A Week at the Lake (8 page)

Ethan Miller's eyes were on her. Ethan was a mensch all right. Unlike Wes Harrison. Who was pretty much a cheater and a bastard in any accent, dialect, or language.

W
hen they drove past the front entrance of the hospital the next morning, the number of paparazzi had doubled. Like a cell that had divided and reproduced on its own. Mackenzie, who had often thought of Emma's life as glamorous and exciting, watched them jostle for position, reminded that there was a dark underbelly to fame. The cab deposited them at the back entrance, where they took a freight elevator up to the neuro ICU.

Rhonda, Emma's lead nurse, sat at the computer outside Emma's room staring at the monitor and jotting notes on a file. Rubber soles squeaked on the floor and there was a hum of low-pitched voices as white-coated doctors conferred. The patients' families wore wrinkled clothing and shell-shocked expressions. Their tired, disbelieving eyes were rimmed in dark circles like the ones Mackenzie had seen in the mirror this morning.

She'd tossed and turned for much of the previous night, but at least that tossing had taken place on a queen-sized bed rather than a molded plastic chair. Breakfast had been the Thai food none of them had been able to face the night before. They'd eaten it cold, out of the cardboard containers, their eyes glued to the small flat-screen on the kitchen wall as the morning news programs ran their versions of the Emma Michaels “tragedy,” buttressed by old shots of Emma as a child star, which dissolved into shots of her entering the offices of a Los Angeles district judge as a teen, her grandmother at her side.
Stories about her legal emancipation from her famous parents had pulled in a hefty audience in its day.

Serena clicked the set off in the middle of a tight two shot of Rex and Eve Michaels professing to not understand why their daughter would do such a thing. “Thank God Emma's emancipation happened before reality television,” Serena said drily. “Or there might have been a show called
Making Up with the Michaelses
.”

Dr. Brennan had already been in to see Emma and left word that the night had been uneventful and there was nothing new to report. He'd stop by again in the afternoon.

They took turns sitting with Emma. Waiting at times with held breath for something, anything, to happen. Mackenzie's mind wandered as she watched Emma's chest rise rhythmically up and down. Her eyes remained closed. Her jaw slack. Her arms and hands limp at her sides.

She thought of how turbulent Emma's life had been, how much of it had played out in public and in the tabloids. Only those years when she'd lived with them and auditioned as someone else—a significant acting job in its own right—had been remotely private. When they'd discovered that Amelia Maclaine was actually Emma Michaels, Emma had been frightened that their friendship might change. But by then they'd seen the best and worst of each other. Held each other's hair out of the way while they bowed before the porcelain throne after too much partying, eaten tons of ice cream and chocolate together when men had proved disappointing, and learned when saying nothing was the best choice of all. Though some of them were better at remaining silent than others. By the time they knew that Amelia Maclaine was Emma Michaels, they were too close for an accident of birth to come between them. Or so they'd always thought.

Around one o'clock, she, Serena, and Zoe took the elevator down to the hospital cafeteria. At a quiet table in a dark corner, they picked at their food without enthusiasm.

“I had a call from Calvin,” Zoe said as she picked up a French fry then put it back on her plate.

“What did your dad say?” Mackenzie asked.

“He just called to ask if I needed anything. He said he'd come if it seemed like that would be helpful. But I wasn't sure if he meant for me or for my mother.”

“Would you like him to come, Zoe?” Mackenzie asked. “I know you said no the other day, but if it would make you feel better . . .”

“No.” She looked up from her plate, her chin jutting outward.

“Are you sure?” Serena asked. “Because . . .”

“No. He asked me to give my mother a hug.” Zoe's voice broke. “I don't think he understands what condition she's really in. I told him not to worry about it.” She picked up the same French fry and motioned with it. “Then he asked me if I'd like to come be with him on location.”

Mackenzie was careful not to comment.

Serena had no such hesitation. “He thought you'd rather be on location in New Zealand than here?”

Zoe nodded dully then looked down at her plate.

“To be fair to your father, I think it's hard to understand what's . . . going on . . . without being here,” Mackenzie said, thinking about her exchange of texts with Adam just thirty minutes ago. He'd texted two brief queries about Emma and herself. Then there'd been a flood of text, most of it followed by exclamation points.
Another meeting is scheduled at the studio! Don't want to jinx things, but this time I feel like something could really happen!!!!

She'd kept her responses short but upbeat. A few “wows!” Two or three “greats!” each with an exclamation point of its own. It had felt so odd though, almost disloyal, to even be thinking about anything so frivolous as a movie deal when Emma was lying in the ICU like a block of wood, unmoving and unresponsive.

“I guess,” Zoe said finally. “But I'm not going anywhere.” She pushed her plate away. “Not until she wakes up.”

Serena's mouth opened and Mackenzie braced. Serena had always prided herself on “telling it like it is,” except, of course, when it came to certain personal truths she was avoiding. She shot Serena a warning look.

“I was just going to say that none of us are going anywhere until Sleeping Beauty awakens. Even if I have to find a handsome prince to lay one on her.”

Mackenzie rolled her eyes at Serena, but Zoe's eyes had stopped glistening. “Well, while you're looking,” Mackenzie said, “maybe you should find out if Doctor Brennan's single.”

“You don't have to be single to kiss somebody awake. It's not like a fairy-tale rule or anything.” Serena helped herself to one of Zoe's fries.

