s far as Honey was concerned, the Beverly Hills Hotel was a chunk of pink-stucco heaven right on earth. The moment she stepped into the small, flower-bedecked lobby, she decided that this was the place all good people should go the second they died.

The Iranian lady at the front desk explained how everything in the hotel worked, and she wasn't the slightest bit condescending, although it had to be pretty obvious to her that neither Honey nor Chantal had ever stayed at any place nicer than a ten-unit motel.

Honey loved the wallpaper printed with fat banana fronds, the louvered doors, and the private patio that opened off their spacious, homey room. With the exception of a couple of snooty peckerhead waiters in the Polo Lounge, she decided that the folks who ran the place were just about the nicest people on earth, not stuck-up at all. The maids and bell boys said hi to her even though they must have suspected that Gordon Delaweese was sneaking into their room and sleeping on the couch.

Gordon looked up as she came out of the dressing room on Saturday afternoon. It was their second day in the hotel, and she had just changed into a bright red tank suit that one of the maids had gotten for her so she could go swimming. Gordon and Chantal were curled up on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune and trying to guess the puzzle.

"Hey, Honey, why don't we order up some more food from room service?" he said, speaking through a mouthful of potato chips. "Those hamburgers sure were good."

"We just ate lunch an hour ago." Honey couldn't keep the disgust out of her voice. "When did you say you were leaving, Gordon? I know there's a lot of true life out there you still need to observe if you want to be a painter."

"I can't think of a better place for Gordon to observe real life than here at the Beverly Hills Hotel," Chantal commented, taking a sip of her Diet Pepsi. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for him."

Honey debated starting an argument, but every time she pressed the idea of Gordon leaving, Chantal began to cry. "I'm finished in the dressing room, Chantal. You can go change into your bathing suit now."

"I guess I'm too tired to swim. I think I'll stay here and watch TV."

"You said you'd come swimming with me! Come on, Chantal. It'll be fun."

"I'm feeling a little headachy. You go on."

"And leave the two of you alone in this hotel room? Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Some like it hot!" Gordon cried out, pointing to the television screen.

Chantal gazed at him with admiration. "Gordon, you are so smart. He's guessed every puzzle, Honey. Every single one."

Honey looked at the two of them curled up on that couch in the middle of the afternoon just like a couple of pieces of white trash. This would probably be their last day at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and she had been looking forward to swimming in that great big pool ever since she got here.

Inspiration seized her. Walking over to the small chest by the bed, she began opening the drawers. When she found what she wanted, she snatched it up and carried it over to Chantal.

"You put your hand right square in the middle of this Holy Bible and swear you won't do anything with Gordon Delaweese that you're not supposed to."

Chantal immediately looked guilty, which told Honey everything she needed to know. "I want you to swear, Chantal Booker."

Chantal reluctantly swore. For good measure Honey made Gordon Delaweese swear, too, even though she wasn't sure exactly where his theology lay. As she left the room, she was relieved to see that both of them looked miserable.

The pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel was a wondrous place, bigger than most people's houses and inhabited by the most interesting group of human beings Honey had ever seen. As she stepped through the gate, she observed the women with thin, dark, oiled bodies and glimmering gold jewelry stretched out on the white lounges. Some of the men wore tiny bikinis and looked like Tarzan. One had straight white-blond hair that hung past his shoulders—either a WWF wrestler or a Norwegian. Some of the poolside loungers looked like ordinary rich men—paunchy bellies, thin slicked-back hair, and funny little canvas slippers.

Still, Honey felt sorry for them. None of them knew how to have real fun in a swimming pool. Occasionally, one of the men did a neat dive off the low board or swam a few slow laps. And a couple of women with diamonds in their ears squatted down in the water while they talked to each other, but they didn't even get their shoulders wet, let alone their hair.

What fun was it to be rich if you couldn't enjoy a swimming pool? Kicking off her flip-flops, she raced toward the water and, giving her best rebel yell, did a cannonball right into the deep end. The splash she sent up was one of her best. When she surfaced, she saw that everybody had turned to look at her. She called over to the people closest to her, a darkly tanned man and woman, both of whom had telephones pressed to their ears.

"Y'all should come in. The water's real nice."

They averted their eyes and went back to their phone conversations.

She dove beneath the water and swam along the bottom. The tank suit was too big and the nylon ballooned around her rear. She surfaced to catch her breath, then again dove for the bottom. As the peaceful underwater world engulfed her, she once again tried to sort out what was happening. Why had Dash Coogan wanted to videotape her? He had said he wasn't trying to get her into trouble with the police, but what if he'd been lying?

She came to the surface and flipped over onto her back. Water filled her ears and her chopped hair floated unevenly around her head. She thought about Eric Dillon and wondered if she would ever see him again. He was the handsomest man she had ever met. It was funny, though. When she'd casually mentioned his name, Chantal had gotten this strange look on her face and told Honey that Eric Dillon was scary. Honey had never heard Chantal say such a thing about a person in her life, and she figured her cousin must have gotten the real Eric Dillon mixed up with that character he played on the soap opera.

