The praise felt unusual, and she laughed it off.
“Next week, we’re off to Maine. I’m hoping we can get the exterior scenes in before the bad weather hits. Winter in New England is not the best place to make a movie.”
“Maine, huh?”
“These special effects are good for some scenes, but we need the look and feel of New England for the picture.”
“I’m flying out Monday.” Carolyn nodded. “Next stop, Summerwind.”
By late October, Carolyn, Michael, Rebecca, and Berniece joined the rest of the film’s production team in Maine.
The rains, so frequent in the fall, held off for the first two weeks. Then a deluge came, followed by an unseasonable cold snap. Much-needed outdoor shots inadvertently moved indoors. Jonathan Dodger’s bad temperament returned, and everyone feared his wrath. Moreover, exhausted from their fourteen-plus-hour days, the cast and crew battled fatigue and sickness.
Carolyn perched on the edge of a chair in the lounge of the Summerwind Inn and waited cautiously for Jonathan’s direction.
A baby grand piano stood on stained blue carpeting with hints of hardwood showing through in worn-out spots.
While the place looked weathered, it comforted Carolyn. As she ran lines in her head, her mind wandered to what the house may have looked like in its glory.
Most of the floors in the inn had been covered with rug, save for a layer of asbestos linoleum in the kitchen, and blue carpeting even climbed up stairs with an elegant carved banister. Up there, floor covering traveled down the hallway to the guest rooms and up another, less elaborate, set of stairs to the third level’s bank of rooms.
To Carolyn’s right, Derek—a construction worker on leave from Boston’s Big Dig tunnel project, now housesitting on Summerwind—held a boom mike overhead.
“Rebecca.” Carolyn noticed her friend staring at the man—a strong, tall, Italian-German, who wore a white shirt tucked into a pair of Levi’s wrapped in a black leather belt.
Rebecca—fiddling locks of her black hair between two fingers—leaned against the entrance to the foyer, which led to the inn’s front desk and kitchen.
Derek repositioned his earphones with a nudge from his shoulder. Rebecca’s mouth slowly parted.
“Becca,” Carolyn said, but distraction from Derek seemed to plague the witch. “Rebecca?” Carolyn didn’t want to be too loud and set off Jonathan Dodger’s time bomb. He’d already been on a tear—the California attitude ebbed considerably. “Rebecca, darling,” Carolyn repeated and cleared her throat.
Rebecca finally turned to her.
“You’re going to be in the way of the frame.” Carolyn held out her hand, motioning for her to move into the foyer. With the majority of the crew sick, the team played multiple roles. Carolyn shouldn’t have to be the one to clear the set, but she would do anything to mitigate Dodger’s blow.
“Oh.” Rebecca moved out into the hall.
Dodger leafed through papers on his lap, looked at the monitor adjacent to the cameraman, and after a moment, called for action.
“And to the citizens of Gardenia.” Carolyn stood. Her chair squeaked. “I shall cast a spell that will…oh, for Christ’s sake!” She took off her witch hat. “I’m sorry, that’s not it.” She’d been so preoccupied with Rebecca and confused about the script changes she fumbled her line. “Can we take it from when Richmond walks in again?”
“Cut,” Jonathan said. “Where’s the script supervisor? Sashay!”
“It’s Sasha.” Carolyn sat back down and huffed.
The script girl toyed with the red-knit cap on her head as her chestnut-colored eyes studied the pages before her. Her flawless, cocoa complexion and beauty deserved a position in front of the camera in lieu of trudging around on the sidelines.
“You.” Jonathan pointed to Sasha, standing in the corner beside Julia. “You’re supposed to ensure continuity! When we did this scene in Salem, did Marigold call the dungeon Gardenia?” He put the script back down on his lap. “I can’t remember when we changed the fucking name.”
Sasha flipped through her notes. “Ah…let me see.”
“Didn’t you write it down?” Jonathan yelled.
Carolyn got up and went to Sasha—her witch hat hitting Julia in the face along the way.
Julia pushed it away. “Good God, watch that damn thing!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Carolyn clasped her hat. “It’s just a little tight in here.”
