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Patrice had run two miles that morning, though, and she was still feeling the endorphins coursing through her. They were a wonderful mood-enhancing drug. A receptionist wasn’t going to rain on her parade today.
The receptionist took her time putting on a stylish pair of reading glasses and perusing her computer screen. “Ah, yes, you’re to go right up.” She gave Patrice the office number and pointed in the direction of the bank of elevators. “Hurry, you’re going to be late in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Patrice, rolling her eyes when her back was to the woman.
Power trips were so ugly.
A few minutes later, she walked into the reception area of Mark Greenberg’s office and had to face another receptionist. This one was male, African-American and perfectly turned out in a dark blue suit and tie. There was no one else in the office. He rose when he saw her and grinned broadly. “Wow, Ms. Sutton, it’s really you, in the flesh!” His outburst must have been unintentional because he suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry,” he said, chagrined.
Patrice liked him immediately.
She offered him her hand in greeting. He took it and held it in both of his as he smiled at her. “I loved you in Amsterdam Avenue.”
Patrice smiled at the mention of her now-canceled sitcom. She had portrayed—what else—an out-of-work actress, in the well-received situation comedy. The show had been called Amsterdam Avenue because of the prevalence of creative people like actors, dancers and singers living in that part of Manhattan.
“You’re a Kym fan, huh?” she said. “Thanks, I had a lot of fun on that show.”
“I couldn’t wait to see what kind of trouble Kym would get into from week to week,” he said. “Oh, I’ve seen your movies, too.”
“That was you?” Patrice joked. “I hear they sold about two tickets. You must have taken a date with you.”
He laughed uproariously. He laughed so loudly that Mark Greenberg came out of his office to see what all the fuss was about.
“Patrice, you’re here,” he exclaimed upon seeing her. “T.K. and I have been waiting for you.” He laughed shortly when he saw that his assistant still had a grip on Patrice’s hand. “Calvin, if you’ll let go of Ms. Sutton, we’ll get the meeting started.”
Calvin looked embarrassed and abruptly let go of her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton.”
Patrice smiled at him. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Calvin.”
He followed them to the door of Mark’s office. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, bottled water, a muffin? I can go out and get you something if we don’t have it.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” said Patrice as Mark grabbed her by the arm and gently pulled her inside his office, whereupon he firmly, if not rudely, shut the door in Calvin’s face.
“I apologize for that,” he said softly as they walked into his spacious office. “Calvin is usually not as effusive when he meets celebrities. I suppose he’s a really big fan of yours. I should have known something was up when he arrived at work this morning looking like a GQ model. We’re usually more casual around here.”
He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with a pair of expensive athletic shoes—the same sort of clothing he’d been wearing when Patrice had first met him a few weeks ago at her audition. At that meeting, the casting director had been the primary interviewer. Mark had simply observed.
“No need,” Patrice graciously said, discreetly looking around for T.K. “He’s sweet.”
A tall, well-built man in jeans, a polo shirt and athletic shoes stood at the panoramic picture window, his back to them. Mark cleared his throat. “T.K., I’d like you to meet Patrice Sutton.”
T.K. turned around. He and Patrice walked toward one another, meeting in the center of the room. They shook hands. His big hand swallowed hers. His palm was warm and dry and his skin was kind of rough. Strangely, the roughness of his hand impressed her. Usually, actors’ hands were as soft as hers. It wasn’t as if they worked as laborers or ranchers, the job she traditionally associated with “real” men.
“Good to meet you, Patrice,” T.K. said, smiling down at her. He was six-four to her five-seven.
Patrice smiled back at him. Her throat suddenly felt dry. She cleared it. “Good to meet you, too, T.K.,” she softly said. All she was thinking at that moment was Blanca was wrong. Oh, God, I’m holding T. K. McKenna’s hand!
She released his hand. After releasing his hand, she didn’t seem to know what to do with hers. She tugged her shoulder bag closer to her side and looked around for Mark, who had become her safe harbor in a stormy sea. She didn’t know why being in T. K. McKenna’s presence made her nervous. She’d met some of the most successful actors in the business, luminaries who were considered legends, and she had managed to maintain her dignity.
