They had been engaged nearly eight months by then, and had already completed pre-Cana premarital counseling. Natalie and her mother had whirled about in a frenzy of wedding preparations, leaving Adam feeling more like a spectator than one of the principal participants. But it was not embarrassment or anxiety that kept him from suggesting they reconsider or at least postpone the ceremony. He still loved Natalie, although he knew they weren’t right for each other, and he couldn’t bear to lose her. Besides, he had asked her to marry him, and he was a man of his word.
He supposed he ought to be grateful that Natalie had acted more decisively than he had. She had spared them both a world of pain and recriminations.
He hoped Natalie would be happy. He figured she would; she knew how to get what she wanted. He was less certain of himself.
He missed Natalie the most at times like these, when he was pulling into the driveway of his darkened house. He had left the porch light off to signal his absence to trick-or-treaters, but the house looked so lonely and forlorn he wished he had left it on. Once he had thought that Natalie would live there with him, an assumption that in hindsight seemed ridiculous, since his was a small, older home and never had been much to her liking. It occurred to him then that at that moment, Megan might also be arriving home with no warm welcome waiting from someone she loved. But she had Robby. He was glad for her that she was not alone.
When he went to the kitchen to check his messages, he noticed that his answering machine was flashing a steady pattern of two blinks. His first, foolish thought was that Megan had called, but as he pressed the play button he remembered that he had not given her his number.
He listened to two hang-up calls, then shook his head and rewound the tape. Nana, he guessed. She loathed answering machines almost as much as computers and refused to leave messages for him. She had probably called as he was en route to her home to make sure he wouldn’t be late, as he had been when he had picked her up at Elm Creek Manor.
Suddenly cheerful, Adam carried the newspaper into the living room and settled down to read. Nana was something else. Even from miles away, she had welcomed him home.
Julia was enjoying her day off, so when the phone rang, she groaned, turned the page of her magazine, and allowed her assistant to pick up in the other room. She did a few deep-breathing exercises to ward off a tension headache, which in the past few weeks had become a nearly daily occurrence. Perhaps it was an overstatement to say she was enjoying her day off when in truth, relief was her strongest emotion. Filming had not been going well, and Julia needed this day away from the set to relax. Today she wanted to do no work at all, unless reading a copy of Quilter’s Newsletter Magazine counted as research for the role of Sadie.
Since the first script meeting, there had been a decidedly negative atmosphere on the set. Julia now realized she had taken the collegial feeling of the Family Tree cast and crew for granted. Deneford was a stubborn tyrant of a director; Samantha, as Young Sadie, seemed to have misplaced her brain most days; and Rick was a preening peacock. Aside from Julia herself, the only members of the cast who were behaving themselves were the extras and the two young boys playing her sons. Worse than the actors, if less noticeable, was Ellen, who moped around the studio in a state of perpetual gloom, muttering about the script changes Deneford continued to demand of her. To Julia’s consternation, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom, Ellen had selected her as her special confidante, which meant that Julia was privy to every minute detail of her despair, delivered in tearful monologues as Ellen paced around in Julia’s trailer. Yesterday she had spent the better part of an hour bemoaning the title change.
“Prairie Vengeance?” she had cried in disbelief. “There’s no vengeance in this movie. What is Deneford thinking?”
Patiently, Julia reminded her what the director had said at the morning meeting. “He’s trying to capitalize on the success of Jungle Vengeance. Rick Rowen’s agent is thinking about having him do an entire Vengeance series.”
“This film doesn’t belong in that series,” Ellen said. “Can’t you see what they’re doing? They’re turning this picture into a vehicle for Rick, and that takes away the focus from Sadie. This story is supposed to be about Sadie.”
Julia did feel a twinge of apprehension at that. She had heard rumors that Rick’s name would be appearing above the title, which she wouldn’t mind, as long as hers preceded his. Lately, though, she had heard other rumors that Rick’s name would appear there alone. She wondered if her name would be placed below the title, or worse yet, buried somewhere after Samantha’s.