Sasha showed Carolyn her notes.
“It’s right here.” Carolyn pointed to the clipboard. “We changed it to Gardenia that day on the Common. Remember?”
“Which day?” Julia walked away, annoyed.
“Oh, yes.” Sasha smiled at Carolyn and turned to Jonathan. “Yes, sir, we called it Gardenia back in Salem. She’s right.” She looked back down at her clipboard. “But according to the script, at that point…you had Richmond locked in chains in the dungeon.” She flipped a page. “Remember that scene in the basement of the Hawthorne?”
“Son of a bitch,” said Jonathan. “Let’s retake. And Carolyn, just read the damn line the way it’s written. I’m going to cut that dungeon scene anyway.”
Carolyn’s concern about the integrity of the film worsened. “You’re cutting it? When did you film it? I wasn’t even there. How in the hell am I—”
“It wasn’t your scene. Just…trust me.” Jonathan raked a hand through his hair.
Sasha rearranged the set, and after a few minutes, Jonathan called the scene again.
“And to the citizens of Gardenia, I have cast a spell upon Richmond, and set him free from the dungeon of Ophelia…”
“Cut!” Dodger stood up. “Okay people, let’s take twenty.” He shook his head. “Ah, Carolyn, could I have a word with you?”
“Okay.”
He grabbed her by the arm. Her hat fell next to a broom on the floor.
Carolyn walked with him. “I didn’t know he was locked in the dungeon,” she said. “The line didn’t make sense to me before, so…so I’m trying to keep it consistent.”
The seamstress gathered the hat and brushed the dust from its side.
Carolyn and Jonathan moved to the foyer.
“Carolyn, honey,” Dodger said, “you know I didn’t want you for this part.”
“Are we back on that now? We’ve gone over this: Rudy had one on you. You told me back in Salem.”
“Well, good, we understand each other. Look, we’re not making Citizen fucking Kane here. Just do as I say or you’ll be back in New York doing lounge acts for your washed-up manager.” He spun around and headed back into the parlor.
Carolyn shook her head and leaned against the wall. She fought back tears. I’m not going to cry.
“Had better days?” Viola, the old lady who ran the inn, entered through the kitchen’s swinging door. She pushed sagging gray curls from her wrinkled face.
Carolyn flicked the corner of her eye with her finger. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
The innkeeper smelled of lilac and honeysuckle. “Quite all right. It’s kind of hard to hide on this island.” Viola threw up her hands. “Everywhere you go, there I am.”
Carolyn had heard something like that in one of her self-help books, but the way Viola said it didn’t quite make sense. The old lady’s charm warmed her. Carolyn understood why Rebecca had grown attached to the innkeeper—despite Becky’s crazy ideas about the grim reaper following her.
“Crazy weather we’ve been having,” Viola said. “Yesterday seventy degrees, today ice and rain.” She pulled at her sweater. “Michael’s been a tremendous help. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with all that’s needed to house such a large crew. Summerwind Inn hasn’t been this busy in decades.”
“I can just imagine the splendor of this place back in its heyday.”
“Indeed. I could tell you stories.” She took Carolyn’s arm. “Come now, let’s go into the kitchen and get you a little fixing.”
“Oh, I can’t. I�
��ve got to lose weight,” Carolyn said and held the opened swinging door.
Michael, on the other side, slid over. “Watch it. There’s a man back here.”
“Where?” Carolyn asked.
Michael smiled teasingly.
“Lose weight!” Viola waved a hand at Carolyn. “My friend, you need to gain a little, not lose it.”
Michael took a bite of a cookie.
Carolyn went over to the counter to peek at the snacks.
“You Hollywood types are too thin,” Viola said. “It’s not healthy.”
“Not me.” Michael patted his belly. “I don’t count as a Hollywood type. Not anymore.” He took another nibble. “Not since forgoing my underwear-modeling days.”
“That story I must hear.” Viola shut off the teakettle, put some cookies onto a tray, and brought it to the butcher-block table, where they sat down and chatted about Michael’s foray into fashion.
