not a red-meat eater. Vegetarian dishes, too.”
“No, I’ve never been there,” Patrice told him. She breathed deeply and slowly released her breath. “Are you sure you don’t have to be anywhere else?”
“Nah, I’m on vacation until we start filming.” He started the SUV, and soon they were turning onto the street and heading toward the San Diego Freeway where he would exit onto Santa Monica Boulevard. From there, it was only three miles to Beverly Hills.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly as he wound his way through traffic. “I didn’t even ask if you were free. If you have plans for the afternoon, I can take you directly home.”
“I’m free,” Patrice assured him. She had decided to go with the flow.
He turned and smiled at her before returning his attention to the road. “Good.”
Patrice relaxed against the car’s seat. “You said your parents live in Beverly Hills?”
He must have been fond of his parents because his eyes lit up at the mention of them. “Yes, I finally talked them into moving here about five years ago. We’re from Brooklyn.
“My parents have deep roots there. Both were born there. Both were teachers for nearly thirty years. Most of their friends and family still live in Brooklyn.”
“What did you say to convince them to move here?” she asked, very curious. She couldn’t imagine her parents living in Beverly Hills. It would be a worse situation than that old sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies. Her folks were ranchers, through and through.
“I told them that I didn’t care when the desire to go back to Brooklyn hit them. I would make sure they got on the next plane flying in that direction,” he said with a laugh.
“You’re a good son,” Patrice complimented him.
“I try to be,” T.K. said sincerely.
Chapter 3
At The Grill on the Alley, commonly called The Grill, T.K. gave his key to the valet and then helped Patrice out of the car. He enjoyed the sight of her long, shapely legs but was careful not to ogle. Patrice noticed anyway and felt a tingle of excitement.
Inside, they were immediately shown to a secluded table in the back of the packed dining room. T.K. didn’t let the maître d’ have the pleasure of pulling Patrice’s chair out for her. He did it himself and then sat down across from her.
The maître d’ snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “See to Mr. McKenna at once.”
He smiled at T.K. and Patrice in turn. “Please call on me if I can be of any further service.”
When he had gone, T.K. laughed softly. “Every time I see him I’m reminded of the butler in that remake of Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.”
“He does look like John Turturro. He’s one of my favorite actors,” Patrice said enthusiastically. “In everything I’ve ever seen him in, he’s done a good job.”
T.K. nodded in agreement. “He’s a fine character actor.” He looked at her intently. “What did you think of the remake?”
“Adam Sandler makes me laugh, and it had some touching moments, but to be honest, I don’t believe any remake can compare with the Frank Capra original. The script’s fabulous, and Gary Cooper is wonderful as Mr. Deeds. Good try to Adam Sandler, though.”
T.K. smiled at her assessment. He liked the original a lot better than the remake, too.
“You like Capra, huh?”
“It’s a Wonderful Life, You Can’t Take it With You, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town are my favorite Capra films,” she told him, her eyes shining with excitement. “The scripts were excellent, and the leads and supporting casts were, too. Plus, I liked the dignity Capra imbued his black characters with. Yes, they were servants, but they were treated with respect and got actual lines to say instead of standing around rolling their eyes and grinning.”
“You have a problem with the way blacks have been portrayed in films?” T.K. was curious. He wanted to know if she had a fire in her belly to see her people portrayed accurately on film, as he had.
The waiter arrived and introduced himself. They promptly ordered and sent him on his way, eager to continue their conversation.
“You were saying,” T.K. prompted Patrice after the waiter had gone.
“What black actor wouldn’t have a problem with the way we’ve been portrayed by some filmmakers?” she asked. “But I’m not going the route of blaming the performers of the past. They had to play the buffoon in order to put food on the table. I respect them because they survived during a very unpleasant time for blacks.”
T.K. smiled at the way she punctuated her words with her hands. Fleetingly, she reminded him of Shiva, the many-armed Hindu goddess. He didn’t know where that thought came from. She stimulated his mind, he supposed.
“What about black filmmakers today?” he asked. “Do you think they’re doing everything they can do to bring accurate depictions of blacks to the silver screen?”
Patrice pursed her lips and squinted at him. “Don’t get me started on that subject. My actor friends say my opinions are unusual to say the least.”
“Go ahead and shock me,” he coaxed. “This goes no farther than this table.”
“All right,” she said, leaning toward him. “I won’t name names because you already know them anyway. But I don’t think a certain director should be throwing stones at another one simply because they make different types of films. So what if the newcomer’s films are sometimes over-the-top and melodramatic? Hollywood has been producing melodramatic films for ages. One of the most beloved films by black folks, Imitation of Life, is extremely melodramatic. But that doesn’t mean we don’t watch it, raptly, whenever it comes on Turner Classic Movies.”
T.K. laughed. “You’re right. The scene where the daughter barely makes it to her mother’s funeral on time and makes a spectacle of herself is a seminal scene. And I believe, to this day, that Juanita Moore should have won the Oscar for her role.”
“She was robbed,” Patrice agreed heartily. “I can’t watch her final scenes without crying.”
“Okay,” T.K. said, “we agree that the way blacks were depicted in the past was largely not their fault. And Tyler Perry is definitely doing something right.”
“We said no names,” Patrice reminded him, pretending to be scandalized that he would name one of the parties they were discussing.
“No harm in acknowledging someone who’s making a difference for black actors in the industry. Critics might not get him, but I assure you out-of-work actors love him.”
“T.K.!” exclaimed a booming male voice as a tall, slender black man approached their table. Patrice peered up—and up—at Los Angeles Lakers forward Farrell Faison. Farrell was six-seven. T.K. stood up and shook his hand. “Hello, Farrell, how are you, man?”
“Cool, cool,” said Farrell. He looked at Patrice with