But she shook off her doubts and said, “You have to expect these things. A film is a collaborative effort, but the director’s vision has priority. We all have to adapt for the greater good of the final project.”
“But we’re getting so far from my great-grandmother’s diaries.”
“You’re young, Ellen. You have to pay your dues. Just cooperate and don’t make any enemies, and when Prairie Vengeance is a success, you’ll have much more control over your later projects.”
Ellen accepted this, as she did all of Julia’s advice, with resignation about the way things were and gratitude that Julia took the time to explain them. Julia had to admit Ellen’s behavior was rather flattering. Although Ellen was only a writer and not an actress, Julia almost felt as if Ellen were her protégé. In fact, it was better that Ellen was only a writer, as Julia had always been suspicious of the young starlets nipping at her heels, begging for advice, no doubt longing for the day when they could steal her roles and send her tumbling into the netherworld of rare guest appearances on sitcoms. Ellen, on the other hand, was obviously no threat, so Julia could afford to be generous.
But not today. She snuggled back into the sofa cushions and tried to lose herself in an article about the Smithsonian Institution’s collection of antique quilts. Today she simply did not feel like discussing the capricious nature of the movie industry with Ellen, or with anyone else, for that matter.
Her assistant entered the room, the cordless phone in her hand. “Miss Merchaud, there’s an urgent call for you.”
“From whom?” Please, she thought, don’t say Ellen.
“It’s Miss Henderson again, ma’am.”
Julia let her head fall back against the pillow. “Did you tell her I’m home?”
Reluctantly, her assistant nodded.
Sighing impatiently, Julia sat up. “Lucy, you and I need to have a serious talk.” Lucy gulped, handed her the phone, and hurried from the room.
Julia took a moment to compose herself before putting the phone to her ear. “Ellen, dear. What a lovely surprise.”
“Miss Merchaud?” Ellen’s voice was so quiet the bustle in the background nearly drowned her out. Where was she calling from, the runway at LAX?
“Yes, it’s me.”
“There’s a problem.”
Naturally. “Would you mind speaking up?” she said, a little sharply.
“I can’t. I’m on the set, and …” Ellen fell silent, and when she spoke again, her voice was an anxious whisper. “I can’t talk now, but you need to get down here right away.”
“They aren’t filming any of my scenes today,” Julia reminded her.
“Not yet they aren’t,” Ellen said darkly. “Just get down here. Please.” With that, she hung up.
Uneasy, Julia turned off the phone and set it aside. Not yet they aren’t? What was that cryptic remark supposed to mean? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, Julia decided as she hurried to her bedroom to change.
She had given her driver the day off, so after telling Lucy she was going out for a while, she drove her Porsche as fast as she could down PCH to the studio. Fortunately, traffic was relatively light, so not quite forty minutes later, she was driving through the front gates and parking behind the sound stage reserved for Prairie Vengeance’s indoor shots. According to the production schedule, Deneford planned to shoot several of Samantha’s and Rick’s scenes that day, including a lo
ve scene Deneford had added to the original script. As she slipped inside the darkened building, Julia wondered if that was what Ellen was so worked up about. If so, Julia would finally give her the dressing down she deserved. Neophyte or not, she ought to know better than to drag Julia all the way down there merely to vent.
But when Julia reached the set for the interior of the farmhouse to find Samantha dressed as Sadie and sitting at the quilting frame as she recited her lines, Julia’s breath caught in her throat. Those were Julia’s lines; that was the quilt Sadie made to raise money to purchase seed wheat after their last crop was lost to a grasshopper plague.
“What is going on here?” she shrilled.
“Cut,” Deneford called out sharply. He looked around to glare at whoever had been foolish enough to ruin his shot, but when his eyes fell on Julia, his anger was immediately replaced by a mask of bland nonchalance. “Julia,” he said, rising to greet her. “What brings you in today?”
