Read Coming Attractions Online

Authors: Rosie Vanyon

Coming Attractions (4 page)

BOOK: Coming Attractions
7.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Over the next fifteen or twenty
minutes, the silence grew more comfortable. Eventually, Freya picked up the
papers beside her and began to skim them, making corrections and adjustments
with a serious scowl. She paused and glanced up when Cara shifted position, but
then carried on with her project.

Cara’s eyes drifted closed and her
mind turned to Levi. Was he getting through his errands? Was he looking forward
to their meal together tonight? Was he missing her as much as she was missing
him?

The thought brought her up short.
She had only just met the man. Missing him seemed a little over the top. But
she couldn’t deny the subtle ache in her chest when she thought of his arms
around her, his mouth against hers, their breath mingling.

“It’s a journal. Like Gran’s,”
Freya said.

Cara’s eyes flew open, her
attention instantly zeroed in on the little girl.

“That’s a great project, Freya. I
read all Gran’s journals. It was a wonderful way to learn about parts of her
life that I didn’t know. Do you think someday someone will read your journals?”

“Maybe. But they’re mostly for me.
To remind me.”

Freya turned her serious face back
to the papers and wrote a few lines. Cara was keen to ask questions, move the
dialogue along, but she sensed that Freya operated at a different pace and
forced herself to be quiet.

“When you’re eleven,” the girl
finally said, “you sometimes forget why you have to take care of things all the
time. Sometimes you want to just go and play. Sometimes you just wish you could
spend all your savings on movie tickets or an iPad. If I write it all down, it’s
easier to remember.”

Cara’s heart clenched at the girl’s
solemn eyes and the weight of her perceived responsibilities. For several
seconds, Cara’s mind was a rush of possible directions to take the
conversation. Most pressing was her own need to know why Freya felt so
compelled to burden herself so heavily. But, she knew the strand of trust she
was developing with the little girl was fragile and tenuous.

She also kept in mind that her
goal, in the first instance, was to provide Freya with an escape route. Some
way to lift a little of the pressure she was under, some means of allowing her
some release. She didn’t need to dig up all the ins and outs to facilitate that
outcome. But somehow, Cara didn’t think simply telling the girl to lighten up
would work either.

For a moment, Cara felt adrift.
What did she really have to offer this girl? What did she have to offer anyone?
She was a roving drifter, a freelancer, a nomad, a motorcyclist…
Not a lot of substance there…

But she was also a storyteller, she
realized. Telling stories was both her passion and her livelihood. In writing
Lost Treasure,
Cara herself had recently
discovered that telling stories could be a powerful balm.

So, she cleared her throat and told
the girl a story she had once heard from her father—

“A
young girl went to the foreman of a logging crew and asked for a job. ‘Let’s
see you fell this tree,’ the foreman said. The girl quickly and skilfully cut
down a massive tree.”

“Did
she give thanks to Gaia first?” Freya asked.

“Of
course,” Cara assured.

The
child nodded her approval.

Cara
continued
, “
Impressed, the foreman
gave her a job. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday rolled by. On Thursday
afternoon, the foreman approached the girl and told her to pick up her pay
check. Startled, the girl replied, ‘I thought you paid on Friday.’ ‘Normally we
do,’ said the foreman. ‘But we’re letting you go today because you’ve fallen
behind. Our daily charts show that you’ve dropped from first place on Monday to
last place today.’ ‘But I’m a hard worker,’ the young girl objected. ‘I arrive
first, leave last, and I have even worked through my breaks!’ The foreman,
sensing the girl’s integrity, thought for a minute and then asked, ‘Have you
been sharpening your axe?’ She replied, ‘No, sir, I’ve been working too hard to
take time for that!’”

Freya
was listening, entranced. Cara wondered when the girl had last let herself do
something as simple as listen to a story. It made her heart ache to see this
girl taking life so seriously.

