41. Progress
41
PROGRESS
Ford
I sat in my desk chair in my third-floor home office, on a video call.
“I wanted to give you a quick call to let you know I finished reading through your screenplay,” I told my screenwriter, Neil Frank. “It looks good. I marked a few parts I want to discuss with you, but I want to sleep on it first.”
“I’m glad you like it so far,” Neil said.
The church bell down the road chimed the hour. Was it six already? Where had the day gone? “The author’s sister might have some feedback as well. I’ll let you know.”
Neil looked relieved. “Do you like the approach I’m taking with the inciting event? I thought the story worked better this way.”
“It does. You’ve definitely got the touch.” Sure enough, the clock stopped after six chimes. “I have to be somewhere, so I need to get going. I’ll call you tomorrow to discuss everything.”
“Sounds good.” Neil’s index finger loomed large on my phone screen as he reached out and ended the call.
I still had a few minutes before Max picked me up for our cooking class. Instead of getting ready though, I stared out my third-floor window. From up here in the former servants’ quarters, I had a sweeping view of the neighborhood. An abandoned bird’s nest sat on my windowsill. I kept hoping a robin would decide to move in, but so far there’d been no takers.
Working with Neil Frank had been easier than I’d expected, given his fame. But then again, he’d been nominated for best-adapted screenplay last year. The man knew what he was doing. Turning a four-hundred-page novel into a ninety-minute film meant entire subplots and supporting characters needed to be deleted. It took a skilled screenwriter to adapt an existing story and make the appropriate changes while keeping the themes and tone true to the original.
Since Chance had been both an author and an artist, he’d thought visually, and that made all the difference. Even so, the internal dialogue normally conveyed through a comic’s thought bubbles would need to be revealed in other ways, and that required changes to the story.
Small changes, yes, but changes, nonetheless.
Neil’s changes weren’t massive, but they were enough to shift the story in a new direction. Would Mara see that as honoring her brother’s vision, or would she feel like I was erasing him? Would she fight any changes, no matter how well-intentioned? The way things stood between us, I wasn’t sure. I’d broken her trust when I’d told Chris about her problems and he’d made that tweet. It would be hard to come back from that. This was what came from mixing business with pleasure.
The contract Mara signed listed her as a consultant. Any decisions regarding the script were officially mine and mine alone, but unofficially, I knew I’d do anything to make her happy.
I hesitated a moment longer before I called her at her store.
“Ghost of a Chance,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Hi, Ford.”
Not the worst beginning, but I could tell she was still irritated with me. “Do you have a minute? I just spoke with the screenwriter.”
Outside my window, I heard a shout, followed by an excited shriek of laughter. The boys next door darted across their yard, squirt guns in hand. I recalled similar summer evenings like this, playing outside with my brothers while my mom cooked dinner. Usually, we can’t recognize how great our lives are in the moment. We can’t see the big picture until after it’s been erased. I’d never realized how idyllic my life had been until Mom was gone.
“Is he making the changes your dad suggested?” Mara’s tone was tense. Professional.
“A couple. His are minor though. You know Ghost’s story and themes better than anyone else. I’d like you to read through it and make sure you’re happy with what we have in mind.”
One of the boys let out another laughing shriek. The sound reminded me of Max as a kid, when Sean would jump out from behind a tree and ambush him, squirting him at close range.
I’d seen my old squirt gun around here someplace when I’d unpacked my office items. I opened one desk drawer after another until—yes. There it was. Red, plastic, and extremely accurate. That was why I’d held onto it all these years.
Mara was quiet for a long time before she spoke. When she did, her voice sounded strange. “It means a lot to me that you value my opinion.”
I stilled, my hand tightening around the grip of the squirt gun. It hurt to know she’d doubted me. “Of course, I do. That was our agreement.”
“I know, but I always assumed I wouldn’t have much input. The contract I signed turned over all creative control to you. That was the logical thing to do, since I don’t know anything about making movies.”
“You’re more than just a script consultant. You’re my girlfriend and Chance’s sister. Your insight is invaluable. I thought you understood that.”
