Chapter 17
Monty
Monty ran his finger around the inside of his collar.
They’d been filming on the backlot all week and the mild California summer was beginning to get to him.
It was poor luck that he had to pretend that it was winter in New England.
A makeup assistant dabbed a handkerchief lightly around his forehead so he wouldn’t smudge his makeup trying to do that himself.
“Right,” Director Chen said, walking up to him and sending the makeup assistant scuttling away. “Let’s run it from the top. Kincaid, I want a little more agitation from you.”
“Okay,” Monty said, shaking out his shoulders.
“But not too much. You’re doing great. Just a touch more.”
Monty tried to bat down the feeling of pride that welled up. He’d learned that his director did not hand out compliments lightly.
She took up her spot by the camera and yelled, “Action!”
Monty whirled on the elf character. “What do you mean the baritone has laryngitis?”
The elf gave a little squeak. “I mean that he doesn’t have a voice right now, sir.”
“I know what laryngitis means. I want to know why it had to happen to my baritone.”
“I just had a thought,” Hilliard said.
“No,” Monty said curtly, flipping through his clipboard.
“What if–”
“No.”
“–you sang the baritone part?”
Monty looked up at the sky as if praying for patience.
“Oooh!” the elf squealed. “Are you a baritone, sir?”
“He has a lovely singing voice,” Hilliard supplied. “Like butter.”
Monty took a deep breath and let it out noisily.
“Absolutely not. I cannot possibly organize this train wreck of a parade, play the triangle for the marching band, walk the fireman’s dalmatian, keep an eye on that trick wheel on the snow globe float, deliver these to the mayor’s office before the parade starts, and sing with the carolers. It can’t be done.”
“I can take those to the mayor’s office,” Hilliard said.
Monty glared. “You’re a big help.”
“Can I tell the carolers that you’ll be—”
“Yes, yes,” Monty told the elf.
“Don’t look so glum,” Hilliard said, patting Monty’s shoulder. “You’ll look ravishing in a waistcoat.”
Monty did a double take at Hilliard before smacking his forehead. “Nuts!”
“Cut!” Director Chen yelled. “Good work, gentlemen. Take fifteen while we set up for the next shot.”
Monty nodded and handed the clipboard off to the props manager.
It had been a few days since he and Hilliard had tussled playfully in the fake snow, a few days since he had mentioned taking Hilliard to see real snow.
His friend’s face had held an expression of wistfulness in that moment and Monty hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since.
He’d been trying to come up with ways to bring that expression back so he could analyze it further.
He put his hands on his waist and bent backwards a little. “What are Christmases in Charleston like?”
“Muggy.”
Monty wrinkled his nose. “That does not sound nice.”
Hilliard chuckled. “You get used to it.”
“So I’m guessing there’s no steaming hot cocoa or chestnuts roasting on a fire or—”
“Do people really do that? I thought that was just in songs.”
“Of course we do that! I love hot cocoa.”
“I meant the chestnuts. We had cocoa in Charleston.”
“Oh sure, a hot beverage on a muggy Christmas morning sounds magical.”
“Sometimes we get chilly weather. A few years ago it dipped down to the 50s on Christmas. That was nice.”
“Mostly I’m surprised that you’ve gone so long without the opportunity to wear real winter clothes. You’d look ravishing in a knitted scarf.”
“You’re quoting your script. Time to rest.”
Monty grinned as Hilliard tugged him off the set and to their labeled chairs. He accepted the cup of water Hilliard fetched for him and studied the man over the edge of the cup as he sipped.
They were heading into a busy weekend. There was a big fundraising event they were expected to attend, and Edie Haywood’s movie was slated to premiere the night after that.
As Ezra had explained to Monty that morning, it was a prime opportunity for him to prove that he was better behaved now.
Unspoken had been the warning that if he couldn’t prove that, he’d be in trouble.
Monty took a sip of water and then tilted his head back, smiling a little under the warmth of the sun.
He wasn’t as nervous about the upcoming events as he might have been before this arrangement with Hilliard began.
Sure, there was a lot of pressure. But he was confident he’d be fine.
He wanted to behave in a way that made Hilliard proud of him, and that was oddly less intimidating than behaving in a way that didn’t irritate the studio.
He wanted to walk the red carpet with his best friend and not have the other man worrying about him the whole time.
