by Davis Bunn
Danny thought it over, then went and asked Greg. The director was rushing from one mini crisis to another, trying to frame a shot with seventy-odd extras. Even so, Danny’s words halted him. “That’s your grandmother?”
“Sort of.”
Annie had slipped up unnoticed. “Can I meet her?”
“Of course.”
As Annie drifted over, Greg asked, “Which is your grandfather?”
Danny pointed to the black-and-white shot by the central staircase’s landing.
Greg picked it up, studied it intently, and said, “The guy could be Clark Gable’s better-looking brother.” He carried it over to Louisa, spoke words Danny did not need to hear, then clapped his hands and said loudly, “Okay, folks. It’s time.”
62
UP TO THIS POINT, the locals had formed a disjointed gathering. The kids played and ran around or ate with their parents. The elderly sat with people they knew and were led around to meet others from different groups. They totaled somewhere over a hundred, a good number for the size of this room. The noise was massive, and the sense of excitement was heightened by how Jennie kept moving from group to group. She spoke a few words, she signed slips of paper, she treated each person she met as important. These might be California natives who had been around the film world all their lives. But Jennie French was a true Hollywood icon at the top of her game.
It was a strange way for a star to spend her last day on set. Jennie was leaving that evening. The contract stated she would be there through the next afternoon, but Greg was releasing her half a day early. Even with the final crucial scene to shoot, Greg was confident now. Even Alex was turning in solid performances. The news that a director was not trying to fill every last remaining hour on a star’s contract had silenced Lane Pritchard.
Now Greg stood on the central staircase’s landing and lifted his voice, silencing even the kids. As he began outlining what was about to happen and what he wanted from the extras, Danny watched as the group dissolved and re-formed. The kids became isolated, subdued. Even the youngest ones slipped over to where their mothers or fathers waited with outstretched arms. The families clustered together, one incomplete unit after another. The smaller kids reached out and gripped the chairs holding their photographs. The sight brought tears to Danny’s eyes.
He missed Jennie’s approach until she said, “Doesn’t that just break your heart.”
Danny was too full of the moment to deflect. “Brings up a lot of memories.”
She reached over and took his hand. “You’re a good man, Danny Byrd.”
They stood like that and observed Greg set the lights and direct the camera crews. Then Jennie said, “You’ll thank everyone for me?”
“Of course.”
“I won’t leave without saying goodbye to Greg.”
“And Annie. And Emma.”
“Of course. But if I can, I want to slip away without everyone else noticing.” She squeezed his hand. “Sorry I won’t be able to make the wrap party.”
“You’ll be missed.”
She glanced over to where Alex stood by the reception desk, frozen in place while the cosmetician finished with his makeup. “He’s done well since that night.”
“Thanks to you.”
“And Emma. She’s a keeper.”
“I think so too.”
“So are you. When the young lady grows into a star, I hope she remembers the role you played.”
Danny had no idea what to say to that.
Jennie nodded as though she had somehow managed to hear the unspoken. “When you’re done with the first edits, call Evelyn. I want to have you over for dinner.”
“Wow, Jennie. Thank you. Can I bring a date?”
“As long as it’s the lawyer, sure thing.”
Then Greg motioned to Jennie and the moment was gone. She slipped her hand free and started away. Then she turned back and said, “At the start of week two, I told Lane I thought we were making magic in a bottle. She asked if I had seen the dailies, and I told her Greg offered and I refused. I said I was too caught up in the beauty of what we were creating to worry about details.” Jennie smiled with the brittle brightness that had snared a hundred million hearts. “It’ll be nice to tell Lane, ‘I told you so.’”
63
EMMA STEPPED THROUGH the kitchen door holding her alto sax. Rick had lined the path she would follow with little crystal cups holding candles. She wore a fawn-colored full-length dress with a bolero jacket that tied across the front. The sleeves and collar were laced with silver thread that caught the flickering light. Alex followed behind her, carrying a photograph of Emma’s own father. Greg did not need to motion for quiet. Even the smallest children were caught by the moment and held to utter silence.
When Emma passed where Jennie sat with Robin, her film mother and her real mother holding hands, she paused long enough to hug them both. It might not make sense the first time the audience viewed the scene, but Danny was glad Greg did not object to Jennie’s request. If they had a hit, this would form a component of the film’s lore.
From his position beside the sound tech, Myron started the playback so that the music preceded Emma’s arrival at the low stage. She climbed up and swayed slightly to the music, waiting while Alex positioned the photo on a chair to her right. As he stepped down and moved into the shadows, Emma took a long look at her father’s picture, wet her reed, and launched straight in.
Myron had decided to go with three ballads from David Sanborn. He had discussed it with Emma and Greg and Danny, but really the decision had been all his. The aim had been simple enough. Go with one emotive flow. One core structure. That way if Emma slipped up at any point, they could segue easily into another song and capture the same emotion throughout.
