Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3)

by Farmer, Merry

  “Me?” Jo blinked.

  “Don’t keep the director waiting,” Yvonne said.

  Not one to argue an order like that, Jo got up and double-timed it into the living room. Spencer and Devon were huddled together with a man Jo had been introduced to earlier—one of the staff writers—talking about something while a make-up tech touched up Theresa’s cheeks. Ben stood beside the camera consulting Moira and Charles. Jo made her way over to them.

  “It’s stiff,” Ben said, not a hint of teasing or playing in what could have been the double-entendre to end all double-entendres. “There’s no flow to it. We need this scene to be emotional, but even the ad lib isn’t working.”

  Charles handed Jo the script with a shrewd point to his expression that made Jo feel like she was at her first pitch-session for a Big 5 editor. She scanned the lines. It was a crucial scene in the show, the moment where Theresa’s character—the episode’s heroine—made the decision that would change her life. The way the show worked, each character, on their deathbed in a nursing home in the present, was given the chance to go back to the most important moment in their life to make a different decision. Spence played the angel who made it possible. Theresa’s character had chosen to run away with the boy who had gotten her pregnant when she was eighteen. In this moment of truth, the character changed that decision and decided to let him go. The rest of the episode was about how much better her life would have been if she’d made that choice. Theresa’s character would then go on to live out that life instead of going straight on to the afterlife.

  The words blurred together on the page. What would her life have been like if she had laughed off Ben’s suggestion at the coffee shop? It may have only happened ten or so days ago, but how would her life have been different? Which was the right decision?

  “Are you sure I’m allowed to do this?” Jo asked.

  “As long as you don’t tell the writer’s union, we’ll consider it,” Charles answered. Moira scowled, crossed her arms, and shook her head.

  Jo felt terrible for breaking so many rules, but they’d asked for her help. “I can’t think with all these people here. How fast do you need suggestions?” She glanced to Ben, but that wasn’t the question in her eyes. What if they’d never met?

  She had a feeling Ben knew what she was thinking. He held her gaze for too long, with too much intensity for work. Then he blinked and turned to Moira, the moment gone.

  “Fifteen?” he asked. Moira nodded and sighed, clearly upset that her show wasn’t following usual procedure. “Fifteen minutes, everybody. There’s coffee and all that in the kitchen.”

  The cast and crew dispersed. Ben took a pen off of what looked like a music stand and handed it to her. “I have every faith in your excellent writing ability.” He smiled.

  There. That wasn’t so bad. He had confidence in her. He was doing his job. He had friends.

  So why the unbreakable tension around his eyes? And why was she making it her mission to care.

  Because you love him, you idiot, she told herself with a sigh as she took the script and pen and marched off to the only semi-quiet place on the first floor, the foyer. Because he charmed you and disarmed you and literally makes you cry out his name when you’re in bed with him. Welcome to the halls of the hopeless, tragic heroines of every kind of romance you hate.

  She plunked herself on the stairs, facing the front door, and went to work. Within about five seconds, her grinding sense of scorn at her decisions floated away. The words on the page were a comfort to her, even if she hadn’t written him. Words had always gotten her through hard time. She understood them. She could work with them. She was good at them. And, really, she should be flattered that Ben had trusted her with them in the first place. Charles and Moira too. She might not have been penning the next bestselling romance classic, but she was working, doing what she loved.

  Maybe turning one of her books into a play would be a fun project after all. It might bring in enough money to keep the house from the bank. She crossed out one of Theresa’s lines and wrote something that had more feeling. Better still, maybe she should find out if what she was doing right now, sitting on the steps in her foyer, an icy breeze pushing in around the cracks in the front door, was an actual job or just something Ben was having her do. What did television writers make for a living anyhow? She would have to sit down with the staff writer, who was still talking to Spence, and ask.

  Halfway through that thought, the doorbell rang.

  “I got it,” she called out of habit.

