Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (39 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O
NCE
THE
CAMERAS
started rolling and the focus shifted from her problems to the immediate needs of the production, a heavy weight slid from her shoulders. She was in her element and loving every minute of it, even though she felt a lot like the chief cook and bottle washer of the small production as she wore many hats to accommodate the tight budget. Trace, on the other hand, was not having as much fun.

She could tell he was trying to be accommodating, but each time Trevor got too close, he'd look straight into the camera with an irritated expression, breaking the fourth wall, which was a sin unless the script called for it. And the script they were working from did not.

“You have to stop looking at Trevor,” she told Trace when they'd taken a lunch break. “I know it's unnatural for you to have someone at your shoulder filming your every move, but I need you to pretend that Trevor isn't there.”

“I'm not sure I can. Part of what I do, I do in silence, and having a crew tromp along beside me is weird and distracting. Plus, I feel like an idiot pretending to follow tracks that aren't there.”

“
You
know the tracks aren't there but the
audience
doesn't. In postproduction we'll add the voice-over track, and it will be very convincing.”

“I don't like it. Feels like a bunch of crap.”

“C'mon, you're doing great,” she assured him. “We need a few shots of you looking pensively into the distance, though. Just try to remember how it felt when you were searching for Clarissa.” He graced her with an expression of open annoyance, and she smiled. “Go grab something to eat. I think we have sandwiches.”

Trace muttered something under his breath that she probably didn't want to hear and stalked off to get something to eat. Maybe after he'd eaten he'd be in a better mood, but she wasn't holding her breath. Whether he liked it or not, the camera loved Trace. She had butterflies in her stomach watching him do his thing, and she knew America was going to fall in love with him—which, of course, Trace would hate and find intrusive. She withheld a sigh, fighting against what she needed for her career and what was best for Trace. Why couldn't they mesh for once?

“Make sure you get plenty of close-ups,” she reminded Trevor as she scribbled notes to remember later. “Oh, and if you can, give Trace some space. He gets unnerved by the cameras, and I'd like to be as organic as possible in his process.”

“What process? He stares at dirt and leaves, and then pokes at them a bit. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Trevor complained, biting into his sandwich. “I mean, I'd hate to think we're wasting all our energy on another
Vertical Blind.
”

She bristled. “Not that it matters, but this pilot was ordered by the head of the network, so whether we get hours of footage of Trace picking his nose because that's how he makes his magic work, that's what we're going to deliver. Got it? What is your problem, Trevor? You're always an insufferable ass, but since landing here in Alaska you've been an aggravating jerk at the same time.”

“Sorry...I just think this shoot is boring. There's nothing to look at but trees and more trees. Whoever said we're facing deforestation has obviously never come here.”

“Well, a better attitude, please. I have a lot riding on this and I need you at your best. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure. One spiffy new attitude coming right up.”

Ugh. The man was incorrigible. “Great,” she said drily as she walked away to check with Scott, her second camera operator. “Tomorrow, I want you shooting plenty of B-roll footage, okay? Crowd shots, small-town life, et cera. But today, I need you to get some different angles of Trace.” She probably had enough but seeing as she was wearing the director hat as well, she wanted to be sure.

“No problem,” Scott said readily, and Delainey smiled, wishing Trevor were as amenable as Scott. If only she could switch jobs between her two camera operators. Unfortunately, Trevor had seniority and would screech like an angry blue jay if she assigned him the B-roll footage. Besides, Trevor was connected to people in high places, which was why everyone put up with his crap. But just once, she'd love to tell Trevor to stuff his attitude up his ass and get the hell off her set. Delainey smiled at that cheery thought and went off to double-check with Neal that the audio was coming off without any problems.

“Everything good?” she asked Neal just as he was finishing his sandwich.

“We're just catching ambient sound, but so far, so good. Trace doesn't seem like much of a talker, not that there's anyone to talk to, I guess.”

