Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  “I mean, I like this one,” I admit, “but I’m not sure I want it on the cover of Vogue.”

  “Agreed. I think it would be great to include in the profile inside.” Marco slides it to the back.

  The final one makes something itch along my skin, and I’m not entirely sure why. I remember the styling and liked it at the time, but here…

  I’m a modern-day Audrey Hepburn: smooth hair, artfully jagged bangs, pearls, wide eyes. The beauty mark near my lip, admittedly my trademark feature, is a dramatic and perfect circle; a bold, bombshell flirtation in stark contrast to my soft pink mouth. Discomfort works through me at the round innocence of my gaze, the surprised circle of my lips.

  Marco takes it from me, studying it. “I absolutely adore this one. You look innocent, young.” He glances at me, reading my expression. “It reminds me of when I first met you.”

  The twist in my gut intensifies. Is that what I don’t like about it?

  I rarely let myself think of what brought us together, but the sense of calm I felt that first day in London when he pulled me out of the black car into the chaos and ushered me into the quiet room—the reassurance that everything was under control, and that Marco was there for me and me alone—has never wavered. He was in his late twenties then, with the same dark hair and chiseled features, but he’s wiser and seasoned now. We’ve grown up together, sort of.

  I like my face, my body, my mind so much more than I did back then. This picture sends me tumbling back in time. Makes me realize that I’ve grown into myself, that I’ve had to work to do it.

  He blinks up at me, gauging my reaction. “You okay with me sending this one? I can see it makes you uneasy, but Tate, it’s so fucking beautiful, I’m genuinely speechless.”

  Objectively, it is a beautiful photo. I hand it back to him, choosing to let it go. Marco’s instincts are razor-sharp. He’d never steer me wrong. “Either this or the first. No naked Tate on the cover.”

  “Done.” Marco lifts my hand, kissing my knuckles. “Now let’s get up on set and crush this.” He smiles over at me. “I smell life-changing. I smell critical darling. I smell awards season.”

  I laugh. “I smell pressure.”

  twelve

  THE TIRES CRUNCH OVER gravel, and I stir awake at the sound: we’ve reached Ruby Farm. I’m nervous and excited and feel the proverbial weight of a thousand pounds on my chest, but still—something tight inside me unwinds instinctively at the unfolding green serenity directly ahead of us.

  We pass through the gates, waving to a guard there who notes the license plate and, I assume, checks the box to indicate Tate Butler has arrived.

  I am officially on set.

  Marco and I came up to Ruby Farm a few weeks ago for the hair and makeup test, and to choose my on-site cabin for the duration of the shoot. Even having grown up on the Russian River, I can say there’s nothing quite like the peace here. It’s 240 acres of serenity. The moment I stood in the Magnolia cabin, in front of a mirror and wearing a beautiful wig and the housedress the wardrobe stylist, Naomi, picked out for me? I felt like Ellen Meyer. I’d never felt so powerful, so excited to start a shoot, like being shot through with adrenaline at the possibilities.

  On paper, Ellen is formidable. In my everyday life, I want to have a tenth of her strength and composure. But in that costume, in the cabin on the farm, I saw her fire in my own eyes. It made me itch to get back here and get working.

  Our car slows in front of the Community House, which is a long wooden structure immediately neighboring the enormous barn. For the time being, the Community House appears to have become the social center and craft services hub where we’ll take most of our meals, and the barn seems to be where the props master has brought in all of the props and set pieces. I grab my folders and reach for the door handle, but the door swings open seemingly on its own to reveal the irresistible, smiling face of Devon Malek, the 2nd assistant director.

  “Tate!” He reaches a hand out, helping me from the car and giving me a warm embrace. His sparkling brown eyes, dimples, and flirty mouth make my stomach do a fluttery nosedive. “How was the drive?”

  “Easy for me.” I inhale as deep as my lungs will let me. “I slept.” The air isn’t like this in LA; not on the coast, not even in the mountains.

  Marco steps out, shakes Devon’s hand, and then stretches his long, lanky frame while we all look around at the work the art department has done so far.

