In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [91]
She grinned, thinking of Mel’s mom, and of the fact that Mel did not recognize that she was exactly like her mother. Harebrained, yet solid as a rock in her beliefs and in her friendships. Intelligent. Devoted. And southern.
Harriet’s third task of the day was an audition at noon in West Hollywood, which was a hell of a trek from the Marina and could cost her some real work time. She didn’t know why she bothered. She hadn’t nailed an acting job in two years, not even a commercial. Not even one where they covered you in a clown suit so nobody knew who you were and disguised your voice as a squawk so nobody even knew that you could act. Perhaps it really was time she Moved On; acknowledged that house moving was what she did, and forget she was ever an aspiring actress. She thought that whoever invented that word aspiring was a genius—“aspiring” covered almost the entire population of Hollywood. And she would bet on that.
She sighed as she contemplated her future. No man on the horizon, or at least none that she cared for sufficiently to place in the “permanent” category. Anyhow, come to think of it, she kind of liked her life. She and Mel had a good thing going, though of course if Mel married Ed, she would become a rich man’s wife and probably live in New York and leave her with the Moving On business. Shoot. She wasn’t sure she could cope alone.
Of course you can, you idiot, she told herself, impatiently flipping back her red hair. What the hell are you doing now, if not coping and running the business alone? Besides, what if Ed dies?
Her heart sank at that thought. Mel would be devastated. Defeated. Bereft. And so would Riley, who had come to think of Ed as part of her family. Of course, Riley knew nothing about Ed’s wealth and his business, only that he was a nice man who made her laugh and who, even she could see, loved her mom.
Harriet groaned as the freeway ground to a halt. Par for the course, this happened every day on the 405. Shoot, now she would be the late one. She sank back with a sigh, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. Nothing was moving and the idiot behind her was honking as though she could just shift over and let him zoom ahead. Road rage, she thought angrily. The fool. The left lane inched forward, then began to move. She groaned; just her luck, she was in the wrong lane again.
Gus Aramanov bulled his white Merc into the left lane, ignoring the honking horns and squealing of brakes in back of him. He scowled as he slid slowly forward. It would take him forever to get to Marina del Rey, but at least this lane was moving. He accelerated to pass the large silver truck on his right, glanced at it—and saw MOVING ON inscribed in lipstick-red script on the side.
Gus almost rear-ended the car in front. He stamped on the brakes, ignoring the blasting horns, slowing down until the truck came alongside again. He stared up into the cab to see if she was driving, but it was a skinny red-haired woman who gave him a drop-dead look as she caught his eye. He fell back, let her get ahead of him. As he thought, the phone number was on the back of the truck. He memorized it. It was a 310 area code. The woman was right here in LA. She had been here all the time.
He was grinning as he followed the truck down the Marina exit. He was suddenly a man with one of the weights off his shoulders.
He watched as the Moving On truck edged into a parking spot immediately in front of an apartment building. The red-haired woman got out, opened up the back of the truck, then hurried into the building.
He parked opposite, then took out his Ericcson and dialed the Moving On number. A computer voice informed him that no one was there and suggested he leave a message: press 1 for Mel Merrydew and 2 for Harriet Simons, it said. They would be sure to get right back to him and wished him a great day.
Cute, he thought, hanging up. Mel Merrydew and Harriet