“Why is she doing my scene?”
Deneford placed his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to calm her. “Julia, let’s go to my office and talk.”
Julia wouldn’t budge. “I asked you a question,” she said, raising her voice and not caring who heard her. In the corner of her eye, she saw Ellen emerge from the shadows, her expression a mix of indignation and triumph. If not for her, Julia would have shown up on Monday completely unaware of Deneford’s duplicity, and as for that conniving little Samantha …
“We’re just rehearsing,” Deneford said soothingly. “Just to see how it plays.”
“What good does it do to rehearse my scenes without me? Unless they aren’t my scenes anymore.”
“Okay. Look. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but we’re shifting some of your scenes to Young Sadie. Just a few of the quilting scenes, nothing major.”
“Nothing major?” Julia gaped at him. The quilting scenes were among the most important in the entire film. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“To be honest—”
“I certainly wish you would be.”
“To be honest, the quilting close-ups look more realistic when Samantha does them. Frankly, Julia, I know you say you’re an experienced quilter, but Samantha’s better. It’s that simple.”
“I like quilting,” Samantha said dreamily. Sure enough, as Julia watched, Samantha deftly worked the needle through the three layers held fast in the quilt frame, as swiftly as any of the teachers at Elm Creek Quilt Camp. Julia was too far away to see, but with a sinking heart, she suspected Samantha’s stitches were similarly tiny and perfect. “My grandma taught me when I was just a little girl.”
You’re still a little girl, Julia almost retorted, but realized just in time that emphasizing the difference in their ages probably wouldn’t help her much.
Deneford took Julia by the arm and steered her toward the exit. “It’s only three scenes,” he said as they walked through the darkened hallway. “The material we’ve added with you and Rick together will more than make up the difference, and the new material is better. Trust me.”
That was the last thing Julia intended to do. “Which three scenes?” she asked, thinking. Please, not the quilting bee.
“This one, and the scene after the neighbor’s barn burns down, and the quilting bee.”
Silently, Julia swore. “I want the quilting bee,” she said, her voice shaking. She hated to beg, but that scene was hers. She needed it. “You know as well as I that Samantha has the emotional depth of a potted cactus. She can’t handle the dramatic shifts of that scene.”
“She did fine when we shot it this morning.”
Julia went cold. “This morning?” The quilting bee scene called for more than thirty minor characters and extras. To coordinate such a shoot required advance planning, hardly the spur-of-the-moment decision Deneford had implied only moments before. “That was no rehearsal back there, was it?”
“It was a rehearsal; Samantha needed one. But to answer your next question, yes, we will be filming that scene with her in the role of Sadie.”
Julia forced air through her constricted throat. “I see.” Another breath. “Then let me shoot the scene, too. You choose the superior performance. That’s fair, don’t you think?”
“No.”
Julia stared at him. “What do you mean, no? Just no? You’re not even—”
“Julia, why are you doing this to yourself?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Why make this more difficult than it has to be?”
Her thoughts in a whirl, Julia couldn’t respond. When Deneford opened the door, she blinked in the bright sunlight and stepped outside. “We’ll talk on Monday,” he called after her, but she didn’t acknowledge him. The door fell heavily shut behind her, and she walked to her car, numb.
She heard the door open and shut again, and then footsteps on the pavement. “Miss Merchaud,” Ellen called out. Julia stopped and turned around, her movements mechanical. “What did he say? Did he change his mind?”
“He’s going to use Samantha.”
“That ignorant hack!”
“He’s no hack.” Julia’s voice sounded wooden to her ears. “He has an Oscar and four Emmys. Or is it five? I don’t remember—”
Ellen seized her shoulders. “Miss Merchaud, we can’t let him ruin our movie.”
“It isn’t our movie,” Julia said, Ellen’s touch drawing her back to awareness. “You sold him your script. He owns it now. Whatever he wants to do, he can do.”
Ellen looked close to tears. “I wish I’d never sent him a single page.”
