Although Annabelle has warned me that her dad will ask me uncomfortable questions and not to take him seriously, it’s her mother I end up spending the most time with.

I’m still in make-a-good-impression mode, so as soon as Annabelle and her sisters take off, I begin to clean up the lunch dishes.

“Oh, Archer, you don’t have to do that,” Mrs. Winter declares. “You made lunch! I’ll deal with it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Mrs. Winter,” I assure her. “Might as well keep busy.”

“Well, let me at least help.”

“I’ll come help in a few minutes,” says Mr. Winter. “I’m going to go check on the workers first.”

He heads upstairs to see how the restoration of the guest room is going, and Mrs. Winter and I carry plates into the kitchen where I’ve been loading the dishwasher.

“So tell me more about being an actor,” she says. “It sounds so exciting. What’s your favorite role been so far?”

I think about it. The TV work I’ve done has been bit parts; commercials and walk-on roles. While I try to make even those characters as well rounded as I can, they aren’t exactly roles I can sink my teeth into. And for the music video, I was basically a live-action model; I didn’t have to do much more than stare at the camera and try to look seductive.

“I landed a role in a theater production of Chekov’s The Seagull just after I moved to LA,” I say. “You know the play?”

She nods, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ve seen it several times.”

“I played Konstantin,” I explain. “A little community theater production. It only ran for a couple of weeks, but it’s a great role. He’s a character you can do a lot with.”

She cocks her head at me, looking like she is trying to remember something. Suddenly she snaps her fingers. “BlackBox Theater Company!” she says suddenly.

I look at her in surprise. “Yeah. That was them … You’ve heard of it?”

There are dozens of community theaters and local playhouses in LA and the surrounding area, and BlackBox isn’t one of the better-known ones. The odds that anyone in the Winter family would have heard of it, let alone seen one of its performances, seem incredibly slim.

“I knew you looked familiar.” Mrs. Winter’s face lights up. “A friend of mine is on the board of directors. He’d been trying to get me to one of their performances forever and I finally went just to humor him, but it was really good. Nick and I ended up donating to their annual fund.”

She steps back, a new respect in her eyes. “Archer, you were amazing in that role. I couldn’t get it out of my head for ages.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Winter.” Once I get over my surprise that someone of Mrs. Winter’s caliber has set foot in a BlackBox production, I’m genuinely pleased to hear her praise. I took a lot of pride in that role, and wish the production had gotten more attention than it did. I hardly ever mention it though, because people are usually more impressed that I’ve been on TV—even just in a commercial for dishwasher detergent—than that I had a major role in a live performance that hardly anyone saw.

She looks genuinely impressed, which is kind of funny, given that she and her husband are friends with Zac Borstein and probably know tons of famous people.

“That’s just …” She shakes her head. “Small world. Okay, I know we heard about some of your jobs last night. Tell me more about what you do. And for heaven’s sake, call me Moira. ”

So I start talking. I tell her why I love acting, about the community college class that got me into it back in Ohio. She seems so sincerely interested that I even tell her about some of the less dignified gigs I’ve had—I got my start dressing up as a gorilla and delivering candy grams, for instance, something I don’t share with too many people.

Virtually all my discussions with women are transactional in one way or another. Sometimes, I’m hoping to get sex; sometimes, in the case of a casting agent or someone like Cassandra, I’m trying to get work; in my man-whore past, I’ve angled for a place to stay, expensive gifts, and even spending money.

This isn’t really any different, except for one important thing: I momentarily forget all about Zac Borstein. I just like talking to Mrs. Winter—Moira. She’s enthusiastic about my career, but she also asks sharp questions about my agent and my contracts that make me feel like she’s sincerely interested in my well-being. She reminds me that she was a lawyer up until a couple of years ago and makes me promise that if I ever need someone to look over a contract, that I’ll bring it to her.

“Pro bono,” she promises.

“Aw, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” I shake my head as I put the last dish in the rack.

She picks it up and dries it. “I’ve worked in and around Hollywood long enough that I’ve seen how people get taken advantage of,” she says. “Especially good-looking young actors.” She gives me a stern look. “I trust Annabelle’s judgment. If she likes you, you’re probably someone worth helping.”

I blink, unaccountably moved. I think of my own mother. She wasn’t a lawyer, just a secretary in the same factory where my dad worked, and she wasn’t nearly as glamorous or as well-educated as Mrs. Winter. But she was probably the last person in my life who had my best interests at heart, and something about Mrs. Winter reminds me of her.

“Well, thanks, Mrs. Winter. I mean, Moira,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too emotional. “I really appreciate that.”

Annabelle’s dad strides into the kitchen.

“Looks like I’m just too late to help with the dishes,” he says with a smile.

“There will be plenty after dinner for you to do,” Mrs. Winter says, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Carina’s cooking.”

Mr. Winter groans.

“Carina is a good cook, but not a tidy one,” Mrs. Winter explains to me. She turns back to her husband. “Anyway, how does the guest room look?”

“The plaster needs to dry before we can paint over it, but the floorboards have been replaced and it all looks pretty good. Archer, would you mind helping me move some of the furniture back into the room? I could use someone with a strong back.”

“Poor Archer.” Mrs. Winter shakes her head. “Annabelle ditches you for her sisters, and we put you to work.”

“You just said you weren’t going to let anyone take advantage of me,” I tease her. “Nah, I don’t mind, Mr. Winter. Just tell me what to do.”

A few minutes later, we’re in the spare room, rearranging the furniture. The bed’s been dismantled and is in pieces in the hallway, a mattress, a headboard and a frame, along with a desk and a chest of drawers that have been pushed haphazardly against the sides of the room so that the workmen could get in to fix the walls and the floor.