“I tried to get him to talk out loud about what he was doing, but he refused, saying it felt stupid to talk to no one. So, we'll record it later in a voice-over track. Speaking of, do you think you can rig a soundproof room? Something tells me there's no way in hell I'm going to get Trace to L.A. to do that.”

“Sure. I can rig the closet with decent enough soundproofing to suit our needs. I mean, it won't be perfect but we can clean up any noise in postproduction.”

“You're a godsend,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead and buy what you need from the hardware store, but try to keep it modest. I don't want to go into the red over a soundproofed closet.”

“I got your back,” Scott assured her and went off to do his thing before they started again. She watched her crew going about their business, enjoying their break before resuming again, and she relished the warm-and-fuzzy feeling her job created when things were going smoothly. She had to take the good moments where she found them because they weren't always so easy to find. Location shoots were a mixed bag. At least her crew was small and relatively manageable. Aside from Trevor, the rest were very cooperative and easygoing. A few were excited to see Alaska and the others, if they weren't happy about the cold locale, kept their feelings to themselves.

She exhaled and her breath plumed before her. The sun was slowly sinking and they were losing light. Time to cut the break short before they lost the opportunity to get any shots at all.

* * *

B
Y
THE
END
of the day Trace was grumpy, feeling out of sorts and wondering what the hell he'd signed on for. Filming was everything he'd thought it was going to be—which wasn't much. After the crew had struck the location, they all headed back to their respective places and Trace and Delainey detoured to the Rusty Anchor. Delainey had been against it, but he needed a beer in the worst way.

“Why don't we just have a beer at your place?” she suggested, plainly uncomfortable. “My crew is here and I don't want them seeing me hang out with you in a bar.”

“Then stay behind. I need a beer and I need a change of scenery.” He tried not to snap, but his nerves were on edge. He was trying to be accommodating, trying to be the good guy, but he was rapidly losing that battle. He did not know how people did this every single day. He wasn't cut out to be a reality star—thank God. He cast her an irritated glance. “Besides, you're not their mother. What? You're not allowed to have a drink now and then? Last I checked you were a grown-up.”

“It's not that,” she said, following him. “It's that I'm trying to set a good example. I don't need my crew drinking in bars, either. Particularly here. You know the locals are not all that friendly to people who aren't from here. The last thing I need is a bar fight.”

“Well, if they mind their manners, you won't have to worry about that.”

“You and I both know that sometimes the locals can provoke a fight even if it's unwarranted.”

He shrugged. “Again, you're not their mother or their jailer. Let them take responsibility for their own actions. Listen, bottom line, stay or go—either way I'm getting a beer, end of story.”

“Fine,” she muttered, then tried to add a stipulation that grated on his already frayed nerves. “One beer, okay?”

“I'm not making deals. The last deal I made with you put me in this position.”

She scowled and groused. “Well, aren't you a bowl of sunshine.”

“Honey, you ain't seen nothing yet, but you will if I don't get that beer,” he promised darkly.

They walked into the Rusty Anchor, and the familiar noise was a comfort to Trace as he selected a booth in the corner, away from everyone but with a good vantage point. Delainey slid in beside him and muttered, “This place never changes. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.”

Trace rubbed his eyes and rolled his shoulders to release the tension, and Delainey caught the motion. “You were great today,” she said, trying to butter him up with flattery, which she should've known wouldn't work with him. “A natural.”

He slanted a dubious look her way. “I highly doubt that. Listen, you don't have to patronize me. I probably look like a fool.”

“I would never allow you to look like a fool,” she said quietly. “Please have a little faith in me.”

“I got a question for you... If you're the producer, why are you directing, too?”

She smiled at being able to answer a question with authority. “Ordinarily, I would hire a director, but because of the rushed nature of this shoot, and the limited budget, I figured I could do it on my own. If the shoot were more complicated, I would definitely hire out, but I didn't think it was necessary. Why? Do you think I'm not good enough to wear so many hats at once?”

“I have no opinion on that, I was just curious. Hell, I don't know shit about this business or how it works. This isn't my element—I don't know what I'm doing and I feel stupid.”