There was another element, one Danny only knew about because Myron had told Emma and she had shared it with him. As a child, David Sanborn had suffered from polio for eight hard years. He had started playing the sax at the suggestion of his doctor and continued it as a salve for his loneliness. Besides earning Grammys for several of his solo works, Sanborn had also played backup for a number of singers, including Cat Stevens, Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Michael Franks, and David Bowie on the hit “Young Americans.” Emma had related the story with a mixture of awe and shared sorrow. Danny knew she had found someone whose career she wanted to emulate. Which of course was why Myron had told her in the first place.
Myron had decided it would be easier to maintain a tight hold on the extras, especially the kids, if they did not stop between songs. So he had melded three together, and that was how Emma played them. Shifting smoothly between melodies, creating one long sweeping ballad. She brought a number of the audience members to quiet tears in the process.
When she was done, the crowd went crazy. Jennie rushed forward, followed by Rick and a shoulder-held rig. She hugged Emma and said words Danny knew had been rehearsed half a dozen times, but even so the smile that bloomed on Emma’s face held a sharing of real emotions. As the two of them turned and looked down at the photo of Emma’s dad, the kids applauded and then filled the central area, dancing their excitement of being part of something they could not name. Nor did they need to.
Danny surveyed the rim of professionals, the people responsible for melding this into a single climactic scene, and found smiles everywhere. From her spot beside Robin, Megan gave him a thumbs-up. He smiled in reply, wondering how it was possible to hold this much good in one heart.
When Greg called a ten-minute break, Megan slipped over and said, “So what did you talk about with Jennie French?”
“How you’re incredibly special,” Danny replied. “And I should hold you for the rest of my life and never let you go.”
“She did not.”
“No.” He drew her into a fierce embrace. “But that was what she meant.”
64
AS GREG RETURNED EMMA to the stage and began settling the extras in for the next take, everything changed.
When
Danny thought back to the moment, he had the sense that everybody knew except him. There was surprise on many faces, but not what he might have expected.
Randy Willis entered the room. He was followed by the same two pros who had joined him at the Soho Club.
As the three crews filmed the crowd applauding and some of the extras rose so Randy could give them quick hugs, Greg drifted over to where Danny stood with Megan. “This day just keeps getting better.”
Danny asked, “You knew?”
“I might’ve heard something somewhere,” Megan said.
Greg explained, “Myron knew Randy from somewhere. They went over and talked with Michelle. She said she would ask.”
Megan said, “Randy only got back from location this morning.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Danny said.
She hugged him. “Surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“Liar.” She hugged him again.
Randy waited while his crew settled in with their instruments, then he said softly, “Here we go.”
They launched into an instrumental version of Sting’s “They Dance Alone.” The artist had written it after watching women dance the cueca, the national dance, in the streets of a Chile torn apart by the Pinoche regime. The women became known as arpilleristas, the symbols of silent protest.
Danny said, “This is one of my absolute favorites.”
Megan hugged him once more. “Shush now.”
Then it happened.
As Emma soared far above the melody, a young girl with two blonde pigtails stepped away from her mother’s arms. She could not have been more than five or six years old. She picked up a photograph stationed on the chair next to her mother and carried it into the empty central floor.
And began to dance.
Within half a minute, perhaps less, there were a dozen half-couples. Then twenty, thirty. The dancing photographs smiled on the people and the times that were no more. The faces shone with tears and too many lonely hours. But there were smiles as well.
Danny watched the families and saw people determined to find small joys in the vacuum. He decided they were some of the bravest people on earth.
Greg stepped onto a chair at the back of the room and rolled his hands, signaling to Randy and Emma that they should play it again. Randy drew them together and started afresh. If the crowd noticed, they gave no sign.
Megan buried her face in Danny’s chest and wept.
65
THE PRIMETIME EMMYS took place in mid-September at the Microsoft Theater in downtown LA, an enormous concrete monolith with a seating capacity of over seven thousand. Early in his career, Danny had secretly joined the screaming throngs clustered to either side of the red carpet. He had come in order to take aim.
And now he was here. A contender.
Upon its release, A Ballad for Valentine had gained the highest audience rating ever for Chambers Broadcasting. Since then CBC had aired the film six additional times. Three of those times, it topped the ratings for all cable channels, an unheard-of event for a rerun. Tonight Danny’s film was up for seven awards, including Outstanding Television Movie.
Danny had signed a multiple-film contract with CBC. His team remained the same. Lane negotiated the deal. Megan supervised the contract.
The signing bonus took his breath away.
The previous evening, Danny, Megan, Greg, and Annie had met and dined with Lane, Emma, and Robin at the Beverly Hills Hotel main dining room. It had been filled with industry heavies and the world’s press. Afterward Danny had asked the limo driver to take the four of them to the Microsoft Theater. No one had asked why or objected to his adding this trip onto the end of a long day.
