With shaking hands I cross the room and dig for my phone in my bag. Email won’t load, but the solitary bar of signal might be enough for a phone call.
Marco’s assistant, Terri, picks up on the second ring.
“Tate! I thought we lost you to the wilderness!” she says. The connection is terrible and fades in and out, but I’ll take it.
“Me too,” I tell her, working to keep my voice calm. “Terri, can you do something really quick? Can you search my email for me? Anything from a Sam Brandis.”
I haven’t said his name aloud in years.
“Sure! Just give me a second.” The faint tapping of keys, and I’m barely breathing. I’m not even sure what I want her to find. “There are four.” I close my eyes. Is this relief? Anger? “The subject line on all of them is Milkweed.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, voice carefully even.
“I’m so sorry, Tate. Business correspondence comes directly to Marco, or me, but I’m guessing because this person isn’t in your contacts they were filtered to junk. God, I hope they weren’t important.”
“No. They weren’t.” I press my fingers to my temple and the ache that’s beginning to build there. No doubt it will be a full-blown migraine by the end of the day. “And don’t apologize. That’s what’s supposed to happen. Terri… could you forward them to me? I’ll read them when I get service.”
“Absolutely.” More tapping of keys and then, “Okay, done. Anything else?”
“I think that’s it. Thanks.”
I end the call just as a knock comes at the other end of the cabin.
“Tate?”
Devon. Of course.
Another deep breath and I stand, tucking my phone into my back pocket. This is not how I wanted to start off. It’s well after six thirty; the table read should have started over a half hour ago.
“I’m here,” I say, perfected smile in place as I open the door. “I’m sorry. This won’t happen again.”
* * *
I follow Devon down a long set of wooden steps set into the hillside. Magnolia cabin sits higher than the others, with a deck built onto the front that offers a gorgeous view of the valley and the entrance to the farm.
At the bottom of the stairs a driver waits in a bright green golf cart, the knobby all-terrain tires caked with mud. Devon motions for me to take the front seat, and he climbs onto the row in the back. The driver sets off up the trail toward the Community House.
“We’re good on time,” he says, glancing at his watch and jotting something on his ever-present clipboard. He hands me a bound copy of the script. “You’ll have a copy waiting for you, but in case you want a minute to look it over. Obviously you’ve done this before, but everyone should be there—probably eating—and the read-through should take about two hours. Depending on how chatty everyone gets.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for getting me.”
He grins at me, and as frazzled as I am, I mentally reshuffle Charlie’s predictions for the shoot. If he smiles at her like that, she won’t stand a chance.
“You say that now,” he says, dimple popping in each cheek. “Let’s see if you still feel that way when I’m knocking on your door at four a.m.”
More golf carts line the front of the Community House, and the main room inside is packed. Thankfully Devon was right: most people are eating or talking amongst themselves, so my late arrival doesn’t garner much attention. But of course Dad notices. And Marco. I keep walking. I can’t avoid Dad’s disappointed glare forever, but I can at least avoid it for another five minutes. Marco knows me better than anyone. He knows that, for me, on time is as good as five minutes late and is already on his way over before I have the chance to stop him.
Reaching for my arm, he gently pulls me to the side. “What happened?” He looks closer, clearly sensing something monumental, even knowing I can’t tell him about it now. His eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Neither one of us is buying it. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll explain later.”
With a glance around us, Marco reluctantly lets me go. I take the seat waiting for me next to Nick, mirroring his tentative smile. Three long tables have been pulled together, all facing each other to form a U in the center of the room. The primary cast is at the center table, the secondary at another, and the principal crew is at the third. More people are here than I’ve ever seen at a table read: chairs line the walls and every inch of space is filled with someone anxious to hear the first read-through with Ian and Tate Butler.
Gwen stands and the room quiets around us. She takes a moment to thank the crew and staff that have worked so hard to get us to this point. She takes a deep breath and talks about the screenplay, how she’s never read anything quite like it. I clap along with everyone else when she’s finished, but the sound is like static in my ears; voices like they’re coming from underwater.
I can feel the gentle weight of Marco’s eyes on me, worried and constantly wanting to check in. And even though I don’t know where Sam is in the room, I can feel him, too, just like I could all those years ago.
I was so angry in the months following London. Thanks to reporters and the interview I did with Dad, I was the shiny new toy and the offers came rolling in. The public was fascinated. We told a story: that Dad and Mom had agreed to take me away from LA. That Dad had always known where I was and been constantly involved. And, most important, Marco made sure to whisper to just the right people that the Guardian exposé was planned all along—no one actually betrayed us.
I did interviews with People and Cosmo, a five-page spread in Elle. Two days after the shoot, I got a call from Dawn Ostroff at the WB. Within three weeks, I’d signed with my manager Alec and been cast as the lead in Evil Darlings.
It may have begun as a campy TV show, but Darlings spun off an entire toy line, board games, a clothing line, and tie-in novels. It opened the door to more TV and eventually movies, helping me land the role of my dreams.
