Chapter 59
The last thing I need is Selma overhearing her husband pick apart her career while hitting on me in the same breath.
“Speaking of fresh fruit, what’s your next big project?” I ask. It’s hardly subtle, but Selma will be done picking out wine within minutes. I get the feeling she’s not going to let our conversation return to the subject of work once she returns.
“So you’re a fan of my films?” A cocky smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Which one is your favorite?”
I rewatched every one of Quinton’s films recently, staying up way too late the last few weeks to memorize their plot structures. Twists and turns expertly worked into every sequence. Picking out the similarities in characters, and playing out how my film script might work its way into his treasured collection.
“ The French Notebook was my absolute favorite,” I tell him.
He slaps the table with this palm.
“Of course it was!” he says triumphantly. “Every woman tells me that was their favorite. I should have predicted that one would top your list.”
I get the sense that he’d rather I chose a lesser-known film. Perhaps one he doesn’t get the same accolades for, one that he loved making nonetheless.
“I also loved Forget Me Evermore .” It was one of his first films to put him on the path toward success, but it didn’t make the mainstream cut of turning into a cult classic, like most of his other films that followed.
I study his reaction carefully, to see if I’ve hit on some soft nerve that will take me from an everyday fan girl to perhaps something with more depth.
“You . . . you really liked Forget Me Evermore ?” His eyes turn soft. He leans back in his chair, and, for the first time, all his bravado is gone. Replaced with the soul of him shining out of both eyes.
Bingo.
“Of course! I thought it was underrated. A treasure, no — a gift — that no one took the time to fully unwrap.” I spell it out in measured tones for him, pouring my eyes into his as he soaks up the praise that he no doubt longs to hear. “Only a true genius could have turned the tables on Rita after Luca did that to her.”
His eyes glisten in the final rays of the sun.
“And the ending?” he asks, as if hanging on my every word. Like a conductor pulling out the final notes of his own symphony.
The ending got destroyed by film critics, so I know what my answer could be based on those reviews alone. I’m curious if he saw the error of the ending post-production, after he was scalded by the backlash of those hoping for a happy ending that never came. I take a risk, hoping he maintains that his ending was right. That the critics got it wrong.
“The ending was . . .”
He’s leaning into the table, watching me closely. I think he’s scarcely breathing.
I take a deep breath and go for it. “Quinton, the ending was a work of art.” He throws his hands in the air, as if I’ve just won the winner-takes-all round of Texas hold ’em. Relieved, I go on. “It was perfection. The critics got it all wrong. You were skewered for giving your audience the most humanistic ending you could, which went against the Hollywood fluff everyone usually wants. You gave us the most ugly side of being human, instead of the beauty we all have in us. It was bold. You were utterly destroyed by the critics for those last ten minutes, which put you on their radar. But I loved it. I hope you never second-guessed how that ending went for you.”
He sits back in his chair, as if my words have both thrilled and exhausted him.
“You have an eye for the arts,” he says appreciatively. “I knew I liked you when we first met.”
Just then, Selma reappears with two bottles of wine. One chilled and white, one crimson red. I assume the white is to finish before we enjoy the other with the ahi Dom is carrying toward the grill to sear.
She holds a corkscrew out with an eyebrow raised. “Olive, can you open this for me?” I’m sure this woman could open a bottle of wine in her sleep. But why ruffle feathers when I’ve just made progress? I reach out to take the corkscrew and bottle, just as Quinton intercepts and takes it from her instead.
“I’ve got it, honey,” he says to his wife.
Then he rips the foil from the top of the bottle — which I’m sure cost more than I make in a year — while he keeps talking.
“Sweetheart, you must have misheard her earlier during introductions. Her name isn’t Olive or Veronica.”
Selma crosses her arms, still standing beside him as he starts to work the cork out of the bottle. It pops open and he grabs my glass to fill first, leaving his wife burning a hole in the side of his temple with her eyes.
“Surely you can remember it now though. Our guest’s name is Olivia.”