Or was he? A thought struck her then: Keith had national holidays off, so Labor Day weekend wouldn’t have cost him any vacation days. And something about Gina’s letter was strangely familiar, too. Megan recognized in Gina’s strained apologies the same excuses she herself had made for Keith for so many years.
Gina was expecting, and it was while Megan was carrying Robby that Keith had first turned away from her. Surely Gina would remember that.
As Megan threw the letter away, she wished her former rival luck. Unless Keith had truly changed, she would need it.
If not for the lifeline her upcoming role in A Patchwork Life provided, Julia thought the new fall television schedule might have driven her to drink or to her plastic surgeon’s office for another face-lift. She couldn’t believe the cheap vulgarity that passed itself off as comedy these days, and as for the dramas, she had never witnessed such self-indulgent whining in all her life. She could click from channel to channel all day long and see nothing but beautiful twenty-somethings bemoaning the trivia of their empty lives. It sickened her almost to the point of throwing her flat-screen, high-definition television into the swimming pool, but it had been one of the few possessions she had argued out of her third husband’s clutches during the divorce proceedings, and, knowing how much he had treasured it, she intended to hold on to her trophy until its wires fused together.
Occasionally an especially inane scene would have Julia seething. Her assistant had long ago adopted the policy of leaving the room whenever Julia turned on the television, so Julia had no one to complain to except the actors on the screen. Not only was that unsatisfying, it made Julia feel uncomfortably like some elderly eccentric who had lost touch with reality. She had enough insecurities about her age without adding that one to the list.
Eventually she abandoned her critique of the fall television season and resumed practicing her quilting. After her return from quilt camp, she had sent her assistant out in search of the supplies she would need to perfect her skills. Since most of her quilting scenes involved hand-quilting, Julia set her pieced and appliqué blocks aside. At camp, one of the Elm Creek instructors had traced a pineapple motif on a piece of unbleached muslin for her; now Julia placed it on top of cotton batting and another piece of muslin and held the layers snugly together in a lap hoop. With a short needle called a “between” and a piece of cotton quilting thread, Julia worked the needle through the layers along the traced line until the picture began to emerge from the smooth muslin. As the weeks passed, the rocking motions of hand-quilting became more familiar until her work acquired a soothing rhythm. Often she would sit outside on the patio of her hilltop estate in Malibu, quilting and enjoying the fragrances of orange trees and flamevine as a gentle breeze tinkled wind chimes overhead. As her stitches became smaller and more even with practice, she wished she could show the Cross-Country Quilters how much progress she had made.
Already quilt camp and the Cross-Country Quilters had taken on an air of unreality, like something out of a vivid dream only dimly remembered. It was hard to imagine herself confiding in a group of women who were, after all, little more than strangers, especially considering how fiercely she usually guarded her privacy. Still, Julia found herself missing Elm Creek Manor and wishing for a dose of Vinnie’s sharp humor, Donna’s optimistic kindness, and the encouragement and companionship of the whole group—especially after Ares would phone with updates on the movie, reawakening Julia’s fears that she wouldn’t be able to quilt convincingly enough and the director would denounce her as a fraud.
Julia had expected the Cross-Country Quilters to write, especially Donna and Megan, who were avid email correspondents, but the weeks passed without a word. She even took to sorting her own mail, but after a few days she returned the task to her assistant. Perhaps they were waiting to hear from her first, but somehow Julia couldn’t bring herself to initiate the correspondence. Or perhaps they weren’t as close as Julia had thought. Maybe they had only exchanged addresses to be polite. It had been so long since she’d had a friend that she was unfamiliar with the etiquette of such things.
At the end of September, Julia and Ares went to the first of several script meetings. On the way to the studio, Ares filled her in on the rest of the cast. The good news was that the role of Young Sadie had been given to Samantha Key, a virtually unknown actress with only a few bit parts to her credit. She couldn’t afford to play the diva, not with Deneford, so Julia needn’t fear she’d try to expand her role at Julia’s expense. Julia had never heard of Cameron Miller, who would play her younger son, but Noah McCleod, the elder Henderson boy, had a reputation for being talented, professional, and down-to-earth. She had worked frequently with child actors on Family Tree, and Julia was confident she’d get along fine with the two young men.
