Page 15 of A Change of Location
She voiced the question that had been on her mind since the day they’d met. “What’s it really like for you, holding an aristocratic title in the twenty-first century?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled as he considered the matter. “I’m still learning. Certain inherited responsibilities require me to go to London at intervals, but I prefer my work here in the Milver Vale. And a good thing, because Ariel suffers terribly from separation anxiety.” He directed a fond glance at the dog, whose floppy ears lifted when she heard her name.
Hannah judged the meal perfect in every detail. It satisfied her raging appetite and her demanding palate. He’d crisped the dimpled crust beautifully, in the true Italian style. The vinaigrette complemented the fresh and tangy salad greens.
Intrigued by her earlier fleeting glimpse of his serious side, she tried drawing him out about his local interests.
“I’m involved in property development ventures. In no way as exciting as movie-making.”
His comment didn’t ring true to Hannah. This was their third encounter, but already she could tell he wouldn’t commit himself to anything he wasn’t passionate about. At Wincott & Sons, he introduced people to cheese with infectious enthusiasm. During her party, he’d dialed up his charm so high that she’d decided to look at his house. Here, in his kitchen, he’d energetically displayed his wizardry with food.
Their backgrounds and lifestyles couldn’t be more different, but intense dedication was one thing they shared. An attractive quality—especially when combined with a wicked smile and uninhibited laugh.
Deftly shifting the subject away from himself, he asked, “What made you choose a career in film?”
“It chose me. A long time ago. I was just a scrawny Maine kid when a public television crew from Boston came to our farm to film my mother’s gardening program.” She told him how she’d advised the director, telling him precisely when sunlight hit the delphiniums.
“Life-altering,” he commented.
“As it turned out. Liz Gregorio was a junior producer, and nice enough to mentor a nosy brat with a mouthful of braces. Most kids I knew spent that summer at camp or on the beach or roaming Disney World. By staying home, I got my start in showbiz.”
After her mother published two popular tie-in books, a cable network offered a bigger budget and a wider audience. The re-imagined series featured visits to gardens and greenhouses, and in-depth interviews with landscape designers and university horticulturalists.
“I mimicked a grown-up voice and took care of phoning and scheduling. Mum and I drove all around the Northeast, following up leads and scouting for the most photogenic gardens to shoot. The production company paid me a per diem and put my name on the credits.”
“Sounds like you earned it.”
At this point, she resolved to be extremely cautious about what she revealed. Mum’s career and their closeness had been casualties of the events she had no intention of disclosing. In the aftermath of Chase’s sentencing and incarceration, she’d fled Bear Knoll, fueled by fury and burdened by guilt.
Breaking the silence, she went on, “I attended a college renowned for its classical and extremely picturesque architecture. A film production unit spent over a week there shooting exteriors and crowd scenes, and my drama department friends skipped classes to be extras. Because of my credentials, I scored the job of gofer for the location manager. I spent my junior year over here, at Bristol University.”
“Studying television and film.”
“That’s where I first met Sir Owen Parry. He spoke at a directing symposium I attended and served on the judging panel for end-of-term student films. Mine was a finalist. The summer after graduation I had internships on two movies—one in Maine, the other in Nova Scotia. After that, a Portland production company hired me to scout for advertising shoots. Sometimes I did copywriting and video editing. I transferred to Boston to take a job at an even bigger shop, for much better money.”
Wine turned her into a chatterbox. Her host seemed not to notice—or mind—that their conversation had turned into a monologue. She let him re-fill her glass.
“Liz kept in touch with me after she left for L.A. She hired me as a scout for the New England-based mystery series she produced for a basic cable channel. She moved up the studio system ladder, made solid contacts, and banked her salary. Her dream was to become an independent producer, based in Boston. That’s where she established Acorn Films. Her low budget features won prizes at Sundance, and over time she accumulated Independent Spirit Awards and Emmys. Two years ago, her baseball player biopic hauled in a bunch of Oscars.”
“Which categories?”
“Cinematography, editing, script adaptation, supporting actor—four statues out of ten nominations. She optioned Forsaken Fortune, and a major studio acquired distribution rights for a stupendous amount of money. The industry has high expectations.” Chin in hand, she confided, “Hard to believe I’m attached to such a high-profile project. Overseeing the location department is a huge deal. Not that it will change my relationship with Liz. If you saw us together, you’d think we’re best friends. Accurate, in a sense, although she’s also my employer. The boss.”
Helping him carry empty plates, she was thankful he hadn’t asked about her long-range goals. Despite her abilities as an organizer and facilitator, her ambitions were modest. Unlike Liz, she’d never aspired to become a producer. For a decade and a half, she’d watched her friend handle pressures large and small, battling the outsized egos, crunching the numbers in ever-expanding budgets. Mindful of the potential dangers of industry prominence, Hannah balanced career progress with her need to avoid the limelight. Attracting too much attention meant risking scrutiny that might extend to Chase, her ex-con uncle, punished for taking another man’s life and on the verge of reclaiming aspects of his own. Fortunately for her, location scouts and managers were below-the-line personnel, invisible to the press and the general public.
“What happens after you find the sites you require?”
“It’s not entirely my decision. Before I make a presentation, I analyze the terrain and the roads and potential parking areas, electrical and technical facilities. Cast and crew accommodations. I work with the production secretary on costings and budget so I can negotiate fees and contracts and access. I relay all necessary logistical information to the unit manager, and the technicians, and the transportation team, and the caterers. There’s a risk management component, too. Safety and security are essential, and we must follow government and union health regulations and guidelines.”
“Keeping track of all those details must do your head in.”
“I’ll delegate. The assistant location manager helps with the people part of the job. I’d like to have a trainee or intern as well, a young and eager someone who can get entry level work experience. We’ll confer with everybody whose property we want to use, or whose business would be affected. We explain the process, the timetable, the anticipated shooting schedule. It’s essential to make clear what will happen, when, and for how long. The people whose locales we use hate surprises and misunderstandings as much as we do. Excellent communication up front saves worlds of trouble later.”
He nodded. “I’d be grateful for clear communication right now. Should I serve our pudding straightaway, or after I’ve shown you some of the rooms?”
“After.” Moving about might clear her head.
He put all the food away and placed their plates in the dishwasher. “Lurchers are notorious scavengers and food thieves. Turn your back for an instant, and Ariel will snatch whatever’s in view. She’s greedy. Like her master, Poppy would say.”