  “Looks like things are getting close,” Marco says.

  “We’re ready to roll for the first week,” Devon tells us, “everything after that is at least partly under construction, so we’re in really good shape.”

  As he speaks, my pulse is machine-gun fire inside my chest. The Community House is directly across from an enormous green field, where a replica of Ellen’s wide-porched yellow Iowa farmhouse has been meticulously constructed, down to the weathering of the clapboards. It looks breathtaking—better than it did even in my imagination.

  In the distance, I can see they’re beginning construction on the replica barn—in a few weeks they’ll be done… and we’ll watch it burn to the ground.

  All around us, activity is buzzing. It seems like hundreds of cameras are being assembled; at least five people are moving various cranes into place. Lighting structures, scaffolds, and temporary sets are being built by a dozen crew members. This is an enormous production—on a scale I’ve never experienced before. I want to bend over and put my head between my knees to catch my breath. The pressure is almost debilitating, but it is also delicious.

  Marco puts a steadying hand on my back, and we follow Devon and his clipboard down a soft dirt path toward the cabins. He chats over his shoulder to us, about the weather being unreal, the crew getting settled in the tent cabins on the other side of the hill, the transformation of the Bright Star cabin into the interior of Ellen and Richard’s farmhouse.

  “You sure you’re okay staying on-site?” Devon asks, and grins at me because he knows it’s an absurd question; Ruby Farm is spectacular. Most of the time on location, I’m put up in a hotel, sometimes an apartment. I never get to live in a communal bubble like this, and I love that we’ll all be together in this setting: rustic, quiet, away from everything. It’s like summer camp out here. A glance at my phone tells me I don’t even have cell service. Bliss.

  I see Marco pull out his own phone and frown down at the screen. The 1st AD and line producer always have good Wi-Fi, so I know what he’s going to ask before the question even emerges: “Where are Liz and Todd’s trailers?”

  Devon tilts his head to his left, indicating up the hill from us. “Just over there, with Gwen and Deb.”

  Marco catches my eye, gauging my reaction to the name. I have been dying to work with Gwen Tippett ever since I first stepped into the industry as a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old. Gwen is in the Spielberg and Scorsese stratosphere—a director actors can spend an entire career hoping to work with. But, as is the way of Hollywood, it took Gwen seven nominations for Best Director before she won last year for her film Blackbird, about a son who takes his dying mother on a road trip across the States. Everyone I’ve spoken to about Milkweed has asked whether this will be the one to get Gwen back-to-back Oscars.

  “Nick is there,” Devon tells us, pointing to my co-star’s cabin, just north of mine. “I’m past that batch of trees. Our screenwriter is that cabin, there… ” He points. “Your dad is down the hill to the right, in Clover.” Devon looks at me and winces as if in apology. “I meant to ask: Do you want us to refer to him as your dad? Or would you just prefer Ian?”

  “Dad is fine.” I smile through the unease his question triggers. How successful have the gossip rags been? Does the crew know there is tension there? If so, we’ll have to fix that, pronto. The last thing I need when I’m trying to play the role of my lifetime is micro-aggressions from Dad about how I need to appear to love him better.

  Devon stops in front of my cabin and gestures for me to head inside. “Obviously
most of your stuff is in wardrobe, but they brought a few pieces down they still need to check.” He glances at his watch. “You have about fifteen minutes till final hair and makeup consult.” Devon points to a row of trailers back up the way we came and then smiles over at Marco. “Are you staying tonight?”

  Marco shakes his head. “I’m headed back to LA after the read, but I can come back up at any point if you need me for anything.”

  “We should be fine.” Giving me his bright, dimpled smile, Devon says, “We’ll start at six in the Community House. Sound good?”

  The tightness in my stomach returns. I’ve done dozens of table reads in my lifetime, but none will have been anything like this: with the studio heads in town for the first day of shooting, and everyone dying to get a look at Ian and Tate Butler doing their first read together. Some of it will be filmed for marketing and bonus DVD material, which means the room is likely to be packed. Yep, no pressure.

