A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “Right with you,” said Dermot, tucking Monty under his arm as they left the airport’s small cafe and headed out to the windswept car park.

  Marianne strapped the youngsters into their seats. Dermot checked his phone.

  Clocked and following. The text read. The weather was coming in as they drove carefully away.

  Chapter Seven

  The Big Apple

  Franco Rossini loved New York City. His visits were rare these days, obliged to spend too much time in Los Angeles. He waved the two men away, crossing the little bridge to his favourite bench. It looked down into a small arbour of trees and bushes, beautiful at any time of year but never more stunning than now, as the burnt copper and ruby reds of autumn swayed softly in the breeze, clinging hopefully to each branch before a final, fluttering farewell gave way to the inevitable arrival of winter.

  He sat down wearily on the bench, splaying his arms along the back of the seat. He crossed his legs at the ankles, briefly admiring the fine Italian shoes and English silk socks. He let his head fall back, eyes open, relishing the cocoon of towering New York buildings peering over the edge of the park, framing the precious oasis, the whole scene domed in a cobalt, cloudless sky. Franco sighed. The hum of downtown Manhattan just yards away, a world away. This was the stillest and happiest he had been for some time. A good place to be, at the heart of his home.

  As if he just remembered something, he felt inside his jacket and took out a delicate, pearlescent box. He flipped it open, popped a small pill under his tongue, closed the box and slipped it back in his pocket. He heard footsteps. The man he was waiting to meet was striding purposefully towards him. Dark aviator glasses, battered leather jacket with the collar turned up, faded jeans, worn deck shoes. Franco sighed. He did wish one of his most high-profile stars would make more of an effort in the style department. Jeez, he looked like an out-of-work bit player.

  The man gave him a broad grin. Devastatingly handsome though. Franco smiled back, even a full-blooded heterosexual male like him could see, he was still a damn good-looking son of bitch!

  “Ryan O’Gorman, as I live and breathe.” The men embraced and Franco kissed him on each cheek. “You look like shit,” he said, slapping Ryan on the back, beckoning him to sit. Ryan thought Franco did not look too good either, but declined to comment.

  “Great to see you Franco, it’s been too long,” Ryan said, and then the smile disappeared. Slate-blue eyes looked directly into Franco’s warm brown gaze, “give it to me straight Franco, how much trouble am I in?”

  Franco resumed his splayed arm, crossed-leg position on the bench. He threw his head back and looked at the sky.

  “To be honest, O’Gorman,” he said, “It is I who is in the trouble my friend, big trouble.”

  Ryan frowned, sat back on the bench next to his boss, and waited.

  For a while Franco said nothing, just continued to gaze at the sky. Ryan knew him well enough, particularly under the circumstances, to wait for his boss to speak first. After a long silence, Franco fished around in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He gave Ryan one, put another between his own lips and lit them both with a slim, gold lighter. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. Ryan did the same.

  “They told me to give up,” Franco said, rolling the cigarette lovingly between finger and thumb, “I never did do what I was told.” He gave Ryan a wry smile.

  “Me neither,” Ryan smiled back.

  Franco looked at the cigarette lighter as it lay glinting in the palm of his hand. He flipped it over and read the inscription out loud.

  “‘Mira sempre alla luna, se la manchi, sarai sempre tra le stele.’ My father’s saying: ‘Always aim for the moon, if you miss it, you’ll land on the stars.’ I gave him this when I made my first movie. He treasured it, till the day he died. A lot of people think it refers to ambition, and maybe it does, but ambition takes many forms. Perhaps the greatest ambition is love; the love of a good woman, the chance to be together, share love and grow love, so you have something to hold onto all the days of your life. That’s one hell of a moon to aim for.”

  Ryan nodded. This was the Franco he liked best. The Franco who would seek him out when things were not going well on set; the Franco who would pull up a chair, sit beside him, smooth the troubled waters; the philosopher, the wise old sage, telling of what he has learned of life, what is in his heart.