Carolyn sipped green tea from Royal Doulton white bone china, while Michael slurped hot cocoa from a mug decorated with dancing blueberry pancakes and muffins, and Viola—opposite Carolyn—dangled a silver tea ball in a cup that matched Carolyn’s.
The conversation moved to Viola’s challenges with housing a film crew. “As much as the producers are a pain in the patootie, I rather enjoy having people, like you and the witches, on the island. I’ve never hobnobbed with the likes of Hollywood before. In fact, with all the hustle, I’m behind two lessons in the HTML course I’m taking at the college.”
“You get over to the mainland much?” Michael asked.
“Oh, not really. The course is online,” Viola said. “As much as this here moviemaking business is upsetting my routines, it is making me some money, so I can get a new furnace.”
“I would hope more than just a furnace.” Carolyn nibbled a gingersnap. “Umm. These are good.”
Michael’s cell phone rang, and he took it out of his pocket. “Terrence!”
“Well, give him my best.” Carolyn put her cookie down, and Michael exited through the swinging door.
“Reception’s best facing west!” Viola said and turned to Carolyn. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
From under a set of salt and pepper shakers, Viola pulled out the gingersnap recipe written on an old index card—splattered with what looked like decades of its ingredients. They discussed recipes and sipped more tea. Viola was telling Carolyn the secret to a fabulous blueberry pie when Michael returned.
“The blueberries must be fresh!” Viola tapped an arthritic fist on the table.
Carolyn jumped.
“Everything all right in here?” Michael asked.
“We were just discussing my famous blueberry pie,” Viola said and Michael put a hand on her shoulder.
Carolyn tore a piece off a gingersnap. “How’s Terrence?”
“Viola, dear?” Michael said. “Do you think you’d be able to make room for one more guest?”
“At the table?” She craned her neck toward him.
“At the inn.”
“What?” Carolyn asked. “Terrence? I thought he was in Japan.”
“He’s been fired.”
Beauty in the Eye of the Wee-holder
“Berniece Fagar!” Rebecca held a hand on her hip and stared at her roommate.
The two not only shared their apartment back in Salem, but Viola bunked them together in the Islesford, a room named after another island off the coast of Bar Harbor.
Berniece wrapped herself in a quilt she’d found in an old trunk in front of the room’s couch. “I didn’t know you could poison people by slipping them laxatives.”
Rebecca spun to face her. “And ipecac!”
Berniece’s idea to cure people of an illness, would, in her estimation, have the witches viewed as genuine and clenched their security on a protest-free set. The ruse of a flu traveling about had originally been of Berniece’s making. No longer slipping pills into the crew’s tea—and adding a little hocus-pocus for show—had magically cured them of their ills.
“I just gave it to a couple of the bad ones.” Berniece rested her feet on the trunk, and her pink rabbit slippers stuck out from beneath the blanket. “Besides, that one who said Carolyn looked like a horse was an asshole. You heard him.”
“I know but…” Rebecca hated resorting to tomfoolery but knew they needed to prove their worth or be sent back to Salem and Wal-dor. “Bernie, I want to be…I want us to be…real witches. Real witches don’t do these things.”
Berniece sighed. “I meant no harm.” She stared about the room. “Can’t we get a TV somewhere?”
“Read a book.” Rebecca went to the trash barrel and dug out the empty medicine packages Berniece had thrown away. “You can’t just leave the evidence behind for the housekeepers to find.” A lock of hair fell into her face, and she whisked it back in frustration. “I’ll take them to the mainland when I go out to get more cigarettes. I’ll…I’ll figure out something.”
“I think you’re overreacting. One PA had a little diarrhea, and another puked. They’re fine now.”
Rebecca grabbed a plastic shopping bag from a previous run to Hannaford on the mail boat. “And now everybody’s sick with the flu. How are you going to cure them?”
Berniece tugged the blanket to her chin. “I’m getting a little achy and have the chills.”
“Serves you right.” Rebecca yanked her coat off the hook by the room’s exit, shoved the bag into its pocket, and left with a door slam.
She walked briskly down the second floor’s blue carpet.