She was less pleased to hear that Rick Rowen had won the role of Augustus. She had worked with him only once, when they had cohosted a holiday special three years before, but he had been an arrogant man then, and rumor had it he had become even worse after People magazine named him one of its Fifty Most Beautiful People. Only a month ago, his latest movie, an action film set in South America, had premiered at number one and held steady, which meant that he was no doubt being buried in offers for which he could name his salary. Given his elevated circumstances, Julia wondered why he had accepted a small role in a serious drama and decided that he must have signed the contract before his fortunes rose. Working with him was sure to be excruciating. Fortunately, Augustus would be dead by the second reel.
When she and Ares arrived at Deneford’s conference room, Julia realized at once that they would not be reading from the script, as indicated by the agenda faxed to her the previous day. The sheer number of agents in the room told her they were in for some negotiations first, and as much as she disliked Ares, she was suddenly glad that he had accompanied her. Rick looked bored and cocky, Samantha gazed listlessly at the table, but their agents radiated caffeinated energy. They eyed Julia with carnivorous eagerness as she entered, and only then did she note that the children and their ubiquitous mothers were not present, which suggested they were in for a brawl.
Deneford sat at the head of the table. In her younger years Julia would have seated herself at his right hand, the better to make suggestive eye contact and accidentally brush her leg against his beneath the table throughout the meeting, but in this light she knew distance would be more flattering. She chose the chair directly across from Deneford at the foot of the table, where she would be sure to catch his eye now and then. Ares took a seat at her left hand; to her right sat Ellen Henderson.
When Julia greeted her, Ellen whispered bleakly, “Did you hear? I’m out as director.”
“I know, dear,” Julia said sympathetically, and it struck her that she sounded exactly like Vinnie.
“This was supposed to be my breakthrough project.”
“It still can be. You’re still the writer. You’ll receive plenty of recognition for that.”
Just then, Deneford spoke. “Since we’re all here, let’s get started.” He turned to Rick’s agent, a young man with dark, slicked-back hair who looked vaguely familiar. “Jim, since you have the most to say, I’ll let you begin.”
“Rick isn’t happy with the script,” Jim said. “His talents aren’t being fully utilized.”
Talents? Julia thought scathingly.
Deneford shrugged. “He liked the script just fine when he first read it.”
“That was before Jungle Vengeance.” Jim looked around the table as if to enlist the others’ support, which surely he knew was a wasted effort. “Let’s be honest here. Does it really make sense to kill off your male lead so early in the picture?”
“But that’s how it really happened,” Ellen interjected.
Jim gave her a withering look, then ignored her. “A lot of people are going to consider this a Rick Rowen film. They’re going to see it because they want to see Rick Rowen. Do we really want to disappoint them?”
Ares
said, “You’re kidding, right? This is a Julia Merchaud film.”
You’d better believe it, Julia thought.
“That’s funny, I thought it was a Stephen Deneford film,” Deneford said dryly. “Okay, Jim, you’ve made your point. And I agree with you to a certain extent. The last two thirds of the story—”
“Turn it into a chick movie,” Rick interrupted. Samantha stirred long enough to give him a sidelong look, but then her gaze reverted to the table-top. “I don’t do chick movies.”
“Chick movie?” Ellen bristled. “This is a movie about women—strong, intelligent women going about the difficult business of living in nearly impossible circumstances.”
Rick shrugged, puzzled. “Right. A chick movie.”
Jim leaned toward Deneford as if they were alone in the room. “We both know Rick Rowen’s presence in this picture guarantees a huge opening weekend —if word of mouth is good. It won’t be if his fans don’t get to see enough of him.”
