Blue Moon 10.0

by Donna Lamb

 

Richard drove like un coureur du Tour de France sans drogue: he was losing the race. He changed lanes mechanically, he ignored opportunities to surge ahead; he might as well have been a typical commuter who had left his mind locked in his desk at work.

Jo gave him a couple of concerned looks but she said nothing. I wonder if he's thinking about me? Oh, isn't that a lovely bit of self-centeredness to discover about oneself? Looking for some way to distract her attention from Richard, she pulled down the sun-visor in the Mustang to look into the mirror attached to the back. Oh, now this is vain, too. God, I'm so-o-o shallow! She giggled out loud.

Richard glanced at her, showed his dimples in a reflexive smile and went back to his deep concentration on whatever weighty problem had engaged his thinking.

"Are we going to b-be on time?" Jo asked after a bit more poking along.

"Sure," said Richard. He accelerated around several pokey sedans, cut through the opening between a gas truck and a cement mixer to reach a clear lane and ran the late amber light at La Cienega. Jo bit back a squeak. Richard said, "We really had plenty of time, but you never let a girl know that."

Jo's mouth flew open, Richard looked at her sideways and winked.

She sighed, realizing she had been had. "What were you thinking about b-back there?"

"Us. You," he said.

Jo felt a glow. "Really?"

"Yeah,"said Richard. "This looks like it's the real deal, a rest-of-your-life sort of thing. You're Melody Jo now and you're a real person with a real place in the world."

Jo blinked, suddenly unsure if she wanted Richard to be thinking of her in such terms.

"You're beautiful, you're rich and you're talented. I just have to wonder...." He didn't finish, suddenly having to take evasive action to avoid eating the rear bumper of a BMW convertible driven by a plastic-looking blonde who had fishtailed her beemer through the eye of a camel.

Jo did squeak that time and Richard cursed. The moment had passed.

* * *

"Rather evil bit of buggery that," remarked Ted.

"You should know," said Sophie, with a smirk.

He looked at her down a long, British nose. "I meant, you're playing a devious game, folding your strategy back, egging them on then cooling them off."

"Ew, cold folded eggs," said Sophie.

"Whatever," he said. "You're losing this one old girl, and you know it."

"If hearts were not trump, I would have."

He stared at her. "Hearts are trump? But that's why you are losing. Love conquers all, you know."

She smiled. "I'm counting on it."

* * *

Jo and Richard reached the entrance to the parking garage under the building holding the offices of Tom K. Harmon, Talent Associates before they managed to get back the discussion they'd been on the edge of starting.

They rode up in the big glass elevator together. Jo bubbled with excitement, smiling and even giggling a bit. Richard looked glum.

"I don't understand why you didn't want to come up with m-me," said Jo.

"This is your thing, Melody's thing. The only reason I'm coming along for is to watch out for you. Make sure no one tries to take advantage of you."

"Hey," said Jo. "I'm underage, I can't legally sign a contract unless a judge says so."

"Well, some kinds of contract. But neither of us is a lawyer, so we don't want to depend on that." He took back the suit jacket he had loaned Jo in the frigid depths of the parking garage. Putting it on, he smiled a bit on finding it warm and smelling faintly of Un Mille et Une Fleurs, Jo's perfume.

The bell bonged and the elevator doors opened on a small foyer with a set of large glass doors labeled, "Tom K. Harmon, Talent Associates." A short hallway led off the foyer lined with doors, presumably to other offices on the same floor.

Richard pushed open the big glass door for Jo then followed her in. She went immediately to the reception desk and announced herself. "M-melody Jo Thierry and my manager, Richard Alexander, to see M-mr. Harmon." Richard managed not to trip on his jaw when she said that.

The receptionist, a decorative California blonde, made nice and invited them to sit, "for just a few minutes," while Mr. Harmon finished with another client. Jo took a seat in the area opposite the reception desk that had been decorated like an upscale family room, complete with a big screen HDTV, a chess table and a coffee bar.

Richard stood in front of her, blocking the receptionist's view and speaking in a low voice. "Since when am I your manager?"

She grinned. "Since I hired you five seconds ago, manager-chauffeur-bodyguard. Pays, uh, five thousand more a year than you're m-making now."

He stared at her. "Jo!"

"Please?" she looked at him with her big green eyes pleading.

"Jo!" he protested. "Ah, Jo! I can't be your manager, no, no. That would mean I signed contracts for you, did the negotiations." Those eyes, that almost-trembling lip. "I can't do that, I'm just a gear-head, driver..."

"And songwriter, and drummer in our b-band," she put in.

