Chapter Five
David crumpled another piece of paper and tossed it toward the wastebasket in his office. It landed with an unimpressive thud on the floor among a mountain of previous attempts. Ironically, for all his years in orthopedic medicine, he had never been a particularly good athlete himself.
He sighed and spun around in his chair, glancing up at the clock. It was midmorning, almost lunchtime, and he had spent most of the last four hours doing absolutely nothing.
He had forgotten this part of working in television medicine, how mind-numbingly boring it could be, how the studio basically paid him to just sit on set—a placeholder in case of emergency—because as it turned out, it was cheaper for the studio to pay a full-time doctor than face the possibility of a multimillion-dollar lawsuit if something went wrong.
Rising from his seat, he searched for something to occupy his time.
He cleaned up the mess of paper balls by the wastebasket, then stepped into the hallway and, once again, found it empty.
Huffing and returning to his seat, he glanced at the clock once more.
He had already checked in on Leila, and subsequently the animals, at the farm.
He had surfed the internet, done one hundred push-ups, texted his sister six times, and played thirty rounds of trash can basketball with studio letterhead . . .
The only thing he hadn’t done was check up on Evelyn.
He chewed on his lower lip, debating the option.
Granted, it was almost noon. Lunchtime. Evelyn would be giving the staff a break.
Not that she would take one herself . . .
But still, considering her run-in the previous day with a piano, along with her history of migraines, it seemed within his purview as the on-set physician to confirm that her condition had improved.
He was being a good doctor. Nothing more.
Plus, he had always loved the compositions of Wynn Manuel.
The first time he had seen Miriam in theaters, he had surprised himself—and his very confused niece, sitting in the reclining seat beside him—by bawling hysterically at the ending.
But the story of an ancient Israelite princess who must leave her desert homeland to find Malach—a cloud-shaped angelic figure—and save her tribe from famine brought up complex emotions.
He had a genuine interest in hearing what Wynn Manuel had come up with for A Christmas Carol.
Preparing to depart, he smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt confidently.
Visiting set had everything to do with being a diligent physician, and nothing to do with wanting to see his ex-wife.
He and Evelyn were over. The divorce fully finalized.
But unlike in his favorite animated film, there would be no stubborn heroine bravely crossing through parted waters, determined to return home.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!”
Evelyn stepped onto the stage and, waving her tablet like a white flag in front of everybody, brought the entire cast and crew to a standstill. They had been rehearsing for hours, and they still hadn’t completed one run-through of their second act without problems.
“Will,” Evelyn called out, trying to ignore her headache.
Will—otherwise known as the operator of Camera Three—peeked out from behind the lens. “Yes?”
“Why are you filming Jared Sparks’s—” She stopped herself. Her eyes wandering toward a group of child actors, playing villagers, huddled in a semicircle beside her. Quickly, she stepped off the platform and moved closer to Will to whisper the word “—junk.”
Will squinted, confused. She pointed with her tablet toward a series of monitors set up at the side. Camera Three was fully zoomed in on the zipper, and bulge, of their Jared Sparks stand-in. He shrugged. “It’s what he’s known for.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Jared Sparks was known for a lot of things.
His range while singing. His award-winning acting in such legendary films as The Collapsing Heart and When Pigs Flew.
But what the bulk of the world knew him for—what inspired legions of devoted fans on Instagram and TikTok—were his dance moves.
A gyrating, heart-palpitating thrashing onstage that combined elements from masters of showmanship like Elvis, Michael Jackson and Elton John .
. . all while wearing tight leather pants.
Getting Jared Sparks to agree to do A Christmas Carol had been a major boon for Evelyn and her production.
His star power alone would easily rake in millions of advertiser dollars for the studio.
And yet the downside to producing with someone like Jared Sparks as the lead was that his time was extremely limited.
Between concerts and public appearances, spending a week rehearsing with the chorus of A Christmas Carol was an impossibility. Plus, the studio couldn’t afford it.
