The Diva: The Second Chance Room, #1

By Hailey North

                        The Diva

       The Second Chance Room ~One~

                 Mission Impossible?

It's a life or death challenge for Hollywood power couple Quentin Grandy and Mia Tortelli when a freak accident lands them in Purgatory's Second Chance Room. Ruled by crusty, cigar-chomping Mr. G, this halfway house to the afterlife offers a creative few a shot at a second chance on Earth.

To return to the land of the living--and win a chance at love--Mia and Quentin must devise a plan clever enough to turn around sexy, selfish celebrity Chelsea Jordan--a prima donna diva hell-bent on destruction.

               Opposites Attract

Mia and Quentin lure the diva far from star-studded Hollywood to the hills of Arkansas, toss in gorgeous blue-eyed pastor Luke Miller, and add a hair-raising challenge Chelsea cannot refuse.

This pair of unconventional cupids live suspended between life and death, hoping and praying that their formula for finding a heavenly love can persuade Chelsea to turn her life around in time to save their own.

 257 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hyacinth House
• Release date: Dec 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519994837

Hailey North

Hailey North is a USA Today bestselling author who began writing while employed as a "game show lawyer" for NBC Studios. Tired of hearing lawyers weren't creative, she quit her job and typed "Chapter One" (not the chapter, just the heading!) Since that day, North has penned eleven romantic comedies, set in her adopted hometown of New Orleans, Louisiana, in her favorite imaginary town, Doolittle, Arkansas, and in her very own version of Purgatory. Hailey lives in Louisiana with her husband, her food-centric Labrador Shelby and her two feline writing assistants Ali Kat and Rosa Pax. Hailey loves to hear from readers! Please visit her website and sign up for her newsletter. You'll be the first to know when her next book will be arriving.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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What do you mean I’m dead?

Both, Mia Tortelli corrected Quentin Grandy, winner of last year’s Academy Award for Best Director. "We’re both dead."

Impossible.

If it’s so impossible, why does the sign over this door read ‘Entering Purgatory. Please take a number’?

Quentin whipped around, scanning 360 degrees. Boisterous as ever, he shouted and waved his hands. Okay, guys, very funny trick. Come on out and tell me how you did it. It’s been a long day. Mia and I just want to go home.

Mia studied their surroundings too, knowing in her heart she wasn’t looking for tricks played by clever friends and co-workers. They stood in an alley, the midnight blackness relieved only by the dim glow of the Entering Purgatory sign. Uneven bricks lined the ground beneath their feet; the arched wooden door they faced would fit nicely as a set piece for a medieval castle. In the muddy light, the number counter next to the door looked like the one in old man Merona’s corner market.

She stepped closer, ignoring Quentin’s shouts and antics. There, carved on the side of the battered red ticket machine, were her brother’s initials. A parade of goosebumps marched up her arms and she backed away.

Mia had often been heard to say she’d follow film maker Quentin Grandy, her mentor and employer, anywhere, but she never meant to include the afterlife.

Quentin, hush. Rubbing her arms, she said, Think back and tell me what’s the last thing you remember.

As usual, her soft voice halted his tirade. Looking thoughtful, he said, We were on the lot, for the special-effects show for the children with cancer. He paused and seemed to be playing a scene in his mind, a habit of his Mia knew well. No, we’d just finished the show and you walked over...

Mia nodded. And then?

His eyes widened and Mia knew he was picturing the same scene that played in her mind. A scene more vivid than the incredibly good dailies of Quentin’s latest film, DinoDaddy.

A frown troubled his normally light-hearted countenance. Quentin, Mia often thought, was the quintessential little boy, a trait which accounted for his success in creating movies that so easily touched America’s heart and spirit. He teased, he fascinated, he brought the audience to the edge of their seats and always, always, gave them the gift of believing the world a magical place.

And then I talked you into climbing into the stunt chopper and you said only if I did, too, so I did. Quentin’s eyes widened. I worked the controls and we rose. Up. Up. Up. We waved to the last of the children. He looked like he was going to be sick. That copter was attached to a crane. I never would have urged you to get in if I didn’t believe it was safe.