“Now I’m barely making a cameo appearance,” Rick complained. He flipped through the script, shaking his head. “It should be Augustus, not Sadie, who keeps the farm from going up in flames. He should be the one to scare off the claim jumpers. I mean, come on, who’s going to believe a woman did all that?”
In a cold and steady voice, Ellen said, “That’s how it really happened.”
“How it really happened doesn’t matter,” Deneford said. “What matters is that it’s believable.”
“You mean as believable as one man saving a legion of Green Berets from the entire Colombian army?”
“That could happen,” Rick shot back.
Ellen snorted disgustedly and sat back in her chair, folding her arms.
“I fail to see what’s so unbelievable about a woman performing heroic acts,” Julia said. “Especially to protect her children. Women were widowed all the time on the frontier. They could hardly afford to wait around for a man to rescue them.”
Ellen shot her a grateful look. Julia gave her a small nod in return, her con-science pricking her. She had spoken up to protect her role, not the integrity of Ellen’s script. The scene where Sadie faced down the unscrupulous cattle ranchers with nothing more than an unloaded rifle and a pitchfork contained one of the film’s best monologues. Julia wasn’t about to let Rick Rowen get it instead.
Jim’s attention was still on Deneford. “Given Rick’s draw, would it really be such a bad idea to steer the picture in a more action-adventure-type direction?”
Deneford stroked his chin, thinking.
Encouraged, Jim pressed ahead. “It would be like Little House on the Prairie meets Die Hard.”
Suddenly Samantha spoke up. “I like Little House on the Prairie.”
Everyone stared at her for a moment before her agent jumped in. “If Samantha likes it, I have no argument with expanding Rick’s part.”
“Hold on just a second,” Ares said, without needing any prompting from Julia. “I’m not about to let Julia’s best scenes go to Rowen. We’re ready to walk away right now.”
Julia felt a flash of panic as he shoved his chair away from the table, but to her relief, Deneford held up his hands. “Julia won’t have to sacrifice any of her screen time. We’ll just cut out some of the domestic scenes and add new material for Rick.”
“Domestic scenes?” Ellen echoed sharply.
“Not all of them. In fact, since Augustus will be sticking around, we’ll probably need a few love scenes between him and Sadie.” He looked at Jim. “Any problems with that?”
Jim glanced at Rick, who grinned. “No problems,” Jim said, than glanced at Julia. “Um, which Sadie are we talking about?”
“Julia.”
Jim made a barely perceptible wince and glanced at Julia once again. “I’ll have to speak to my client.” As he bent his mouth close to Rick’s ear, Julia pictured herself leaping across the table to claw his eyes out. She knew what he was whispering into the young actor’s ear—would he be willing to do love scenes with, to put it politely, an actress of Julia’s maturity? How dare he, and right in front of her. It took all her strength of will to keep her expression serene.
When Jim straightened, Rick grinned. “I’m cool with that,” he said, leering at Julia. “When I was a kid I used to dream about doing it with the mom from Home Sweet Home.”
“How charming,” Julia muttered, as disgusted as she was surprised that someone his age remembered her first series.
“Fine. Augustus lives, Augustus and Sadie have a roll or two in the hay, maybe literally, everyone’s happy.” Deneford raised his eyebrows at Ellen. “Can you make those changes without delaying our production schedule?”
Ellen looked faintly ill.
“If you can’t do it, say the word and I’ll get a team of studio writers—”
“I’ll do it,” Ellen said quickly. She slumped back in her chair in disbelief.
After a brief discussion of the production schedule, the meeting broke up. Julia and Ares went out to the parking lot, where Ellen caught up to them and asked to speak with Julia privately.
“I can’t believe they want so many changes,” Ellen said. “I’ve never written by committee before. Is this typical?”
“That’s part of the business.” Julia patted her on the arm and smiled. She was in a good mood, since the meeting had worked out largely in her favor. She hadn’t lost a moment of screen time, and although Rick disgusted her, a few love scenes with a popular young actor couldn’t hurt her image. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it.”