As such, a deal quite common in the world of television and film was struck.
Jared Sparks would learn the bulk of the choreography on his own, with his own team, occasionally taking meetings with A Christmas Carol’s choreographer over Zoom .
. . and then arrive to set four days before the live show to do a final run-through.
Things needed to be perfect for Jared. For many reasons.
And yet, with only six days left before the live event, things couldn’t have been further away from flawless.
Her head was killing her. The cast and crew would correct one mistake only to quickly make another.
Her eyes wandered back to the monitor where Kairo Jones—their stand-in for Jared Sparks—was adjusting himself.
“Right . . .” Evelyn couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
Returning to the stage, she offered yet another edict to all involved.
“This is a family show,” she reminded him, and everybody.
“Let’s keep the cameras above the belly button, please.
” She returned to her chair, behind the ten different television monitors, and waved to their on-set choreographer, Stella. “From the top please.”
“All right,” Stella said, clapping her hands together. “You heard the lady. From the top. And five, six, seven, eight . . .”
The music began to swell again.
Evelyn dropped her forehead into her hand.
She was quickly regretting the decision to ration her migraine medication.
Or maybe—she couldn’t help but think it—it was the idea in total.
What was she thinking, taking on a live-action musical theater production of A Christmas Carol when she lived with chronic migraines?
She should have known better.
She squinted down at her tablet, now going all types of fuzzy in her hand.
Then again, lots of people knew better, but made terrible life choices anyway.
Evelyn wasn’t unique in this regard. She had dreams. And plans.
She had fought like hell to get where she was standing, a woman executive producing a prime-time show.
She wasn’t going to let a little headache—or even a killer one with clear visual disturbances—stand in her damn way.
She determined to stay focused, push past the pain .
. . when David appeared on set. Their eyes caught, and despite her best intentions, her heart fluttered inside her chest. He looked incredible.
He was a full-fledged man now, with eyes that bore a sort of weary wisdom, and the two open buttons at the top of his shirt suddenly felt all sorts of suggestive.
She shook the thought away. Tried to return her attention to the cast and crew. Tried not to think about David, look at David or acknowledge David . . . who was now bopping along to the music on the sidelines.
The sheer audacity of the man, to arrive with such flagrant disregard for her feelings, to flaunt his good looks and his current state of happiness, after he had walked out on her.
The combination of it all—the music, the stress, the migraine, her unbelievably annoying ex-husband—swiftly became too much. It all melded together, this cacophony of noise and tremendous pain that she desperately needed a break from.
Thankfully, she was contractually obligated to allow everyone an hour for lunch.
“Okay!” Evelyn said, glancing at her watch.
Quickly, she rose from her seat and, once again, brought the entire cast and crew to quiet.
“I think that’s enough for this morning.
” She squinted in the direction of the lights and tried not to collapse in front of everybody.
“Let’s take an hour for lunch and then pick back up where we left off. ”
The room responded, setting down their props and departing. Evelyn attempted to do the same. Racing from set, she headed toward the elevators, leaving any last-minute questions for Demi to answer.
She just needed to return to her office and get medication, before anyone noticed she was unwell.
Or worse, before someone on staff wondered aloud if she was competent enough to be executive producing such an important live event.
She was almost there—standing upright at the elevator, waiting for it to arrive, ignoring the lights that now felt like a personal attack on her brain—when someone called out her name.
“Evelyn,” David shouted, racing to catch up with her. “Hold up for a second, will you? I was hoping to talk to you about something . . .”
She huffed and, turning around, caught on his eyes.
“What?” she said, and swallowed her pain.
“I’m just . . .” He stepped back, his chin angling to the side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He squinted, peering through her lies. “Your left eye is twitching.”
She played na?ve. “So?”
He glanced around him, and then leaned in to whisper. “So, we were married for seven years. Friends for even longer. I know what it looks like when you’re dealing with a migraine.”