The Starlet

by Mary McNamara

  “Well, what do you think I can do about it? How much time do we have?”

  “I don’t know, a few months, maybe six. I think if we make some sort of significant gesture, at least to the banks, we could buy more time. I don’t know. I thought maybe offer it up for events? Weddings? Retreats? Hook up with a university? Maybe we should think about starting a foundation; I’ve gotten a few grants, but they were small and specific—it’s how I keep the interns, how I paid for the black- and gray-water systems. We need something bigger and more long-term. I figured you’d think of something. You always do.”

  “I wish you had told me this a year ago, or even when I first got here,” Juliette said, her voice rising. “It takes time to do things like that.”

  “I was afraid you’d turn around and drive away,” Gabe said simply. “Or say we have to sell it. I was afraid you just didn’t care. And I was ashamed that I couldn’t do it all the way I wanted to. It makes so much sense in my mind, but I can’t seem to make other people see this place the way I do.”

  He sounded so miserable, so self-recriminating, so unlike the Gabe she knew that Juliette felt her anger evaporate. Gabe, and his arrogance, was one of the few cornerstones that remained of her family life. If she lost that, she would be completely adrift.

  “Don’t,” she said, putting an arm around him. “We’ll figure it out. It’s only money. There’s plenty of money in this world and you can always get some of it if you try hard enough. You just have to figure out how to do it without selling too much of your soul. Maybe I should start selling drugs again,” she said with a laugh. “I think I could drum up some business on a certain film set.”

  “That’s not even funny,” Gabe said.

  “I’ll call Dev. He’s good at money. Or I’m sure Mercy would write you a check tomorrow.” She laughed. “She’s got a thing for you, or she did before she went back to movieland hell. You could work that angle easily enough.”

  “That is the last angle in the world I want to work,” said Gabe, reverting a bit to his old self. “Taking money from an addict is never a good idea. For one thing, you can never be sure where it’s been.”

  When she finally climbed into bed, Juliette stared out the window at the high round moon. A part of her was wallowing in self-pity—was there nowhere she could go that didn’t somehow require her assistance? Nowhere she could just be for a few weeks? But deeper within her, a small but more essential voice was murmuring to itself in satisfaction—here was a problem to be solved, something broken that could be fixed. Let Michael and Mercy and Carson worry about their egos and their precious movie; as it turned out, Juliette actually did have her own life to live. Her own problems to solve.

  I was pretty much born to be the girl who saves the farm, she thought as she turned out the light, and though she meant it as a joke, she knew it wasn’t.

  It was three a.m. when a creak and then a crash in the living room woke her. Picking up a broken piece of marble that served as a bookend and would do just as well as a weapon, Juliette crept down the few steps and hit the light switch. There, rubbing her hip where it had collided with the sofa, stood Mercy, wearing a long black cape, eyes huge, body shivering all over.

  “I had to come,” she said, her mouth working, her hair standing on end as if she had been electrocuted. “Didn’t I? Because you saw, right? My mother and Ben, Michael and his pretty bitch Carson. They killed Lloyd, didn’t they? And now they’re trying to kill me.”

  Chapter Six

  THE FIRST CAR ARRIVED at seven a.m. It was hot-rod red with a gold stripe down the middle and as it pulled into the courtyard, spraying gravel and dust, Queen was blasting even though the tinted windows were rolled up.

  “Queen,” Gabriel said to Juliette. “Who even still listens to Queen?”

  “I’m going to go with Angie,” she answered. “She probably picked that car to match her nail polish.” The two were sitting on the front porch of Casa Padua, drinking café au lait and waiting. They had been there for more than an hour. Juliette had actually expected the onslaught to begin much earlier; her BlackBerry had been ringing almost continuously since five a.m.

  “You don’t have to stay,” she said to Gabriel. She had dragged him out of his bed the moment she was certain Mercy was finally asleep, as much in warning as to confer. “I can’t imagine it’s going to be pretty.”

  “Oh, I’m staying.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Juliette laughed. “You look like you should have a shotgun in your lap.”

