by Davis Bunn
Shari stood just inside the restaurant’s entrance and watched the last limo arrive, the process as carefully choreographed as an invasion. One of the bouncers in a tuxedo and headset opened the rear door. The film’s male lead stepped from the limo. The fans’ screams reached a fever pitch. Shari winced at the almost painful din. Colin Chapman paused long enough to bathe in the adulation. He waved and smiled and turned with the slow regularity of a tango dancer, aware that any jerky movement would come across badly on tape. The camera flashes were a constant silver strobe.
Carey McGraw of Evening Entertainment did a quick interview there on the red carpet. She and the star shared a for-the- cameras laugh over how he could not hear her question for the screams. What Colin said was unimportant. The scene would play well on the next day’s show. Which was crucial. Everything depended upon a huge opening weekend. Such early hints of a hit would drive the initial numbers even higher.
Emily was suddenly at Shari’s side. The older woman hid herself in the doorway’s shadows, made almost black by the camera lights outside. “I just got word of the reviews.”
“And?”
“Hollywood Reporter and Variety are both giving us frontpage slots. Ditto the LA Times.”
The weeks of tension ballooned in her chest. “What?”
“It’s all good. And gets better. All three are calling the Shoestring project a wash.”
“You’re sure?”
Emily slipped three folded sheets into Shari’s pocket. “Save it for your bedtime read. They tried to contact Shoestring for a comment. Nobody even bothered to respond. They’re saying forget the theatrical release. Long Hunter is just another secondrate, low-budget, straight-to-DVD stink bomb.”
“Any word on the number of theaters?”
“Still holding steady at six hundred. You can stop worrying now.”
Shari turned back to the night. “Not a chance.”
Emily backed away as Colin paraded past and entered the restaurant to prolonged applause. Shari waited for Carey McGraw. The television presenter came in patting her makeup, her professional smile set firmly in place. The on-air presenter told Shari, “That is going to run as our headliner for tomorrow night.”
“Excellent.” Shari stepped back into the shadows Emily had just vacated, drawing Carey with her. “I have something for you.”
The woman’s eyes sparked. “If we’re doing it in the dark, it must be dirt.”
“It is. On Brent Stark.”
“Excellent.” The journalist laughed gaily. “I’m still upset over how that Dupree fellow dissed me on the air.”
“This is your chance for revenge.” Shari handed over a minidisk. “My people have dug up some never-before-seen footage from Stark’s accident. The Shoestring director being led from the wreckage of his Aston Martin. His arrest picture. And the best for last, Brent being taken away from his sentencing in shackles.”
“I’ve got chills. This is an exclusive?”
“Yes.”
Carey’s face might have been fresh and eager and as young as money could make it. But the eyes were ancient. “What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” Shari replied. “For now.”
“I can live with that.” She smiled brightly. “What’s a little debt between friends?”
Shari smiled back, the message sent and received.
“You heard Shoestring has refused to give any further interviews? And they’re not showing the film to critics?”
“Yes.”
“That can only mean one thing. The film is a total bomb.” Carey McGraw patted her pocket. “All your efforts may be totally unnecessary.”
“Maybe. But I want to be sure.”
“I hope Menzes knows what he’s got in you.” She spotted someone behind Shari. “Here comes your Prince Charming. How about an interview with the couple of the year?”
“This is not our night.”
“Some other time, then. Something tells me you two will be around for a while.”
43
Stanley? It’s Brent.”
“What time is it?”
“Just gone six where you are.” His friend sounded dead asleep. Brent said apologetically, “I thought I’d just catch you before you left for the AA meeting.”
“I’ve had to give it up.”
The news caught him hard, an unexpected uppercut to his heart. “What?”
“I know. It was tough on me too. But running a church this size is all-consuming.”
Brent felt a keening loss. “Who will run the group?”
“I’ve got a good man in place there. And they’ve got a strong one started over here, in case you want to come join us in the ’burbs. But you can always call me, brother. You know that.”
“It sounds to me like I’ve got to choose a different time.”
“Yeah, I didn’t get in last night until well after midnight.” Stanley hesitated, then added, “I went out with Liz.”
“Our Liz?”
“I guess you could say we’re an item.”
There was no reason why the news should have sounded anything but excellent. Even so, he had to force himself to say, “This is great, Stanley.”
“Yeah, you sound thrilled.”
“No, it’s not you two. My world’s been rocked pretty hard, is all.”
Stanley’s voice resonated with a pastor’s ability to draw the world into focus and be there for another. “What’s happened?”
“They’re burying us deep before we even release.”
“Who?”
“The Hollywood crowd. Iron Feather opened last night. The critics raved over the film.”
“Now give me the second half.”
Brent’s room was on the twelfth floor of the Nashville Marriott. The city’s awakening din rose up from below. Bobby Dupree’s office building was directly across the street. He watched a few early arrivals enter their offices and settle in to just another day. “They dug up some old news footage of my bad old days.”