  She tucked the script under her arm as she stood and crossed the foyer. Before she even opened the door, she could see two bright spots of color through the frosted glass. As she opened the door, they proved to be two men, probably in their fifties, who were clearly identical twins. They even wore the same full-length wool coats, although in different colors.

  “Well, hello,” the one on the right said with inflection that would offend the most flamboyant queen.

  “You must be Josephine Burkhart,” the other said, slightly less offensive.

  “Yep. And you are?”

  The less offensive one held out a hand. “Jett Pollard.”

  “Ashton Pollard,” the other thrust out his hand too. “Can we come in? It’s cold enough to freeze a baboon’s balls off out here.”

  Maybe it was their obviously fake gayness, or it could have been the creepy matchy-matchy thing they had going on, but the last thing Jo wanted to do was let them in. It was nineteen degrees outside, though, and she still had a heart. She stepped aside, the two men rushed into the foyer, and Jo closed the door.

  “We can’t tell you how happy we are that we get to work with you,” the one who had called himself Jett said, giving a dramatic shake before unbuttoning his coat.

  “Oh my god, I’m was so excited when Jett broke the news that I nearly peed myself,” Ashton said.

  Jo frowned. “Work with you?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know who you are.”

  “The Pollard twins,” Ashton said, his inflection so twee it should have broken the glass in the front door.

  “We’re Ben’s friends,” Jett added. “Didn’t he tell you about us? We’re going to be producing your musical.”

  A numb tingle spread up Jo’s neck to her face—the kind that felt a little like embarrassment, but a little like fury at the same time. “I thought Ben was only throwing ideas around when he asked me if I wanted to make one of my books into a play.”

  “We’re not throwing anything, sister.” Jett leaned closer to her. Under his coat, he wore a maroon suit and wingtip shoes. “We’re dead serious.”

  “Romance novels are all the rage right now,” Ashton added, shrugging out of his coat to reveal a cobalt blue suit. “We want to strike this one while the iron is hot.”

  “Jett, Ashton.” Ben strode into the foyer, the color gone from his face, before Ashton finished. “What are you doing here?” If Jo wasn’t mistaken, the real question that radiated off of him was, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We came to check on our star writer.” The smile Jett turned to Ben dropped so many pieces into place in Jo’s mind so suddenly that she had a hard time breathing. This was where the rumors that had brought Ben down started. It was written in the obsequious spark in the twins’ eyes. This was what was keeping Ben far, far away from New York.

  She didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out, but when Yvonne marched into the room, heels clacking on the hardwood, and demanded, “How did you two snakes slither your way up here?” Jo had all the confirmation she needed.

  Ashton flinched. Jett grinned like the viper he’d been accused of being. “Yvonne. Nice to see you here.”

  “I won’t be saying the same.” She turned to Jo. “Honey, craft services needs your help in the kitchen. Ben, deal with this.”

  That was it. She turned on her heel and marched away to the kitchen.

  Jo held her breath, not sure what was actually
happening. She checked with Ben, lifting her shoulders enough to let him know she was clueless about what she should be doing. Ben nodded to the hall. Jo nodded back and started moving. She didn’t need to be told twice, and, frankly, she didn’t want to be in the same room with two men who felt like they should be either in a novel or on a tv show and not as a part of an actual, real world where normal people lived.

  “Who are those people?” she whispered when she joined Yvonne by the kitchen counter. Most of the cast and crew, including the aforementioned craft services people, were either in the kitchen or dining room, and definitely within earshot.

  “The Pollard twins,” Yvonne answered. She paced to the end of the table, more agitated than Jo figured she usually got, judging by the worried looks everyone in the kitchen gave her.

  “No.” Spence gaped. “Not here.”

  “Who are they?” Tasha seconded Jo’s question, bouncing Hazel against her shoulder.

  “They’re big players in the Broadway world,” Yvonne explained. “Rich as Croesus, and crooked as whatever other cliché you want to stick in there. They’re failed actors who happened to have made a mint in real estate. Since they couldn’t make it on the stage, they put themselves in a position where the stage can’t make it without them.”

