by Davis Bunn
Danny waited until the barn blocked her from view, then told Greg, “I owe you an apology.”
“That’s my tune.”
“No. Really. I should have spoken with you. And Annie. I was totally out of line telling Alex we weren’t going to use Annie’s backstory. Or how Alex—”
“You were right. And Annie agrees.” Greg’s attention appeared to be elsewhere. “Look, man. I’m glad you did it . . . No, that’s not right. I don’t . . .”
“Just say it, Greg.”
“I want you to have sole producer credit.”
Danny was rocked back so far he almost fell over the bench’s arm. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Greg, that doesn’t . . . CBC came to you. You brought me in.”
“Okay, so give me exec producer credit. Five percent of the residuals above the director’s share. Deal?”
Danny had no idea how to respond. Greg seemed to find nothing wrong with his silence. He reached over, started to pat Danny’s shoulder, then thought better of it and walked away.
The irony was hard to swallow, how Danny had just been handed his lifelong dream by the same guy who had landed him in jail. Sole producer credit meant the world of Hollywood movers and shakers would see Danny as the engine behind the film. The guy who was responsible for making it happen. A film by Danny Byrd.
He was still sitting there, staring out over the water, when another set of footsteps alerted him to more incoming fire. He did not need to look around, however. Only one person could walk and skip at the same time.
Annie settled onto the seat next to him. “We’re friends, right?”
Danny nodded, having no idea where this was headed. Which was pretty much par for his day thus far.
“Friends tell friends when they’re acting like total dodos, right?”
Danny straightened.
“You need to forgive Greg.”
“I don’t . . . We’re working on a film together.”
She made a fist and swung it at the air between them. “Don’t even try to pretend at stupid.”
Danny slid back out of range. “Ohhh-kaaay.”
“Greg feels terrible about what happened. He’s doing his best to say sorry with more than just words. You need to tell him you understand and the whole jail thing is behind you.”
Danny nodded slowly. Hearing it only solidified something he’d been working through at gut level. She was right, of course. But still there was . . . the jail thing.
Annie rose to her feet and put some distance between them. Like she wanted to get a running start before she launched her final blow. “When Greg heard about you being arrested, he started calling around. Well, actually, first he closed the set and got stinking drunk, a real crying jag. But the next day, when he managed to stand upright and fasten two words together, he phoned his buddies. People you both have worked with, mutual pals, like that. Greg put together a legal war chest. He begged, he argued, he wouldn’t take no, not even from people who’d been stiffed by JR.”
Danny rose and backed away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear what Annie was telling him. But the news was scalding.
Annie tracked him step for step. “Remember, Danny, this is while he’s in the final weeks of filming on a project that might go under because the money’s not there. He’s also arranging a mortgage on his house and juggling all the production balls. Then Zhang shows up and decides to invest in the project and in the war chest. Basically because of how he sees Greg trying to help you. Or at least that’s how I read it. But Zhang’s English is so bad, I might have gotten that part totally wrong. Of course, Greg called those legal losers at Wright-Patten about taking on your case. But they wouldn’t even discuss representing you until Greg had placed all the money they demanded in their account. Fifty thousand dollars. So Greg keeps hounding his pals, scraping together your war chest. And what happens but he gets the call from Megan, asking if he’d be willing to stand up for his pal Danny in court.”
Danny knew she was waiting for him to feed her the next line. “So the money Greg raised . . .”
“It’s still there. Waiting for you to thank Greg, confirm the nightmare is behind you both, and tell him he can give it all back.”
Danny stared at her and realized he had never seen her so still. Or looking so grave. “How much . . .”
Annie closed the distance and yelled straight into his face, “Forty-seven thousand dollars!”
Then she stepped back, spun around, and walked away.
28
ALEX GAVE NO RESPONSE when Danny invited him to join them for dinner at Robin’s. He just sat on the porch, staring at nothing, the wires from his silent earbuds dangling down his chest. Danny could not decide whether it was good for him to come or not. He simply said they’d be leaving in half an hour, and if Alex didn’t want to come, the cook would make him whatever he liked.
Thirty-five minutes later, the entire crew piled into three vehicles. As Danny started the Buick, Alex slunk down the stairs and fitted himself silently into the rear seat. His sullen slump would have been an irritation had it not been for Megan, who simply chose to ignore him entirely. She had brought a sheaf of papers with her from San Luis Obispo, the two dozen questions marked with yellow sticky-note arrows. She kept up a barrage of questions until they halted in front of Robin’s home.
As she stuffed the pages back into her briefcase, Danny said, “Don’t you dare bring that into the house.”
“Then when are we supposed to talk about everything else?”
“We’ll find a time.”
Alex snuffled a laugh at that, rose from the car, and slunk away.
Megan watched him through her open window and asked softly, “Is he as bad as he appears at first glance?”
“We don’t have to like him.” Danny spoke as much to himself as her. “We just have to get the best he has to give.”
“I’m sorry I let Abbott saddle us with him.”
“You didn’t let anything. Abbott was spoiling for a fight.”
“That’s how it seemed to me.”
