I’m Carla. Can I join you?” A middle-aged woman with hennaed hair swooped down on me, pulling an extra folding chair up to the long table set up under the trees. It was midday and I was having a quick lunch with Lola and a few of the cast and crew members. Hank was still MIA, but Marion had ordered a nice selection of sandwiches and pastries from Joey’s, my favorite deli in Cypress Grove. I’d just finished a cheese and tomato panini, and was doing my best to ignore the double-fudge brownies that were calling to me with their little sugary voices. Carla looked vaguely familiar. She was in her early fifties, wearing a Tommy Bahamas tropical print blouse and stretchy white pants. The pants were practically plastic-wrapped over her thighs, making them look like a pair of country hams. I gave her a polite smile and tried to scoot my chair to one side so she could squeeze in. It was a tight fit, though, and her chair was teetering dangerously close to mine—another minute and she’d be sitting in my lap.
