A Week at the Lake by Wendy Wax

wouldn’t.”
    â€œI promise you your mother wouldn’t see it that way. Any one of us could be mowed down by a van on any given day.” Mackenzie smiled softly. “As soon as she can speak, I’m betting she’ll be the first person to tell you that.”
    Zoe’s tears hadn’t stopped, but they did slow.
    Tears prickled at the back of Serena’s eyelids. She felt like she might cry a damned deluge at the moment if she wasn’t careful. She ordered them to cease and desist as she looked Zoe in the eye and said, “I agree with Mackenzie. First your mother will reassure you that this was not your fault. Then she’ll undoubtedly give you a ton of shit for what sounds like some serious overacting.”

Five

    I t was well after noon, when Mackenzie thought she might hyperventilate if she didn’t breathe some real air, that she took the elevator downstairs, practically sprinted through the lobby, and emerged onto the sidewalk, where a crowd of reporters and photographers jostled each other, Emma’s name on their lips. She sidestepped the lot of them, relieved when no one noticed her. It wasn’t the first time she was grateful not to be famous.
    She left the crowd behind and breathed in great gulps of New York, including the gas fumes from the vehicles that clogged the surrounding streets, the scent of roasting meat from a gyro cart on the corner along with the scents of warm bread wafting from a nearby bakery. The faint scents of summer floated on the breeze from the flower stand across the street. Even the garbage smells seemed preferable to the medicinal, hermetically sealed air of the hospital. The horn honks, shouts, and tumult of the city were a reassuring antidote to the mechanical sound effects and hushed voices of the people inside.
    Turning her face up into the midday sun, she headed south on Madison then cut west on Ninety-seventh toward Central Park. Stretching her legs, squaring her shoulders, drawing in deep lung-filling breaths, she speed-dialed Adam and lifted her cell phone to her ear. There’d been no answer when she’d tried him last night. No call back yet this morning. She was preparing to leave a voice mail, when he finally answered. The murmur of voices and the subtle clatter of cutlery sounded in the background.
    â€œYou’re up and out early,” she said by way of greeting. She drew a deep breath, needing to tell him what had happened.
    â€œI just happen to be taking a meeting with Michael Gold at the Polo Lounge.” For a moment Mackenzie thought her own panic over Emma had caused her to misunderstand. Michael Gold was at the top of the food chain at Universal Studios. The Polo Lounge was, of course, even more iconic than the production head Adam was breakfasting with. “We’re in booth one,” he added. “The booth that was always kept open for Charlie Chaplin.” He paused to let this sink in. “There was a text waiting yesterday when I landed at LAX asking if I could make it.”
    Her mind cleared, processed what Adam was saying. “Oh, my gosh. That’s wonderful.” Even being seen at the same table with Michael Gold could be a serious game changer. “I just needed to . . . we can talk later if you’re tied up.”
    â€œIt’s all right. Michael had to leave to take a call—some emergency on location in India.” She heard the relish with which he pronounced the production titan’s first name, his delight in now being entitled to use it. “But I’ll have to go when he comes back.”
    â€œRight.” She could picture her husband’s face lit by his even, white-toothed smile and engraved by the dimple. She had no doubt he was drawing all kinds of attention in his Hollywood-go-to-meeting clothes, much of it female.
    â€œIt’ll take a lot more acting talent than I’ve got to appear only mildly interested in whatever he has to