“I think you're doing a great job,” she offered, but he shrugged off her earnest praise.

“I'm not like one of those Hollywood men you're so used to, saying things they don't mean, making promises they'll never deliver and who care more about their wardrobe than how they treat people, and I never will be.”

She blinked at him, stung. “I know that and I wouldn't want you to be. Why would you say that? Where is this coming from?”

An angry and raw place, he nearly growled but didn't. Instead, he shrugged. “Right about now I'm wishing I hadn't signed on for this gig. It's not me and I'm not cut out for it, but I'm doing it for you.”

“Don't act like a martyr. You're not doing this for me. You're doing it to save your program, remember? Don't make it sound as if you're sacrificing yourself selflessly, so please spare me the
poor me
act.”

He knew she was right but he wasn't in the frame of mind to admit it. “Don't pick a fight with me, Delainey,” he warned.

“I'm not picking a fight. I'm setting you straight. I don't need you thinking that you're doing me some kind of favor when you're coming out of this deal with something for yourself, as well. Listen, I know this isn't your idea of a good time, but I hate to be the one to remind you that you signed a legally binding contract. And I'm going to make you stick to it.”

He narrowed his stare at her. “I never said I was going to quit. But I don't have to like it, and I never will like it. I was just letting you know.”

“Don't worry. I never would have made the mistake of thinking that you're enjoying yourself.” She stood, shouldering her purse and staring down at him with a cool look. “You know what? I've changed my mind about that beer. I'm going to stay at my dad's place tonight. Call time is 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. I'll see you there.”

“Delainey, wait—” he called out after her, but she was already gone. He probably should've run after her to smooth things over, but he didn't have it in him. He was too out of sorts and too deep in the wrong frame of mind to do anything but more damage. So he let her go, and he enjoyed his beer just as he'd planned to do in the first place.

What did he care anyway where she stayed? He and Delainey were messing with each other's heads by playing house. As soon as the production was over, she would hightail it out of there, leaving him behind as surely as she'd left him behind the first time. And he knew what that felt like. He ought to put some distance between them and save himself some pain later.

Yeah, he knew that was the smart thing to do. But as he finished his beer, finally loosening up, he also knew with a certainty that he wasn't going to stop whatever they were doing. He couldn't. Delainey was like a drug in his system, doing its damage yet coaxing him to want more. He craved her touch, needed her in his bed, and even if it ended up killing him, he'd do what he could to make this dumb production a success.

That was plain masochistic right there, he told himself with a dark smirk.

Yep.

And since he was determined to stay the course, he also knew he was going to drive to her dad's house and pick her sweet little ass up, because the only place she was sleeping was in his bed.

End of story.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

D
ELAINEY
WALKED
INTO
her father's home and found Thad trying to repair a fishing line. Country music played faintly from the old radio and the house was otherwise empty. She figured Brenda was at the hospital with Harlan, and although she probably should've stopped by, after her spat with Trace she didn't have the emotional strength to tack on a visit to her father's deathbed, too.

Thad looked up briefly when she walked in, and the first thing she noticed was his cast was gone. She frowned and took a seat at the table opposite her brother. “What happened to your cast?”

“Took it off. Can't do no work with it on.”

“But you need another week or so, don't you?”

He stopped and flexed his arm, wincing only a little as he shrugged. “Feels fine to me. Besides, with Pops in the hospital, I figure I need to pick up the slack for the business.”

Delainey remained quiet for a moment and then moved her chair closer to Thad and started helping. She and Thad had been repairing fishing line since they were little, and although it'd been close to ten years since she'd picked up a line, her fingers remembered what to do.

“Why didn't you call me and tell me that Dad was sick?” she asked.

“He didn't want no one to know. His pride and all. I wanted to tell you, but you were so far away and it didn't seem as if you were in an all-fire hurry to visit anytime soon. So why put worries on your shoulders that weren't going to change nothing? Plus, I know how you and Pops never got along. Figured, well, you might not care.”

