Chapter 2
Chapter Two
When a beautiful woman was questioning your manhood, there was only one thing to do.
Lie.
“Of course.” Dash dropped his bag on the bare wooden floor and tried not to shiver. “Looks terrific, just what I need.”
Ellie gave him an odd look, then shrugged. “We serve cookies and eggnog between five and six in the main house. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Dash wanted to invite her to stay and keep him warm, but he was guessing that would earn him another withering glare—or, more likely, a trip face-down into the snow.
“I’ve got everything I need right here,” he said instead.
He opened his bag and placed his laptop and a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table. “I can feel the muse calling already.”
She nodded, but from the quirk of amusement on her full lips, she wasn’t buying it. Ellie pulled her scarf tighter around her flyaway blonde hair and headed for the door. “Welcome to Sweetbriar Cove!”
Dash watched through the window as she walked away, her slim frame bundled up in winter gear as she moved with surprising grace across the snow.
There was a character, alright: a screwball heroine from a 1940s movie, quick with the sassy looks and deft retorts.
She disappeared into the blanket of white, and he finally took a look around the cabin.
It was quaint, and definitely rustic: barely fifteen square feet, with a wooden bed in the corner made up with thick flannel sheets and cosy-looking blankets.
There was a stack of logs beside the old wood-burning furnace, a tiny bathroom, and a sturdy-looking desk placed in front of the window, which looked out over the back deck and the snow-covered frozen lake.
No Netflix, no iPod, no distractions. It was a million miles away from his bachelor pad in the Hollywood Hills, and exactly what he needed to get this script written.
He sat down at the desk, opened his laptop, and stared at the screen.
So what was he waiting for?
Dash stared at the empty page. The cursor blinked, waiting for inspiration.
It had been waiting all year now—three months overdue, with the studio, his agents, and manager all breathing down his neck.
He’d thought that if he could get away from the pressure, have a change of scene, the writer’s block would crumble and the words would start flowing again.
Flowing. Just pouring out of him. Anytime soon?
His cellphone rang, loud against the snow-muffled silence.
Snow-muffled silence… That was a great description. Too bad this movie was supposed to take place by the beach.
“Don’t worry, it’s not your agent calling,” the voice on the other end of the line was teasing. Blake Callahan, a friend – and the star of Dash’s last movie.
“You think I would have picked up if it was?” Dash leaned back in the rickety old chair. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much, just on a break from filming. This director is driving me crazy,” Blake said. “You sure you don’t want to come back and replace him? I can pull strings.”
“Yeah, you’re such a bigshot now.” Dash smiled. Their movie last year had been a break-out hit and catapulted Blake into the Hollywood A-list—while everyone was still waiting for Dash’s next big project.
“How’s the retreat?” Blanke asked. “Helped unblock you yet?”
“I wish.” Dash looked out at the frosted trees and ice-white powder. “I just arrived, I hope I’ll get writing once I’m settled in.”
“Sure you will.” Blake sounded encouraging. “I’ve got faith in you, buddy. Don’t over-think it. And remember to write my part extra-heroic, OK?”
“I haven’t decided about that,” Dash joked. “I was thinking he could be brutally disfigured in the first scene, and spend the whole movie in prosthetics—”
“Aww, man!” Blake laughed.
“Hey, that’s Oscar-bait right there,” Dash grinned. “Just ask those actresses who wear a fake nose and wind up taking home the statue.”
“In that case, sign me up.”
Dash heard voices in the background, then Blake came again, “Sorry man, they need me back on set. You take care, OK? And relax. When I’m too stressed about a scene, I just need to get out of my own way. You’ve got the talent, you don’t need to worry.”
“Thanks,” Dash replied, “Right back at you.”
He hung up and stared at the blinking cursor on his empty screen. He knew the basic plot, the small-town guy who got mixed up with the wrong girl, pulled into a life of crime and deception, but every time he tried to start and get words down on the page, he froze up.
Take it easy. Relax. Don’t over-think it.
The advice piled up in his head, on the stack of other encouragement his team had been feeding him for months.
But no matter what he did, this writer’s block just wouldn’t shift.
He’d tried it all: meditation, writing boot-camp, even hypnosis from some gorgeous hippie out in Laurel Canyon, promising to liberate his muse.
He’d spent a wild weekend liberating her body from those tie-dyed kaftans, but his muse had stayed locked shut.
Now he was running out of time. If he didn’t turn in a first draft to the studio by New Year’s, the whole production schedule would be pushed way back.
The crew, actors, producers—everyone was depending on him to deliver.
He was supposed to be building a career, proving he wasn’t just a one-hit wonder.
And he couldn’t write a bloody word.
Alert: Battery Low.
He grabbed his power cord from his bag and looked around for an outlet. But he couldn’t find one. And now that he was looking, he didn’t see a light-switch, either. Or a light. But he did find a stack of candles, along with a couple of boxes of matches.
Then it hit him: the cabin had no electricity.
Dash groaned. Never mind his muse’s disappearing act, right now she was somewhere laughing her ass off.
