Director's Cut by Alton Gansky Page B

seemed satisfied—for now.
    Doug Turner was a bit of a mystery. He was noble and professional and I could trust him—even if he was a reporter. But I couldn’t find him. I called his office and left a message with his editor who promised to page him. There was nothing to do but wait for his call.
    The breeze had picked up again, so we moved from the rear deck into the living room. I built a fire in the fireplace and we gathered around. Catherine entertained us with tales of her New York experiences, made us laugh as she recounted a few gaffes she had made from the stage, and told how different making movies was than straight theater. She even told us about the early product commercials she made. We listened, asked questions, and laughed at the appropriate times.
    Floyd sat enraptured by each tale. I started to ask him how Celeste was doing but bit my tongue. Celeste and Floyd were evolving into an item. While some people fell in and out of love as quickly as the weather changed, Floyd and Celeste moved forward at glacial speeds. To ask about Celeste now would embarrass the young man. I let it go.
    Anyone looking at the scene might have mistaken the gathering in my living room as a small party, but we knew better. We were avoiding the horror of the day. Catherine told her humorous stories because entertaining was her coping mechanism. Her eyes, however, no longer flickered as they did when I picked her up at the theater, and her shoulders were slightly rounder than before. She was being brave, but as every person who has been forced to be courageous knows, bravery isn’t the absence of fear. Anxiety, shock, confusion, and uncertainty not only remain, they’re fanned to searing flames. The courageous are merely people who keep doing what needs to be done despite what they feel. Catherine had just joined those ranks.
    The soft melody of tinny music filled the room—a Mozart aria. Catherine’s cell phone was sounding. We fell silent as she exchanged a few words. She looked at me. “It’s Franco. He needs directions.”
    â€œDo you want me to give them?”
    She handed me the phone. The voice on the other end was nasal and tinted with a New Jersey accent. With a name like Franco, I was expecting Italian. I asked where he was and then gave him step-by-step directions to the house. I handed the phone back to Catherine and she made her good-byes.
    â€œHe said he’d be here soon.” Catherine looked at me. “I know about the need to keep our lives private. I appreciate your opening your home to me and letting Franco come by.”
    â€œThat’s what family is for,” I said. “Franco sounds like an East Coaster.”
    â€œHe grew up in New Jersey, then moved to New York. Later he moved his publicity firm to LA to work with the film people. There’s more business in movies than in theater.”
    â€œHow long has he been your publicist?” I asked.
    â€œAlmost a year now. He did the publicity for the production house, and then I hired him a few months later. He’s one of the best.”
    â€œDid he get you the part in the next movie?” Floyd wondered.
    Catherine gave him a smile, and I was pretty sure Floyd was going to melt into my sofa. “Publicists don’t represent actors to producers and directors, agents do. Franco represents me to the media. In a sense, by getting my name well known, he’s responsible for the continued interest in my work, but deals are made by agents.”
    â€œSo you have an agent?” Nat said.
    â€œTwo. I have one agent in Hollywood. She deals with the film industry. I also have an agent in New York who represents me to the Broadway and off-Broadway producers. I also have a business manager.”
    â€œWow, Catherine,” I said. “It sounds like you’re a small business.”
    â€œAs an actor, I am, but there’s nothing small about the movie business. Millions of dollars flow like