepishly, eyeing me like a boy who’d just had his cheeks pinched by a senile relative at a family gathering. “Uhhh, hi, Ms. Florentino.”
I took a yoga breath and blew out as the crew exited the vans, grabbing camera equipment, cables, lighting, boom microphones, and reflectors. Luckily, everyone was so busy they hadn’t noticed me mugging Amber’s handler.
Still inside the vehicle, Amber leaned toward the open car door. “Hey, Ms. Florentino. How are ye-ew this mornin’?” Her voice jingled with her usual zippity-doo-dah rhythm. “Ye-ew look ni-ice today. That sure is a cu-ute sweater.”
I wanted to reach through the door, grab her by the neck, and squeeze. Instead, I clenched the window frame and leaned in.
Be calm. Be calm. Don’t make the talent cry. When she starts crying, it goes on forever
. The last time the director had screamed at Amber for missing her mark during rehearsal, the rest of the day was a wash. She couldn’t concentrate on anything. “Amber, where have you been?”
“Oh, well, it’s a long story. I told Butch all about it.” Amber glanced at Butch and then back at me, her blue eyes enormous, round, soulful, saying,
You’re not mad at me, are you?
“Ya’ll shouldn’t have worried about me, Ms. Florentino. If there’s one place I do know how to get to, it’s Daily, Texas.”
“Amber, you took off from LA without telling anyone.”
Amber blinked innocently. “I left a note.”
I clenched the window frame harder, my fingernails digging in until it hurt. “You were supposed to come with the crew. It takes days to put all the travel plans in place, Amber. You can’t just take off by yourself.” I felt like a parent, telling a toddler why she couldn’t follow the bouncy ball into the street.
Amber blinked her long lashes in earnest surprise. “Oh, I wasn’t by my-say-ulf,” she drawled cheerfully. “I was with Justin. He said he could fly me in his play-un, but then a while after we got in the air, it started to have some trouble, and we had to land so the pilot could have it checked out.” If Amber was the least bit concerned about any of this, it didn’t show. From the corner of my eye, I could see Butch slashing a finger across his throat, trying to give Amber the
cut
sign. Clearly he’d already heard this whole story and thought I’d be better off without it. I flashed a dirty look over my shoulder, and he froze midstroke, then pretended to be scratching his ear.
Amber went right on talking, oblivious, as usual. “Justin told the pilot, ‘Let’s land in Las Vegas so we can see the sights,’ so we did, but there were photographers everywhere. There’s always photographers everywhere Justin goes. Justin said since we had such a big audience and all, why don’t we just duck on into the weddin’ chapel and get married? So we did.” She slid out the driver’s side door and grabbed my arm when I stumbled backward. “Just kiddin’, Ms. Florentino. You’re white as a sheet. We did go through the weddin’ chapel, though. Justin’s bodyguards kept all the reporters away, and we went out the alley, back to the airport. The plane wasn’t fixed, so Justin got a new one, right there in the middle of the night, and . . .”
The nonstop barrage of chatter started to seem farther and farther away, as if it were part of a dream—a long, strange dream of planes, helicopters, automobiles, and paparazzi in hot pursuit. Somewhere in the story, Amber and Justin Shay ended up in Austin, where they attracted more media attention, forcing them to escape in a newly purchased Cadillac SUV. They ditched their pursuers by driving cross-country through a nature preserve and a network of back roads. Eventually, wonder of wonders—Amber threw her hands in the air palm up to illustrate their miraculous good fortune—they ended up on a road she recognized, which was near one of her favorite childhood places, the old Barlinger ranch. Since it was still fairly early in the morning and she’d wanted to show Justin the ranch anyway, they stopped in—all of which would have been fine if they hadn’t locked the keys and both cell phones in the SUV. Fortunately, just when things were looking desperate, Butch showed up and the problem was solved by calling OnStar to unlock the SUV. Wasn’t that just the most amazing timing?
Lifting her hands toward the shiny new SUV behind her and the line of trailing vans and crew members frantically moving equipment into place to capture the homecoming, Amber smiled broadly. “Then, when we got to the four-way, about two miles down, Butch called Rodney, and the crew was just about a mile down the way. We waited, and in a minute, there they were and we all drove in together. It worked out just perfect. Isn’t that awesome?”
