Beach Town (25 page)

“That's great!” Greer set her coffee mug down on the table.

“I know.” Vanessa was beaming. “I've got Sue working on a lease agreement for you guys. She thinks she can get it drafted by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh. Well, the studio has a standard agreement we use, but I can take a look at what she's done, and I'm sure we can come up with something that will work,” Greer said cautiously. “But are you sure we're in the clear with this? I mean, isn't there some process we have to go through?”

“Not as far as I'm concerned,” Vanessa said. “Sue will send the city a certified notice first thing in the morning, telling them that their lease has been nullified. And in the meantime I'm going home to find my daddy's old bolt cutters. As soon as we've served the city, I'm cutting those locks off and going in there. Are you in?”

“Absolutely,” Greer said. “I can't wait to let Bryce know. He'll be thrilled. I'm thrilled. I can't thank you enough, Vanessa.”

“The pleasure's all mine,” Vanessa said. “Or it will be, especially when I see the look on Eb Thibadeaux's face when he finds out he's not the boss of the free world.”

“He seems to feel pretty strongly about the casino. Are you sure he won't keep fighting you, maybe take you to court or something?'

Vanessa shrugged. “Let him. He can't win on this one.”

“Okay then,” Greer said. “If you're sure you can get us in there tomorrow, I'd love to take Bryce and the art director and production folks on a walk-through.”

“I'll take you around myself,” Vanessa said. “I haven't been in there in years. Once the city started letting it go downhill, I couldn't stand to see it deteriorate. As a kid, I thought the casino was my personal playhouse.”

“Greer?”

She turned and saw CeeJay standing there with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” CeeJay said coolly.

“Do you know Vanessa Littrell?” Greer turned to her tablemate. “Vanessa, this is my best friend, CeeJay, who just happens to be the best hair and makeup artist in the business.”

“Hi,” Vanessa said.

“Vanessa owns the casino, CeeJay. She was just telling me we're in the clear to use it for the film. I'm going to try to get Bryce and Alex in there tomorrow, so we can get working on it.”

“How nice for you,” CeeJay said. She turned, without another word, and disappeared into the coffee shop.

“Something I said?” Vanessa said, watching CeeJay walk up to the counter.

“I don't know,” Greer said slowly. “I've never seen her act that like before.”

Vanessa stood. “Well, I have to run. Literally. As soon as I hear from Sue tomorrow I'll get with you about that walk-through.”

*   *   *

CeeJay sat at a small Formica-topped table, her hands folded around a steaming mug of chai tea.

Greer pulled a chair from an adjacent table. “Are you mad at me about something?”

CeeJay lowered her eyelashes and sipped her tea. “What makes you think that?”

“You were kind of rude out there to Vanessa just now.”

“Oh? Was I rude to your new best friend? So sorry. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that, after standing me up for coffee yesterday, you end up here all cozy with her.”

“Stand you up? What are you talking about?”

“You didn't get my text yesterday? Telling you I wanted to meet you here?”

“I got it. And I texted you back that I wasn't around so I couldn't meet you.”

“No you didn't.”

“CeeJay, I did!” Greer pulled her phone from the pocket of her shorts and pulled up her text history. She found the last text from CeeJay, and the response she'd typed—but never sent.

“Shit,” she said, sliding the phone across the table. “My bad. I ended up driving over to Alachua yesterday. I was right in the midst of texting you when I got interrupted.”

“Where's Alachua? What were you doing there?”

“It's about an hour from here. On the other side of Gainesville. I, uh, decided to go see my father.”

“Wha-a-at?” CeeJay's kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “What prompted that?”

“It was totally a guilt trip. Lise kept nagging me about calling him, after she got sick. They'd reconnected on Facebook, and she even gave him my contact information—including my phone number. Wouldn't you know it, he lives not that far from here, and he'd seen on my Facebook page that I was working in Cypress Key. He called and texted a couple times, but I never responded. Yesterday morning I was at loose ends, and I got in the car, and the next thing I know I'm parked in his driveway, texting you. There's a tap on my window and I look up—into the face of dear old Dad.”

