“Lucia got you watching tape?” Jill asks, sitting down beside me. She’s blonde, around forty, with a dozen or so tattoos graffitied on her arms. Chunky silver rings adorn most of her fingers.
“Oh.” I pause the tape of our last run-through. “Yeah. She was right. I needed to see myself to know how I could do it better.”
“You’re doing great, but Lucia knows how to get that last drop of greatness out of her dancers. Even when it looks perfect to us, she sees room for improvement. That’s why Canon chose her.”
At the mention of Canon, I stiffen and want to change the subject. What if Lucia isn’t the only one who’s noticed my fixation on the director?
“So, you have big plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“Just dinner with my family. My husband and kids, I mean. We’ll go see family in Chicago for Christmas. It’s such a quick turnaround; we’ll save that trip for next month when we can stay a bit. How about you?”
“Same. I mean, about the quick turnaround. My family’s in North Carolina. I don’t want to do cross country for just a few days, but also, we’ve been going nonstop. I need to rest and prepare. We have so many big scenes coming up.”
“And you’re in every one of them.” Jill pats my hand, her green eyes kind, sympathetic. “It’s a lot of pressure, and you’re doing amazing work.”
“Thanks. There are two scenes next week after the holiday break that I don’t feel ready for. I’ve been so focused on the dance, I haven’t memorized those lines. So that’s how I’ll be spending Thanksgiving.”
“You’re welcome to come to our house for dinner. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Does it sound crazy that I kind of want to be alone?” I shake my head and scratch under the itchy wig. “My roommate is going home to Texas. She invited me and so did some of the other cast, but I would love to just have the house to myself for a few days and see no one. I know it sounds antisocial, but—”
“Not strange at all. This is a long haul. Whatever self-care looks like for you, do that.” She looks at me speculatively. “Tell you what. There’s a great little family restaurant in Topanga Canyon that does a crazy-good Thanksgiving dinner. Fantastic view. You’d love it. I always try to convince my family that we should go, but every year I end up slaving over an undercooked bird.”
“I don’t actually eat turkey.”
“This place serves faux turkey, or you eat fish? They do a smoked salmon crepe that’s to die for.”
“Now that sounds incredible, but do you think they’d have a table this late with Thanksgiving only two days away?”
“My agent knows one of the managers. I bet I could get him to reserve a spot for you.”
She digs through the Post-its and mangled scripts cluttering the table until she finds a notepad and pen.
“Honestly, the scenery is as good as the food,” she says, jotting down the name of the restaurant. “If I can swing this table, promise me you’ll try it.”
“Promise. I’m actually really looking forward to it. Thank you.”
“Good. You won’t regret it.”
Her smile is almost sly, secretive, but I’m probably paranoid and take her kindness at face value. The only thing I plan to cook is Mama’s apple cobbler because even though I don’t often go back to Clearview for the holidays, it makes me feel a little closer to home. Letting someone else handle the rest sounds good to me.
27
Canon
I’m not sure this was a good idea.
A little sign out front boasted this place is LA’s most romantic restaurant. A man dining alone for Thanksgiving doesn’t exactly scream romance, but I trust Jill. It’s the only way I could get her to stop harassing me to eat dinner with her family. I asked what part of alone did she not understand, but finally caved and agreed to give this place a try. Why not? It’s just a meal. Since I’m in the thick of filming, today is just another day.
The holidays held less significance after my mom died. I do have extended family still in Lemon Grove—Mama’s people. I keep somewhat in touch and typically spend the holidays there. I’ll see them at Christmas, but I invest more time in the family I’ve found through the years. I’ve collected some of my best friends working on sets, like-minded storytellers and dreamers.
I’ve barely spent a string of hours by myself since Dessi Blue started production, and for someone like me, I need the time alone. It’s how I recharge. I’m not at my creative best if I don’t get it. So before we enter what will be the toughest stretch of production, I’m taking advantage of this tiny reprieve, and not crowding it with a bunch of people and football.
I mean, I’ll watch football when I get home, but in peace. In quiet, with just me and my Macallan 25.
“Mr. Holt,” the hostess says with a warm smile. “We have your table ready.”
“Thanks.”
I follow her through the restaurant and outdoors, where a white tent strung with twinkling lights and flowers oversees a sprawling patio. So this is the romantic part. Just show me the turkey. I don’t need romance. I shoot down the image of Neevah, her smile equal parts sweet and seduction. I got too much shit to do. The last thing I need to think about is the actress starring in the biggest movie of my career. I’m not screwing this up. The only thing that derails a movie faster than ego is feelings and fucking, and I suspect with Neevah, you don’t get one without the other.
That I cannot afford.
The hostess picks her way carefully past the tented tables and down a steep flight of stone steps. I look back and up at the other diners. Where the hell is she taking me? Do they annex the singles? Shunt them away from the couples and the families gathered around their festive five-course meals?
Fine with me. No one wants to see that anyway.
We reach a clearing with two gazebos. A creek gurgles close by and in the distance, there’s the rush of a waterfall.
“Uh, is this me?” I ask skeptically. “I didn’t ask for—”
“Your friend Jill thought you might like privacy,” the hostess replies, her smile and tone conciliatory. “Would you prefer—”
“Oh. No, it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t . . . it’s fine.”
“Right this way then.” Gesturing to the gazebo housing an elegantly set table, she leaves me alone with my menu and the sound of rushing water. Slowly, the tension that’s been locked in my shoulders and back for the last month eases. I settle into the padded seat and let the tension drain away—let the burbling creek drown out the voices in my head reminding me of all the work waiting. Jill was right. This was exactly what I needed.
I’m gonna kiss her Monday when we get back to work.
“Right this way, Ms. Saint,” the hostess says.
My head snaps around toward her voice. Neevah carefully makes her way down the steps into the clearing, heading for the neighboring gazebo.
I’m gonna kill Jill, and I may not wait ’til Monday.
“Canon?” Neevah pulls up short, the genuine shock on her face convincing me she had nothing to do with this. I have only my matchmaking cinematographer to blame. “What are you . . .”