She had known he was magnificent to behold. She had seen practically all of his 30 films. However, the physical impact of seeing him in person magnified his sex appeal tenfold. For one thing, he smelled wonderful. She just wanted to go to him, bury her nose in his muscular chest and stay there awhile. Also, his burnished honey skin was beautiful; that was the only word for it. Usually she preferred men with rich dark-chocolate skin, but even though his wasn’t very dark, it was very appealing. She itched to touch him, rub his bald head.
T.K., who was used to making people nervous, immediately recognized that Patrice was a bit flustered. He casually put a bit of distance between them, going again to stand near the window, talking the whole time. “Mark tells me you ride.”
Mark came and took Patrice by the elbow and directed her to one of the plush leather armchairs in front of his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He went and sat behind his desk. T.K. remained standing. From across the room, his magnetic gaze held hers.
“I grew up on a ranch in New Mexico,” Patrice said, her voice stronger now.
He looked impressed. His brown eyes held an amused glint. “No kidding, a working ranch?”
“Yes, with cattle and horses and everything,” Patrice told him with a shy smile.
He couldn’t help noticing that some of the tension had gone out of her expression. She apparently loved talking about the ranch.
“Your folks still run it?” he asked.
“Suttons have been running it since the late 1800s,” Patrice said proudly.
T.K. went and pulled another of the leather chairs close to hers and sat down. He leaned toward her. “That’s fascinating. Have you read the script yet?” He wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been provided with a script. Sometimes the casting director gave the actor only part of it to read during the audition.
Patrice glanced at Mark. Before she had left after auditioning for the casting director, he had given her the script. At the time, Patrice had thought it odd that one of the producers would discreetly give her a script, but now she understood that Mark had seen something in her that he had liked that day. That’s why he had given it to her.
She smiled at Mark. “Mark gave me a copy. It’s a wonderful story.”
“Did you know it’s loosely based on the life and times of a real black lawman?”
She did. She had researched Frontier Marshal Bass Reeves after reading the script.
“I found a couple of books online about him,” she told him. She smiled at T.K. “You look kind of like him. However, he was only six-two, and he had a handlebar mustache.”
T.K. looked over at Mark and grinned. “She’s done her homework.”
“What made you want to tell the story of Bass Reeves?” she asked both of them.
Mark deferred to T.K. T.K. leaned back in his chair before beginning, thinking he was crowding Patrice and she might get skittish again if he didn’t back off a little. He found himself naturally drawn to the attractive actress. She had the kind of rich brown skin with red undertones that he loved. Her sooty black hair was healthy-looking and shone like a raven’s wing. Her dark, wide-spaced eyes were beautiful. He tried not to look at those full red lips because he kept getting an image of them kissing whenever he did. He didn’t know if the fact that she had grown up on a ranch made him see her as a natural beauty or if it was simply that she appeared so fresh to him. She fairly glowed, and unlike some actresses who knew their effect on males, she appeared quite unaware of her sex appeal. If she were aware, she would be looking him straight in the eyes with a confident expression in her own. She found it difficult looking into his eyes for any length of time, and she was blushing like crazy. He decided that Patrice Sutton was a very sweet, unaffected girl. He hoped she stayed that way.
“It’s a piece of the American West that has been sorely neglected,” he said of wanting to tell Bass Reeves’s story. “We’ve had movies about Wyatt Earp, ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok, but nothing about Reeves, who was just as big a legend as those men. He was good with a gun. He tracked down and arrested countless outlaws and killed fourteen of them in fair gunfights.”
“Where does the character I read for, Bella Donna, come in? Was she a real person, too?”
“I’m afraid not,” T.K. told her. “Not much was writ ten about his relationship with women.”
“The scriptwriter made her up at our request,” Mark told her. “We thought the lawman should have a noble love.”
“So the writer made her a prostitute?” said Patrice incredulously. She couldn’t help it. If Bella Donna was a fictional character, the writer could have made her a schoolteacher.
