Time Spell (30 page)

Avoiding the bright headlights beaming onto the porch as a car cruised past the party, I turned my head to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw and felt the intensity of his stare bearing down on me. I no longer heard the incessant giggles of the couple in the shadows. We were alone.

“I guess I should properly introduce myself. That’s how you all do things out here in Connecticut, right?” he asked.

I nodded lightly, eagerly waiting for the name to tumble from his perfectly shaped lips. The name of the man who was holding me between a place of balance and the edge of a dark cliff. Tipping my chin toward him, I leaned in closer, and traced the curves of his mouth with my eyes. I couldn’t stop staring—wondering what it would feel like on mine. He was taunting me, dragging this charade on for what felt like endless tension-laden seconds.

“I’m Holden Chadsworth.”

I cleared my throat. “Helen VonRue.” My rehearsed and rigid social upbringing bubbled to the surface. Instinctively, I extended my gloved hand to take his, but he brushed it aside, knocking it out of his way. I bristled at the rough contact, but felt intoxicating heat stirring within me.

His voice sliced through the air between us. “Now that formalities are out of the way let me show you how we introduce ourselves where I’m from.”

Both slapping him and kissing him seemed like acceptable solutions to quell the burning sensation taking hold of me. Searching my instincts for direction, I felt his presence arresting my every decision. I didn’t recognize the hunger trembling through my body or the overwhelming craving for this outsider to touch me.
What was he doing to me?

He pressed his lips against mine roughly, and I squirmed from the weight of his body crushing into me. I tried to free myself from his overbearing frame, but dropped my protest when his arms encircled my waist and pulled me toward him. I knew at any moment someone from the party—maybe my parents—maybe Peter—could walk onto the porch and see me lip to lip with this stranger, pressed against the Crawfords’ column, not resisting the touches that should only happen behind closed doors. But there was something wickedly delicious about Holden Chadsworth, and I was willing to taste every last drop—no matter what the consequences.

W
HEW!
I didn’t remember New Orleans being this hot on my last trip. I pulled my shirt away from my chest and fanned myself. The sun scorched my skin. I looked around for a cold drink.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” The director’s voice boomed overhead. “You’ve got this all wrong. Let’s take a break and start over in thirty minutes.” The mob holding lights, microphones, and fans scurried like ants in all directions.

I jumped from my seat, and made a dash for the drink cart tucked under one of the few umbrellas on the set. I let my hand linger a little too long in the ice bucket of sodas.

“Darlin’, you need some help cooling off?” The deep sexy voice and Texas drawl ebbed over my ears like a slow wave.

Startled, I pulled my hand out of the ice bucket, and with it, a diet soda. I laughed. “Yes, you caught me. I didn’t know it was going to be so hot today.”

He laughed and reached in front of me to grab a water, his arm barely grazing my stomach. “I take it you’re not used to being on a movie set? We’re in for the long haul today, darlin’.” He twisted the cap off the water bottle and chugged the sixteen ounces.

I watched him wipe the water off his full lips. “That obvious? Yeah, it’s my first time. I’m Ivy. Ivy Grace.” I smiled at the tall actor who had me smitten about five movies ago.

“The writer? I know who you are. I was just waiting for the director to yell ‘cut’ so I could walk over and say howdy to you.” His white teeth peeked through his lips. “I’m Evan.”

I was smitten a little bit more. It was the combination of the Texas accent and the perfect-teeth smile. He had warm gray-green eyes that lit up when he talked. I liked the way he paused between his words and wasn’t afraid to look into my eyes, even if we were only talking about the weather.

The sweat trickling down the back of my neck was my cue to step away from the drink cart and America’s heartthrob, and perform a quick outfit change.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Evan.” I wiped my palm off on my hip and held it out to him.

His hand clasped around mine. “Nice to meet you, Ivy. Catch you around?”

“Of course, looking forward to it.” I grinned.

“Stay cool.”

I smiled at him again and watched him saunter over to the rows of talent trailers bordering the side of the set. I squealed on the inside. I couldn’t believe I had just met
the
Evan Carlson, hottest movie star, playing the lead in my movie. I looked down at my shirt and saw water droplets bleeding through the cotton fabric.

Great—movie star encounter with a wardrobe malfunction. I grabbed my leather bag with the script I was working on, and found a makeshift ladies room. The talent had individual trailers, where they could escape from the oppressive New Orleans humidity. The star accommodations were equipped with air conditioning, televisions, and cold drinks, but the rest of us had community lounges.

The ladies room was empty, so I opted to use my
Glamour Spell
. It was quick, easy, and never failed me. I watched my reflection in the lean-to mirror transform from one of sticky clothes, damp blond tendrils, and the beginning traces of football player mascara to one of a new crisp shirt, shorts, and fresh makeup. I smiled at my reflection. Now, I felt ready to flirt with hunky movie stars.

