Change of Scene: A 100 Page Novella (16 page)

“Unbelievable.” Greer’s location scout eye took in the boxwood-outlined flower beds, the stacked rock pergola, and the row of white columns marching across the front of the house. A large rectangular reflecting pool was sunken into the lawn directly in front of the mansion, and a bronze statue of a nymph spewed water from its upturned lips.

“Wowsers,” Greer whispered.

“You’re gaping again. Be cool, okay? Bryce is very, very low-key.”

The drive came to a
Y
a few yards in front of the fountain, and CeeJay followed the right fork as it skirted the house. The drive ended in front of a two-story carriage house built in the same style as the mansion. Two of the three bay doors were closed, but the rear of a black Mercedes peeped from the third bay.

CeeJay reached up to the sun visor and tapped a small black box clipped there. The bay door on the far side rose, and she pulled the MINI Cooper into the garage.

“Home sweet home,” she said brightly, opening the door and stepping out.

Greer followed her friend out of the dim garage and into the back entry of the house, into a sort of mudroom.

“C’mon,” CeeJay said, pushing through a swinging wooden door and leading the pair into a true vestibule, with more oak paneling, worn Oriental carpets dotting marble floors, and a soaring ceiling that held the biggest crystal chandelier Greer had ever seen. Half a dozen snarling taxidermy animal heads stared lifelessly from the walls. “Don’t judge,” CeeJay whispered. “The house came furnished.”

“Ceej?” A man’s voice called from somewhere else in the house. “I’m in here, in the study.”

*

He sat behind a huge mahogany desk, tapping on a laptop and frowning. Thin white wires from a set of earbuds were connected to the phone on the desktop.

Like most successful Hollywood men Greer had met, Bryce Levy had that air of casual high energy. He had to be at least twenty years older than CeeJay, but there was no denying his attractiveness. He had a full head of graying sandy blond hair, a high forehead, and expressive blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses perched on a generous nose. He was laughing explosively at something his caller was saying.

He looked up, blew CeeJay a kiss, and nodded a wordless greeting to her friend.

“Okay, look, a couple of gorgeous ladies just walked in here, and one of ’em gets very jealous if she thinks I’m not paying her the proper attention. Yeah. I’ll get you the figures by end of business today.”

He removed the earbuds, grinned, and gestured toward the blonde. “C’mere you.”

CeeJay plopped herself down on his lap and wound her arms around the director’s neck, kissing him passionately.

Greer felt herself blushing.

“Okay, enough,” Bryce said, laughing again. “We’ve got company, remember?”

CeeJay made a face, but slid out of his lap. He stood and reached across the desk to shake Greer’s hand.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing toward a metal-studded leather armchair.

“At long last we meet,” he said, settling back in his own high-backed chair. “Although with as much as CeeJay talks about you, I feel like we already know each other. Plus, I think we have lots of mutual business contacts.”

“Not too many, I hope,” Greer murmured.

Bryce frowned. “You’re referring to that thing up in Paso Robles? With Hank Reitz? Nobody in town believes a word that comes out of his lying mouth. I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”

“He knows a lot of people,” Greer said.

“Not as many as Bryce. Besides, I keep telling you, everybody’s pretty much already forgotten about the fire,” CeeJay said, propping herself on the arm of her boyfriend’s chair. “Right, babe?”

“What fire?” Bryce turned and winked at Greer. She felt herself relax a little.

*

A young male assistant materialized carrying a tray containing an ice bucket, highball glasses, and a carafe of water with sliced fruit. He poured out three glasses, handed them around, nodded, and disappeared just as quickly.

“So.” Bryce took a sip of water. “Did Ceej tell you about the project?”

“Nope,” CeeJay volunteered. “You swore me to secrecy, remember?”

“That’s my girl.” He patted her knee.

“Before I tell you anything, I need to remind you that this project is strictly on the down low,” Bryce cautioned. “I’ve been trying to get this film made for years. My guy tells me the financing is all nailed down, but you know what it’s like. Things could happen.”

