Beach Town (50 page)

“Good morning,” Greer said caustically.

Zena held up her hand. “Don't start. Just. Don't.”

“I'm not saying a word,” Greer said. She handed Zena the roll of fluorescent tape and the diagram she'd drawn of where everything should be placed. “Just do your freaking job, okay?”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later a long flatbed trailer with two sleek speedboats—one a burnt orange with red and yellow racing stripes, the other a dazzling white with a metallic blue deck and green and yellow racing stripes—pulled into the boatyard. Eb directed Bobo, the transportation captain, around to the rear of the yard, where Bobo slowly backed the trailer down a concrete launch. One by one, a power winch lowered the boats into the water.

Greer and the skeleton members of the crew stood around and watched while the boats were unloaded. Eb stood beside her, arms crossed, obviously impressed by the watercraft the transportation captain had rounded up.

“What kind of boats are those?” she asked, glancing over at him.

“Cigarette boats. Big, pricey offshore racing boats for seriously rich guys.” He pointed at the logos on the side of both boats. “They're the Top Gun model. I don't know all the specs on 'em, but those are twin five-hundred-twenty-horsepower Mercs on each one. Probably looking at four hundred thousand dollars' worth of big-boy toys there.”

Greer eyed the boats critically. “You ask me, they just look like gigantic phallic symbols. Might be a little compensation going on there.”

As soon as both the boats were securely tied up along the long dock, Kregg was out of the boathouse, drawn to them like a magnet. Following close behind him were the stunt drivers, a pair of brothers named Patrick and Bubba, and Nate Walters, the actor who was playing the sheriff.

Now Bryce and his head cameraman were standing on the dock, too, along with Bobo. Each of the stuntmen climbed aboard his boat and started the engines. The noise sounded like a 727 on takeoff to Greer. She could see Kregg, standing on the dock, arguing and gesturing with the producer.

“Looks like Kregg wants to take the cigarettes for a ride,” Eb said. “But that's a lot of horsepower, if you're not used to it.”

“I doubt Bryce will let him do more than stand in them for establishing shots,” Greer said. “That's what the stunt drivers are for. It's too much of a liability for Kregg to be allowed to drive one of those things.”

But no sooner had she said it than Kregg hopped down into the orange boat. A moment later both boats went speeding away from the dock with a deafening roar, leaving wakes that rocked the pilings under her feet.

She could see Bryce watching anxiously through a pair of binoculars as the boats sped back and forth along the bay, their bows punching effortlessly through the water, crossing and recrossing each other's wakes at speeds that made Greer shiver.

“How fast can those things go?”

“Some of them can top out at over ninety miles an hour,” Eb said. He turned and, without another word, returned to his office, leaving her to watch his retreat with an overwhelming sense of sadness. Once again she had managed to screw things up.

*   *   *

At lunchtime Greer sent Zena to bring back lunch for the cast and crew, from the catfish restaurant down the street. The girl returned forty minutes later with stacks of Styrofoam takeout containers. Her usually tan complexion had taken on an unhealthy greenish glow.

After lunch Bryce started rehearsing the actors playing the roles of the unfaithful wife Danielle, Nick, the returning Navy SEAL, and the corrupt Sheriff Hernandez.

The screenplay had undergone so many changes that Greer had stopped bothering to keep the plot straight, worrying only about what location the ever-changing plot would dictate.

She'd been so busy she didn't have time to stop for lunch until after two, when she sat down on a folding chair to eat a cold barbecue sandwich and drink a warm Diet Coke.

Bryce was explaining the new scene to the three actors while their stunt doubles lolled nearby on more folding chairs.

“Okay, so Nick here finally figures out something's going on between Danielle and the sheriff. One night, after Danielle sneaks out of their house, he follows her here, to the boathouse, and he sees her with the sheriff.”

He turned to Kregg. “You can't actually hear what they're saying, but your rage is building, especially when you see the sheriff and Danielle practically humping each other right there on a stack of crates. So, then you can't contain yourself anymore. You rush out of hiding, and there's a fight between you and the sheriff. You land a couple of good punches, manage to knock him to the floor, but then he pulls a gun.”

