Page 61 of A Change of Location
He couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “All right.”
“Be careful driving home.”
He slid his fingers into the springy dark-brown curls and tipped her face upward. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she rose on her toes to meet his mouth.
Backing away, she said unsteadily, “I’ll look for you on the big screen. As the village idiot.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Typecasting.”
Her response was a fleeting, off-kilter smile.
Watching her hurry away, head lowered, Martin knew she was weeping. He drew no comfort from proof that this farewell affected her as much as the one involving the dog.
The bellhop glared in his direction, exhibiting no sympathy for a shattered man. After a final, heart-wrenching glance at the tiny figure pulling her wheeled bag through the glass doors, he climbed into the car. He sat motionless, staring at the wet windscreen, wondering what, if anything, he could’ve said or done to change Hannah’s mind.
Part 2
Everything about filmmaking is incredibly weird.
—Eddie Redmayne
Chapter 19
Summertime was advancing, but its heat hadn’t yet conquered Boston. Young leaves on the willows in the Public Garden fluttered in the breeze, shading the Swan Boats that glided over the water. On Beacon Hill, flowers bloomed in planters and window boxes decorated the brick fronts of the row houses.
Hannah’s tentative hold on optimism slipped by the time she reached Charles Street. Before leaving for England, she would enter the Acorn Films office with verve and confidence, buoyed by her promotion to location manager. She had returned as an unemployed scout.
Rounding the corner of Mt. Vernon Street, she heard her cellphone buzz.
“I can see you from my window,” said Liz. “Wait there. I’m surrounded by madness and need to get out. No coffee for me—because, breastfeeding. But I’ll buy yours.”
“Okay.”
As usual, Liz looked amazing. Her long, dark tresses were loosely piled atop her patrician head. A gauzy orange tunic flowed past her hips to her thighs, and she wore brown slacks and leather sandals.
“Love the haircut.” She hugged Hannah. “Nice sundress, too.”
“From the secondhand clothing stall at the Milver Vale Flower Fete. Two pounds.”
“Not a fan of the shoes.”
Hannah looked down at her sneakers. “I’ll probably walk back to Cambridge.”
Physically, Liz seemed unchanged, her step as energetic as always, her chin thrust forward as she proceeded to the French café she often used for a satellite office. She marched to the counter to order Hannah’s coffee and a fruit smoothie for herself, and two of their favorite apricot danish.
“Let’s go over to Acorn Street so you can meet your goddaughter. I need to top her up before my ten o’clock.” She’d named her film company after the historic cobblestone where she lived with her scholar husband and their infant. “Online meeting with a distributor in L.A. No airplane trips for me till I head overseas.” Liz heaved a sigh. “I hate that you aren’t going with me.”
Hannah looked down and broke off a piece of pastry. Any reference to the film, direct or implied, was a bitter reminder of what she’d lost—Martin, and the movie.
“I’ve recommended you to an independent producer based in New York,” Liz continued. “The script was adapted from her late sister’s novella. She’s very committed. You’d be scouting in Nova Scotia, territory you already know.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“I recently had an alert about a network television series pilot that shoots next winter, literally on your parents’ doorstep. An hour-long dramedy based in coastal Maine. On an island, I think. Quirky Down East characters, boats and lobsters and clams—all that shit. If that team doesn’t hire you as location manager, they don’t deserve a network pick-up. I’ll be your reference. Your pimp. Whatever you need.”
“How’s the Texas project?”
“I expect to see the rough cut any day. The final will be shown at the Toronto Film Festival. If you aren’t otherwise occupied, you should join our Acorn contingent. I’ll be stuck in Somerset.”
