When she left the studio, Julia got a cab. The publishers had offered to have a car at her disposal while she was in New York, but hailing a cab was the most quintessentially Manhattan thing she could do, and she wanted to do it as much as possible before she had to go home to Oklahoma for Cassie's birthday.
"Where to, lady?" the cabbie asked, and Julia loved the sound of it. Ah, New York, she thought. It's good to be back.
"The Ritz," she answered, and the car pulled away from the curb.
According to Lance's agent, the mysterious Wesley Star was a casting agent who held the key to the city of starving actors and, one by one, decided who would get out and who would go home with a bus ticket paid for with Western Union money. Wesley also decided who would keep waiting—the unfortunate few who had just enough talent to remain in permanent limbo.
Finally, Lance thought as he pushed the elevator button, he was going to meet the mysterious Wesley and, he hoped, step a little closer to the gates. But like his career up until that point, he ran up against a brick wall as soon as the elevator doors slid open.
Chaos filled the hallway. Young, athletic action-hero wannabes leaned like bookends beside middle-aged men who looked custom-made to play "Accountant #3." The noise of actors practicing lines pinged off the tight walls and crashed against Lance, nearly pushing him back into the elevator with cries of Hamlet and Tennessee Williams. It was either the offices of Wesley Star or the waiting room at the insane asylum— at that moment, Lance wasn't quite sure which.
"Lance," a familiar voice said. He felt a tug at his arm and turned to see a face he had seen at every audition he'd been on in the last ten months.
"Hey, Tom," Lance said, glancing at the paunchy man, remembering to feel both guilty and grateful that God had granted him naturally straight teeth and a better-than-average metabolism. He looked quickly away, toward the mayhem of the hall. "This is crazy," he said.
"Yeah," Tom said. "Wesley is going into semiretirement, so no one knows how many more open calls the dude's gonna have."
"Open calls?" Lance said, remembering Tammy's emphatic insistence that she'd pulled off some amazing favor on his behalf.
"Well, yeah. I mean, they've requested some people, but Wesley's famous for walking through the hall, seeing a face he likes, and making history." Tom shrugged slightly and turned as the elevator doors opened and another man stepped out, trying to squeeze his way through the crowd. "I'm not gonna miss this," he said. Then, seeing Lance's dazed expression, he explained: "I'm going west in three weeks."
"Yeah?" Lance asked. "Things going that well for you?"
"Well," Tom said, and Lance thought he recognized the tone of a so-so actor who had the sense to know he was also a so-so liar. "Not really. But I've been hopping at the Ritz and the tips are good, so I can afford the move."
"Really?" Lance asked.
"Yeah."
"The Ritz?"
"Welcome back to the Ritz, Ms. James. I trust your accommodations are acceptable?" the manager said as Julia approached the desk. Just the way he stood there, serenely perfect and ready to serve, made Julia consider challenging him to a round of a little game she liked to call Ridiculous Ritz Request. She'd never had the courage to play out loud of course, but secretly, she wondered what would happen if she asked the pristine man behind the mahogany counter to find her something outrageous—maybe a ferret in a fedora. How long it would take for him to round one up? Knowing the Ritz, she guessed he'd be knocking at her door in less than an hour, ferret and hat in hand.
Tempting, Julia thought, but decided to ask for her messages instead.
"Of course, ma'am, a package." He removed a small brown envelope and handed it to her across the counter. "Will there be anything else, ma'am?"
"No." She eyed her mother's handwriting on the address label. "This will be all," she said just as her cell phone started to ring. She turned from the counter and strolled across the immaculate lobby while she dug in her purse for her phone.
"You were on TV," a little voice exclaimed before she'd even said hello.
An immediate smile lit Julia's face. "Was I really?" she teased.
"Mommy and Grammy and Nicky and I all watched you!"
Julia didn't have to strain to imagine her niece's serious expression as she explained the facts exactly as they were. Cassie was a genius, Julia was sure. She was also the perfect child. So pretty. So sweet. In fact, if Julia hadn't been present at her birth, she would have sworn the little girl had been purchased at Pottery Barn.
"Well, how did you like seeing me on TV?" Julia asked.
"It was okay," Cassie said, giving it serious consideration. "But I like you being here better."
"You know what?" Julia asked, homesickness creeping into her gut. "I like being there better, too."
Then Julia heard a scuffle followed by static and finally Caroline's breathless greeting. "Julia?"
"Yes?" Julia said, drawing out the word, waiting for the shoe to drop, certain that her sister wouldn't have taken time from the dishwasher/ironing board/vacuum cleaner trifecta that swallowed her days like the Bermuda Triangle unless there was a favor in her future.
"Well," Caroline's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "As you know, someone has a b-i-r-t-h-d-a-y coming up, and—"