Bryce pointed at Adelyn. “You, Danielle, scream like a banshee when you see the gun, which distracts the sheriff just enough for Nick to kick the gun away. At that point, Nick, you know you have to get out of there. You run out of the boathouse, and you see the cigarettes tied up out there. So you run out, jump in the white one—”

“Why can't it be the orange one?” Kregg asked.

“What's wrong with the white one? I want the audience to see the symbolism—you know, you're the good guy in the white hat and the white boat.”

“But the orange boat is bigger. It fits better with my image. I like it better,” Kregg said meaningfully.

“Okay, whatever. You jump in the orange boat and take off, then Nate, you jump in the white boat and follow. Addie, you're going to hesitate, and then at the last minute, as the white boat is almost out of reach, leap onto it.”

Adelyn frowned. “Not me personally, right?”

“No, of course not,” Bryce said. He turned to the stunt doubles lounging nearby and pointed to a young woman who was the same height and build as Adelyn, wearing a blond wig styled the same as Addie's hair. “Courtney there is going to do the jumping.”

“Good.”

“But I am going to need to shoot establishing and close-up shots with you in the boat with Nate. And we'll probably go ahead and do some long shots of the two of you in the boat, during the chase scenes. Right?”

“Okay,” Addie said hesitantly. “But the boats won't be speeding, right? I'm kind of a wimp when it comes to that.”

“We'll go slow,” Patrick volunteered.

“Listen, Bryce,” Kregg piped up. “At least let me do some of my own driving. Patrick checked me out on the Top Gun, and I can totally handle it.” He turned to the stunt driver, who shrugged noncommittally.

“Forget it. That's not some rowboat out there. Bobo tells me they've got five-hundred-twenty-horsepower twin engines,” Bryce said. “The water on the bay here where it's sheltered might be calm today, but I checked the weather report for Monday. There's a front moving through, which means increased wind and waves and chop. And, that afternoon, we're shooting in the open water near the pier. It'll be much rougher there.”

“I grew up on boats. I've been around 'em my whole life.”

“Oh, you've driven a forty-foot offshore racing craft?”

“Well no, but at home I've got a twenty-nine-foot Yellowfin with twin three hundred Mercs. Let me just go out this afternoon and me and Patrick will open it up and see how I do.”

“Not now,” Bryce said, but even Greer could see he was wavering. She balled up the foil containing the remains of her sandwich, threw it in a trash barrel, and went back to work.

 

60

Greer was pulling into the parking lot at the boatyard when she saw Eb's truck poised to pull out onto the roadway. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. She pulled alongside him and rolled her window down.

“Headed home?” she asked hopefully. “I finished up prep work over at the pier, and as soon as I finish up a couple things here I'm done for the day. I was thinking maybe I could cook dinner for you tonight.” She waggled her eyebrows in a way she hoped looked suggestive.

“I'm headed to the market,” Eb said. “Bobby Stephens just called. He's got a sick kid at home, and Paulette, who usually works till closing, just tried to slice her thumb off with a box cutter.”

“Oh no,” Greer said.

“He took her to get stitches, but that means I'm two people short on a summer Saturday night, which means I just appointed myself head cashier.”

“Could we do a late dinner?”

Eb shrugged noncommittally. “It's up to you. I might not get done counting out the registers and making the bank deposit until after ten.”

“It sounds like you don't care whether you see me tonight or not,” Greer said. “Is that the message you're sending, Eb?”

“The message is that I have to work late. You work late all the time, right? So is it a big deal if I have to run my business tonight?”

“I understand that you have a business to run,” Greer said, trying not to sound as hurt as she felt. “But we've got some pretty important issues to discuss, I think.”

His eyes were hard and flat, and she knew there was anger there, and that it had been on simmer since early that morning.

“Is discussion going to change the facts?” he asked. “You're heading back to L.A. on Wednesday. I'm staying here in Cypress Key. Has any of that changed since this morning?”

