Wes was one hundred percent correct about the good doctor. Drew Hoffman and his team of stuffy executives ate up the concept. They thought it was really unique. Which was great, since I was doing the filming that day with the mother I’d found. Oddly enough, that had been the hardest part. I didn’t know anyone in LA aside from Wes, his family, my old agent, and my Aunt Millie. I had absolutely no idea on Earth how to find a stay-at-home mother who would fit into this segment. It’s not like I had a kid with play dates, and I didn’t live close to Cyndi, my new sister-in-law, who could help.
Having a pity party for one, I went to the grocery store planning to indulge in a cupcake, or a half dozen, when I literally rammed into another woman’s cart. She had a baby tied to her chest and a toddler wailing in the cart. I apologized profusely but followed her around like a creeper. She wasn’t super young, maybe in her early thirties. Her brown hair was pulled back into an easy ponytail. A pair of yoga pants that were a bit too tight clung to her thighs, and a pair of wicked cool flip-flops adorned her feet. She was one of those women who loved bling on the tootsies. Fake diamonds sparkled as she clopped to the garden area of the store, the back of her shoes smacking against her heel as she went.
She surveyed the flowers and plants, testing the dirt, and then she did something that surprised me. She took her water bottle out of her ginormous purse, which might have actually doubled as a diaper bag, and squirted the contents into the pots. Then she plucked the yellow leaves out of the other ones, went to the water fountain, filled the bottle, and repeated the process on a few more.
“What are you doing?” I asked her while pretending to sniff some daises. You couldn’t really smell them, but it didn’t stop me from using them as my cover.
“These needed more water or they’d die. And these, if you don’t pluck the dead leaves off, it could harm the rest of the plant’s growth process.”
“How would you know that? Are you, like, a gardener or something?” I asked.
She shook her head and her cheeks pinked up. “Nope. Just a stay-at-home-mom.”
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. And we have a winner!
Those were the magic words. Instantly I perked up. “And, uh, do you have a green thumb?” With the level of familiarity I was taking with this woman, I expected her to balk, cringe, and then ignore me, but she didn’t. Actually, she seemed happy to be chatting about something of interest to her.
Again the rosy hue rose from her neck and flushed her cheeks at my question. “People have told me that my garden rivals that of Martha Stewart.” There was pride in her tone but no snobbery. That alone was hard to find in this town.
Hmmm. “Is that right? I’d love to see it.” I took a chance and spent the next thirty minutes talking to the woman about what I was working on. I told her that my production company would pay her a few thousand dollars to allow me to follow her around and tape her. Dr. Hoffman had sent over an email detailing the budget for my segment. I thought I was the budget but no, I had about ten thousand to work with if needed for wardrobe, props, and whatever else I might need.
Funniest thing was when I offered the mother some cash, I was taken aback by her answer. “Oh, you don’t have to pay me. If it helps other moms see how important raising their children and being the heart of the home is, I’m happy to help.”
Of course she would. But I knew that the Dr. Hoffman show made bank, and after having been to her house, I knew she could use a few extra grand in the kitty. I’d make sure that money appeared in her account shortly after we taped.
* * *
Coolest thing about this new job? Bring your boyfriend to work day! The smile on my face had to rival that of the Cheshire Cat. There was happiness, and then there was this. Abso-fucking-lutely ecstatic. I had trouble keeping my cool when we arrived at the home of Heidi and David Ryan at the butt crack of dawn. Wes said, if we were going to get her in her natural element, we needed to start when she started her day.
The home was a two-story stucco home painted a rich terracotta color. It sat all of twenty feet from the next stucco home quite similar to the Ryan’s only that one was sand-colored. All the homes in the cul-de-sac were varying shades of earth tones. Some were two levels, others one story, but they were definitely built as part of a master community with tract style design, perfect for families and suburban life.
We were in Cerritos, California, a good thirty to forty-five minute jaunt to downtown Los Angeles if traffic was playing nice. As I exited the car, a paperboy riding on a BMX bike tossed a paper, which landed perfectly on the Ryan’s front stoop.