by Davis Bunn
Danny seated himself. “Can I ask how old you are?”
“Fourteen.”
He nodded as though he was taking it in deep. “When I was about your age, I got so mad at the world I robbed a bank.”
Emma shot him a tight look. “Get out.”
“A little younger, actually. But yeah. It’s true.”
She didn’t want to care. He could see the struggle she put up against her own curiosity. “So what happened?”
“I haven’t talked about it in years. But I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Only not now. We just don’t have time.”
She turned back to the lake. “So go. Do whatever.”
“I am. Doing.” He gave that a beat. “The only reason I mentioned that is, I want you to know I’ve been where you are.”
She huffed a dismal laugh. “Like I haven’t heard that before. A billion times.”
“Tell me about it,” Danny replied. “Counselors. Teachers. People who keep insisting they only have your best interests at heart. And you know they’re all spinning half-truths.”
Perhaps it was his words. Or maybe how Robin started to protest, then went still with the words unformed. Something turned Emma around. She inspected him carefully. Maybe seeing him for the first time. Danny hoped so.
He went on, “I was in foster care for some very hard years. I made it out. Barely. I met a guy and he helped me. But it wasn’t just him. It was because I was ready to listen. And that’s why I’m sitting here. Because I need you to listen.”
She worked through several responses. Danny could tell she was tempted to dismiss him out of hand. But she didn’t speak. He took that as a good sign.
“I’m a film producer,” he said.
“You mean, like, movies?”
“Yes. Feature films.”
“Mom said you owned this hotel.”
“Part of it. That’s why I’ve come to Solvang. But I’m sitting here because I’m interested in seeing if you have what it takes.”
She was engaged now. “To do what?”
Danny replied, “Become a star.”
10
MEGAN’S MOTHER had an abiding passion for blooming plants. She referred to working in her front and rear gardens as therapy sessions. Megan thought her mother was quite possibly the wisest woman who had ever lived.
Normally Megan’s arrival meant dragging her mother out of one flower bed or another. This time, Megan had scarcely pulled into the front drive when her mother was up on her feet and shedding hat and gloves and trowel.
Sarah rushed along the front path, hugged her daughter, and said, “Tell me this is for real.”
“As real as it gets.”
“You’ve left those horrid people for good.”
“You never called them that.”
“How could I, when you were giving them your life?” Sarah held her daughter so tight they could almost breathe together. “No regrets?”
“Not yet.”
“Second thoughts?”
“Tons.” Megan studied her mother, decided her reaction was genuine. “I thought you liked where I worked.”
“Proud, most certainly. Liked, never. Your father and I have spent years watching them grind you down, listening to you find excuses for how you’re not getting what you need.”
“Why am I only hearing this now?”
“You didn’t need us telling you that we were worried.” She led her daughter along the path and up the front steps. “Especially with your father like he is.”
“How is Dad?”
“Fit to burst, is what. You just come with me.”
After her father’s second heart attack, Megan started making the drive from LA to Solvang every weekend. She took no work with her. She cut off her phone. She relearned what it meant to be part of her incredible family. Enjoying the vibrant love her parents still showed one another after thirty-five years together. Even when it reminded Megan of everything missing from her life in LA.
She had never minded being an only child, never felt deprived or missed the brother or sister who might have been. Her family was great just the way it was. She had always assumed she’d find a man like her dad, have a family that fit her like a glove. Once her dream of being a partner in LA’s heady glitz was realized. Someday.
Sarah led her daughter into the den, a long room that ran the entire back of the house. Her father was in his favorite chair, in an alcove fashioned from broad windows overlooking his wife’s blooming artwork. His features looked waxy in the late afternoon light. He lifted one hand in a feeble effort to embrace his daughter. Megan heard the rasp of his breaths as she held him and felt the ache of his coming departure.
Her mother must have seen Megan’s distress, for as soon as her daughter straightened, Sarah gripped her with one strong arm and said, “Now you just sit down and tell us everything.”
After Megan left to see her parents, Danny worked with Emma in the hotel’s main chamber for a couple of hours. When it became clear to mother and daughter that more work was required, Robin invited Danny over to their home. When they walked outside, she said, “I just realized you don’t have a car.”
Danny decided now was not the time to describe his recent encounters with the law. “I came up with Megan.”
“You need wheels. Being miles from everything is one of this place’s central charms.” She started down the front stairs. “You just come with me.”
Robin led him around to the barn, unlocked the main doors, and revealed an ancient Jeep Cherokee. “This was used by the maintenance crew.”
Emma added, “I heard the gardener say it’s done over two hundred thousand very hard miles.”
“I’ll take it,” Danny said. As Robin handed him the keys, he asked, “Why is the hotel closed?”
She looked at him strangely. “You really don’t know?”
“The first time I ever heard about Thrashers Ridge was on the drive up this morning.”
“The short story is, the banks. Do you want the long version, or do you want dinner?”
“Dinner. Definitely.”
“See if you can get this thing started, then you can follow me home,” Robin said.
