The Postman Always Purls Twice (3 page)

“It's so exciting. I can't even knit, thinking about it.” Suzanne practically shivered.

Maggie laughed, though she could hardly think of a life event that had been so distracting she couldn't knit. If anything, knitting calmed her mind in stressful times. Or provided a way to express her joy and celebrate a happy moment.

She picked up her needles and turned to them now for the first reason. “I'm excited, too. But for different reasons.”

It was hard to imagine half the town stampeding her territory . . . along with an entire movie crew. But she had signed on the dotted line and had no choice now but to go through with it.

When Saturday morning rolled around, Maggie trudged out to her car in the frosty air, carrying a travel mug full of coffee, her purse, and her knitting bag—equipped the same as she would be heading to her shop for a full day of teaching classes and helping customers.

Except that this morning it was barely 6 a.m., a few hours earlier than she normally left. If all had gone according to schedule, her shop would already be filled with actors and movie equipment, and who knew what else. And very soon, she would be standing on the sidewalk, trying to catch a glimpse of someone famous. Or just trying to see what was going on within.

That will get old pretty quickly, she reflected, starting up her little SUV. But she did want to be part of the hubbub for a little while. She was no autograph hound, but was as curious as the next person.

She wondered if they would let her into the shop because she owned the place. Funny how she had forgotten to ask that important question. Though her other questions had been answered in the agreement she'd signed with the production company, giving them permission to use the space. She just hadn't read it closely enough the first time, Suzanne pointed out.

As she rounded the turn on Main Street, she would have thought a town holiday was in full swing—the annual tree lighting or Founder's Day parade. Blocks away from her shop and not a parking space to be found.

She was feeling rather hopeless, wondering if she had to park down at the harbor, when she spotted a car pulling out. She quickly steered into the space and grabbed her belongings.

Once on the sidewalk, she found herself in a stream of walkers, headed in the same direction, most chatting eagerly, some practically running. All hoping to spot movie stars, as if they were creatures in the wild. Many had field glasses and cameras slung around their neck. Some even carried knapsacks and lawn chairs, prepared for a long wait. Such devotion. She was amazed.

The line of cars on Main Street quickly gave way to a row of very large, box-shaped trucks and white RV-type trailers. Many busy and official-looking people were climbing in and out of the trucks that held mysterious equipment and large black cases and boxes.

But quite a few of the movie people were just milling about, looking over silver clipboards and chatting with each other. Or speaking into the headsets that were wound around their heads. They paid little mind to the onlookers. They were used to doing their jobs with an audience, Maggie realized.

A deep crowd had already assembled around the front of the shop, spilling out onto the street. Wooden barriers—set up by either the movie people or the village police?—stood around the perimeter of the property, keeping the fans at a reasonable distance. The white picket fence that enclosed the property helped, too.

She always welcomed the first sight of her shop. A wide porch wrapped around the front and long windows that were trimmed with wooden shutters. Stark looking at this time of year, but it would soon be covered with flowers, the window boxes filled, hanging pots trailing petunias, along with the garden blooming in front.

Phoebe, who attended a local college part time in addition to working for Maggie, lived in an apartment upstairs. A convenient arrangement. Though not today, with all the noise so early, Maggie realized. Her young friend could sleep until noon on days she was not due at school or downstairs to work. Sometimes, even when she was.

As Maggie approached, she felt a small pang in her heart, as if seeing a friend in some distress, but not knowing how to help her.

Don't worry, you'll be all right, Maggie told the shop silently. I know it seems like an invasion of ruffians, but it will all be over soon. Then you'll have fun telling the story. Isn't that what her friends had promised her? More or less?

Maggie was thankful for the wooden barriers, keeping some of the barbarians at the gate. It had been a long winter and tender green shoots were just starting to sprout in the flower beds that rimmed the walk and the edges of the fence and porch. She did fear for their survival.

She was glancing around, wondering if anyone was there yet, when she felt a firm grasp on her shoulder.

“Maggie . . . we've been waiting for you.”

Suzanne stood right behind her, dressed for her role of Real Estate Lady to the Stars in brand-new black skinny jeans, a slim leather jacket, and a fine peach-colored scarf she knit herself in Maggie's ribbon yarn class. The color set off her dark brown hair and big brown eyes perfectly. Huge designer sunglasses that hid half her face were the finishing touch. Even though the sun had barely risen past the horizon.

“I almost didn't recognize you . . . Are you hiding from the paparazzi, too?”

Suzanne ignored the question and grabbed her arm. “You just missed Jennifer Todd. She came out of her trailer and walked into the shop.”

“She did? When was that?”

“A few minutes ago. She's so beautiful in person,” Suzanne added. “And she was so nice. She stopped to sign autographs for everyone who asked, though you could tell the poor woman was hardly awake.”

“I'm hardly awake, either. Maybe I should go home and go back to bed.”

“Don't be silly. The other actors didn't pass yet.” By that, she meant Heath O'Hara, of course. “And they should let you inside, even for a minute or two. You do own the building,” Suzanne reminded her

“I wondered about that. Who do I ask?”

“The location manager, I guess. Give me a minute, I'll look around for him.”

They'd worked their way through the throng, to where Dana and Lucy stood against the picket fence on the left side of the property. The spot afforded them a clear view of the porch and lawn, and of everyone walking up the brick path and into the shop.

“Primo perch. What time did you get here?” Maggie asked.

“Phoebe came out around four a.m. With a lawn chair and sleeping bag,” Lucy reported.

“That's crazy. The poor thing. She must be freezing. I hope she doesn't catch a cold.” It was early April but still very chilly at night. “Where is she?”

