Chapter 21 #2
guilt and shame. Given what had happened Saturday at the seminar, it didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand why
she’d wanted to do something nice for her mom. Being proactive about the centerpieces was a whole lot better than spending
the day feeling like a big ol’ loser.
Cindy saw her and smiled. “What have you got there? You brought me flowers! That’s so wonderful. Thank you.”
“Not flowers, Mom. Arrangements. I know you’re talking to florists, but I think I’d do a better job on the centerpieces. If you don’t agree, I won’t mention it again.”
She set down the box, but before she could start describing them, her mother threw her arms around her.
“You’re the best daughter ever. What a sweet thing to do.”
“I had fun. I hope you like them, but it’s okay if you don’t. Now take a seat, and let me explain what I was going for.”
Cindy dutifully sat at the small conference table in the corner, her expression expectant. “This is so fun. The wedding’s
getting real. Oh, when we’re done here, I want us to coordinate a visit to the bridal shop. You have to see that dress in
person. I think it might be the one.”
“It sure seemed like it in the pictures you texted.” Shannon set the first arrangement in front of her mom. It was conventional—a
low round vase with flowers spilling out.
“I went traditional with the flowers,” she said. “Mostly dahlias and ranunculus. Once you pick a dress and a color theme,
we can play with more exotic flowers, if you’d like. These have the advantage of lasting well. There are also lots of colors
to choose from, and they’re beautiful to look at.”
“It’s lovely,” Cindy told her. “The size seems good for a table for eight, and it’s low so people can see each other over
it. I like it.”
“Good. Now option number two.”
Shannon unloaded a half dozen smaller vases. While they were all clear glass, some were square while others were round. She’d
added two taller ones for visual interest. She’d also brought a couple of pillar candles.
“The advantage to this kind of an arrangement is the white space,” she said. “Rather than a dense arrangement in a traditional
vase, this one will be more scattered on the table. It’s both casual and sophisticated.”
Her mother nodded enthusiastically. “I get it, and this is really nice. They’re so different. I don’t know, sweetie. Which would you pick?”
For her own wedding? Shannon tried not to show her surprise. How had her mom—
She held in a groan as she told herself Cindy was speaking generally rather than specifically. As for her flowers, she just
wasn’t sure. She hadn’t gotten beyond the concept of something simple and kept coming back to the idea of the park overlooking
the ocean.
“I could go either way,” she said. “Mom, it’s what you want. Okay, there’s a third option that’s a little unexpected, so it’s
fine if you hate it.”
Cindy grabbed her hand and squeezed her fingers. “I could never hate anything you do. You’re amazing.”
Shannon tried to smile. “Thanks. So I was at the craft store and I saw these small metal buckets. Given that you’re having
a garden wedding, I thought maybe a more casual style. For this one, I added roses to contrast with the container.” She set
the arrangement on the conference table.
She’d tied raffia around the handle and let the ends of the bows trail down. Some of the greenery spilled over. The soft colors,
pinks and corals, reminded her of a sunset.
Cindy pressed a hand to her heart. “I love it,” she breathed. “I would never have thought of little buckets, but this is perfect.
Elegant and casual at the same time. Unusual.” Tears filled her eyes. “If I get that dress, it has a silver cast to it. Silver
can be our accent color. Oh, Shannon, you’re amazing.”
She sank into the chair next to her mom’s. “I’m glad you like it. You don’t have to decide today or pick any of these, but
at least you’ll have ideas.”
“I want the bucket,” Cindy told her. “You’re so talented.”
Shannon shook her head. “Mom, I’m not, and I need to tell you something.
” She drew in a breath and then blurted out the ugly truth.
“I failed again. Saturday I went to a cinematography seminar thinking I could learn something about videos or whatever, but it wasn’t like that.
Everyone was an aspiring filmmaker. They all had camera equipment, and they’d made short movies.
I didn’t know what they were talking about. ”
Her mother stared at her in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re interested in cinematography?”
“No, I’m not, and that’s part of the problem.” She hesitated, not wanting to upset her mom. “Ava called me a couple of weeks
ago. I guess when we had lunch I mentioned something about photography. She thought that translated into me wanting to learn
about cinematography. She mentioned a seminar and somehow I agreed. It was a huge mistake.”
Cindy’s expression turned wounded. “You’re just now telling me this?”
Shannon felt herself flush. “I told you about the lunch. As for the rest of it, I don’t know why I didn’t say anything. I
think it’s because I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t know how to tell her that.”
Her mother leaned toward her. “Oh no. So you felt obligated, and then it was a bad experience. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not sure bad experience adequately describes it. I was humiliated, and it’s my own fault. I couldn’t even get through the assigned movies.” She sucked
in a breath. “What’s wrong with me? Why am I so spineless? Why can’t I figure out what I want to do with my life?”
“You’ll get there.” Her mother’s tone was soothing. “Sometimes having a lot of choices can complicate the process.” She waved
at the arrangements. “You’re very creative, you always have been. I’m not sure the business world is for you. You’re great
at it, but it doesn’t make you excited. I wonder if there’s a way to combine working with flowers in some way. I’m not sure
about a flower shop, but maybe—”
“Stop,” Shannon told her, careful to keep her voice light. “Mom, stop.”
“I’m just brainstorming, darling. It would be interesting if there was a business degree that had some kind of creative angle.
Like art and business. We could do some research. You have so much potential.”
Shannon remembered Victoria telling her that improvement was Ava’s love language. Cindy’s was to be supportive and assure
her daughter she could do anything. Only she couldn’t.