“No,” Greer said, feeling heat rising to her cheeks. Eb pulled the truck forward an inch, as if to dismiss her. But she had to make one more stab at making things right with him. She kept thinking of that faded wedding photo her father had been keeping on his dresser all this time, of the years of longing and regret he'd kept bottled up inside.

She got out of the Kia and walked over to the truck. “Please,” she said, leaning in, getting right in his space. “Can we please get together, tonight or in the morning? I don't want this to end like this. I know we can figure out how to make this work. If you want it. Do you?”

His phone rang. It was sitting on the seat beside him. He glanced over, saw the caller ID screen. “This is Bobby. I gotta go. I'll call you after closing.”

*   *   *

Although she'd left Zena with a long list of prep work that needed to be accomplished before the next day's rehearsals and setup, Greer quickly saw that only half the items on the list had been executed, and Zena herself was long gone.

“Tomorrow, I fire her ass,” Greer muttered, as she set up the pop-up tents that would be used as temporary green rooms for the cast and crew that would be assembled the next day. She lugged furniture, set up tables and chairs, and unpacked coolers full of soft drinks, bottled juice, and water, as well as the coffeemaker from the downtown production office, for the first arrivals. There hadn't been time to arrange for a catering truck for the morning, so she'd arranged for the Coffee Mug to bake muffins and pastries for delivery.

The high-ceilinged metal boathouse held the day's heat like a convection oven, and the work was dirty and heavy. By eight she was so exhausted she had to drag herself out to the Kia.

Back in her room at the motel she showered, pulled on her favorite sleep shirt, and collapsed into bed. She'd been trying not to think about Eb, wondering if he'd call. She switched the television on and found a documentary about native tree frogs on the local educational channel. Greer had a lifelong aversion to anything that hopped or slithered, but she was too tired even to get up and change the channel. She struggled to stay awake, still hoping Eb would call.

*   *   *

The sound of a door opening and closing down the corridor woke her up. It was still dark, except for the glowing blue television screen. She got up and turned the television off, wondering what time it was. She reached into the pocket of the shorts she'd worn the day before, but her phone wasn't there. She tried to think about the last time she'd used it, but finally decided she'd track it down in the morning. She dropped down onto the bed and fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

*   *   *

She'd overslept. It was Sunday morning, and bright sunlight filtered through the bent slats of the venetian blinds. She could hear voices outside, crew members on their way to breakfast, or the beach.

Greer picked up her shorts and searched the pockets again, but found only the key to the rental car. She rifled through her pocketbook. She looked in the bathroom, even got down on her hands and knees to search for the phone under the bed.

With a sigh she got dressed and went out to the Kia, convinced it must be there, but the phone was not in the car. Had she somehow dropped it at the boathouse yesterday, with all the lifting and lugging she'd been doing?

That's when she remembered. Her battery had been ready to die late in the day, so she'd plugged it into the power cord she'd found in Eb's office. That memory ignited a tiny flame of hope. Her phone had spent the night in his office. Maybe he had called after all.

*   *   *

Greer let herself into the boathouse with the key Eb had given her the day before. She found the phone where she'd left it—plugged into an outlet in his office. She quickly scrolled through the half dozen missed calls, looking for the only one that mattered.

The call had come at 11:30 p.m. and it was 9:00 a.m. now. Eb had left a brief message. “I'm back at the loft. You can come over if you want to talk.” That was it, brief and to the point. And there had been no follow-up.

So he'd had the night to fuel his already mounting anger at her. Was there any point in trying to reach him now, to explain that she'd misplaced the phone the previous night?

She had to try. Friday night was proof of that. Friday night they'd had something wonderful and amazing. Something worth begging for. And she would do that, if Eb gave her the chance.

Greer tapped the callback number. The phone went straight to voice mail.

“Eb? It's me. I missed your call last night because I'd stupidly left my phone plugged in at your office last night and didn't realize it until just now. Please call me back. Please?”