Probably Holly was thinking about something, Rob Lee observed after glancing in her direction. He was enjoying not thinking. It had been a long time since he’d been able to just empty his mind and be, and it came as a relief. He’d have been perfectly happy to keep on that way, but now Holly had entered his thoughts, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
At first, he’d kind of written her off, figuring she was probably just like that mother of hers: gorgeous, spoiled, and self-absorbed, your typical Hollywood type. Except for that first part, he’d been wrong.
When she’d decided she wanted to rescue Stormy and asked for his help, he’d figured she’d pay the bills and that would be that. He didn’t think she’d be out here working alongside him, day after day. Truth to tell, he would have preferred if she hadn’t. He was used to being on his own, and God help him but the woman could talk!
But if she wasn’t asking questions about the horse and every little detail of what Rob Lee was doing with him and why, she was asking questions about himself and his family. Thankfully, she steered clear of Afghanistan, but everything else seemed to be fair game. And if he didn’t answer or kept his answers short, instead of picking up on the hint that he’d rather not talk, she’d rattle off and tell him about her life and family, what it was like to grow up with her famous mother, traveling all over but never really settling down, then about doing that game show, and now Aunt Mary Dell’s show.
The first day it seemed like she talked so much his ears might bleed, but on the second day it didn’t bother him quite as much, and by the third he started to wonder if it wasn’t a case of her talking all that much more than other people but him just not being used to people. Could be.
But she was okay, he concluded. Actually she was pretty sweet, and, yes, real easy on the eyes. He might be depressed, but he wasn’t blind. He liked looking at her when she didn’t know he was looking. Even more, he liked it when she caught him looking at her and then blushed. That was cute, too, and unexpected. Being on TV and everything, he never imagined she’d be shy or self-conscious. But maybe that was because she’d been so overweight when she was a kid; at least that’s what she said. That was kind of hard to imagine, too. When he said so she’d assured him it was true.
“I wasn’t just chunky or carrying a few extra pounds; I was fat. I took off seventy pounds in three months, basically starving myself on some liquid diet thing.” She shook her head at the memory. “Really, really stupid. When I went back to real food, I gained it all back because I hadn’t changed the way I ate; I’d just stopped eating. Anyway, I finally went to see a nutritionist and got a gym membership. The second time, it took me eleven months to lose those seventy pounds, but I kept them off. Of course, I have to work at it every day. I really like working out and eating healthy; I like the way it makes me feel even more than how it makes me look. But”—she grinned—“I’m still subject to occasional lapses. Mocha milk shakes are my downfall—and favorite guilty pleasure.”
Yeah, the girl could talk. But she was growing on him. And he liked the fact that everything hadn’t come easy to her. She was surprising. In all kinds of ways.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat first, kind of priming the pump. “You start shooting day after tomorrow, right?”
“Uh-huh. Just the new opening and some promos. We’ll do the first episode next week.”
“You still nervous?”
She thought about that for a moment.
“Not like I was before. My quilting is coming along, and I think Mary Dell’s idea for the quilter’s college thing will work. At this point, I’m actually kind of anxious to get started.”
“Yeah. Sometimes waiting can be the hardest part.”
He almost started to tell her about how he felt between deployments, how waiting to get back into combat was almost worse than being in it, and how guilty he felt during those times, knowing that his buddies were still over there while he was home and safe, going to a movie, seeing his family, living a normal civilian life. But he never felt normal, always thinking about the day he’d go back there, because that life, that everyday struggle to survive, had become his normal. He’d lost the trick of living any other way.
But he didn’t say that. Because he didn’t want to think about it right then.
“You’ll do fine,” he said instead.
“I hope so.”
“You will.”
He craned his neck toward the trailer. Everything seemed calm. He got up from the ground and turned to face her.
“I think we ought to head toward home. You ready to do this?”
She grinned. “I am if you are.”
He reached out his hand. Holly took it and he helped her up.
Then he smiled.
CHAPTER 23
For the first day of filming, the cast and crew were to meet at the Patchwork Palace at six A.M., five hours before the shop was scheduled to open. Holly was right on time, eager to get started and to meet their director, Artie Graves.
Despite the early hour, the shop was bustling. There was a big van pulled up to the front. Two men and a woman dressed in black jeans and T-shirts were pulling cables, tripods, cameras, and lighting equipment from the van. Holly was surprised to see them setting up the equipment on the sidewalk. Nothing on the call sheet she’d gotten from the network the day before had said anything about filming the new opening outdoors. Not that that would be a bad thing necessarily; she just hadn’t been expecting it.
Now that she thought about it, the call sheet had been kind of vague. It hadn’t given any information aside from the names of the cast and crew, contact information for everyone, and the location and time they were expected to show up. Usually the details regarding locations and an outline of what they’d be doing for each specific segment would be spelled out in advance. Holly had heard that the network had hired the new director only the week before . . . after Jason fired the old director.
Maybe this new guy, Artie Graves, hadn’t had a chance to hammer out the details yet. They hadn’t had any preproduction meetings up to this point, nor had he called to introduce himself to either Holly or Mary Dell. And that was really odd. But, again, he’d only just been hired. He was probably still finding his way. Good thing that Mary Dell had a clear vision for the new season. Her “quilting college” idea really was inspired.
