I'm reading a biography of Cary Grant, one of my all-time favorite actors, and so while I was making the bed a little while ago, this little scene came into my head. It's a nod to those old screwball comedies. I think it's about a couple staying three nights in a haunted castle in order to inherit the estate. Yeah, yeah, that's kind of a cliché, but . . . Old films seem cliché these days anyway.

I'll call the Cary Grant character "Archie." He would've been amused by that. And the would-be Kate Hepburn can be, well, "Kate."

They start out in a room—you can picture it: a 40s Hollywood set decorator's idea of a posh castle bedroom. And these two characters are struggling to make the bed while a thunderstorm rages outside the windows. At the moment, they each hold a side of a bedsheet and are engaging in a tug of war with it.

ARCHIE: (tugging) You'll see—

Kate tugs back.

ARCHIE: (tugging) There's . . .

Kate tugs. Archie tugs and manages to pull the sheet from Kate's hands.

He shifts the sheet through his fingers.

ARCHIE: Ah, there. See?

He finds the tag on the sheet.

ARCHIE: There it is.

He shows it to Kate.

KATE: There it is.

ARCHIE: Yes, that's right, there it is.

KATE: Well, goodie for you.

ARCHIE: Now, look here. This is important.

KATE: Oh, it's important.

ARCHIE: They wouldn't bother with the manufacturing costs if it weren't important. You need the tag to know which way the sheet is supposed to go.

Thunder booms. Kate and Archie jump, look uneasily at one another as the lights flicker.

ARCHIE: It's all right. We can make three nights.

KATE: You're joking. We can't even make a bed.

Another, louder clap of thunder and both of them dive for the bed, pulling the sheet over their heads. After a moment each peeks out.

ARCHIE: Planning to sleep in your clothes?

KATE: It is a bit chilly in this place.

ARCHIE: You could always go for flannels.

KATE: I look better in my clothes.

She gets out of the bed.

KATE: Since you clearly have things covered here, I'll go make up the bed in my room.

ARCHIE: Need any help?

KATE: (as she heads for the door) I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll just look for the tags.

More from K-Pro Sequel Ms. Fortune

"I saved her cat," said Grant.

"Must have earned her stamp of approval," David replied absently. He stood with the refrigerator open, staring into it with the perplexed expression of a man who has forgotten what he's looking for.

"She gave me ice cream."

"Ice cream . . ." David echoed. He released the fridge door and opened the freezer side instead.

"Are you even listening?" Grand asked.

"We don't have any," sighed David. He let the freezer shut, too, and turned to Grant. "Let's go out. For ice cream."

Grant did a rapid mental calculation. Being seen out with the great David Styles certainly wouldn't hurt his PR any. And he actually liked David, which was something like a bonus given how many people he was forced to endure that he didn't like. Nature of the business. But still . . . "Your treat?"

David laughed. "Yes, fine. But you drive."

An Encounter I Once Had

"How do you do it?" he asked.

I had to check behind me just to be sure I was the one he was talking to. But though people bustled past us, each intent on his and her purpose, it was clear the question was directed at me. I grimaced at the steeliness in his bright eyes, felt my back grow tense and my shoulders come up in semi-defensive measure. "I don't know," I said, sounding like a surly teenager. "It's not like I had any formal training. I just . . ." I waved my hands and his eyes darted to follow their motion as if I might conjure something on the spot, an explanation out of thin air, or maybe just a how-to manual.

"Yeah," I said, drawing the word out the way Gary Cole was so famous for doing, "that's not really . . ."

The eyes came back to my face, sharp and intent.

"What do you want?" I asked, my defensiveness returning.

"I want you. To make it happen. For me."

"Well, that might take a while," I said. "Depending on what you want. Like, an award or something?"

"Can you get me an Oscar?"

I shrugged.

"A knighthood?"

"Like, in five, ten years maybe." But God, the thought of being stuck with him that long made me want to shrink into a ball.

"What would I have to do?"

". . . I'd have to stay with you," I admitted reluctantly, "and you'd have to let me guide you in some ways."

"Like a manager?" he asked.

The word had more weight than I liked. "More like a muse," I told him.

"Great. When can you start?"

"I wasn't . . ."

"I'll have my people come pack your things."

I stood there, my mouth hanging open. My inability to make a sound effectively ended the conversation while simultaneously setting off the sequence of events that would end in at least one person drowning in a studio water tank and another being struck by lightning.

Hey, I'm not always proud of the work I do, but it's a living.