“I did. I do.” She sighed. “We should talk.”
That phrase again. It was like being handed a grenade without knowing when it would go off. What if all the lunch offers and Wonder Woman jokes couldn’t undo the damage I’d caused? I didn’t want to lose her—not over something so stupid. “I agree. Does tomorrow work? I’ll bring you lunch. I have this intense desire to cook for you.”
Mara stayed silent for too long. I sprang from my chair and started pacing. My heart thudded louder than my footsteps.
“That sounds nice,” she finally said, her tone warmer than it had been before. “Sorry about that. A customer just left, and I’m pretty sure he was eavesdropping. Lunch sounds great. I’m a pushover when it comes to your cooking. What will you make for me?”
Relief broke my tension, and I grinned. “I’ll surprise you. But I have one condition.” I spun the empty squirt gun around my finger, like an old-time gunslinger from the movies.
“What’s that?” Her tone was wary.
“You need to wear one of your Wonder Woman t-shirts.” I grinned as I headed downstairs to the kitchen sink.
She hesitated. “I’m wearing one right now,” she said, her voice a bit husky.
That caught my attention, and I came to an abrupt stop. “You kill me, Mara. Which one?”
“The dark blue one.”
“With the invisible jet?” I asked as I started moving again. “I love that one.” It was snug, and the color looked great with her hair.
“Exactly. Will there be anything else?” Her voice had abruptly changed and taken on a cheerful, professional tone.
Someone must have walked up to the register. I made it to the kitchen and quickly filled the gun’s little reservoir.
“Nope,” I said as I pushed the little plastic plug into place. “You’ve made me a happy man just knowing you’re wearing that t-shirt. See you tomorrow after your lunch rush ends.”
“Thank you.” She ended the call.
My doorbell rang.
I opened the front door, aimed my water gun, and nailed my brother right between the eyes. He looked stunned. The kids next door would have howled with laughter.
“What the eff, man! How old are you?” Max wiped the water from his face.
“I’d judge my mental age to be around ten right now. Your face has sprung a leak, little brother.”
“Asshole. I should make you walk to class.”
“True, but the Not a Yacht Club isn’t far. It wouldn’t be much of a hardship.”
Max spun on his heel and strode toward his car.
Shooting Max with a squirt gun? Easy. Navigating whatever Mara had been feeling since that tweet? A whole different ballgame.
I jogged after him since I wouldn’t put it past him to follow through on his threat.
Max glared at me when I climbed in. “Payback’s a bitch,” he said.
I ignored him. “We’re making something chocolate tonight, right? That should cheer you up. It always works with Hailey.” Our big sister was an acknowledged chocoholic. Max liked the stuff almost as much as she did.
“Barry’s out of town again,” Max said, referring to Hailey’s husband. “I promised her I’d drop off some of the cake we’re making tonight. She’s been after me to try my cooking. I owe her for all the times she’s fed me.”
“I’ll go with you. We can give her most of it, but I want to save a piece for Mara. I’m working on getting back into her good graces.”
“What? Did you shoot her in the face with a squirt gun too?” Max said dryly.
I gave a laugh. “Nah. She’s pissed off about the news story that aired after Chris’s visit. It blew up in her face. The whole thing gave her ex an opportunity to dick with her again. The guy works for the station that interviewed Chris.”
“Which one was it again?” Max parked his car and turned off the engine.
“W-ZZZ. Her ex works in their sales department.”
“I know some people there. I might be able to ‘make da guy go away.’” Max gave the last words a bit of a gangster flourish like he was talking about taking a hit out on the guy.
I gave a snort of laughter as I climbed out of the car. “Permanently?” I joked.
“Not mafia-style,” Max said as she shut his car door, “but I could probably arrange to have him transferred to another city in their broadcast network.”
“That might work,” I said as we walked into the Not a Yacht Club. “Let me think about it.” After what had happened with Chris, there was no way I’d do anything without checking with Mara first, but she might like Max’s idea.