Charming Christmas (20 page)

Now, six years later, I can still see those flakes of brown and green disappearing into the night. And I remember thinking that I didn't need Agate's love and healing as much as I needed her to be a mother. But no, she had signed the card “Agate.” She was her own separate self named for a soothing stone.

And so I said good-bye to the woman who kept my father from me, the woman who refused to be my mother. And oddly, with the coming of my own child, I gave up caring for the people who gave me life and prepared my heart for my new family.

5

I
n this world of disposable, replaceable, new and improved upgrades, I am one of those people who cling to the old original. I still have all my high-school and college yearbooks, my third-grade Peanuts lunch box with Lucy holding the football, a piece of Juicy Fruit from the pack that Craig Keyser bought for me on my first “date” to the movies, and the first book report I ever wrote about a bunny who had vampire tendencies.

I am a saver. I love keepers.

Which is as close as I can get to explaining the lingering relationship I have with my ex. Although the romantic, physical aspects of our relationship dwindled soon after our son was born five years ago, I have tried to hold on to TJ as a partner, as a friend, as a father for our child.

“You will always be his father,” I have told TJ countless times. When Tyler was an infant he would respond with things like “That's true,” and jokes like “So you say,” and “Then why does he look like the cable guy?” which only mildly perturbed me since I was used to TJ's sarcasm and goofy humor. Back then his response didn't really matter since we shared so much, spending our days together in the downtown studio, our nights in his Victorian in Pacific Heights. In that first year, that copacetic interlude of bottles of sticky formula and sweet-smelling Onesies and padded tushy, I could not imagine a time when TJ would not be in our lives every day.

“You will always be his father,” I assured him when Tyler and I were moving to the apartment in search of some independence, cheaper rents, and residential quiet compared to the hub that the Heights had become. I had never felt completely at ease in TJ's Victorian mansion, admittedly; neither had he, and I assumed that eventually he would follow us south to the less tony, more residential Noe Valley.

“Don't be so dramatic. I'll always see you guys around,” TJ had responded with that wry grin. “It's not like you're leaving town, Cassie, and with you working on the show, I think I can make my way from my dressing room to the art department.”

“You will always be his father,” I told him my last day on the set, after I'd given my four weeks' notice and gotten my acceptance to the design institute.

“Ah, but I don't have to be.” Hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders up by his ears. How many times had I massaged that tension away? It had seemed so easy once. How had it come to this, face-to-face with a stranger who wrings himself inside out because he has to talk with me about our son? “If there's someone special in your life, you know I'll step aside and let him raise the kid.”

“I can't believe you're saying that.” I picked up my box, loaded with shoes and tampons, green tea bags and desk toys and thingamabobs Tyler had made in preschool. “I am not hearing this.” I turned and walked down the shadowy corridor of the television studio, suddenly wishing the soles of my shoes had metallic studs capable of tearing off the glossy surface of the floor.

“If it's about money, I'll pay,” he called after me.

“It's not,” I shouted without turning back.

If my friends hadn't pushed me, I wouldn't have taken TJ's money at all, but Jaimie kept reminding me about Tyler's future, and Bree kept pointing out that two thousand a month wouldn't be missed with TJ's income. So I accepted it, my 17 percent child support. Most of it went into Tyler's college fund, though I had used some for art school with the logic that my education would lead to a better job and a more secure future for the two of us.

Throughout my relationship with TJ, I didn't want to hurt him for not loving Tyler as I'd expected. I assumed that special relationship would develop in time, realizing that not all men are so enamored of the baby stages, the diaper changes and crawling feats, toddling through neighbors' gardens and scattering finger foods on the kitchen floor. Tyler was beyond those stages now, an intelligent, creative little boy, and I knew it was time to invite TJ back into our lives, time to nurture a father-son relationship for these two.

As I stepped in through the double glass door of the studio, the security guard jumped up from the reception desk and pulled me into a hug. “It's you!” Darlene squealed. “How are you, honey? I haven't seen you for months.”

“I'm doing great! I finished design school. Got a job doing windows at Rossman's Union Square.”

