Hollywood Dirt
Page 59
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“Bridget is your daughter?”
“Oh yes. She’s Bridget Anderson now. She married a doctor. I’ll give you his card in case you ever have any feet issues.”
CHAPTER 66
The first thing I saw my second day on set was Cole’s rooster. It stood on a fenced-in patch of grass that hadn’t been there yesterday. I stepped from the truck, shutting the door with my butt, and walked over to the pen. Pat and Gus from Colton’s Construction were there, in the midst of construction on what looked to be an open coop.
“Hey Summer,” Pat greeted me, Gus looking up with a nod.
“Hey guys.” I stared at their creation, the grass still pieced out in sod squares. “Did you jackhammer up the concrete?”
“Yep. Started at seven. Sheriff Pratt already showed up about the noise.”
“I bet he did.” I stepped over the knee-high fence and bent down, the rooster suddenly at my side, pecking at the sparkles on my bag, which hung over one arm. “Stop that,” I chided him, running a hand over his back. He was bigger, his red comb developing, his eyes alert and proud as he tried to step on my knee, while I held him off.
“Friendly thing,” Ben remarked, putting a bit on the drill and tightening it into place.
“He should be,” Gus scoffed. “I heard Cole Masten keeps him in the house.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. He brought him here this morning in his truck. Inside the truck,” he clarified.
“The Kirklands are gonna freak,” Ben chimed in.
“You making the coop open?” I nodded to the half-built house.
“Yep. We told him it would just fly over this little fence, and he told us to cover the whole thing with chicken wire.”
“The whole thing?” I looked at the piece of grass, which covered three parking spots. Valuable parking spots on a piece of land as crammed as Walmart on Black Friday.
“Yep.” The look that passed between the two men clearly communicated their opinion of Cole Masten, and I laughed, giving the rooster one final pet before standing.
“I’ve gotta go.” I waved to them and stepped over the fence, the rooster squawking at me.
I was smiling to myself when I entered the madness, weaving in between the tight cluster of trailers, bee-lining for mine. My baby was about halfway into the lot, wedged in between a sound trailer and a coffee truck, the latter causing a long line, which I skirted around on my way in. When I pulled on the door, Mary was already inside, her head snapping to me, a polite smile stretching over it.
“Good morning,” I greeted brightly. My resolution for today was to be cheerful and strong. My sub-resolution was to avoid anything that affected that mindset. Mainly Cole. I’d received the call sheets yesterday for the day’s scenes, and none of them involved Cole, so my outlook was bright.
“Good morning. I’d like to put in your breakfast order. Do you know what you’d like?”
“Breakfast?” I dropped my bag on the floor and moved to the table, thinking of the leftover biscuits I’d slathered with jelly and choked down on my drive in. “What do they have?”
“They can make anything.” She gripped a silver pen over her always-present notebook, and waited.
“Umm… I guess an omelet? Ham, peppers, and cheese. With grits and bacon. Please.”
Her pen didn’t move, and I waited. Finally, she looked away from me and down at the page. “Okay. A ham, cheese, and pepper omelet with grits and bacon. What would you like to drink?”
“Milk. Whole if they have it.”
Another scribble on the page, then she looked up, passing me a folder. “I’ve put the Sides and the updated Call Sheet in here. If there are any Day-Out-Of-Days I’ll bring them to you as needed.”
“Sides?” I asked.
“Those are the scripts for today’s scenes only. There are some new scenes, so you’ll want to review those before your call times.” New scenes. New scripts. My cheery outlook took a sharp turn toward PanicVille.
“What are days out of whatever?”
Her smile became less patient. “Day-Out-Of-Days. We typically call it DOOD. It’s a general schedule for all of the crew. Just don’t worry about that; I’ll make sure you are where you need to be.”
I sat down at the table and opened the folder, pulling out the new call sheet and reviewing it. My newly manicured nail ran down the shooting schedule, over a list of familiar scenes, before stopping at SCENE #14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS. My breath stopped, and my fingers scrambled for the accompanying script, Mary’s post-it clearly marking #14 in neat, bright orange fashion. It was a long scene, and I flipped through it, my stomach twisting as I skimmed the lines, my feet moving before I reached the end, Mary’s placement of my breakfast order interrupted by the slam of the trailer door on my departure.
I think I might have bulldozed someone on my storm through the coffee line.
CHAPTER 67
When the door to the production trailer burst open, it brought with it a wave of heat and beauty. Cole looked up from the storyboards and locked eyes with Summer, who blew across the room like a tornado on tilt.
“There’s no love story between Ida and Marcus,” Summer snapped, throwing down the script, pages fluttering between them. In the small trailer, conversations stalled, and he could feel the attention turn their way. “I’ve read the book. Three times!”