Mia closed her eyes briefly, unable to wipe from her mind the memory of the sickening plunge from the top of the hangar-high building. It’s not your fault, Quentin.

Quentin studied his hands, turning them palm to topside as if he’d never seen them before. Or would never see them again. But it is. I talked you into it. You never would have done it without me. But, no, Quentin wanted to play and he wanted you to keep him company! He smashed a fist against his forehead, barely missing his glasses.

She grabbed his shoulders and shook hard. Listen, you. I chose to get in that copter and I won’t have you blaming yourself. If we’re dead, we’re dead.

No! Quentin shot his fists skyward. We are not dead!

To that, Mia said nothing. She could kick herself for agreeing to step foot in that crazy copter, but she’d wanted to show Quentin she wasn’t so work-obsessed she couldn’t have a little fun. But she wasn’t one to argue with reality.

As a producer, she dealt in facts, budgets, actuality. Fantasy was Quentin’s lifeblood, but at this moment, she couldn’t see how fantasy could do them any good.

The door creaked outward and a white-haired man poked his face around the corner. If you wasn’t dead you wouldn’t be waking me up at this time of da night. Now make up your mind. Youse coming in or staying out there? He spat and Mia jumped. Don’t make me no difference.

Mr. Merona?

What of it? In or out?

You ran the corner market off Melrose?

He shrugged. Mebbe. Mebbe not. Who wants ta know?

Mia fell silent. If only she hadn’t stolen that jar of Noxzema, she could tell him her name with a clear conscience.

Let’s go in, Quentin said suddenly and moved toward the door.

Mia followed, wishing her mother hadn’t been so old-fashioned. Soap and water were good enough for her so soap and water were good enough for Mia. But her pimples had driven her to theft and now, who knew what would happen to her. Could seeing old man Merona be a sign...?

From whom? From where? Out of habit long dormant, Mia almost murmured a prayer to the Virgin Mary, but caught herself. She’d left religion behind, outgrown the Catholicism of her Irish mother and Sicilian father by the end of her first semester at UCLA. Okay, so she was dead. So okay, the church would say she had sinned. Big deal. Yet Mia couldn’t help but look over her shoulder, knowing in her secret self she expected demons to pounce on her at any moment and bear her off to hell.

The goosebumps returned full force and Mia shifted her attention to her surroundings, reminding herself she’d outgrown that superstitious bosh. She blinked from the wattage blazing in the great hall where they now stood. Merona had disappeared, but all around them people bustled and loudspeakers blared.

It’s Grand Central, Quentin said. Look at that clock over there, and the balconies framing the upper level. These archways are the exits to the trains.

Mia saw what he meant, though the terminal had the look of a much earlier era. Gone was the Apple store and the usual hordes of disciples clutching iPhones and MacBooks. The old benches were back in place. Some of them even had black and white televisions fastened to them at intervals. It’s brighter, though.

Guess that makes sense, Quentin said, and chuckled. You need a lot of light when you’re dead. Oh, man, what a joke. Dead at twenty-six! He ripped his ever-present Yankees cap off his head and dragged his fingers through his curly brown hair. Mia wanted to reach out and shush him, hold him to her and comfort him.

And have him comfort her, too.

She didn’t want to be dead. She turned twenty-five only last month, and there was so much she hadn’t experienced.

Oh, she’d had lots of adventures, especially for a girl from East Los Angeles. In the years during and after college when she served as Quentin’s chief production assistant, she’d trekked with him to New Mexico where she slept in a tent and fought off snakes during Quentin’s first low-budget shoot. Later, in Mexico, she endured thirteen days of Montezuma’s revenge while Quentin put together his acclaimed short Quetzalcoatl’s Overcoat, and during the frenzied production of SlashDance, she braved the gangs of South Central Los Angeles.

SlashDance won Quentin the Oscar for Best Director, for which he’d thanked his producer Mia Tortelli in the star-packed Dolby Theater. In the wake of the Oscar success frenzy, Mia followed Quentin into a $95 million deal at MegaFilms with the title of co-producer, a corner office, and so much money she almost considered getting her hair done some place other than Supercuts.