Half an hour later she was climbing out of the pool to do another cannonball off the diving board when she saw Ross Bachardy coming toward her. She nodded politely at the producer, but inside she felt like crying. She'd known their time in paradise had to come to an end, but she'd been hoping for one more day. She walked over to her lounge chair, retrieved her towel, and tucked it high into her armpits.

"Hello, Honey. Your cousin told me you were out here. Are you enjoying your stay?"

"It's about the best place I've ever been in my life."

"That's good. I'm glad you like it. Could we sit over here and talk?" He gestured toward a table tucked into the greenery.

She thought it was nice of him to show up personally to kick them out, but she wished he'd just get it over with. "It's your nickel." She followed him over to the table and pulled out a chair with her foot so she didn't lose the beach towel anchored under her arms. He looked hot in his taffy-colored sports coat, and she couldn't help feeling a little sorry for him.

"It's a shame you didn't bring your trunks along so you could take a swim. The water's real nice."

He smiled. "Maybe another time." A waiter appeared.

The producer ordered some kind of foreign beer for himself and an Orange Crush for her. Then he hit her with his bombshell.

"Honey, we want to cast you as the daughter in The Dash Coogan Show."

She thought she must have pool water in her ears. "Beg your pardon?"

"We want you to play Dash Coogan's daughter."

She gaped at him. "You want me to play Celeste?"

"Not exactly. We're making some changes in the show, and we've gotten rid of that character. All of us liked that videotape you and Dash made together, and it gave us a few ideas that we're quite excited about. The details aren't worked out yet, but we think we have something special."

"You want me?"

"We certainly do. You'll be playing Janie, Dash's thirteen-year-old daughter. Dash and Eleanor won't be newlyweds anymore." He began to outline a story line for her, but she couldn't seem to take it in and eventually she interrupted in a voice that had a funny little squeak to it.

"No offense, Mr. Bachardy, but that's the craziest idea I've ever heard. I can't be an actress. I'm not the slightest bit pretty. Did you look close at my mouth—like a big old sucker fish? It's Chantal you should be casting in that part, not me."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that."

Something he'd said earlier suddenly hit her. "Thirteen? But I'm sixteen years old."

"You're small, Honey. You can easily pass for thirteen."

Normally she wouldn't have swallowed such an insult, but she was too stunned to be offended.

Ross went on, giving her more details about the show and then talking about contracts and agents. Honey felt as if her head was spinning right off her neck, just like that poor little girl in The Exorcist. The breeze raised goose bumps on her skin as she realized how fiercely she wanted all this to be true. She was smart and ambitious. This was her chance to make something of herself instead of expending all of her energy trying to prod Chantal. But a TV star? Not even in her wildest imagination could she have conjured up something like that.

Ross began to talk about salary, and the amounts he mentioned were so astronomical she could barely comprehend them. Her mind raced. This would change everything for them.

He pulled a small notebook from his suit-coat pocket. "You're a minor, so before we can go any farther with this, I'll need to meet with your legal guardian."

Honey fumbled with her glass of Orange Crush.

"You do have a guardian?"

"Of course I do. My Aunt Sophie. Mrs. Earl T. Booker."

"I'll need her phone number so I can call her to arrange for a meeting. Thursday at the latest. We'll fly her out at our expense, of course."

She tried to imagine Sophie getting on a plane, but she couldn't even imagine her getting up off the couch. "She's been sick lately. Uh—female trouble. I don't think she'll come to California. She's afraid to fly. Plus the female trouble."

He looked disturbed. "That's going to be a problem, but you'll have to get an agent to represent you anyway and he can take care of it. I'll give you a list of some of the better ones. We begin filming in six weeks, so you'll need to get it taken care of right away." The lines around his mouth grew deeper, "I have to tell you, Honey, that I think it was unwise of you to have come all the way to California without an adult."

"I came with an adult," Honey reminded him. "Chantal's eighteen."

He wasn't impressed.

After she returned to the room, she stumbled all over herself explaining what had happened, and Chantal and Gordon started whooping and hollering so much that before long they were all rolling around on the floor and acting crazy. When she settled down, she remembered what Mr. Bachardy had said about getting an agent and she pulled out the list of the names he had given her. She began to reach for the telephone, and then her eyes narrowed. She might be a redneck girl from South Carolina, and she certainly didn't know anything about agents or Hollywood, but she wasn't born yesterday either. Why should she trust Mr. Bachardy to give her a name? Wasn't that a little bit like trusting the fox to guard the chickens?

She considered the problem while she changed from her bathing suit back into her shorts. She didn't know anybody in Hollywood, so who could she turn to for advice? And then she smiled and picked up the phone.

The Beverly Hills Hotel prided itself on handling every emergency, even helping one of its guests find an agent, and by noon the next day the concierge had helped Honey hire Arthur Lockwood, an aggressive young lawyer who worked for one of the better-known talent agencies and promised to fly to South Carolina to meet with Aunt Sophie.

That night as Honey drifted off to sleep, she could hear the distant roar of Black Thunder in her ears.

She smiled against her pillow. There's always hope.