Shame crawled over her. Thad was right. She didn't know if she would've cared. Her life in L.A. was all-consuming and she didn't know if she would've made time for the drama of family life back in Alaska. But she should've. “Why are you so forgiving?” she asked. “You remember how our childhood was. When he wasn't beating the hell out of us, he was ignoring that we existed. That's hard to forget.”

Thad stopped and said, “He can't change the past. He knows he was a terrible father, and maybe he changed because he wants to make amends or because he's afraid of what's waiting for him at the end of his life. But who am I to say that I shouldn't give him that chance to be a better dad? He's trying, Laney. Don't that count for something?”

“If he had changed so much, he would've called. He never called me. Not once.”

“Neither did you.”

Delainey dropped her fishing line and glared at her brother. “What do you want me to say? I'm not capable of being the bigger person? Fine. I'm not. I'm selfish and self-centered and shallow. All I care about is myself, and if that's who I am, then he helped to make me that way.”

She rose and moved away from the table, needing to get some space. She was in a lose-lose situation, and she hated those kinds of battles. She shook out her hands when she realized she was clenching them. “How is it that I'm the bad guy in this situation? I don't understand. Trace blames me for leaving to focus on my dreams, and my father blames me for remembering that he was a terrible dad. Blame the victim, I guess.”

Thad snorted and she whirled to face him. “What's that for?” she demanded.

“You. Being the victim. Laney, you've never allowed anyone to make you a victim. Ever. Yeah, maybe you're selfish and self-centered, but you're also ambitious and determined. I don't fault you for it and never have. Hell, I wish I had an ounce of your drive. Maybe I'd have my own fishing outfit instead of fishing on someone's else's boat. But don't ever say you're a victim, because you're not. Whatever you're going through, you created for yourself. And that includes Trace.”

She bit her lip, her eyes smarting from the tears that were building. When had her younger brother become so insightful? Seemed somewhere along the way, he'd grown up and she'd totally missed it happening. He wasn't a kid anymore and he saw way more than most young adults his age. He saw more than she ever had. She wiped at her eyes. “So, what am I supposed to do?” she asked, her words choked by the sudden squeezing of her throat. “I don't know how to be different even if I wanted to.”

“I don't know. Maybe you're not supposed to change,” he offered with a shrug. “The world will keep spinning. I guess it's up to you to find your place in it and then make peace with yourself wherever you end up.”

Make peace with herself? She wasn't even sure if that was possible. Part of her was so locked up with anger and resentment and fear that she wasn't sure if that would ever change. She hated that about herself, and she knew that she used the excuse of work to cover up the dark places that she didn't want anyone to see. The fact that she hadn't done a very good job of covering up those ugly spots was a painful revelation. “I want to forgive him. I want to be able to walk into that hospital room without any hang-ups and simply hold his hand as a daughter with a dying father should. But each time I try, my feet won't move and my fists ball and I'm pissed off all over again.”

“Why?”

“Because he was the only parent we had and I needed him to be better.”

“But he wasn't. He was who he was and it's up to you to decide what you're going to do with that. In the eight years that you've been gone, he's changed. But he'll never be that guy who gives out hugs and tells funny jokes and who is that warm-and-cuddly person who everyone loves to be around. That's just not who he is. I came to that realization a long time ago, and when I did it made accepting who he truly is a lot easier.”

“And who is that? Who is he?”

“Pops is the kind of man who is loyal, hardworking, quiet, but he's not afraid of saying what needs to be said. He doesn't care if he's the unpopular opinion, and he's taught me a thing or two about integrity. He doesn't make excuses. He just gets the job done. Doesn't matter if it's raining, it doesn't matter if he's sick—if he says something's going to get done, you can take it to the bank that it'll get done. In this day and age, I think that's pretty rare.”

Delainey stared at her brother. How had she missed so much?

“There were times when Pops went over the line. But it wasn't all bad. I think you've blocked out the times that were good.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, stiffening. “Are you implying that my memory is faulty? Because I remember quite clearly the bruises and the fear.”

