work."
"You were a great help, Sean. I’m glad you stayed," Greg said. "Maybe we can work together again someday."
After the young cameraman left, beaming, Jenny stood on her toes and gave Greg a swift kiss. "Thank you so much. There’s still a long way to go, but if not for your wizardry, we wouldn’t have a chance. First thing tomorrow I’ll call my most influential BBC connection. With luck, we can have a meeting tomorrow afternoon."
Greg gave her a tired smile, the tanned skin crinkling around his dark eyes. "It’s still early enough in the U.S. for me to call there tonight. If the editing goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to send a rough cut over."
He looked so huggable that it was an effort for Jenny to keep her hands to herself. Reminding herself that her mother and half her family were in the room, she behaved. Sort of. Linking an arm through Greg’s, she said, "Before we go to Patricia and Ken’s house to edit, let’s stop by my place for a bite to eat and a pot of coffee to keep us awake. You can make your calls while my mother locks up here."
"Good idea. I’m ravenous. That kind of work really gives me an appetite."
Arm in arm, they said good-byes and left thebarn. Jenny was still buzzing with exhilaration from the performance, where the sum of what they had done was so much more than the individual people. Yet underneath was a vein of melancholy, because in two or three days he’d be gone. She wondered if she would be able to kiss him good-bye at Heathrow without crying.
Even the best actress has her limits.
Chapter 7
While Jenny threw together a quick supper, Greg withdrew to his room and called a couple of people he knew in American television, plus a CBC friend in Toronto. All three wanted to see a rough cut of the performance.
He ended his final call, satisfied that everyone understood the need for a quick decision and money on the table if they were interested. If Jenny did as well in London, there was a fighting chance of raising the money by New Year’s.
Plato trotted in carrying his buggy whip. After dropping it at the foot of the bed, he leaped onto Greg’s lap. "I’m going to miss you, philosopher," Greg murmured as he scratched the furry neck. Though not as much as he’d miss the cat’s mistress.
He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by babbling to her what she meant to him—she probably got declarations of love from smitten males every week. But maybe he could find a special gift that would say what he meant without words. Not chocolate or jewelry—Jenny was quite capable of getting her own. What did she want most?
The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know. Her flip tone hadn’t concealed her underlying regrets. Despite Jenny’s success at television, her one Hollywood movie had been a fiasco, and now she had the absurd notion that she was over the hill. Did he know anyone who might need a terrific English actress?
On impulse, he dialed the private number of Raine Marlowe, who had produced, directed, and starred in The Centurion , the movie that had given them both Oscars. Even though she and her family lived mostly on a ranch in northern New Mexico, she was well plugged in to the Hollywood movers and shakers. In fact, she was one herself.
As the phone rang, he remembered that Jenny was a former girlfriend of Raine’s husband, Kenzie Scott. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask. Before he could decide, Raine picked up the phone, in the midst of baking Christmas cookies. After they offered each other best wishes for the season, he explained why he was calling. If something came of it, great. If not—well, no harm done.
As he hung up, Jenny called, "Supper’s ready!"
"Coming." Greg stood, boosting Plato over his shoulder. "You’re going to be mad if this works, big guy. Making a movie would take your mom away from you for months." Whistling softly, he went down the stairs. If he couldn’t be with Jenny in person,
"You were a great help, Sean. I’m glad you stayed," Greg said. "Maybe we can work together again someday."
After the young cameraman left, beaming, Jenny stood on her toes and gave Greg a swift kiss. "Thank you so much. There’s still a long way to go, but if not for your wizardry, we wouldn’t have a chance. First thing tomorrow I’ll call my most influential BBC connection. With luck, we can have a meeting tomorrow afternoon."
Greg gave her a tired smile, the tanned skin crinkling around his dark eyes. "It’s still early enough in the U.S. for me to call there tonight. If the editing goes well, tomorrow I’ll be able to send a rough cut over."
He looked so huggable that it was an effort for Jenny to keep her hands to herself. Reminding herself that her mother and half her family were in the room, she behaved. Sort of. Linking an arm through Greg’s, she said, "Before we go to Patricia and Ken’s house to edit, let’s stop by my place for a bite to eat and a pot of coffee to keep us awake. You can make your calls while my mother locks up here."
"Good idea. I’m ravenous. That kind of work really gives me an appetite."
Arm in arm, they said good-byes and left thebarn. Jenny was still buzzing with exhilaration from the performance, where the sum of what they had done was so much more than the individual people. Yet underneath was a vein of melancholy, because in two or three days he’d be gone. She wondered if she would be able to kiss him good-bye at Heathrow without crying.
Even the best actress has her limits.
Chapter 7
While Jenny threw together a quick supper, Greg withdrew to his room and called a couple of people he knew in American television, plus a CBC friend in Toronto. All three wanted to see a rough cut of the performance.
He ended his final call, satisfied that everyone understood the need for a quick decision and money on the table if they were interested. If Jenny did as well in London, there was a fighting chance of raising the money by New Year’s.
Plato trotted in carrying his buggy whip. After dropping it at the foot of the bed, he leaped onto Greg’s lap. "I’m going to miss you, philosopher," Greg murmured as he scratched the furry neck. Though not as much as he’d miss the cat’s mistress.
He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by babbling to her what she meant to him—she probably got declarations of love from smitten males every week. But maybe he could find a special gift that would say what he meant without words. Not chocolate or jewelry—Jenny was quite capable of getting her own. What did she want most?
The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know. Her flip tone hadn’t concealed her underlying regrets. Despite Jenny’s success at television, her one Hollywood movie had been a fiasco, and now she had the absurd notion that she was over the hill. Did he know anyone who might need a terrific English actress?
On impulse, he dialed the private number of Raine Marlowe, who had produced, directed, and starred in The Centurion , the movie that had given them both Oscars. Even though she and her family lived mostly on a ranch in northern New Mexico, she was well plugged in to the Hollywood movers and shakers. In fact, she was one herself.
As the phone rang, he remembered that Jenny was a former girlfriend of Raine’s husband, Kenzie Scott. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask. Before he could decide, Raine picked up the phone, in the midst of baking Christmas cookies. After they offered each other best wishes for the season, he explained why he was calling. If something came of it, great. If not—well, no harm done.
As he hung up, Jenny called, "Supper’s ready!"
"Coming." Greg stood, boosting Plato over his shoulder. "You’re going to be mad if this works, big guy. Making a movie would take your mom away from you for months." Whistling softly, he went down the stairs. If he couldn’t be with Jenny in person,
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