Another squeal, more subdued. She leaned back to take a good look at me. “That is so great. I want to get back to school, soon as the kids are in school full-time.”

“You should do it, Darlene. Not that you don't get all the stimulation you need here on set.”

She waved a hand. “Please, if I have to run backstage and open one more limo door because some star wants hotshot treatment, I promise, you'll hear me screaming down at Union Square.”

I laughed as I leaned over her desk, signed in, peeled off a badge. “Well, much as I love my new job, I miss you guys.”

She waved at me. “Nothing's changed around here, except the set. Have you seen it? That Coit Tower that looks like a horn growing out of TJ's shoulder?”

“I've heard about it.” We talked a little about Tyler and Darlene's sons as we walked toward the studio door. The red studio “taping” light was on, but Darlene let me in. “They're taping the last segment,” she said. “TJ should be done in a few minutes.”

Moving quietly, I hugged Sally from make-up, then swept past the cluster of writers, mostly new faces now. The AD pointed a cross finger at me. Concepcion had always been a tad bossy, which helped move people along onstage. I braced myself for a scolding, but she gave me a hard time for being so scarce. “Did you completely forget about us?” she cooed. “And have you noticed, we're badly in need of a set designer.” We both glanced over at the dinky miniature of Telegraph Hill and laughed till someone shushed us from the wings.

I ducked backstage and tiptoed past my old work space, a warehouselike section large enough to store flats and furniture. I felt a sudden pang for the life I'd once had, the creativity and security, the late hours and the daily bubble of excitement over whether TJ would follow the monologue, run off set, offend a guest . . . He was full of surprises, full of energy, the hyper kid on the block.

The sudden shift of noise and footsteps made me realize that the show was ending. Concepcion led a very tall man to a dressing room—a pro basketball player, I suspected—then slipped off her headpiece and called out a good-bye. Cameras were being rolled off set, crew calling out instructions, and there was TJ, hands shoved in his pockets as he meandered down the hall.

TJ possessed an underdog quality that always garnered sympathy: that dog-ate-my-homework, too-many-cowlicks, hands-in-the-pockets everyman quality of Charlie Brown from Schulz's comic strips. I had always had a weakness for Charlie Brown, the downtrodden average kid who was always seeing the football swiped away just as he was about to kick it, and hence, all those years ago, I fell in love with TJ, a man who could string an hour-long comedy show out of his rich neuroses.

“Hey! You
are
here! I thought I picked up a whiff of you backstage. Were you actually laughing at my jokes?”

I grinned. “Do you think?”

He grabbed my hand and yanked me toward his dressing room. “I've been meaning to call you. No one seems to know what to do with that god-awful set they've put behind me. Have you seen it? Apparently it cost the network quite a few gold doubloons, so they want to keep it and amortize it over the next hundred years.”

I shook my head, following him into his dressing room. “Some things never change. I was just feeling a twinge of homesickness for this place, but you just reminded me how it felt working for the big bad network.”

“Can you fix that thing?” He kicked the door closed, grabbed a foam ball from the floor, and shot it into a small basket mounted on the wall. “I feel like a huge ogre crouching in front of a kids' toy train set.”

“So what's wrong with that? Take a look in the mirror, bub.”

He growled, arms straight out like Frankenstein, grabbed my shoulders, and started pushing me back. “Don't sass me, Cassie.”

“You seem to have mistaken me for someone on your payroll,” I said, arms in the air as he pinned me against the stucco wall.

He giggled. “Ooh, that's right. Does that mean I have no power over you?” He ran his hands down the side of my body. His familiar touch brought me back to the days when he controlled so much of my life: my career, my moods, my home. For a long time I had leaned on him, used him as a barometer and a guide to show me the way. On some deeper level I had believed that TJ controlled my destiny, too, but now I knew that was not true. He had been controlling and I had latched on to him, a loyal follower. Neither of us was without blame.

But the past was behind us now. We were separate people, connected by a child. And from now on, Tyler was going to be the only connection between us.

“You know, I never stopped wanting you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my ear.

