A Holiday Fling
The Starting Over Series
The Novella
(with story extras)
by
Mary Jo Putney
New York Times Bestselling Author
Published by: ePublishing Works!
www.epublishingworks.com
ISBN: 9781-61417-386-1
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Copyright © 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
A Holiday Fling: Copyright © 2002, 2011, 2013 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
Seduced by Sloth: Copyright © 2000, 2011, 2.13 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
Cover by Kim Killion www.thekilliongroupinc.com
eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
A Note from
Mary Jo Putney
My full-length contemporary romance Phoenix Falling had a couple of appealing secondary characters who were single and a little lonely, so they immediately popped into my mind when I decided to do a contemporary Christmas story for my Christmas Revels collection. Greg Marino and Jenny Lyme are both in show business, and they’re both genuinely nice people who love their work. But he’s American and she’s English, he’s behind the camera while she’s in front, and when their paths had crossed a dozen years before, their careers swiftly took them away from each other. Can this time be different?
Greg and Jenny’s story is followed by a completely unrelated short story that I wrote for a short lived internet site that had very inaccurate ideas of what people might be willing to pay for online. Hence, very few people have ever read "Seduced by Sloth," a light-hearted story written for a Seven Deadly Sins theme. I’ve tossed it in here as a bit of bonus content. It’s the only non-fantasy contemporary short story I’ve ever written.
Table of Contents
A Holiday Fling
The Starting Over Series
The Novella
Seduced by Sloth
A Short Story
A Holiday Fling
The Starting Over Series
The Novella
by
Mary Jo Putney
New York Times Bestselling Author
Chapter 1
The Tithe Barn Community Center
Upper Bassett
Gloucestershire, England
"The Carthage Corporation wants how much?" Jenny Lyme blinked, thinking she must have misheard.
The head of the community center council, who happened to be her mother, Alice Lyme, repeated the figure. There were far too many zeros.
"Property costs the earth here in the Cotswolds, even in an out-of-the-way corner like Upper Bassett. Throw in the barn’s age, and the price goes even higher." Patricia Holmes, third member of the council present—and Jenny’s big sister—scribbled figures on a tablet. "Even if we sell every seat to every performance of the Revels, there is no possible way we can raise enough." She pushed the tablet away with a frown. "Resign yourself to the fact that some rich London stockbroker will buy the place and tart it up for use three or four weekends a year."
"No!" Jenny said vehemently. "The tithe barn is the heart and soul of Upper Bassett. Without it, our village identity will wither away."
"You’re right. Many of my fondest memories occurred here." Her mother sighed. "But the lease is expiring, Carthage is determined to sell, and we simply don’t have the money to meet their price."
"Do you think a bank would give us a loan using the property as collateral?" Jenny suggested without much hope.
"That might buy us some time, but even in a good year, the center only breaks even." Patricia pushed her glasses higher on her nose. She was a schoolteacher, and the gesture was very effective at convincing her classes that she meant business. "We will never be able to make enough money to pay off a loan, even assuming some bank officer is demented enough to give us one."
Jenny rose from the battered chair and crossed to the door of the small office. The ancient music ensemble was practicing on the stage at the far end of the barn. She had discovered her passion for acting on that stage, and she couldn’t bear thinking that soon no more local children would have such an opportunity to perform, play, and build lifelong friendships. "If my career were in better shape, I’d donate the money myself."
"Your career is fine," Patricia said loyally. "You can’t expect to go from one smashing series right to another, but you’re still working."
"Even if you could afford it, that might not be the best thing for the village," Alice added. "This is a community center. It needs to be saved through collective action, not by one successful woman raiding her retirement savings."
Jenny supposed they were both right. Her career was having a slow spell but it wasn’t dead yet, and her mother made a good point that the center belonged to all of them and should be saved by joint efforts.
That was why Jenny had stepped in to produce and direct the upcoming Revels, combining the considerable local talent with her own skills and connections to create a professional-quality show. She was even performing as Lady Molly, the female lead.
But it wasn’t enough. "The Revels are going to be marvelous. If only there was a way to use the production to generate more money—" She stopped as an idea struck.
"You’ve got that dangerous look in your eyes, Jennifer," Alice said warily. "Care to enlighten us?"
Jenny turned back to the office and leaned against the door frame as two identical pairs of blue eyes regarded her. The women of the Lyme family looked ridiculously alike, with dark hair, pale, flawless Welsh complexions, and deep blue eyes. She hoped that she and Patricia would age as gracefully as their mother was doing. "This isn’t dangerous. It just occurred to me that we could film the Revels and sell copies of the performance. Get it reviewed or mentioned in some of the London papers. If we do a really good job, maybe we could sell broadcast rights to the BBC for next Christmas."