She paused, as if she expected me to answer. I’d been rendered temporarily speechless, so finally she went on. “I kept telling Justin all morning, even after we got locked out of the car, I had faith God wouldn’t let me miss being here when I was supposed to be.” She motioned toward the SUV as Justin Shay stepped out and surveyed the area, the farm reflecting off mirrored aviator-style sunglasses that probably cost more than I made in a month. I wanted to snatch them off his face, throw them on the ground, and jump up and down on them until there was nothing left but tiny pieces.
Justin gave Amber a quick chin bob. “You and Bubba get it all worked out, babe?” Motioning vaguely in Butch’s direction, he swaggered toward us, flashing a perfectly straight, perfectly white, perfectly practiced smile. I’d seen that trademark Justin Shay smile in the romantic scenes of at least a dozen action-thrillers. It was about as real as his interest in Amber’s well-being or his concern for her rapidly dwindling chances of becoming the next American Megastar.
“It’s . . . it’s Butch, Mr . . . Mr. Shay,” Butch babbled, hopelessly starstruck.
I could feel my temper shooting toward a boiling point I usually only reached about twice a year. So far this year, I was over my quota. “No!” I exploded. “Everything is not
all worked out
. We’re trying to put together a location segment here—a happy, wholesome hometown reunion that could, quite possibly, make or break Amber’s chances on
American Megastar
. Thanks to you, we’ve got a media circus in town, paparazzi skulking behind every bush, and until five minutes ago, Amber was lost in the woods.”
Justin drew back, shocked and offended, as my frustration, simmering in a pressure cooker for three days now, reached critical mass and exploded. “This isn’t one of your pathetic Brat Pack weekends in Malibu, where you can screw up and buy your way out of it later. This is real life—real people who have real jobs to do, a segment to put together, and only one chance to get it right.” Justin didn’t move, only coughed in indignation, his expression saying,
Someone tell this . . . this . . . creature it can’t speak to me that way
.
I tumbled completely over the edge, waving a finger at his car and screeching, “This is my project, and I want you and your stupid SUV
out
of here!” My voice echoed off the house and the barn, reverberated around the farmyard, and startled a flock of birds in a tree by the porch.
Backing up a step, Justin pulled off his sunglasses and blinked. He glanced at the car, then at Amber, back at me, and at the car again. He seemed . . . wounded? Disappointed? Momentarily human and vulnerable?
I felt a surprising stab of guilt. He looked like the dorky kid on the playground, being chased out of the kickball game by a schoolyard bully.
Amber shook her head, blinking her big blue eyes in complete dismay. “Oh, it’s all ri-ight, Ms. Florentino. I invited him. I was a little nervous about the hometown reveal, and Justin said he’d come along and be moral support. He left off everything he had to do for the weekend to help me out. I thought that was sweet.”
Sweet?
I thought.
Sweet? Justin Shay has never done anything sweet in his life. He only wants you to be his babe of the week. Please, oh please tell me you haven’t fallen for the misunderstood-bad-boy-who- just-needs-a-good-woman routine. That only works out in country songs. In real life, bad boys stay bad. They shop around on
Mydestiny.com
while you’re planning the wedding. . . .
I wanted to grab Amber’s slender shoulders, shake her, and scream,
Don’t fall for it, Amber! Don’t be stupid.
Justin dropped his glasses back into place, braced his hands on his hips, and struck the pose of an action hero. “So what do we do first?”
I could think of a dozen answers to that question, but Imagene beat me to it. She stepped into the middle of the disagreement like Gandhi and invited everyone into neutral territory—the kitchen for lunch. Justin patted his well-sculpted abs enthusiastically, and the crew looked hopefully toward the house. Clearly, everyone thought lunch was a good idea.
It was my job, of course, to be the party killer. “Let’s get a few shots of Amber reuniting with her family first. They’re in back by the barn.”
Amber’s hands flew to her face. “They’re here? Oh my gosh, they’re here?” Before anyone could stop her, Amber was headed around the side of the house with the camera crew scrambling behind her. Following along, I glanced at Butch and wondered what they’d been talking about in the car. Clearly, he hadn’t debriefed Amber on the plan for the day.
Amber rounded the corner, and the magic began the moment she spotted O.C. behind the house. “O.C.!” she hollered, throwing her arms open and launching herself toward him like a running back breaking through for a touchdown.
O.C. caught her in a cross between a hug and a football block, whipped her around in the air as easily as if she were a long-legged rag doll, then set her on her feet and stood back, his big hands clenched around her shoulders as she jittered up and down, asking rapid-fire questions, as the camera crew rushed into position.
