For one, it was spring. There was no chill, no picturesque snowfall, no red coat, although that Charlie can forgive because the color pops beautifully on-screen. Most of the locations were also invented or altered. There is no Olyphant University—that was changed because the real college wanted nothing to do with the production. The Skyline Grille was less of a diner and more of a truck stop, its Formica tables colored a sad brown, its booths worn dull by the backs of slumped patrons.
As for the Mountain Oasis Lodge, Charlie almost burst out laughing when it appeared on-screen. It was so over-the-top as to be absurd. The work of a production designer with a lot of money and a penchant for exposed timbers. The real lodge was a glorified motel—one central building with a smattering of cottages forming a horseshoe shape around the swimming pool.
But some of the embellishments she likes very much. The fire—which didn’t happen—added some much-needed punch to the third act. The waterfall—which didn’t exist—added a great backdrop to the scene of the sinking Volvo.
That, by the way, did happen. Right down to the satisfying click of the handcuffs around the steering wheel.
Yet Charlie’s favorite part of the movie was the denouement, mostly because it showed what could have been. Marge died at the Mountain Oasis Lodge. According to police, she climbed into the pool, fished out the gun, and pulled the trigger.
There was no hospital room conversation.
No unspoken truce between them.
No triumphant moment with a tooth.
Watching all of that on-screen made her wish it was true. In this instance, she doesn’t mind the Hollywood ending. In fact, she cherishes it.
Movie magic. It’s a palpable thing.
And Maddy would have loved it.
Which is why Charlie smiles back at the director and says, “I adore it.”
After that, she’s free to go.
The screening room is located in a downtown building and not a studio lot. A shame, really. Charlie loves it when she gets to visit them for her work. They’re magical and mundane at the same time. Factories where dreams get made.
The upside about her current location is that a Lincoln Town Car is waiting for her outside. Rather than climb into the back, she slides into the front passenger seat.
“Hey,” she says.
The driver flashes her a killer smile. “Hey yourself.”
That part of the movie, as improbable as it may seem, is true. Josh did let her borrow his car. Charlie drove it straight to Ohio and Nana Norma. When she returned the car two weeks later, Josh did indeed ask if she’d like to go to the movies.
Her answer was simple: “I never say no to a movie.”
They went. Josh paid for the tickets.
They went the next night. Charlie returned the favor.
By their third movie, Josh had learned that she preferred to sit in the middle of the sixth row. By the fourth, Charlie had learned that Josh liked to put Raisinets in his popcorn. By their fifth, she finally learned to start calling him Jake.
That was six years ago.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Good,” he replies. “I got to take Sharon Stone to the airport.”
“How’d she look?”
“Like a Hitchcock blonde.”
“Exactly what I wanted to hear.”
He waits a beat before asking the question she knows is at the forefront of his thoughts. “And how was the movie?”
“Not bad. Not great, but certainly not terrible. It was a typical movie. But real life—” Charlie exhales a sigh of contentment as she reaches for her husband’s hand. “Real life is so much better.”
END CREDITS
While it would be appropriate to compare writing a novel to a long, lonely drive through darkness, it’s not quite the truth. Getting a book published is a team effort, and I have many people to thank for helping me reach my destination.
To Maya Ziv, for being a fantastic editor and, even more, all-around joy.
To Emily Canders, Katie Taylor, Christine Ball, and literally everyone at Dutton, for helping me do what I do. I’m so lucky to have found such an amazing creative home, and I’m astounded daily by all your enthusiasm and support.
To Michelle Brower, for being an incredible agent, a fierce advocate, and a wonderful human being.
To everyone at Aevitas Creative Management, for keeping the business side of things running like clockwork and letting me focus on the writing.
To Mike Livio, for, well, everything.
To the Ritter and Livio families, for their encouragement, support, and bringing quiet normalcy to a sometimes crazy world.
To Sarah Dutton, for being the best first reader a writer could ever have.
To Ben Turrano, for answering my many questions about driving a late-eighties Pontiac Grand Am.
To the filmmakers whose work inspires me and that I return to again and again—Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles, Billy Wilder, Steven Spielberg, David Fincher, Vincente Minnelli, Wes Craven, Brian De Palma, Walt Disney.
Finally, Survive the Night is a love letter to the movies, yes, but also to a specific time period. In November 1991, I was a senior in high school, which was a particularly fraught, magical, memorable time in my life. And if you’ll forgive one final bit of nostalgia, I’d like to thank the people who were so special to me then: Jenny Beaver, Jason Davis, Christine Fry, Marta McCormick, Marsha McKinney, John Paul, Sarah Paul, Brian Reedy, Jeff Richer, Seema Shah, and Kelly Jo Woodside. Thank you all for the many night drives.