  With a wobbly smile, I nod. Marco kisses my cheek and then follows Devon back up the path to gather whatever remaining information he needs before heading back home to LA.

  I’ve been dreaming about the smell of Ruby Farm—the fresh tang of grass, the sweetness of the apple trees, the bright wide-open sky framed on one side by redwoods and on the other by the snaking Garcia River—so the last thing I want to do is go sit in a trailer, but fortunately there is also no more joyous place on a set than hair and makeup.

  Dropping my purse on the bed just inside the cabin door, I turn around and head back up the hill, toward hair and makeup and the one and only Charlie.

  * * *

  The music is already blasting; I can hear it from thirty feet away. Today it sounds like Beyoncé. Tomorrow it might be some French singer Charlie discovered and wants everyone to hear. Or maybe Malaysian hip-hop. Whatever it is, Charlie will be right in her assessment: it will be fantastic. Hair and makeup is always an actor’s first stop, and Charlie learned early on that her space sets the tone for the entire day. I’m grateful that my career has landed me in a place where, contractually, I can request my own hair and makeup people on a shoot; as Head Makeup Charlie has glam and happiness down to a science.

  I pull open the door, and she turns, hurling herself into my arms with an eardrum-piercing scream. My closest girlfriend, my oldest friend: when I find my people, I try to keep them. When she pulls back to inspect me, I feel comparably dull: She’s wearing skintight leather leggings, stilettos, and a tank top with a series of strategically placed rips. Her thick black hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her wild makeup is so intricate, I don’t think I could re-create it even if she gave me all her tools and an entire day.

  “Wow, hi.” I pinch her hip. “You look good.”

  “You will too. Sit.” She motions me to the chair in front of the wide mirror, and Trey—1st Assistant Makeup—comes over to peck my cheek and give me some water. A few weeks ago, we decided on a soft palette for my makeup: lots of pinks and soft browns. A series of Polaroids are taped to the mirror—photos of me from all angles and in a variety of early-1960s outfits with the corresponding wigs and makeup. They’ll be Charlie’s reference throughout the shoot.

  Beside them is a series of photos of my co-star Nick Tyler in costume. Trey is handling Nick’s makeup, and I can see the excitement in his posture, the way he fidgets with the tools on the counter beside Charlie’s, arranging them, rearranging them.

  “I heard you get Nick.” I lean into the name and wink at him.

  “I will never survive this shoot,” he says. “Never.”

  “He seems really nice.” And it’s true. Not only is Nick Tyler hot to the point of distraction, he was lovely during our screen tests together and has a good reputation on set.

  “Really?” Trey asks.

  “Yeah. We’ve met a few times but I mean, we don’t hang out.” My films to date have mostly been glossy Chosen One paranormal flicks, girlfriend comedies, and rom-coms. Nick has done sports films and a couple bigger action movies. Gwen and the studio heads at Paramount are really taking a big risk on both of us in this nuanced, cinematic feature.

  Anxious fire reignites in my chest.

  “Maybe you’ll start hanging out now.” Trey leans back against the counter, facing me while Charlie cleans off my face with a wipe.

  “Romance on set,” she sings. “God. Just think about this place. All the sneaking around and making out against trees.” As much as cast and crew hookups are technically frowned upon, they still happen. Just more quietly than they did in my dad’s day.

  “Ruby does feel a little summer camp,” I admit. “I’m sure there will be cabin visits aplenty. Time to place our bets.”

  “Tate and Devon Malek,” Charlie says automatically.

  I gape at her. “Can you see directly into my brain?”

  “I know you have a thing for those obscenely deep dimples, and those flirty eyes? Forget it. I know your weakness.”

  I tilt my chin up for her to clean my jawline. “I feel exposed.”

  “You need to get some action going,” Charlie says. “I’m tired of knowing the tabloids are lying about all these men you supposedly have on the hook.”

  Trey samples a few shades of lipstick on his arm. “My vote was going to be Charlie and the writer guy.”

