Cheating at Solitaire - Page 29/30

"Oh, Abby." Julia gathered herself. "That's great. I don't know how to thank you."

"I told you," Abby joked. "Sell lots of books!"

"Okay." Julia laughed. "I'll get right on that."

She hung up the phone, checked the board behind the airline counter, and saw that her layover had been extended by two hours. Great, Julia thought. I'm behind before I even get started.

She reached for her notebook, knowing that she needed to write, especially if she wanted to truly impress Abby and have an early draft when she came back through New York. But Julia didn't feel like writing. For the first time in her career, she had writer's block. She'd told herself that once she started traveling, the inspiration would flow, but so far all she'd felt had been jet lag and turbulence. Inspiration was like lost luggage, and she traveled on, hoping it would turn up somewhere along the way.

She fumbled in her purse for a pen, but found her deck of cards instead, and couldn't resist laying out a hand of solitaire. The cards fell beautifully into place, so she Hew through them, her hands moving without the benefit of her mind, her entire existence on cruise control. Then, as soon as the easy moves < disappeared, she heard the words that had been echoing in her head for weeks: Keep on playing solitaire. . . . Keep on laying out those cards, and then ask yourself when you're Ro-Ro's age if it would have been so awful to put that painting someplace.

She shook her head, looked away from the cards, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she caught sight of Lance Collins.

Chapter Twenty Seven

WAY #96: Let go of your baggage.

Life is going to be very long and difficult if you insisting items that are better left behind. No matter if it is a nasty breakup or bad job interview, or anything in between, don't let those things drag you down.

—from 101 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire

Julia thought for a second that her mind was playing tricks on her. But no, there they were. In the lower-right-hand corner of the magazine, staring her in the face, were large, bold letters that read: LANCE COLLINS—NOT JUST A PASSING FAD!

"Ma'am," Julia said as she moved and sat next to the older woman across the aisle.

"Yes, dear?" the woman said in a beautiful Irish lilt. "May I. . . ?" Julia gestured to the magazine, completely unable to finish her sentence, certainly incapable of walking twenty feet to a newsstand to buy her own copy.

"Why, certainly, dear," the woman said, and handed the

magazine to Julia, who felt her breath catch as she looked down at the black-and-white photo on the cover.

She ripped through the pages until she saw his face again. She looked at the smile that he used to give to her and realized that he was now giving it to America. A pang of jealousy ripped through her, and she began to read.

LANCE COLLINS: NOT JUST A PASSING FAD

In an all-night bakery in TriBeCa, Lance Collins looks like a lot of other men. Look closer. You might notice his smile first; most people do. Or maybe his gray eyes and dark brown hair. Maybe his large hands and firm grip as he stands and welcomes you to the table. You think you've seen him before, but you just can't put your finger on where. Well, don't worry. In seven months, when the first of his three new blockbuster films hits theaters, his will be a face you won't be able to forget. For now, you remember the pictures of him with a certain self-help diva who shall remain nameless, and you think, again, that he reminds you of someone you maybe had a crush on once. Guess what? You're probably right.

When I met Hollywood's latest "It" boy, a few blocks from where he's just begun shooting a new movie, I had to do a double take myself.

FAD: Thanks for making the time to meet with me. Our readers are dying to learn more about you.

LC: Oh, thanks. It's really no trouble. Glad to do it.

FAD: So, I'm just going to lay this out there. What is your relationship with Julia James?

LC: (laughs) She's a friend. A wonderful person. I wish her all the best.

FAD: Is it true that your relationship was fabricated to boost her sales and launch your career?

LC: That would be kind of hard, considering we never had a relationship and neither one of us ever claimed to. Look, people can believe what they want, what they read, if they're gullible enough. But there's no way a guy like me deserves a woman like that.

FAD: Our female readers will find that hard to believe.

LC: Don't worry, your male readers will know exactly what I'm talking about.

FAD: You're working with A-list people on an A-list project now. How does that feel?

LC: I'm eating better than I have in years, and I'm not tending bar anymore, (smiles) But all joking aside, it feels great. This is what I do. I act. It's great to be acting, period. If you get to do it with the best in the business, all the better.

FAD: What about fame?

LC: (sips his coffee) What about it?

FAD: You saw it growing up with your dad. Academy Award Winner Robert Wells, but you're not using his last name now. Your former agent released that fact to the press, that you come from acting royalty and yet have chosen to use Collins, your mother's maiden name. Why?

LC: (he smirks—ladies, watch out for that) I changed my name. My dad is pretty famous. Okay, We look a lot alike, but we're not cloneThe nepotism in life, in any career, especially good show or bad. I wanted to make it, but I wanted to own merit. That's why the Julia thing never ( ? ) .Why would I do that to her, put her through  that, My Iast was a famous name? I had that to begin with.

FAD: You're just friends?

LC: (takes a slow drink of coffee) Yeah.

