by Angel Payne
And alive.
The word resonated through me as the flight attendant popped open the door and let down the stairs. While everyone joined Harry and Beth in a group cheer, I only smiled like a dork. Then whispered words for my ears alone.
“Bring it on.”
Chapter Three
‡
“Whoa.”
I wasn’t sure what else to say after climbing out of the sleek black Mercedes Sprinter that had just taken us on a thirty-minute journey from the airstrip, through Sancti’s streets, up a cyprus-lined hill to—
Where the hell were we?
“Whoa.” Beth blurted the echo as she disembarked behind me.
Harry descended from the van after her. “Now do you believe me about housing being handled?”
I slid behind Beth to whack his shoulder. As he broke into a chuckle, Beth stammered, “Harry…it’s a…”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Say it.”
“Castle.”
Accurate. But still the world’s biggest understatement.
The complex before us was a combination of Spanish citadel, French chateau, and pop star crib, with Mediterranean touches to soften the imposing architecture. The entrance drive, made of gravel embedded with sparkling stones, ended at a stone bridge arching over a turquoise river, leading to a waterfall that cascaded in the direction of the sea. The castle’s main hub was built into the cliff, as well. Bracketing it were two majestic wings, sweeping to the left and right. Everywhere we looked, verandas with elegant stone balustrades were draped in magenta, purple, orange and crimson flowers. In alcoves between the patios, there were statues of sea creatures, real and mythical, inlaid with colored glass that imparted the stone with movement every time sunlight filtered through the banyan, olive, and date palm trees.
Yeah. Dreaming. I was pretty sure of it now. But the breeze on my face, smelling of sea salt and lavender, felt wonderfully real. The crunch of the gravel beneath my feet, equally so. And Harry’s hand on my shoulder, joined to the one he wrapped around Beth, was solid with confidence. “So does this beat a cot and some centipedes?”
Beth gaped. “We’re staying here?”
His smirk widened. “Production offices will be here, too. The whole north wing is ours for the next six weeks.”
I shook my head. “But where is ‘here’? What is this?”
Harry stared like I’d asked who was buried in Grant’s tomb. “You don’t recognize it?”
“Should I?”
“This is Palais Arcadia. I sent you a file about it. Did you look at it?”
“At the specs, not the pictures. There were already so many photos to look at, I skipped the palais shots. All I needed to know was the space we’d be getting in the offices.” To his eye roll, I snapped, “Remember me? The girl working two jobs before we left? Sorry I didn’t pay attention to your entire travel brochure, Mr. Dane.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Chill. I’m about to repeat a lot of it, anyway. Come on.” Back to business. He never liked wasting time. “I’ve asked everyone to meet in the central atrium so we can go over some things and assign rooms.”
As we entered the castle—the palais—the feeling returned, stronger than ever, that this was my brain’s elaborate hoax and I’d soon wake up in Lake Forest, peering out the window at June gloom clouds. But everything stayed solid as we walked beneath an ornate archway, past soaring oak doors and through an entrance foyer that rivalled most five-star hotels in its marble and gold glory. A balcony above was fronted by a sheet of glass resembling an ocean swell. The “wave” was given definition by flowing golden inlays depicting dolphins, mermaids, and etched sea bubbles. I’d never seen anything like it. Like any of this.
We progressed through an archway beneath the balcony, finally emerging into a huge courtyard surrounded by more lush greenery. As we entered, Arcadian servers in gold and white livery approached, bearing trays piled with fresh-cut tropical fruit. Nearby, tables were laid out with pitchers of water and juice. Things didn’t stay very quiet after that. As more of the crew filed into the atrium, excited chatter crackled the air. Between our English conversations, tentative threads of communication were started with the Arcadians. It was easy to discern the difference. Like everyone else, I’d crammed in a few lessons about the basics of their language. It was built on a Latin base, though the ugliness was sifted out with French and Turkish influences.
“Hello.”
“Merjour. And…umm…welcome to Arcadia.”
“Hey, that was good!”
“Merderim.”
“Merderim to you, too. The fruit is…errr…good? Bonrika?”