  “The screenwriter?” I ask.

  Charlie nods and begins blending foundation into my skin.

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. She nods again. “A pretty, creative type?”

  She looks at Trey over the top of my head, squinting. “I wouldn’t say pretty, exactly. I’d say gorgeous, bearded, looks like he could throw someone around a bed pretty well.” She looks at me, takes in my skeptical expression. “I’m not joking, Tates, he did immediate things to my blood. Think Tom Hardy but taller, and I bet he’s even more capable with his hands.” Pausing for effect, she says, “I mean, he wrote a screenplay about a lovesick farmer.”

  “Is this why you’re wearing leather pants your first day on set?”

  “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

  I frown. “I guess I assumed the writer would be the usual: nerdy and bald, or willowy and sensitive. I’ll have to mentally realign.”

  Trey pulls out the chair beside me. “Can we talk about me now?”

  I laugh. “Yes, Trey baby.”

  “Are we sure sure Nick Tyler is straight?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s hard-core into the ladies,” Charlie says. “And a bit of a player. Related: he’s my second bet for Tate getting laid on location.”

  “You seem awfully sure I’m going to be getting laid when you know pretty well it’s been dry as the Sahara around here.”

  Charlie grins. “I’m getting back-to-nature, wild-farm vibes. It can’t be helped. There’s something in the air out here.” She looks at me, and the exact angle of her face, of her expression reels me back to when we were kids, running down the creek bed together, our hair in tangles behind us, fingertips blackberry-stained.

  “Remember that summer?” she says, and I don’t need her to say more. It was 2004, a sweltering summer in Guerneville, with the heat warping the pavement, the river a clear, glittering green, and the lingering scent of charcoal barbecue lasting all day and night. My childhood sweetheart Jesse and I couldn’t keep our hands off each other, and Charlie could barely keep her hands off all the tourists.

  “The Sexy Summer,” I say, nodding. God, that feels like a different lifetime.

  She snaps her fingers. “It’s gonna be another one.”

  “But it’s already September,” Trey offers helpfully.

  “Fine,” she says, waving him off. “The Sexy September.”

  Frowning, Trey says, “That feels a little more pumpkin spice latte and a little less sweaty roll in the hay, but it works. Putting my money on Tate and Devon, Tate and Nick, or Charlie and Hemingway.”

  “Or Trey and the shy adorable camera guy who surprises you one night with a kiss up at the Community House,” I suggest, and his eyes light
up.

  He laughs. “Oooh, or maybe a sassy, sarcastic grip pulls me behind the trailer for a grope?”

  “Why not both?”

  The door to the trailer swings open, and Nick Tyler ducks as he steps in, already smiling that panty-dropping smile. In his reflection in the mirror, I see Trey waver where he stands.

  “Were your ears ringing?” Charlie asks him. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh yeah?” His voice is a deep, Southern vibration. “What were you saying?”

  “Wondering who you’re gonna hook up with on set,” she says.

  Nick’s head falls back and he lets out the laugh I’ve heard in theaters, the delighted, low belly rumble that makes women all over the world turn into giggling fangirls. “I thought we don’t do that sort of thing these days.”

  “I’ll never tell,” Trey says.

  Nick looks around at us, nodding knowingly. “So this is the trouble trailer, then?”

  Charlie bends to perfect my concealer. “Always.” Standing, she reaches out a free hand. “I’m Charlie. That’s Trey.”

  He takes it. “Pleasure to meet you, Charlie. Trey.”

  Nick’s laugh fades away, but the echo of it unknots the anxiety in my stomach.

  “Hey, Nick.”

  “Hey, Tate.”

  I turn my face up to him, and he does a double take. Charlie has effectively camouflaged my flaws, but added no color. I look like one of the Precogs from Minority Report.

  “Damn, girl.” But he grins, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “It’s weird seeing you all plain.”

  “I’m creating my canvas,” Charlie says.

  Nick stares at me for a lingering beat and then smiles again, as if he likes what he sees.