Chapter 3
“—and thanks to all of you for letting me take a peek at your wonderful work. I’m so honored to play a part in your film.”
The clapping was thunderous.
Carver Reed had burst into the room twenty minutes late, accompanied by a small phalanx of studio suits, and everyone in the room had immediately frozen.
Nobody drew, nobody ran around with stacks of paper, nobody engaged in a catfight with a neighboring coworker about the proper angle of a horse’s leg.
Reed had insisted on meeting every damn person in the room—and there were magically a lot more people than usual—asking questions about their work while waxing rhapsodically over whatever they were doing.
Even Kenny the office boy was told he brewed the most delicious coffee, which was the most bold-faced lie that Frank had ever heard.
Finally after nearly an hour had passed, during which no work was accomplished, Reed made a little speech that sounded as if he were accepting an Oscar.
He ended by looking expectantly in Frank’s direction—they’d chatted briefly when Reed made the rounds—at which point Sylvia dragged Frank from his chair.
“I’ve got a nice quiet spot for you two,” she said. Which didn’t make Frank feel the tiniest bit more comfortable.
The studio suits went away, and Frank followed Sylvia and Reed out of the building, across the courtyard, and into the unimaginatively named Building Five.
Sylvia and Reed chatted the entire way, ignoring the stares of passersby who ought not to be so shocked to see a movie star on studio grounds, and also ignoring Frank’s limp, cane, stack of sketchbooks, and silence. For which he was deeply thankful.
As they entered Building Five, curiosity banished a little of Frank’s discomposure.
It housed two of the studio’s four stages, and Frank had rarely been in there.
Before the war, the stages had been used when feature films combined animation with live action; during the war, the studio used them to produce propaganda films. Lately, Frank had heard rumors that Mr. Rask was considering delving into television production.
But in the meantime, the stages were used primarily when orchestras needed to record audio scores.
Today, though, the building seemed empty of other people, and the fluorescents buzzed loudly in the slightly dusty corridor.
Sylvia led them into a large room littered with folding chairs, music stands, microphones, and other equipment.
“It’s not the Ritz, gentlemen. But there’s plenty of space, and nobody will interrupt you.
There’s a phone in the back, so call if you need anything.
I’ll have someone bring you coffee in a few minutes.
” She paused. “Unless you want something stronger?”
Reed glanced at Frank before shaking his head. “I think sobriety is best for me this afternoon. How about you, Frank?”
Sobriety was always best for Frank. “Same.”
Sylvia swept out of the room, and it suddenly felt far too small.
Frank’s foot hurt, as usual, so he sat down in one of the folding chairs and set the stack of sketchbooks on the floor, retaining one on his lap. Meanwhile Carver poked around as if he’d never been in a studio before, which gave Frank the chance to truly observe him for the first time.
In person, his imperfections were more visible.
His sandy blond hair was slightly messy, as if he’d been in a hurry with a comb and didn’t want to bother with Brylcreem.
He hadn’t shaved today, which wasn’t immediately obvious because his whiskers were so light, but sometimes the light caught them.
He looked a little sunburned. And was he carrying a few extra pounds around his belly?
Unfortunately, all of this made him seem more human—and also so handsome it almost hurt to look.
His blue eyes were more piercing in person, his smile brighter, his chin just as square and his nose just as straight as they looked onscreen.
He wore a pair of casual trousers and an aquamarine pullover sweater with a buttoned shawl-collar.
He moved with confidence and grace, as if his path around the room had been scripted and rehearsed. Frank felt envious, not of Carver, but of the animator who was working on the frog prince’s final scenes, when he’d returned to human form and danced with the princess.
Frank’s version of the prince mostly just hopped.
Carver finished his tour, grabbed the chair nearest Frank, and faced him while straddling it. “Okay,” he said with a grin, “what do you want from me?”
Frank nearly swallowed his tongue.
But dammit, he’d maintained his cool when under enemy fire. He could pull himself together and face an actor without seeming like an idiot.
“I’ve never done this before.” Frank was proud of how calm he sounded. “I’ve observed the way people and animals move, of course, but I’ve never focused on a single individual with the aim of, um….”
“Making a frog sexier?” Carver chuckled. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never modeled for a frog before. So we have something in common.”