“Our
lives are like that, Freya,” Cara said. “We sometimes get so busy that we don’t
take time to ‘sharpen the axe.’  These days, it’s easy to be busier than
ever—but less happy.”

It was
as though a lightbulb went off over Freya’s head. In one heartbeat, the girl’s
eyes brightened and a smile tugged at her lips.

“There’s
nothing wrong with working hard and being responsible. But we have to remember
not to get so busy that we overlook the truly important things in life, like
taking time to play, read, hang out with our friends and family, and just have
fun. We all need time to relax, to think and meditate, to learn and grow. If we
don’t take time to sharpen the axe, we become dull and unproductive.”

The
little girl was smiling outright now and Cara had a real sense that her parable
had somehow breached the child’s defences and made an impact.

“So,
taking care of things
all
the time is
actually not as good as taking some time off to muck around? Really? You’re not
tricking me?”

“Really,
kiddo. So, how about we ditch this project for a while and go and see what your
mom has made for our lunch?”

They ate chicken
salad sandwiches and fresh fruit salad at the glass-topped table on the patio.
The sky was so blue and the air so warm it was hard to believe the weather was
destined to turn stormy. After the meal, the children settled into a friendly game
of cricket. Cara joined in for a few innings, hitting a four off Liam’s spin
ball and bowling Freya out. Then she retired back under the shade cloth with
Mia, where she forced herself to broach the topic she had been avoiding all
day. Her sister provided the perfect opening.

“So, what brings you back to Ocean
Ridge, Cara?”

Cara took a deep breath, closed her
eyes, and forced out the words she needed to say.

“I mentioned that Apollo Films is
shooting my latest screenplay. It’s a biographical piece. About Mom.”

Mia froze. Cara opened her eyes and
watched the tell-tale blotchy red blush of anger creep up Mia’s neck and wash
her cheeks. She waited as Mia’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed.

Here
it comes…

“Tell me this is some kind of a
sick joke, Cara.”

“Not joking.”

“Then tell me you can pull the plug
on this.”

“No can do.”

“I can’t believe you would do this
to me! To us!”

“I’m not doing anything to you.”
Cara kept her eyes steady, her voice even.

“Stirring up memories best left
alone. Arousing all that speculation again. Setting off the scandalmongers once
more. Bringing back every freak and psychic, tabloid journo, and treasure
hunter in the country. I can’t believe you would hurt us like that! I can’t believe
you would turn our family into a circus!”

“That is not what this is about,
Mia...”

“Then what is it about? Let me
guess. It’s about catharsis. It’s about closure.” Mia’s words were coated
thickly with sarcasm.

“In a way, yes. But it’s a
testament to Mom. It’s a celebration of her life, not some tawdry exposé.”

“And I’m sure all the loonies and
gold diggers will make that fine distinction,” Mia spat. “It’s easy for you,
Cara. You waltz into town and rip the guts out of the quiet, anonymous life we
have managed to eke out. You dig up the past.
 
You make your movie. You cash in on Mom’s
misfortune. And when all hell breaks loose and everything I’m working for is
torn apart, you ride off into the sunset on your damn motorcycle and leave me
to pick up the pieces. Just like you always do.”

“My bike was—”

“Stolen. Whatever.”

Mia was crying and the children
looked up from their game. Freya took a step toward the table, but Mia waved
them all back to the cricket match and dried her eyes on a napkin.

“You don’t know how much damage you’re
doing, Cara,” Mia said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking…”

“If I can just explain…”

“Forget it. There’s nothing you can
say to make this okay.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mia.
I really am. But this is something I need to do. I was hoping you might listen
to my rationale. That you might offer your support or at least try to
understand. I can see that won’t happen. But I’m a big girl. I don’t need your
approval. I’m sorry, Mia. I’m making this movie, with or without your blessing.”