He wanted to see Hilliard relaxed and enjoying himself.
The prospect of making him proud gave Monty a fizzy feeling in his chest. It was the motivation he needed.
He’d spent the days since their dinner party with Jesse and Cal thinking about what it would take to win Hilliard’s heart.
He had come to the conclusion that it would never happen if he kept making the other man take care of him so much.
It was obvious that his friend liked taking care of people, which was deeply rooted in a generous and tender magic such as his, but probably not to the extent that had been necessary of late.
If he could prove to everyone, but especially Hilliard, that he could put his past behavior behind him, then maybe Hilliard would take a chance on him, and let this friendship turn into something more.
“What are you thinking about over there?” Hilliard asked, smacking him lightly in the chest.
Monty smiled. “You.”
Hilliard’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? Still imagining me in a scarf?”
“That reminds me, what are you wearing tomorrow night? I want to make sure we don’t clash at the fundraiser.”
“I never clash,” Hilliard said loftily. “And you usually wear neutral shades. So I expect we’ll be fine.”
Monty studied his friend, giving into a fanciful imagining of them appearing at an event in coordinating outfits.
Hilliard would wear something flashy and colorful and he would wear something staid, with hints of the colors Hilliard was sporting to tie them together.
So opposite to their personalities in many ways.
But Monty couldn’t shake off the idea that he and Hilliard fit together in a manner most people didn’t.
The man in question tapped his nose. “You’re wool-gathering, sweetheart.”
Monty shook off the fanciful ideas and stood. “You’re right. Should we get back to work?”
Hilliard smiled and tweaked Monty’s tie. “Let’s.”
* * *
“Cut!” Director Chen stepped past the cameras and up to where Monty was standing by the horse-drawn carriage.
He already knew what she was going to say.
They’d been shooting for seven hours. The cameras had been repositioned for their third setup; he was exhausted, overheated, and the collar on his wool coat was starting to make his neck itch.
Not to mention the fact that he was standing next to the horses, and he was a little uncomfortable with the close proximity.
All in all, it wasn’t surprising that his performance was under par.
“You’re still giving it too much.”
“I know,” he groaned. He wanted to rub the fatigue from his eyes, but then the makeup tech would have to fix his face, and he really didn’t want to deal with that.
“This is meant to be the calm before the storm. A pause in the chaos. You’re too agitated.”
“I know, I know.”
She put her hands on her hips and squinted at him in the sunlight. Then she shouted over her shoulder, “Break for ten!” Before he could be relieved, she turned back to him and said, “Take off that coat and grab a cup of water. You’re taking a walk with me.”
Taking a walk was the last thing he wanted to do in the afternoon heat, but he happily shrugged out of the coat and handed it over to the costume assistant, who started applying a boar bristle brush on the garment the second it was in his hands.
Monty could tell the assistant’s magic was helping him to catch every speck of dust and snow-soap from the fabric.
A cup of cool water was placed in Monty’s hands, and he barely had time to take a sip before he had to scurry to catch up with his director, who had already started to walk away from the set.
He matched her pace and they walked in silence for a few minutes. He was just beginning to wonder if she intended to simply take a quiet stroll with him, until they left the Main Street part of the backlot. She turned onto the residential street and pointed to a two-story house with a gabled roof.
“Do you recognize that building? It’s made an appearance in multiple films, but it’s famous for something particular.”
“Uh…” He looked at her questioningly and then said, “Isn’t that the house where they filmed the Best family series?”
“That’s right,” she said, sounding pleased. “All for the Best was my first picture as a director.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“I directed eight of those movies. We churned them out so fast, I can’t remember which movie was which anymore.”
Monty couldn’t tell the movies apart much either. Powell was set to release the twelfth movie in the series. They were known for their small town charm, predictable plotlines, and the neighbor character’s catchphrase: “Well, gang, it’s been fun but Abyssinia!”
“I imagine that’s part of the appeal,” he said.
“Probably. At any rate, I was delighted to get my first assignment. I was pleased as punch when they assigned me the next movie too. By the fourth, I was no longer surprised by the assignment. By the sixth, I was tired of them. And after I filmed the eighth, I had to practically beg to get something else.”
“I get that. That’s kind of how I’ve been feeling with the musicals I’ve been in.”
“I know.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“I told you I’d watched your movies. I could tell by the last few that you were getting pretty fed up with them.”