  “There’s one over the fireplace in the villa,” he said, his eyes brightening. “I’ll go get it if you think it will help.”

  Juliette did not have time to answer. In a perfumed rattle of gold bracelets and matching earrings, Angie was upon them.

  “Where is she?”

  “Asleep,” Juliette said.

  “Well, wake her up,” Angie said, starting toward the doorway. Gabriel sprang up, but Juliette quickly barred the way.

  “Your daughter is a guest here,” she said, “and she expressed a wish to not be disturbed. I’ll be happy to get you some coffee if you like. Or you can join the villa guests for breakfast in the dining area. Our cook makes a lovely frittata.”

  “Cut the crap,” Angie said. “I want Mercy, in the car, right now. This is absurd. She’s got a whole movie production stalled because she seems to think she’s in Tuscany for a vacation.”

  “She doesn’t have the production stalled,” Juliette said coolly. “She worked sixteen hours yesterday; she’s entitled to twenty-four down. It’s in her contract. And the only thing stalling the production is Carson Cooper’s failure to secure permits for the next series of scenes. That and the fact that the rewrites have been so extensive that no one is quite sure what the next series of scenes should be. At the moment, I would imagine both Carson and Mr. Golonski are much less concerned with Mercy’s whereabouts than whether or not Bill Becker is currently on a plane from Los Angeles so he can fire them both in person. Something you might want to consider as well.”

  Juliette smiled serenely into Angie’s outraged face. She had indeed called Devlin as she told Gabriel she would, and though he hadn’t been able, or perhaps willing, to instantly produce a business plan to save Cerreta, he had filled her in on some choice Industry gossip. Bill Becker had been overheard by half of Hollywood screaming at Carson via cell phone in the Pinnancle dining room.

  “Have some coffee,” Gabriel said, taking Angie by the elbow and guiding her into the seat. “And a brioche. Try some of our very own honey.”

  “Coffee is fine,” Angie said, viewing the rolls and honey with disdain. “Is she all right?”

  “Pardon?” Juliette asked, helping herself to another brioche.

  “Is Mercy all right? I don’t know how she even got here.” Even around huge gulps of coffee, the edge in Angie’s voice was obvious. “Did she walk or hitchhike or what? She wasn’t feeling herself when I saw her last night. I told Ben it was too long a day, and those costumes are so heavy and hot. And that Michael O’Connor takes his sweet time preparing for a scene. Mercy almost fainted several times waiting for him.”

  “She’s fine,” Juliette said evenly, thinking of Mercy’s wild accusations and her subsequent collapse into virtual incoherence.

  “Fine if you consider being dehydrated, exhausted, riven with anxiety, and clearly addicted to drugs and alcohol fine,” Gabriel added, leaning back in his chair again. “Which apparently you do.”

  The instant outrage and denial that flooded Angie’s face never made it into words. As she spluttered, another Ferrari pulled into the courtyard, this one black and silent and proceeding at a much more sensible speed.

  “Mr. O’Connor, I presume,” Gabe murmured. Juliette tried to ignore the blood pounding in her throat.

  Michael got out of the car, sunglasses on, glancing around with a wide and delighted smile as if he were returning to a favored vacation spot. Juliette felt immediately exposed, almost naked.

&nbs
p; “Is this where the party is?” he called out, approaching the porch. Two female interns, hoes and garden shears over their shoulders, appeared from the far corner of the courtyard and, catching sight of him, stopped midstride. He offered them a small wave, a brilliant grin, and then moved quickly up the stone steps and offered Gabe his hand.

  “Michael O’Connor.”

  “Gabriel Delfino,” Gabe answered, ignoring Juliette’s warning frown. “I’m Juliette’s cousin.”

  “As anyone could see,” Michael said. “All this is yours?”

  “Ours,” Juliette and Gabe each rushed to answer, both then laughing awkwardly, like children caught competing for attention.

  “It’s a family property,” Gabe explained. Juliette smiled and tried not to look as if she wished she could unravel every life choice that had led her to this moment. “We are the last survivors of a proud and ancient dynasty,” he added gravely. “As you can see.”