  “Have you landed on your moon, O’Gorman?” Franco asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “I think so,” Ryan said.

  “Then you must grab it with both hands and hang on. Does she feel the same way?”

  “I think so,” Ryan repeated. “In fact, I know so. When we’re together, it just feels right, know what I mean?”

  Franco nodded, puffing gently on the cigarette between his lips.

  “She stops the churning inside, yes?”

  Ryan blinked at him. How did he know about the churning, the incessant whir of butterflies he felt whenever he was alone, without Marianne. He nodded.

  “My Sophia, she did that too. Fought like an alley cat with me all our married life, but she stopped the whirring inside, she made everything alright, even when it wasn’t. A good woman, my moon and stars.”

  They fell silent again, companionably smoking their cigarettes.

  “Angelique wasn’t right.” Ryan thought he would seize the opportunity, put the record straight.

  Franco raised his hands.

  “Hey, I knew that. Thought you were crazy getting mixed up with her. I will take care of her, of course. She’s family, but she’s real bad news. Sad, but true.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way. I never meant...” Ryan stopped.

  Franco gave Ryan’s knee a fatherly pat.

  “I know, never meant to hurt anyone, never meant her to get pregnant, have a child, I know. He’s with you, the boy, yes?” Franco turned to look intently at Ryan.

  “Yes, with Marianne and our godchild, in Ireland. He’s fine.”

  Franco nodded.

  “Good, that’s good. I like Ireland, nice country, good people. Marianne, she has family there too, her mother close by?”

  Ryan was not sure how much Franco knew, probably everything knowing him.

  “Yes, some good friends too, we’ve all been through a lot together.”

  Franco smiled.

  “Okay, now I understand and I am happy for you.” The movie mogul went back to gazing at the sky. Hoping he was being dismissed, Ryan stood to go.

  “Thanks, Franco. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, I’ve been worried sick, we all have. Thanks a million, Franco, I really appreciate it.” Ryan put out his hand, Franco ignored it.

  “Now you know I understand you, it’s time for you to understand me. We’ll go eat and I will explain in words of one syllable why you cannot back out of this contract, why you have to make these movies,” Franco stood up. Two men appeared out of nowhere, standing a discreet distance away. Ryan checked them out.

  “Does my life depend on it?” he asked, not entirely joking.

  “No, mine does,” replied Franco. “Now what shall we eat, Italian or Italian?”

  Ryan loved the way Franco always gave a guy a choice.

  They walked the short distance to Mulberry Street and went through the discreet side entrance Cesare Martinez reserved for his A-list patrons. The Italian restaurant was a favourite New York stop-off for royalty, movie stars and politicians, each afforded the opportunity to dine discreetly in a private booth or join the hoi polloi in the main restaurant if a higher profile was required. Cesare always had a couple of tame paparazzi on standby, should any of his clientele require a little publicity boost.

  He heard his old friend Franco Rossini was in town, so had come on duty early, knowing his fellow countryman could not visit New York without sampling some of the best Italian food in the world. He stood at the entrance waiting to greet him. They hugged and kissed, patting each other on the back. C
esare raised an eyebrow at Ryan. He heard the star had quit, ‘was standing down for personal reasons’ the reporter on the celebrity news channel said. Bullshit, Cesare thought at the time. Franco extended an arm to Ryan, indicating he was to be welcomed also. Cesare was relieved. He hugged the younger man, crushing him against his solid, little body. He had known Ryan for years, having just opened the restaurant when the young actor hoping to land a part on Broadway, came looking for work, waiting tables between auditions. They went way back.

  Recognition rippled through the early lunchtime diners, acknowledging the appearance of one of the world’s hottest movie stars and his famous boss. Women turned to gaze at Ryan and smile at Franco, the men checked them out.

  “A booth please, my friend,” Franco said. “We need privacy today.”

  Cesare took them to a quiet corner.