He held a hand up. "Please, Jo. No. We.... Just, no."

She pouted.

God, if she were still Joel, I'd smack him, thought Richard. "Personal assistant," he said, yielding a little ground.

She beamed at him and he had to smile back. "Jo, you're dangerous."

Giggling, she reached for his hand. "Shake, but you know, you just cost yourself that extra f-five thousand a year."

He took her hand gently and shook. "We'll talk about that later. But managers get a salary plus a percentage." He grinned, showing his dimples.

She pulled on his arm. "Sit," she said. "How big a p-percentage? And how m-much do agents get?"

He sighed. "We should have talked this over before. Agents get ten or fifteen percent, usually fifteen, sometimes more; managers, it varies a lot, depending." He sat beside her, turning so she had to let go of his hand.

"See? You know this stuff. How do you know this?"

"Uh, dating models, starlets, singers, you know." He shrugged. "Listening to them gripe about agents, managers, directors, photographers, producers, clients. Their hairdressers, mothers, dentists..."

She looked thoughtful. "Who knew you listened to them?" she said.

He laughed.

The receptionist called them, "Mr. Harmon will see you now." She started around the desk toward an inner door.

Richard stood and offered his hand to Jo. She took it, squeezed it, and stood. They followed the receptionist through the door into the inner offices, both of them still tingling a bit from that last contact.

* * *

Tom K. Harmon didn't look quite like Melody had pictured him. For one thing, she hadn't pictured him wearing braces on his legs or having that hollow-cheeked boniness in his face that often marks the victims of chronic wasting diseases or spinal injuries. Otherwise, he looked rather like the actor, Willem Dafoe, with less hair.

He stood in the middle of a long piece of green plastic turf holding a putter in both hands, bent over slightly to take a shot at the shallow cup set into the artificial putting green.

Richard held a finger up to keep Jo from speaking while Harmon tapped the ball which rolled to the lip of the cup, paused and rolled back slowly. Harmon sighed and looked up, "Hi there? You-all play golf?" he asked, smiling. His pleasant tenor held no hint of his disability but just a slight southwestern flavor, probably from somewhere between Tulsa and Bakersfield.

"No, sir," said Richard. "I caddied a lot when I was a kid, out in San Fernando, but I've never played regular."

Jo shook her head, red curls swinging. "Just m-miniature, sir. Never touch the hard stuff." She smiled, making her eyes twinkle.

Harmon laughed. "Well, I'm Tom Harmon. You must be Melody Thierry, Gil and Judy's daughter." He stuck out his right hand while dropping the putter onto the green.

Jo started slightly; she'd seen her "parents'" names at the house but hadn't heard anyone refer to them as if they were friends before. "You knew m-my folks, sir?" she asked.

He winced. "Call me, Tom. 'Sir' was my father." He grinned. "But, sure, I knew your dad. We both started at CBS back when Perry Como was hot. Well, maybe not quite that long ago. Sorry to hear about what happened." He meant the Noember car accident in which the Thierrys were killed.

Jo smiled but something inside seemed broken; she had no memories of Gil and Judy Thierry.

Harmon turned toward Richard who stuck out his hand. "I'm Richard Alexander," the younger man said. They shook hands. "I'm Jo's friend, sort of helping her out."

"Pleased to meet you both," said Tom.

Jo put in, "Richard is kind of looking out for m-me, these days."

"I see," said Tom. "And you prefer to be called Jo, right?"

She nodded, confessing, "I have trouble saying that first name."

Tom waved them all toward a sort of conversation pit in the wide office. A couch and several upholstered chairs surrounded a long table that sat a bit higher than a coffee table but lower than a desk. The center of the table held recessed electrical and electronic connectors. A tray holding a coffee decanter with cups and additives sat at one end.

After they had settled with steaming cups, Harmon said, "I'm having lunch brought in, just sandwiches. What will you-all have? My treat. The Sandwitchery downstairs does a bang-up job on pastrami or tuna salad or whatever you like."

"I'll have a fruit cup, if I may, sir, Tom," said Jo. "We ate at about eleven."

"Um," Richard felt uncomfortable eating Tom's food at what should have been Jo's meeting. On the other hand, he discovered he actually felt hungry. "Roast beef on a toasted bagel? No onions, just mayo and tomato. If that's okay?"

"Sure," said Tom. "This makes it a business lunch and I get to take mine off my taxes, too." He grinned and said something into a cellphone he'd brought over from his desk. "Ten minutes," he said when he had disconnected. "Now, we should talk about the packet you sent me." He fiddled with the joints on his leg braces, easing them so he could bend his knees.

