14. The Scripts the Thing
14
THE SCRIPT'S THE THING
Ford
I tossed our cups into the trash and then slid on my sunglasses. I watched as Mara ate up the sidewalk with her smooth, graceful stride. The woman looked like a slice of summer in that dress.
A man turned to watch, his gaze sweeping up and down her body. A wave of possessiveness swept through me, and it lingered even after he entered the dry-cleaning shop.
I hadn’t been able to read Mara very well. At first, she’d seemed happy to see me. She’d even worn that amazing dress, which had given me hope that she was feeling flirtatious, but then she’d pulled away.
Since she’d already turned me down, it was important that she make the first move if she wanted to put things on a different footing. I didn’t want any more misunderstandings between us. Throughout our conversation, she kept holding something back—some essential part of herself. I’m a patient guy, so I waited. Finally, she made that overture. A small one—just enough to keep me on the hook.
I bit—hard.
Mara sent mixed signals, but that last offer was clearly an opening.
She left me confused, though. She came across as self-confident at work and when dealing with customers, but when it was just the two of us, that confidence faded.
She turned a corner and disappeared from view. I dragged my gaze away from the empty sidewalk, already missing her as I headed toward my house. I glanced down in time to avoid an uneven area in the pavement.
Sewickley was an old town with old trees and old sidewalks. Back in L.A., people rarely walked. Cars were king. It was different here though. All around Pittsburgh you’d find sections of brick roads—like the one I lived on.
I turned onto my street, flanked by graceful houses that were built over a century ago when Teddy Roosevelt was president.
I’d never seen Mara’s gorgeous bare legs before today. She always wore jeans at her shop, and in my opinion, that was a damned shame. They were long and toned and perfect. The straps on her sandals didn’t seem like they’d be strong enough to keep them on her feet, but clearly, they did the job. Those coral-pink toenails left me wanting to strip off her sandals right there in the coffee shop and give her a foot massage. She stood most of the day, so her feet probably ached by the time she went home.
Wait—was I fixating on her toes? Damn, but I had it bad for that sexy little nerd.
I pulled out my phone and sent her a quick text.
Me: Thanks for joining me for coffee and conversation. It was fun. See you Tuesday.
Her reply came almost immediately.
Mara: I’d love that. I had a great time too! Thanks again!
Not a sonnet, but it gave me hope.
Time to get to work. I had some decisions to make about that Superman movie, and I knew the best person to talk them over with. Sheila.
When I called, she picked up immediately. “Hey, Ford.” She sounded happy. Relaxed. Much better than the last time we talked.
“Hey, yourself. What has you in such a good mood?”
“I finally had a day off. No filming. I kicked around Amsterdam for a while, playing tourist.”
“I filmed there a few years ago. Gorgeous city. What places did you visit?” The bright sun bounced off the white sidewalks in front of me. The afternoon was warm and humid, but still pleasant.
“I wandered through Vondelpark and then headed over to Rijksmuseum,” she said. “The park is great. Reminds me a lot of Central Park.”
“I remember thinking the same thing. Especially that big pond.”
“Did you visit the Rijksmuseum?” she asked.
“Nope. Never made it there. Was it packed with paintings by Dutch masters?”
Sheila let out a throaty huff of laughter. “How’d you guess? I even visited the museum’s research library. No surprise, right? I love libraries. I think the artist who drew the Beast’s library in the animated Beauty and the Beast must have seen this one. The place actually has spiral staircases in the corners that lead all the way up to the third-floor gallery.”
A spring breeze shook the leaves in boughs that arched overhead, causing the dappled bits of sunlight and shadow to swirl around me in a miniature snowstorm of light.
“Sounds like a great trip. Did you go with anyone?” I asked.
“Absolutely not! I’m sick of people right now. I needed some alone time.”
I chuckled. “I’d forgotten that about you. Your need your solitude so you can recharge.”
“It’s the best medicine after ten straight days of shooting. Humans drive me nuts after a while.”
“Not me.” I came to the corner of my street and turned right. “Being alone gets to me.”
“Yeah. You’re weird that way.”
“Loner.” I used the word like an accusation. “I like Amsterdam. It’s a gorgeous city.” But the quiet street right in front of me held its own charms. The perfectly manicured lawns. The stately hundred-year-old homes. The enormous trees lining the brick street.
A sense of belonging overtook me. This was my street. My town. That was my house just up ahead.
I took in the slate tiles on my roof. The mullioned windows. The newly trimmed shrubs with the rough, pungent scent of freshly laid mulch. The flowering rhododendrons. The perfectly trimmed grass along the driveway and the planters overflowing with multicolored pansies flanking the front door.