“Good night, Viola,” a voice rang out from downstairs. Rebecca recognized it as Derek DePaulo, the hot-as-fuck construction worker Dodger had subbing as a boom-mike operator. “You sure you don’t need anything?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine.” Viola’s voice cracked with age. “I’m staying here at the inn this evening. They’ve taken over my house.” Viola lived in the adjacent building but relinquished it to Dodger for filming, as the crew readied it for the next day’s shoot.
“Call me if you need anything,” Derek said, and the inn’s front door closed.
Rebecca skulked outside the cottage where she’d seen Derek enter. She’d stealthily followed him down a path that meandered a short distance from the inn. “I’m just curious,” she said in justification. She hadn’t been able to find anyone on the island who fit the likelihood of the grim reaper-like figure she saw a couple of months earlier, scouting with Jay. Derek could be an option. While he didn’t appear as tall as the apparition she’d seen—and the construction worker claimed he’d been in Boston at the time—her attraction to Derek trumped reason, and she pursued him.
Derek’s place opened upon a clearing. Nestled under a bank of pine trees, a green-shuttered log cabin sat with smoke rising from its chimney.
Looking over her shoulders, Rebecca sauntered forward and then peeked through one of the windows in the side of the cabin. Inside, Derek stood in a small bedroom, with wide-plank pine floors, an unmade twin bed, and a darkened fireplace. He took his wallet out from the back of his jeans and threw it on the nightstand; upon it, a lamp bore the resemblance of a moose. Derek kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt.
Rebecca hadn’t anticipated the man’s fine physique: washboard abs, hairy but not overly so, and muscles in all the right places. “Wow.” Her breath frosted the window.
“Food!” Derek yelled. He wiped his underarms with his shirt.
“Food?” Rebecca muttered.
A male’s voice echoed from the other side of the cabin. “What?”
Soon, a lanky redhead with bad acne and crooked teeth appeared at the bedroom’s open door.
Rebecca wiped a foggy spot on the window with the edge of her gloved fist.
The redhead leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m in the middle of watching Hogan’s Heroes. What do you want?” He held a television remote in his hand and wore a blue pajama top, red sweatpants, and black slippers.
Derek threw his
thermal shirt at him. The redhead tried to catch it, but it fell to the floor.
“Food. You’re a poor excuse for a man,” Derek said. “Look at you. You can’t even catch a shirt from three feet away.”
Rebecca squatted and leaned her back against the cabin’s exterior to ensure she was not seen. “Food?” she whispered. “Is that his name?”
“Did you chop any more wood today?” Derek’s Italian accent rang.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Um, in case you didn’t notice, it rained most of the day.” Food’s voice sounded much softer than his roommate’s.
“Great! Well, now it’s snowing. You’ve used all the wood in the living room, haven’t you?”
Snowflakes fell on the arm of Rebecca’s coat.
“There’s some more out in the shed,” Food mumbled.
Rebecca looked to her right. A lean-to with a tin roof held a small stack of logs, some sticking out underneath a blue tarp. She rose and peeked back in the window. Food had left the room. Derek put on his thermal and followed.
When she heard footsteps on the cabin’s front porch, she ran into the woods and hid behind the shed.
Derek sauntered out from the cabin, carrying a canvas tote. From the lean-to, he filled it with firewood and went back inside.
Rebecca inched behind a tree and saw him reenter his bedroom.
He put some kindling and wood in the hearth.
“I’m such a voyeur.” Rebecca back-stepped toward the inn but caught sight of Derek undoing his pants. “Okay, just one more peek.”
Derek grabbed a thick, checkered-blue comforter from his bed and wrapped his naked body up in it. He put on a pair of moccasin slippers and sat down in a wooden chair next to the fireplace.
“All right, Rebecca,” she said to herself. “Enough is—”
Derek closed his eyes and movement occurred in the area of his groin. His legs opened wider.
Cold air bit at Rebecca’s opened mouth. “Oh, my. This is better than the two-way mirror at Wal-dor.”
He got up—still wrapped in the blanket—went over to his nightstand, took out a book, and sat down on the bed with his back to her.
Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem Page 11