At first, acting was an escape, enabling me to be someone else and pretend that everything was okay. But it was also an active form of revenge—I wanted to haunt Sam. I loved the idea of him seeing me on his television and knowing that I wasn’t his, that I would never be his again. I fantasized that he saw me and saw that he hadn’t broken me; I was stronger without him. I’d imagine his regret, his guilt, his heartbreak.
For a few seconds, the fantasy would be as good as a high. But then the director would call cut and reality would crash down.
But it didn’t take long to realize I loved acting. I loved photo shoots. I loved the travel and the promo. I loved becoming someone else. And Sam was the only one who knew how much I’d wanted acting to be my life.
Ironically, my escape into various roles helped me get over him, but the distance from Sam also gave me time to truly appreciate what Nana gave me by taking me to London. She pulled me out of my small life; she made my world expand. Without London, I would never have become an actress. This is the life I wanted, but not at all on my terms.
I scan my script and revert to old habits, surreptitiously wrapping a loose string from my sweater around my finger and pulling it so tight it sends a shock of pain through my system. It’s enough to have me straightening in my seat, some of the static clearing from my ears so I can focus as the reading begins.
Because the movie opens when Ellen is a teenager, the younger cast starts the read. I look great for thirty-two, but not even Charlie’s makeup can get me to pass for sixteen.
We follow along for about twenty pages as a young Ellen Meyer and her first husband, Daniel Reed, begin a secret affair and move to Minneapolis, where Daniel begins school and Ellen works odd jobs to keep them afloat. The two young actors recite their lines with only a few stumbles, and we see Daniel’s infidelity, and Ellen moving to the family farm when she is only twenty-six.
We shuffle pages, everyone takes a few minutes to get some water, and when we reconvene, the silence in the room feels like it vibrates
along my bones.
EXT. MEYER FAMILY FARM, FRONT PORCH — DAY
1956 Iowa. Rolling green hills and farmland surround a two-story farmhouse. A handsome but down-on-his-luck salesman, RICHARD DONNELLY (28, a physically imposing black man with wide eyes and a nervous smile) knocks on the front door. His shoes are worn but his suit is clean and pressed, his hair is short and neat beneath the brim of his hat.
When no one answers, he looks back over the scenery — there isn’t another house for miles. It’s hot. He’s tired and hungry. He hears a woman’s scream followed by loud swearing from around the back of the house. He jumps off the porch and races toward it.
EXT. MEYER FAMILY FARM, BACK PORCH — DAY
ELLEN MEYER (26), beautiful but wearing a wet dress and apron, stands with her arms submerged in the tub of a broken washing machine. She is surrounded by baskets of laundry and an empty clothesline. An open toolbox lies at her feet.
ELLEN
God dammit! Piece of—
Richard races around the corner and stops when he sees her.
RICHARD
Ma’am… Are you okay?
Ellen turns. She places a dripping hand on her hip, curious, but not intimidated.
ELLEN
Who are you and what are you doing on my farm?
RICHARD
Richard Donnelly. I’m here to see about selling you some feed for those cows.
He motions toward the front of the house.
RICHARD (cont’d)
Nobody answered the door and I heard someone shouting.
She turns back to the washing machine.
ELLEN
Well as you can see, Richard Donnelly, I’m busy wrestling this stupid machine. And I don’t need more feed.
RICHARD
Yes, ma’am. Can I help you? I mean, you’re—
She turns back to glare at him.
ELLEN
What? A woman?
He tries to hide a smile.
RICHARD
Actually, I was going to say “soaking wet.”
She looks down and tries not to smile, too.
ELLEN
I’m fine. I’ve fixed this thing a dozen times before. I can do it again.
“Okay, so far this is… good,” Gwen says hesitantly, and we look up at her. “Nick, I like the vulnerability, and you’re really getting Richard’s charm.”
She turns to me, my stomach drops, and it feels like the entire room holds its breath. We all know what’s coming. I know when I’m nailing it, and right now I’m about as unnatural and tense as I’ve ever been.
“Tate, I want you to try to capture how disarmed Ellen is right here. In the past years, she’s become a city girl. Now she finds herself back on the farm, having to take care of everything, including her father. She’s ferociously independent. She’s a feminist before her time. She’s learned the hard way that she doesn’t need anyone’s help, she doesn’t trust men, she certainly doesn’t want to be charmed by Richard, but she reacts before she can stop herself. Let’s really feel that.”
My face heats under the attention of the room. Dad is seated just to my left; his presence is like a pulsing light beside me. Sam’s too, just down at the other end of the table. It’s taking every bit of restraint I have to not lift my head and look at him.
I nod and read the scene again. It doesn’t really feel any better the second time. My dialogue is forced, rushed in some places and wooden in others. But it’s just a table read… so Gwen lets it continue.
Ellen turns away and begins tightening a bolt.
RICHARD
My father owned a repair shop in Charlotte. I used to work there during the summers. These machines have really come a long way since then, but they can be temperamental.
