Lucky Stars (13 page)

s
eventeen

O
ver the next few weeks, Jack and I embarked on the kind of feverish romantic adventure that was as exhausting as it was exhilarating. Sleeping was out of the question, thanks to our incessant and extremely satisfying lovemaking, and eating was merely a means of survival, since the very act of falling in love triggers an odd sort of nausea. Discovering tiny details about each other, however mundane (Stacey to Jack: “You had a little red truck when you were a kid? That’s so cute.” Jack to Stacey: “You were on the girls’ field hockey team in high school? How athletic.”), was like unearthing buried treasure. On a more serious note, Jack confided that he was now estranged from his parents, who were as distant emotionally as they were geographically. He also confided that he was in constant contact with his younger
brother, who, it turned out, had suffered a spinal-cord injury as a child, was in a wheelchair, and was supported not by his parents but by Jack—a revelation that made me admire him all the more. I confided that I had always been at odds with my mother, given how domineering and intrusive she was, but that I was beginning to appreciate her positive qualities and, as a result,
was more accepting of her than I
was irritated by her. I also confided that, while I had dreamed of being an actress since I was five, I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I was probably not going to “make it” in a major way and that I would have to find another career at some point—a very tough admission.

There were a lot of confessionals between Jack and me in those early days. We filled in the blanks, rounded out the picture, shared information both personal and professional. Everything we did and said seemed miraculous to us, as is the case with new lovers, and we spent an inordinate amount of time discussing how thrilled we were to have found each other, particularly after our bumpy start.

Of course, there was the real world to contend with. Jack not only had his show to tape once a week, but he regularly screened movies and boned up on the guests he had to interview and took meetings with a variety of industry types. And I continued to go on auditions— getting a job here, a job there—and to work part-time at the store. Still, we stole as much time together as we could. No matter how hectic our days, there were always the nights—those precious hours when it was just the two of us, getting to know each other, getting to touch each other, getting to trust each
o
ther.

One night, we were stretched out in bed at my place. Jack was reading the notes his producer had prepared in
anticipation of an interview with Jeff Bridges, and I was reading the latest issue of
People
in the hopes of understanding the appeal of Jennifer Lopez.

I looked up and said, “Oh, by the way, I’m finally meeting my mother’s boyfriend tomorrow night.” While Jack hadn’t seen my mother since her appearance on his show—he and I had been keeping a low profile, not ready to go public just yet—he had certainly expressed interest in her.

“How are you feeling about her having a man in her life?” he asked, putting his notes aside and sliding across the bed to be closer to me.

“Conflicted. I want her to be happy, obviously, and, while no one can replace my father, she deserves to be with someone, especially after so many years on her own. On the other hand, I don’t know anything about the guy, so I can’t help being a little wary.”

“What’s his name? You never told me.” He was massaging my shoulders as he asked the question, and my knots of stress melted with every stroke of his fingers.

“Victor,” I said dreamily. “Victor Cheever. No, Chester. No, wait. His last name is like cello or something.
Chellus.
Right, it’s Victor Chellus.”

Jack brought a halt to the massage. I turned to glance at him.

“What’s the matter? Got a cramp in your hand?” I said.

He shook his head. “Just taking a break.”

“Good, because I was enjoying that. So, have you ever heard of this Victor Chellus? My mother claims he’s a producer—or used to be. According to her, he’s a man of many talents.”

“The name’s vaguely familiar,” said Jack, resuming
the massage, “although everyone in Hollywood claims to be a producer.”

“You’re telling me. But you’re not aware of any specific projects he’s produced?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Maybe you could ask around about him. Would you do that, Jack? My mother isn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp when it comes to dating, and I don’t want her getting mixed up with some phony. Any background stuff on him would be much appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, why don’t you and I concentrate on us.” Jack moved his hands from my shoulders to the small of my back and began to knead my muscles there.

“Hmm. That feels wonderful,” I purred. “To think that you’re brilliant and a skilled masseur, too. I only hope my mother’s as lucky with her man as I am with mine.”

I
met M
om and Victor at Il
Pastaio, an Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills that’s impossibly crowded every night of the week. This particular Thursday night was no exception. People were stuffed into the place, our table for three shoeho
rn
ed into a tight co
rn
er, and the noise level was ear-splitting. Before her celebrity, my mother would have bitched and moaned. (“Don’t they know there are fire codes? Don’t they give you any elbow room? Don’t they care that it’s hot enough in here to roast a chicken?”) But because the waiters treated her with the utmost unctuousness and because the clientele gawked and pointed and regarded her as the icon she had indeed become and because—this was the key—it was
Victor’s
favorite place to dine—I
l
Pastaio was the site of our introductory dinner.

“Ah, Stacey! We meet at last!” he boomed
in a deep
baritone of a voice, punctuating every word with an exclamation point. He also stood to greet me, and instead of shaking my hand, which would have been appropriate for an initial encounter, he opened his arms and folded me into a bear hug. Clearly, he was the affectionate type. He was short, only an inch or so taller than I am, and chubby around the middle, and he wasn’t handsome in a conventional sense. What made him attractive was his air of playfulness, the impishness in his hazel eyes, the way he threw back his head of wavy, shoe-polish brown hair when he laughed. His wardrobe left something to be desired—his outfit represented nearly every color in the Crayola box—but I attributed this garishness to exuberance. Of course, if one of my boyfriends had ever appeared at our door decked out in a red blazer and a green shirt and a Dodger blue baseball cap, my mother would have been appalled. How times had changed.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said, sitting down.