Oh, yes, she’d had adventures, achievements, triumphs.

But what she craved was love.

Glancing at Quentin’s sorrowful face, she thought of her dreams of him waking one day and realizing Mia was the only woman for him. She ached for the number of times she wished for the courage to share her feelings with him. But Mia allowed only her good common sense to rule her life. And good common sense dictated that she not let silly emotion ruin a good thing. If Quentin was ever going to look at her as a woman he had to come to it on his own.

But oh how she wanted him!

Mia, my friend, we may as well look around. Quentin offered her his hand. She accepted the offer of friendship and comfort as they set off to explore.

Smiling men and women manned brightly lit ticket windows. Orderly queues formed in front of the dozens of windows, but Mia couldn’t help but think some of the people standing there looked quite stunned and lost. Others wore the air of old-timers.

How long do you think people stay here? she whispered to Quentin.

He shrugged. You’re the ex-Catholic. You tell me.

Well, that was a long time ago.

He smiled and raised his brows. You’re an old lady of twenty-five, can’t have been that long ago.

Don’t tease me, I’m dead.

His smile faded. It doesn’t matter how long people stay in Purgatory. Nothing matters once you’re dead.

A fresh-faced youth on inline skates swooped up and executed an elaborate pirouette before stopping in their path. Oh, but it does matter, he said, extending a white-gloved hand. Welcome to Purgatory. I’m Brian, and I’m your tour guide.

Disneyland lives on, Quentin said. Yet when is the last time you’ve seen someone on roller blades?

Mia smothered a smile and shook the boy’s hand.

Actually, sir, the boy said, Mr. Disney never stopped in here.

Oh, I didn’t mean that, Quentin said. I’m sure Walt must have gone straight to heaven.

I wouldn’t know about that, but this terminal serves only people who die by accident. Holding out a device that resembled a Game Boy, he said, I need to scan you into our system. He placed the unit over the center of Mia’s forehead, then moved it to Quentin.

The third eye, Quentin murmured, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Taking in the lively expression that had replaced the earlier anger and denial, Mia knew Quentin was thinking of ways he’d use this experience in his work. She’d seen that look so many times before.

Reading from his hand-held unit, the boy whistled, then glanced up at Quentin as if he wanted to ask for his autograph. Quentin Grandy, he breathed, suddenly exhibiting the gawkiness much more typical of a fifteen-year-old. "SlashDance was the most rad film!"

You saw it? Quentin glanced around the huge hall. Here?

The boy looked down and flexed his gloved hands.

Oh, no, not here. He sighed then his faced brightened once again. I haven’t been here long.

What are you doing here? Quentin asked.

The boy studied his feet. Er, blading accident. Took these old skates from my mother’s closet when she wasn’t home. Didn’t see the car.

So you’re dead. Quentin clearly continued to struggle with this reality.

Oh, yes, Mr. Grandy, I’m dead. He toyed with the Welcome to Purgatory button on his lapel. And so are you, if you don’t mind me saying so.

Hell, no!

All sound and movement halted. Mia knew several thousand eyes were turned on Quentin. Tugging on his sleeve, she said, Maybe you’d best let up on the profanity while you’re here.

Over my dead body.

The boy laughed. You’re so funny, Mr. Grandy. He slapped his knee, and around them sounds began again, as if someone had reopened the audio feed. Then, catching Quentin’s thunderous scowl, the boy sobered. Reading from the display of his gadget, he said, You and Miss Tortelli are to report to Room 111. That’s quite an honor.

Why is that? Mia asked as they scurried to keep up with their guide, who was scooting off across the marble floor.

It’s the Second Chance Room, he called over his shoulder.

Her heart leapt at the words, but Mia knew she had to stick to the facts. But it did seem some sort of a good sign that she and Quentin remained aware of their surroundings. After all, if they were 100 percent dead, shouldn’t they be six feet under and oblivious to everything? What’s the Second Chance Room?

Ooomph! The boy clattered to the floor, spinning on his bottom as if performing a breakdance. An elderly woman hunched beneath a moth-eaten purple coat hurried by, frowning and muttering, Clumsy no good children always getting in your way, always causing trouble. Lousy good for nothings...

