Chapter 21 Harper
On Friday morning, over a cup of Starbucks dark roast, Harper kept refreshing her email until a reply from Finn Sterling finally popped onto her screen. The Via Belle Literary Foundation, he wrote, had no plans to option any of her books for a film.
Was that his standard response or had he figured out who was behind the request?
If only she could explain offline why she wanted to turn Silver Summer into a movie, and why she needed a response right away so she could have a proposal ready for Sissie on Tuesday.
Kelsey wasn’t here to push her out of her comfort zone, but she wasn’t going to cower in the kitchen either.
Since she didn’t have a phone number or address for the foundation, she did the only other thing that made sense.
She drove back to the gate below Haven House, waved to the red blink of a camera, and climbed over the fence.
About ten minutes after she’d settled into a front porch rocker, a Jeep Wrangler rumbled up the gravel drive, Finn Sterling in the driver’s seat.
Finn slammed his door and marched up to the porch like he was Russell Crowe in Gladiator, hell-bent on restoring justice to the Roman Empire. “I thought I told you—”
“I know, I’m sorry I trespassed earlier this week.” Her legs begged her to run, back to her cave, but she didn’t move from the rocker. “I didn’t realize it was private property.”
“You’re quite aware of it now.”
“I just need to ask you a quick question,” she said.
Finn hopped onto the porch. “This property is not open to visitors, no matter how much you like Via’s books!”
“It would be helpful if you had an address or phone number on your website.” Like most nonprofits did. “I could have called you there.”
“Are you Harper Rayne?” he asked, drawing out her name with an eternal -e.
“My last name’s pronounced like the stuff that falls from the sky.”
“Ms. Rayne, then.”
“I’m glad you saw my message.”
“And I replied, right before receiving an alert that someone was trespassing again on the estate.”
“The email said you had no plans to option Via Belle’s books.”
“I’m glad you read it.”
She glanced over at the stormy blue shutters and lacy white curtains. “You manage her property and literary estate?”
“That’s correct.” He sat in the chair beside her. “And apparently you’ve returned to ask about movie rights.”
“I was up most of the night, reading Silver Summer,” she said. “It would make an incredible film. Millions would watch it in the theater and then book sales—”
“You’re about seventy years too late on that one.”
She blinked. “What?”
“MGM released the movie back in 1941.”
“Just in time for the war . . .”
“Exactly.”
How could Elijah Lamb have overlooked a movie release in Olivia’s biography?
Then again, he’d mentioned a spike in book sales during the forties. Perhaps the film catapulted the rest of her work.
“I loved the story,” she said.
“So did thousands of readers, but they didn’t rush out to watch it. Ticket sales were somewhere between mediocre and dismal.”
“Did the studio do the story justice?”
“Sadly, the film was lost with time so I don’t know for sure, but reviewers said the director butchered the ending.”
“A good ending is essential!” And Via had written a beautiful one. Boy got the girl. Girl got her dream. Silver lined their summer and their future.
He shrugged. “Not everything ends well.”
“It should in a movie.” At least, that was her philosophy.
“Unfortunately, neither one of us makes those rules.”
“So we’ll remake the film,” she said. “With a happy ending.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I only want to pitch one of Via’s books to an interested director in LA. Any book you’d like. I’ll adapt it into a screenplay.”
“I don’t want another one of her books on the screen. Hollywood would wreck her story and her legacy.”
She hoped Sissie wouldn’t ruin it, but there were no guarantees.
Even if Harper wrote a close rendition to the original plotline, another writer could step in and shift the pieces.
“You could reprint a whole library of her books, and they’d sell a bundle.
Just like her sales soared after the release of her movie. ”
“You’ve done your homework, Ms. Rayne.”
“Please call me Harper,” she said. “I’ll do whatever I can to keep the story intact, but I can’t promise the studio won’t make changes to Via’s original plot.
At the very least, if the screenplay is actually made into a movie, it would inspire people across the country to find out more by reading her books. ”
“I’ll think about it,” he said which sounded a whole lot like he’d already made up his mind.
She rocked forward. “Eventually, the copyright will expire.” And once the books entered the public domain, she could make a movie based on any of Via Belle’s books.
“Not until seventy years after an author dies.”
“Which is challenging in this case since no one seems to know when Mrs. Farrow passed away.”
He winced like she’d stuck him with a knife. “Mrs. Ashe.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“I’m not talking about—”
“Or what happened to Simon Farrow after the war?” Not the question she’d set out to ask, but one that had been burning in her head since she finished the biography.
He stood to signal the end of their conversation, but she wasn’t finished, rocking back in the chair again. “You must have an idea where he and Mrs. Ashe went.”
“I keep most of my ideas to myself.”
“Someone said she might have been murdered.”
“That’s ludicrous.”
Harper stopped rocking. “Maybe I’ll write a screenplay about her instead of one of her books.”
“Then I’d sue you for defamation.”
“Would that be before or after you called the cops without cell service?”
“I can get service just fine on the porch,” he said, pulling a phone from his pocket. “Either way, her story isn’t yours to tell.”
“I have no intention of defaming Mrs. Ashe. I only want to find out where she went.” And if she couldn’t find the truth, she’d fill in a happy ending. “I am curious about one other thing—”
“Your curiosity seems to know no bounds.”
She grinned. “I often get lost in my head.”
“Then let me direct you home.” He pointed down the driveway. “Right on the other side of that gate.”
“Fair enough.” She stood but didn’t turn toward the stairs. “How exactly did you end up overseeing her estate?”
“Would you like an escort?”
“I’m leaving,” she replied. “But could I get your phone number first?”
“I don’t think—”
“Because I’ll definitely have more questions, and I get the feeling you’d like us to stop meeting here.”
His lips twitched, but she couldn’t tell if he was fighting off a smile or a frown. “I’m going to stop meeting you here either way. Next time the alarm goes off, the police chief will greet you instead.”
“Does he have your phone number?”
Finn stared at her another moment and then opened his phone. “I’ll send you a text.”
“Since I’m not coming back.” She glanced at the front door one last time. “You don’t suppose I could have a tour?”
This time his lips pressed firmly into a frown.
“Got it.” She hopped three steps down to the drive, needing space anyway to think as her idea grew.
Could he really sue her for defamation if she fictionalized a script about Via Belle? If so, maybe she could change the names and write her own story about a novelist who disappeared. One with heart that Sissie would love. Then, she’d write a happy ending.
“Ms. Rayne?” he called.
She turned back. “You have to call me Harper.”
“Why would you want to make a movie about Olivia?”
Wind rustled through the trees, sending a flurry of leaves across her path. “Because even when she wrote about the good and bad in humanity, she always found a way to mend the broken pieces. I think our world today needs to be inspired with that kind of hope.”
“The world needed hope seventy years ago.”
“It’s timeless, I suppose.”
“I hope you find the right story,” he said.
But the story, she thought, had already found her.