I really wouldn’t mind…
Ellen ignores him. She sets down the wrench and presses the power button. She waits as the machine rumbles to life, pleased UNTIL it begins spraying water everywhere, soaking them both. A beat of silence.
ELLEN
What about this scenario doesn’t look under control to you?
“Tate, let’s try that line again.” Gwen nudges her glasses down her nose so she can peer over the rims at me. The action makes me feel twelve years old again, getting a lecture from Nana on how to set the café tables right. “She’s freshly divorced, standing in the backyard of her childhood home, her father has budding dementia, and her washing machine essentially exploded all over her. To her, the situation is ridiculous.”
Someone shifts at the far end of Gwen’s table, and I blink over before I can stop myself. Sam is sitting there with his eyes down, arms folded across his chest.
My mouth is dry, but I worry my hands will shake if I reach for my water. Stalling for time—hoping to get my breathing under control—I say, “We want her to be able to laugh at herself a little.”
Gwen nods, encouraging. “Exactly. This really is an if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry moment.”
She has no way of knowing this, but Gwen has just crystallized the emotion down to exactly what I needed to hear. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.
I can certainly relate to that.
ELLEN
What about this scenario doesn’t look under control to you?
They laugh at the absurdity. With a resigned sigh, Ellen realizes she could probably use another hand.
ELLEN (cont’d)
Could you hand me those pliers over there? And hold this?
Richard takes off his hat and rolls up his sleeves, then eagerly does what she asks.
ELLEN (cont’d)
I don’t know why we even keep this thing. Probably faster to wash it all by hand anyway.
They work together in silence for a moment.
ELLEN (cont’d)
I don’t recall seeing you around.
RICHARD
No, ma’am. I just got into town yesterday. I work for Whitmore Feed and was just making my rounds.
That’s why I was at your door.
Thought I’d be okay on foot, but your farm is a bit farther from town than I thought.
ELLEN
You walked all the way from town?
RICHARD
Yes, ma’am. I don’t mind.
ELLEN
You don’t have to call me ma’am.
I’m Ellen Meyer.
They shake wet hands over the washing tub.
RICHARD
Pleased to meet you, Ellen.
ELLEN
Likewise, Richard.
Richard motions to the fields behind them.
RICHARD
Beautiful place you have.
ELLEN
Thank you. Grew up here. My dad still thinks he runs the place but… he doesn’t.
The rest of it goes unsaid. Richard moves to adjust a hose and then takes a step back.
RICHARD
Try it now.
Warily, she turns it on. It works and water begins filling the tub.
ELLEN
You did it.
RICHARD
Actually, you did. I just tightened a hose. You’d’ve found it if I hadn’t interrupted you. I can see the other repairs you’ve done in there. Mighty impressive.
She blushes, not accustomed to the recognition.
ELLEN
Thank you. (beat)
I can’t send you home drenched through to your skin. Why don’t you grab a towel over there and I’ll bring you some lunch?
“Good job, everyone.” Gwen pushes back from the table, standing. “Let’s take twenty.”
I stand, stretching and working to put on a brave face. I can blush on command, and have put on a good show of Ellen flushing at the idea of a handsome Richard soaking wet in her yard, but the heat on my cheeks lingers in earnest as the reality sets in that I’ve just bungled my first—albeit unofficial—performance on Milkweed.
I wasn’t good, and everyone knows it. The lines I fell in love with seem to drag with my delivery. The chemistry that crackled
during my screen test with Nick is nowhere to be found. This is my movie—my dream role—and I’m letting my head get in the way.
When I step outside, the crisp air feels immediately easier to pull in deeply. Inside the room, at the table, I couldn’t quite catch my breath, and my delivery suffered, my words coming out tight and clipped. Neon-yellow leaves crunch beneath my boots as I round the corner to the empty side of the porch. I can see the pond from here, the rows of corn that sway in the breeze, and a field of pumpkins warming in the fading sun. Footsteps sound on the boards behind me, and I turn to see Marco standing there.
“What the fuck is going on?”
I don’t bother to ease him into it. “Sam is here.”
“Sam? Sam who?”
“The writer, S. B. Hill? It’s Sam Brandis.”
It takes a moment for everything to click, and Marco’s eyes widen. “From London? How did we—?”
“He wrote the script, and when I was suggested for the role he tried to email and warn me. Obviously, the emails never got through. He’s here. It’s completely fucking with my head.”
Marco bends, meeting my eyes. “I was going to head home to LA tonight. Do you want me to stay on set?”
“No, no, but if you could kick him really hard in the balls before you go, that would be fantastic.”
Marco laughs.
“And get this,” I say, looking around to make sure no one can hear us. “On top of everything else, all the millions of questions I have and all the shit this brings up? He wasn’t sure he even wanted me for the role.”
“He what?”
I nod. “Yeah, so he’s still a monster. Good to know.”
God, what a potent reminder that there’s no room in this industry for self-sabotage. Other people will be more than happy to do it for you.
“Keep your head down and just get the job done,” Marco says. “You were born for this role.”
Twice in a Blue Moon Page 13