It was impossible not to warm up to him at least a little bit. “I’m sorry they made you come here for this. I’m sure you have lots of better things to do.”
“You mean like flying around the globe, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, and collecting awards?”
“I guess.”
“Frank, I spent most of yesterday being tortured by my dentist, and this morning trying and failing to get my car running properly. A visit to an animation studio is definitely a treat.”
This wasn’t at all how Frank had expected Carver Reed to behave. “Why don’t you take your car to a mechanic?”
“Because she’s a 1935 Duesenberg Model J, and she’s even prettier than I am, and she’s my baby. Nobody touches her but me.”
While Frank was still digesting that, Kenny the office boy came in pushing a wheeled cart.
It contained a coffee pot, mugs, milk and sugar, and an assortment of sliced meats and fruits.
“Miss Weaver says call her if you want anything else.” Kenny’s attention was firmly riveted on Carver, who’d stood to meet him.
“We’ll do just that, Kenny. Thank you.”
Apparently overcome by the fact that Reed had remembered his name, Kenny went bright red and looked as if he might faint.
He recovered quickly, but only so that he could gaze at Reed with more doe-eyed adoration than any cartoon image had ever managed.
“I’ll be happy to get you whatever you want, Mr. Reed. ”
Oh God, Kenny was flirting with him. Blatantly, over-the-toply, as if he were the floozy in an Army social-hygiene film—some of which had been produced by this very studio, in fact.
Reed acted neither offended nor amused, instead giving Kenny a warm smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. And look, I know you probably get to meet a lot of celebrities, but would you let me autograph something for you? It’d make me feel important.”
“Oh gosh, would you?” Kenny looked around frantically.
When he seemed to be giving serious consideration to taking off his shirt and having Reed set pen to some part of his anatomy, Frank stepped in. “C’mere for a second, Kenny.”
Clearly reluctant to move away from the object of his affection, Kenny dragged himself to Frank, brightening when he saw that Frank was creating a hasty sketch of Kenny, the coffee cart, and Reed.
It took only a couple of minutes to complete, and then Frank wordlessly tore the sheet from the pad and handed it over.
“Gee, Mr. Porter, thank you!” Kenny ran the paper over to Reed, who wrote something on it that made Kenny blush again. After which Reed managed to gently steer Kenny out of the room. “Coffee?” Reed asked after he was gone.
“I could get my own.”
“Yes, but this way you can carefully observe how the renowned thespian does it. Milk or sugar?”
“Black, thanks.”
“A plate of food?”
Frank had eaten very little that day, but his stomach was still too jumpy to risk it. “No, but help yourself.”
“I shouldn’t.” Reed patted his belly. “But I like to eat, and I don’t have any shirtless scenes in my immediate future, so….”
Ably balancing two cups and a plate, he handed Frank one cup and retook his chair. He gestured toward the door through which Kenny had left. “Ah, the boundless emotions of youth, huh? That was really nice of you to make the drawing for him.”
Was it? Frank had been thinking of it mostly as a way to efficiently move things along. “It wasn’t a big effort.”
“But a thoughtful one. He should have asked you to sign it too.”
“Kenny doesn’t find me remotely fascinating. Anyway, he sees me every day.”
“Lucky him.”
Frank blinked, certain he’d misheard. But Carver simply grinned as he held Frank’s gaze.
And was that a mix of challenge and… something else in those blue eyes?
It seemed awfully close to the way men looked at each other when visiting the Blue Fox.
And the way they’d sometimes looked at each other during a rare private moment in the army.
Surely Frank was mistaken. Or perhaps this was an act Reed was putting on, a joke of some kind.
Frank swallowed thickly and used the excuse of drinking coffee to look away.
But he couldn’t look away for too long since his job was to watch this man. So he gave himself a mental shake, put the coffee mug on the floor, and opened the sketchbook. That, at least, restored his equilibrium a little. He always felt more like himself when he was drawing.
“How long have you worked for Rask Studios?” Carver popped a piece of sliced salami into his mouth.
Frank had to do a little math. “Almost seven years.” He added more details in case Carver was concerned about his qualifications. “Before the war I was in New York, in advertising. I worked for several big clients.”