Together, we haul the desk back into its space in the corner.

“Well, young man,” says Mr. Winter, “since we’re here, I suppose I should ask you what your intentions are toward my daughter.”

Annabelle warned me that her dad would hit me up with some awkward questions and told me not to take him too seriously.

“I like your daughter a lot,” I tell him, which is true enough. Annabelle is nice and smart—not my type, but nothing there not to like, really.

“How do you feel about having kids?” he asks.

I chuckle. He really does get straight to business. “I like kids, but I’ve only known Annabelle a few weeks. I’m not even really sure how she feels about them.”

“Annabelle loves kids,” he assures me, moving to lift the dresser.

“Okay, good to know.” I grab the other side of the dresser, and together we haul it to the space under the window.

“Now, I know we heard about your successes last night at dinner, but when you say you’re an actor, is that code for you’re really a waiter, or are you actually making a living as an actor?”

I stretch my arms out before answering. That dresser was pretty heavy. The fact is that although money is chronically tight, I’m actually making a living as an actor. “I’ve waited plenty of tables, but right now I’m actually making a living with acting jobs. And a little modeling.”

And Gentlemen, Inc., though of course I don’t mention that. The thought sends a nasty barb of guilt twisting through my chest. “I’m not making a lot of money,” I say quickly, in an effort to be honest, “but I’m making enough to get by for now.”

“Until the proverbial big break.”

I nod. “Until the elusive big break,” I agree with a self-deprecating chuckle.

I think again about Mr. Winter’s friendship with Zac Borstein, then push the thought out of my head. I don't want him seeing any hint of calculation in my expression.

We spend the next ten minutes re-assembling the bed, which distracts Mr. Winter enough that, to my relief, he doesn’t ask any more questions.

“Bed goes in the center?” I ask when we’re done, taking one side of the old-fashioned wrought-iron frame.

Mr. Winter nods, and with a few huffs and puffs, we push it back into place, its headboard against the wall.

We spend a few more minutes replacing the dresser drawers and some storage boxes that belonged under the bed. Once we're done, Mr. Winter straightens up. “Okay, that’s the worst of it done. Thanks so much for your help, Archer.”

I look around, actually wanting to do more, as if moving a few more pieces of furniture will make up for the fact that I’m taking advantage of this family’s connections. “Are you sure? I don’t mind—”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Next time you come up, maybe we’ll put you to work painting the wall, but there’s nothing more to be done now. Go swimming, or take out one of the canoes. Maybe read a book. ”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dismissed, I head to the room I share with Annabelle for a few minutes to change my shirt, which has gotten sweaty.

I head downstairs and out the front door. Mr. and Mrs. Winter are on the porch swing. He’s lying with his head in her lap reading a newspaper, while she reads a book. They’re the picture of a happy, long-time couple.

Moira looks up as I step out. “Going down to the dock?”

I nod. “Mr. Winter suggested I take a canoe out for a spin.”

“Oh, call him Nick, for heaven’s sake,” she orders.

Mr. Winter rolls his eyes but he smiles. “Yeah, call me Nick. We don’t stand on ceremony much. There’s an orange Old Town on a rack in the shed. You won’t have any trouble getting it down, and you can just slide it into the water.”

“But before you do that, Nick and I were just talking,” says Mrs. Winter. A smile that reminds me of Carina plays around the edges of her mouth.

“You were talking,” Mr. Winter mumbles with a smile and she gives him a playful swat on his arm.

“Did Annabelle ever happen to mention that Zac Borstein is an old friend of Nick’s?”

My heart rate kicks up. The next minute is crucial and I’m going to need all my acting skills to pull this off gracefully. “Zac Borstein, the director?” I ask. “Who did Windstorm? No, Annabelle never mentioned it.”

He’s done many more movies, and Windstorm isn’t his best known, but it was his first, the one that propelled him to fame, and it really is an amazing movie.

Plus I know that Mr. Winter invested in it.

As if on cue, Nick smiles and looks up at me. “You know that one? It’s my favorite of his.”

“Fantastic movie,” I say. I could go on—groundbreaking, award-winning, emotionally wrenching—and I almost want to because it really is that great a movie, but I don’t want to come on too strong.

Mrs. Winter smiles proudly. “Zac and Nick are old friends. In fact, Nick put up a significant amount of money to help get Windstorm produced. Anyway, Zac’s in pre-production for a new film right now. I think the major roles have been filled, but would you like us to ask if he’d be willing to let you audition for a smaller role?”

My God, was it this easy?

“Are you serious?” I say. This is no time to play it cool; I let my genuine excitement come through in my voice. “That would just be incredible. Thank you.”

Mrs. Winter smiles, and I remember what Annabelle said about her parents liking to make connections for people. “No promises, he’s a busy man, and like I said, I’m not at all sure how much of the casting is already done. But it’s worth it to ask, right?”

“Right. Wow … thank you,” I stammer, trying to sound surprised and grateful and excited all at once. It’s not hard; the only emotion I have to fake is surprise, and even that is mostly genuine. I could never have expected this to go off so smoothly. “Anything you can do would be just … amazing.”

Mr. Winter smiles at his newspaper. “I’ll give him a call on Tuesday when we get back to LA. Don’t get your hopes up, but we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you,” I say again. I know I'm repeating myself but I figure raw emotion is more important for this role than eloquence. “I really appreciate it.”

Mrs. Winter waves her hand at me. “Why don’t you go enjoy your canoe ride. I’m guessing the girls will be back in half an hour or so.”

“Will do. Oh, wait.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “You mind if I don’t say anything to Annabelle about it just yet? I don’t want to jinx anything.”

Mrs. Winter nods indulgently. “Of course, I understand. It'll be our secret.”