They had covered this ground twice before, but Danny didn’t mind the repetition. “Your agreeing was the only way we got the contract.”
“That was what I thought too.”
Danny saw Annie turn at the front door and wave them forward. He asked Megan, “The money has been turned over?”
“All 3.45 is in escrow,” she confirmed. “The bank manager himself called a few minutes before five. I’m sorry I couldn’t get us the full four.”
“Three five is enough for a solid project.” He did not add what he was thinking, which was, if they could come up with a decent story. “Naturally Abbott waited until the last possible moment, the final banking hour on the Friday before Jennie French arrives.”
“What time is she due?”
“Midafternoon.”
“Are you ready?”
Danny sighed. “We’re so far from that word, you might as well be speaking Martian.”
Megan glanced at the house. “Any idea why Robin wanted us here?”
“None whatsoever.” He shrugged. “Still, the crew’s got to eat.”
Robin’s friends were from Solvang and now lived in Santa Barbara. Robin introduced them as Michelle Cassick and Consuela Reyes, speaking in the easy manner of bringing old friends into a new circle. Michelle was a statuesque woman with a piercing gaze. Consuela was a stunning Latina whose nature was to flirt, just as Annie’s was to dance. Alex naturally made a pass at her, but Consuela handled him with the ease of a professional flame thrower. The former A-list star found himself a seat far from the others, nursed a beer, and sulked.
Emma’s response was what most interested Danny. She did not just like the two women. She showed a touching eagerness, clearly hoping they would like Danny and vice versa.
They dined on marinated chicken grilled over a mesquite fire and a whole host of cold side dishes supplied by the two women. Throughout the meal, M
ichelle and Consuela kept scrutinizing Danny and the film crew.
An hour and a half later, Danny was still no closer to understanding why Robin had insisted this meeting was important. Even so, it felt nice to set aside the day, even if the lighthearted banter only partly masked their burdens. Even if it was just for a couple of hours.
Finally, Michelle said she and Consuela needed to get to work. As Danny joined the others and started clearing up the remains, Emma walked over. He wished there was some way to capture on film how she looked just then. But he didn’t say anything, because Emma’s solemn expression held such a sweet vulnerability. As though she was ready to show him her secret heart. All there in her young gaze.
Emma said, “I want you to meet my dad.”
Robin froze in the act of stretching plastic wrap over a salad bowl. All those within hearing range glanced over. Michelle and Consuela turned from the home’s side gate and started back toward them.
Emma touched Danny’s arm. “Let’s go inside.”
All the home’s light angled slightly, or so it seemed to Danny. Emma became encased in an intense glow. She did not merely reflect the home’s illumination. Her entire form shone. It was a star’s ability to carry such a magnetic force and bend the power of shadow and brightness to suit her.
Emma walked him through the kitchen and into the cluttered living room. She led him to the side wall and started pointing to the multitude of photographs. Danny had seen them all before. But not like this. Not standing next to the daughter of a man whose loss remained an open wound, whose absence defined this household.
Danny let Emma set the pace. Her voice was bell-like, the music of a young woman revealing her true nature. Robin followed close behind, saying nothing, punctuating most of Emma’s explanations with quiet sniffles. The whole film crew came inside, even Alex. Michelle and Consuela were with them too. Danny glanced at them a couple of times and liked what he saw. Their gazes glistened brightly. He saw Michelle step away and twice wipe her eyes as she texted something. He liked that too, how this incredible moment was clearly more important than something as mundane as a work schedule.
They started down the hallway, Emma continuing with her soft recollections. “This was Daddy winning an award.”
Robin had started playing chorus to her daughter’s words. “He was named Officer of the Year and promoted to detective.”
“The youngest gold shield ever.” Emma pointed to the next photograph. “This was Daddy teaching me to water-ski. It took forever before I could stand up.”
“It took less than two hours, and you did great.”
“This is us camping. Daddy always brought his guitar and always sang. Or tried to.”
“Graham was born tone-deaf.”
Danny glanced back and saw how Annie was making frantic notes in her pad. Doing her job, even here. And how Michelle and Consuela were watching.
They arrived at the point where the hallway met the stairs. A large family portrait hung all by itself, the only stylized photo in the entire lineup.
Emma stood there a long moment, then said, “I hate this picture.”
Robin said, “You used to love it.”
“That was . . . before.”
Danny expected to hear something like, before the night they got the news, or before they draped the photograph’s frame in black and positioned it by her father’s coffin.
Instead, Emma went quiet. It was her mother who said, “Before the party.”
“Party,” Emma muttered. “Ha.”
Danny said, “Excuse me?”
“It wasn’t a party,” Emma said. “It was an excuse for people to be sad.”
“We should never have gone,” Robin said.
“I warned you.”
“I know you did, darling. And I should have listened.”
Danny said, “What are we talking about?”
“Four weeks ago Mom got together with all these people who wanted another reason to be miserable.”
Robin said, “It was my support group. They decided to have a Christmas party for their children.”
“They sat around a Christmas tree and moaned. For hours. They didn’t even notice how their kids felt.”