Jo looked blank for a second. Richard stepped in. "Jo's had some memory problems since the accident. It's getting better all the time but honestly, sir, she doesn't remember what she sent you."

Harmon blinked. "Well, it wasn't much and maybe you didn't send it yourself, Jo." He picked up a folded letter from the table and extended it to Jo. "This came with the packet of glossies. I think you should read it."

Fingers trembling, Jo opened the letter and held it where Richard could read over her shoulder without thinking about it. Not wearing her glasses, she had to hold the paper a bit close, causing Richard to lean nearer.

Dear Tom,

These pictures are of my daughter, Melody Jo. She wants to be in show business so bad she dreams about it. She's very talented in music and as you can see, she takes a good picture. She's a bit shy because she stutters except when she's singing or acting in a play. I thought I'd send these to you for a recommendation on an agent for her who'd be willing to take on a new client with a pretty skinny professional resume.

My golf game has suffered since you don't play at Burbank anymore. All that fiddling you do getting ready to make a shot is just such a wonderful distraction for when I need a little nooje to get a better lie, myself. Ha.

Judy says you and Gloria have to come over, should come over for steaks. I reminded her that you aren't married to Gloria anymore and that might be awkward but she didn't feel that would make that much difference. You know Judy, can't conceive of anyone no longer wanting to be friends with someone. Loyal as a hound, that woman, don't tell her I said so. Hee.

Call me when you get this, we'll arrange a get-to, just us. Then we can include Judy and whoever you want to bring for those steaks, later.

Give Melody a look, please, and a thunk. It'd mean a lot to her, and to me and Judy.

Keep your putter up and your harbles dry.

Your friend,
Gil Thierry

When Jo began to sob, Richard put an arm around her.

"Sorry, sorry," said Jo. She wiped her eyes with a tissue from her purse.

"That's okay, but now I'm confused," said Tom. "I don't think you sent the packet but I only got it earlier this week. Gil must have left it with someone else to deliver it."

Richard looked up. "Not mailed?"

Tom shook his head. "Nope. Hand-delivered right to my desk." He shrugged. "I've got no explanation and I guess I don't need one." He looked thoughtful, glancing down at another paper in his hand.

"You okay?" Richard asked Jo.

She nodded. "I'm all right. Just caught me b-by surprise."

Richard gave her a hug about the shoulders and she dropped her hand onto his knee where he covered it with his own.

"I made some notes," said Tom. "Gil says you're musically talented, do you sing, play instruments? What instruments?"

"Keyboards, m-mostly," said Jo. "And sing."

"She used to have her own band," Richard offered.

"What kind of music?" Tom asked.

"P-pop, country, rock," said Jo. "Richard is my drummer. Writes songs, too." She added, smiling at him.

"Have you ever cut a demo?"

"I think so," she answered. Tom blinked. "B-but I'd like to do a new one," Jo went on. "I don't have m-my old b-band." No idea who Melody's band was.

"How about modeling? Have you done any modeling?" Tom tapped the stack of glossies. "These are quite good. You could probably have a comfortable career as a model. Top end fashion modeling and nude modeling pay the best, but there's always work for someone who looks good on camera. Catalogs, conventions, commercials."

Jo glanced at Richard. Some small corner of her new self seemed intrigued by the mention of nude modeling, as if she were discovering an exhibitionistic streak in her makeup. Richard showed his dimples, exactly as if he could read her mind. "I think I'd p-prefer something like music. Doing, instead of b-being?" she said.

He nodded. "You're not just doing this because your dad suggested it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. I think I've always wanted to p-perform." She and Richard exchanged looks, again; bemused and surprised.

Tom looked interested. "Real performers work hard," he said. "Just an observation, not an admonition."

"I can w-work hard. My folks," Melody's folks but Dunny made they're mine, too, "left me a house and some money, but I need to do something w-with my life. Music means a lot to m-me."

"Okay," said Tom. "If you wanted to model, I could probably get you some small jobs pretty quickly, but music is a whole 'nother thing. Let me tell you what you're going to need to have for me to get you into some small clubs to start out with."

Lunch came and disappeared, along with some delicious Italian sodas and designer waters. Tom discussed hiring band members, making demos, copyrighting music and operating a website, all as part of a music career.

"I won't be able to take your account," he warned. "I've too many high-maintenance, high-return clients to eat up my time besides being CEO of the company but I've got a hungry young agent who should be perfect for you." He used his phones to quickly set up a meeting with the young woman, named Andie Moore, for later that evening. "She's got a project you might be interested in," he added.

