Meet Cate (8 page)

Cate and John's group enjoyed a hot and hearty buffet breakfast at a local Shoney's. Cate signed autographs for the young waitress, then the waitstaff and several customers. As John had expected, her fans translated to easy sales and a bigger following because of Cate's relaxed manner. Cate, however, wouldn't have it−offering up free copies of her cookbooks for anyone she spoke to.

"You shouldn't do that," John whispered. "It's eating into your capital."

"It's good business," Cate whispered back, smiling as the crowd dispersed. "Happy people return. Besides, how else can I show appreciation to them for being fans?"

"
Thank you
often works nicely."

Cate smiled contentedly. She'd gotten used to John's manner early on in their relationship. She knew he only wanted what was best for her, just as he knew she ran her own life. Therefore, John eventually agreed with most of the decisions Cate made.

Rising, Cate watched John leave a hefty tip. She stacked the plates and glasses on the table and pushed her chair in while John returned his slim, leather billfold to his pocket. Through the window the limo waited, out of place in the pot-holed parking lot, surrounded by large diesel trucks and economy cars. Cate felt embarrassed suddenly, and wondered if she could walk the short distance to local shopping.

John took her elbow, steering her out. "Don't even think about it," he said in her ear. "You can rent a Range Rover or a convertible in LA."

"Jeep," she muttered.

"Jeep." He smiled.

Cate sank back into the plush leather seat of the limo, spent, after shopping at the local mall. John had dropped Cate and his assistant, Mariah, a perky young twenty-four-year-old who modeled efficiency. John did this both for security and for his own peace. Cate and Mariah had strolled the two floors of the mall, admiring clothing and shoes, chatting about everything and nothing−recharging the way only women know to do.

As tradition called for in her family, Cate, with Mariah's input, had searched for just the right gifts for Alex and Nic. She paused over a tiny, framed print for her girl: puppies rolling in a meadow with their happy ears flopping. Cate was content with her choice to wait for LA, however, finding nothing sentimental that spoke to her. She'd bring Al something from the hotel for now. It was important to Cate that she show her children she thought of them wherever she went, but she also saw the value of minimalism and words over
stuff−
based on exactly how often she thought of the two
.

When the long charcoal limo rolled past a strip mall with a music store, Cate leaned forward and exclaimed.

"We don't have too long, Cate." John didn't look up from his paperwork for more than a second.

"I'll be less than thirty minutes," she answered, already scooting across the broad seat to the door their driver hurried to open for her. John's smile escaped her view. He knew Cate's open adoration for her children. He admired it. Catching Mariah's eye, nodding at her−
yes, follow Cate−
John went back to his paperwork.

True to her word, Cate left the store (without any suspiciously large, guitar-shaped, wrapped packages in her arms), twenty nine and a half minutes later. Cate had listened to different, beautiful tones on several instruments, but again, finding something small and particular to Nic wasn't easy. The story would have to suffice.

When they were younger, each child had piled on Cate's fluffy bed, waiting for her suitcase to open. Long before she'd had extra money, Cate had brought each child heartfelt gifts. A beautiful seashell. A napkin from a new haunt. Each gift came with a fantastic tale, and the children sat rapt, listening to Cate transfix them with words. She missed those days, and vowed to find two thoughtful and extra-special gifts once she landed in LA.

As the women rushed to the limo, Cate brushed into a man hurrying by.

"Excuse me," she said automatically.

He grunted, his face down, as if watching the movement his feet made as he scuffed along the sidewalk. His hat, a tired gray fedora, was pulled down, masking his eyes.

Cate couldn't shake the thought that he felt familiar.

Climbing back into the limo, she ignored John's words: "All set?"

"Hmm?" Cate's attention was focused on the tinted window as the limousine picked up speed and rolled past the shuffling man. The limo driver slowed, making a smooth left with one hand on the wheel. They were passing the stranger, who stepped to the curb and stopped, his face downcast. He seemed in his own world. She picked out graying brown hair poking out from under the cap. As the limo slid by, Cate stared. His eyes would be blue, she guessed.

The man's surprise at the big vehicle registered at the last minute and his face shot up, shocked.

Blue eyes, Cate thought, yes.

Eyes she knew.

It was Tom.

"Stop! Turn around!" Cate edged forward on the wide seat, waving at the driver.

He glanced in the rearview for only a second while steering through traffic.

"Cate, we don't have time to stop. We have to go," John said calmly.

"I−I think that was−"

"We have to catch our plane," John spoke despite the phone at his ear. "They're waiting for us."