Chapter
Four

 

Sails, the café/bar on the
esplanade overlooking Ocean Beach was a place Cara fondly remembered from
childhood, having shared many a morning tea there with her mother and sister,
and having also spent considerable amounts of pocket money there on
after-school ice cream. She’d had her first date with Tommy Hanson at the table
in the corner. And she’d had her first—and only—fistfight by the ice fridge
round the back. She’d heard Ryan Devlin’s nose still had an unnatural bend to
it.

Cara walked the few blocks from
Mia’s house, stopping at the drugstore en route. She took the long way past the
old high school and the football field, all the time keeping her ears and eyes out
for her red Ducati. She strolled past the cinema and imagined posters for her
film,
Lost Treasure,
in the windows.
Then she skirted the town square, housing the library and the police station,
and wandered along the esplanade to the café.

She had hoped Mia would have
mellowed enough to at least hear her out on the subject of the movie. Instead,
she had been met with the same old histrionics. It was difficult to swallow her
sister’s accusations without biting back. But she knew that overreacting to Mia’s
words would only make things worse. Mia’s nature was fiery, like their mother’s
had been. Only Mia leaned toward temper and melodrama where the elder Kelly had
tended toward passion and delight.

Cara regretted her sharp parting
words to her sister. While it was true that she would press on with the movie
with or without her sister’s sanction, she would prefer to enlist her sibling’s
support. If only Mia could get past the knee-jerk reaction and just listen for
five minutes, she might see where Cara was coming from. She would wait a few
days, Cara decided, and then try again to explain to her sister the reasoning
behind writing the film.

Mia had been right when she had
said making the movie was about catharsis and closure for Cara. But this was
not some airy-fairy whim or some “woo-woo” hippy notion. Far from it. One
night, a little over two years ago, Cara had scared herself. And it was that
fear that drove her to begin the film. And it was the film that had propelled
her to breathe and keep breathing for the last two years.

But how to convey that urgency and
power to her irate sister? First, she’d have to calm Mia down. Then she’d have
to lay out her motives so Mia could understand them. Cara let out a disgusted
snort. Maybe, while she was at it, she’d move Flinders’ Keep a few yards to the
left.

Cara picked a booth by the window
and ordered a pot of Orange Pekoe. The chatty waitress promptly brought her
tea, a complimentary almond biscotti, and a casual remark about the weather
forecast. The waitress’ friendly manner, the sunny ambiance of the café, and
the scents of coffee and bacon washed Cara in a moment of appreciation and
nostalgia that calmed her irritation about her sister’s predictable short-sightedness.
Then, gradually, the mellow memories of the distant past calmed her. And soon,
even they ebbed away, replaced by more recent recollections.

She pictured herself and Levi
working side by side in the kitchen that morning. Sun streamed in through the
window, lighting Levi’s hair in shades of honey and mead. The lemon fragrance
of the dishwater mingled with the jasmine wafting in from outside and the
deeper scent of the man beside her.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the
power of his body, felt the strength of his convictions, and thrilled in the
force of his protection. For so long, there had only been herself to rely on.
Writing was lonely work and, since her mother’s death, she hadn’t been
especially close to anyone. Her sister was caught up in the life of her own
family, and any intimacy Cara had enjoyed with a man had been essentially
physical—or superficial at best.

It was a testament to her
loneliness that a virtual stranger’s instant of kindness could almost reduce
her to tears, she thought. Either that or there was something special about
Levi that made her feel valued and gave her a sense of belonging...

Cara was still pondering her place
in space, and Levi’s influence on it, when he entered the café. She sensed him
before she saw him, felt his breath in the air, heard the beat of his heart at
some sub-audible level, scented his special aroma beyond the scope of the
normal human sensory range. She looked up from her empty tea cup and their eyes
met.

Between them, in that split second,
everything was open and illuminated and vulnerable. There was no past, not
future, no veils of misunderstanding, no sheaths of pretence. There was only
one man and one woman and a fine but undeniable mesh of fate joining them
across an afternoon café.