“The accident?”
“That and the arrest and my sentencing. Some pictures I’ve never seen before. There was one of Celia being pulled from the wreckage.” Brent dragged one hand through his hair. “It was pretty bad.”
“I’m sure it was. And I’ll tell you the simple truth, brother. You deserve better. But right now, you’ve got to hold on. Don’t let go.”
“I’m not …” Brent sighed from genuine pain. He turned from the window and sank onto the floor between the beds. “I’m so worried about Celia.”
“From what I’ve seen of the lady, she’s already handled this and has moved on. Regardless of that, you need to focus on what’s most important here. Tell me you understand.”
“The eternal in this moment.”
“There you go.” Stanley gave it a minute, then said, “I hear there’s a lot of action around your film. My church group has basically prebooked the theaters that will be showing Long Hunter. I hear the same thing is happening in a lot of other places.”
Brent tried to put some enthusiasm into his response. “That’s great, Stanley.”
“I hear there’s a groundswell of support building on the Internet. Trying to get people packed in the opening week. That’s pretty important, from what I hear.”
“Either we get in the top ten films released that week or we’re toast.”
Stanley led them in a word of prayer, then signed off. A busy pastor headed into another overfull day. Brent cradled the phone next to his chest. His mind kept going back to the news. Stanley and Liz. An item.
He was drawn from his reverie by a knock on his door.
He got up to find Celia standing in the doorway holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “I didn’t see you at breakfast.”
He felt everything drain away. All energy, all his remaining hopes. Every last one. “Oh, Celia.”
“That’s what I thought. Can I come in?”
He stumbled back a step. Celia stepped around him, saw the cell p
hone and the Bible on the floor between the beds, and said, “That looks comfortable.”
Before he could formulate an objection, she had slipped down so her back was against the bed opposite his. She pulled a top off one cup. “Black, one sugar. Right?”
He stood there, mute.
“Come sit with me, Brent.”
He forced himself over and down. “I’m so very, very sorry.”
“Here. Drink.”
He did so, though he tasted nothing. “Why are you here?”
“Don’t be silly. Where else should I be?” She wore an outfit similar to what she’d been wearing when he had first seen her, back at the beginning of this adventure of theirs, an off-theshoulder sweater and stone-washed jeans. Her hair was pulled sternly back from her face. She looked equal measures teenage beauty queen and timeless wisdom. “Candace and I slept through the first airing. I only heard about it at breakfast. Which is why I’m so late showing up.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I know.” She held out her free hand, the impossibly long fingers with their rose-colored nails.
He stared at it.
“Hold my hand.”
He did so because she ordered it, astonished that the touch did not brand him.
She said softly, “Was it awful?”
He could not force down another swallow. Brent let her take the cup from his limp fingers. “I hadn’t seen it before.”
“Prison spared you some things. I couldn’t get away from it. The press hounded me for months. The pictures …”
He rubbed his face. The skin felt numb beneath his fingers. “I thought I was … you know …”
“Ready. Strong. Able to take it and handle it all by yourself.”
“Not by myself.”
“No.” She moved the Bible to one side and slipped over so she was seated next to him. “But without me.”
“How could I ask you to help me through this?”
“Because we’re friends. Aren’t we?”
“I don’t deserve you, Celia.”
“Funny.” She draped one hand over his shoulders. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “If you’d asked me that a couple of months ago, I’d have said no. I never could. The pain and the loss and who I was to begin with were all just too much to handle.”
He wanted to see her face. But he didn’t want to move. Her hair smelled of shampoo and springtime. “And now?”
“Everything is so new I can scarcely accept that it’s happening. That it’s really me saying the words.”
He heard his swallow, a thrumming beat of hope. “What words?”
“Are you going to make me say them?”
“Celia, I can’t even bring myself to ask you. Much less demand.”
She snuggled closer still. “Then I’ll tell you. Hope. Forgiveness. Trust.”
The thrumming began down deep in his gut and rose to clench his heart in shivers as strong as the words she’d spoken.
She pulled a fraction away from him. So as to reveal to him eyes he had seen in a thousand closeups. And yet it seemed to him that the color was somehow new. A shade he had never seen before now.
Celia whispered the last word. “Love.”
44
At Bobby’s insistence, the crew stayed together for the release date. Bobby took over two B&Bs and the Marriott Courtyard near his home. Brent and Celia and Jerry and Trevor and Candace filled the Duprees’ upstairs bedrooms. Nobody felt much like celebrating, but no one refused his invitation either.
He put together a down-home party for the evening. The crowd grew to include several busloads of extras with their pastors in tow. The church buses filled the road leading down to the Dupree home. A local crew came in to do a Carolina barbecue, slow-roasting a pair of hogs in his backyard, serving up potatoes and corn fritters and washtubs of coleslaw. Lemonade by the pitcher. A bouncy castle for the kids. Frisbees and dogs and laughter and nerves aplenty.