Lucy smiled and pressed a finger to her lips, then glanced over her shoulder.

Maggie saw her poor assistant curled in a beach chair just behind them, a hood pulled over her head, the rest of her stuffed into a sleeping bag like a caterpillar in a thick cocoon, a few hand-knit afghans tossed over that.

“She said not to wake her until the other stars show up,” Dana whispered.

“At least she looks warm enough.” Maggie rubbed her gloved hands together. She wasn't sure how much longer she wanted to wait. Even to see the famous Heath O'Hara. She was not bitten by the Hollywood bug like the rest of her friends—and most of the town—seemed to be. Some scrambled eggs and toast with a hot cup of coffee at the Schooner Diner down the street seemed like a better idea. She wondered if anyone else felt the same. But all her friends looked mesmerized by the star watch.

The door opened at the front of the shop. Everyone turned to see who would emerge. Maggie felt jostled by the crowd, all the bodies shifting and pushing to get a better view, like the Wave in the stands at Fenway Park.

“Who is it? Can you see?” Suzanne stood behind them, jumping up on tiptoe. Lucy, the tallest, was closest to the fence.

“Just another guy in a baseball cap and a headset,” she reported. “Must be part of the crew.”

Suzanne peered over Lucy's shoulder, then flung herself forward, waving her hand.

“Lyle . . . yoo-hoo! Over here . . . Suzanne Cavanaugh, from Prestige Properties!” She turned back to her friends. “That's Lyle Boyd, the location manager. Maybe he can get us inside.”

The young man stared at Suzanne with a puzzled expression, then seemed to recognize her. He hopped down the porch steps and loped across the lawn, a silver clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Hey, Suzanne, I was just about to text. Do you know how we can get in touch with”—he paused and checked his clipboard—“Maggie Messina?”

“No problem. She's right here,” Suzanne said smoothly. “Maggie, Lyle Boyd. The location manager for Three Penny Productions.”

Maggie nodded in greeting. “How can I help you?”

“Could you possibly come on the set a few minutes? Ms. Todd has some questions.”

It was odd to hear her own shop called “the set.” But today that's what it was.

“I'd be happy to.” She smiled and shrugged, as if she was asked to advise movie productions every day. “Can my friends come, too? They'll be quiet as mice.”

Lyle glanced at the row of hopeful faces. “I guess it would be all right. It's so insane in there right now. Nobody will even notice. Just come around to the gate and I'll meet you at the security guard.”

As he walked away, Suzanne gripped Maggie's arm. “That was brilliant!”

“Good work,” Lucy commended.

Dana agreed. She had already turned to jostle Phoebe. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We just got permission to go on the set.”

Phoebe stood up and stumbled a bit, as if starting off in a sack race. “Whoa . . . wait for me.”

Dana caught her just before she tumbled. “You go ahead; we'll catch up.”

“Don't take too long,” Maggie warned before being dragged along by Suzanne.

Maggie had noticed a few of the local police, but hadn't realized that security guards were also stationed in the crowd. Which made perfect sense. There were probably a lot of overly enthusiastic—even emotionally unstable—fans who hung around movie stars on location. You couldn't be too careful these days.

They made their way slowly along the sidewalk and finally reached the gate in the middle of the fence.

A big bald man with a tiny goatee stood just inside the fence. Dressed all in black, he looked like a former pro wrestler or football player. He smiled and a few front teeth capped in sparkling gold seemed to support that guess. He blocked the entire opening of the gate quite effectively with his broad body as he peered down at Maggie, much like a genie that had popped out of a bottle.

“Open sesame?” she was tempted to say. But of course, she held her tongue.

Luckily, Lyle Boyd appeared. “It's okay, Victor. They're visiting Jen.”

Victor took out a clipboard and asked for everyone's name.

“Two more of my friends are coming, Dana and Phoebe. They were held up in the crowd,” Maggie explained.

“You go ahead. I'll wait for them,” the location manager replied. “Ask around for Alicia Littel, Jennifer's assistant.”

Maggie nodded and headed up to the shop. She felt self-conscious walking up the brick path. The entire town seemed to be standing there, watching. A few onlookers called out to her.

“Way to go, Maggie!”

“Get Heath's autograph for me!” a teenager girl called out. “Please? I'll make it worth your while . . .”

“Hey, Maggie . . . are you going to be in the movie?” someone else shouted. She must have known the person, but couldn't pick a face out of the crowd.

Maggie shook her head, eyes cast down as she steadily walked forward. Lucy walked alongside her and Suzanne followed, waving and smiling, as if she was a famous star, too.

“Suzanne . . . you're such a ham.” Lucy was laughing when they reached the porch.

Suzanne shrugged as she rearranged her scarf and pulled a tube of lipstick from her pocket. “We all have a cross to bear.” Her makeup freshened, she pulled open the shop door with firm resolve. “Okay, let's do this.”

Maggie felt strangely apprehensive entering her own familiar territory. She stepped inside and paused. A swarm of activity hummed all around her, the worker bees dressed much the same, men and women wearing a sort of uniform—T-shirts, jeans, and walkie-talkie headsets. Some accessorizing with baseball hats and hoodies.

Moviemaking equipment was everywhere. Maggie could only guess the use of the objects—huge lights on metal stands, cameras, microphones hanging from poles, and rolling tripods. Some of it was already set up and some was still being assembled, or pushed over the wooden floors on noisy, rattling wheels.

She hardly recognized her shop, reorganized and refurnished with all the equipment, most of the area rugs and some of the furniture pushed into the alcove near the front door, where she kept an antique loveseat and sitting chairs, a cozy knitting nook no more.