“Ahh! C’est perfect!”
“You have a beautiful country.”
“Merderim.”
It made me smile to witness the exchanges. We were like kids getting to know each other on a playground. Wasn’t a bad way to view the world, when hearts and minds were open—though it was a bigger step for the Arcadians than for us. We had no real way of knowing how they were taught to view the outside world, so prepared ourselves for every greeting between glares and gunpoint. But liveried servants and fresh fruit trays? Hadn’t made anyone’s radar, mine included.
Weirdly, while everyone else relaxed, Harry’s tension visibly grew. I slid a what-the-hell look at him but he responded by circling a finger in the air, a silent request to get everyone rounded up. I complied, watching the two hundred members of our team quickly fill in the atrium’s empty spaces. Our number was less than half of what it took for a normal film crew, but it was all Arcadia would allow so we’d hand-picked everyone with care. Every person here would be covering their normal work load by double, sometimes triple. I was already grateful for their commitment.
“Settle in, everyone. I know we’re all tired so I won’t take long.” Harry waited for everyone to mute their chatter. Took about a minute. Tired might have applied to everyone, but so did excited. After getting the clearance from one of the Arcadians, he hopped on the edge of a planter and joined his hands as if preparing to pray. I held back a giggle. Paging Dr. Freud.
“Okay,” he announced with a wide smile, “we’re here!” Happy but weary applause broke out. “First, I’d like to thank you all in advance for what’s likely to be one of the hardest shoots of your life—but I guarantee it’ll be one of the most memorable. As you know, simply by being here, you have all become a part of world history.”
He spread his arms toward the soaring glass walls around us. Their shiny panels were patterned with the few clouds drifting overhead. “As you can tell, the Arcadians are just as psyched about having us here. The royal family of the kingdom, the Cimarrons themselves, have opened their home to us. The Palais Arcadia will be our main operations hub and living quarters while we are here.” Another excited buzz broke out. Harry brought his arms back in. “Okay, settle. This isn’t like your old roommate inviting you to party at his uncle’s place at Malibu for the weekend. This is where the Cimarrons live and work, including the business of running their country.”
One of the cameramen near the back called out, “But it’s not an absolute monarchy, right?”
“Correct.” Harry nodded. “Arcadia is a constitutional monarchy, run similarly to our big corporations at home. King Evrest presides over everything directly involving the ‘business’ of the country. Though he’s been trained for the job since boyhood and his word carries extra power on all matters the High Counsel rules on, he gets no vote or veto leverage. But don’t misinterpret that. ‘Extra power’ means extra power. The man has a crap-ton of challenges on his shoulders every day. We will not become another.”
The cameraman’s buddy launched into a flawless mobster drawl. “So he don’t got no official vote, but unofficially, he and Guido are quite effective, ya know?”
Everyone’s chuckles rose then died before Harry drawled, “Thanks for the lead-in, guys.” He scanned the crowd again. “I doubt Evrest has a Guido hiding in the closet but you’ll
find me breaking your knees if anyone from this team disrespects, defaces, or destroys a shred of Arcadian person or property while we’re here.” His face tightened. Don’t sign off on the whole diatribe yet, guys. “It’s why I’m taking a zero tolerance line on fraternization with the locals. I know some of you will have your Harry Dane voodoo dolls out for this, but you’re all ordered to stick to the beach and the north wing when we’re not working. No self-guided tours of the south wing or any other part of the island. We’ve worked too hard to gain Arcadia’s trust, and Hollywood-Gone-Wild isn’t the impression we’ll leave as our legacy. Shake your groove thing with each other as much as you want but, if you’re caught with your pants down around Arcadian ass of either gender, you’ll be sent home on the next flight out. I guarantee you won’t leave with just my wrath on your head. The crew members who’ll pick up your slack might have some choice farewell gestures, too.”
The two production assistants started a whispered exchange. I hid my grin while picking up every word.
“Dammit. Of all places to be given a hands-off on the local boys.”
“Right? Did you see the guns on the guy who helped with our luggage?”
“Did you see his ass?”
