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most afternoons for most of their relationship. Maybe this was a regular routine that the research for Johnny’s books involved.
    Johnny had taken him to the airport, and they’d arranged for Johnny to come out for a visit in a month or so. After a hug that, to Kendall’s relief, lasted longer than was necessary, he got in line at LaGuardia, and after waiting, going through security, and then more waiting, he boarded the plane and winged across the country on his way to Los Angeles. The flight itself was long and boring, but Kendall had his copy of the script, which he spent some additional time with, as well as a copy of one of Johnny’s books. “I read that,” the lady in the seat next to him said at one point. “It’s really good.”
    “I’m enjoying it,” Kendall said. “It was a gift from the author.”
    The woman’s eyes lit up and she almost bounced in her seat. Because of their public lives, neither of them had been vocal about their relationship. Their friends knew, but neither of them marched in parades or anything. “Yes. He’s a special friend,” Kendall said, leaving it at that. Johnny had always said that readers were readers and he didn’t want to piss any of them off, so there was nothing about Kendall in the printed bio, just like there was nothing about Johnny in Kendall’s Playbill bio. They had both agreed a long time ago that their private life was just that—private.
    Kendall returned to his book, and was rewarded for keeping his mouth shut when the woman pulled her own book out of her bag—one of those “self-help through prayer” books. Kendall smiled at her and nodded, continuing to read until he finished the book about the same time the flight attendants were readying the plane for landing.
    He’d been told that a car would be sent for him, and once they landed and he took the escalators to the baggage claim, a man in limousine livery stood waiting with his name on a small sign. “That’s me,” Kendall said.
    “Very good,” the chauffeur said. “I’ll help you with your luggage and take you to your hotel.” Kendall nodded and headed over to the luggage carousel. He got his luggage, and the driver put the bags on a cart and led the way outside. Another man, smartly dressed, stood beside a stretch limousine. The door was opened for him, and Kendall climbed in back. The seats were plush and comfortable after the hard-as-a-board plane seats. There was a stocked bar and soft lighting, and music if he wanted it. He heard his luggage being placed in the trunk and the lid closing. After a few moments, the vehicle began to move, and Kendall settled back and closed his eyes. The flight had been long and he’d heard all about Los Angeles traffic, so he settled in for a while. He knew he should rest, but instead spent the time staring out the windows as palm trees and greenish-brown hills dotted with homes passed outside as they inched down the freeway.
    Eventually, they exited the freeway and made a series of turns that left Kendall feeling completely turned around until they pulled under a hotel portico. The door was opened by one of the drivers, and Kendall got out, instantly wishing he had sunglasses. “We’ll bring in your luggage,” the smartly dressed man said.
    “Thank you,” Kendall replied and headed into the hotel. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. The hotel was nice, but this was Hollywood, and he’d been expecting a grand entrance hall, chandeliers, maybe even starlets walking through the lobby in glittering gowns, not a nice but ordinary hotel with normal people walking around everywhere. “Kendall Monroe,” he said to the desk clerk.
    “Of course, we’ve been expecting you,” she said with a smile and nodded to one of the bellmen, who took Kendall’s luggage from the drivers. “I’ll just need a credit card for incidentals,” she explained, and Kendall handed his over.
    “We’ll be waiting for you, sir,” the driver said very softly.