Brent heard the same thing so often the words became imbedded in his brain. Theirs was a great God.
Whatever that meant.
Even so, there were hugs and smiles and genuine happiness on almost all the faces that night. Regrets too, of course. But still, to feel anything other than deflated was a triumph.
Brent bade the others an early good-night and enjoyed the first unbroken night’s sleep since starting the final edits. Or so it seemed.
He came downstairs the next morning to tears.
Candace and Celia and Darlene Dupree stared at the small television set above the microwave with wet faces. Bobby Dupree and Jerry both looked poleaxed. “What’s the matter?” Brent asked.
Celia sniffed loudly and walked around to give him a hug. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Bobby made us let you sleep,” Candace said. “We didn’t want to, but he insisted.”
“I ain’t never seen anybody as tired as you were last night,” Bobby agreed. “This fire won’t be going out for a while.”
“Why is everybody crying?” He stared at the television. A line of people were photographed from above. A newscaster was saying something, but the words didn’t fit. “Did somebody die?”
“No, my darling. That’s us.”
Brent looked down at her. “What did you call me?”
Celia smiled through her tears. “Darling, did you hear what I just said?”
“I heard all right.” He gathered her up in his arms. “Oh boy, did I hear.”
“Would you get a load of that,” Bobby said.
“It’s about time,” Candace said.
“I’ll give that a big amen,” Jerry agreed.
Darlene said, “Somebody pour the man a coffee and tell him what’s happening!”
Brent managed a double sip without letting go of Celia. The woman in his arms said, “Are you awake now?”
“About as awake as I’ve ever been.”
“Okay. Then very carefully.” She pointed at the screen. “That. Is. Us.”
He could not stop smiling. “Us.”
“Yes, Brent, honey. Us.”
He stared at the screen. But all he saw was people. “Sorry. I’m not tracking.”
For some reason, that caused them all to burst into laughter. “What is wrong with you people?”
“Not a single solitary thing.” Bobby wiped his eyes. “Oh man. Look at that boy’s face.”
“I’m thinking sunstroke or serious love,” Candace said.
“Us,” Celia repeated. “Long Hunter.”
The day froze solid. “What?”
“Those are people waiting to see our movie.”
Brent turned from the screen. Inspected each face in turn. Just to be sure. “You’re not just saying this, are you?”
“I’ve been watching this for an hour,” Jerry said. “It still hasn’t sunk in.”
Brent set down his mug. He was afraid his fingers would not be able to keep hold. He leaned one hand on the counter. The other he used to keep Celia tight. “That was the line from last night?”
“Does that look like nighttime to you?” Celia hugged him harder. “This is now.”
He searched the kitchen, found the clock over the stove. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“It sure is,” Candace said
“In the morning.”
“Right as rain,” Bobby said.
Another scan of the faces, then back to the screen. The crowds were replaced by a smiling announcer. “Where was that?”
“Everywhere,” Celia told him.
“Dallas, Atlanta, Jacksonville,” Jerry started, “Richmond, Charlotte, Nashville, St. Louis.We got shut out of New York and LA. But most other places are exactly the same.”
Candace said, “People have been waiting for hours.”
“We opened in six hundred theaters,” Jerry said. “The announcer just said we’ve already doubled that number, and we’re pushing aside
the competition like it doesn’t even exist.”
Bobby said, “The office switchboard is near about jammed. All those Hollywood folks who did their dead-level best to bury us are lining up to have a chat.”
“Business as usual,” Candace said, “adjusted for inflation and Hollywood.”
Bobby went on, “You want to talk to ’em, be my guest. You want to ignore them, that’s fine by me.”
“I’ve got to sit down,” Brent said.
Bobby dragged over a kitchen stool and clapped his director on the back. “They threw everything they could at us. Right down to the very last minute. They attacked and they slandered and they burned. And look where it got ’em.” Bobby Dupree was dancing in place. “You know what you’re looking at there?”
“A hit,” Jerry said. “We’ve definitely made the top ten for this weekend.”
“And now playing in twelve hundred theaters,” Celia said, keeping him close by standing next to his chair.
“Not for long,” Candace said. “I bet they double the number by next week. Or triple.”
Brent stared at his friends. And felt his own face go wet. He wanted to say the word but could not find the strength just then. But it was all right. They knew what he wanted to say.
Miracle.
45
Monday morning, Shari Khan got ready for what she assumed was her last limo ride. It was the first time she had asked the studio guys to pick her up at Jason’s. He had left for the airport at dawn in the Land Rover. They had argued while he packed about what it all meant. For Shari, the lines of people snaking beneath the helicopter spotlights were the gathering for her own funeral. Jason chided her for overreacting, then grew increasingly angry when she did not come around to his way of thinking. He had phoned her after hitting the freeway so they could continue quarreling. She heard him do curbside check-in, knew everyone in line could hear him say, “This is Hollywood, Shari. If you’re going to make it here, you’ve got to accept that some things don’t go the way you want.”