“No,” Thad said, shaking his head. “But there were good times.”

“Maybe before Mom died but not after.”

“If that's how you remember it, nothing I can say is going to change how you feel. All I can say is I disagree. So if you're going to be mad at our dad for a past he can't change, at least be sure that you're remembering it right.”

“I can't believe you would even suggest that I'm not,” she said, fighting back the urge to cry. “I spent half my childhood trying to protect you from his temper. I took the brunt of his anger so that you wouldn't go to bed with bruises. It hurts that you would turn this around on me. I don't regret protecting you, because it was the right thing to do, but to have you sit there and judge me for the aftermath of that protection really stings.”

“I know you protected me. That's what big sisters do. But I'm not a baby anymore and I'm not a child. I've grown up a lot in the last eight years, and I see things a little more clearly than you do right now. I have no doubt that you'll come to it on your own, but right now your vision is all messed up. Pops used to take us fishing. I remember the both of us taking turns unlacing his boots when he came home after a long stretch on the water. I remember him playing the harmonica for us and dancing. Can you tell me that you don't remember any of that?”

Delainey opened her mouth to deny it, but snippets of memory surfaced and the echo of childish laughter followed. She remembered unlacing her father's boots and pulling them off his sodden feet. She remembered how white his toes were after being stuffed inside the boots for more than nineteen hours at a stretch, and she recalled how her father used to smile at her enthusiasm when she tried to rub the wrinkles from his saturated skin. “I remember those things,” she admitted. “But those times did not outnumber the bad.”

“Well, I choose to remember the good stuff. The man is dying. He ain't gonna get a second chance to make things right. The way you decide to handle your goodbyes is your business.”

Delainey felt chastised, even though her brother hadn't said anything that wasn't true. She wiped the tears tracking down her cheeks. “I don't know what to say,” she admitted. “Maybe there isn't anything to say.”

Thad nodded and returned to the fishing line. She supposed everything had been said that needed to be said. Her soul felt shredded. She was forcing Trace to do something that went against his nature, and she was looking like the bad guy in her family's personal drama. Nothing about this trip seemed right. Nothing about her life seemed right. “Do you hate me?” she asked.

“I could never hate you, Laney. You're my big sister and I love you, but I think your priorities are really screwed up.”

She winced. Yeah, she was beginning to realize that. “If I agreed with you, how do you think I should go about changing that?”

Thad grinned and he looked every bit her younger brother with his boyishly handsome face and his beautiful eyes. “I guess I'd just start changing what you don't like. But then I'm a simple guy.”

She laughed and wiped the remaining moisture from her eyes. “That's some pretty good advice. I guess life doesn't always have to be so complicated.”

“Nope. I always say if your socks are wet, don't spend time complaining. Just change them and go on with your day.”

Delainey's smile widened. That's what she'd been doing. Spending too much time complaining about wet socks. “Since you're so full of good advice, tell me what I should do about Trace.”

“Can't help you there. Besides, I think you already know what you need to do about Trace. You don't need me to tell you.”

“How is it that you're still single?” she asked, cocking her head at him. “The girls here have got to be dumb not to snatch you up, Thad Clarke. You're a good guy.”

“Can I put that on my online-dating profile?” he teased, and she rolled her eyes. He chuckled as he returned to the fishing line, checking hooks and reknotting frayed line. “Are you going to help me finish this line, or are you going to take off?” he asked.

But before she could answer, someone else answered for her.

“Sorry, kid, but she's going home with me.”

Delainey startled, her heart jumping into her throat as Trace appeared from the darkened hallway. “Good God, you scared me.” She hadn't heard him come in, and she didn't know how much of the conversation he'd heard, either. But just seeing him standing there, his eyes blazing and brooking no argument, the possession in his voice obvious, she shivered and a smile trembled on her lips. She still hadn't answered, but when he grabbed her hand and began leading her out of the house, she didn't fight him.

“Bye, Thad!” she called out and followed Trace out the door.