“Your mother and I have ordered drinks. What about you?” he said, raising his bushy eyebrows, which were dyed to match his hair.

I told him I’d like some water. I intended to keep a clear head.

“Well, well,” he boomed again, as if he were speaking into a bullhorn. “So you’re Cookie’s daughter, her pride and joy.”

Cookie?

“Victor calls me that,” my mother explained with a shy little giggle. “It’s a pet name. Because I’m as sweet as a cookie.”

My mother wasn’t the sort of person to whom you’d give a pet name. And “sweet” wasn’t an adjective I’d ever heard used in connection with her, but never mind.

“I’m Stacey, yes,” I said to Victor, wondering if she
had a pet name for him and, if so, whether it was Shrimpy. “My mother tells me you’re retired now, but that you used to be a producer?”

He nodded, sipped his vodka on the rocks. “I’ve put together a few projects over the years,” he said. “Producing is really about squeezing money out of people, and I’m pretty good at that.”

“Victor’s been in several businesses,” said my mother, patting his arm. “He’s a genius when it comes to spotting a potential moneymaker and turning opportunity into reality.”

“Now, come on, Cookie,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t oversell me to
your daughter. I’m hardly a ge
nius. I just enjoy a challenge.”

“You
are
a genius,” she said. “And a handsome genius to boot.”

“What about that face of yours?” he protested. “I’m not supposed to gloat that I landed the most beautiful woman ever to come out of Cleveland?”

“Some beauty,” she said with a shrug.

“Beauty and brains,” he added. “And humor and maturity.”

I smiled tolerantly as they made goo-goo eyes at each other and spoke in baby talk. I couldn’t believe I was watching my own mother. She’d never been a sappy romantic, certainly not when she was married to my father, so this behavior of hers was a surprise, to put it mildly.

“Tell me more about yourself, Victor,” I said, when they’d finished their back-and-forth about how handsome/beautiful they found each other. “Do you have children? Brothers and sisters? Any family here in
L.A.?”

“Regrettably, I don’t,” he said.

“Victor was married years ago, dear,” said my mother, jumping in, “and his wife passed away without bearing children.” She looked at him with sad, adoring eyes, as if his pain were hers now.

“I’m so
rr
y,” I said to him.

“It was very difficult to lose her,” he acknowledged, noisily enough so the diners at the next table turned around to look at him. I wondered if he might be hard of hearing, but decided he was just one of those people who compensates for being short by being loud. “But time does heal, as they say. I’ll never fully recover from her death, of course, but at some point I had to pull myself together and carry on.” He misted up here, causing my mother to pat his arm again. “Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “let’s not dwell on unpleasantness. We’re here to celebrate tonight, thanks to my first meeting with Stacey.”

Basically, that’s how the evening went. Victor was solicitous of my mother and of me, and, in contrast to his goofy wardrobe, he had a sensible, self-deprecating way about him that was rather charming. I liked him, I realized halfway through dinner. Despite my initial reservations and whatever subconscious allegiance to my father I harbored, I actually liked the guy. He wasn’t a braggart, didn’t monopolize the conversation, wasn’t one of those me me me types that are ubiquitous in Hollywood, but showed an amazing restraint when it came to talking about himself and his accomplishments. Moreover, he didn’t throw himself at me in an attempt to make me accept him as my mother’s boyfriend. He simply expressed how attached he was to her, how much he cared about her well-being, and how he hoped I would be fine with that. He wasn’t an overt sleaze, in other words.

“I don’t want you to worry about your mom,” he said as he was paying the check. “I know she and I have only known each other for a few months, but she’s in good hands with me, Stacey. Really.”

I left the restaurant feeling fairly reassured.

When I got home I called Maura. Since I’d started seeing Jack, I hadn’t spoken to her as often as before, and I missed her, missed her habit of putting things in their proper perspective.

“Hi. I just had dinner with Mom’s new sex slave,” I said when she picked up.

“And?” she asked.

“He’s not bad at all,” I said. “I was prepared for some total operator, but he seems genuinely interested in my mother. Of course, she’s mad about him. And why not? He treats her like a goddess.”

“It should only happen to me. So what’s he like? Good-looking?”

“Sort of. He’s short and he’s got a little paunch and he desperately needs a wardrobe consultant, but he has a great smile and nice eyes, and he falls all over my mother. ”

‘Tell me this heartthrob’s name?”

“Victor Chellus ”

“
Victor Chellus?
”

“Why? Do you know him, Maura?”

“Know him? I slept with him.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Believe it, because it’s true.”

Well, Victor was the right age for Maura, and everyone knows everyone in L.A. Still, it had never occurred to me that she would know him in the biblical sense.

“When did you sleep with him?” I said. “A long time ago?”

“About four months ago,” she said. “It was just a one-nighter, nothing serious, but he’s got a great house in Beverly Hills with a screening room and a chaise that converts into a bed.”

“My mother told me all about the house,” I said, “and the
chaise.”
God, this was too creepy for words. “How did you meet him?”

“At a party. He picked me up with some lame line like, ‘You’re too pretty to be standing here all by yourself.’ ”

“Yuck. What made you fall for that?”

“I was lonely. And he was attentive. And I go for the geezers, you know that.”

“And he obviously goes for women younger than my mother. You say you were only with him that one night?”

“Yeah. He took me back to his place and we watched a movie and fooled around and then he had his driver take me home.”

“Did he call you after that?”

“No. I figured he met someone else.”