Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
It wasn’t just about aliens.
I muttered something about the documentary to Dana, who just shrugged. “I like alien movies,” she said like that was all that mattered. “You’re the one who cares about the prestige films.”
“Dad cares, too,” I reminded her as we pulled into their driveway. As always, their place made me fantasize about leaving the city behind and moving out here. The house was modern, all open-concept, wood floors and natural stone foyer, more glass than wall to bring in the view provided by the 88-feet of beach frontage.
“Dad only cares about his boat these days,” Dana disagreed.
I shook my head. It was true that he’d embraced retirement with more zeal than anyone expected, but I knew the reputation of Lewis Productions still mattered to him. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t be at every premiere and calling me every Sunday about opening weekend numbers. He’d read Callum O’Conner’s book, too, and he’d sent over tips on how to craft our first proposal.
Inside, after we’d hugged our parents and taken our wine out onto the expansive deck that was separated from the beach only by a small bit of greenery, my dad didn’t even mention his boat. He got right down to business.
“Give him space,” he advised. “You got any promotional material for the documentary you can send over?”
As usual, he was reading my mind. I needed to show Callum that Lewis Productions did more than save the world from extraterrestrial invasions. This documentary was going to be gritty, intimate, like his book had been. Obviously, it wouldn’t be a documentary, but the camera angles, the way the director got at the story–it would show him.
“We’ll get some together,” I said, running timeline calculations in my head. “How long do we back off?”
My father frowned at the ocean. It was chilly tonight, despite the fire dancing in the trench that ran the length of the table. It smelled like salt and dusk and something colder, cleaner, than the city ever got. “I’d normally say a few days, but time moves differently for that man. Maybe give him a full ten days.”
My gut clenched. Ten days was a lifetime. Ten days was Fletcher James dripping poisoned honey in his ear, slipping the option out from under us.
“We’ll give him a week,” Dana said firmly. I could tell she didn’t like the idea of waiting any more than I did, but we both trusted our dad. If he said Callum needed time, we’d give him some. But not too much.
The conversation wended its way away from the business for a bit–my dad always made a concerted effort on my mom’s behalf–but inevitably it wound its way back around.
“How is the footage from the documentary?” my dad asked keenly, leaning in. “Skateboarding becoming an Olympic sport was a good bit of luck, wasn’t it?”
“A great bit,” I agreed. “The dallies look good. I need to check in on Miller. There’s too much turnover on the set. Another production assistant just quit.”
“The man is a genius.” My dad frowned as he said it, faint disapproval coloring the words. My dad hated to work with geniuses. Sure, he liked the finished product, but the process was all wrong with geniuses. They didn’t listen. They didn’t collaborate.
Still, I myself thought they were worth the hassle once in a while. I didn’t want to fill the stable with them, but I’d deal with the neuroses and on-set drama every few pictures for a brilliant payoff. And Miller wasn’t even that bad; he was just born without a filter. I could handle him, and if I could find a production assistant that could handle him for the next few months until filming wrapped, even better.
We ate the meal that my parents’ chef had exquisitely prepared and drank another glass of wine, letting the conversation drift back into waters my mom preferred.
“We have to do something for your birthday,” she said fondly, reaching over to squeeze my arm. “I can’t believe my baby is turning forty.”
“I’m your baby,” Dana reminded her. “And maybe you should worry more about planning my wedding.”
We were all tactfully silent about that. Dana had been engaged multiple times. She’d broken her engagement to her current fling–Shelly Monroe–twice before now. We were all hoping the third time was a charm.
“You’re both my babies,” my mom said after a moment, choosing to ignore Dana’s reference to her wedding.
Dana raised an eyebrow at me, and I stifled a grin. We both knew my mom had been checking the truth of that statement in the pause. Was Dana younger? Yes, but she’d come so close on my heels that our babyhood had been shared.
“You seem older,” I explained to Dana.
She made a face at me and tucked a lock of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. “Because I don’t spend half my life primping and plumping like you.”