Being careful to step over the tangle of camera cables, Holly said good morning to the crew as she walked up the sidewalk and through the front door of the shop. Things were busy inside too. A man wearing blue jeans and a white shirt was setting up a folding privacy screen in the corner. Two women wearing blue smocks were carting what looked like big fishing-tackle boxes, which Holly was pretty sure contained makeup, up the stairs. A couple of other people, also dressed in the ubiquitous black uniform of film crews, were scurrying around carrying clipboards and looking intense. In another corner of the shop, toward the back, she saw Mary Dell talking to a man wearing a satiny shirt, pink with a black collar and sleeves, with a graphic on the back that said “Bowling Stones” and showed three white pins being knocked over by a black bowling ball.
That had to be the director, Artie. Nobody else on the crew would dare show up looking like that.
He was big and burly, standing six foot five, with a large head that looked even larger because it was covered with an unkempt mass of dull brown curls. He was sucking on a Tootsie Pop but was amazingly adept at talking with his mouth full, moving the sucker from his left to his right cheek as he spoke. But what surprised Holly most of all was his age. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than she was.
In fact, as she would later find out, Artie was only twenty-eight, had been working in television for only three years, and had only one directorial television credit to his name, actually as an assistant director, for a program titled Nudist Colony Wedding Planner. It was canceled after three episodes.
That wasn’t necessarily Artie’s fault. Shows got canceled all the time,
and it wasn’t like he’d come up with the idea. He probably just needed a job, any job. And being young didn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t be a good director. But, as she would soon discover, there was more to worry about where Artie Graves was concerned. Youth and a skimpy résumé were just the beginning.
Artie talked a lot, listened not at all, and didn’t seem to understand that they were filming an informational program, not a reality show. That was exactly what Mary Dell was trying, unsuccessfully, to explain to him.
Holly stood lingering in the doorway, listening in on the conversation.
“But I don’t think you understand the purpose of the show, Artie. We’re trying to teach people—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . I get it.” He flapped his hand dismissively. “And maybe that worked back in your day—”
“My day?” Mary Dell arched her eyebrows. “What day was that?”
“The early days of television. You know, the golden years. Hey, not saying anything against them. But let’s face it; people would watch anything you put on the box back then. They had to. There were only three channels! I mean, seriously, Sing Along with Mitch? People actually sat in their living rooms and sang along with some bandleader! What the hell was that about?”
He guffawed, spread his hands out, and dropped his jaw in disbelief.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mary Dell said. “I never saw—”
Artie plowed right over the end of her sentence. “But now there are hundreds of channels to pick from, and if you don’t keep the audience entertained . . .” He mimed picking up an imaginary remote control and hitting the channel button with his thumb. “Boom! They’re off to find somebody who will.”
“We’ve got no disagreement there,” Mary Dell said, and Holly could tell from the sound of her voice that she was trying to be patient. “We do have to keep our viewers entertained and engaged, and I have some ideas about how we can do that. But this is a quilting show. Our primary purpose is to teach people the art and craft—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. And we’ll do that. I mean, sure. We’ve got to show people how to quilt at some point. But let’s face it, Mary Dell, your ratings have tanked. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve been hired to try and bring this show back from the dead. The best way to do that—the only way,” he added, pushing his face so close to Mary Dell’s that she actually took a step backward, “is to create some drama on-camera, a little tension, a story line that’ll keep the people coming back week after week to find out what happens next. That’s my plan. I am going to turn Quintessential Quilting into water-cooler television,” he declared.
Mary Dell’s eyebrows arched again, this time with skepticism.
“You mean the kind of show that people gather around the water cooler to discuss the next day? Artie, unless those water coolers are located in quilt shops, I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. But you will.” He pulled the sucker out of his mouth and laid a big arm over her shoulders.
“You’ve got to trust me, M.D.,” he said, lowering his voice to a tone that was meant to be soothing but ended up sounding patronizing. “Let me do my job, okay? We’re going to breathe some life into this thing, I promise. And just as soon as Holly . . .”
Holly cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence. Artie turned around, beaming.
“You’re here! Great!”
He dropped his arm from Mary Dell’s shoulder and strode toward her, crossing the room in four huge steps.
“Artie Graves,” he said, pumping her hand. “Nice to meet you. Love your work. I’m your new director.”
“Holly Sil—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know all that.” He laughed and clapped his hands together once. “So. How about we get started, eh? Let’s get you two into hair and makeup; then we’ll work on wardrobe.”
“Wardrobe?” Mary Dell looked down at her outfit.
She was wearing a bright orange silk blouse over white pants, accessorized with gold hoop earrings and a multistrand necklace of orange, coral, and white beads with gold accent beads. Orange was a good color for her, and the blouse, bright and lacking any visible pattern or design, would read well on-camera.
“I’ve always worn my own clothes on the show. I called Howard last night and he helped me decide on this. I think it looks pretty good.”