“Prostitutes were prevalent in those days,” T.K. said unapologetically. “Because women were so scarce in some areas, oftentimes those were the only kind of women a man saw for years. Think of the lack of opportunities women had back then. Bella Donna might be a prostitute, but she’s also loving and extremely tough. She’s a worthy mate for the marshal.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what the NAACP is going to say about your film? It’s wonderful to remind moviegoers of a great man in history, a great black man, but to pair him with a prostitute? Some people are going to be upset about that.”
T.K. smiled. “A film that doesn’t cause controversy doesn’t cause a stir in the minds of moviegoers. It’ll be good for box-office receipts.”
Patrice nodded in agreement. He was a shrewd businessman as well as a fine actor. “All right, I understand your reasoning.”
“Does that mean you want to work with us?” T.K. asked hopefully.
Patrice’s stomach muscles tightened in panic. Was he actually offering her the role of a lifetime? She looked into his eyes. T.K. smiled. “Sounds tempting,” she said, appearing perfectly calm when she was a quivering bowl of jelly inside. “Let me sleep on it and get back to you tomorrow.”
Blanca had instructed her to never accept a first offer. “You don’t want to appear desperate, chica,” was Blanca’s advice.
“Fair enough,” said T.K. He got to his feet. Mark rose, too. Patrice didn’t move for a moment. The shock of being offered the role had rendered her legs momentarily weak.
She took a deep breath and got to her feet. Offering T.K. her hand, she said, “My sister is going to scream in my ear when I tell her I met you. She adores you.”
T.K. took her hand and covered it with his other one. “Tell her it was I who was impressed with her sister.”
Patrice’s heartbeat doubled when he said that even though she knew he was just being nice. She supposed a man like T. K. McKenna had had plenty of practice charming women. Of course, a star of his stature didn’t have to put forth much effort to entice women. They were probably throwing themselves at him on a daily basis.
“She’s family,” Patrice joked. “She’ll never believe it.”
T.K. laughed. Yes, he was well aware of how truly unimpressed family members could be about your success as an actor. To millions of people, you were an idol. But to your family, you were just the boy who slept with a teddy bear until you were nine.
Family knew where all your skeletons were buried. Heck, they’d helped you bury them.
The three of them walked to the door.
“Thanks for coming, Patrice,” Mark said, smiling warmly. “I hope you decide to sign on. We’re not that bad to work with. As one of the producers, you’ll rarely see me on the set, and T.K. is reportedly now a dream to work with since I convinced him to quit doing the Tarzan yell every time he got a scene right. That was very unsettling.”
“It was also bad for the voice,” T.K. said, playing along.
Patrice laughed. “You guys are crazy.” She reached into her bag and retrieved her cell phone.
“Uh-oh,” said Mark. “We’re so boring she’s going to make a phone call right in the middle of a conversation.”
“I’m phoning for a cab,” she explained. “Hopefully it’ll get here not too long after I get downstairs.”
“A cab?” said T.K. “You don’t drive?”
“Of course I drive,” Patrice explained. “However, my car is in Albuquerque.” She told them how her car happened to be in New Mexico while she was in California.
“Since you went to so much trouble to be here today, the least I can do is give you a lift home,” T.K. gallantly offered.
“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t want you to go out of your way,” Patrice said hurriedly. Here she was about to get out of his presence so that her heart rate could return to some semblance of normal, and he was suggesting they spend more time together?
“How do you know it’s out of my way?” T.K. asked reasonably. “I don’t even know where you live.” He peered down at her with a concerned expression.
“Beverly Hills,” Patrice told him. “Well, not in one of the pricier neighborhoods. I live in a nice bungalow south of Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“That’s not out of my way,” T.K. insisted.
“All right, if you’re sure,” Patrice said reluctantly.
They were in the outer office now. Calvin looked expectantly at Patrice. She smiled at him. “Goodbye, Calvin. It was nice meeting you.”
Beaming with pleasure, he quickly crossed the room and shook her hand again. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Sutton. Please come again soon.”
