Page 7 of Nora Goes Off Script

By five o’clockI have a chicken roasting in the oven and a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge. Per our contract, theyhave to be out of here by six or they have to pay me for a third day. All I need to do is say my gracious good-byes and watch them leave. It was fun to play Hollywood for two days, but now I know that two days maxes me out. We need to get back on track, three people operating as a well-oiled machine. I need to start writing something new. Arthur needs to start learning his lines. Bernadette needs to get the stars out of her eyes. Plus, the tires on my lawn are making me twitch.

I relax thinking about the simplicity of writing for TRC. I’ll get back to that tomorrow. I’ll write a low-stakes romance with the happiest possible ending, with dogs and adorable children, chance meetings and homemade desserts. And I’ll do it at no personal cost. This last thing was just some kind of silent scream.

At five-thirty I go outside, as if my “thanks for comings” will remind them all to leave. My kids insist on coming with me. We walk hand in hand to the tea house and see two cameramen carrying lighting equipment away. “All wrapped up,” one of them tells us.

Inside, Weezie is pulling the linens off the daybed. “Hey, guys, we’ll be out of your hair shortly.” She replaces them with my faded sunflower sheets, the ones that were inadequate for Hollywood, and just like that the tea house is mine again. The stone floor is too clean and the fire is raging too aggressively, but it’s close enough.

We all make our way out front and say our good-byes. Naomi stops to give me a hug. “This film really wore me out. But I get it. And I hope other people do too. It’s important what you wrote.” Bernadette just about faints.

I look up at Naomi because for some reason she’s changed into three-inch heels for the drive back to the city. “That feels really good to hear, thank you.”

She changes her voice for my kids, higher and louder. “Bye, cuties!” They say good-bye in their most grown-up voices, in self-defense.

Martin thanks me. He wants to know if he can come back to the tea house for a press event. I say no, and he laughs. We’re on even footing. Weezie’s corralling everyone into their vehicles as Leo steps out of his trailer to give a wave. So freakin’ rude, I think. He’s been trespassing in my house and drinking my booze for two days, you’d think he could walk twenty feet and say good-bye.

Arthur and I give him a wave just as Bernadette is running over to give him a hug. Either the fact of it or the force of it takes Leo by surprise, and he hugs her back. They exchange a few words, and he touches her dimple. He climbs back into the trailer.

“What’d he say?” Arthur asks when she’s made her way back to us.

“He wanted to know if the sun was coming up tomorrow. I told him I think so and that he smells like Uncle Rick now.”

“That’s gin,” I tell her. And we go inside to listen to Hollywood driveaway.

CHAPTER 3

Leo’s missing.” Weezie’s call interrupts me in the middle ofWheel of Fortuneand my glass of wine.

“Missing what?”

“I mean, we can’t find him. Bruno pulled the trailer right in front of his building to drop him off, no small feat he tells me, and it was empty. They didn’t stop for gas or anything on their way. I’m just, well I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Well, he’s not here. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that he’s been kind of off these past few weeks, drinking too much and sort of disconnected unless he’s on camera. I’m worried.”

“Okay, well he’s not in my house. I don’t have enough space that I wouldn’t notice a grown man hiding. Want me to check the tea house? It’s really the only other shelter and it’s raining out here.”

With a sigh and an eye roll, I put on my coat and bootsand make my way out the back door to the tea house. Through the rain I can see that it’s dark. The door is shut, so that it looks like a dead end rather than a beginning. As I get closer and wetter, I start to lose patience with this sad, spoiled man who has the balls to just disappear and make everyone worry.

I throw open the door, maybe too aggressively, and no one’s there. I stare for a few seconds at the empty daybed, the perfect place for him to hide out and get a little extra attention he doesn’t need.

My wine doesn’t taste good anymore when I get back inside. I text Weezie and tell her he’s not here. She reassures us both that if something had happened to him it would already be in the news, which is good. We’re both feeling maternal, I can tell, and we agree to call each other if we have any news. I’m glad to be in the loop, though I don’t know why I even care. It could be because he’s the lead in the movie I wrote, but of course his meeting a tragic end would just increase ticket sales. I try to review his whole persona to see if there’s something about him I like. He’s entitled and rude and never says thank you. I settle on the fact that I like the way he talks to Bernadette. I like the way he notices things. A noticer is a person who can never be entirely self-absorbed, though he’s pretty close.

I lock up and tell my kids to go to bed. They want me to read a chapter ofThe Hunger Games, which is too dark and too old for them, but I agree because I want to feel fierce. They fall asleep on either side of me, and I decide to let them sleep in my bed. I drift off with Katniss on my mind, relishing in having reclaimed my domain.

•••

The sunrise wakesme up if I forget to pull the curtains. This is the primary reason why I never, ever pull my curtains. I creep out of bed so as not to wake my kids and head down to the kitchen to press the button on the coffee maker. The sun is rising, those people are gone, and today I’ll write. I feel Bernadette’s signature giddiness bubbling up in me.

I throw my morning sweater over my nightgown and take my coffee out onto the front porch. It’s glorious. The sky is a brilliant pink. The rain has stopped and everything has a just-washed look to it, like green peppers that have just been misted in the produce section.

“Hi.” I swing around at the sound of this greeting and spill half my coffee. Leo is sitting up on the porch swing, wrapped in his duvet, feet tucked under him.

“People are worried about you.”

“I know. I’ll call. But come sit for a sec before it’s over.”

I’m too stubborn to sit, so I turn back around to enjoy the rest of the sunrise before I’ll have to dismantle this guy. When I face him again, he is giving me a soft smile, a younger unguarded smile of someone who is actually pleased. He says, “Your nightgown is see-through. You have nice legs.”

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