I was in New Orleans for a few days to work on the last-minute changes for
Masquerade’s
screenplay. I wrote the book a few years ago, but after the wildly successful novel and movie for
Vegas Star
, my second novel, my team at Raven Publishing pushed
Masquerade
on Hollywood, and it worked.

The movie executives wanted to bring more of my characters to life on the big screen. The creative team invited me to the set today to watch the behind-the-scenes action unfold in person. Little did they know, I had seen all of this in person once before, only then it was actually 1945.

I grabbed my bag and headed out as a few girls from the sound crew headed in. They couldn’t stop giggling about something they heard Evan say. I paused in the doorway, hoping to girl talk with them, but they clammed up and waited for me to leave.

The production of
Masquerade
took place all over the city. Today’s scenes were located in the far-reaching fingertips of New Orleans. The director wanted to capture as many of the outdoor shots while the forecast predicted sunny days. According to the local meteorologists, a hefty early summer storm was brewing in the Gulf, and the daylight opportunities would be limited.

The set designers had settled on a plantation house to stage the romantic scenes between Josette and Luke. It was hard for me to let go of the story, and hand over my creative license to a group of people I didn’t know, but it was all part of the screenwriting package. I was starting to accept that the movie world was a uniquely different place from where my literary roots were planted.

You see, I’m not just a writer or your average girl. I’m a witch. I write stories about the places I’ve been and the people I’ve seen. The hard part is I can’t share my magic with anyone in the non-magical world. I can’t tell anyone about my
Time Spell
. With a lot of practice, I perfected a spell that allows me to travel through time. What I see along the way manifests itself in the pages I write back at home in Sullen’s Grove, North Carolina.

The spell almost cost me my family and Jack, but I won’t fall into that trap again. After everything that happened in Las Vegas last month, I vowed to avoid stories involving danger. I can’t jeopardize the lives of the people I love. I won’t.

I surveyed the majestic main house. Monstrous columns climbed to the top of the porch. The style was reminiscent of architecture I had seen on most every plantation house in the South. A wrought iron railing fenced in the second story plaza. Black shutters hung on either side of the plantation windows. I loved the ripple effect of the waves in each windowpane; it gave them such character and charm.

The breeze kicked up, and I watched the moss entangled in the oak branches float above the road. I imagined the tourists who drove along the entrance hopped out to take pictures of the trees and the house. It was breathtaking. The production studio purchased a week of filming at Magnolia Plantation, so the crew didn’t have to worry about tourists milling about trying to catch glimpses of the film’s stars. Occasionally, I spotted a local reporter on the side of the set interviewing someone in the cast or someone on the production crew.

New Orleans had become quite the Mecca for movie hosting in the years since Hurricane Katrina had bored down on the South’s most treasured city. The locals welcomed the business and the free publicity the big Hollywood studios infused into the economy. Reporters flocked to the movie sets trying to garner personal interviews usually only captured by national magazines and entertainment news shows.

Evan emerged from one of the talent trailers, and from a distance, I thought I saw him throw me a wave. I waved back, just in case, and settled into my seat to watch the next scene between him and Emmy Harper, the actress playing Josette. I pulled my sunglasses down low, trying to shield my face from the intense afternoon sun, and retrieved a fan from my bag. I doubt anyone would know that fan wasn’t in my bag five minutes ago. This ardent heat was forcing me to dip into the magic bag of tricks that I usually reserved for private appearances.

Evan strolled to the front sidewalk of the house and waited for the director to shout, “Action.” One of the makeup artists powdered the front of his nose, and brushed the shoulders of his Navy uniform with a lint brush. I giggled at the face he made during the makeup attack. Looking satisfied with her presentation, she returned the brushes to her apron belt, and stepped back to let Evan and Emmy start their lines. My wrist rocked back and forth with the fan as I listened to the actors exchange words only a few feet in front of me.

“Josette, I’m leaving. Come with me.” Evan stretched his hand out to Emmy.

His face was pained. Her back was turned to him, and she was at the top of the stairs, leaning against one of the formidable plantation columns.

“Just go, Luke. You know Papa will never let us be together. Just go.” She buried her head in her hands and started to weep.

I watched as Evan made the short climb up the stone steps, and placed his hands on her shoulders. I waited for Emmy to lean into him, but instead, she stayed firmly attached to the pillar.

“I’m not leaving without you. Leave your father. Leave all of this. We can make it together, just you and me,” Evan pleaded.

I stopped fanning myself and stretched forward to hear his whispers into her ear. I knew the sound girls were all-too-happy to be close to Evan during this scene. But he was too quiet. I couldn’t hear what he said next.

“Cut! Cut! Cut! What is this crap? Come on! Give me something! I’m not feeling it, Evan. Break. Emmy. Everyone, take five,” Archie Preston groaned into his megaphone, again.