"−Tom," Cate whispered, her closed fist against her mouth.

The limo pulled up in front of the large private plane. John stepped out, effortlessly leading Cate toward the staircase used for boarding. Once seated, she stared out the window, seeing nothing. Cate's thoughts were on Tom.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she fussed in her carry-on until she located earbuds. Poking them in, she searched through libraries of music. Finding
Pick Up The Phone
, the distraught woman cranked the volume. Ronnie Radke's smooth voice filled her ears. Cate closed her eyes and dreamed as the plane taxied down the runway, then cruised up into the waiting skies.

Home again, as if nothing had happened, the scene grew less important in Cate's mind. She settled into a routine, taping shows for the new year and planning holiday events. As often as she could get away with, Cate carried her papers out onto the large deck. There, she'd watch the leaves fall while she worked up menus and shows, guests and ideas. She loved to watch little flurries of them fall all at once.

Tom's face grew dim in her mind. She convinced herself she'd only pasted his face onto a stranger. She'd done it throughout LA, seeing him on a room service waiter, the publishing giant, and even strangers she passed on the street.

Caught up on the backlog her trip had created; content with the work Melissa had done while she was away; safe in the knowledge that the guest host they'd chosen satisfied Cate's hunger to travel; Cate was happy. Organized over-preparation was the key, she thought. Sitting back in an Adirondack chair with her papers spread out before her, her eyes swept over the vibrant reds and oranges of the tall, majestic trees. Smiling, Cate imagined the satisfying crunch they'd make when she and Alex hiked through them.

The day was magnificent, boasting sharp blue skies like only a fall afternoon in Connecticut could produce. Crisp air, with just the hint of a chilly edge to it, teased her nose. It might not last long (she'd expect snow flurries in the beginning of November) but for now it was perfect weather.

Gathering the zip-up sweatshirt she wore around her slender frame, Cate sat for a minute, thinking. She'd layered the light hoodie over yoga pants and a tee. She'd kicked off her running shoes and short socks by the French doors to the kitchen.

Try as she might, and as much as she promised herself she would, she couldn't let go of the feelings Tom created in her. It wasn't his face that haunted her, she'd let that go soon after she'd landed, she reminded herself. It was more a feeling of despair that sat deep in her gut. Questions.
Why had he run off? Hadn't he seen her? If that wasn't him, where was he? Why did he go? Weren't they good enough?

Cate hadn't even realized she'd been planting herself on the deck where Tom's house sat as her largest view. It had always been there, much like Tom. Tall against the horizon, the house was an old-fashioned Victorian-style farmhouse. Family-built, it boasted three floors and a massive front porch that spanned the front and south-eastern side of the house, the side that faced Cate.
Was she waiting?

Questions plagued her, thoughts she hadn't allowed in years. She understood his disease in a very real way, both in her conscious mind and on a rational level. Irrationally, she argued with herself.
He needs me. He does not. If he did, he'd be here, in front of you. But what if he can't allow himself to need me?

Why is he running?
Her brain cycled back to the basic question again and again. The torment she felt in her heart when she was faced with his PTSD was something she knew her children felt on a daily basis. The heartbreak of feeling as if the person you loved most had rejected you−and suddenly. Knowing it wasn't personal, truly believing that, was the key to moving past the pain.

But some days that knowledge was simply a fantasy. Cate indulged her anguish a few minutes longer, searching for the bottom of it. If she let it get to her, she'd fall into a chasm where everything felt wrong. Torment would tease and quitting would seem the only way. She wouldn't lower herself to the level of the bully: PTSD.
She wouldn't
. But she was no longer able to raise Tom up to her level, she thought, saddened. And that haunted her.

Cate stretched lazily, warm in the afternoon sun. Adjusting the outdoor speaker, she concentrated on the music for just a minute. She forced herself through a ritual she'd created: gratitude. As her content mood caught again, she pushed all thoughts of Tom back to their dungeon. She breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling loudly, smiling as she thought of Deni Houston's teachings:
make your
breathing
loud and proud
.

I'm worth the peace, Cate reminded herself gently. I'm doing the best I can. Cate cemented the sentences with a petite piece of chocolate.

The end of
Werewolves of London
teased her ears,
reminding Cate that Halloween was approaching quickly. Her team always did a live show, full of practical, fun tips and scares. This year Cate had decided to dress up. What good was access to what she considered the world's greatest hair, makeup and dress if she didn't use it?

