Excerpt #2
Maya gasped, Valerie’s words cascading over her like a shower of glittering confetti.
This had to be a dream—too dazzling, too surreal.
Any second now, she expected flamenco dancers to spring up from hidden platforms beneath the bakery floor, a glowing runway materializing to lead her toward some imaginary stage.
What kind of award did authors get for having their books turned into movies anyway?
Whatever it was, she felt like she was already clutching it in her hands, ready to hoist it over her head.
She could have wept. This news was especially welcome given what she’d been dealing with over the past three months. Minnie, her beloved miniature schnauzer, had died after eight years of being her number one. The ache her absence had left behind had dimmed the light in Maya’s life considerably.
“I—I can’t believe it,” Maya stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I haven’t even gotten to the best part,” Valerie said.
Could there be a better part? How many holiday movies had Maya watched over the years, yearning to see her name in the credits? Her characters brought to life on the screen? And, to be honest, the extra paycheck for work that she’d already completed?
Luckily, Edith appeared to be taking her time surveying the bakery case. Maya turned her back slightly and waited for the best part.
“They want to shoot the film in Sunset County,” Valerie exclaimed.
“It’s an American company, but they mostly shoot in Canada for the tax credits.
And when they found out where you’re from, they thought it would make great interstitial content to film the movie there and then have you interviewed as part of the promotion for it. ”
Maya almost dropped her phone. Her mind whirled with the possibilities.
She was already picking out her outfit for the interview.
That cute baby blue sundress with the scalloped sleeves?
No. It had to be Christmas-y. Maybe the black-and-red gingham sweater with the gold buttons?
Could she inquire about being an extra in one of her favorite scenes? Was this really happening ?
“One thing, though,” Valerie said. “If you sign, I just want you to remember, film is a very different medium than a novel. The company will be free to make any changes and adaptations they want. I’m just telling you that so you don’t get disappointed if it doesn’t go exactly according to your original story. ”
Before she could respond, Edith cleared her throat, and Maya remembered she had a customer.
“I’ll have to call you back, Valerie,” she said.
She blinked at Edith, one of her most reliable customers who came every two days to buy either a loaf of pretzel or rye bread to share between her and her best friend, Margaret Anderson.
Suddenly Maya remembered that not only was she a romance novelist who was about to have her book made into a movie, thank you very much, but she was also a proprietor of a business.
One that, to be honest, paid the majority of her bills. For now , she thought.
Maya straightened her shoulders and placed her phone on the counter. “Hi, Mrs. Campbell,” she managed to say. “What can I get you today?”
If Edith was picking up on the fact that Maya’s heart was beating a mile a minute and that she was so happy that she might leap through the ceiling, she didn’t let on.
“I’ll take a loaf of rye. And four sesame dinner rolls.
And those macarons look delicious,” Edith said.
“My granddaughter and her friend are coming over after school. They’re always taking pictures of their food.
” She waved her hand dismissively. “I think they’ll like these. I’ll take one in each color.”
Maya grinned as she boxed up the treats and popped in four of her most Instagram-able cupcakes on the house for good measure because she was feeling celebratory. She rang up Edith’s purchase, her mind still racing with the news.
“I hope the girls enjoy these,” she said, passing the baker’s box across the counter. “If they like them, tell them to feel free to tag me on social media.”
Edith peered into the box. “You’re a real sweetheart! The girls will love them.”
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Campbell!” Maya practically sang.
She watched as Edith rolled her cart out of the bakery, clutching the treats that had turned out oh-so-perfectly: a true harbinger of the news of Maya’s dreams.
* * *
Will Hastings exited the air-conditioned cabin of the Hy-Line Cruises ferry to the humid but breezy island air.
As he waited for the passengers in front of him to shuffle down the platform, he surveyed the crowd departing the boat and the long lineup of those ready to take it back to the Hyannis seaport, glowing with suntans, kitschy souvenirs, their wallets a lot lighter than before they’d arrived on the island.
It was Will’s first time on Nantucket, and even though he was fortunate to be able to afford a room overnight during a prime summer weekend on this short research getaway, he’d balked at the prices for even the quaintest of hotels.