Totally charming.
Amsterdam might be an amazing city, but right now I was exactly where I wanted to be. In Sewickley. I’d missed this place more than I’d realized.
Returning home after so much time away gave me a fresh perspective. Years ago, I couldn’t wait to escape—to carve out my own path and make a name for myself. Now, with the restlessness of youth behind me, I could appreciate things with a more mature eye, no longer clouded by wanderlust. I knew this sense of detachment would fade, but for now, it let me see this house as if for the first time, taking in every detail with new appreciation.
With that perspective, I pulled the key from my pocket as I approached the door. A moment later, I stood in my empty foyer.
“I’m still on the fence about directing McCormick’s film,” I told Sheila. My voice surprised me as it echoed in the vacant foyer, bouncing through the nearby empty rooms. I continued, more quietly, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to fix the script, but all my ideas would require a significant rewrite.”
“What’s wrong with the script?”
I strode into the spacious, echoing family room, sunlight pouring in through the towering windows. Above the fireplace, a hidden TV panel was designed to lift away, revealing a stunning Russian landscape painting. But my mind was elsewhere.
“It’s just another Superman origin story,” I said. “Planet Krypton explodes, he gets sent off in a spaceship, lands on Earth, gets raised by a couple. It’s been done to death.”
“Does that mean you don’t think it’s time for another remake?” Sheila teased.
I shook my head, my frustration mounting. “I mean, am I the only one who can’t get past Christopher Reeve? He was the perfect Superman, but this script? It’s just the same old story, barely different.
Walking into the kitchen, I admired the stainless-steel appliances and the mosaic stone tiles on the backsplash. Maybe I should give cooking Dante’s chili another try.
“There’s nothing new about this version,” I explained to Sheila, my mind racing with possibilities for doing something fresh and creative with my family’s production company. “It’s just another repeat. Even the first date with Lois Lane is identical. I want to take risks and try something different, push the boundaries of what’s been done before. I don’t want to play it safe like McCormick’s project. I want to create something truly unique and groundbreaking.”
Passing through the grand family room with its stone fireplace, the sunroom with its tall windows, and the dining room with yet another oversized fireplace, I headed toward the main staircase. My hand slid possessively over the decorative newel post shaped like a pineapple. This place was even more impressive than I remembered.
“I’m not interested in making just any movie,” I told her, my voice low and hesitant. “I’m looking for the perfect one.” I paused for a moment, feeling my heart race with nervousness. “Actually, I’ve been considering another project with my family’s production company. But I’m hesitant to turn down McCormick’s project. He’s in love with the script, and I don’t want to offend him.”
Sheila clucked her tongue sympathetically. “That’s a tough one, Ford. But you have to do what’s best for you.”
“I know,” I said, exhaling heavily as I climbed the stairs, my hand sliding along the solid, smooth wood of the banister. “I just don’t want to burn any bridges.”
She sighed. “That is a problem.”
I glanced into the three empty bedrooms off the hall as I headed toward the master suite. Along the hallway, the built-in cabinets would be perfect for storing my enormous collection of DVDs and Blu-rays. “How do you think McCormick will react if I turn down the movie? I don’t want to piss him off.”
“You can be diplomatic. You’re a lot better at it than I am.”
I laughed to myself as I stepped into the master bedroom. “That’s not hard.”
I’d forgotten how big this room was. This really was an amazing house. I stood next to the large windows overlooking the emerald-green back yard rimmed with scalding yellow daffodils and electrifying pink and orange tulips. Thank god my dad’s landscaper was able to maintain everything at my house as well.
“Whatever. I gave up on bothering with diplomacy years ago. I suck at it. Besides, it never got me anywhere. If you’re a woman and you’re in charge, they either call you bossy or a bitch. Might as well live up to either name. But when it comes to McCormick, maybe you’ll piss him off, maybe you won’t. He wants the right person for the job, and he knows it’s important to get a director who is enthusiastic. If that person isn’t you, then you’re both better off parting ways.”
She made a good point. Enthusiasm couldn’t be faked long-term. Hadn’t I said essentially the same thing to my dad?
We rang off. Without Sheila’s outsized personality on the other end of the line, the house suddenly felt lonelier. Emptier.
This place had good bones. I still hadn’t decided what to do with the area on the third floor that used to be the servants’ quarters. Maybe it could be my home office.
This place was a gem—beautiful but hollow. Just like my life right now.
I needed to work on that. To fill my life and my house with people who mattered to me. I refused to let myself end up as closed off as my dad.