Chapter Three
Ridge Wilson
Sitting in my private trailer parked behind the elementary school gymnasium, I finish my last cup of coffee, hoping it will be enough caffeine to get me through the night shoot.
We’ve been filming all day outside the vacated school, getting as many exterior shots as possible in the daylight hours.
With the sun setting earlier since our clocks fell back an hour for the autumn season, we were lucky we finished before nightfall.
I lean my head back and relish the brief respite before I’m called into place. Tonight, we’re shooting an interior scene in the library.
The library.
My lips twitch into a half-smile, and my mind shifts to Beverly.
I wonder if she’ll take me up on my invitation and show up tonight?
I was disappointed I hadn’t seen her at all during the day shoot among the throngs of local onlookers and crew.
I’d given my assistant, Arthur, her name when I arrived on set this morning.
“Beverly, what?” he’d asked.
“Beverly. That’s all I got.” I shrugged, disappointed I hadn’t thought to ask for her last name.
“Well, what does she look like? How will I know it’s her?”
Arthur’s British cadence annoyed me as he placed his hands on his hips like he was about to reprimand me for not bothering to get her last name.
Security while filming on location was a serious matter, and God forbid he let some random stalker onto the set.
It wasn’t my fault that I was enamored by the tall brunette and forgot to get her last name; her natural beauty was a welcome relief among the mostly manufactured women I work with.
“For one, Arthur, I told Beverly to ask for you. And secondly, you’ll know it’s the right Beverly because she’s a polite Southern girl.
She’s also a kindergarten teacher here at this school.
I’m sure she’ll have her employee credentials with her.
We met in the library yesterday morning while I was going over my weekend lines.
She’s laid back. A natural beauty. You’ll definitely know it’s her if she comes. ”
Arthur’s brows peaked above his eyes as he mulled over my words. “So, you like this Southern American beauty?”
“I do. She’s cool, and I think you’ll like her too.”
Arthur dutifully wrote her name down on his clipboard. “I should like to meet this Beverly character. She must be a clever girl if she snagged an invitation from you.”
I smirk, thinking back to Arthur’s reaction to my potential guest, and change positions on the sofa. I prop my feet up on the coffee table, thinking back to my meet-cute in the library with Beverly.
There was something about her I liked from the get-go.
She’s definitely pretty. Beautiful, if I’m being totally honest. Even in comfortable sneakers she’s taller than most women, with creamy skin and heated brown eyes, the color of dark honey.
I adored her sweet little laugh and the way she babbled when she was nervous.
And I knew without a doubt she was well aware of who I was.
Beverly reminded me of a quiet life in my loud world, something that has eluded me since my rise to fame.
Never has a stranger looked so enticing, so reliable to me before.
She looked like someone I could trust, if that was even possible.
I could definitely use that in my life right now, especially after my tempestuous relationship with Hollywood actress Whitney Smith.
I close my eyes and can still recall Whitney’s voice over the phone when she called me a month ago to tell me her news.
“I had a son, and he’s yours, Ridge. It’s time you ante up and pay me child support…”
“Wait a minute. After months and months you call me out of the blue to tell me I'm a father? How do you know he’s mine?” The tone of my coarse voice oozed with deprecation.
Once upon a time, I worked with Whitney on a film.
It was a professional relationship—until the wrap party.
We drank too much champagne and ended up in my hotel room.
As the first gauzy colors of sunrise crept through the blinds, I vaguely remembered Whitney calling a ride service and flashing me the peace sign with her fingers before she was out the door in a rush of long legs and tattoos.
I’ve never been a one-night stand kind of guy, and Whitney Smith wasn’t even my type.
The rowdy actress was known for her frequent run-ins with the paparazzi and her stints in rehab.
It was no secret that the girl loved to party and had to abide by stipulations in her contracts to stay away from drugs during filming, or she’d be fired.
Whatever happened after our brief, unlikely affair was a mystery. She vanished, and I was saddened to hear a rumor that she was back in a rehab facility in Phoenix. Come to find out, she was pregnant and hiding out at her mother’s house in Salina, Kansas, when she called me that fateful day.
“Fine! Take a paternity test. You’ll see. You have a son, Ridge. He’s your son…”
When the results proved I was indeed the father, I immediately summoned my lawyer, who was authorized to offer Whitney a substantial payout if she could keep her mouth shut for a few more weeks.
I needed time to process that I was a father.
Time to come to grips with what kind of role I’d have in his life.
I’d never wanted to marry or have children, but the news of my paternity blindsided me.
And being linked to Whitney Smith was a whole other conundrum, her life as an addict something I’d have to navigate carefully.
Being a celebrity has its advantages. But there’s also a dark side, full of sacrifice and regret.
A knock on my trailer door brings me out of my thoughts, and I sit up.
“Yes?”
“Places, Mr. Wilson,” the production manager states.