The Cherokee had virtually no suspension at all. The seats were stained almost black. The interior stank of cigarette ashes and machine oil. But the engine purred and the brakes seemed fine. Danny followed Robin and Emma along the valley road and then back down the highway into Buellton.
Robin’s home was fairly typical for many California small-town residences, built in the postwar heyday and repeatedly expanded until it covered almost every inch of its postage-stamp lawn. Emma’s father was present in every room, on almost every wall. He was a cop in uniform, he was being decorated by some smiling officials, he was playing softball for a local league. But mostly he was pictured with his family.
All of them smiling and happy.
Here in these sad rooms lived the result of having it all stripped away. Their beginnings might have been at odds, but Danny understood this part of Emma better than he could have ever put into words.
He did not say anything. Not then. He figured at some point she would ask about the bank robbery, and he would tell her. But even though his secrets remained locked inside, the harmony was palpable. She did not lose her rage. Nor did he want her to. These hours were all about taking aim. Danny wanted her to reach down, connect with the turbulent emotions as she did when playing her music, and channel the force into words that were not her own.
Over a dinner of lasagna and salad, Danny asked Emma to name her favorite film, then describe her favorite scenes. While she and Robin cleared up, Danny downloaded the script. Then they really got to work. Hour after hour. Trying to see if Emma could do the same with words as she did with her music—reach the point where the emotions rang as true in what she said as they did in how she played. Giving the inner turmoil a new outlet.
Making her camera ready.
11
AT 1:15 THE NEXT
AFTERNOON, Danny stood on the hotel’s top step. He watched Greg rise slowly from the car, the uncertainty clear in his gaze. Probably gauging whether Danny was going to launch himself across the forecourt and take him down. The cameraman, Rick Stanton, had gotten his start on cheap slasher-horror films. His expression said he had spent the journey north being regaled with Danny’s recent events. Rick was probably waiting for Danny to slip on the mask, crank up the chain saw, and get to work.
“Sorry we’re late,” Greg said. “Traffic was murder.”
“Probably the wrong word,” Rick muttered.
“It’s okay,” Danny replied. “Thanks for coming.”
“We left early like you said. It still took us over an hour to make the Getty exit.”
Annie Callow bounced into view. She was a pixie in her late thirties, small and lithe and taut. She possessed the energy of a woman who would never grow old. She rarely walked anywhere. She bounced or skipped or bounded or leapt. Walking slowly with Annie was like holding on to a tethered balloon.
She said, “Correction. Greg didn’t show up at my place until after eight. Hi, Danny.”
“Thanks for coming, Annie,” Danny said.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Are you really in?”
“If you want. Hi, Rick.”
“Danny.”
“I want,” Annie replied. “I want very much.”
Greg asked, “Why are we here?”
“I want you to see something. And I don’t want to say anything until after you’ve had a chance to decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Just give me time to set up a mini shoot.” He waved to the three ladies who had emerged from the side of the barn, motioning them forward. “You need to meet some people. This is Megan Pierce, my attorney.”
Greg grimaced. “We met in court.”
“This is Robin Sturgis, the hotel’s bookkeeper. And her daughter, Emma.”
“Welcome to Thrashers Ridge,” Robin said.
“That’s really what this place is called?” Rick took a step back. “Great.”
Emma did exactly what Danny had hoped—she showed the newcomers her customary pinched scowl. Her gaze skipped over the people, touching them briefly. But at least she glanced Danny’s way, asking silent permission. A very good sign. As soon as Danny nodded, Emma slouched away.
Robin sighed.
Danny turned to Rick, who was reaching for his shoulder-mounted camera. Having three women appear as witnesses must have assured him they would live to breathe another day. “Let me give you a hand with your gear. Greg, Annie, why don’t you go have a look around.”
“How long do you need to set up?” Greg asked.
“Depends on Rick. Half an hour should do.”
“Come on, Greg.” Annie smiled at Robin. “Care to serve as guide?”
“I’ll call you when we’re ready. Don’t go far.” When it was just the three of them, Danny said to Megan, “This is when it gets boring.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that. Can I help carry something?”
“Don’t ever say those words to a cameraman,” Danny warned.
“I meant it, I want to help.”
“In that case,” he said, “absolutely.”
Megan proved to be a willing helper, apparently interested in the minutiae required for a professional-grade shoot. Danny seated her on a stool in the middle of the grand chamber so as to give Rick a stand-in. He held up reflectors while Rick took readings of light and shade. Danny’s explanation was as much to relax the nervous cameraman as to educate Megan.
The change to digital film, when it came, was nothing short of explosive. The transition was usually put down to George Lucas and his next-gen Star Wars film. At the same time Panavision, the world’s leading maker of cinematic cameras, completed work on a line of lenses specially designed for digital film. The precision they offered had always before been considered beyond the realm of possible. Lucas flew to England, where the lenses had been ground by the same scientists who had worked on the Hubble Telescope’s redesign. The first digital-specific lens cost 2.25 million dollars.