“Everybody brought a picture. The idea was to make the kids feel like their loved ones were still part of the family.”
Everyone but Alex had moved in close. Wanting to catch every word, every nuance. Danny wondered if they felt the same thing he did. That there was something here, something important, hiding in plain sight.
He asked, “Support group?”
Michelle addressed him directly for the first time. “Local churches have counseling groups for families who have lost a loved one. There are special sessions for victims of violence.”
“They’re all over the place,” Consuela offered. “They have to be. We’re surrounded by military bases.”
“Not to mention the Lompoc prison for violent offenders south of San Luis Obispo,” Robin said.
“Solvang is still this little quiet haven,” Consuela said. “But go fifty miles in any direction and it’s a different story.”
“A Christmas party for Mom’s support group.” Emma glared at the photo. “What a totally rotten joke.”
Danny looked at Greg, then Annie. He saw in their faces the same fire he felt in his gut. It was just the three of them now. “This is it.”
Greg said, “The support group. They all thought the same thing. Or most of them, anyway.”
“Their Christmas party should have been more than it was,” Danny said.
Annie added, “A few of them turned it into just another crying jag, and they brought everybody else down to their level.”
“But now they’re talking,” Greg continued. “Now it’s coming up on Valentine’s. And they want something else.”
“They want what they didn’t get at Christmas,” Annie said. “A chance to love through the sorrow.”
“They want to heal and hope and make it a special day,” Danny said.
“Turn the corner,” Annie said. “Stop making it about yesterday. Make it about tomorrow.”
Emma asked, “You’re talking about the hook, aren’t you?”
Greg turned to Robin. “Can we bring together those in your support group who would go along with this?”
“It would help make it real,” Annie said. “Having them play extras.”
“This isn’t about playing,” Greg said. “Well, it is, but we’re after a real setting.”
“I’ll ask,” Robin said.
“Great,” Greg said. “How many can you possibly get together?”
“How many do you want?”
“Enough to fill the hotel’s big front room.”
“We’ll need more than my group, then.”
Michelle said, “I can help with that.” She looked at Emma. “And you want her to play for them, right?”
“The Valentine ballad,” Greg said. “A song for tomorrow.”
“As fractured and imperfect as the party may be,” Annie said, “it’s still a reason to hope for new beginnings.”
“To try,” Robin said, reaching for her daughter.
Emma asked, “Can I decide what song to play?”
Greg seemed to have expected that. “I’ll have to hear it before we can give you the green light, you understand? The entire film will be leading to this big moment. But sure, if you want to try, you can. Long as you understand.”
Annie said, “We can always use it somewhere else in the soundtrack, right, Greg?”
“Absolutely,” Danny said.
Michelle glanced at her watch. “We’re late. Danny, would you walk us outside? There’s something you and I need to discuss.”
For some reason, those words were enough to cause Emma to bounce up and down and see him off with a soft, “This is going to be great.”
29
THE SUN WAS SETTING when the call finally came, and Jennie French’s assistant said they had made the turn onto Thrash
ers Ridge Road. Danny walked down the front steps and did a slow circuit of the forecourt. There were a dozen or so cars and pickups parked by the far fence, and now Danny knew why. The locals had been worried that the start of filming would mean they’d be barred from parking here and hiking the hilltop trail, all of which was on hotel property. When Danny had assured them the only time Thrashers Ridge would be off-limits was when they were actually shooting an outdoor scene, he and the entire crew had taken another giant step toward being accepted as temporary members of the community.
Danny had no idea what Jennie French would be driving. A-list stars came in all shapes and sizes. What made her singular was her shunning of LA society. She rarely gave interviews. She never appeared on the cable-show lollipops, not even when doing a publicity tour. She kept an apartment in a secure Westwood high-rise and owned a small cabin on the Aspen ranch of her favorite director. But where she lived the rest of the year was a closely held secret.
Jennie had starred in her first feature at the ripe old age of fifteen, playing an American runaway in Paris. The role had made her a cult icon. At sixteen she starred opposite Robin Williams in the comedy smash hit of the year. At seventeen she played a genetically enhanced CIA assassin. At eighteen she was nominated for her first Academy Award. At nineteen she turned her back on Hollywood, earned her GED, and then enrolled in Georgetown, where she studied political history and graduated cum laude.
When she returned to LA after four years at Georgetown, the cynics crowed and the on-air pundits claimed her time was past. One cable lollipop announced her return by saying Jennie French was back to play tourist. She responded with her customary silence. She took several secondary roles, then four years ago J. J. Abrams tapped her to lead an all-star cast in the summer’s biggest blockbuster. Nine hundred million dollars in global box office sales later, the cynics had gone strangely silent. She had no patience with the press. She refused point-blank to discuss her personal life.
Danny waited for her in the hotel’s forecourt, liking her already.
A black Infiniti QX60 pulled through the gates. The SUV’s windows were all shaded, so Danny could not see inside. But he knew it was her, and he liked her ride. It was a fine luxury vehicle, but one that attracted no attention whatsoever.