“Lise wanted you to get in touch with your old man? I thought she hated his guts.”

“So did I. For years she wouldn't even say his name. She referred to him as ‘the sperm donor.' Then, on her deathbed, she decides maybe he's not that bad.”

“Weird.”

“Creepy,” Greer corrected her.

“How was the visit?”

“Different. Let's talk about something else. Like why you decided to stand me up for dinner Friday night. I was kinda ticked, you know?”

CeeJay nodded. “It was a lousy stunt. I broke the sacred golden rule of girlfriends, ditching you for Bryce. I'm sorry. I suck.”

Greer smiled. “Hold that thought. I need more caffeine.”

When she got back from the counter with her refill, she leaned back in her chair. “You were saying how much you suck?”

“It's just, Bryce has been so moody, all week. We get here and he's all pumped up about the film, staying up half the night, working on rewrites, giving notes to Kregg and Adelyn, firing off e-mails to everybody.”

“Including many, many midnight texts to me,” Greer pointed out.

“I know. Then Friday he's in this huge funk. He knows Terry's drinking again, because the script is totally only half finished, and he's been watching the dailies and I think it's just occurred to him that Kregg can't act his way out of a paper bag, and he's worried about this casino thing.…”

“The casino thing is now officially taken care of,” Greer said. She leaned closer. “What else? What aren't you telling me?”

CeeJay stared down into her mug. “He uh, well, this morning he asked me to move out of the house. I actually just came from the motel. Looks like we'll be almost roomies.”

Greer grabbed CeeJay's hand. “Why?”

Tears sprang up into CeeJay's eyes. “He says he's just feeling crowded. That it has nothing to do with me, or our relationship. He's stressed and he just needs his space.”

“Jeez!” Greer slapped the tabletop. “What a clich
é
. He can't come up with anything more original than that?”

“Guess not,” CeeJay said. She dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin. “He swears this won't change our relationship. Says he still loves me, and once the film is finished we'll be right back where we were. Only better.”

“Blah. Blah. Blah,” Greer said with a sigh. “Men suck.”

CeeJay nodded. “They really do.”

“Which room did Ginny give you? Not one of the ones by the pool, I hope. The drinkers and smokers hang out there all night, and you can hear every word they say.”

“Ginny?”

“The manager. She also co-owns the motel, with the mayor.”

“Huh. Eb Thibadeaux checked me in. He was really sweet, too. Helped me carry my stuff in, gave me extra towels.”

“Did he give you the towels that feel like extra-fine sandpaper?”

“I guess. I know you think he's a dweeb, but you know who he kind of reminds me of?”

“I can't imagine.”

“Remember that old show,
Gilligan's Island
? Don't you think he looks exactly like the Professor?”

“No.” Greer shook her head vigorously. But CeeJay had struck a nerve. With his tousled hair and glasses, he did kind of look like the Professor. Damn. Another image of Eb Thibadeaux which she would really rather forget.

 

28

Monday morning's shoot hadn't gone as planned.

The old elementary school auditorium was being used as a stand-in for a courthouse. What should have been a tense, emotion-packed confrontation between the fictional judge and the character of Kregg's lawyer had been interrupted half a dozen times by problems big and small. A garbage truck backing up on the street behind the school could be clearly heard. There was a wardrobe malfunction when somebody noticed the lawyer's white dress shirt bore a huge coffee stain. Finally, when it was clear after dozens of takes that the actor playing the judge had not memorized the long monologue the scene required, Bryce Levy lost his cool.

Greer was standing out of camera range, at the back of the courtroom set, but she clearly heard everything.

“What the fuck?” Bryce exclaimed, striding up to Michael Payne, the elderly character actor playing the judge. “Michael! It's twelve lines. Twelve fucking lines that you've had weeks to work on.”

Payne stared straight ahead, while the other actors looked away in embarrassment.

Bryce whirled around to address one of the key grips. “And Jesus, Kevin, can you do something about the glare in here? We've got light bouncing all over the fucking room.”

“I'll take care of it right now,” Kevin said.