I’m pleased everything is running on time. “I’ll be right there.”
Several minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of the library, the perimeter lined with crew members and an area reserved for invited VIPs and parental chaperones for the underage child actors hired for this scene.
One of the makeup artists dabs my forehead with powder as I take my mark under the hot lights.
My character is a widower—a single dad, who’s new in town and attempting to start his life over with his only son, Alex. The fact that I’m playing a father to a son during this particular time in my life isn’t lost on me. It’s almost as if the universe is mocking me.
The scene I’ve been preparing for is an emotional one between me and the ten-year-old actor who plays my son. We’ve been rehearsing for several days, and I think we have it. At least the boy can cry on cue, sure to make the audience clutch their hearts with empathy.
“Hey, Jacob. How’re you doing?” The boy jumps up to slap my flexed hand in the air with a high-five.
“I’m doing great. I took a field trip to the Georgia Aquarium today.”
“You did? How was it?”
His enthusiasm and childlike wonder are precious, and I’m thankful Jacob was able to have a regular childhood outing during the strict filming schedule.
“It was great!” He energetically bounces around me like a kid high on too much sugar. “You should go if you get some time off. It’s cool.”
“Maybe I will.” I smile and ruffle his hair.
Our scene starts with me abruptly entering the library after getting a call from the principal.
My son, whose character’s name is Alex, is having an emotional meltdown after discovering a favorite book his late mother used to read to him among the shelves.
The director yells, “Action!” and I go into my other world…
“Alex?” I frantically look around at the quiet children sitting at the tables until I see my movie son. I rush to his side with fatherly concern and kneel to be at his eye level.
“Alex, buddy. What happened?” I whisper, painfully aware of several innocent eyes watching our every move.
Alex shakes his head and holds up the book causing his anguish. This dynamo kid actor is already fully committed, the waterworks on overload as big fat tears trickle down his freckled cheeks.
I tilt my head and take the book, realization crossing my features as I recall his fictional mother reading this story to him at bedtime for many years.
“Oh, buddy. The Goodnight Train.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, running his shirt sleeve across his nose and adding a loud sniffle for effect.
I brush his bangs back from his forehead. “You’re okay.”
“No, I’m not.” His eyes dart to the table of children. “Everyone is staring at me.”
I glance at the kids and make a decision. “Come with me.”
We walk hand in hand to a vacant area where several small chairs are set up in a circle. We sit next to each other, my six-foot frame comically dwarfing the chair, but I stay in character, committed to finishing the poignant scene.
I hold up the book and simply state, “She used to read this to you.”
“Yeah.” He stares at the magical, illustrated cover, his eyes welling with more tears. “I miss her.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
Slumping in his seat, Alex takes the book from my hands and cradles it against his chest. “I’m starting to forget her.”
My face twists with pain. I can feel the emotions bubbling up inside of me.
I allow my character to wholly give in to the grief of losing his wife and the pain of watching his son openly mourn the mother he is slowly forgetting.
I’m drawing on my own personal experiences and using method acting techniques to connect with my character’s motivations.
Especially knowing I have a son out there somewhere—a son I willingly haven’t laid eyes on yet.
My despicable actions stab me in the heart.
It’s so quiet on the set you could hear a pin drop.
I wrap my arm around Alex and pull him close. He snuggles into my side as I heave a deep sigh before I deliver my rehearsed lines.
“She loved books very much. She never went anywhere without one. Books in her car and in her handbag. Stacks and stacks of books all over our house.” I pause for dramatic effect. “One time, I even found one in the laundry room.”
The smile on the young actor’s face is slight, as if he remembers his mother’s precious book habit. I shift in my seat and press my hands onto his shoulders. “I love you, Alex.” I can barely get the words out, my emotions hitting me full force.
“I love you too, Dad.”
We hold our loving gaze for a beat before I lean in and kiss him tenderly on the forehead.
“Cut!” the director yells.
I’m instantly back in the present as Jacob wiggles out of my embrace and bolts to the table to join the other children his age, giggling and cracking jokes. I swipe at my damp eyes and smile. He did good. Real good. We might even be done before midnight if we’re lucky.
I lift my tired, emotionally drained body from the tiny chair and stretch my back.
I catch a glimpse of Arthur in the corner.
There’s a playful smile adorning his face as he motions with his head to the woman standing next to him.
I blink several times, the sight of Beverly causing my breath to catch in my throat.
Her tear-stained face glistens in the lighting, and I realize she’s been crying.
Our eyes lock, and she starts to laugh as she swipes at her wet cheeks as if embarrassed.
Something inside of me unlocks at the sight of her.
Clearly, she was moved by the emotional scene she just witnessed, which gives me great satisfaction.
My beaming smile unfolds, and I propel myself toward her, anxious to see her up close and in person.
I’m thrilled she’s here, happy she took time out of her weekend to visit me.