  “They’re the ones who pulled their funding from Ben’s show.” It all made sense. All of it. “Ben asked me how I would feel about turning one of my books into a play, a musical the other day. He must have already talked to those two about it, must have asked them to support me.”

  “You’re going to turn one of your books into a musical?” Tasha perked up.

  Jo shrugged. “I haven’t said yes. But I have to admit, it would be fun.”

  “Musicals of any sort are high-risk productions,” Charles warned her. He stood to the side, stirring his cup of coffee. Jo hadn’t even been aware that he was paying attention. “They take a huge investment of capital, and with a big investment comes a lot of liability.”

  “Still, a romance novel as a musical sounds like it could be a hit, right?” Tasha reasoned.

  “Like I said.” Jo shrugged. “Fun. At the very least.”

  “Try using the word ‘fun’ after you’ve worked on a production that the Pollard twins have produced,” the make-up tech, Julie, spoke up from the door to the dining room.

  “You’ve worked with them?” Jo asked.

  “Once.” That was all the answer Julie needed to give.

  “But if they say they’re going to do something, they’re going to do it,” Charles added. It was hard to tell if he was speaking in their favor or against them.

  “I don’t like it,” Yvonne spoke at last. She’d stopped pacing, but her mouth was tight, and the lines around it deep-set. “I’d bet my Benz they’re the ones behind Ben’s problems.”

  “They are,” Spence said, almost reluctantly. When all eyes turned to him, he shrugged. “He pretty much told me and Simon so.”

  “That’s it. I want them out of the house,” Yvonne said.

  “Fifteen minutes are up,” Moira called from the other room. “Get back to the set.”

  Like clockworks, the actors and crew members throughout Jo’s kitchen and dining room dropped their food, drinks, and cell phones and wandered back to the living room.

  “I’m going to get rid of them,” Yvonne said, staring down the hall toward the foyer.

  “Hold off for a bit.” Jo sighed, rubbing her head. “I have to think about this. No, what I really have to do is call my agent to see what she thinks about this.”

  Yvonne arched a thin eyebrow. “What you actually really have to do is talk to Ben. As soon as you can,” she conceded as the noise in the other room peaked.

  “Ben, on the set, now,” Moira called from the living room.

  “I’m coming,” Ben snapped from the hall with all the fire of a dragon.

  “Oh boy,” Yvonne sighed.

  “I need to call Diane,” Jo agreed.

  “Aren’t you glad to see us, Pumpkin?” Ashton cooed in imitation of Yvonne.

  “No,” Ben answered. Dangling carrots in front of him from Manhattan was one thing. He drew the line at invading Jo’s house. “Please leave now.”

  “But don’t you want to know why we’re here?” Jett’s grin told him that the answer was definitely no.

  “Why?” he asked anyhow.

  Jett reached into his coat, draped over his arm, and took out a folded stack of papers. He crossed the foyer to hand it to Ben. Ben took the papers and scanned them.

  His scowl deepened. “It’s a contract for Jo.”

  “Right in one,” Ashton said.

  “And I think you’ll find that the terms are beneficial to you,” Jett added.

  Ben scanned the pages faster. Most of the beginning was boilerplate, like other contracts he’d signed for financing—dates, amounts, rights, creative control. Halfway down the third page was a short section allotting him a sum with enough zeroes behind it to send a chill down his spine.

  “This is an absurd amount.” He cursed the fact that he voice was hoarse.

  Jett shrugged. “It’s the amount we’re willing to invest to get the project done.”

  It wasn’t even his compensation for directing. All those zeroes were in way of a finder’s fee. Ben shook his head. “Jo isn’t stupid. She’ll get her agent or a lawyer to look at this, and they’ll cry foul right off the bat.”

  “Then get her to sign it before her agent looks at it,” Ashton said.

  “Her agent is Diane Glick, isn’t it?” There was a spark in Jett’s eyes that sent Ben’s stomach churning.