Brian gathered himself to his feet, his face flushed. Excuse me, he called after the woman, then said under his breath, Stupid old bag.

From the loudspeaker boomed a deep voice calling, Brian Goldsmith, report to Room 666. Brian Goldsmith, report at once to Room 666.

He flushed even darker, and said, Well that tears it.

What’s going to happen to you? Mia asked, wishing instead he’d tell her about the Second Chance Room.

Oh, detention again, no doubt. You see, you stay here until you learn from the errors of your ways. He executed another pirouette, obviously intending to ignore the voice behind the loudspeaker. Most people stay here until they repeat their lives and get it right. I should have known better than to try to beat the traffic on Wilshire. But I thought I was hotter and tougher than any stupid car and driver. So I stay in Purgatory until I learn to integrate that lesson. That’s what it’s called here.

I see, said Mia, but she wasn’t sure she did. So what is the Second Chance Room?

Oh, I’m not allowed in there. The boy glanced over his shoulder. Two older teens wearing identical red blazers were bearing down on them, making good time on gleaming Segways. Oh, oh, I gotta go. It was really nice meeting both of you. Room 111 is just over there— He pointed somewhere over his shoulder and sped off, the two other red coats swooping past in fast pursuit.

Another jacketed attendant was closing the doors of Room 111 when Quentin and Mia finally located it. He gave them a sharp look and blocked their entrance. Once he scanned their foreheads, though, he grudgingly let them enter.

Mia couldn’t help but notice the attendant stepped outside and closed the doors behind him. So he wasn’t allowed inside either. Hmm. With a shiver of excitement, she realized they were about to discover what went on behind the doors of Room 111.

* * *

Clamorous hordes lined the sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard surrounding the TCL Chinese Theater. The April sunshine broke cleanly through, warming the sidewalks and toasting the rowdy crowd. From the direction of the Roosevelt Hotel a wave of cheering erupted, growing in scope and volume as the crowds closer to the theater began to chant, She’s coming. She’s coming.

A cream-colored limousine inched forward, pelted by pink roses from the waiting fans. The crowd adored their high priestess and lined the streets to pay their respects. And to catch a glimpse of her unbelievable body.

Inside the car, however, all was not rosy.

Oh my God, do I have to do this? Chelsea Jordan restrained herself from tearing at the hair her stylist had labored over for two hours. To what point, Chelsea questioned as she shook the blonde mass, knowing full well she looked as if she’d only now risen from her bed. With a sniff, she slammed shut the mirror built into the side of the limo and swiped the champagne bottle from the silver ice bucket.

At first her only answer was a sigh from the wisp of a woman sitting opposite her. Then Frances Rosen, her personal manager and the closest person she had to a friend, said, We do what we must do.

But I don’t want to put my handprints in cement. Chelsea arranged a frown, careful not to crease her delicate skin. I just want to be left alone.

Fran chuckled. Leave that to Garbo, chickie. Your life isn’t your own, and I don’t suppose you’d ever want it any other way.

This time she frowned for real. What do you know?

No need to be rude. Fran spoke softly, but there was iron behind her words.

Chelsea immediately despised herself for being so mean. Dropping the bottle back into the bucket, she flung her arms around Fran’s bony knees and begged her forgiveness. For I am truly a terrible person, she ended in a whisper.

The limousine ground to a halt. Fran said, Sit up and act like the star you are.

At once, Chelsea composed her face and her bearing. She could hear so many echoes in her head of similar commands. Her father, before he’d betrayed her, letting her know she was a special girl, a star who owed the public a perfect performance and impeccable manners. Her dancing teacher, her voice coach, the Miss Manners clone brought in to tutor Chelsea at age five.

Chelsea lifted her chin. She’d sold her soul for stardom and now was no time to chicken out.

Much better. Fran buzzed the driver, who stopped the car and began to fight the hordes to ease himself around to open Chelsea’s door.

She treated the crowd to the sight of one slim ankle, posed atop a spike heel designed to make balance impossible. Twirling her ankle slowly, she primed the spectators, working them into an uproar before sliding her pin-up legs from the limo. The strapless pink satin sheath she wore scarcely covered her crotch, but Chelsea didn’t think about that as she flaunted the body millions loved to adore.

