The Rom-Commers(72)

I showed up at the writing table and couldn’t decide if Charlie had put product in his hair—or if it was just wet. If he was wearing aftershave—or if that was just his deodorant. If he was glancing my way more than usual—or just the regular amount.

One thing was for sure: There was a bouquet of peonies on the table.

“Nice flowers,” I said, sitting down.

Charlie looked over, like he hadn’t noticed them. “Yeah.”

“Were they there yesterday?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Any idea how they got there?”

Charlie nodded. “We were out of coffee this morning, so I had to hit the store.”

“Peonies are my favorite flower.”

Charlie looked up at that. “Are they? I wondered.”

“You wondered?”

“Yeah. Because you always look at them longingly when we’re at the market, but then you never buy them.”

I wrinkled my nose. “They’re like nine dollars a stem.”

“So you want to buy them, but they’re too expensive?”

“They’re just not the kind of flowers you buy for yourself.”

Charlie was quiet a second, and I realized he was suppressing a smile. “I’m glad I bought them for you, then.”



* * *



WE WORKED ALL day, and I can’t vouch for Charlie, but I had a buzzy feeling of anticipation the whole time. The kiss yesterday, the peonies, the way he kept glancing at me over his laptop screen—these things fluttered around my consciousness like butterflies of hope.

All signs pointed to not research.

It’s a wonder I could concentrate at all.

But then, in the late afternoon, Charlie got a phone call.

His phone started ringing, and he looked down at it for a second before he answered.

“This is Charlie,” Charlie said.

And then, I swear, he’d been listening only a few seconds when, in response to whatever he was hearing, he launched into a massive, hacking coughing fit—almost like a reverse spit take.

He had to set the phone down—that’s how all-encompassing it was.

“Sorry,” Charlie said, when he’d calmed down enough to bring the phone back to his ear. “Could you repeat that?”

Then he listened for a good minute—and as he did, his face went grayer and grayer, and I found myself at full attention, trying to figure out what the caller was saying. But nothing on Charlie’s end gave me any solid clues. “Yes, I did,” Charlie said, standing up now and starting to pace. “It was just for—” he started, and then followed that with “That’s right.” Then his whole body seemed to sink before he said, “You’re kidding me, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.” And then he made his way toward the French doors and—there’s no other way to describe it—hurled himself out to the yard.

I didn’t dare follow—just watched from inside.

I was engulfed in curiosity about what was going on, but he’d gone to the far side of the pool to pace, so I couldn’t hear anything. All I could do was watch his body language and try to read his lips.

Neither of which yielded results.

Was he arguing with someone? Trying to talk someone out of something? Working very hard to stay calm—but not succeeding?

More important: What was it all about? Was it the exec’s mistress saying she no longer wanted the screenplay? Was it the producer himself saying the Mafia thing was off? Was it Charlie’s ex-wife? His accountant? Some relative with bad family news?

I’d never seen Charlie act remotely like this.

The more he paced and argued, the more he coughed—as his breaths caught on each other and tripped over themselves. When the phone call finally ended, and he dropped his arm and let the phone fall away from his ear, he stood there, churning in the aftermath … and then he took his top-of-the-line phone and fully pelted it across the yard.

Then he paced the side of the pool again, grabbing his hair and letting it go, turning one way and then turning back, not seeming to see anything around him.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

And just as I’d made up my mind to go outside and ask if he was okay, Charlie came crashing back into the house, plowed straight over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself the biggest glass of whiskey I’d ever seen, and downed the whole thing.

“Charlie?” I said. “Are you okay?”

What a question. He was not.

Charlie turned at the sound of my voice, like he’d forgotten I even existed, and then came straight at me so fast I took a few steps backward, before he grabbed hold of me in a suffocating hug—and held on and didn’t let go for a long time, pulling in big breaths and pushing them out—that felt more like he was clinging to me for dear life than anything else.

And that’s when I suddenly wondered: Was he sick again?

Before I could ask, he’d gone back for another drink.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” I asked then, from across the room. “Is it— Are you sick? Is that what it is?”

This question really pissed him off. “I told you,” Charlie growled. “It’s just allergies.”

“No,” I said. “I mean sick sick.”