“At least you’ll still receive credit for the screenplay.”
“I don’t know if I want it.”
Suddenly Julia’s own voice echoed in her thoughts: A film is a collaborative effort, she had told Ellen, but the director’s vision has priority. We all have to adapt for the greater good of the final project. The memory taunted her, and she thought she might be ill.
She closed her eyes to still her churning stomach. Breathe, she ordered herself. When she opened her eyes again, Ellen was staring at her, worried. “Are you all right?”
Instead of answering, Julia said, “He’ll know someone tipped me off. You better get back in there or he’ll figure out it was you.”
Ellen laughed bitterly. “He barely even notices when I’m there. I don’t think he’ll notice that I’m gone.”
“I’m serious, Ellen. He could have you barred from the set.”
Ellen looked taken aback. “He can’t. It’s my movie.”
“It isn’t your movie,” Julia said, each word clear and emphatic. “It’s his movie. Accept that, and make the best of it.”
Ellen stared at her for a moment, then swallowed and nodded. She turned and hurried back into the building. Only after she was gone did Julia realize she had forgotten to thank Ellen for the warning.
As she drove home, her thoughts gradually became more clear. She would fight. It was a slim chance, but there might be something in her contract prohibiting this. The first thing she would do was call Ares and get him searching for a loophole.
But when she called, his assistant said he would be in meetings all day and wouldn’t be available until tomorrow. “He has to check in sometime,” she snapped, thinking of how Maury would interrupt a meeting, any meeting, to take her emergency calls. “Have him call me then.” She slammed down the phone without waiting for a reply, and then, since Deneford and Ares were out of range, she kicked over a copper vase full of dried decorative grasses and sent it clattering across the gleaming hardwood floor. Now what was she supposed to do?
Suddenly inspiration struck. “Lucy, there’s a mess in the parlor,” she called out as she raced to her study. Samantha had replaced Julia because she was a better quilter. Well, that was a situation Julia could remedy. She yanked open her desk drawer and took out her folder of quilt camp notes. Near the bottom was the sheet of paper with Donna Jorgenson’s address and phone number.
Julia sat down and rested her hands
on her desk to compose herself. Very well. None of the Cross-Country Quilters had seen fit to contact her, and her injured pride had prevented her from reaching out to them. But now she needed Donna’s help and could wait no longer.
The phone rang twice before a girl’s voice answered, “Hello?”
“Yes. May I speak with Mrs. Donna Jorgenson?”
“Hold on, please.” There was a hollow sound, as if the mouthpiece had been covered, and then a muffled, “Mom, it’s for you.”
A moment later, a familiar voice said pleasantly, “Hello?”
“Donna?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me. Julia.” For a panicky moment she wondered if Donna would remember her. “From quilt camp.”
“Julia?” Donna cried, delighted. “I can’t believe it. It’s so nice to hear from you. Where have you been? We all thought you fell off the face of the earth.”
Was that so? “You could have written,” Julia said, petulant.
“Are you kidding? We did! I wrote twice, Grace and Megan each wrote once, and Vinnie—well, gosh, she must be on her eighth or ninth letter by now. All we get back are these form letters and autographed pictures. Don’t get me wrong; we’re glad to get them, but honestly, how many identical photos do we need?” She laughed.
For the second time that day, Julia felt as if she had tumbled into a separate reality from the one she usually inhabited. “You wrote to me? At my home?”
“Well, I’m not sure. It’s the address you gave us at camp. I assumed it was your home.” Donna read off the address for Julia’s home, not a digit out of place.
“I don’t understand this.”
“Neither did we, especially since that’s not the address on the envelopes you sent us.”
Donna recited a second address, but Julia only needed to hear the first word to realize what had happened. “That bastard.”
“What? Who?”
“My agent.” Somehow he’d arranged to have her mail routed to his office, and suddenly she understood who his accomplice must have been. “And my assistant. She gave him my personal mail.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 78