landing from every conceivable angle, and it was being rehashed and analyzed like a key play at the Super Bowl. She'd seen this footage a hundred times since last night and couldn't imagine what Anna had gone through. She'd tried to call Anna at around noon, but her father had said she was asleep. Sam couldn't blame her. Though from a strictly budding director/storytelling point of view, she was dying to find out what it had been like.
“Sam!”
She started slightly at the sound of her father's deep, resonant voice and turned around to be greeted by a rare sight: her father and mother together, striding across the pink hotel lobby toward her. They'd seen each other at graduation, of course. But Sam couldn't remember the last time they'd actually spent any time together, let alone sat down for a drink and a civil meal. That they were doing so now, simply because Sam had asked and said it was important, filled her with a kind of light, bubbly feeling. She didn't trust this feeling. Experience had taught her not to trust in such things a long time ago. But still, for the moment,
in
the moment, it felt good.
Dina was as Sam remembered from June. Her dark brown hair, streaked with gray, was still frizzy, her clothes—a simple, loose-fitting black pantsuit—three years out of date, and her simple black fabric shoes built for comfort. She was incongruous next to the buff, charismatic Jackson. His presence pretty much commanded the attention of everyone—even seasoned Beverly Hills matrons—in the lounge. He had the kind of chiseled jaw that seemed to exist only on movie stars, and boyishly cut sandy hair that hung fashionably shaggy over his eyes. Today, he wore black Armani jeans and a baby blue silk shirt; black-and-white rattlesnake cowboy boots added a good two inches to his natural height of six feet. He was a man whom age had treated well. The few lines on his face were all character and charm, especially the crinkling around his sparkling cerulean blue eyes.
As they moved toward her, and she toward them, Sam could see several guests stop their conversations to watch. A ponytailed girl, no doubt a tourist, lifted her Nokia to take Jackson's picture, then shrieked to her friend, “Oh my God!” Sam figured this photo, or a similar one, would probably end up in some gossip rag with a headline that read, JACKSON SHARPE AND EX-WIFE #1 MEET FOR SECRET TRYST , or some such bullshit. Well, hell. That was the price you paid for getting twenty mil a movie.
“Hi, Mom.” Sam hugged her mother. It felt forced. It
was
forced. Sam considered changing her maternal greeting to “Dina.” That would be better. And more honest.
“Hey, pass it around,” her father teased, and held his arms out for her. She hugged him, too. Wow. They were just such a hap-hap-happy family. Except that she hardly ever saw her father. And her mother had abandoned her long ago. But, you know, other than that …
“I think Eduardo must already be with his parents. They're in the Paul Williams bungalow out back,” Sam declared. “So let's go.”
She took a tentative step in the direction of the glass doors that led to the bungalows. But Jackson and Dina weren't moving.
“Just a sec, sweetie,” her father began. “Your mother and I have been talking about this whole marriage thing. …” He shifted his weight to one leg and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans.
“And we wanted to talk about it with you,” her mother chimed in, nervously patting her semi-frizzed blond hair.
Okay, this was surreal. Sam had anticipated the “you're too young to get married” rap. But that her mismatched parents were standing there as a parental unit, out of concern for the daughter they had not exactly nurtured together? It was beyond bizarre.
The truth was, Sam had given the “you're too young” speech to herself many times since Eduardo had proposed a few weeks ago on the Santa Monica Promenade, and had given it to herself a few
“Sam!”
She started slightly at the sound of her father's deep, resonant voice and turned around to be greeted by a rare sight: her father and mother together, striding across the pink hotel lobby toward her. They'd seen each other at graduation, of course. But Sam couldn't remember the last time they'd actually spent any time together, let alone sat down for a drink and a civil meal. That they were doing so now, simply because Sam had asked and said it was important, filled her with a kind of light, bubbly feeling. She didn't trust this feeling. Experience had taught her not to trust in such things a long time ago. But still, for the moment,
in
the moment, it felt good.
Dina was as Sam remembered from June. Her dark brown hair, streaked with gray, was still frizzy, her clothes—a simple, loose-fitting black pantsuit—three years out of date, and her simple black fabric shoes built for comfort. She was incongruous next to the buff, charismatic Jackson. His presence pretty much commanded the attention of everyone—even seasoned Beverly Hills matrons—in the lounge. He had the kind of chiseled jaw that seemed to exist only on movie stars, and boyishly cut sandy hair that hung fashionably shaggy over his eyes. Today, he wore black Armani jeans and a baby blue silk shirt; black-and-white rattlesnake cowboy boots added a good two inches to his natural height of six feet. He was a man whom age had treated well. The few lines on his face were all character and charm, especially the crinkling around his sparkling cerulean blue eyes.
As they moved toward her, and she toward them, Sam could see several guests stop their conversations to watch. A ponytailed girl, no doubt a tourist, lifted her Nokia to take Jackson's picture, then shrieked to her friend, “Oh my God!” Sam figured this photo, or a similar one, would probably end up in some gossip rag with a headline that read, JACKSON SHARPE AND EX-WIFE #1 MEET FOR SECRET TRYST , or some such bullshit. Well, hell. That was the price you paid for getting twenty mil a movie.
“Hi, Mom.” Sam hugged her mother. It felt forced. It
was
forced. Sam considered changing her maternal greeting to “Dina.” That would be better. And more honest.
“Hey, pass it around,” her father teased, and held his arms out for her. She hugged him, too. Wow. They were just such a hap-hap-happy family. Except that she hardly ever saw her father. And her mother had abandoned her long ago. But, you know, other than that …
“I think Eduardo must already be with his parents. They're in the Paul Williams bungalow out back,” Sam declared. “So let's go.”
She took a tentative step in the direction of the glass doors that led to the bungalows. But Jackson and Dina weren't moving.
“Just a sec, sweetie,” her father began. “Your mother and I have been talking about this whole marriage thing. …” He shifted his weight to one leg and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans.
“And we wanted to talk about it with you,” her mother chimed in, nervously patting her semi-frizzed blond hair.
Okay, this was surreal. Sam had anticipated the “you're too young to get married” rap. But that her mismatched parents were standing there as a parental unit, out of concern for the daughter they had not exactly nurtured together? It was beyond bizarre.
The truth was, Sam had given the “you're too young” speech to herself many times since Eduardo had proposed a few weeks ago on the Santa Monica Promenade, and had given it to herself a few
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