“Break for thirty minutes, then everybody get your asses back in here and do your fucking jobs,” Bryce snarled.

*   *   *

Her cell phone rang. It was Zena, calling from the house where interiors and exteriors for the next day's shoot were scheduled.

“Hey, Greer. We got problems over here on Manatee. The dude that lives down the block threatened to call the cops on me because some of the crew were parked on the street in front of his house.”

“Were they blocking the guy's driveway, or otherwise on his property?”

“No! The guy's just a jerk. He's been raising hell since we got over here,” Zena said.

“He can call the cops if he wants, but we're fully permitted to shoot over there,” Greer said. She glanced down at her watch. “In the meantime, round up all of our people and tell them to move their cars over to the base camp. I'll rent some more golf carts and we'll start shuttling people and dropping them off. Okay? I'll get over there as soon as I can, or I'll send somebody else to deal with the locals.”

On her way to the catering tent, Greer called Island Hoppers, one of the local golf cart rental places, and arranged to have four more carts delivered to the base camp.

She found CeeJay seated under the tent, peeling a tangerine. “Wow. Bryce really is in a foul mood.”

“Makes me glad I won't be around tonight,” CeeJay said somberly. “When he gets like this, he's totally irrational.”

“I'm not looking forward to tomorrow, when we shoot at that tiny house,” Greer said, thinking ahead. She was looking around the area as she spoke, and she spotted Allie Thibadeaux leaning up against a brick wall, flirting with Kregg.

The two were so intent on their conversation that they failed to notice Bryce's determined approach until it was too late. The director grabbed Kregg's arm, and she could tell by both men's body language that the conversation wasn't pleasant.

Allie drifted away toward the table lined with soft drinks and snacks.

“I hate to see Allie get mixed up with a guy like that,” Greer said. “I tried to talk to Ginny, to sort of warn her that Allie's playing with fire, but she just said Allie is smart enough to know what's up.”

“Seventeen? Ha!” CeeJay said. “When I think about the shit I was getting into at that age? I'm amazed I made it to twenty.”

“Me too.” Greer watched while Allie plucked a can of Red Bull from a tub of ice. “I'm gonna go talk to her,” she resolved.

“And tell her what? Stay away from asshats like Kregg?”

“Mmm. No, I'm just going to give her enough stuff to do that she hopefully won't have to loiter with the cast.”

“Why do you care so much about this girl?” CeeJay asked.

“I don't know,” Greer admitted. “Maybe I see a little of myself in her.”

“Go for it then,” CeeJay said.

*   *   *

Greer sidled up to Allie, who was watching Kregg on the receiving end of the director's bad mood.

“Hi, Allie.”

“Hey,” the girl said, keeping her eyes on Bryce and Kregg. “Wow. Bryce is really PMS-ing, huh?”

“Mondays are always tough, and there's a lot going on,” Greer said. “Zena just called from the house on Manatee, where we're shooting interiors tomorrow. Do you maybe know Edith Rambo?”

“I did, but um, she's dead.”

Greer laughed. “I realize that. I've rented her house from her son, who lives in Tampa. But Manatee is a really narrow street, and all our trucks are going to block that street, which is already starting to piss off the locals. You could do what I call neighbor triage.”

She riffled through the forms on her clipboard and came up with the one she needed, handing it to Allie.

“That's a letter notifying the neighbors that we'll be filming tomorrow on their block and asking for their cooperation. It also lets them know that, once we start, security won't let any cars pass Mrs. Rambo's house. So they'll need to plan ahead and leave before or after we start filming, at nine o'clock.”

“Okay,” Allie said.

“Take this form over to our production office. It's in the old bookstore downtown. You know the place, right?”

Allie nodded eagerly.

“Ask for Betty. I'll let her know I'm sending you over. Ask her to make twenty or thirty copies of this letter. Then, take one of our golf carts and ride over to Manatee Street and hit every house on Mrs. Rambo's block. Both sides of the street. Knock on doors, give them your sweetest smile, and tell them about the filming tomorrow morning, starting at nine.”