  “How hungry are you guys?” he asked. He never gave his friends a menu; he knew what they liked to eat. Cesare preferred to create something on the spot, hand-picking the freshest ingredients to produce something seasonal, a mouth-watering delicacy, with the unmistakable twist that made his, one of the most popular eateries in town. He left the men to their discussion, Franco sipping mineral water, Ryan a cold beer.

  “This place, eh?” Franco gave a wave, encompassing the restaurant.

  Ryan nodded. “I love it, never changes,” he said.

  “Ah, you may think not, but it does change, subtly, minimale, to stay in business, keep ahead of the times, change what needs to be changed, keep the things that make it the best, eh?” Franco popped an olive into his mouth. Ryan noticed the two men who followed them take a table at the edge of the other diners, facing the door. He looked from them to Franco. Franco shrugged.

  “Things change, times have been tough, we’ve lost some major sponsors, I had to refinance the franchise.” Franco took another olive from the dish. “The last movie and the next two have been carefully planned to pay for the restructure. That’s the deal. It costs in excess of one hundred million dollars to make just one Thomas Bentley movie, schedule three and certain aspects come out cheaper, more cost effective as they say these days, but it’s an expensive game, you know that.”

  Ryan’s beer remained untouched. Franco continued.

  “The restructure is also expensive. Let’s just say because a few of my other ventures lost money, the conventional route to finance was not an option.”

  “Meaning the bank wasn’t interested?” Ryan asked. He guessed Franco was referring to a couple of experimental projects that had been critically acclaimed, yet flopped at the movie theatres.

  “Precisely,” Franco said, “I had to go elsewhere for the money, I got what I needed, but the interest rate, well let’s just say it’s pretty high.”

  “Can be extortionate,” Ryan agreed.

  Franco flashed him a look. “A word I’d prefer you didn’t use. The truth is, the movie, your movie has broken all records, a huge hit. But one swallow doesn’t make a summer. We need all three in the can, and out there earning so we can pay our new backers back, shake hands and walk away, everyone happy.” Franco glanced over at the two men, he looked far from happy. “We can’t change the leading man at this stage. You being in the next two movies more or less guarantees their success. You can’t back out Ryan, even if I let you, they won’t.”

  Ryan watched Franco stab another olive with a cocktail stick, his brow creased in a frown. He was probably fifteen years his senior and today looked every minute of it.

  “What about the company assets, you can sell them surely, the cars, the jewellery, the paintings, there’s property too isn’t there?” Ryan asked in a quiet voice.

  “What I could sell, I did, but you can’t secure a loan without collateral, you know that. The backers need something to guarantee their investment. I’ve held on to just enough to do that, but things are tight, real tight. Once the box office returns are in, we can start to pay something back, but we need capital to fund the next one and we need to make the movie as soon as we can. Fans are fickle, there’s always someone sniping at our heels, trying to steal our crown. We gotta get on with it Ryan, and we can’t do it without you.”

  Ryan pulled his chair up close and leaned across the table.

  “Franco, I quit. I get all the reasons why it’s not a good idea, and I’m sorry if this is causing a big problem, but I’m still out. I want my life back.”

  Franco sighed, taking the cocktail stick from between his lips. He laid his hand flat on the table and pushed the stick hard into the skin. He kept his eyes fixed on Ryan. Blood started to ooze where the wood had pierced the flesh.

  “What the...?” Ryan tried to pull the stick out, but Franco would not release the pressure, he continued to press the stick into the back of his own hand.

  “You’re making me bleed, Ryan. I need you to understand, if you have your life back I will lose mine. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I represent will be gone. I will die a broken man, I will take the shame of failure to my grave, the memory of my family, my beloved Sophia, blackened forever. If I can’t pay my backers they’ll wipe me out. They’re ruthless. I knew that when I accepted the deal and the only way you won’t appear in the next movie, is if you can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan was still staring at the back of Franco’s hand.

  “You can’t make the movie because you’ll no longer be around, you’ll have been wiped out too.” Franco looked unblinking into Ryan’s eyes. The blood from his hand was staining the tablecloth, the red turning pink on the white linen.

