Sisterchicks Down Under (23 page)

I kept glancing at Jill to see if she had snapped out of the haze she slipped into after the less-than-suave encounter with Mad Dog. Obviously more happened in the concession line than Mad Dog mistaking his blind date’s identity.

“You know, Jill.” Tracey leaned over with the tub of popcorn on her lap. “If you think you might be interested in a blind date yourself one of these days, I have a possibility in mind for you.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, really. This guy has a great personality.”

Jill still wasn’t smiling. I couldn’t tell if Tracey was teasing or really trying to set up Jill.

“He has a great sense of humor, too.”

“Not interested.”

“His name is—”

“I don’t want to know.” Jill’s freshly manicured fingers covered Tracey’s mouth.

“But he has nothing to do with the film industry,” Tracey said as the lights dimmed.

“Still not interested.”

In one final attempt, Tracey leaned over and said, “He delivers our buns.”

That one got Jill. A slight grin inched across her lips. She turned to me. “Will you trade places with me?”

I knew she wasn’t serious about trading. I was beginning to catch on to the sarcastic twist in Kiwi humor.

“Come on, Kathy, trade places with me. Please?”

“He has really large buns,” Tracey said in an exaggeratedly loud whisper.

Jill reached for a handful of popcorn and told Tracey to “shush” upon threat of being assaulted with the popcorn.

The three of us laughed a lot during the film. Not because the movie was hilarious, but because Tracey kept slipping in more strategic puns. Bun puns, to be precise.

We left the theater feeling euphoric.

“Pavlova anyone?” Tracey asked. “I thought we would go to Sophie’s. Have you been there yet, Kathy?”

“No, I take all my dining business to the Chocolate Fish.”

“Good answer,” Tracey said. “Remind me to give you a chocolate fish next time you’re in.”

“I’m beginning to feel like a trained seal with all the little fish you keep tossing at me.”

Tracey laughed and promised she would cut back on the fish treats. “Either that or you’ll have to equip our table with a
row of squeaky horns, so I can start entertaining the other guests.”

Jill laughed that time, and I felt so happy.

There is nothing as fabulous as the feeling of belonging.

Sophie’s turned out to be a small restaurant in the Lambton Quay area. As we entered, Tracey told us that Wellington had more restaurants and cafés per capita than New York City.

“I’m always ready to scout new places to eat,” she said, as the three of us took our seats at a table in the corner. “Unless the restaurant is in the wop wops.”

“Out in the boonies,” Jill translated for me.

“A wop wop would be a great name for a kiddy treat,” I said. “It’s so fun to say. Wop wops. Wop wops. Try it. Wop wops.”

Tracey looked at Jill. “Now I’m the one who wants to change seats. You can sit by the wop-wop woman.”

The waitress stepped up to our table, and Tracey said, “Cappuccinos all around?”

“Decaf,” I said.

Tracey turned to me as if I’d ordered denture cream. “Decaf? Oh, come on, Kathy, live a little!”

“Okay, regular.”

We all laughed some more. The waitress walked away, not at all impressed with our humor.

“Jill,” Tracey’s expression turned earnest, “I’m glad you bounced back.”

Jill nodded.

“It’s a new day.” Tracey continued her pep talk. I assumed they were talking about the awkward encounter with Mad Dog, but I didn’t know if I should enter the conversation. It felt catty to say that I knew he was going on a blind date. What I
didn’t know was Jill’s connection with Mad Dog or why seeing each other had affected them so intensely.

Our cappuccinos came, and we let Tracey order dessert for us since she kept saying Sophie’s made the best Pavlova in town. Tracey said she was eager to hear my opinion of the dessert, as an unbiased American. I told her I had nothing to compare it to since, as far as I knew, I’d never had Pavlova.

“Have you told her the story behind it?” Tracey asked Jill.

Jill shook her head so Tracey jumped right in. “Supposedly when the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova came to New Zealand, a chef created this airy dessert to keep the dancer light on her feet when she performed. The Australians say they created it, but the Kiwis know it came from one of their chefs first.”

“So what’s in a Pavlova?” I asked.

“It’s made of egg whites,” Jill said. “Sort of a sweet meringue. Sometimes it has fruit on top; other times it’s drizzled with chocolate. I’ve never had one I didn’t like.”

The Pavlova looked like a slice of pie, cut in a triangle shape, covered with raspberries, chocolate sauce, and a fat dollop of whipping cream. The texture was light and airy, and the taste was sweet, but not too sugary sweet.

“Two thumbs up,” I said after the first bite.

Tracey grinned. “We’ll make a Kiwi out of you yet. We did a pretty good job with Jill, don’t you think? Oh, there’s Susanne! Hallo! Do you two know Susanne?”

“No.” We smiled and politely nodded at the young woman who had just entered the restaurant.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to pop over and say hallo. I’ll bring her back around to introduce you.” Tracey slid out of her seat and met Susanne with Tracey’s trademark bright greeting
and cheery hug. Instead of returning to the table, the two of them began a head-tilting, much-nodding sort of conversation.

Jill looked down at her unfinished Pavlova and smoothed her finger over the handle of her cappuccino cup. She let out a long sigh and blinked, as if trying to keep back the tears.

“You okay?”

“Kathy, do you know how Ray died?”

“No.”

“Do you mean Tony still hasn’t said anything to you?”

“No.”

“Or Mad Dog?”

“No. I never asked either of them. Like I told you that night in the hotel in Christchurch, if and when you want to tell me, I want to hear. But you don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. It won’t change my relationship with you one way or the other.”

Jill’s expression was one of gratitude. “Jackamond is such a small studio. I thought for sure someone would have said something to you by now. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up.”