The crew had been busy prepping for the event, rolling out the red carpet and draping it in protective plastic sheeting, positioning the lights, building the camera stations. The four of them had stood and watched a sickle moon rise over the LA skyline. It hung there, huge and sharp-edged and luminous.
Danny found it strangely calming to be there with Megan and his two dear friends. He had become caught between all that had come before and what might now be unfolding. In the midst of their frantic and high-pressure days, Danny liked standing there and listening to the whisper of . . .
Something more.
That was what he had found in the moonrise. A gentle reminder of why he had become involved in this crazy business. So he could join with people he trusted and fill an electronic canvas with images strong as the night sky. And create his own brand of luminosity.
The line of limos crawled forward. Danny shared his ride with Emma and Robin. Greg and his wife and Annie and her fiancé followed in another stretch limo, from which Annie toasted LA through the sunroof. Alex came next, accompanied by his flame of the hour. Every time he met Danny, Alex claimed he was holding to the straight and narrow.
Lane and Jennie were in the car directly behind Alex. Bringing up the rear was Myron Riles accompanied by his daughter, and Rick Stanton with his wife.
Up ahead of Danny, Megan rode with her parents and the president of Chambers Broadcasting.
Robin pointed through the side window and exclaimed, “There’s another billboard about your next project.”
Emma covered her eyes. “I can’t look. I’ll faint.”
“I told you those shoes were too tight.”
“Shoes don’t make you faint.” Emma lifted one leg. “Besides, these are Ferragamos. If I do faint, I’ll look fabulous.”
Robin ran one hand down Emma’s shoulder. The dress was by Vera Wang, a sheath of blue silk with a high collar and a froth of hand-sewn crystals down the sleeves and both legs. “What ever happened to my little girl?”
“She’s still in there,” Emma said. “I saw her in the mirror. If only I can remember her name.”
Danny caught sight of the weaving spotlights that fronted the red carpet just as the first faint screams pierced the limo’s soundproofing. “Last chance,” he said. “Robin can escort you.”
“No Robin can’t,” her mother replied.
“I want you there holding my arm,” Emma said. “It’s important.”
Then it was their turn. The door was opened by a red-jacketed valet, and Emma accepted his hand. As she leaned forward, the crowd shrieked with one voice, “Emma!”
Robin kissed Danny’s cheek as he started out and said, “I will remember this moment for the rest of my life.”
They were given half a row, six from the front. Their breathless escort explained this was easier for everybody since Ballad was up for so many awards, and they should be ready to shift seats so whoever was up at that moment would be positioned on the outside. That became impossible at one point, because both Jennie and Emma had been nominated for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Limited Series or Movie.
Jennie won.
Her acceptance speech would be played by the entertainment shows around the globe. She stood at the podium for a long moment, her eyes filled with tears she refused to wipe away. “Greg. Annie. Danny. Emma. Lane. If only all of life could be filled with people like you.” Then a wave of the award and she was gone.
Then it was Emma’s turn.
The lights dimmed, music swelled from the orchestra pit, and Emma walked on stage. Robin’s grip on Danny’s hand was so tight he figured it would be the middle of next week before circulation was fully restored. Not that he minded.
Screens descended from the ceiling, and as the spotlight focused upon the lovely young woman center stage, she began playing Sting’s song, now up for the Outstanding Main Title Theme Music. Images from the final gathering flickered upon the screens that surrounded her. And as she played, the children danced, the mothers and fathers with them now, then alone, then all together, the music joining them in shades of both sorrow and joy.
Myron’s acceptance speech was the shortest of the night. He lifted the statue high over his head and said, “I dedicate this to all the people out there who assumed I was dead and buried.”
/> Then it was Danny’s turn.
It had been a long night by that point. Danny had half assumed his capacity for another adrenaline high was long gone. But as soon as they shifted him over so that he sat on the aisle, his heart threatened to punch out of his chest and run screaming out the rear exit.
The competition was intense. All the other names were well established, and the bookies had given Danny a slim-to-none chance of winning. He prepared his face for the inevitable smile of graciously losing and freed his hand from Megan’s so he could applaud the winner’s parade.
Jennie had asked to present this award. She opened the envelope, covered her mouth, and swallowed hard. Then she leaned toward the microphone and said, “The award for Outstanding Television Movie goes to . . .”
Davis Bunn (www.davisbunn.com) is the award-winning author of numerous national bestsellers with sales totaling more than eight million copies worldwide. His work has been published in twenty-four languages, and his critical acclaim includes four Christy Awards for excellence in fiction. Bunn is a writer-in-residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University.
His work within the world of film began ten years ago, when he completed the graduate course in screenwriting at the British Film Institute. Since then he has completed a number of scripts, including Unlimited, starring Fred Thompson and Robert Amayo and released by Pureflix in 2015.
In the spring of 2019, Starlings Entertainment acquired Bunn’s screenplay Island of Time and is currently developing it as a major feature film.
davisbunn.com
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