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Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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seventy-two endless hours, he hired a cook and a housekeeper and a gardener. He sent for the contents of his apartment in San Francisco, he sat at the microfilm machine in the public library, reading everything he could find concerning Rosamond Dallas, until the muscles in the small of his back threatened spasmodic rebellion.
On Tuesday morning, he drove to Reese Motors.
“Damn,” Shay grumbled as she came out of the plush RV on the back lot.
Ivy tried very hard not to smile as she took in the yellow-and-black striped suit Shay was wearing. “I think you make a terrific bee,” she said.
“Flattery,” Shay answered bitterly, “will get you nowhere. Don’t you dare laugh!”
Ivy put one hand over her mouth and the diamonds in her showy engagement ring sparkled in the sunshine. “Put the hat on. Here, let me help you.”
Shay submitted to the hat, which was really more of a hood. It was black, with nodding antennae on top.
Richard Barrett approached with long strides. “The wings!” he thundered. “Where are the wings?”
“He thinks he’s Cecil B. DeMille,” Ivy whispered.
Shay, standing there in the hot sun, sweltering in her padded velveteen bee suit, wanted to slap him. “Wings?” she hissed.
“Of course,” Richard replied with the kind of patience usually reserved for deaf dogs. “Bees do have wings, you know.”
The wings were hunted down by Richard’s curvaceous young assistant, who was taking this taste of show biz very seriously. She wore her sunglasses on top of her head and constantly consulted her clipboard.
“I don’t need this job, you know,” Shay muttered to no one in particular as she was shuffled onto an X chalked on the asphalt in front of an ’82 Chrysler with air-conditioning.
“Do you remember your lines?” Richard’s cretin assistant sang, blowing so that her fluffy auburn bangs danced in midair.
“Sure,” Shay snapped. “To bee or not to bee, that is the question.”
“Sheesh,” the assistant marveled, not getting the joke.
“All right, Shay,” Richard said, indicating one of two portable video cameras with a nod of his head. “We’ll be filming from two angles, but I want you to look into this camera while you’re delivering your line.”
“Since when is ‘bzzzz’ a line?”
“Just do as I tell you, Shay.” A muscle under Richard’s right eye was jumping. Shay had never noticed that he had a twitch before.
“I’m ready,” she conceded.
The cameras made an almost imperceptible whirring sound and a clapboard was snapped in her face.
“Take One!” Richard cried importantly.
“Bzzzzzz,” said Shay, dancing around the hood of the Chrysler as though to pollinate it. “Come to Reese Motors, in Skyler Beach, 6832 Discount Way! You can’t afford to miss a honey of a deal like this!” She moved on to a ’78 Pinto. So far, so good. “Take this little model right here, only nineteen-ninety—nineteen-ninety—”
Shay’s voice froze in her throat and her concentration fled. Mitch Prescott was standing beside Ivy, looking stunned.
“Cut!” Richard bellowed.
Shay swallowed, felt relieved as she watched Mitch turn and walk resolutely away. Were his shoulders shaking just a little beneath that pristine white shirt of his?
“I’m sorry,” she said to Richard, who looked apoplectic. It seemed to Shay that he took commercials a mite too seriously.
“Take Two,” Richard groaned. “God, why do I work with amateurs? Somebody tell me why!”
He wouldn’t have dared to talk to Marvin that way, Shay thought. And why had she apologized, anyway? Nobody got a commercial right on the first take, did they?
Shay waited for the camera to click into action and then started over, offering the folks in Skyler Beach a bunny of a deal.
“That’s Easter!” Richard screamed, frustrated beyond all good sense.
“Don’t get your stinger in a wringer!” the bee screamed back and every salesman on the lot roared with laughter.
On the third
On Tuesday morning, he drove to Reese Motors.
“Damn,” Shay grumbled as she came out of the plush RV on the back lot.
Ivy tried very hard not to smile as she took in the yellow-and-black striped suit Shay was wearing. “I think you make a terrific bee,” she said.
“Flattery,” Shay answered bitterly, “will get you nowhere. Don’t you dare laugh!”
Ivy put one hand over her mouth and the diamonds in her showy engagement ring sparkled in the sunshine. “Put the hat on. Here, let me help you.”
Shay submitted to the hat, which was really more of a hood. It was black, with nodding antennae on top.
Richard Barrett approached with long strides. “The wings!” he thundered. “Where are the wings?”
“He thinks he’s Cecil B. DeMille,” Ivy whispered.
Shay, standing there in the hot sun, sweltering in her padded velveteen bee suit, wanted to slap him. “Wings?” she hissed.
“Of course,” Richard replied with the kind of patience usually reserved for deaf dogs. “Bees do have wings, you know.”
The wings were hunted down by Richard’s curvaceous young assistant, who was taking this taste of show biz very seriously. She wore her sunglasses on top of her head and constantly consulted her clipboard.
“I don’t need this job, you know,” Shay muttered to no one in particular as she was shuffled onto an X chalked on the asphalt in front of an ’82 Chrysler with air-conditioning.
“Do you remember your lines?” Richard’s cretin assistant sang, blowing so that her fluffy auburn bangs danced in midair.
“Sure,” Shay snapped. “To bee or not to bee, that is the question.”
“Sheesh,” the assistant marveled, not getting the joke.
“All right, Shay,” Richard said, indicating one of two portable video cameras with a nod of his head. “We’ll be filming from two angles, but I want you to look into this camera while you’re delivering your line.”
“Since when is ‘bzzzz’ a line?”
“Just do as I tell you, Shay.” A muscle under Richard’s right eye was jumping. Shay had never noticed that he had a twitch before.
“I’m ready,” she conceded.
The cameras made an almost imperceptible whirring sound and a clapboard was snapped in her face.
“Take One!” Richard cried importantly.
“Bzzzzzz,” said Shay, dancing around the hood of the Chrysler as though to pollinate it. “Come to Reese Motors, in Skyler Beach, 6832 Discount Way! You can’t afford to miss a honey of a deal like this!” She moved on to a ’78 Pinto. So far, so good. “Take this little model right here, only nineteen-ninety—nineteen-ninety—”
Shay’s voice froze in her throat and her concentration fled. Mitch Prescott was standing beside Ivy, looking stunned.
“Cut!” Richard bellowed.
Shay swallowed, felt relieved as she watched Mitch turn and walk resolutely away. Were his shoulders shaking just a little beneath that pristine white shirt of his?
“I’m sorry,” she said to Richard, who looked apoplectic. It seemed to Shay that he took commercials a mite too seriously.
“Take Two,” Richard groaned. “God, why do I work with amateurs? Somebody tell me why!”
He wouldn’t have dared to talk to Marvin that way, Shay thought. And why had she apologized, anyway? Nobody got a commercial right on the first take, did they?
Shay waited for the camera to click into action and then started over, offering the folks in Skyler Beach a bunny of a deal.
“That’s Easter!” Richard screamed, frustrated beyond all good sense.
“Don’t get your stinger in a wringer!” the bee screamed back and every salesman on the lot roared with laughter.
On the third
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