“You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want you to know. I want to be the one to tell you. I’m ready to talk about it now.” Jill lifted her chin, her expression steady. “I was there the day Ray died.”

She took a breath and added, “And so was Mad Dog.”

J
ill adjusted her position
in her chair so she could speak quietly. I leaned closer, knowing this was the final door in her heart to open.

“Ray was a location manager. He would go ahead of the production company and scout out locations for a shoot, but … I’m sorry—you know what a location manager is.”

“That’s okay. Just say whatever you want to say.”

“I got so used to telling the story for the reporters and the lawyers. Let me start again.” She took a tiny sip of her cappuccino to fuel her efforts.

“Ray had scouted a location for a Jackamond coproduction. It was at Oriental Bay, which isn’t far from here. The site was an old warehouse on the wharf. Ray obtained all the clearances to use the warehouse, and it passed the safety inspection, so he went down with a small team to run some test shots. The editing department reviewed the shots and made some recommendations for the lighting.”

Like Jill, I was familiar with the steps taken before the actual shooting. But I was feeling a lurch in my stomach. I knew about the warehouse accident. And not just because of Tony’s job. The trade journals ran articles on it, pointing out the unnecessary risks taken in the increasingly competitive film industry. I didn’t stop Jill to tell her that. I wanted her to have the freedom to say whatever she needed to.

“Ray took me with him that day. We planned to go to lunch after the test shots. Mad Dog met us there, and the three of us went into the building. The structure looked reliable; otherwise, we wouldn’t have gone in. The rest of the crew hadn’t shown up yet.”

Jill swallowed. “The authorities think it might have been the strain from the camera crew and all their equipment in the warehouse a few days earlier, but no one knows exactly why the floor broke through. Ray and Mad Dog fell into the water. I was standing back and lost my balance, but I didn’t fall in.”

She blinked back the tears. “I thought it was going to be like in the movies. They would come bobbing up in the water, laughing like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover.”

The first tear rolled over her cheek. “But when I moved closer to the edge, I could see that it was a mess under the wharf. Cement blocks were sticking up, and sharp boards floated on top of the dark water. Ray surfaced with blood on his forehead. He called out my name, and I yelled back that I was okay.

“Then he called out, ‘Mad Dog,’ and I screamed, ‘Ray don’t go back under!’ But he did. Mad Dog was unconscious, so Ray pushed him up to the surface and tried to get him balanced on one of the protruding blocks of cement. Then Ray just slipped back down under the water. We found out later he had broken
his ankle and several ribs when he fell. One of the broken ribs punctured his right lung and …”

My hand closed around Jill’s wrist. I gave her a comforting squeeze. “You don’t need to say any more.” I knew the story from there. Mad Dog had a broken arm and a concussion. The court case against the studio had become cumbersome because the wharf was part of a historical site, and a former studio employee testified that Mad Dog had a reputation for being reckless.

Reaching into my purse with my free hand, I offered Jill a tissue and kept one for my tears as well.

“You know what?” She dabbed her eyes. “It feels different telling this to you. I’ve told it so many times to so many people who wanted to pick apart the facts. I feel like I don’t have to explain any of it with you. I can just put it out there and let it be what it is.”

All kinds of thoughts raced though my mind as I fumbled to find something comforting to say. But I didn’t let a single syllable slip from my lips. It was not my place to label this experience for Jill; my part in her life was to be her friend. Sometimes true friends say the most when they don’t say anything.

Tracey returned to the table, introduced us to Susanne, and after a few moments of polite conversation, we ended our girls’ night out with Tracey single-handedly carrying the conversation all the way home. Fortunately, this wasn’t a challenge for dear Tracey.

Tony was waiting up. I told him everything.

“I never made the connection that Jill was Ray’s wife,” he said.

Tony told me that Mad Dog never had talked about the accident. Tony hadn’t put the pieces together.

“I’m having a hard time finding a place to put these feelings. I mean, I like Mad Dog, of course. I’m glad he’s still alive. But Ray sounds like he was an amazing man. If God was going to rescue one person from that fall, why did he choose Mad Dog?”

Tony looked stunned.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“You used the word
fall
,” he said.

“Right. They fell through the floor.”

“I know. I’ve heard the story a dozen times. I just never got it. It’s a perfect picture.”

Once again my husband had edited his thoughts so quickly I was lost. “A perfect picture of what?”

“Christ. Why did He rescue any of us after the fall? He gave up His life for us.”

I didn’t like Tony’s edited version of the traumatic events one bit. For hours I lay awake rearranging all the information my brain had been given that night. The only settling thought I could manage was that I, too, had been rescued after the fall. It wasn’t because of anything I had done, but God’s extravagant love had reached down and rescued me, taking me from death to life.

I wanted my life to count for something. I wanted to live out the rest of my days expressing that same extravagant love to others. I didn’t want to be cautious and live out a string of unfulfilled days, pitifully folded up into myself. I wanted full days and a full life.

It occurred to me, as dawn softly brought her warming glow through the curtains, that I had just been given the answer to my math equation. Forty-five years plus extravagant
love would equal the kind of life I wanted to live, no matter how many days or years were left.

By noon I was done with all the pondering. I wanted to be with Jill. I called and asked if she wanted to meet for a latte.

“Would you mind coming to my house instead? I’m not dressed for going out, but you’re welcome to come over.”

All the way to Jill’s I wondered if the events of last night had sent her into a slump. I expected to find her in her pajamas when she opened the door, but instead, she was wearing tattered painting clothes.

“Come see what I’ve done.”

Jill led me to her bedroom and opened the door to show me the half-finished paint job. All her furniture was covered with plastic tarps; she had taped the edging of the baseboards. The color was a rich shade of pumpkin orange.