Fran handed her one trademark long stem pink rose and Chelsea stepped into full view, the stem nestled between her perfect white teeth.

Give ‘em sex, Aldo had been fond of saying, and they’ll never complain. Like all the men Chelsea had ever known, Aldo had been a two-timing skunk with his briefcase slung between his legs. But Aldo, bless his horny head, had launched Chelsea back into the world of the movies, the only world she’d ever called home.

Aldo was dead, but she was alive, the thousands here to watch her leave her handprints testimony to Aldo’s smarts.

Handprints of a star.

Big fucking deal. So she was a star.

For the slightest of seconds, she considered rebelling, contemplated walking offstage forever.

But she did as she was programmed, dipping her chin in acknowledgement of the greetings of the bystanders and bending forward, teasing those lucky men up front with a glimpse of her cleavage.

She’d set out to become a star cum sex goddess to punish her parents, and her lowlife father cheated her out of satisfaction by getting himself killed before she arrived as Hollywood’s latest incarnation of Marilyn.

Removing the rose from her teeth, she pouted a kiss at the crowd and beckoned to an old guy with a camera strung around his neck. He blushed and pointed to himself, as if she couldn’t possibly intend to single him out.

Chelsea winked at him and he straightened, gaining at least an inch in height as the matronly woman by his side hid her surprise. The blushing man inched closer in the screaming crowd and Chelsea swayed atop her heels, straining forward until she managed to stroke the red-faced man on the lips with the petals of the rose. He stammered and grabbed hold of the rose as another man attempted to intercept it.

Well, she’d made one person happy.

Blocking out the fawning faces of the men and women who screamed her name, she turned to take the arm of Salvatino More, head of MegaFilms studio. As usual, Sal was sweating, his creased forehead drizzling like a windshield in a storm.

Sugar, he said so that only she could hear, remember what we agreed on.

Chelsea treated the crowd to a regal nod and a saucy wiggle of her hips, then said to Sal, You mean what you and Fran agreed on.

Chelsea! We love you! A rain of pink blossoms fell upon them, tossed by some waving revelers from a window overlooking the sidewalk. She blew them a kiss and wondered if those people would adore her if they had one iota of the thoughts that dwelt in her heart and lurked in her mind. Like her latest fixation, her fear of turning thirty. Or her even stronger determination to die before that birthday arrived.

The screams grew louder. A band struck up God Save the Queen. Sal gripped her arm tightly as the rent-a-cops strained to hold back the swarming crowd.

Image, sugar, image. Just do me a favor and pretend to be the lady your mother was. Sal practically had to shout into her ear, and as soon as he did so, he smoothed his Italian silk jacket, as if he were pretending nothing were amiss.

Why did he have to mention her mother? Any comparison to her mother brought out the rebel in her. Sonya Van Ness had always played the princess in public, but Chelsea had survived the truth behind the facade.

Image, hah! Chelsea dropped Sal’s damp arm as if it were swathed in spittle rather than silk and stepped to the waiting bank of microphones. God only knew she could lead a university level class on the topic. Good old Chelsea, no substance, all image.

Somehow Sal and Fran had gotten it into their heads that the public was growing more conservative. They’d decided that her latest film opening in three days would benefit from Chelsea turning over a new leaf.

Pssst, whispered an all too familiar voice as Chelsea smiled and waved across the podium weighted with recording equipment.

Go away, she said to the voice in her head.

I am so-o-o happy to be here today, she crooned into the microphones.

The crowd cheered. Pink rose petals floated down and Chelsea drove the fans to another wave of raucous exuberance when she stretched open the low bodice of her sheath and captured some of the blossoms, making it clear not a scrap of lace or satin covered her famous breasts.

Sal never should have mentioned her mother.

That’s right, babe. But you know how to fix him. Today the demon wasn’t letting up.

Today, Chelsea breathed, is the most exciting day of my life. She fluttered her eyelids, and counted on one pink-tipped nail after another, This day is absolutely more exciting than my very first Academy Award, and this day is divinely more exciting than the entire week at Cannes— She waited while the crowd laughed at her joke.