The sun was beaming bright overhead, the air filled with the briny scent of sea air and fried clams from the restaurants on Wharf Street. A jazz trio heralded their arrival with a rendition of “Summer of ’69.”
Will plucked his small carry-on from the luggage cart, stood off to the side away from the other travelers and pulled up the directions to the Jared Coffin House, a bed-and-breakfast a short walk away.
Phone in hand, he pulled his roller suitcase over the cobblestone streets, taking in the buzzing downtown, a mix of locals and summer people and the tourists who were just coming to enjoy the island for the day, with its collection of sandy beaches, gourmet restaurants and high-end shopping interspersed between the few tourist traps.
But Will wasn’t there for a day of soaking in the summer atmosphere.
After checking into his room and changing into a fresh T-shirt, he grabbed his notebook and a pen, pulled on a ball cap and made his way over to the Nantucket Whaling Museum on Broad Street.
He had an hour or so to tour around the space before his meeting with Mitchell Stevenson, a local historian and whaling expert.
Will was going to interview him for the script he was working on, a biopic on the life of Herman Melville, famed author of Moby Dick .
It wasn’t necessarily a splashy box office heavyweight like many of the films he’d recently been hired for—but lately, he’d been harkening back to the time when the films he made were a little more artistic.
Smaller in scale but deeper in meaning. Less CG, more well-crafted dialogue. A deeper message. Resonance.
“Here’s your sticker,” the friendly teenage girl at the front desk said. “You can come and go as you please. Gift shop’s open until four o’clock.”
“Thanks,” said Will. He grabbed a pamphlet and gave the girl a quick smile, then rounded the corner to the gallery area of the museum. Guests were snapping photos of the giant whale skeleton presiding over the space, which included several artifact and interactive computer displays.
Just as he was approaching the replication whaling ship under the skeleton to read the placards, another volunteer approached the microphone. “We’re about to begin the eleven o’clock screening,” the man said. “Please take your seats.”
Will had already seen the short documentary—Mitchell Stevenson had sent it to him in advance with a package of research materials—but he slid into a seat in the back row anyway.
As with so many of the topics that Will had researched over the years for his films, he was now fully consumed by the history of the whaling industry in the country, and the unbelievably harsh conditions the whalers had to face at sea.
He watched the actors harpoon a CG whale and hold on for dear life as the giant creature flew through the ocean with them in tow.
Will resolved to do his best not to be as crotchety when conditions on his film sets were less than favorable.
Will’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he slid it out to see his agent’s name on the screen. He hit Ignore. The best part was just about to come on.
Just as he was about to slide the phone back in his pocket, the phone buzzed again.
Will slipped out of his seat just as they were about to get into the harrowing process of killing whales, and entered the brightly lit gift shop. Several shoppers were surveying the museum’s offerings of books, scrimshaw replicas, tea towels and ship models.
“Richard,” he said, tucking himself into the section of Christmas ornaments.
“Enjoying that fresh-caught lobster?” Richard said, no doubt about to tuck into a late take-out lunch in his small Brooklyn office.
“Not yet,” Will said. “Everything’s looking good for me to have a script for you to shop around to studios by Christmas, though. What’s up?”
“That whaling project, Hastings? Might be a tough sell. But word on the street is Jacksonville Films is going full steam on the adaptation of the Infinite Realm series. I’m keeping my ear to the ground for you.”
“Huh,” said Will. He’d read the books—a hugely successful space fantasy series rivaled only by the likes of Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones .
One of the biggest budget franchises to come around in years.
A couple of years ago, he’d have been salivating to take on a project of that scope. The thought of it now was…uncertainty.
“Anyway, in the meantime I’ve found you a project. Unbelievably, with all the specs you sent me.”
Will bristled. Part of him was counting on Richard to dismiss his laundry list of demands as too challenging to deliver on so Will would have an excuse to avoid Sunset County that fall.
The other part of him, however, knew he was getting on a plane to Toronto and driving two hours north no matter what his job prospects were. Family, for better or for worse, would do that to you.