Mark’s hand was on the small of Patrice’s back, ushering her from the outer office and into T.K.’s capable hands. She wondered if Mark was hoping T.K. would use his considerable charm on the ride to Beverly Hills to persuade her to go ahead and sign on with them. She had felt their disappointment when she had told them she needed time to think.
She and T.K. were alone on the elevator ride downstairs. “Where’s your entourage?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.
“I don’t have one,” T.K. said, smiling at her. “Where’s yours?”
“You’re looking at her,” joked Patrice.
He gave her an intimate perusal, his eyes sweeping over her face. It felt like a caress to her, and she blushed. She also lowered her eyes.
T.K. laughed softly. “You’re not still nervous around me, are you?”
She looked up. “Who said I was nervous around you?”
“I can usually tell when I make someone nervous,” said T.K., the smile never leaving his face. “You look very pretty when you blush.”
Patrice started to ask him how he knew she was blushing when, to her knowledge, her cheeks didn’t change color when she felt embarrassed. However, the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and there were several people waiting to get on.
A small commotion ensued when T.K. was recognized, and soon he was being asked to sign his name on everything from a laptop to a woman’s smooth, flat belly. Patrice tried not to laugh. It was amazing how shame flew out the window when T. K. McKenna showed up in a lobby of unsuspecting females. T.K. declined to sign the woman’s belly but complimented her on its tone. “You must work out a lot,” he said kindly.
“Every day,” the woman said, producing a piece of paper from her portfolio for T.K. to sign.
After that, T.K. made his apologies, and taking Patrice by the hand, they hurried from the building.
“You can’t go anywhere without that happening, can you?” Patrice asked as they racewalked across the street to the parking garage where T.K. had left his SUV.
“It’s not so bad,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s not a high price to pay for fame and fortune. After all, they’re the ones who go to see my movies. I owe them a certain amount of consideration. But I know where to draw the line. I don’t let the fame control my actions.”
Patrice smiled up at him. The sunlight made his brown eyes appear honey-colored.
She liked his attitude. It’s how she looked at celebrity, too. She didn’t mind meeting the fans; in fact, she loved it. However, there were times when she fiercely guarded her privacy. For example, when she was being interviewed, reporters were free to try to pick her apart, but her family was a forbidden subject.
T.K. still held her hand as they crossed the street. He liked holding her hand. He didn’t know what that meant at this point except that she was very pleasant to be around. He was completely comfortable in her presence, even if he still made her a little nervous.
At the late-model Range Rover, he unlocked the doors and handed Patrice in. When he was behind the wheel and had relocked the doors, he turned to her and asked, “What are you doing for lunch?”
“Lunch?” asked Patrice, sounding startled by his question.
He laughed softly. “Yes, the meal that comes a few hours after breakfast, which I skipped this morning except for a cup of coffee and a swallow of orange juice. Have you been to The Grill? They make great food, really fresh. Good fish if you’re not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”
“No, I’ve never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere else?”
“Nah, I’m on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his way through traffic. “I didn’t even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”
“I’m free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.
He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”
Patrice relaxed against the car’s seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”
He must have been fond of his parents because his eyes lit up at the mention of them. “Yes, I finally talked them into moving here about five years ago. We’re from Brooklyn.
“My parents have deep roots there. Both were born there. Both were teachers for nearly thirty years. Most of their friends and family still live in Brooklyn.”
“What did you say to convince them to move here?” she asked, very curious. She couldn’t imagine her parents living in Beverly Hills. It would be a worse situation than that old sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies. Her folks were ranchers, through and through.
“I told them that I didn’t care when the desire to go back to Brooklyn hit them. I would make sure they got on the next plane flying in that direction,” he said with a laugh.
“You’re a good son,” Patrice complimented him.
“I try to be,” T.K. said sincerely.
Chapter 3
At The Grill on the Alley, commonly called The Grill, T.K. gave his key to the valet and then helped Patrice out of the car. He enjoyed the sight of her long, shapely legs but was careful not to ogle. Patrice noticed anyway and felt a tingle of excitement.