“Oh, it does, M.D. But it’s not quite right for what we’re doing today.”
He put the sucker back in his mouth, laid an arm across Mary Dell’s shoulders again, took a few steps forward, put the other around Holly’s shoulders, and herded them toward the bottom of the stairs, where the women in the blue smocks were waiting.
“You know, getting the opening right is huge. It’s your calling card, a chance to hook the audience into that drama I was talking about right from the first. And that’s what we’re going to do. Trust me. You just go off with Connie and Suze, okay? I’ve already told them what I’m looking for.”
The front door of the quilt shop opened and one of the clipboard-carrying crew members stuck his head in the door.
“Artie? The dog handler called to say he got lost but he should be here in about fifteen, but the guy just showed up with the Lamborghini and the truck. He’s unloading the trailer now. Gale wants to know how you want to set up the shot.”
“Great!” Artie grinned and clapped his hands together. “This is gonna be awesome!” He headed toward the door with big, clomping steps.
“I do not like that man,” Mary Dell muttered after he left.
Holly felt the same way, but it was only the first day and she wanted to stay positive.
“Yeah. He’s different. But a Lamborghini sounds promising, doesn’t it? And a dog? Who knows? Maybe this will turn out to be fun.”
“Maybe,” Mary Dell said. “But in my experience, a man who keeps telling you to trust him is a man who can’t be trusted.”
Quintessential Quilting—Promotional Spot
Shooting in black and white, the camera pans the deserted street of a Western town. A mangy-looking hound dog lies in the middle of the road. He yawns and goes back to sleep. A tumbleweed rolls by. We see a sign....
TOO MUCH, TEXAS
HOME OF QUINTESSENTIAL QUILTING
POPULATION 1,999
Mary Dell Templeton, wearing jeans and a blue-and-white gingham blouse, tight fitting and tied in a knot at the waist and with a “big hair” style, is sitting in a rocking chair with rhinestone cat-eye reading glasses at the end of her nose, hand sewing a quilt.
Cut to the dog, who yawns again. But then his ears perk up. He lifts his head from the ground, alert. He hears something.
Cut to a long shot of a lonely road. There is a cloud of dust at the end of it. The slow and mournful, vaguely bluegrass background music that has been playing up to this point is replaced by the humming of a speeding car engine, the sound melding into a rock riff and building to a crescendo just as a sleek red Lamborghini emerges from the cloud of dust.
Initially, the red car is the only spot of color in the gray landscape, but we soon notice that when the car races through the scene, the landscape it passes is suddenly a riot of color, almost as if the exhaust coming from the vehicle were painting the landscape. It’s an effect that continues throughout the remainder of the opening.
The car speeds into town and skids to a stop in front of the porch where Mary Dell is rocking. She removes her glasses, staring at the car. The door of the Lamborghini lifts vertically. Out steps Holly Silva, wearing a red designer dress and looking fabulous—the hair, the clothes, the makeup, the nails, the shoes—she’s got it all going on.
Quick close-up. Holly shakes loose her hair and smiles seductively into the camera. Close-up of Mary Dell, who drops her jaw and then her quilt. Holly mounts the steps of the porch—again, the wash of color follows in her wake—reaches down to pick up the old-fashioned, uninteresting quilt, which is transformed at her touch into a beautiful and vibrant masterpie
ce, and hands it to Mary Dell, who still looks aghast.
Cut to Mary Dell and Holly, who stand on either side of the sign we saw earlier in the shot. Everything is in color now. While Mary Dell watches, Holly takes a bottle of nail polish, the same red as the car and her dress, and applies some to the sign. When she is done, it reads . . .
TOO MUCH, TEXAS
HOME OF THE NEW QUINTESSENTIAL QUILTING
POPULATION 1,999 + 1
The camera draws back to a wider angle so we see both women—Holly smiling to the camera and Mary Dell glaring at Holly.
Voice-over: Quintessential Quilting with Mary Dell and Holly: There’s a new sheriff in town. Tuesdays at two and Saturdays at ten. Only on the House and Home Network.
“That was miserable,” Mary Dell said, and stepped behind a folding screen in their makeshift dressing room.
“Tell me about it. If Artie told me to look into the camera and smile seductively one more time . . .” Holly plopped into a chair and started pulling off her boots. “I wanted to shove his Tootsie Pop right down his throat.”
Mary Dell’s voice came from behind the screen. “I’d a darn sight rather be asked to smile seductively than end up looking like the biggest clown at the rodeo. That slimy son of a sea slug is trying to make me the butt of the joke. I cannot believe that this was his big idea of how to boost ratings! ‘Trust me,’” she whined in a nasally imitation of the director.
The Western blouse she’d been wearing came flying up into the air and landed on top of the screen.
“That man is making me look like an idiot! And not just me but the whole town! A dog sleeping in the middle of the road . . . a tumbleweed rolling right down Main Street . . . like Too Much is just some no-account wide spot in the road. And that sign! As of the last census, we’ve got three thousand six hundred and eighty-nine people living here. More than five thousand if you count the ranches just outside of town.”
From Here to Home Page 17