The result was jaw-dropping.
Lucas knew he would have to come up with something completely spectacular in order to convince his team of investors. So he developed the idea of pouring buckets of watered-down baby oil over a female fighter, then filming her shadowboxing . . . wait for it . . .
Lit only by a ring of candles.
Megan interrupted Danny’s tale by turning to Rick and asking, “Does everybody in the industry know what he’s telling me?”
“Some cameramen. Not many. Most people treat it as ancient history. The world has gone digital, end of story.” Rick studied her through the viewfinder. “Danny, you want to have a look?”
“Sure.” He waited until Rick replaced him with the reflector, then shifted over to the monitor positioned by the chairs. “Maybe a little too much shadow on the left side.”
“I can shift the second reflector over closer to the window. Who’s handling them for me?”
“I thought Megan would take one, Robin the other.”
Rick was all business now, his former nerves left in the forecourt. “That all right with you, lawyer lady?”
“Whatever the boss says is fine by me. So the boxing film went well?”
It was Rick who replied, “Totally awesome. Lucas and his guy shot images that would have been completely impossible with film.”
Danny asked, “You’ve seen it?”
“Only about a thousand times.”
Danny said to Megan, “The camera caught the firelight in the droplets. The result was a woman in black tights encircled by flying lava. Every time she threw a punch, she shot out a stream of liquid fire.”
Rick said, “Okay, we’re ready. Want to check the lighting with the reason we’re all here?”
“I’d rather not.”
Rick waited for an explanation. When Danny offered none, he asked, “Lawyer lady, you know what’s going on here?”
“Danny doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Liar,” Danny said. “Rick, if our subject gets up and starts moving, I want you to circle in the opposite direction from her. So you’ll need to shoot with the camera on your shoulder.”
“That will result in shadows we can’t control.”
“Exactly.”
Rick nodded slowly. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“Okay, Megan, please go bring in the others.”
12
DANNY DECIDED to use the kitchen to prep because it had the clearest lighting. The overhead fluorescents shone on spotless but dated equipment and stone floors that had to be over a century old.
Emma stood on a three-legged stool while her mother sewed a tear in her hem. She wore a silk cocktail dress of coral and palest bone. It had a high oriental collar and pearl buttons that flowed from her left shoulder to her right thigh. The fabric was gathered along her right side so that it folded up above her knee. Robin had applied a strong blush to highlight Emma’s cheeks. No lipstick, of course, since it would come off as soon as Emma started playing. Dangly earrings that Danny hoped would catch the light. Hair long and unbraided, held in place by a netting that matched her earrings. Emma Sturgis was a nymph, timeless and elegant, a woman and child both.
“Wow,” Danny said.
“This was one of my late husband’s favorite dresses.” Robin rose to her feet and tried to mask the swipe she gave her eyes. “I had no idea Emma had grown so much.”
Emma’s frantic gaze was almost at Danny’s level. “I can’t remember a thing. What’s my name? Sally? Fredericka?”
Danny watched Emma’s mother as much as her. Robin stood a fraction back from Emma’s left shoulder so as to hide her liquid gaze and unsteady smile.
Danny asked Emma, “Do you know who Lauren Bacall is?”
“Sure,” Emma said. “Mom makes me watch those old movies.”
“I don’t make you do anything,” Robin replied. “Y
ou love them.”
“Whatever.”
“You remind me of her,” Danny said. “At sixteen she already had a way of smiling, as if she had heard all the lines men were going to spend lifetimes singing to her.”
“I’m so scared.”
“I know you are.” He turned to Robin. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure thing.”
“Yesterday I showed up, this total stranger arriving on your doorstep.”
“Mom knew you were coming,” Emma said.
Danny went on, “All that time we spent rehearsing, inviting me for dinner in your home, you haven’t asked me a thing about myself. Or, you know, what I’m doing here.”
“I’ve known Sol Feinnes for years. He said he thought you were a good guy.”
Given he had only met the attorney that one time in court, Danny had no idea what to say.
Robin looked down at the floor. Took a long breath. “I’ve been so worried.”
That turned Emma around. “About what?”
“You, darling. You’re growing up so fast. And you’ve been so hurt, so angry.”
Emma’s chin quivered. “You don’t sleep.”
“I spend most nights worrying about all the wrong moves you might make. I feel so helpless.”
Emma’s voice caught the quiver now. “You’re a great mom.”
“Thank you, dear.” Robin looked at Danny. “You’re an answer to a prayer.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” Danny warned.
Robin hugged the girl on the stool, who was now taller than her. “My baby is going to go out there and just kill them stone-dead.”
Danny gave them a moment, then said, “Go tell them we’re almost ready.” When the kitchen door swung shut, he told Emma, “We’ve been over the plan how often?”
“About thirty dozen times.”
“Right. So now you know what’s happening and when, even though you’re nervous.”
“What if I, you know, flub it?”
“I told you. We can do it over as often as you like.”
“They’ll get bored.”
“They’re pros. Boredom is just part of the profession. Ready?”