Okay, babe, sock it to them, whispered the voice.

I promised to behave, she argued in her mind.

To try to behave. Those aren’t the same. Besides, he mentioned your mother.

Chelsea pretended a frown and tipping her head to one side, she said, And this moment is infinitely more exciting and more long-lasting than sex with Arturio Grande. She named the box-office idol she was reported to have slept with once and discarded.

The crowd roared.

Chelsea laughed along with them, only she laughed at them for laughing at her.

Sal and Fran, beside and slightly behind her, managed smiles. Chelsea winked at them and stepped to the spot that had been roped off to protect the wet cement.

The voice didn’t let up. They cast you as a sobersides in this new film because they’re afraid you’re losing it. You’re almost thirty and you’re not gonna keep those thighs thin forever. And those boobies. The demon went off on a cackle. Gonna sag to your waist, babe. Then whaddya gonna do with your life?

She tried to silence it. She shook her head, almost forgetting her surroundings. She couldn’t grow old. She was Chelsea, child star. Chelsea, teen soft-porn princess. Chelsea, mega box-office draw.

Tits, babe, don’t last forever. The demon pinched her on the nipple and flew away, still cackling.

Chelsea held her hands forth to the waiting attendants and filmdom officials. They indicated the placement, and she smiled into the cameras as only an angel can smile.

She tipped forward, pretending to position her hands this way and that. Then, as America and much of the rest of the world watched, Chelsea skimmed down the bosom of her dress and in the wet cement immortalized her infamous 36Ds.

Chapter 2

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Anything for a second chance.

The thought tracked circles in Mia’s mind as a wizened old man in a smoking jacket rapped on a podium placed in front of floor-to-ceiling red velvet drapes. The shabby upholstery of the chairs and the flocked wallpaper echoed the crimson color scheme.

Well, bad decorating wasn’t her concern. Mia had seen Heaven Can Wait. She had more than one friend who claimed to be reincarnated. Maybe these things did happen. Though she’d reneged on her childhood religion, right now Mia would offer up a Mass and believe in God if only...

If only she could live again.

We’re gathered here today, the old man began, then broke into a hack of a cough that set Mia’s teeth on edge. Who was this guy? And why did he orate as if addressing a crowd? Quentin and Mia were his only audience.

As some of you may know, as if he could read her mind, the old man glared at them from under a forest of gray eyebrows before continuing, it has been said that God does not play dice. He laughed, the kind of laugh Mia never quite liked.

However, I’m here to tell you that God does have a sense of humor. And— Another wave of coughing interrupted him. And, he likes to keep people guessing.

And you know why? Now his voice rose, crescendoing in a way that made Mia feel like she’d just been called to the headmistress’s office again.

Neither of them said a word.

Beside her, Quentin groaned and dropped his head onto his knees. This can’t be happening to me, he muttered. I have a movie to make.

The speaker rapped on the podium. Mr. Grandy, if you do not wish to be present at this time, you may be excused. Forever.

Quentin started to rise, and Mia, knowing full well his allergic reaction to any voice of authority, grabbed him by the hand. Sit down and shut up, she whispered in a voice that would have done her Sicilian grandpa proud.

The mulish look that claimed his face whenever he set out to challenge authority flickered and faded. Maybe, just maybe, Mia thought, watching Quentin settle back into his chair, he was growing up. And growing up for Quentin definitely meant choosing which battles to fight.

Mia had told him more than once that jousting at every windmill was a good way to develop tennis elbow.

At least now he was pretending to pay attention, which seemed to satisfy the speaker. After a long moment, the old man said, Since no one wants to venture an answer, I’ll tell you. You know why God likes to keep people guessing? Because it makes them more creative! He laughed, then dragged a monogrammed hanky from his robe and blew his nose.

Mia strained to read the single initial but in the dim room, she failed. She almost thought the man winked as he went on.

"Anyone allowed to enter this room is here for a reason. Because you have something many people lack. You have the ability to think, to challenge, to question, to design, to create. And you two schmucks had just brought a whole lot of happiness to a passel of children when