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“What do you think?” Randy asked, bringing me back to reality.
“I love it. I’m swept off my feet. But realistically, don’t you want a paternity test first? Crystal and I could be grifters for all you know.”
“Come here,” he said, pulling me into the guest-room bathroom to stand in front of the mirror with him. I giggled, because side by side, there really wasn’t any mistaking the resemblance.
“I had red hair at one time, before I went white,” he said, pointing to my hair.
“I refer to it as strawberry blond,” I said, teasingly indignant. “It’s usually not this red. I experimented with a rinse the last time I went to the salon.”
“Oh, sorry, strawberry blond,” he said, laughing. “Anyway, you’re mine. I remember Crystal, and the timeline is perfect. There’s no reason to get a test.”
“I love this place. But don’t we have to have something in writing?”
“Absolutely. For your own protection, the apartment will go in your name. You take title to it. It’s not a rental. But in the meantime, move in when you’re ready.”
I was going to be a homeowner in Manhattan at almost twenty-four.
“I’ll move in as soon as I get furniture,” I said, excited about everything that had unfolded that morning.
“Let’s go to lunch. I want to give you a chance to think more about the job, too.”
“I’ll take it, Randy. I’m interested in the subject.”
“Great!”
We went to a fancy restaurant and had an amazing lunch. Once again, pregnant women and women with tiny babies stood out. What had people been doing nine months ago in New York? I’d never noticed this in Chicago.
Randy handed me a credit card to use to furnish the apartment. I tried to refuse, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “Let’s say it’s a moving allowance from the company.”
“Everything is happening so fast and so easily, it’s scaring me.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll slow down now.”
Yeah, now that I was working for him and living in his building, what else did I have for Randy Braddock to control? I had no idea what a father-daughter relationship entailed.
We headed back to Exchange Place, to my new employer, Lang, Smith and Romney. Ryan waited in the hallway, grinning at me, after Randy disappeared into his office.
“You came back. I wondered if Randy scared you off.”
“I’m going to do the project,” I replied, still worried about doing it but going with my gut.
“Well, that’s great news. You won’t regret it. I promise to make that my responsibility.”
I wasn’t sure that was the wisest move.
The next few hours flew by as he introduced me to the production team and they brought me up to date. I had a screen test done, and they were pleased, although I was a nervous wreck. Ryan bounced narrative off me, and I read from the cue cards. It felt like a regular, unscripted conversation.
“You’re a natural,” said Jerry, the producer, clearly excited. “Can you start tomorrow? We’ll shoot at the Brownsville location.”
“Where’s Brownsville?” I asked.
“It’s in the Bronx,” Jerry replied. “Not that far. About ten miles. It’ll take a while to get there by car because traffic sucks.”
“I’ll get you there,” Ryan said to me. “What time, Jerry?”
“Is six too early?”
“Oh, God. You’re kidding me, right?” he asked, groaning.