She'd ask her team to contact Broadway, to see who was willing to come out and promote their shows. Cate liked to incorporate children and families in everything she did, therefore she'd have a kid-friendly episode−complete with a party for children who wanted to bring their moms and dads. She'd brew up punch with dry ice, add clean plastic eyeballs and spiders to ice cubes, make spaghetti covered in chunky green pesto for gooey brains.

Grabbing her favorite fine-point, Cate began to messily scrawl on the closest empty paper, satisfied with the
scratch scratch
sound her pen made as it marked the white sheet. Hot cider cooled, forgotten, in the clean white mug beside her right hand. The warmth of the mug had heated Cate's heart as she carried it out to the table, both hands laced around the thick china. The spicy scent of crisp apples, warm vanilla and thick cinnamon sticks drifted slowly toward her nose. The chunk of milk chocolate she'd popped in her mouth moments ago melted on her tongue, delighting her taste buds. The sweetness of it calmed and comforted.

She'd have grapes for eyeballs, an old favorite.
Add a twist
, Cate jotted quickly, tapping the pen to her lip as she thought. Toothpicks speared through them? With−
what?
she wrote, underlining and circling the word several times for emphasis.

Cate could do menus standing on her head while being fed grasshoppers.
Grasshoppers!
she wrote
.
Chocolate delicacies for the parents. The dads could gross out their daughters. Perfect.

She added to her list:
cider, cold/hot.
A long party grinder, she'd do her cooking spot on that, Cate decided. A quick spin-through: how much meat, mayo and toppings (lettuce, tomato, onion and pickle) to add per person. Of course, she'd offer pizza alongside the sandwich. Homemade potato chips, or donated? The pen tapped again as she thought, eyes skyward.

So far, she had several main courses, a few sides, and drinks. Cate scrawled
coffee, water. Lrg fruit/veg plate. Dessert.

Now she wanted to think about ambiance. Jotting
atmosphere
across the top of another clean sheet, Cate tapped a rhythm on the wooden tabletop with the end of the pen.

Maybe she'd leave the effects to the crew. She knew she wanted fog, cobwebs, creepy mirrors and a staircase. (Why was a staircase to nowhere such a fabulously Halloween-y thing?) A large table to set her creations up on−she'd ditch the kitchen for the first part of the episode: too homey and comforting. A set that resembled a creepy old house, implying the haunted. A large cauldron she could stir, with dry ice buried deep in the bottom, for a spooky effect. Her team could pour in some interesting liquid−should she add something to it for those brave enough to peek? Small rubber bats? She'd add wonton soup to her menu to go along with the sandwich. She'd call it bat stew, Cate decided with a grin that was mostly evil.

Cate pictured herself smiling in a traditional witches costume. A tall, pointed hat, a tea-length, airy (for under the lights), black (for customary) gown, striped stockings and dark, pointed clunky shoes. Warts. She'd add spiders and an overall mess to her hair. What about a stench−the pen tapped her lip again, eyes searching the clouds−could she make her hair smell like earthy soil, for effect? She'd have to ask Bel. Hair could smell good; why not a yucky scent that made little boys and girls giggle?

She'd offer them treats, of course−her favorite part. Maybe a costume parade for the youngest ones, picking viewers out of the audience to open doors up on stage (each set with a different curb appeal) as if they were trick or treating. Cate listed the candy she'd add to bowls for each "home". Maybe she'd create some of her own sweets and showcase them in a second show.

She'd arrange a spooky reading of her favorite Edgar Allen Poe tale−in a cemetery, pre-taped. She could offer it to the older children who wanted to be on camera. Melissa would nix that one but it was a fun thought.

Scary story contest,
she noted instead
.

Bobbing for apples, caramel apple-dipping. Cate often found a return to the most innocent and simple was the key to the happiest shows. Who among them didn't like to pamper their inner child? She'd light beautiful candles and offer creepy makeovers for the adults.

Before she knew it, Cate had enough for a week's worth of shows with no end in sight. Sipping the cooling cider, Cate knew Melissa would want to turn the shooting into a video package. John would want a book out of it. They'd offer packaging of the chocolate she'd prepare, with the recipe leaked in time for Valentines Day the following year. The two would figure out a way to bundle all of it to their mutual interests:
The Show,
A Cook's Guide To Halloween.
No.
A Mother's Guide
?
A Family Guide,
Cate scrawled and crossed out. Thinking, Cate doodled her name repeatedly.

And there, on her page, in messy, loopy handwriting, sat her title:
Cate's Guide to Halloween.

Despite herself, she was starting to feel better. Looking in the direction of Tom's house, she uttered a short prayer for a safe ending and the knowledge, wisdom and courage to know what to do when the right time came.