Heartland (36 page)

“More than good, Milo. They are phenomenal. We're no longer talking an occasional decent scene. The story is taking shape, and looks to be as good as the camera work and the acting.”

“We're finished,” Milo declared. “Soon as this gets out, I'll be handling more high fliers than the Dodgers outfield. Your press junket will only fan the flames. Dawes will hear. He'll have his attorney make it known that Centurion is open to offers. The studios will descend on that Ojai ranch like a pack of ravenous wolves.”

“They might,” Martin agreed. “Except for one thing.”

Martin gave him the idea. Midway through relating his plan, Milo's fist dropped from his chest to the table. He began nodding and kept doing so long after Martin finished speaking. “This could work.”

“It better.”

“I'm thinking I've heard something like this before.” Milo's voice had returned to its standard calm. “A while back, what was it . . .”

“Apocalypse Now,”
Martin supplied.

“Sure, that's it.” A faint smile played around Milo's mouth and eyes. “They built copies of Saigon and the Mekong Delta from scratch, where was it?”

“One of the Philippine islands, I forget which.”

“Sure. First they had to fend off the guerrillas. Then, just as they finished the most expensive set in history, the country got hit by the first hurricane in what was it, fifty years?”

“Something like that.” Martin swung the handle of his cup in a modest little dance. Having Milo approve of his idea reduced his own worry load by a ton or so. “Then Marty Sheen had his heart attack.”

Milo actually laughed. “I'd forgotten about that.”

“Brought Hollywood's most profitable studio to the brink of bankruptcy. All with a film that was generating some of the hottest press in history.”

Milo leaned back, a happy man. “You can trust your spy to get this right?”

“I only pay for results.”

“What does the little maggot want?”

“What they all want,” Martin replied, signaling for the check. “Their chance to grab the big brass ring.”

Chapter 39

P
eter closed his laptop and stretched. He rose from the rear table and walked to the windows of the suite's parlor. The night was inky black, save for the glow surrounding the pool. He rubbed his back and watched a pair of bats chase insects drawn to the underwater lights. He checked his watch and gave a weary chuckle. The hands read twenty minutes to five. Even the clock had waited for him. He had just enough time to finish before the crew arrived for prayer.

He turned his computer back on and hit the Print button. When the printer on the floor by his table started whirring, he rose and entered the kitchen alcove. He filled the coffeemakers to brew. He shaved and put on a fresh shirt. He went back to stand over the worktable at the back of the suite's parlor. And took a slow look around.

One basic tenet of Peter's work was that he wrote alone. Other than Cynthia, the only people allowed into his workspace were the characters inside his head. Yet this parlor, which had become home to the first prayer group he had ever heard of on a film location shoot, had also generated some of his very finest work. And most consistent. Every morning, as soon as they finished the prayer time, he returned to the desk and sat down and started anew. No waiting for inspiration. No fighting out the real voices and the real people who had invaded his space. Because in truth it was not an invasion at all. The room was alive with what they had just done, and his own work flowed naturally from this.

As soon as Peter entered the bedroom he knew Cynthia was awake. She had not moved, but his senses were on full alert. Perhaps it was because of just having pulled an all-nighter. But he didn't think so. He crossed the overlarge bedroom and settled down beside her. She rolled over and asked, “Did you get any sleep?”

“I can sleep later.”

She studied him in that calm way that was all her very own. Peter brushed the hair from her forehead, feeling as though he had never seen her as clearly as at this moment.

She did not need to ask. “You had a good night.”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.” She lifted her arm, her signal for Peter to help her shift over. He took the extra pillow and settled it where it would cradle her belly. “Thank you.”

“It's almost time for the group to start.”

“I think I'll just lay here for a while.”

It was as close to complaining as Cynthia ever came. That was another of the amazing things about his wife. If Peter had a cold, he wanted the whole world to know and suffer with him. Cynthia hated people fussing over her. He asked, “Can I get you something?”

“I'll be fine.”

He knew better than to probe. If the doctor was needed, she would tell him. Otherwise she would lie there and shelter her children with her arms and wait it out. He leaned down and kissed her. “You are going to be a super mom.”

Cynthia smiled and closed her eyes. “Go say a prayer for your babies.”

The first people to arrive were always the same, the silent electricians and one of the lighting guys and a carpenter. The four of them occupied two adjoining rooms, and no matter how early he opened the door and set the latch for the others to let themselves in, this group was already there in the hall. They knew the drill and felt no need for words. They charged their mugs and settled into their accustomed spots along the wall. Within ten minutes the last sleepy stragglers were seated.

Then Britt knocked on the door.

Peter stood there with the empty coffeepot in his hand, feeling for some inexplicable reason that he'd been caught doing something wrong.

Britt asked nervously, “Mind if I join you?”

JayJay must have sensed that surprise had rendered Peter incapable of speech. He leaped from his chair and crossed the room in record time. “You kidding? There ain't no guest list at God's party.”

“I had something I needed to discuss . . .” Britt waved away the excuse. “Never mind.”

Peter watched JayJay ease the director into a chair far enough back so he wouldn't feel like he was forced into the hot seat. That must have been why God invented cowboys. To handle things that ordinary humans found impossible, like bucking broncos and bosses at prayer time.

Peter glanced Britt's way as he made fresh coffee. Clearly the director had slept no more that night than Peter. He took a mug over unasked, dressed the way he knew Britt took his brew. Britt gave him the edgy look of a guy caught in a situation he totally did not understand. Like a visitor at the zoo suddenly finding himself on the wrong side of the bars.

Things proceeded in the normal fashion, the process so ingrained they could have done it in their sleep. Which, given the hour and the short night, was not too far off target for many of them.

Then JayJay asked, “Britt, you have any special prayer request you want to share?”