“Mom, please. You have to stop. I know I asked a question. That’s on me because I wasn’t expecting you to answer it. Or maybe
I was, but I have to stop doing that. I have to be the one to figure it out. This is my life, and it shouldn’t matter to anyone
as much as it matters to me.”
“But I love you and want to help.”
“I know and that makes you amazing. But come on. Admit it. Sometimes don’t you want to slap me and tell me to snap out of
it? Don’t you ever want to tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself and listing all the reasons I can’t?”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “I’d never say that or think it. I want you to be happy and for all your dreams to come true.”
“You’re more generous than I deserve.”
“I’m your mother.”
The woman who would do anything for her, she thought with both gratitude and exasperation.
“I’m the only one who can make those dreams come true,” she said, knowing she was telling the truth. “It’s up to me.” And
only her. No one else had the answers, and maybe it was time to stop pretending they did.
“I never liked the name Margarite,” Freddy said, staring at his laptop. “It’s French.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Ollie looked at Victoria who was trying not to squirm in her seat.
While she appreciated getting feedback—anything to help unstick herself in her work—she hated the process.
Okay, mostly she loved the process, but when the writing wasn’t going well, she felt vulnerable, and that was when she hated the process.
“How can you not like a name because it’s French?” Ollie asked.
“Because it doesn’t mean anything. Her name is specifically French. Why? We never discuss it anywhere. Is she French-Canadian?
Was her mother French and she spent her summers with her maternal grandmother in France?” He turned to Victoria. “You gave
her a typically French name. Why?”
“Because it’s fun to type.”
Most of the critique group laughed. Freddy shook his head. “You need a better answer than that. You’ve put a rifle up above
the mantel. You gonna shoot it or not?”
Victoria held in a groan at the mention of the old writing adage. If a writer described a rifle on the wall, then by the end
of the story, it needed to be shot by someone, and better still if it killed its owner.
Ella verbally stepped in. “Thank you, Freddy. Sometimes a name is just a name. It’s always good to think about why you chose
it, Victoria, but it’s up to you whether it will make sense to share that on the screen. But I think there’s a bigger issue
with this scene.”
Victoria did her best not to hunch down in her seat as several people nodded in agreement.
“You’re still pulling back emotionally,” Ollie said, her voice sympathetic.
“I’m not.” The defensive words were automatic. Victoria immediately held up her hand. “Sorry. But I rewrote the scene.” Three
times, but why mention that? “She cries and everything.”
“You give the stage direction, but I can’t feel it.
” Ollie leaned forward, her expression earnest. “I’m not crying with her.
She’s being dumped in public, getting her heart broken, and I should be sobbing.
I love her and Jake together. They’re a great couple.
This is a terrible moment, and yet I’m watching, not participating. ”
“She’s right,” Ella said. “There’s no emotion on the page.”
Victoria glanced longingly toward the door, then looked back at Ella. “Can it be fixed?”
“Of course. You’re an amazing writer. You plot well, you have a way with dialogue, and you make your action scenes come alive.”
Which all sounded great, only there was a big but coming.
“You aren’t comfortable making your characters vulnerable.”
“It’s the autobiographical thing,” Freddy added. “You can’t separate Margarite from you.”
“We’re not the same person,” she protested. “We have nothing in common. And this isn’t autobiographical.”
Nearly everyone chuckled.
Freddy grinned at her. “Right. You just happen to be writing about a stuntwoman who falls in love with an actor while filming
a movie on an island. It’s all pure fiction.”
She squirmed in her seat. “It’s not autobiographical,” she repeated, knowing she was lying and everyone knew it. “Not exactly.
I changed a few details.”
Ollie smiled at her. “Not enough, but that’s okay. When the movie comes out and is a big success, it’ll be a giant fuck-you to whoever the guy is. Success is the best revenge and all that.”
“Back to the scene,” Ella said, looking at her. “You have to let your character bleed on the page, Victoria. We have to see
it, and we have to feel it. Given how close the plotline is to real life, I get that you don’t want to be that exposed, but
there’s no other way to make the story work. If you won’t take the chance, you’re not going to sell the screenplay, and that
would be a shame.”
Later, in her car, Victoria tossed her tote bag on the passenger seat.
“Stupid critique group,” she muttered. “They don’t know anything.”
Only she said the words without a lot of feeling because deep down she knew they were right about all of it. She didn’t like
feeling vulnerable, she never had. She went out of her way to always be strong and in control of every situation. Prescott
dumping her in baggage claim had been both humiliating and devastating. She’d allowed herself to believe in him, in their
relationship, and everything about their time together had been a lie. He’d played her to get easy, regular sex. Oh, she was
sure he’d enjoyed her company—she was a fun date—but he’d never been in love with her.
When she thought about their time together, which was something she did her best not to do, she always wondered if he’d meant
anything he’d said. Even the good memories were tainted by how things had ended because she couldn’t know if any of it had
been real.
She glanced at her tote bag and the computer tucked inside. Obviously she had one more rewrite to do. Maybe more. Because
she wanted to nail the scene, even if doing that meant she had to, as Ella had so vividly put it, bleed on the page.
“I’d rather be strong,” she said aloud as she started the engine. It was a much more comfortable state of being.
As she drove out of the parking lot, she had the thought that her mother was also strong. Ava had her flaws, but the woman
was a rock. So, had Victoria inherited her strength from some unknown biological relative, or had she learned it from watching
her mother? She wasn’t sure, but something in her gut told her that figuring out the answer to that question might matter
a whole lot more than she knew.