“Well, you are going to need to stop.” I stepped aside, away from his reach. His lower lip jutted out in a childish pout, but I stood my ground. “In some weird way, I'll always care for you, but we are over. I'm here to talk about Tyler.”

“Yeah, sure, we'll talk about the kid, but what about us?” He cocked his head to one side in a hangdog expression. “It's just that, well, I'm not seeing anyone right now, and I thought that maybe you and I—”

“No.” There was no going back with a man who could not be trusted. “We are over. But there's a world of possibility for your relationship with Tyler.”

“So you keep saying. But the truth is, I'm not good with kids. I don't understand the little gremlins.”

“Probably because you're a little gremlin yourself. You love toys. Shiny new cars. Big trucks. And all those gadgets to open wine bottles and massage your back and operate the sprinklers. Remember when you got that riding mower for the Connecticut house? You were late for rehearsal one night because you got caught up driving that thing around in the back acres.”

“That was so awesome! The producers won't let me out on that thing anymore. Insurance costs. But I've got some ATVs that are even more fun. You should come out sometime.”

“No. Thanks. But Tyler would probably love that,” I said, tamping down the fear of my little boy bouncing off a wild open vehicle. Was there an age limit on those things? “Or something tamer. He's a good swimmer, and you've got that great pool. That water slide. And the rock waterfall would absolutely blow him away. And do you still flood that field in the winter for an ice rink?”

“Every winter. I still host that hockey game on New Year's Eve.”

“Perfect. Tyler would probably take to ice skating quickly. He's a great learner.”

“I'm sure he's a great kid, Cassie, but still. He's a kid, and I'm not a babysitter. I don't have the time or the inclination to take on a new generation.”

“I'm not asking you to embrace a generation,” I said. “Just one kid. Reach out to your son. He's such a good boy, wise for his years and excellent company. Tyler is old enough to have a real relationship with you.”

“Not on my terms.”

“Have you heard nothing I've said? You both like toys. You'll find some common ground.”

“Would you stop badgering me? You know I hate that.” TJ winced, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Look, we'll talk about that when he's drinking age. For now, there's the matter of you looking pretty darned sassy and me being one lonely guy.” He extended a hand toward me, his eyes glimmering with invitation. How many times had I fallen for those eyes? “What do you say, Cass?”

A knock on the door made TJ flinch.

“TJ?” came a woman's voice. His head-writer's voice. Melissa the viper.

“Shit!” He stumbled back, as if he'd been knocked back by a bolt of lightning. Guilt lightning.

I bit back a grin. “Sounds like somebody's in trouble.”

“Shh. Keep it down.” He motioned me away, frantic. “You can't be seen in here. Not by Melissa. She knows our history and, well, she's pretty damned jealous.”

“Is she?”

“Quick. In the closet. Or behind the sofa.”

“No, thanks.” I crossed my arms, amused by his freak-out. This was the reaction of a man who had everything to hide. “Didn't you say you weren't involved with anyone?”

“You always were a stickler for detail.” He gestured toward the closet. “Please . . . Just stay in there for two minutes, and I'll get rid of her.”

“No, thanks.” I raked my hair back and reached down to pick up the foam basketball. “I'm done playing by your rules. Give me a call when you're ready to talk about Tyler. He needs you, TJ.” I opened the locked door, coming face-to-face with the pert, smooth face of Melissa Diamant, her rhinestone-studded designer glasses reflecting my own angry, red face. She'd risen to head writer and executive producer in the time since I'd left, and Bree and I blamed her for making the show's atmosphere too cutthroat for Bree to sign a new contract.

“Cassie?” Her hand flew to her face in a dramatic gesture. “Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn't know you were here.”

“We were just discussing the Coit Tower as a phallic symbol,” I said. “What a bold design for your new set. Has that subliminal seduction thing panned out in your ratings, or are people put off by the lack of subtlety?”

She blinked. “We wanted something new for sweeps week.”

Ha! A non-answer, if ever there was one. I turned to TJ and launched the foam ball at him. “We'll talk later.”