“And that ginger with the fruit tray over there? Get him out of that steampunk shit and into some tight black leather, I’ll even let him drag out the handcuffs.”
“If every man in this place is like that, I may be on a plane soon.”
“Not if every chica in this place is like that, too.”
“Ssshh; he’s talking about rooming assignments.”
“Thank God.”
I forgot about the exchange as soon as the housing arrangements were clarified. It still stunned me that the castle’s north wing would accommodate everyone from the crew plus production offices. Granted, nearly everyone was tripling or quadrupling up, with the exception of Harry, myself, Beth, and her leading man, Crowe Cowan. I liked Crowe. Though he hadn’t gone to Chapman with us, he was a USC theater school graduate who’d done a lot of work with Harry already. A tall, striking Irishman with a diligent work ethic, he was a perfect prince to Beth’s princess in the story we were filming, a hybrid of The Princess and the Pea and The Ugly Duckling based on an original script by Harry and his writing partner, Trent Arris.
After the meeting, we were welcomed to an early lunch on the huge lawn outside. As waves crashed on the beach below, we dug in to a buffet of fresh-caught shrimp and clams, exotic salads with tangy fruit, sandwiches on bread that tasted like heaven, and desserts that were too pretty to eat.
After the meal, everyone was given the afternoon off—except production leadership. I wasn’t surprised by the meeting Harry called for us in his room. I went directly there while sending my luggage ahead to mine. I knew better than to let my body hit a bed right now. Once that happened, I’d be down for at least nine hours straight.
On the other hand, entering Harry’s suite was nearly enough to knock me out.
“Holy shit.” The words tumbled out before I could help it. The “room” was a small palace in its own right, starting with a sitting area containing three expansive leather couches and a wrought iron table, complimented by a stacked stone water feature along the wall. Double doors of carved walnut opened to a bedroom with a canopy bed draped in velvet throws. The rooms overlooked a wrap-around terrace with a built-in hot tub and dining set for eight. “So do you prefer ‘Your Highness’ or simply ‘Harry, God of Everything the Light Touches’?”
“Shut up.” Harry grinned while grabbing his laptop and briefcase. I was captivated by his purposeful stride across the room. Though it was clear the surroundings thrilled him, that wasn’t the key source of his vigor. We were about to create a movie, and Harry Dane was a guy born to make movies. The person who knew it best was the man himself, to the core of his whole body. He’d never veered from that knowledge in his life. For that, I deeply envied him.
Harry continued out to the patio. “We need to have this meeting, but let’s at least make it pleasant.” He seated himself at the head of the table, waiting for everyone to settle in. There were a good dozen of us so some stood while others dragged chairs out from the room. By the time that was done, he had his all-business face sealed in place.
Joel, our double-duty location manager and production designer, arched his bold Italian brows. “Is this the part where you tell us we have to cut two days off the shoot and deal with a monsoon next week?”
While he was answered with a round of chuckles, Harry’s wince did little to ease my nerves. “Well…”
“Well what?” Beth stole the charge off my lips.
“Depending on how you look at it, this could be worse.” Harry took a visible lungful of breath, anticipating the growing tension around the table. “The Cimarrons have informed me they’re arranging a full Arcadian welcome party for us…tonight.”
More than half the group groaned. Others, like me, expelled disbelieving sighs. “At least you said tonight,” drawled Dottie, a friend from Chapman who’d been working on films since graduation, and was already my right hand for anything involving hair, makeup, or costuming. “If we hurry through what we’ve got to discuss here, we can all go comatose for a few hours, right?”
I wondered why Harry’s face crunched tighter. “Normally, yes. But the event is being labeled as a full state dinner, meaning we’re expected to attend in traditional Arcadian attire.”
Crowe leaned forward. “You mean like the doublets, cravats, and Hessians that the staff are dressed in?”
We all burst into laughter. Except Harry. “Actually, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Joel chuffed. “Dammit. I knew I should have picked up my medieval monkey suit from the dry cleaners before we left.” He finished with mocking British inflection. “Sorry, mate.”
