She seems smart.”
“She’s lovely.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Wednesday.”
Awkward awkward awkward. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
“How’s your mom doing?” he asks. “I haven’t talked to her in a few months.”
“She’s good. You know Mom. She’d be good anywhere.”
He smiles. “That’s true. I remember shooting this western when you were little, and you both came on set. It was awful. This tiny little ghost town in the middle of nowhere. Nothing for you guys to do. But I’d come back at the end of the day and your mom had found this old trough or something, had cleaned it up and made you a swimming pool.”
“How old was I?”
“I don’t know, three, maybe? It looked ridiculous, but you two were having the time of your life.”
“I don’t think she ever told me about that.” But it sounds exactly like something Mom would do. Turning a trough into a swimming pool. Making an old chicken coop into a playhouse, complete with a tiny beaded chandelier. Taking something forgotten and making it new again.
“Probably doesn’t remember,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”
We walk a little ways, the silence between us growing louder with each step. “The shoot went by so fast,” I say.
“It did. I’m glad we decided to do this together. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“I . . .” A hundred words collide in my head, and I can’t seem to put any of them together. It’s not that Dad hasn’t complimented me before, it’s that it’s usually followed by something cutting, or there’s somebody else there, an audience to witness his show of fatherly encouragement. I resist looking to see if there’s someone up ahead or trailing behind; I know we’re alone. “Thanks.”
I can hear the music up ahead and it occurs to me I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. “Where are you off to next?”
“Home for a while,” he says. “Not sure after that. I’ve been waiting to hear back on a few things.”
“Maybe . . .” I start, my inner cynic holding me back, the hopeful daughter urging me forward. “Maybe we could do Christmas this year? Or Thanksgiving.”
He looks almost as surprised by my question as I do. “Oh, that sounds nice, Tate. Let me check with Althea and I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Of course.” I’m out of my depth and don’t want to push. “I’ll be home for a few weeks, so give me a call. Or a text, or—whatever.”
We round a corner in the trail and the Community House comes into view, light from the wide porch spilling out onto the ground below.
“I wanted to talk to Gwen before I left, did you—?” he starts, motioning toward the party.
“No,” I insist. “Go ahead. I need to find Nick anyway.”
He smiles and ruffles my hair before heading toward the house. Not ready to go inside just yet, I follow a trail of stone pavers set into the ground, moving from each one until I reach a greenhouse near the back.
I’m just about to look inside when I hear voices around the corner.
“Was it surreal seeing all of this? Hearing actors say lines you wrote?” someone says, and I recognize one of the boom operators and a few others from the crew, and Sam.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and then pauses. “I never thought we’d get this far, so I’ve just tried to enjoy every second. The casting was perfect.”
“But didn’t I hear you had a problem with Tate at first?”
I step closer, still in the shadows but able to see them now illuminated in a small cone of yellow light.
Sam waves him away, his movements a little exaggerated, and I wonder how many of those pink cocktails he’s had. “No. She was perfect. I wrote it with her in mind.”
I stop, feeling my pulse drop in my throat. He what?
“I’ve got a couple of films with her in mind,” one of the crew jokes.
Someone adds, “Date with Tate,” and everyone but Sam laughs knowingly.
I see Sam stand to his full height, chest forward as if he’s going to address this with fists. I step fully out of the shadows, clearing my throat.
They all startle, straightening and tucking their beers behind their backs as if I’m their mom and just walked in on them watching porn.
“Hey,” I say quickly, looking up at Sam, trying to communicate for him to Be cool. After a few mumbled words of greeting—and it’s awkward because it’s very clear I’ve overheard what they were saying—they quickly make excuses and