Ellen looked dubious. “I’m afraid they’re going to ruin my movie.”
It’s Deneford’s movie now, Julia almost said, but she decided to be kind. “Nonsense. You’re a gifted writer. I’m sure the revisions will be just as wonderful as the original.”
“If you say so, I’ll believe you. I feel like you’re the only person who shares my vision about this project. You’re the only one who cares about my great-grandmother’s history as much as I do.”
Julia forced herself to keep her smile in place. “Of course I do.” She patted Ellen on the arm again and hurried off to her car before the conversation could make her even more uncomfortable.
Grace returned home from the doctor’s office in a gray fog of depression. Her condition was unchanged—no better, no worse. She was lucky, according to the doctor, especially after she told him about the minor exacerbations she had experienced at quilt camp. “No exacerbation can be considered minor,” he reminded her for what must have been the thousandth time. “You need to take it easy. Stress can aggravate MS.”
MS. He tossed off the initials so casually, as if her life weren’t at stake. Grace knew he was not trying to be unkind; he was so used to treating multiple sclerosis patients that he had learned to be matter-of-fact with the disease, while she still treated it warily, like an enemy who had moved into her home, some-one she could not ignore but must address with cautious respect.
For nearly eight years Grace had experienced strange symptoms—tingling in her hands and feet, pain in her eyes and problems with her vision, and slight uncoordination. The symptoms would flare up unexpectedly, then completely disappear. So much time elapsed between occurrences that she attributed the odd sensations to stress, fatigue, poor circulation, and over-work, and in fact, the first few doctors she consulted had made the same diagnosis. Not until a frightening incident four years before had Grace, at Justine’s insistence, pursued a more aggressive search for answers.
She had been driving to the deYoung Museum to study some new acquisitions when suddenly her hands felt as if they were being pricked by hundreds of needles. Her hands gripped the steering wheel clumsily, and suddenly alarmed, she set a turn signal and pulled over to the shoulder of the freeway. When she tried to ease off the gas and apply the brake, her right foot was numb and unresponsive. Grace used all her force of will to command her sluggish foot to move—and it did, but too late to prevent the car from slamming into the guard rail.
Although the car sustained substantial damage in the accident, she was physically uninjured but emotionally traumatized. Her little difficulties, as she had called them, had never affected her so strongly before. What if she had been on a road with no guard rail? What if she had struck another car and injured its occupants? She could not trust herself to drive again until she knew for certain what was wrong with her.
She consulted one doctor after another. Some found nothing wrong with her; others suggested she try antidepressants. Grace, who knew her emotional state was a symptom and not the cause of her physical problems, persisted. She underwent blood tests and CT scans, none of which yielded any conclusive answers. Finally a practitioner of alternative medicine provided some help. She suggested that Grace was suffering from some autoimmune response to toxins in her environment. Purging her home and her diet of harmful chemicals, combined with daily meditation, might help her manage her symptoms.
At first Grace was skeptical, but to her grateful surprise, the prescription seemed to work. At least she certainly felt healthier, more relaxed and at peace. She even began driving confidently again. But three months into her treatment, Grace’s symptoms returned with such force that she went to the emergency room, certain she was having a stroke. That was where she was referred to Dr. Steiner, who took a clinical history, ordered an MRI and a spinal tap, and determined she had MS.
She had been seeing him ever since, as well as participating in clinical trials and learning all she could about the disease. At first she retained some confidence, because it seemed that her disease followed a relapsing-remitting course, which meant that she could expect some or even complete recovery between attacks. But as the months dragged by with no new advances in treatment, no miraculous remissions or sudden leaps forward in the medical understanding of MS, her faith began to ebb. Dr. Steiner had never tried to conceal her prognosis, and she knew she was looking at a future of possible incapacitation, the abandonment of all the activities she cherished, and total dependence—the one thing she simply could not bear.
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 73