  “Indeed,” Michael said with a grin. “You are a woman of much mystery, Ms. Greyson. I would have never suspected there was a romantic Italian estate in your background.” He gave her a look full of mischief but also appraisal. “Perhaps you could give me a tour.”

  Juliette was spared having to answer by the appearance of a third Ferrari, this one silver.

  “What, did you all get a special deal?” Gabe asked.

  “Product placement,” Michael answered matter-of-factly. “My character, or the modern one, drives a Ferrari, a fact that is somehow mentioned more than once during the course of the film. So our rental needs were provided for. Bill Becker thinks of everything.”

  “Except providing an associate who knows how to keep control of her production,” Juliette murmured.

  “How very ungenerous of you,” Michael murmured right back. “Not everyone has your breathtaking talent for personnel- and time-management.”

  “What the fuck?” said Carson as she slid from the silver Ferrari. Tall and slim in a white linen suit, she strode toward the group, but instead of joining them, she stood looking up at the porch, her arms held out from her sides in exasperation.

  “Where in the hell am I and why? Where in the hell is Mercy and why? Is there a reason I am chasing my cast through the fucking Italian forest instead of doing what I am paid to do, which is make a movie? Does anyone bother answering their phones anymore? Does anyone speak to their PAs anymore? The only reason I even know where you are is that I have my navigator wired to your navigators because somehow I just knew this was going to be an issue.”

  She paused, drew breath, and looked around.

  “What is this anyway? Heaven? How gorgeous is this place?”

  “Welcome to Cerreta,” Gabriel said, standing and looking down at her, “a sixteenth century tenuta that is currently used as a learning center and bed and breakfast. To exit, you just follow the same road you came in on.”

  “Carson,” Michael called down, “Juliette was just about to give us a tour. Join us. Mercy’s fine,” he added, “she’s just asleep. Which I’m sure is all she needs.”

  “Sleep?” Carson said, folding her arms. “That is a custom with which I am not familiar. Me, I have to spend all night tracking down my fucked-up leading lady because her mother is too busy worrying about who’s going to get the biggest trailer on the next set that doesn’t even exist to keep track of her. Hi, Angie,” she added pointedly. “Enjoying the view?”

  Beside her, Juliette could feel Gabriel vibrating with words that would certainly not help the situation. “Come on,” she said, taking Michael’s arm and leading him back down the steps toward the producer. “I’ll be happy to show you both around. Then, before you leave, perhaps we can all have breakfast in the villa.”

  She took Carson’s arm as well, and steered them toward the vegetable garden and the path that led to the vineyards and the remains of the old quarry. “I understand you’re looking for a location or two,” she said to Carson as if they were meeting in the lobby of the Pinnacle. “I’m pretty familiar with the area; perhaps I can help you. Meanwhile, why don’t we just take a minute and enjoy this perfect morning?”

  Never before had Juliette been as aware of the loveliness of the landscape that surrounded her. The wild crocuses dotting the grass at their feet, the dim gold stateliness of the villa, the neat green lines of the grapevines that undulated over the hills it overlooked, the ancient stone walls that hemmed in orchard and garden, the spills of geranium and lavender and rosemary, all conspired to do what no human could have done, which was calm Carson down. Quietly but with no room for interruption, Juliette explained the history of the estate, how the tower had been built in the twelfth century to defend the Delfino family from the perpertually warring armies of Florence and Siena, how the villa had been added when it seemed they had succeeded, then revamped in the sixteenth century when the Roman ideal of a country house had swept the Italian countryside. “There’s even a ghost,” she added, “of a banished noblewoman, who’s mentioned in Dante. Down the road, you’ll see the bridge she crossed on the way to the prison her husband constructed when he suspected her of adultery.”