  Cesare appeared carrying two steaming bowls of delicious seafood risotto. Franco took his hand out of sight.

  Cesare clapped, “A fresh table cloth, now!”

  “Okay,” Ryan swallowed, “okay I get it. I’m in, I’m still in.”

  Franco’s expression did not change.

  “Cesare, any of those tame paps of yours around today?”

  “Always,” Cesare smiled, arranging cutlery on the fresh cloth.

  “Let’s have our picture taken then.” Franco said wrapping a napkin around his wounded hand, “we’re back in business!”

  “A compromise, what kind of compromise?” Marianne was speaking into the handset of the landline in the cottage. Ryan sounded every one of the thousands of miles away.

  “I’m going to do the next movie and then half of the following one. We’re going to work a takeover of the role into the storyline,” e toH

  he told her.

  Marianne’s heart plummeted. She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  “Sounds reasonable. Are you okay about it?” she asked.

  “Are you? I’m still prepared to tell Franco no deal, if that’s what you want,” he said. Ryan was a good actor, but Marianne could tell this was bravado.

  “Will the compromise tick all the boxes, take the pressure off, satisfy everyone?” she said, running through in her mind all the lives this decision affected. “It’s a big ask.”

  “I know, but Franco assures me we can make it work. If you’re happy, well as happy as you can be about it, I’ll agree.”

  She thought for a long moment.

  He filled the silence.

  “I’ve asked for special conditions too,” Ryan continued. “For instance, any long stretches away on location, you and the little ones can come and spend some time; so we’re not apart for too long and collaboration, I’ve asked if there is anything you want to help with, maybe editing or styling, you can get involved with that too.”

  Although his obvious enthusiasm made Marianne smile, she fleetingly wondered at the wisdom of yet another of Ryan’s schemes, but could see what he was trying to do, make the best of things, she appreciated that.

  “I’m sure you’ve done your best. When will you be home?” she asked.

  “Fly out tomorrow, home the day after. I’ll stay at Joyce MacReady’s and take the first ferry back to the island in the morning.” He had a smile in his voice now.
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br />   “How long till you start filming?” she was anxious.

  “Six whole months!” he whooped. “Happy days.”

  “Good,” she laughed. “Get back quickly; we don’t want to waste a minute.”

  “No,” he was laughing too. “Knowing you, we won’t.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Man From Atlantis

  Although he had seen pictures, nothing prepared Innishmahon’s newest inhabitant for his first encounter with the savage glory that was the island’s landscape. Having grabbed a bite and bed the previous evening in Maguire’s, Dermot Finnegan was an early riser and, pulling on jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, headed out as dawn seeped pearlescent streaks into the dark-grey sky.

  He turned right out of the pub’s front portal and jogged towards a glittering shard of cliff, blanking off the view of the sea beyond. He ran steadily, following the tract left by holidaymakers as the lane turned to sand and the trail continued right up to the monolith of stone before him. He followed, and just when he thought he reached a dead end, he saw it, a sliver of an opening, so skilfully designed by nature, it was easy to miss, like an optical illusion, he had to concentrate to see it.

  Intrigued, he slipped through the crevice into a pitch black cave and holding onto the walls for balance, shivered as his feet sank into cool sand. Standing to catch his breath, he could see light, a slash of grey against the blackness and taking a step forward, pulled himself through the gap. His foot slipped and, terrified he would fall to his death, he threw himself back against the cliff-face, clinging to the rock for dear life. Counting to three, he looked down to find he was perched on a tiny ledge, he saw the ledge stepped down to another track. He was on the side of a cliff alright, but one with a natural stone staircase which trailed and wound through the rock leading to a beach; a perfect horseshoe of golden sand. Magnificent cliffs scaled the skyline on either side of the bay, providing the perfect frame as the rolling Atlantic buffeted the brittle hinterland, before waves, destined for the beach, swished towards the shoreline.