Harry sent an apologetic smirk down the table. “They’ve anticipated that, mate. Court dressers will be coming to all the guys’ rooms in three hours, with full attire for us to choose from. Girls, I’m afraid you get the ‘royal treatment’ in two hours. As usual, your primping takes longer.”
“Imagine that,” Joel muttered. Dot tossed her Bettie Page curls over a shoulder before leaning to smack his.
This time, I joined the groan fest. “I don’t suppose all those action items on your screen are going to take a fast fifteen minutes to review?”
Beth looked nearly ready to cry. “Hell. I’ll look like a zombie tonight without any sleep.”
“Makeup covers a lot of ugly,” Dottie told her. “I just hope I don’t pass out into the soup.”
I focused on Zen breathing toward the peaceful beach scene on my smart pad screen. Didn’t help my craving to slap Harry for accepting the party invite.
And you wouldn’t have done the same thing in his shoes?
The guy had to go and crank up my guilt by being Mr. Textbook Boyfriend with Beth, kissing her fingers before whispering, “You’ll be nothing short of stunning, kitten.”
Thank God I had a friendly email from Faye to focus on. And a chat bubble from Mom to ignore. By then, ten seconds had passed and Leif Carlson, the art director for the film, threw out a huge enough eye roll for both of us. “Can I be ill at you two now so I don’t get vomit on my delicious Arcadian finery?”
Joel snickered. “Does hurling on the finery count as defiling an Arcadian?”
“Must be time to get this meeting started.” Harry struggled to tame his quirking lips.
“Motion seconded,” Leif said.
“I’ll third.” My quip was just as much a bid to stay awake as it was to get this cart rolling again. Now that my work day had been lengthened by a “state dinner” and at least three more hours, I’d need all the help I could get. I just had to weigh the etiquette of requesting a dozen espresso shots and a pot of coffee chaser along with my finery delivery.
*
The coffee? Not a problem to procure.
Its effects? Different story.
I stood, jitte
ry as a misplaced Cinderella, holding up the wall of a ballroom that could fit both planes we’d flown in on. But despite the cavernous dimensions, every corner glowed with warm light, making the scene feel more like an elegant house party than a state dinner. The majority of that task was accomplished by six chandeliers, each at least twelve feet long and comprised of hanging crystals blown to resemble sea kelp. The wall sconces in the room were fashioned in the same flowing design. Extra light was imbued by candelabras on floor stands, filled with lighted tapers that gave the room a gentle rhythm.
If only my pulse would take the same hint.
Standing between Beth and Leif, I was grateful for the glass of water braced between my hands. At least they had an excuse to keep still. Couldn’t say the same for the vein throbbing at the base of my throat, or the frantic drum solo my left foot decided to tap. The latter was the most unnerving, a reminder that despite my fondest wishes, I hadn’t become a statue. I sighed, resigned to feeling this dorky and naked for the rest of the night.
“For the love of fucking Triton.” Leif squeezed my elbow. “Stop fidgeting. You look amazing. Why are you so nervous?”
Bristled glare. “Everything’s hinky. I feel…backwards.”
He yanked the glass from me. Plopped it on a waiter’s passing tray. Then as if he really hadn’t just given away my pacifier, resumed his droll scan of the ballroom. “Hmmm. Explain.”
“My face is covered in makeup goop and my crotch is covered in tissue paper. Clear enough?”
As he spurted a laugh, Beth leaned over. She hailed from the damn Galaxy of Gorgeous now, glossy and glam in a dress similar to mine, only black and shimmery. “Come on, Cam. The undies are a little better than that.”
I squirmed, unwilling to admit she was right. My Arcadian stylist, a perky thing named Rosetta who looked like she really lived in a rose and ate nothing but dewdrops, had been the bearer of my new “lingerie” for the night—after stripping me all the way out of my traveling clothes, of course. The panties were an exact match to my turquoise floor-length gown, which actually had yanked my breath when I saw it. The combination of Grecian toga and Indian sari flaunted and teased at the same time. The blessing and curse about that? The fabric felt spun from the fuzz off babies’ butts, meaning the panties also felt like nothing. Not the best set-up for going to a dinner with several hundred other people, including everyone in the Arcadian royal family.
