Hollywood's Secret Baby

As the months roll by, change slowly seeps into our lives.

Lizzie’s transition into the Californian school system has turned out to be the least of my worries. There were definitely a handful of bullies who made fun of her southern accent, but the rest of the kids have found her charming. She’s even made a new bestie, Hailey, a girl who recently moved here from Hawaii. They’re both over at our new place nearly every other day.

The new house is a downgrade but not as much of one as I expected. Sarah said we could stay indefinitely in her pool house, but Cory couldn’t stand the handout any longer. Even I was starting to feel uncomfortable with her generosity. By my standards, we’re still living high, even if it is just a bungalow half a mile from any sand or water. What’s not so healthy is our movie.

In a word, it’s dead at Jeb’s hands. Despite the campaign raging against him, he’s still managed to avoid an arrest. It seems he’s impervious, which is probably why he had the balls to admit to killing our careers straight to Cory’s face.

“You saw Jeb?” I ask Cory once Lizzie is asleep. I’ve recently taken a part-time job at the local community college. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills while Cory’s out running around, trying to keep our film alive. He’s just walked in the door, looking like a he’s seen a phantom. So I turn away from the lesson I was preparing at the dining room table.

“I ran into him at the studio. He’s filming a new movie.” Cory falls into a chair. “He’s filming our movie.”

“What?”

“It’s not the same script, but it may as well be.”

“But how can he do that? And why?”

“He said it was a shame that our movie wasn’t going to get licensed. He said it was a good story, but that he was going to do it better.”

That was two months ago. And for weeks after, Cory sank into a silent but obvious depression. That is until the news a week ago that was the featured story on every website and TV channel:

Jeb Eli has been arrested for multiple accounts of sexual assault.

I never imagined I could be so happy seeing those words. Even though he immediately got out on bail, and we knew the court proceedings would take months, Cory, Sarah, Joan, and I had an impromptu poolside party with barbecue, beer, and Lizzie wearing herself out in Sarah’s pool.

It was a perfect night. But the next day, we fell back to reality.

Even with Jeb too preoccupied to work on his copy of our film, our movie still isn’t making any progress. Cory has spent the past week speaking to anyone who could do anything about it, but every night he’s come up empty. So when I hear his car pull into the driveway, I’m anticipating another sullen dinner where Lizzie and I carry the conversation.

What I don’t expect is flowers.

“What’s going—?” That’s all manage to get out before Cory wraps me up in his arms, lifts me off the ground, and twirls me around. My feet knock over a chair, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re home!” Lizzie shouts, and this time when she runs up to her father, he doesn’t hug her with worn-down enthusiasm; he tosses her in the air, earning a laughing shriek.

“What happened?” I ask, breathless.

He just smiles, broader and more real than anything I’ve seen as of late. He’s looking between the two of us, drawing out the suspense. I’m guessing he’s basking in this moment, but what for him is a joyous jolt in time that he wants to remember for the rest of his life is a string wrapped tight around my heart until I know what he knows.

“We’re going to France.”

“France?”

“France!” Lizzie’s jumping around in a frenzy. “We’re going to France!”

“How?”

“Our movie got accepted into Cannes.”

“The movie festival?” Tears make an appearance as Cory holds my arms and pulls me close.

“Everything’s going to be alright.” He holds me against his chest, and I really let loose.

Meanwhile, Lizzie is dancing around us, singing, “We’re going to France. We’re going to France.”

After wiping away my tears, Cory joins her, taking her hands and doing a silly spinning dance as they sing together, “We’re going to France. We’re going to France.”

Once they wear themselves out, Lizzie starts asking a million questions. About when we’re going. If we can go up the Eiffel Tower. If the Eiffel Tower has an elevator or if we have to climb a million stairs. She’s talking a mile a minute while my brain is still trying to catch up.