Maybe she had film experience, but it really didn’t matter. Hollywood loyalties lay in the annoying adage—It’s not what you know. It’s who you know. And now Marlo had hooked one of the top film directors in the world.
Evan sipped his wine. “You’ve got three days to come up with three brilliant ideas for our next film.”
“I suppose no one leaves here until we wow you with our brilliance.” Tony or Chet, she assumed, did the asking.
“That’s right,” Evan said, a smile playing on his lips.
The man cursed. “It’s like an Agatha Christie film.”
“Shut up, Tony,” another guest said.
Harper glanced at the sun descending over the ocean. The best of views along the solitary coast, no neighbors nearby. She’d seenAnd Then There Were Nonein its original form, and this really was the perfect location to pick off houseguests one-by-one. Perhaps that was the vibe Evan was trying to set. Keeping them all on edge to spark creativity.
“And where will we find these wowing concepts?” Sissie sounded bored instead of honored or concerned about the weekend ahead.
Evan nodded toward the French doors. “I have stacks of scripts waiting inside.”
“And a host of readers?”
“The scripts have already been approved,” he said. “But none of them are ready for production.”
Tony lifted a goblet, his words slurred. “If you wanted us to work tonight, you shouldn’t have refilled our glasses.”
Mop Man glanced at Harper and pretended to wipe away tears. Sighing, she emptied the bottle into his glass.
“First thing in the morning then,” Evan said. “Tonight you should all take a walk on the beach and blow away that city stench.”
“What happens after we present our winning ideas?” Sissie asked.
“If they’re any good, you can have another round of cake.” He paused. “And I’ll hire you, of course, for my next film.”
Several members of the pack lingered in the lanai. After clearing the tables, Harper hid in the alcove to hear the last drops of conversation about actors, sets, and their favorite flicks.
More than anything, she wished she could strip off her invisibility cloak and dream up a new story with them.
3:Olivia
SEPTEMBER 1940
Banton Hall felt steely cold with its gray-tiered seats and imposing marble reliefs. A host of Greek gods loomed over the lecture hall, staring down at her with stony disdain as if they knew Olivia Belle Ashe was a fraud.
She longed to be outside, walking the leaf-canopied trails across Winfield’s campus, but instead, with a tight smile, she smoothed her prim plum-colored jacket as hundreds of students and professors filled the auditorium, waiting for the panel to begin.
While the college had been plenty late with their invitation, they had invited her. Even though she had no formal training in literature or the arts, even though a new story had been slow in coming, Olivia kept reminding herself that she belonged in this seat.
She’d answer the student and faculty questions the best she could, drawing from twenty years of steady writing before Graham’s death. And she’d try not to think about her career as a novelist nearing its end.
Two weeks ago, Herring & Son had sent her a letter denying her requested extension. Clinton said the publishing house had a great appreciation for her partnership, but sales had dropped. If she didn’t have her next manuscript to them by October 15—six weeks from today—they would have no choice but to terminate her contract.
She understood. Herring & Son needed the income from a successful book just like she needed money to maintain Haven House, but how could she write when words seemed to have emptied themselves from her head?
A chair scraped on the wooden stage, and a gentleman with fiery red hair sat at the table next to her, his head seemingly ablaze with ideas.
He extended his hand. “I’m Marcus.”
Marcus Richards.She knew exactly who he was. She’d read his recent article inThe Atlantic Monthlyabout how the death of Calvin Coolidge’s son had greatly impacted the president’s life and policies. Mr. Richards had written about various presidents for years, but he was better known for his novels about American politics and the rise of fascism. His books, she suspected, were widely read on campuses like Winfield.
She shook his hand. “I’m Via Belle.”