  As they walked past Casa Torre and Casa Regina, she explained how all the other houses on the property, including the one she was staying in, were built to house the tenant workers, sheltering as many as six families in two or three bedrooms. How the most lucrative crop of the tenuta—of the region, actually—was for many years not wine or oil but charcoal, the main source of fuel up until the 1950s. She told them of the count, her great-grandfather whom she remembered vaguely from early childhood, and how he had expected the farmworkers to doff their caps when he went by even though he barely had enough money to feed himself. By the sixties, most of the farmers had left the country for factory work, or to become part of the growing tourism industry in Tuscany.

  “When I was a child,” Juliette said, “this was still considered the middle of nowhere. Italians couldn’t believe when people decided they’d rather visit hill towns, or even Siena, than Florence or Rome. It was as if everyone started visiting New Jersey and skipping New York. When our parents, Gabe’s and mine, talked about turning this place into a bed-and-breakfast, everyone thought they were crazy. Now practically every villa, every farmhouse, every abbey with a single wall still standing is an agriturismo or a hotel.”

  Soon enough, Carson was leaning against a wall, overlooking the splendid mass of forest, pocked here by an abandoned quarry now choked with morning glory and gorse, there by the outcropping of a nearby ruined abbey, drinking in the cool and silent morning air. Swallows swooped overhead and she watched them dart and flutter toward their nests beneath the eaves of the carriage house, the arch that connected the storage shed to the main part of the villa.

  “So beautiful,” Carson said softly. “So unbelievably beautiful.” The sun washed her hair gold and her eyes were misty gray as she took in the colors and contours of the buildings, the landscape. For a moment Juliette wondered if maybe all the tough talk was just a ruse, a mask to hide behind. Juliette knew more than a little about that.

  “So we could probably put trailers down in that field over there,” Carson said, with an imperious gesture toward a pasture where a horse and her colt now grazed. “We can shoot some of the smaller buildings at an angle to create a street scene, use that tower for the clock-tower scene, and those steps will be quite believable as convent exterior. We can probably bring in enough greenery to turn this”—she swept her arm over the walled-in area in front of the villa—“into a formal garden; the view is to die for, and maybe we can fill that quarry for the lake scene. You don’t have a lake on the property, do you?” She whirled to face Juliette. “No? But you do have a castle, right? Mercy said there was a castle.”

  “Yes,” said Juliette doubtfully, her head swimming, “but it’s in the middle of the woods.”

  “Perfect,” Carson said. “We’ll see that next. Oh, and the vineyards. Those look too small, and there are no grapes . . .”

  “It�
�s May,” Juliette said. “There won’t be grapes until August.”

  “That blows. Well, I’m sure our computer geeks can fix that.”

  “Wait,” said Michael. “Slow down, Carson.You want to shoot here?”

  Carson looked at him as if he had asked if the earth was round.

  “Of course I want to shoot here. What the fuck do you think I’m doing, walking around in the grass and dirt? Enjoying myself? Learning a little something about Tuscany for the Italian history final I’m taking next week? Mercy mentioned this place about a hundred times as being ideal for some of the outdoor work, and for once she wasn’t huffing a pipe. We’ll be in and out in three weeks, four at the outside.”

  “Three weeks!” Juliette exclaimed. “Never. Gabe would never let you do that. Not even for three days. I’ve seen what happens to places used for location work. The people who live there barely survive. No way is Gabe going to let you drag your trucks and lights and endless amount of trash around here. You’d have to use electric trucks, you’d have to agree to recycle everything, you’d have to compost, for godsake. He won’t do it. I promise you.”

  Carson eyed her narrowly. “You own the controlling share of this property,” she said. “It’s not up to him.”

  Cursing Mercy, Juliette frowned. “Cerreta is our property, but it’s Gabe’s home. He calls the shots.” She held up empty hands. “So sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be as bad as all that, Juliette,” Michael said slowly. “It’s not like the scenes require a cast of thousands; we’ve done most of the extras’ work back in Siena. Mostly the scenes are just Mercy and me, and a few supportings. It could work out really well, for everyone. I mean, Mercy certainly seems to feel comfortable here, and I, well, it would be a bit like old times for you and me,” he said with a grin and a hitched-high eyebrow.