“How’s football? I couldn’t get but one UT game when I was out there in California. It was the Rose Bowl. You did real good. That coach shoulda played you the whole time, though. I told Marta, the cleaning lady at the hotel, ‘He’s from Daily, and in a few years, he’s gonna be a famous Dallas Cowboy, just you watch.’ She thought you were awful good, too. You gonna bulldog in the rodeo this afternoon? I saw Booger turned out in your pasture last time I was home, and he was limpin’ like something was wrong with his hoof. Did he get better?”
Before O.C. could answer, Amber spotted Brother Harve coming out of the barn. “Oh, hold on a minute. I’ve gotta go say hi to your granddaddy.” She jitterbugged across the yard, shook Brother Harve’s hand, then hugged him shyly. “Hey, Brother Harve. Are you feelin’ better? When I talked to Andy last time, he said you were in the hospital with pneumonia. I’m so sorry about that. You hadn’t ought to go fishing on those mornin’s when it’s so cold. You know that.”
Brother Harve smiled benevolently, his weathered hand trembling as he cupped the side of her face. “Oh, I’m fine now. Fine as frog hair, don’t you worry. We all been watchin’ you sing on TV, and we’re just as proud as who’d-a-thought-it! You’re doing a good job out there in California. I think up in heaven, the choirs of angels are singin’ along, Amen?” Pointing a finger upward, he added dramatic emphasis. “You don’t let nobody tell you the world doesn’t want to listen to music with something good to say, you hear? You just remember what it feels like to hurt. There’s always somebody out there hurtin’ for need of hope.”
Amber nodded, her shoulders sagging solemnly. “I’m trying, Brother Harve. There’s so much . . . stuff to keep in mind.” She glanced at me, momentarily aware of the cameras, and the crew, and the heavy load of expectations trailing behind her. “I messed up again today.” She turned back to Brother Harve, and for an instant, I had a sense of what it would be like to stand in the tiny red cowboy boots of Amber Anderson—nineteen years old, far from home, trying to spread good in a world that fired back with nasty newspaper articles and stressed-out, screaming TV producers. Trying to keep the faith while surrounded by flash and cynicism.
She’d done amazingly well so far. Standing there with Brother Harve, she looked worn, slightly lost, but she still believed she could make a difference. Somewhere between local news and
American Megastar
, I’d lost that dewy-eyed sense of conviction. Watching Amber, I wanted it back.
Avery came out of the barn, spied his sister in the yard, and ran back inside, yelling, “Amber’s here! Amber’s here!” The cameras swung toward the barn as Avery and Amos bolted across the yard, followed by Amber’s grandfather and finally Andy. Within moments, the Andersons became the picture of a family reunion. They hugged, laughed, cried. Amber wrapped her arms around her baby brother so tightly I thought she might never let go. Closing his eyes, he buried his face in the soft golden ringlets of her hair and they stood like statues in the sunlight, their bodies melted together in a silent embrace.
“Oh, you’re so big,” she murmured finally. “You got so big while I was away. I missed you so much.” Opening her arms, she took in Amos and her grandfather, and finally even Andy joined in, completing the circle.
The cameras caught it all. The scene was perfect. It was everything I would have planned, and more, because it was real. The emotions weren’t staged or forced—they were genuine. The joy was complete. It surrounded us, flowed over the onlookers like a soft, warm breeze. Imagene sniffled, and Brother Harve slipped an arm around her shoulders. O.C. looked away and wiped his eyes.
I thought about my family. It had been too long since we were all together in one place. Busy schedules, holiday commitments to in-laws, complicated lives and distances kept us apart far too often. As soon as I got home, I was going to call my mother and tell her we needed to plan something for Easter, even though that gave us only a week. An egg hunt, maybe, or a family volleyball game at the beach. The kids were probably all too old for egg hunting, but volleyball would be fun. We needed to spend more time together.
The scene in the yard made me realize something else. The circumstances may have been different—different part of the country, different income bracket, different sizes and shapes, but the language of family was universal. Amber loved her brothers and her grandfather as much as I loved my family, and in a way, even more. My sisters, my parents, my grandparents, and I didn’t depend on one another. We didn’t have to. We lived self-contained lives that intersected during holiday gatherings, births, deaths, weddings, and funerals. Amber, her brothers, and her grandfather had no economic safety net to fall back on. They needed one another for survival, for everything.