There was a thoughtful silence while her mother and sister considered the suggestion. "We could set up a website and link with folklore and performing groups, but we’d have to sell a huge number of copies to raise the kind of money we need, and we only have a few months," Patricia observed. "Selling broadcast rights would give us a larger chunk of money, but the production would have to be high quality, not just someone’s husband with his video camera."
Alice said, "Perhaps Jenny has cameramen friends who could be persuaded to contribute their time to a good cause."
"It’s very short notice." Jenny ran down the list of camera operators she knew well enough to impose on. Patricia was right that they needed someone who was first rate. Someone whose name would add value to the production.
<
br /> Greg Marino.
With some reluctance, she accepted that he was far and away the best choice. Winner of the previous year’s Oscar for best cinematography, he was a brilliant director of photography who brought texture and nuance into every film he shot. "I worked with Greg Marino once. He would be perfect, but he’s an American and insanely busy. I doubt I’d be able to even locate him, much less persuade him to drop everything and come to England on a moment’s notice."
"He shot The Centurion, didn’t he? And that big fantasy movie that was such a hit last year?" With a sister in the film business, Patricia kept up with such things. "His work is wonderful. If he’s a friend of yours, it’s certainly worth asking."
Not a friend; a former lover. Would that be a plus or a minus? They hadn’t seen each other in years, but they’d parted amiably and kept in touch, in a casual kind of way.
She pictured Greg, with his rangy American build and a smile that always made her smile in return. He’d helped her through a very bad time. If he could be persuaded to shoot their performance, he could transform the Revels from fun into Art, and maybe save the community center in the process. "I’ll try to run him down when I return to London, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s very much in demand."
But her pulse quickened at the thought of having a reason to call him.
Chapter 2
Los Angeles, California
Greg Marino emerged from his bed yawning. He was too groggy and disoriented to figure out what time it was in Australia, but his body sure thought it should still be there rather than in Los Angeles.
By the time he’d showered and shaved, a pot of steaming coffee had dripped through. He poured a mug full, sending silent thanks to the friend who had stocked his refrigerator with perishables the day before. People who made movies did a lot of coming and going, and he and his buddies took care of each other.
Yawning again, he rubbed the head of the shiny gold Academy Award that sat incongruously between the toaster and the drip coffeemaker. He liked keeping old Oscar there in a nice, visible spot. The statuette was his symbol of having made something of himself, contrary to the expectations of people who’d known him when he was a kid.
Taking his cell phone in case someone called, he stepped through the sliders onto his balcony. After swiping at the chair to remove the layer of urban dust, he sank into it and propped his feet on the railing. The view over the apartment complex courtyard wasn’t thrilling, but it was home.
For the thousandth time, he told himself that he really needed to go house hunting. He could afford a house now, and it would be nice to have a larger place. One with a view. But house hunting took time, and it was easier to walk away from an apartment for months on end than it would be to walk away from a house.
Having reached his usual conclusions, he set the topic aside for another day. One when he wasn’t so jet-lagged.
He slouched deeper in his chair and sipped at the scalding coffee, enjoying the pleasant coolness of the December air. It had been blazing hot in the Land Down Under, but the filming had gone well. The raw, primitive scenery had been a cameraman’s dream. The images he’d captured had made up for the spoiled behavior of the movie’s two stars. Actors. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t live without ‘em.
In mid-January he would be off to Argentina for the biggest budget, highest profile film of his career, but he had nothing booked before then. Maybe after he finished the coffee he’d call his manager to see if anyone wanted him to shoot a commercial or two. Such jobs kept him busy between feature films, paid well, and often provided opportunities to try new techniques.
The cell phone played the first few notes of "Für Elise." Wondering if a commercial had come looking for him, he answered, suppressing another yawn. "H’lo."
"Greg—is that you?"
Not his manager. The female voice was deliciously British and familiar, but surely it couldn’t be... "Yep, it’s me. Sorry if I’m slow, but who is this?" With his luck, she was probably a high-class aluminum siding saleswoman.
"Jenny Lyme."
"Jenny!" He came awake fast, amazed that his caller really was Jenny. As if he could have forgotten her.
Trying not to sound like a slavering idiot, he said, "Nice to hear from you. Are you in Los Angeles? If you are, let me take you out to lunch."
Smart, witty, and down to earth, Jenny was the kind of actor who made up for the prima donnas. She was also drop-dead gorgeous—a brunette stunner who stood out even in a business where beautiful women were a dime a dozen.
