Page 18 of Places in Time
“Okay.”
Jude slowly came to a stop and I opened my door.
“Let’s not go to that place where they refuse to write anything down, okay?” I said, answering his earlier question. “Nothing bugs me more than out of work actors who can’t memorize a sandwich order but think they should get cast in a film.”
“You just named half the restaurants in LA.” Jude laughed and tilted his head toward my open door. “We’re causing a jam. Get out and I’ll circle the block.”
With a dip of my chin, I jumped out of the car, and then I kept my head down and hurried into the yoga studio.
“Namaste.” The woman at the counter pressed her palms together and bowed her head.
“Yeah, uh, same to you. I’m looking for Maria Baker.”
“Ethan.” I flipped around to see my father walking up. “Mom’s almost done.” He clapped his hand on my back. “You look good.” He stared at my face for a few moments. “Really good.” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Happy.” Suddenly, his eyes widened and he leaned closer and excitedly whispered, “Did you get the nomination?”
I shook my head. “They’re announcing tomorrow morning.”
“I thought maybe someone tipped you off early.” He sounded disappointed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get it.”
“Thanks.” I flicked my gaze around the room—wood floors, gauzy curtains, and cheesy inspirational sayings painted on the walls. “You’re not doing this yoga thing too, are you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m just here to support your mother.” He leaned close again. “And enjoy the scenery.” He arched his eyebrows meaningfully. “Have you seen what your mother wears to these things? It makes me want to—”
“Dad!” I held my hand out in a stop motion. “Keep what happens between you, Mom, and her Lululemon outfits to yourself.”
He didn’t have time to respond before we heard my mother’s voice.
“Ethan, honey!”
I instinctively opened my arms.
My mother quickened her pace and stepped into my embrace. “I’m glad you could make time to see us.” She kissed my cheek.
“Me too. I—” From the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman whose gait I recognized. I stopped midsentence and squinted, trying to place her. Average height, thin build, black hair, fair skin, freckles. I jerked.
“Ethan?” my mother said.
I tried to respond but I was too busy staring at Ginger, who was no longer a ginger. She was talking to a woman who was frantically waving her arms. Apparently, the soothing qualities of yoga hadn’t taken effect on her.
“Who’s that?” I asked my mother quietly, flicking my gaze in their direction.
My mom followed my gaze and said, “That’s my Yogini, Moonbeam Horowitz.”
I started laughing, sure she was kidding with that name and title, but my father gave me a warning look and my mother glared, so I turned the laugh into a cough. How that wasn’t a joke, I’d never know.
“She, uh, looks familiar,” I said under my breath.
“Moonbeam is very well known,” my mom said proudly. “Her DVDs are even sold on the Home Shopping Network.”
I laughed again. My father flinched again. And my mother glared again. Still not a joke then. I cleared my throat and shut up.
I didn’t see how that was possible because I didn’t watch the home shopping channel. But maybe I’d seen her picture in an ad or on a commercial and it had lodged in my brain and then come out during my break from reality the night before, so I said, “That must be it.”
I continued staring at not-ginger-Ginger, who was, at that point trying to extricate herself from the conversation with Stressed Yoga Lady. Trying and failing.
“But, Moonbeam, I don’t know what to do,” the woman whined.
“It’s not a matter of doing, it’s a matter of feeling, dear.”
