she looks to her father in the porch rocking chair—his expression is vacant—and then back at the man on her lawn.
RICHARD
Hello, Ellen.
ELLEN
My answer is still no.
Richard nods, tipping his hat.
RICHARD
Would you mind if I asked again tomorrow?
She bites her lip to stifle a smile. With a little smile of his own, Richard turns to leave. From the porch, her father looks up, and seems to come into the moment.
WILLIAM
You like him.
ELLEN
He’s fine.
WILLIAM
Fine? I see the way you hover outside, waiting for him to show up every day. But I didn’t think you’d much care what the town thinks about who you choose to dine with.
Ellen stares at William. It is the first lucid thing her father has said in days, and it catches her off guard.
ELLEN
I don’t care what they think.
WILLIAM
Then why refuse a nice meal with a nice man?
ELLEN
You think I have time for a nice meal or a nice man?
WILLIAM
You have all the time you make for them. I know you don’t want another Daniel, but I don’t want you lonely.
Deeply affected by this, Ellen walks to the side porch, sees Richard halfway down the driveway: hat on, shoulders square, roses in his fist as he leave.
ELLEN
I don’t like roses!
Richard turns, and with a grin, tosses the flowers into the field.
RICHARD
What roses?
ELLEN
I don’t like flowers at all.
RICHARD
That’s fine.
ELLEN
I like steak, though. Think you could find me a good steak?
Richard’s radiant smile could light a dark night. Ellen grins and then tries to smother it down as she straightens and turns back to her father.
ELLEN
Happy now?
WILLIAM
Just find the juice, Judy. I told you already I was thirsty.
Ellen stares for another breath, and then sighs. A light has left his eyes. He’s lost to the dementia again.
Gwen calls cut, we quickly transition into the closer shots, and then we’re done for the day, letting the younger cast take over to close out the back porch set. Giddy with relief, I look over at Dad as he stands from the rocking chair and walks over to me with a smile. The feeling in my belly is effervescent. As much as I hate his approval, I know I crave it, too.
His arms go around my waist, he lifts me up, and I feel the eyes of the entire crew on us. I feel like I’m becoming Ellen. I’m completely falling for Nick as Richard: obsessed with his shy smile, his understated confidence, good heart, and the shape of him in the suit.
And Dad was brilliant: clear, wise, then blustery; his portrayal of beloved, lost William tugged at something deeper in me, some realization that he will age, that he might forget this—and me—someday. I pull him tighter, my generosity fueled by adrenaline and relief. I wonder how many pictures are taken of this father-daughter moment. It may be the first genuine embrace we’ve ever shared, but I know no one else hears him when he says calmly, “You’re almost there, kiddo. Keep at it.”
Gasoline dumps into my bloodstream and I fear it will ignite if I let him get another passive-aggressive word in, so I pull back and smile warmly, turning to leave the porch. At the bottom, I’m pulled up short at the sight of Sam there, talking to Liz, his eyes red-rimmed. He reaches up, laughing, and swipes at his cheek.
Was he crying?
It’s hard to imagine, frankly, but if I try to frame him in my mind the way I’ve seen other writers on set—deeply moved to see their work being translated—I can only imagine what this experience is like for him. A tiny fracture forms in my Hate Sam wall.
Before I can even process this, Charlie steps in front of me, blocking my view. I am so busted. “Why are we staring at Satan?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. Are you feeling nice things, Tate Jones?”
“I wasn’t—I just . . .” I lean to the side to peek again. “Is he crying?”
She doesn’t even turn around. “We don’t care if it cries. We aren’t even sure it has feelings, remember?”
“I remember,” I say dutifully, straightening and grinning at her.
“We have much better choices for bad decisions in the boy-toy category: Devon, Nick, even Jonathan is still here.”
“Ew.” I scrunch my nose. Not only has Jonathan Marino had a good deal of plastic surgery, but he’s almost as old as my father. Besides, studio execs and talent are a match made in hell. “No Jonathan.”
“No Sam,” she counters and takes my arm, guiding me away from the set. Once we’re clear of the