He collected his computer stuff and headed for the door.
Outside, the breeze was crisp and cold, and the snow crunched underfoot as he made his way back around the lake to the lodge.
He had to admit, the place was beautiful.
Back in LA, December was much like any other month of the year, warm and beachy.
But here, the snowy woods surrounding the property looked like something out of a holiday card, with bushes of red holly berries, and frozen cobwebs crystalized in the morning sun.
If only nature came with a power socket.
He reached the main inn and stepped inside. Immediately, he was hit with a warm rush of lights, music, and cozy central heating. Ellie was behind the desk, cheerfully singing along to holiday songs on the radio as she clicked at her computer screen.
Dash stamped the snow off his boots and watched her for a moment, the Christmas lights gleaming off her hair.
In an ugly knit holiday sweater and jeans, she couldn’t have been trying any less, but she still looked effortlessly beautiful.
There was something about the wry smile on her lips that made him curious.
What was her story?
She looked up and noticed him. “Changed your mind about that cabin?”
“No! I just need to charge my things.”
“OK,” she said, sounding reluctant. “I can put them back here.” She reached out, and Dash passed her the stack. Laptop, phone, iPad… Ellie smirked. “I guess you’re not out here to detox from modern life then.”
“What’s everyone got against technology?” he countered. “It does great things. Like help you order pizza at two in the morning, or avoid traffic on the 405.”
“Well, Eddie’s Pie Shop shuts at seven, five on Sundays,” Ellie replied. “And the most traffic you’ll see around here is when old Mr. Granger decides to take his tractor for a spin.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Dash lingered by the desk. He didn’t want to head back out to that empty cabin just yet—not when there were far more beautiful and interesting things to look at right here. With central heating.
Ellie had paperwork strewn around the desk, financial documents and receipts by the looks of it. “Getting the books in order?”
“Oh, these are for Mackenzie, over at the gallery,” she replied. “You think I’d let this kind of mess pile up here?” She gestured behind her, to a bookcase of perfectly-organized files, right down to the color-coding.
“So you’re that kind of person,” he teased, trying to get a rise.
“What kind?”
“An ‘everything in its place’-er. I’m guessing you even color-code your sock drawer.”
Ellie arched an eyebrow. “And let me guess, you’re the kind of guy that leaves a dozen notes scribbled on scrap pieces of paper that you can never decipher.”
He blinked. “How did you—?”
She reached over and plucked a post-it that was hanging off his jacket. “‘Rising tension. Violet. Transmission,’” she read aloud with a grin.
Busted.
“I know exactly what that means,” Dash protested, snatching it back.
He squinted at the scribbles and tried to remember what he’d been thinking.
“There needs to be rising tension in the third act, so Violet—she’s one of the main characters—her transmission could get busted, stranding her alone on a dark street with the bad guys coming.
” He set it down triumphantly. Not bad bullshitting, but then again, he had the experience.
He’d made it through pitch meetings pulling story ideas from thin air, but Ellie was a tougher audience than those fawning Hollywood execs.
“Sounds like a real page-turner,” she said sweetly. “You better get back to that book.”
“Script,” he corrected her. “I’m a screen-writer. And director,” he added.
“Movie then,” she amended, unconcerned. “Look, your laptop has a twenty percent charge now. That’s good for at least a couple of hours.”
“Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me,” he challenged her with a grin.
“Never,” Ellie shot back with an innocent smile. “The Sweetbriar Inn and Holiday Suites is famed for our friendliness and small-town charm. Just check our Yelp reviews.”
Dash laughed.
“So tell me more about you,” he leaned on his elbows, wanting to know more about this spitfire. “Has your family run this place long?”
Ellie just arched an eyebrow. “Why don’t you take a hike?”
He blinked, taken aback. “Hey, where’s that small-town charm you were just talking about?”
“A hike,” Ellie repeated, placing a map on the countertop between them. “There are miles of beautiful trails in the woods around here.” She gave him a pointed look. “Isn’t that what you writers like to do, get outdoors for inspiration?”
Emphasis on the “out.”
“True.” Dash paused thoughtfully. “There’s a long tradition, man communing in nature. Walden and Thoreau…”
Ellie snorted. “Sure, Walden was real manly, bringing his laundry back home to mama every weekend.”
He laughed again. She definitely had the screwball heroine thing down, all the way to that sassy mouth. He could picture her dueling with Bogart and Bacall, giving some poor schmuck a run for his money.
“You want to join me on that hike, perhaps show me the trails?” he asked, not willing to let her go just yet. Who knew, maybe she was just what he needed to kick-start his creative process?
“I’d hate to intrude,” Ellie answered with another of those deceptively sweet smiles. “I know how you writer types love to be alone. Plus, being so boring and details-oriented would only stifle your imagination. But you enjoy the walk!”
She turned back to her stack of receipts. Subject closed.
Dash paused. He could either head back to his cabin and start drinking, or see if Mother Nature could spark a miracle.
Besides, it was only eleven a.m.
Mother Nature it was.