“Oh yes. She’s Bridget Anderson now. She married a doctor. I’ll give you his card in case you ever have any feet issues.”
CHAPTER 66
The first thing I saw my second day on set was Cole’s rooster. It stood on a fenced-in patch of grass that hadn’t been there yesterday. I stepped from the truck, shutting the door with my butt, and walked over to the pen. Pat and Gus from Colton’s Construction were there, in the midst of construction on what looked to be an open coop.
“Hey Summer,” Pat greeted me, Gus looking up with a nod.
“Hey guys.” I stared at their creation, the grass still pieced out in sod squares. “Did you jackhammer up the concrete?”
“Yep. Started at seven. Sheriff Pratt already showed up about the noise.”
“I bet he did.” I stepped over the knee-high fence and bent down, the rooster suddenly at my side, pecking at the sparkles on my bag, which hung over one arm. “Stop that,” I chided him, running a hand over his back. He was bigger, his red comb developing, his eyes alert and proud as he tried to step on my knee, while I held him off.
“Friendly thing,” Ben remarked, putting a bit on the drill and tightening it into place.
“He should be,” Gus scoffed. “I heard Cole Masten keeps him in the house.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. He brought him here this morning in his truck. Inside the truck,” he clarified.
“The Kirklands are gonna freak,” Ben chimed in.
“You making the coop open?” I nodded to the half-built house.
“Yep. We told him it would just fly over this little fence, and he told us to cover the whole thing with chicken wire.”
“The whole thing?” I looked at the piece of grass, which covered three parking spots. Valuable parking spots on a piece of land as crammed as Walmart on Black Friday.
“Yep.” The look that passed between the two men clearly communicated their opinion of Cole Masten, and I laughed, giving the rooster one final pet before standing.
“I’ve gotta go.” I waved to them and stepped over the fence, the rooster squawking at me.
I was smiling to myself when I entered the madness, weaving in between the tight cluster of trailers, bee-lining for mine. My baby was about halfway into the lot, wedged in between a sound trailer and a coffee truck, the latter causing a long line, which I skirted around on my way in. When I pulled on the door, Mary was already inside, her head snapping to me, a polite smile stretching over it.
“Good morning,” I greeted brightly. My resolution for today was to be cheerful and strong. My sub-resolution was to avoid anything that affected that mindset. Mainly Cole. I’d received the call sheets yesterday for the day’s scenes, and none of them involved Cole, so my outlook was bright.
“Good morning. I’d like to put in your breakfast order. Do you know what you’d like?”
“Breakfast?” I dropped my bag on the floor and moved to the table, thinking of the leftover biscuits I’d slathered with jelly and choked down on my drive in. “What do they have?”
“They can make anything.” She gripped a silver pen over her always-present notebook, and waited.
“Umm… I guess an omelet? Ham, peppers, and cheese. With grits and bacon. Please.”
Her pen didn’t move, and I waited. Finally, she looked away from me and down at the page. “Okay. A ham, cheese, and pepper omelet with grits and bacon. What would you like to drink?”
“Milk. Whole if they have it.”
Another scribble on the page, then she looked up, passing me a folder. “I’ve put the Sides and the updated Call Sheet in here. If there are any Day-Out-Of-Days I’ll bring them to you as needed.”
“Sides?” I asked.
“Those are the scripts for today’s scenes only. There are some new scenes, so you’ll want to review those before your call times.” New scenes. New scripts. My cheery outlook took a sharp turn toward PanicVille.
“What are days out of whatever?”
Her smile became less patient. “Day-Out-Of-Days. We typically call it DOOD. It’s a general schedule for all of the crew. Just don’t worry about that; I’ll make sure you are where you need to be.”
I sat down at the table and opened the folder, pulling out the new call sheet and reviewing it. My newly manicured nail ran down the shooting schedule, over a list of familiar scenes, before stopping at SCENE #14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS. My breath stopped, and my fingers scrambled for the accompanying script, Mary’s post-it clearly marking #14 in neat, bright orange fashion. It was a long scene, and I flipped through it, my stomach twisting as I skimmed the lines, my feet moving before I reached the end, Mary’s placement of my breakfast order interrupted by the slam of the trailer door on my departure.
I think I might have bulldozed someone on my storm through the coffee line.
CHAPTER 67
When the door to the production trailer burst open, it brought with it a wave of heat and beauty. Cole looked up from the storyboards and locked eyes with Summer, who blew across the room like a tornado on tilt.
“There’s no love story between Ida and Marcus,” Summer snapped, throwing down the script, pages fluttering between them. In the small trailer, conversations stalled, and he could feel the attention turn their way. “I’ve read the book. Three times!”