  He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he continued scanning the contract. By page four, he’d found what he was dreading. Loss, liability, compensation, write-downs.

  “You want this to flop.” It was a statement, not a question. He let his hand holding the contract drop and glared up at Jett’s eyes. “You’re going to deliberately make this fall apart.”

  Jett shrugged. “It happens. A lot. But when it does, what a lovely tax write-off it makes.”

  “Why would you sink millions of dollars into a production that you know is going to fail just so you can write it off on your taxes?”

  “Life imitates art?” Jett suggested.

  In fact, it was almost exactly the plot of a well-known musical. Only Jo’s show wasn’t going to be an accidental success. There had to be more to it, other investments the Pollards had made that were going to push them into dangerous financial territory without a loss to off-set them.

  “No.” Ben thrust the contract back at Jett. “I’m not going to subject Jo to any of this.”

  “Any of what?” Ashton shrugged. “Flop or no flop, do you know how much publicity this will give her?”

  Ben’s lips twitched. He clenched his hands into fists.

  “Just the whisper that one of her books is being made into a lavish Broadway musical, and stores won’t be able to keep copies on the shelf,” Jett said.

  “Yeah,” Ashton added. “Don’t you want to see your little sweetheart hit the bestseller lists?”

  So they knew, did they? Knew that Jo was more than another fling. Knew that he wanted her to be more. But how could they? He was barely willing to admit to himself how much he cared about her. The Pollards were known for taking risks, but this was too random a gamble, even for them.

  Unless it worked.

  “I won’t give her this contract.” He crossed his arms. Final was final.

  “Ben, on set, now.” Moira’s call didn’t shake him from his stance, but his eyes darted sideways. If he delayed too long, someone would come get him.

  “I’m coming,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “We could always approach Miss Burkhart directly,” Ashton suggested. “Think she’d go for that?”

  “No,” Ben answered, knowing no such thing.

  “Or we could forget this whole thing and leave well enough alone.” Jett lowered his eyes to a coy smile. Be
n’s gut sank further. “If you want to come have a little chat with us about some people we all know in New York.”

  Ben’s flash of triumph at cutting through the bullshit to get to the heart of the matter was short-lived. “Your book. You still want to write that trashy book.”

  “You got it, baby.” Ashton sneered.

  Jett silenced him with a sharp gesture. “We want a book or we want a tax write-off. You want your life back. We know a few people who owe you money that would be glad to release those funds after all with a little coaxing.”

  “You’re responsible for that too?” It came as no surprise.

  “See, this is really quite simple when you boil it down.”

  “Ben! Get your ass in here,” Moira shouted.

  “I’ll be right there.” His temper was towering. He could cave in tell a few secrets, sell a few people out, and protect Jo. Or he could sell Jo out, possibly helping her career in the process, and likely lose her forever. Or he could do absolutely nothing and watch the Pollards dance on the ashes of what had been a great career. Either way, the Pollards were the house, and the house always won. Oh happy day.

  He swiped the contract out of Jett’s hand. “I’ll see what I can do,” he mumbled, leaving it at that and stomping out of the foyer to the living room.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” Ashton called behind him.

  And good riddance.

  Except it wasn’t good riddance, because every direction Ben turned, someone was going to get hurt, and it would be his fault.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Yep. Yep, Leon, I understand.”

  Jo peeked up from the spread of manuscripts on the coffee table in front of her. Ben had been on the phone for all of five minutes, but in that time, he’d gone from lounging in a chair, reading a book, to pacing back and forth behind the sofa where she sat, so tense she worried that one wrong step and he’d shatter.

  “I get it. It’s perfectly reasonable,” he went on, raking a hand through his hair so hard Jo worried he’d draw blood from his scalp. She tried to focus on the piles of scripts in front of her, but it wasn’t going to happen. “No, I understand, really, I do. It’s nothing personal. You’re a businessman like any other businessman, and I’ve become a bad investment.”