“Right,” Greer said.

“Everybody connected with the project is going to sign a nondisclosure agreement,” Bryce said.

“Okay,” Greer said slowly. “But you will tell me what the project is, right? I mean, I’ll need a script in order to start working on the locations.”

Bryce gave a tight smile. “We don’t have a script per se. Yet.”

“Well then. A treatment? You’ve got a treatment, right?”

“Not exactly. But we’re getting close.”

“Do you mind if I ask what the timing is on the project? Like, when you anticipate shooting will start?”

“Two or three weeks from now,” Bryce said. “We have to have the location work finished by the time our male lead goes out on tour.”

“Two to three weeks?” Greer’s heart sank. “That gives me almost no time. Are we talking about a local shoot?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Bryce said, settling back into his chair. “This is a high-concept piece, and the look of the setting is absolutely key to the film’s narrative.”

“What is the setting?” Greer asked, jiggling her foot nervously. She looked up at CeeJay, who gave her a sly wink.

“That part’s easy. It’s a beach town. A real sleepy backwater kind of place. East Coast definitely. I need you to find me a place with a look that’s a cross between
Body Heat
and the town in
Jaws
.”

Greer blinked. “You want a cross between Florida and Nantucket?”

He nodded rapidly. “Yeah. I see palm trees. Long stretches of deserted beaches, some dunes with those wavy wheat-looking things…”

“Sea oats,” CeeJay said.

“Yeah. Sea oats. And everything that comes with it, palm trees, fishing boats, Spanish moss. It should have a real throwback feeling, like the kind of town that got bypassed when they built the interstates. There’s a motel—not a Holiday Inn kind of joint, but an honest-to-god fleabag motel, like in a noir movie. And a sort of dance-hall like place. Also a fishing pier.”

Greer had pulled a notebook from her purse and was jotting down notes, her mind already clicking on the scenery Bryce envisioned. This was some shopping list.

“Palm trees?” she said. “That would pretty much eliminate Nantucket and New England. Which leaves Florida, although I should point out that they have palm trees in other places. Including right here. In California. I guarantee I can find us some places down the coast—you’d swear you were in Florida. And if we film locally, it would save a ton of money.”

“Here?” Bryce made a dismissive gesture. “No way. California looks too new, too shiny. Authenticity, that’s what I’m looking for.”

“Florida.” He looked to CeeJay for confirmation, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Florida.”

Greer let that sink in for a moment. She patted the pocket of her jacket, the one with the slip of paper with Clint Hennessy’s name and phone number on it. The one she’d been carrying around ever since Lise had pressed it into her hand. It was as if Lise was willing this from her final resting place over the rainbow. Damn her. “Does the project have a name yet?”

Bryce and CeeJay exchanged knowing glances.

“Beach Town,”
Bryce said. “Dynamite, huh?”

“Dynamite.” Greer repeated.

He stood abruptly, signaling the meeting was over. ‘Awesome. Anyway, like you said, we’re short of time. Guess you better book yourself a ticket on the Orange Blossom special, right?”

“Huh?”

“Florida, Greer! Don’t forget now. Shrimp boats and Spanish moss.”

“And palm trees,” Greer said. “Lots of Florida palm trees.”

Read on for an excerpt from
Beach Town

Buy it in paperback on May 3, 2016

Greer Hennessy needed palm trees. She needed Technicolor green fronds swaying in wind machine–enhanced breezes, with some Dolby-sound crashing waves. And was it too much to ask for a Panavision wide shot of a sun-kissed beach? Wasn’t this Florida?

Instead, the only trees she spied through the bug-spattered windshield of her rented Kia were part of an endless wall of tall spindly pines, under-planted with miles of palmetto clumps. She’d landed in Panama City three days earlier.

Before leaving L.A., she had browsed the Florida film and television commission website, which featured photos of every imaginable kind of scenery in the state, from the dark brown ribbon of the Suwannee River lazing through the northern edge of the state, to the green pastures of Ocala horse farms, all the way down to the funky conch cottages and banana palms of the Florida Keys.