Strange things could happen on a movie set, and Greg’s brief fling with Jenny was proof. Ordinarily their relationship would never have gone beyond casual chat, but she had been weeping her heart out over an actor boyfriend who’d thrown her over in favor of a high-profile affair with a famous French actress twenty years his senior.
Greg had been there with a sympathetic shoulder and a willingness to do anything that would make her feel better. Though he hadn’t been able to cure Jenny’s broken heart, he’d done his best, and even coaxed a few smiles from her. In return, he had acquired some indelible memories to warm his nights.
Her rich chuckle interrupted his reverie. "Sorry, no, I’m in London."
Damn. "What can I do for you?"
"I have a... a proposition for you."
He blinked, then ordered his libido to quit looking for double meanings. "Are you turning director and looking for a cinematographer?"
"Not exactly. But something like that."
"Yes?"
She drew a breath that could be heard a third of the way round the globe. "This is a charity project. I grew up in a village in the Cotswolds—that’s west of London and very pretty—and I still have a home there. The parish tithe barn was turned into a community center just after the war, and it’s a wonderful place for plays and music practice and yoga classes and pottery and all manner of amusements. It’s the heart of Upper Bassett.
"Upper Bassett?" Hound visions came to mind.
"To distinguish it from Lower Bassett and Bassett on the Wold," she explained with a twinkle in her voice. "To make a long story as short as possible, the village owns only the lease on the barn. The actual owner is a big soulless corporation that wants to sell the property in six months when the lease expires. Property in Gloucestershire is staggeringly expensive, and the price they’re asking is far beyond our means. If the village wants to keep it, we have to raise a lot of money fast."
He received more than his share of requests for his hard-earned money, but he was willing to oblige Jenny. "Where should I send the check?"
"That’s awfully generous of you, Greg, but I’m not calling to ask for money." For an actress who made her living playing the sexy, good-hearted girl next door, Jenny sounded shy. "I’m on the community center board, so I decided to stage a Christmas mummers’ play to raise money. I’ve persuaded some of my friends to lend a hand, and I think we’ll draw a good audience for the performances."
"But not good enough?"
"I’m afraid not. We’ll never make enough if we rely on ticket sales, so in six months Upper Bassett will have no community center. This may not sound very important, but community is what makes life worth living, and it can be very fragile. I don’t want to see the fabric of my native village come unraveled."
He backtracked. "What’s a mummers’ play?"
"Oh, sorry. It’s one of those British things. Medieval plays, usually a combination of religious themes grafted onto ancient fertility rites. Groups of mummers used to go around giving short performances for begging money. That’s largely died out, but the plays are still performed on occasion. It’s quite a jolly tradition."
A light dawned. "I saw a show like that in Boston once. Lots of singing and dancing and melodrama. It was a great evening."
"Ours will be, too. A couple of days ago, it occurred to me that the best way to make more money from our Revels is to film the show so we can sell videos and if we’re lucky, license it to th
e telly."
"I think I see where you’re going with this, but there are plenty of great cameramen in England. Can’t you draft one of them?"
"Probably, but you’re my first choice. You’re known for being able to do marvelous work quickly, and your name will add value to the project." Her voice turned portentous. "The Upper Bassett Holiday Revels, filmed by Academy Award-winning cinematographer Gregory Marino."
"That’s shameless flattery." He grinned. "Keep it up."
She had the sexiest chuckle in the Northern Hemisphere. "Very well. This production will be a bit of a hodgepodge, so we’ll need your talent as well as your reputation. It won’t be easy to make my Morris dancers and children’s choir look dramatic instead of like amateur night. That’s why I thought of you."
He toyed with the handle of his mug, thinking that it sounded like a hoot—the kind of wildly improvised project that he’d loved doing in his student days. But he hadn’t been a student in almost two decades, and he was tired to the bone. "You’re talking this Christmas, aren’t you? Like, in the next week or so? I just got back from Australia yesterday and I’m in no mood to climb on another airplane and spend the holidays with strangers."
"You only just got home? Sorry—I thought you’d had more time to recover from the last job." She hesitated. "I know this is a lot to ask, but if you’re willing, you could be the making of this project. What would it take to persuade you to come over?"
"Your fair white body," he muttered under his breath as he sipped some coffee.
"That’s negotiable," she said without missing a beat.
He swallowed the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. When he could breathe again, he said, "Jeez, Jenny, you shouldn’t make jokes like that when I’m drinking my first cup of coffee of the day."
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