Inside, they were immediately shown to a secluded table in the back of the packed dining room. T.K. didn’t let the maître d’ have the pleasure of pulling Patrice’s chair out for her. He did it himself and then sat down across from her.
The maître d’ snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “See to Mr. McKenna at once.”
He smiled at T.K. and Patrice in turn. “Please call on me if I can be of any further service.”
When he had gone, T.K. laughed softly. “Every time I see him I’m reminded of the butler in that remake of Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”
“He does look like John Turturro. He’s one of my favorite actors,” Patrice said enthusiastically. “In everything I’ve ever seen him in, he’s done a good job.”
T.K. nodded in agreement. “He’s a fine character actor.” He looked at her intently. “What did you think of the remake?”
“Adam Sandler makes me laugh, and it had some touching moments, but to be honest, I don’t believe any remake can compare with the Frank Capra original. The script’s fabulous, and Gary Cooper is wonderful as Mr. Deeds. Good try to Adam Sandler, though.”
T.K. smiled at her assessment. He liked the original a lot better than the remake, too.
“You like Capra, huh?”
“It’s a Wonderful Life, You Can’t Take it With You, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town are my favorite Capra films,” she told him, her eyes shining with excitement. “The scripts were excellent, and the leads and supporting casts were, too. Plus, I liked the dignity Capra imbued his black characters with. Yes, they were servants, but they were treated with respect and got actual lines to say instead of standing around rolling their eyes and grinning.”
“You have a problem with the way blacks have been portrayed in films?” T.K. was curious. He wanted to know if she had a fire in her belly to see her people portrayed accurately on film, as he had.
The waiter arrived and introduced himself. They promptly ordered and sent him on his way, eager to continue their conversation.
“You were saying,” T.K. prompted Patrice after the waiter had gone.
“What black actor wouldn’t have a problem with the way we’ve been portrayed by some filmmakers?” she asked. “But I’m not going the route of blaming the performers of the past. They had to play the buffoon in order to put food on the table. I respect them because they survived during a very unpleasant time for blacks.”
T.K. smiled at the way she punctuated her words with her hands. Fleetingly, she reminded him of Shiva, the many-armed Hindu goddess. He didn’t know where that thought came from. She stimulated his mind, he supposed.
“What about black filmmakers today?” he asked. “Do you think they’re doing everything they can do to bring accurate depictions of blacks to the silver screen?”
Patrice pursed her lips and squinted at him. “Don’t get me started on that subject. My actor friends say my opinions are unusual to say the least.”
“Go ahead and shock me,” he coaxed. “This goes no farther than this table.”
“All right,” she said, leaning toward him. “I won’t name names because you already know them anyway. But I don’t think a certain director should be throwing stones at another one simply because they make different types of films. So what if the newcomer’s films are sometimes over-the-top and melodramatic? Hollywood has been producing melodramatic films for ages. One of the most beloved films by black folks, Imitation of Life, is extremely melodramatic. But that doesn’t mean we don’t watch it, raptly, whenever it comes on Turner Classic Movies.”
T.K. laughed. “You’re right. The scene where the daughter barely makes it to her mother’s funeral on time and makes a spectacle of herself is a seminal scene. And I believe, to this day, that Juanita Moore should have won the Oscar for her role.”
“She was robbed,” Patrice agreed heartily. “I can’t watch her final scenes without crying.”
“Okay,” T.K. said, “we agree that the way blacks were depicted in the past was largely not their fault. And Tyler Perry is definitely doing something right.”
“We said no names,” Patrice reminded him, pretending to be scandalized that he would name one of the parties they were discussing.
“No harm in acknowledging someone who’s making a difference for black actors in the industry. Critics might not get him, but I assure you out-of-work actors love him.”
“T.K.!” exclaimed a booming male voice as a tall, slender black man approached their table. Patrice peered up—and up—at Los Angeles Lakers forward Farrell Faison. Farrell was six-seven. T.K. stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, Farrell, how are you, man?”