Free Lucky Stars by Jane Heller Page B

didn’t understand. Like why I was in a tuna cannery in San Pedro instead of on the set of my own TV series in Hollywood.
    “I’m not doing this for myself,” my mother continued. “I’m here to represent all the little people, the people who are too frightened or sick or busy to rise up and complain about their consumer goods. I’m staying for them. I want to make sure that they don’t get bones in their tuna fish. I want them to feel safe when they go to their pantries to make lunch.”
    “A noble, noble cause,” I said, wishing there were a video of this. I could have sent it to one of those funniest bloopers shows and given my mother’s “little people” a very big laugh.
    Just then, Corbin reappeared, breathless with news. “Mr. Terwilliger, the president of Fin’s, will see you, ladies. But his time really is limited today, so I’ll have to insist that your visit be a short one—about five minutes, tops.”
    “Five minutes is all I’ll need with him,” she told Corbin, squaring her shoulders and winking at me. “I’ll state my case and you can all get back to business.”
    “Then follow me,” said Corbin, taking us to his leader.

 
     
     
     
    n ine
     
     
    W e had expected to be shown into Mr. Terwilliger’s office for our brief meeting, but we were ushered, instead, into the executive conference room.
    “Wait. Isn’t there some big powwow going on in here with your advertising agency?” I asked nervously as Corbin was about to open the heavy paneled door. “My mother only wanted to—”
    “She wanted to speak to Mr. Terwilliger,” he said. “For that to happen, she’s going to have to speak to him in front of the little group we’ve assembled today. He doesn’t have time for a private meeting, as I explained.” We walked into the room, where at least a dozen people were gathered around a long rectangular table. I figured that the man at the head of the table, the one with the gray hair and gray suit and gray complexion, was Terwilliger. He was also the one without a pen and legal pad in front of him, which tipped me off that he was the boss, the guy who didn’t have to take notes.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Corbin, getting everyone’s attention. “Say hello to Mrs. Helen Reiser and her daughter, uh—”
    “Stacey Reiser,” I volunteered and gave them my best actress-y smile. I wondered if any of them recognized me, either from the commercials or the TV guest spots or even from Pet Peeve. Yup, I decided. That cute guy in the co rn er knows I’m an actress. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me, trying to figure out what he’s seen me in and which part I played and whether I’ll give him my autograph when the meeting is over. Fame was fun, I had to admit. Even at my level.
    “Mrs. Reiser wrote to Fin’s a few weeks ago with a complaint about our product,” Corbin went on, directing his remarks toward Mr. Terwilliger. “In response, I invited her to tour our cannery and see for herself that we care very much about quality control and that we’d like her to remain a loyal Fin’s customer.” He turned to my mother. “Mrs. Reiser, why don’t you tell Mr. Terwilliger what’s on your mind as succinctly as you can, and then we’ll let you drive back to Los Angeles with your daughter, all right?”
    “All right,” said my mother, who, I suddenly realized, had not the slightest trace of performance anxiety, despite the fact that she was about to speak in front of a roomful of strangers. Actors are trained to deal with such anxiety—I had taken several courses in overcoming stage fright—but she neither shook nor sweated nor blinked an inordinate nu mber of times. She was as self- possessed as if she were about to lecture me on the su b ject of my messy kitchen. “But before I speak, I’d prefer to know to whom I’m speaking. Would those around the table please state their name and position with the company?”
    Boy, she had a set of balls, didn’t