Page 62 of A Change of Location
She felt it again, that nasty double stab of envy and regret. “When do you leave?”
“We haven’t decided. Tom survived the tsunami of childbirth, exam week, and commencement. He’s on sabbatical now and envisions many happy hours deciphering obscure Reformation manuscripts in the British Library and the Bodleian and God knows where else. We’re taking Telma, to look after Lexi. And us. So perhaps I can maintain a modicum of sanity while overseeing a film with baby brain and bouts of postpartum depression. My mother will join us so Telma can have two weeks of vacation with her family in Portugal.”
“The executive producer doesn’t have to be on set every moment. Most never appear at all. They let their director and department heads handle everything.”
“You know that’s never been my style.” Liz tucked a drooping strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me about Hartcliffe Studios. Give me a preview of any problems I might confront there.”
“For me, Alistair McLaren.”
Liz responded with a low growl. “I’ve made my displeasure very clear to Owen and Nigel.”
“Don’t let what they did to me affect your relationship with them.”
“It hasn’t. It won’t.”
“Hartcliffe is a state-of-the-art facility. As good as any production studio in Los Angeles or Atlanta or North Carolina. Advantageously located within an hour of Stanwell House and the Milver villages.”
“A camera unit is setting up soon to capture seasonal footage. Landscapes and exteriors, establishing shots. They’re going to fly a camera drone along the river, low and slow over the water. Bird’s eye view, to go under opening credits.”
After leaving the café, they covered the short distance to Liz’s historic brick townhouse on Acorn Street. She scrounged deep in her soft leather satchel for her key, but before she found it, Dr. Thomas Picton opened the front door.
“Hi, Hannah. It’s been a while.”
Liz tilted her head. “I don’t hear Lexi’s starvation wail.”
Following her up the staircase, Hannah turned back to ask, “Enjoying your sabbatical?”
“Sleepless nights don’t matter as much, now that I’m not commuting to Cambridge for classes and student appointments and departmental meetings.”
A mural of cotton-puff clouds and soaring doves decorated the pale blue walls of the upstairs nursery. Liz gently lifted her daughter from the crib and carried her to a platform rocker by the window.
“She’s beautiful,” Hannah said. “So tiny. What color are her eyes?”
“We call it mud season brown.” Liz kissed the dark down atop the baby’s head before unbuttoning the orange tunic.
Hannah had previously witnessed the mechanics of nursing—several of her college classmates had become mothers. To her surprise, she was profoundly moved. “You look like a post-modern Madonna.” She sank onto a loveseat upholstered with Winnie-the-Pooh toile.
“Nobody ever speculates on whether the Blessed Virgin suffered postpartum blues.”
“You look plenty content to me.”
“When focused on her, I’m okay. There’s no lack of maternal attachment—all the instinctive stuff is going on. But everything else in my life feels out of whack. I don’t get enough rest. At night, between feedings, I toss and turn. I wonder whether it’s right to expose my newborn to unfamiliar places and foreign germs. Not that I have a choice. But when we’re in Somerset we won’t be in a hotel. Tom’s been looking online for a rental house and found a couple of good ones.”
“Where?”
“Newbridge.” She glanced down, then nudged the baby’s mouth back onto her nipple. “I worry that Forsaken Fortune won’t live up to my lofty expectations—or those of the industry. And our investors. It might be a high-profile and outrageously expensive disaster.”
“That’s nuts. If you need a reminder of what you’re capable of, and your accomplishments, I’ll run to the office and bring back an armful of those awards in the display case.”
“I’m not so nuts that I don’t realize my greatest achievement is right here in my arms.”
Lexi finished, and Liz let Hannah carry her to the changing table.
“Better not stick around for what comes next. Go downstairs and ask my husband to show you the rental house webpages. I’d like your opinion.”
Descending the stairs, Hannah paused at intervals to examine the framed engravings. The one at the bottom bore Albrecht Dürer’s initials and appeared to be genuine.
Tom called from his study, “Everything all right up there?”