( ? ) Lance Collins might have had two stble at <«m« th# «»»t way and turned them down, but as the sun ri««t ant M»«> tan, I look at the eyes and smile he inherited from his father and I realize that like it or not, when AmufnJ y> close look at Lance Collins, fame is probably ■ i i

Unlike the barrage of reality-show sti , ,i . generation wannabes, this "It" boy is de-.tn . i.« % ,■<, but just another fad. ( ? )

Julia dropped the magazine. The woman looked at her then at Lance's picture on the cover. "He's handsome, UH dear?" the woman asked.

"I know him," Julia mumbled.

"Oh, do you now? Tell me." The woman Irritate assuming ( ? ) the posture of a confidant. "How well you know him?"

"I love him," Julia said, surprising easy.

The woman took in a sharp breath. "What a handsome pair you must make." But Julia was crying.

"Oh." The woman leaned closer. "What have I said?"

"Nothing," Julia said. "Nothing." She clutched the magazine and started to leave. Then, remembering, she turned to the woman and asked, "May I have this?"

"Well, yes, dear. Of course."

"Thank you," Julia said. She was already running, dodging the commuters in their business suits and the vacationers wearing Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts and Yankees caps. Her jacket flapped behind her. Her carry-on bag banged against her side, but she didn't care. She just kept running.

The cab turned from Canal Street onto West Broadway. She didn't know where the movie set was, somewhere in TriBeCa. She didn't know if he'd want to see her, probably not. She didn't even know if she had time to see him and make it back to the airport to catch her plane. The craziest thing of all was that she didn't care.

"Lady, I don't know where we're going," the driver said again.

"They're filming a movie down here somewhere," she told him once more. "Just circle around." "But, lady, that could be . . ."

She slammed a fifty-dollar bill against the partition and said, "I have a lot of money, and I'm willing to use it to find that set!"

The driver raised his eyebrows and his voice. "Okay," he said. "Your nickel."

They made another turn onto a smaller street, and Julia saw barricades up ahead and a throng  people standing as if they were waiting for something or someone. A cop was directing traffic, trying to make the cab turn around. The driver rolled down his window to speak to the uniformed officer.

"Gotta turn around, folks," the officer said.

"What's going on?" Julia asked from the backseat.

"Street's blocked off shooting a movie."

And with that, Julia tossed money toward the driver and was out the door. She ran the half block between the cab and the crowd. She clutched the magazine, remembering its words: his famous father's name, fame the easy way. Fame that had nothing to do with her.

She gripped the magazine and ran harder, pushing through the crowd of onlookers and tans, celebrity junkies, and starving hopefuls. She hoped no one would recognize her as she pushed on through the belly-hartiig ( ? ), tattoo-boasting, cappuccino-drinking masses until she reached a very large man in a very small T-shirt who was manning the gap in the barricades.

"I need to see Lance Collins," she said, gasping for breath.

"Yeah, lady. You and every other warm blooded female in the country." Seeing the issue of Fad in her hands, he added, "I love it when the pretty boys are on magazine covers during filming. It makes my life so fun."

"But, I know him," Julia said. "I'm"—she lowered her voice—"Julia James."

He looked through a list of names on a clipboard. "Sorry," he said.

"But I'm—"

"Look, lady, I don't care if you're Cleopatra, you don't get in unless you're on the list." "But I'm a friend of his."

"Then you have his contact info and you don't need to go through me." "No! I—"

"You're leaving." He nudged her slightly back into the throng of women—younger, thinner, more worldly women who would probably never make Lance break-and-enter.

Julia racked her brain. What would Nina do? Or Ro-Ro and the Georgias? Or, Julia asked herself, Veronica?

She heard a voice behind her. "Hey, Julia?"

She whirled, praying it would be Lance. It wasn't.

The man was pushing toward her and, although Julia remembered him clearly—it's hard to forget the face of a man who shows up outside a police station with your luggage, airplane tickets, and a running cab—his name was a mystery. She mentally snapped her fingers, trying to remember. She knew he was a member of "New York's thespian underground," but other than that, she was drawing a total blank, so she offered a nice, generic, "Hi!"

"It really is you," he said. Then he pointed to the barriers. "Why haven't you gone in?"

"My name isn't on the list."

"Oh, the list." He gave her a wave. "Come on."

The man guarding the barricades waved at her companion when they approached and said, "Hey, Tom."

Tom!

Then barricade man noticed Julia and asked, "Is she cool?"

Great! I'm at the crossroads of my life, and safe passage depends on being classified as "cool"?

Tom nodded and said, "You don't recognize her?" Then he added, "She's cool."

I am? Julia wondered, but before she knew it, they were inside.

"This is a big set—lots of stars—so security is key," Tom explained as they walked down the closed portion of the street, past trailers and vans and miles and miles of cables. Julia looked around and realized what a far cry that life was from her little farm. She saw millions of dollars' worth of equipment and dozens of hurrying people, and she wondered how long a man like Lance Collins could possibly stay satisfied living in a broken-down house in Oklahoma. She looked at Tom and asked, "He's doing well, then?"