mausoleum. The overnight spotlights glowed, transforming our every move into a dance of silhouettes along far walls. Gym-shoed footsteps across the marble entryway bounced, creating a cacophony of eerie squeaks. Terrence was already there, dispelling the shadows with each flick of the lights. “Good morning,” he said.
He and I worked together to ensure that Corbin’s crew had everything they needed, and then we stood back to watch. I was impressed by their conscientiousness as they shifted lighting and navigated around priceless treasures.
Later in the morning, Corbin gestured toward Terrence with his eyes and said, “I know he’s keeping a close watch on us all.” Our chief of security stood with his back to a nearby wall, arms folded, taking in the entire event. He’d done this every day since filming began, bringing along a dozen additional guards, who formed a rough perimeter around the entourage. No one would be able to sneak anything out under such close scrutiny. I was feeling better by the moment. “Makes me feel like a criminal,” Corbin said.
Time flew, and I felt as though I’d taken a crash course in DVD production. I followed the team around, peering over shoulders as crew members gauged lighting, composition, and placement, and marveling at the ease with which the team handled equipment—and talent—as they brought Corbin’s visions to life.
After several extended sequences shot in the banquet hall, they called a wrap for the day and the team snapped into teardown action. Within minutes, they were carting equipment out the front door.
In the midst of it all, we heard a woman exclaim, “What’s going on?”
Hillary appeared in the doorway. Hands on hips, her feet were spread apart as though expecting to play an intense game of Red Rover. Lasering her gaze at Corbin, her tone switched to plaintive. “Why did you start without me? Corbin, you promised.”
When he looked to me for guidance, I sighed. “We talked about this yesterday, Hillary.”
Her eyes lit up. Clearly a more appealing scapegoat than Corbin, I bore the brunt of her anger as she wheeled on me. “Oh, I get it,” she said, her mouth tugging down at the corners, “you’re trying to muscle me aside. You’re jealous of the fact that that I’m Papa Bennett’s daughter and you’re not.”
In my head, I silently corrected, “Stepdaughter.”
“Let me tell you something about my father,” she went on. Again the little
plink
in my head: “Stepfather.”
“Family means everything to him,” she said, stopping just short of being nose to nose with me. “You may think you’re important to him, but he’s using you because you’re good at your job. Like Abe was.”
I knew Bennett had regarded Abe as family, and I watched that recollection dawn across Hillary’s face a heartbeat later. “You know what I meant,” she said, as though she hadn’t undercut her own argument.
“I have your bottle of wine in the car,” I said. “Would you like it now, or do you prefer to pick it up later?”
My abrupt change of subject had the anticipated effect. Her perfect little eyebrows arched as her mouth opened like a surprised codfish’s. A half second later, however, she’d resumed her prim, injured air. “I appreciate you bringing it in. But I’ll pick it up later at your office.”
She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, then latched on to Corbin. Physically. Wrapping both hands around his bicep, she practically cooed in his ear, “What exactly do you have in mind for my scenes?”
Chapter 6
MAYBE IT HAD BEEN THE EXTRA-STRONG coffee, but after a thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening morning, even Hillary’s diatribe couldn’t ruin my mood. I retrieved her gift-wrapped wine bottle from my car and practically skipped up the stairs to my office on the third floor of the westernmost wing.
This section of the mansion housed our administrative office and, immediately above, on the fourth floor, Bennett’s rooms.
He and I worked together to ensure that Corbin’s crew had everything they needed, and then we stood back to watch. I was impressed by their conscientiousness as they shifted lighting and navigated around priceless treasures.
Later in the morning, Corbin gestured toward Terrence with his eyes and said, “I know he’s keeping a close watch on us all.” Our chief of security stood with his back to a nearby wall, arms folded, taking in the entire event. He’d done this every day since filming began, bringing along a dozen additional guards, who formed a rough perimeter around the entourage. No one would be able to sneak anything out under such close scrutiny. I was feeling better by the moment. “Makes me feel like a criminal,” Corbin said.
Time flew, and I felt as though I’d taken a crash course in DVD production. I followed the team around, peering over shoulders as crew members gauged lighting, composition, and placement, and marveling at the ease with which the team handled equipment—and talent—as they brought Corbin’s visions to life.
After several extended sequences shot in the banquet hall, they called a wrap for the day and the team snapped into teardown action. Within minutes, they were carting equipment out the front door.
In the midst of it all, we heard a woman exclaim, “What’s going on?”
Hillary appeared in the doorway. Hands on hips, her feet were spread apart as though expecting to play an intense game of Red Rover. Lasering her gaze at Corbin, her tone switched to plaintive. “Why did you start without me? Corbin, you promised.”
When he looked to me for guidance, I sighed. “We talked about this yesterday, Hillary.”
Her eyes lit up. Clearly a more appealing scapegoat than Corbin, I bore the brunt of her anger as she wheeled on me. “Oh, I get it,” she said, her mouth tugging down at the corners, “you’re trying to muscle me aside. You’re jealous of the fact that that I’m Papa Bennett’s daughter and you’re not.”
In my head, I silently corrected, “Stepdaughter.”
“Let me tell you something about my father,” she went on. Again the little
plink
in my head: “Stepfather.”
“Family means everything to him,” she said, stopping just short of being nose to nose with me. “You may think you’re important to him, but he’s using you because you’re good at your job. Like Abe was.”
I knew Bennett had regarded Abe as family, and I watched that recollection dawn across Hillary’s face a heartbeat later. “You know what I meant,” she said, as though she hadn’t undercut her own argument.
“I have your bottle of wine in the car,” I said. “Would you like it now, or do you prefer to pick it up later?”
My abrupt change of subject had the anticipated effect. Her perfect little eyebrows arched as her mouth opened like a surprised codfish’s. A half second later, however, she’d resumed her prim, injured air. “I appreciate you bringing it in. But I’ll pick it up later at your office.”
She gave a little nod of acknowledgment, then latched on to Corbin. Physically. Wrapping both hands around his bicep, she practically cooed in his ear, “What exactly do you have in mind for my scenes?”
Chapter 6
MAYBE IT HAD BEEN THE EXTRA-STRONG coffee, but after a thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening morning, even Hillary’s diatribe couldn’t ruin my mood. I retrieved her gift-wrapped wine bottle from my car and practically skipped up the stairs to my office on the third floor of the westernmost wing.
This section of the mansion housed our administrative office and, immediately above, on the fourth floor, Bennett’s rooms.
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