“Go ahead and say what’s on your mind,” he challenged.
“You paid back the money you stole from orphans and widows and kids with cancer. You think going to prison erases all that. But what about what you stole from me, and Mom? You destroyed our family, and you have never once acknowledged, let alone apologized, for that. The stink from what you did settled on me, and on her.”
“You haven’t done so badly,” Woody protested. “You got to stay in that expensive private school. I saw to it that you had money for what you needed. And now, when you come to me because you need money, do I turn you away?”
She got up and looked out the window, toward the river, and changed the subject. “What are you afraid of, Dad? Why all the security cameras and locked gates? Why all the secrecy?”
“There are people out there who don’t like the fact that I’m out of prison, and I’m making money again. I got to watch out for myself.”
He began clearing the lunch dishes. “You want something else to eat? Some cookies?”
“No, thanks. I better get back to town.”
He pulled out a binder of checks and placed it on the table, scratching numbers on the paper so furiously the pen pierced the check in a couple of places. He ripped it from the book and held it out to her.
“So that’s it, huh? You show up here, ask me for a loan, get your check, and then leave?”
Hattie didn’t flinch. “What did you expect? A teary-eyed family reunion? You want to hold me up with emotional blackmail? That’s not gonna work on me anymore, Dad. I finally figured it out. Everything is a transaction to you. Okay, fine. I don’t need your love, or your approval, or even your respect anymore. But I’ll take a loan. And I’ll pay you back. Because, just like you taught me, I know now that a clean balance sheet is the key to happiness.”
She took the check, folded it, and put it in her pocket. She opened the back door and whistled for Ribsy. “Come on, boy. Time to go home.”
12
Mo’s Wakeup Call
Mo awoke suddenly, jerked upright into a state of semiconsciousness by the persistent dinging from his phone. He’d fallen asleep at the dining room table, facedown on the budget spreadsheets he’d spent the evening composing and revising. A still-damp puddle of drool had blurred the ink on the printouts.
He found his phone, buried under a greasy takeout pizza box. “Christ,” he mumbled. It was 2:15 A.M. There were four recent text messages, all from Rebecca.
Trae’s agent has been putting me through the wringer, but I think he’s on board. Call me as soon as you get this.
“Trae?” Oh. Right. The designer-slash-catalog model Rebecca had recruited for his show. His show.
Mo was too tired to trudge up the stairs to bed. He picked up the phone and collapsed onto the sofa. Two more texts from Becca had landed in the five minutes since he’d taken a piss, washed his hands, and kicked off his shoes.
What are you hearing about the house? When can I see it?
He held the phone an inch away from his face, talking to himself as much as Rebecca. “I don’t know. It hasn’t even been a day. Jesus, gimme a break.”
Tony doesn’t like the girl’s hair. He thinks it looks mousy. I agree. Can she go lighter? Darker? Extensions?
“Her name is Hattie. Hattie Kavanaugh,” Mo said. Anyway, there was nothing wrong with Hattie’s hair. It looked fine to him. More than fine. Thick and shiny, falling softly around her face.
How’s the crew shaping up? Who is your showrunner?
He yawned and closed his eyes again. Most of his regular L.A. crew had already been hired away by other production companies, but since so much film and television work was being done in Georgia these days, he’d managed to lock down what he thought was a pretty credible crew of locals. The showrunner was another matter.
Taleetha Carr, his showrunner for Killer Garages, would be a natural for Homewreckers. She was smart, funny, hardworking, knew reality shows inside out and upside down. Everyone loved Taleetha. Everyone except Rebecca, who had taken an instant dislike to her.
“Don’t you worry ’bout it, baby,” Taleetha told Mo, patting his cheek, after the first time she’d locked horns with Rebecca in a postproduction meeting. “It’s not like I’m guacamole. Not everyone’s gonna love me.”
Taleetha had been his first phone call after he’d gotten the green light for what he was still stubbornly, insanely, calling Saving Savannah.
“Momo!” she’d exclaimed, picking up on the first ring. “What up?”