“That may be, but I'm pretty sure the kiss is more potent if the prince who locks lips with you isn't contractually promised to someone else.”

B
ack at her town house late the next night, Serena kicked off her shoes and sank into the sofa with a groan. Mackenzie and Zoe joined her.

“I was really hoping for some sign, even a small one, today,” Serena said, rubbing her bare feet. “Some tiny signal that Em is getting ready to wake up.”

“Well, Dr. Brennan said this is a critical time while we wait for the swelling to go down. And that we have to remain vigilant for threats of infection or blood clots or other problems,” Mackenzie reminded them. “Since none of those things happened, that makes it a good day.”

“It didn't feel like one.” Zoe's voice was quiet.

Mackenzie kept her inner Pollyanna to herself.

The doorbell rang and Serena stared briefly at the door before hauling herself up and heading over to it. She peered through
the peephole then opened it to a deliveryman who handed over a large gift-wrapped box. As she set it on the coffee table and undid the bow, she wondered if it might be from Wes, who had sent her a series of increasingly lame texts that began with a slightly apologetic, “Wish I'd known you were in the control room last night.”
No kidding
. And ended with a more than slightly indignant, “I can't believe you left without saying hello.” As if she was the one in the wrong.

As soon as she opened the box and saw the gourmet popcorn, and boxes of Sno-Caps and Jujubes tucked into the collection of videos, she knew whom it was from. Ethan had sent all six original seasons of
I Love Lucy,
a
Dick Van Dyke Show
holiday special, an early reel of George Burns and Gracie Allen, Abbott and Costello's “Who's on First,” National Lampoon's
Vacation
, and the Three Stooges'
Have Rocket, Will Travel
. A hand-labeled DVD read,
Georgia Goodbody Outtakes. Have fan, will pummel
. The card read,
Watch. Laugh. Repeat. Don't get Jujubes stuck in your teeth
.

“Very nice,” Mackenzie observed.

“Is all that from your boyfriend?” Zoe asked, reaching for a box of Sno-Caps.

“No, they're from my friend Ethan. He's the producer/creator of . . .”

“Ethan Miller?” Zoe asked. “
The
Ethan Miller who was in
Tempest in Toledo
?”

“Yes,” Serena said tentatively.

“He's like the funniest person ever,” Zoe exclaimed. “For an old guy, I mean.”

Serena sighed. “I know. He's already forty-five. Hard to believe his sense of humor is still intact.”

“Clearly Ethan Miller is one very thoughtful guy,” Mackenzie said.

“Don't you wish the hot ones were nice like that?” Zoe asked. “Hot guys never have to develop a personality or a sense of humor. Because everybody's already falling all over them.”

Serena looked at Zoe. “How is it you figured that out so much sooner than I did?”

Zoe shrugged. “What kind of guys did you all date? Back when you were . . . younger?” She said this last as if she couldn't quite imagine it.

“I never really had boyfriends back when I was in high school. But I fell for Adam the minute I saw him,” Mackenzie said. “I'd only been in New York maybe two weeks. Your mom and Serena always got more attention in that department than me.”

“I was engaged when I first got here,” Serena said, taking a seat next to Zoe. “So I wasn't looking or dating.”

Zoe shook a mound of Sno-Caps into her hand. “I didn't know you were married.”

“I wasn't. My fiancé had been offered a job up here. But at the last minute he decided to stay in Charleston.” Her jaw tightened. “To marry someone else. He went to work for her father.”

There was a brief silence.

“His loss,” Mackenzie said, surprised by the hurt on Serena's face all these years later. “He was forever after known as ‘The Tool.' And other less flattering names.”

“It was quite the scandal back home,” Serena said. “Well-bred southern boys are supposed to keep their promises.”

“And my mom? What kind of guys did my mom go out with?” Zoe said, munching on a handful of white-capped chocolate.

“She always picked the strong silent types,” Serena answered. “Partly I think because as long as they didn't ruin it by talking too much, you could pretend they were anything you wanted them to be.”

“But she almost never went out with actors,” Mackenzie added. “She once told me that there were way too many performers in her family tree—and that was before we knew she was a Michaels.” She smiled at Zoe. “But what I remember most from that time was the three of us. The men, even Adam, were more like supporting players. But we were Josie and the
Pussycats, Charlie's Angels—God knows we had the hair for it—the female incarnation of the Three Musketeers.”

“But she married Calvin,” Zoe said. “And he's an actor. I think that's the only thing they had in common.”

“They had you,” Serena said.

“Yeah.” Zoe's tone was wistful.

“Do you remember the weeks at the lake?” Serena asked.

“Kind of. I used to wish we could live there all the time. Because in LA we were so, you know, alone. And at the lake we had Gran when I was little and you guys. It was almost like having a family.”

“She always said you were the best thing that ever happened to her.” Mackenzie said this quietly, her thoughts drawn back to a time she tried not to think about.

Zoe zeroed in on a teetering stack of albums on the coffee table and reached for the two on the top.

“Sorry for the mess,” Serena said, straightening the remaining stack before settling in beside Zoe. “I pulled some pictures from back when we first met to bring to the lake, and I never got to put them away.

Idly, Zoe opened the first leather-covered album and began to flip through the pages. She stopped, looking up in surprise. “Was this a baby shower for me?” Zoe asked. “I mean, for my mom?”