“Naw,” Gabe says.
He’s kneeling and scratching her impressive neck ruff.
“I usually drive to L.A. or vice versa,” he says. “Load her in the car and we just cruise down the Fifteen. She likes to stick her head out of the window. Even in the winter.”
Teddy sits on my foot.
“I divide my time pretty evenly between here and L.A.,” Gabe says. “I do miss seasons.”
“It does seem like Montana delivers on that end.”
“It does. Makes up for other things.” He gestures. “A lack of synagogues and the like.”
“I’m sure your family is happy to have you around,” I say.
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “Especially after the accident.”
I turn to him. “I’m sorry about your brother-in-law.”
Gabe is looking at the tree. “Yeah,” he says. “That was a bad year.”
I reach out and take his hand. When he links his fingers with mine, I realize that we’ve never really held hands before. Not like this.
It’s surprisingly intimate, his palm pressed against mine, the calluses of his fingers, the warmth of his skin.
“It’s not a perfect place,” Gabe says. “Cooper.”
I stare up at the tree.
“Neither is L.A.,” I say.
I think about how it felt when I came back from New York. How I expected L.A. to feel like home again, but it didn’t. How a part of me has been chasing that feeling without really knowing what I’m looking for.
“Believe it or not,” Gabe says. “The tree isn’t the thing I wanted you to see.”
He gives me a tug and I realize we’re still holding hands. That brief shock of intimacy smoothed out into something comfortable. Something familiar.
We go around the massive tree trunk, and I can smell the pine.
The town is decorated in nostalgia.
Gabe stops us in front of the one building that isn’t lit up with Christmas lights and holly. It’s dark, with boarded-up windows and a cracked marquee. If this was a Hollywood film, it would serve as a metaphor for the tortured hero’s tortured past.
Standing back a little, I see that it’s an old theatre.
“Ta-da!” Gabe says.
There’s a FOR SALE sign on the window of the ticket booth, and a SOLD sticker tacked over it.
“Mazel tov,” I tell Gabe.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asks.
“Is it haunted?”
He grins. “Only one way to find out,” he says.
Inside, the air is filled with cobwebs and dust. It’s not a movie theater, like I expected, but a theatre-theatre. There’s a stage and a small pit for a small orchestra. There are at least three hundred seats and even two modestly sized but grandly built balconies on either side of the stage.
“I hope you didn’t pay a lot for it,” I say.
Gabe tsks and Teddy sneezes.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he says. “Use your imagination.”
“I’m imagining a lot of mice and rats using this space to stage their own rodent-positive version of The Nutcracker,” I say.
Even as I do, I’m looking past the layer of grime on every surface. Past the moth-eaten curtains and the well-worn carpet. Past the cracked and crumbling molding on the walls.
I can see intricately carved seats. I can see a beautifully built stage. And when Teddy lets out a short, happy bark, I can hear the incredible acoustics.
It’s a perfect little theatre for a little town. With Gabe’s name behind it, it could bring attention and people to Cooper. He could have as much—or as little—control over the productions as he’d like.
It could be a brand-new classic.
“What do you think?” Gabe asks.
“I think it’s perfect,” I say.
VANITY FAIR
POUR OUT THAT MARTINI: Gabe Parker Talks Sobriety
[excerpt]
By Beth Hussey
We sit down at the restaurant and Gabe Parker orders a big, tall glass of water. It’s his first interview since the former Bond star left the franchise in a spectacular fashion and entered rehab. Twice. And now he’s ready to talk.
“I try not to trade in regrets,” he says. “I’m not proud of the way I did things, but I can’t regret them. Not really. Because, in the end, that’s what pushed me to get help.”
He’s referencing the viral video that leaked from the set of his final Bond film—the one he walked off of. The production had just enough footage to get the movie into theaters, but the last of his four-film contract was terminated immediately, and no other offers have been forthcoming.
Parker is nearing forty and his career is, as of this moment, over.
There are rumors, of course, of projects in the works, but whoever hires him will do so at their own peril.
“I’ll always be an addict,” he says. “But right now, I’m an addict in control of my addiction.”
It remains to be seen if producers will feel the same way.
Chapter
24
We get lunch from a nearby sandwich place and have a picnic on the stage, our meal illuminated by a ghost light on a stand. The theatre looks even more impressive from this angle.
“It needs a lot of work,” I say.
Gabe shrugs, feeding some sliced turkey to Teddy.
“I have money,” he says. “And a business partner who has even more.”
“Ollie.”
“Ollie,” Gabe confirms.
“That’s what this trip was always about,” I say. “You and Ollie making plans for the theatre.”
Maybe I should feel guilty about monopolizing Gabe’s time, but I don’t.
“Yes and no,” he says. “That was the original plan—meet up with Ollie in L.A. while I’m doing press—and fly back to discuss our next steps.”
“But?”
Gabe turns and grins at me. “Then you showed up at the restaurant with your very big eyes and your smart mouth…”
“And my bad questions?” I ask.
I’m still a little salty about that even though I know he’s right.
He reaches over and pats my hand.
“If it makes you feel any better, your questions have gotten a lot better.”
I roll my eyes.
“Thanks,” I say. “I only ask questions for a living.”
Gabe chews. Swallows.
“About that,” he says.
“About how I’m bad at what I do?”
He ignores my goading.