Then the fragile moment dissipated—the
waitress dropped a knife, Levi held the door for a harried mother with a pram,
and Cara’s phone buzzed. She scowled at Mia’s name flashing up on her screen.

“What happened?” Levi asked,
sliding into the booth across from her. “Bad news?”

She watched him get comfortable,
straighten his cutlery, spread his legs, touch his scar. She saw the care in
his eyes, the inquiring half-smile, the considerate tilt of his head. She realized
she very much wanted to share with him what had taken place between her and her
sister. For once, she didn’t want to carry the entire load alone.

“My sister doesn’t want the movie
to happen.”

“Which movie? Our movie?
Lost Treasure?”

Cara nodded.

Levi gave her hand what she was
sure was meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but actually seemed to trip the
switch to her pulse, sending it skittering out of control and taking her breath
with it. Despite her inner chaos, his touch, warm and sure, was comforting.

“Want to talk about it?”

She nodded.

Levi signaled to the waitress for a
coffee and another pot of tea and then patiently waited for Cara to be ready to
talk.

“Mia thinks I’m ruining her
existence and exploiting my mother’s life by making the film. You’ve read the
screenplay, obviously. There’s nothing cheap or crude about the way Mom’s life
is portrayed. I meant the film to clear the air, both for viewers and for
myself. I was hoping to shed some light on the real woman behind the legend and
maybe, in the process, gain some clarity and closure about her life…and her
death.”

“All that comes through
unmistakeably in the screenplay, Cara, and we’ll do our damndest to make sure
it translates that way on to the big screen.”

“I’m not doubting that you can do
that, Levi. The last two films you produced managed to turn what could have
been trite stories with shallow characters into epic screen legends.
Winterson’s End
was such a haunting take
on the plight of the homeless. And
Bust’s
insights into the life of a drug runner was just breathtaking.”

“I can’t do anything without the
right script, Cara. And while I’m glad you liked the last two films I produced,
this film has ‘the one’ stamped all over it. It’s your film that has the
hallmarks of a blockbuster. It’s your film that will propel us into cinema history.”

His confidence heartened her and
she shook off the vestiges of her argument with her sister. Surely, when Mia
saw the finished product, she would understand that Cara was not trying to
taint their mother’s memory but rather to dispel some of the less than savory
myths about the woman they had both loved. Ultimately, Cara wanted to honor and
commemorate her mother’s life.

Her mind ricocheted to the other
reason she had written the film—the darker, more pressing reason—but almost
before the thought surfaced, she slammed the lid shut on it, just like thumping
down the lid on a treasure chest. Levi gave her a quizzical look that told her
he had seen her fleeting thought, and she was relieved he didn’t press her
about it.

“Thank you so much for your belief,
Levi. It makes a real difference to hear you talk that way. Creating a box
office smash is not what drives me. It’s getting the truth out there that’s my
motivation.”

“Think of it this way.” He smiled
reassuringly. “The more people we get through the box office, the more people
learn your truth.”

****

The ride back to Flinders’ Keep was
an emotional mixed bag for Levi. What he’d said to Cara about his belief in her
film was true. With a few tweaks, Cara’s
Lost
Treasure
really would put all their names in lights. The story of Alessandra
Kelly, prominent socialite turned notorious treasure hunter, would have
audiences queuing up to see it. It was an adventure story on two levels—the
woman’s quest to find the ultimate secret treasure in the Middle East running
in parallel with her inner journey to come to terms with the conflicting roles
of mother and fortune-hunter.

In the end, Alessandra had
abandoned her family for one last shot at finding what she wrote in her
journals was the most profound treasure humankind could ever conceive of.
Psychics had hinted at pirate chests and Egyptian gold. Journalists and
historians had variously hypothesized that she was on the trail of Pandora’s Box,
the Ark of the Covenant, or the Holy Grail itself. Whatever the truth was, it
was enough to motivate a mother to desert her children on a quest that
ultimately cost Alessandra her life.