Jo pulled her glasses out to take notes. Grinning at her, Tom pulled his out, too. "Silly to be vain about these when I'm wearing all this iron," he slapped his leg braces. "But there you are."

"I've got contacts," Jo explained. "But I haven't worn them since the accident."

"Can't wear them myself, allergies make me rub my eyes too often," said Tom.

Near the end of the session, Tom fetched a split of champagne from a refrigerator hidden in his credenza. He poured them each a half-full flute and toasted. "To Gil and Judy," he said, simply.

Richard didn't mention that Jo was under age. Four ounces of champagne isn't going to hurt her, he thought.

Half an hour later, Richard held the door of the Mustang open for Jo in the chilly underground garage. She slipped inside, glad that he'd loaned her his coat again. Out on the street, a wind blew in from the ocean bringing damp cold air direct from the Bering Sea; at least it felt that way on Jo's bare legs. "B-b-brrr?" she said as Richard got in on the other side.

He grinned at her. "I'll have it warmed up soon, keep the coat on for now."

"I'm so c-c-cold. D-do g-girls get c-colder than b-b-b-m-m-m-g-guys?"

"Our muscles keep us warm," said Richard. He idled the engine a bit, adjusting the heating vents.

"Nyah!" said Jo, sticking her tongue out at him. "Ow! I b-bit m-my t-t-tongue!"

"Serves you right," he said, showing a dimple. "You're stuttering on practically every word and your teeth sound like Buddy Rich doing a castanet solo."

She giggled. "T-turn on the heater."

"It's on. This is a Ford, takes a while to warm up."

She looked at him sideways. "Mmm," she said. "M-m-me, too."

He laughed and she blushed pink, though she couldn't have said why. He put the Mustang in gear and wheeled out of the parking garage, making the turn onto the Avenue. "You want to go home and change into something warmer before we meet this Moore chick?" he asked.

"Nah, I'm tough," she said. "Um?" Richard made a left onto Santa Monica, catching her leaning wrong. "Hamlet's the other way?"

"We got time, I thought I'd take us down by the water. Besides, it's the one on Sepulveda."

"There's m-more than one Hamlet? Hooda thunkit?" She warmed her hands in the now toasty blast from the car's heater. She looked at Richard for a long moment.

"What?" he asked.

"You're not taking m-me to see the submarine races, are you?" she asked.

"Uh, no." He showed all of his dimples.

"Too b-bad," she sighed. "I've never seen'em."

* * *

Richard sideslipped the evening traffic somehow, ending up in a turnout on HIghway 1 between Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades. The ocean stretched out in front of them -- except for the Channel Islands -- empty for thousands of miles. The wind off the water had cleared the air and the sun set in a sky almost more green than blue with purple and gold streamers far to the north and south like curtains pulling back from a show.

Jo watched, awed by the spectacle and aching inside from some feelings she didn't know how to name. I want Richard to hold me, she said to herself, wondering at the thought. I want to kiss him again, have him kiss me back. I'm so damned confused.

Goddam bucket seats, thought Richard.

The sun kissed the water, melting a little at the bottom to spread gold along the horizon. The sky deepened, a turquoise fading to indigo in their peripheral vision.

Jo reached across the central console. Richard took her hand, something he'd done with countless dates before but never with the thrill he felt now for such a simple contact. Jo took a deep breath, trying to think of what to say.

The sun sank into the golden lake it had made of the Pacific. Half-gone, it changed from gold to orange, then orange to red.

They watched, not saying anything. Richard squeezed Jo's hand and she thought her heart would burst if she didn't say something.

The dwindling sun turned orange again, then brilliant gold in a blue-blue sky,then intensely hot yellow like a glimpse of happiness. Finally, the last fingernail edge, thinner than hope, turned a perfect emerald green for less than a heartbeat, then exploded larger than the vanished edge of the sun, flooding the world for that moment with a verdant light that made the sea into grass and their skin into bronze.

Jo gasped.

The sun and its green ghost disappeared, leaving a rosy glow in a deep lavender sky.

Richard squeezed her hand and smiled at her.

"You knew it w-was going to do that?" she asked. Her wide eyes seemed to remember the miracle, green with gold flecks.

"I thought it might happen," he said."It's called the green flash. You can only see it if the sky is completely clear to the horizon, no mist or dust."

"W-wow," said Jo. "I've lived near here all my life and I never even heard of it b-before."

"I've seen it three times, four now. Once from an airplane."

She looked back at the sky. "You spend a lot of time at the b-beach."

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back, feeling shy again. "The weather has to be right and you have to remember to look for it." He smiled and pulled gently on her hand. She started to lean towards him, heart racing.

The sudden honking made her squeak.