Peter watched him sort through the alien data. “You guys would pray for me?”

“We already do.” This from Kelly. “Every day.”

Britt's eyes tightened. He was a man well accustomed to the Hollywood usage of truth, as in, change it to suit your purpose.

“I know, it takes some serious getting used to,” Claire said, smiling. “They even pray for Kip.”

“Get out.”

Claire's smile broadened. “Prepare to be amazed.”

“Okay,” JayJay said. “Let's go to the Lord.”

When they were done, Britt was the first to rise from his chair. He stood by the wall, gripping the empty mug with both hands, a very thoughtful expression on his weary features. As they started to break up, he said, “I need to speak with the group from the other night.”

Peter ushered all but the core group out, and returned to his chair in time to hear Britt say, “Word is out. Today's
Variety
has us on the front page. Last night I got a call from Alexi Campe, their chief television writer. Yesterday Martin had her at the studio, gave her a look at some of our scenes. Alexi normally covers television. But because she's been writing about
Heartland
for six seasons, she's covering our project. She is calling our work on this feature a hit in the making. She asked for my reaction.”

Britt's hands shook slightly as he toyed with his mug. “I told her I'd have to check with Martin and call her back. I reached our boss just after midnight. Martin informed me that the studio is setting up a press junket. They're coming out Friday.”

“Friday,” Derek said. “That's—”

“The day we film the wildfire,” Britt confirmed. “Martin thought it would make for a nice intro to the project, see everybody involved in such a major take.”

“Hoping we'll fall on our faces, more like.” This from Claire.

Britt shrugged. “Maybe. Or it could be I got it all wrong.”

“You didn't get it wrong.”

The certainty with which JayJay spoke turned all attention his way. Britt asked, “You know something I don't?”

“I know a snake in a suit when I see one. And I heard you and the film editor the same as everybody else. I can't tell you what that feller's got planned. But he's not parading these press folks out here to see anything good.” JayJay's face was angry flint. “Shame he's gonna be disappointed again.”

Britt's anxious load visibly eased. “We'll give it our best shot.”

“We'll do more than that. We are gonna
shine
.” JayJay rose from his chair. He straightened up his shoulders. And gave the director the stare. The one Peter had come to think of as JayJay's patented expression. Serious determination. Enormous depths of strength and focus and grit. “We will
not
let you down.”

Britt actually smiled. “Man, you're really getting good at this gig. Even I believe you.”

“You better,” JayJay said. “Because it's the dead-solid truth.”

“I'll say amen,” Kelly agreed.

Peter let that sit for a moment before saying, “Now's as good a time as any for a little news of my own.” He took a big breath and announced, “I finished the screenplay.”

Britt asked, “When?”

“About ten minutes before we met.”

Britt asked, “And?”

He took a breath, filling himself not with air but rather the remnants of what they had all just shared. “I think it is the best thing I've ever written.”

The moment was cut a fraction early by the bedroom door opening. Cynthia appeared and bestowed upon them all an ethereal radiance. “I have an announcement of my own,” she said. “Peter, it's time.”

Chapter 40

E
ven though the limo was outside the hotel, they took JayJay's truck because, as he put it, no kids of theirs were going to celebrate their coming-out day in the back of a Hollywood bus.

The doctors in Fresno had told them the same thing they had heard from the LA team, which was, they were going to cut. So when the preliminary inspection confirmed a cesarean was required, JayJay used Peter's cell phone to ask Britt's permission to hang around. When Peter came back to the waiting room, JayJay reported, “The ladies have organized a prayer team. Two people are gonna be praying round the clock 'til they get the word.”

Peter could still feel Cynthia's arms around him, still smell the fresh soapy scent of her hair, feel the imprint of her lips, hear her quietly spoken words of love. He slipped into the chair next to the cowboy, so full of conflicting emotions he wanted to dance and weep all at the same time. Instead, he muttered a hoarse, “Thanks, brother.”

They sat together and let the minutes tumble by. Time was marked by quietly harsh hospital noises. When the chair could no longer hold him, Peter paced and stared out various windows, doing his best to shut out the television and the other worried faces. JayJay showed a cowboy's patience and rarely moved.

On his twentieth circuit, Peter asked, “You think it should be taking this long?”

“You're asking the wrong man.” He pointed at the nurses' station. “What'd the lady in uniform tell you?”

“‘The doctor will be out directly.' She's told it to maybe a million other nervous relatives. I doubt she even saw me.” Peter collapsed back into the chair. His mind roamed erratically, seeking something, anything, that would keep him from giving in to fear. He finally came to focus on the man next to him. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“'Course not.”

“Back when you first arrived.” Not even his worried state could keep him from noticing how JayJay froze. “We were all too busy being glad you'd showed up to ask how you got here.”

“Maybe now's not the time.”

“What, we got something better to do?”

JayJay looked at him then. His expression said it all. Ask me again, and I'll tell you.

Peter felt torn. He wanted to know, and he wanted to walk away. A portion of his brain or heart or something said that JayJay was right, now was not the proper moment. But the little enquirer, the driving questioner that drilled away at life and fueled so much of what he wrote, would not be silent. “You never need time to study your lines.”

“That's right,” JayJay said slowly. “I don't.”

The early suspicions came back in full force. “They're tied together somehow. Aren't they. The mystery around how you got to be here, and the way you always know the script.”

In reply, JayJay simply told his story. About leaving the ranch and taking the bus and sleeping through a huge crash. About waking up in the wardrobe storage room. About getting slotted into the show, and finding himself playing a parody of what he had always thought of as his own life.

For the first time since his wife had stood in the bedroom doorway, Peter was fully focused on something other than what was happening in the next room. “I don't get it.”

JayJay spun his hat by the brim and stared at the floor between his boots. “You took the words straight from my own head.”