The screenplay was so tightly
crafted and so mercilessly objective, it was hard to believe that Cara had
written it about her own parent. How could someone write about their own
abandonment in such a controlled and systematic way? How had Cara balanced the Alessandra
character, portraying the woman’s greed without judgement, representing her
maternal love as genuine, creating a true and impartial depiction of Alessandra’s
dilemma—her children versus the mystical treasure? In the end, of course, the
lure of fortune and adventure overrode Alessandra’s maternal obligations. How
had Cara written such an ending without bitterness, without bias? The ruthless,
rational streak Cara demonstrated should give him pause, he realized.

But there was no pausing where Cara
was concerned. The tilt of her chin, the cadence of her laughter, the fall of
her hair, the scent of her perfume, in fact, everything about her seemed to
draw him irreversibly closer to her. She was irresistible to his senses,
rendering him as helpless as an addict, completely in her thrall.

Cara was stunning, no question. She
was attractive in a classic European way with impossibly high cheekbones, flame
blue eyes and a sultry mouth that he hadn’t stopped imagining suckling every
inch of his body since he saw it. Oh, she was beautiful all right. But he had
met beautiful women before—hell, he was a Hollywood movie producer. He could
take his pick of a thousand gorgeous starlets, all more than willing to fall at
his feet, do his bidding.

So, what was it about Cara that had
captured his immediate and unwavering interest?

Maybe it was her mind, he thought.
Maybe it was that objectivity, that ruthlessness, that turned him on. A hint of
danger and challenge. Or maybe it was just seeing her gloriously, unexpectedly
naked amidst all that extravagant, sensuous fabric that had ensnared him.

He glanced toward the passenger
seat where she silently tapped out the radio song on her thigh. Her head was
tilted back against the headrest, but her sunglasses were darkly tinted, so he
couldn’t tell whether her eyes were closed, until she smiled. Provocatively.
And slid the glasses down her nose, winking saucily over the top of them.

Her effect on him was
instantaneous. His cock stirred. He felt as though she’d let a couple hundred pinballs
fly in his chest and magnetized his eyes so they were permanently oscillating
between the shadow of her cleavage and the light of her eyes.

God help him, she was hot.

It was all he could do to return
his focus to navigating the treacherous curving coastal road. As he eased into
another sweeper, he had a mental flash of Cara astride her Ducati, her tight
ass cheeks perched on the seat, her legs straddling the throbbing machine as
she rode the curves with grace and ease. He let out an audible groan.

“Problem?” she asked, though her
grin hinted that she knew damn well what the problem was.

“Just wondering who the hell nicked
your Duke,” he fibbed, keen to change the subject before he accidentally drove
them off the cliff.

Her playful expression sobered. “Yeah.
Bastard. That bike is my own personal flying dragon. We’ve been all over
together. Sometimes, I think a bike is the best friend a girl can have.”

“I’d say that’s a sad reflection on
humanity, but I get what you mean.”

She smiled, sensing from his tone
that he really did understand.

They began speaking again in
unison.

“What made you stop ri—”

“I thought I saw it.”

“My bike?”

“Yeah, in town. Just a flash of
red. Then it disappeared.” Hope lit her face and he hated that he might be
setting her up for disappointment. “Maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

“I hope that thief shows his face
on my watch,” Cara snarled. “He’ll be sorry.”

Levi wanted to chuckle. She was
what? Five-foot-ten and a hundred and fifty pounds? But the thread of iron in
her tone told him she was serious and that an unwary bandit would do well to
stay out of her way.

BOOK: Coming Attractions
7.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Game Trilogy by Anders de la Motte
Pretty and Reckless by Charity Ferrell
One More Sunrise by Al Lacy
watching january by murphy, kamilla
Gravel's Road by Winter Travers
Life Happens by Sandra Steffen
arkansastraveler by Earlene Fowler
Teeth by Hannah Moskowitz