Day one of her journey, she’d taken one look at the wall-to-wall high-rise hotels and condo towers lining Panama City Beach and headed west on US 98, and then over to 30A. She’d found palm trees, yes, but also an infestation of cuteness in planned beach communities with picturesque names like Seaside, Rosemary Beach, and Watercolor, which hugged both sides of the road on 30A and reeked of taste and money. The houses were as colorful as the community names and oozed magazine cover potential.

Pretty it was. Sleepy it wasn’t. The beach roads were clogged with BMWs and big SUVs, the highways crowded with outlet malls, convenience stores, and strip shopping centers.

The Gulf of Mexico, or what she could glimpse of it, was pretty enough, textbook turquoise, contrasted against sugar-white sand. Perfect for a chamber of commerce brochure but lousy for the kind of gritty location she was seeking.

At the overpriced condo she’d rented that second night in Destin, she asked around about nearby beach communities. Greer usually divulged her occupation and mission only when absolutely necessary.

“I’m looking for someplace quiet,” she’d said to the waitress at a pseudo-quaint breakfast place called Eggs ’n’ Joe. “Maybe a place with old-timey mom-and-pop motels? And, like, shrimp boats maybe?”

“Mexico Beach,” the waitress said, presenting her with a fourteen-dollar check for a bagel sandwich.

But Mexico Beach wasn’t it.

Apalachicola was next. Plenty of shrimp boats and oyster boats. She parked and walked around a bustling marina that even had a pier, snapping photos with her cell phone.

Not what I had in mind,
Bryce Levy texted back.

Greer got in the Kia and drove, following the coastal Florida highway as it headed south and east.

She had high hopes for a place called Saint George Island. There she found a general store, a couple of motels, and a few scattered T-shirt shops. Sandy roads traversed the island, and large multistory houses stood silhouetted against sea oats and sand dunes.

She shot photos of the beach, one of the motels, and the entrance to the state park and e-mailed them to the producer/director. Her phone dinged a moment later with his text.

No.

She thought again about the one brief meeting she’d had, two weeks earlier, with Bryce Levy, the newly anointed boy wonder of Hollywood.

Her best friend, CeeJay, was in the honeymoon phase of her fling with Bryce and had somehow managed to convince her new boyfriend that Greer was the only location manager experienced enough for his next big film project.

This despite the fact that Greer’s last location scouting job had literally ended up in highly publicized flames—with lawsuits and finger pointing and a near-fatal blot on her previously flourishing career.

CeeJay herself had driven Greer to the meeting with Bryce, which he’d insisted had to take place in total secrecy in his leased Brentwood mansion.

The producer wasn’t what she expected. CeeJay’s usual type was the hot, young starving artist, complete with black leather and body piercings.

Bryce Levy was none of these things. He was much older than CeeJay’s usual men. He was casually dressed, in an open-necked white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose muscled forearms. He had a high forehead and a full crop of wiry blond hair. Wire-rimmed glasses sat atop a generous nose. He had expressive blue eyes and was laughing explosively at something his caller was saying. She guessed his age as late forties to early fifties. Except for the nose, which looked like it had been broken a few times, he was matinee idol handsome.

“This is a really high-concept piece,” Bryce said, settling back in his chair. “Action, some romance, with thriller elements. And I’ve signed two great leads. Adelyn Davis, you know her work, of course. And the male lead? Off the chain! It’s the guy’s first film, but he’s gonna be box office gold, I know.”

“You’ll die when you hear,” CeeJay said, eyes dancing with excitement.

“Ceej…” Bryce said, giving her a stern look.

“Okay, I’m not saying a word.”

“What can you tell me about the setting?” Greer asked.

“That part’s easy. It’s a beach town. A real sleepy, backwater kind of place. East Coast definitely. I need you to find me a place with a look that’s a cross between
Body Heat
and the town in
Jaws.
”