“You let me worry about the studio.” He offered his hand. “Welcome toBound by Love, Chloe Daschle. I’ll e-mail the offer to your agent. Chip Mac, right?”
“Yes, the lovely and endearing Chip Mac.” She started to leave, then turned into Jeremiah with a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I won’t let you down, Jer. I’m going to act my heart out. Just you wait and see.”
Outside, the sky seemed bluer, the birds’ song clearer. This movie was going to change her life. She felt it in her bones.
2
JESSE
He never thought he’d live by the ocean. Looking out over vast amounts of water set him on edge.
But eight years from the day he arrived in California, after countless romcoms, TV movies, and failed sitcom pilots, he’d finally struck gold. Hollywood gold. Not as an actor but as a screenwriter, with a script inspired by his family lore and a one-page letter from a colonial ancestor.
A year later, after many rounds of notes and revisions from the studio head all the way down to the janitor—so it seemed—Bound by Lovegot the coveted green light. Filming started in late fall under none other than Jeremiah Gonda, one of the best directors in La-La Land.
Jesse faced the Pacific’s salty breeze as it blew over the third-floor deck of the Santa Monica beach house he was renting. A sweet deal brokered by his friend Smitty Barone.
Jesse was blessed. Given more talent than one guy could handle. But he’d also shouldered his share of sorrow.
Yet to sell his first screenplay within a year of writing it? Gold. Pure movie magic.
Of course, he had none of the gold in his pocket. Yet. The luxury beach house was magic too. The owner of the house had wanted to rent it for cheap while he was away for a year on business.
Inhaling the fragrance of the salty beach, Jesse willed the cobweb of his memories to break away. In good times it was best toforget the bad. His recent good fortune was almost enough to make him believe he’d paid the price for the past. That Loxley, while never forgotten, was behind him. And, if such a thing were possible, had forgiven him.
“Here’re your keys.” Smitty popped him on the shoulder. Hailing from the Bronx, he was short and lean with dark eyes and a quick smile. An Italian Jew by his own description. Jesse had met him in acting class—or was it on his first paid gig? He couldn’t remember. His first year in LA, he was still very raw and broken, wounded, and nursing a dark soul.
He tucked the keys into his pocket. “Where’s the lease? I’m ready to sign.”
“Right this way.” Smitty motioned inside to the glass-and-chrome coffee table.
The house had three levels with a bedroom, bathroom, and living area on each floor. The kitchen and a sunroom were on level one. A media room on level two. An office and den on level three. And every wall was pure ocean-viewing glass.
“Now look, Archer Doyle is an exacting man, so take care of the place.” Smitty took a seat on the chocolate-colored suede sofa and handed Jesse a gold-plated pen. “I told him you were trustworthy, and all he said was don’t ruin his quartz countertops. Ha!”
“I wouldn’t even know where the kitchen was if I hadn’t passed it on the way in. His countertops are safe.” Jesse scanned the lease for legal details. “When did you say he’d be back?”
“A year at least. Maybe more. He’s starting some venture in Asia.” Smitty waved his hand over the lease. “All standard, trust me. I’d never do you dirty.” His smile was wide. “So, my man, my man. A screenplay with Gonda Films and Premier Studios? Lucky dog, lucky dog. Hey! You think there’s a part for me?”
Smitty was a caricature, a Bronx stereotype. And Jesse loved him. He’d proven to be a good friend.
“You know writers have no say in that, but have your agent callcasting.” Jesse signed the lease, then passed the paper and pen to Smitty. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“You’re the best, my friend. The very best.” Smitty sank back into the curved, leather sofa. “So, the MIT grad makes good in Hollywood.” He snorted. “What say we write a geek screenplay together? Computer nerd hooks up with nerd-nerd.” He pointed to himself, sporting a wide grin. “They throw a big party to meet chicks—”
“A geek-and-chicks film? Talk about cliché. Forget it. Come on, help me unload.” Jesse jogged down to his car to haul in the first of four boxes and a suitcase from the back of his truck. He traveled light.
Since arriving in LA, he’d rented small, furnished places. Kept his wardrobe to the bare necessities. Acquired nothing he couldn’t move in his ten-year-old Dodge RAM.
After handing Smitty a box, Jesse collected his laptop, which served as his TV, then lugged his suitcase over the tailgate.
Another two trips and they’d emptied the truck, stacked one box in the bathroom, and put the rest in the third-story living space just off the master bedroom. The room was long and bright. Jesse’s few belongings made little impact on the space.
“I’m outta here.” Smitty smacked him on the back. “Keep your ear out for a part for me, buddy.”
“Thanks for everything, Smitty.”
“What are pals for?” The man regarded him for a long moment, his brown eyes clear, intense, almost radiating.
