The River Valley Series

by Tess Thompson

  She turned to look at her friend just as Gennie swiped at her cheek with her hand.

  “Are you all right?”

  “It’s been a year today that Moody moved out,” said Gennie quietly. She dropped Bella’s hand and shifted onto her side. “Everyone says it takes a year to recover from divorce.”

  “Do you feel recovered?”

  “I’m broken, Bellie. I’ll never be able to have a relationship that works. You know that.” Gennie, regardless of her sensual performances, was unable to consummate any of her relationships. With Moody Gennie had believed there was a chance she would eventually soften and open to his touch, but it didn’t happen and finally out of frustration he’d ended the marriage. Bella did not know why Gennie could not bear a man’s touch. As close as they were, this was something Gennie refused to talk about.

  So, now, Bella said only this, “You and me. Kindred spirits.”

  Again they were quiet, shifting on the chaise lounges to look back up at the sky. After a few moments, Gennie stirred. “I’ve been thinking about your cosmetic line.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll invest 49% if you can come up with the 51%, and don’t say you can’t come up with that kind of money because I know Drake will give it to you. And think of it this way—it’s actually a favor to me. I’ll need some source of income after I retire, and all the other actresses have already invested in restaurants. Seriously, once I turn forty I’m dead in Hollywood and then what am I going to do? I need a backup plan.”

  Bella laughed, turning her head to look at her friend. “How long did it take you to come up with that argument?”

  “There’s more.” Gennie met Bella’s gaze, her eyes shining in the light from the house. “I’ll do the ad campaign. My face can be the company’s face.”

  “What did you just say?” Gennie never did any sort of advertising work, believing it compromised her image as a serious actress.

  “You heard me. You know it’s the sure way to make this work. Jeez, does that sound arrogant or what? I don’t mean to sound that way.”

  Bella chuckled. “It’s only arrogant if it isn’t true, which in this case it is. But I don’t know. It seems too big. I don’t know anything about running a company.”

  “Don’t be afraid to look stupid, Bella. That’s the only difference between wildly successful people and those who think, ‘what might have been?’ I’ll get us some T-shirts made that say, ‘I’m with stupid.’”

  “What if I make you look stupid too? I can’t stand the thought of that.”

  “I, clearly, am not afraid to look stupid, given the shit I do on a daily basis in front of a camera.”

  Could Bella really pursue this dream she’d talked about for so long? Here was a chance, offered up out of pure generosity from her best friend. How many others would get a chance like this? And yet, there it was like another person on the remaining chaise lounge: the fear of failure. The fear of looking like a fool in a world that loved more than anything to pile upon failure like it was something life-giving to those too afraid to look stupid themselves. The haters. They were everywhere.

  Bella’s eyes were drawn back up to the sky. “Under the stars here, it gives me the same feeling as standing by the ocean.”

  Bella shivered, the night air penetrating through the blanket. “It’s cold. We should go inside.”

  “Promise me you’ll think about my offer.”

  “I promise.”

  Chapter 2

  The next day the cast and crew of “Stone River” gathered on set, or “base-camp,” as it was called in the business, for the first day of filming at a restored farmhouse. Surrounding the farmhouse were the grip, electric, props, and camera trucks, in addition to the "star-wagons" or trailers, for the director, Richard Greenwood, Gennie, Stefan, and Tiffany, all of whom were given the three-room variety. There was also a hair and makeup trailer, where Bella would do her work, along with the wardrobe truck that was like a huge walk-in closet.

  The meeting was held in a "lunch-box," which was actually an enormous pop-out trailer with ten long tables and folding chairs. Members of the crew were there now, sipping coffee and eating breakfast. Pastries and coffee were laid out on a side table and Bella chose a cherry Danish but skipped the coffee, feeling wired from nervousness, given the proximity of Graham Rouse.

  Yes, there he was, dressed in expensive slacks and a dress shirt, looking strangely out of place amongst the rest of the crew, all wearing jeans and sweaters. Stefan, talking quietly in the corner with one of the cameramen, wore work boots, jeans, and a fleece, seeming like a native to River Valley. Must be his Canadian roots, thought Bella. She made a mental note to tease him about it later.

  Graham ambled over to her. His eyes skirted to the pastry and back to her face. He didn’t need to say anything. She knew what he was thinking. But apparently he felt the urge to say it anyway. “You’re not going to get away with eating like this forever.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be catching up with me yet.” She turned slightly so that he might catch a glimpse of her perky bottom and took a large bite of the pastry. He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept. And his hair seemed more salt than pepper than the last time she saw him. She almost wished she cared enough to ask if he was all right. But she really didn’t. It was liberating to no longer care. She was free. How had she cared for so long? Might she still be wrapped up in the dysfunction had it not been for meeting Ben? Ben. The familiar ache came back to her chest. Had she ever cared about Graham the way she did for Ben? Had he ever understood her the way Ben had seemed to? Had she ever been as attracted to him as she was to Ben? The answers were all no. Well, at least there is this, she thought. Ben had given her freedom even if he didn’t want her any longer.

  “How you been?” asked Graham. With the index finger and thumb of his right hand he twisted his wedding ring round and round. This unconscious habit had vexed Bella at one time. Now she noted it but it did not hurt her. But once? At one time it had bothered her beyond anything else, this physical manifestation of his marriage. They’d had a horrific argument over it one night. Can’t you at least take it off before you come to my house?

  She took another bite of pasty before answering. “Great.” She wiped a stray bit of cherry filling from the side of her mouth with her middle finger. Why hadn’t she grabbed a napkin?

  “I hear you’re single. Didn’t work out with that Hylink guy, huh? He wasn’t in your league anyway, Bel. You need someone from our world. Someone to challenge you.”

  “Don’t see how that’s your business. And I’m plenty challenged.”

  His eyes followed the movement of her finger. He had the same expression on his smug face before he took her to bed. “I miss you, Bel.” He said this quietly, leaning into her. “You should come by my room later. We can catch up.”

  She matched his level of volume. “It’ll be a cold day in hell if I ever visit you in the lodge or anywhere else.”

  His eyes were startled. “Then why are you here?”

  Did he think she took the gig to be near him? So typical. Her hand twitched at her side. She stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, digging her fingernails into the side of her thigh. “I’m here for Gennie. And because this is my town and I’m proud of it and want to be part of the film made here. I’m grateful we’re filming here. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t chased me up here. Other than that, I’m so far along the road I can’t even see you in my rearview mirror.”

  Richard Greenwood was heading toward the front of the room. They both turned towards him. Richard was in his late fifties, short and slightly plump, with an air of a tenured English professor but without the tweed jacket. He wore his shock of thick white hair longer than was fashionable and a close-trimmed white beard, all of which gave the impression (Bella believed rightly so) of a man who cared little what others thought of him and had no regard for his appearance.

  “You sound like a bitter old woman
,” said Graham out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I may be bitter but I’m not old.”

  He touched her lower back with his fingertips. “You’ll be back.”

  She spoke silently to him. You wear too much cologne. And get your slimy hands off me. I just picked up this sweater at the dry cleaner. She moved away from him to the pastry table and grabbed another large Danish.

  Richard clapped his hands, looking around the room with a wide grin. “Welcome to the first day of what I hope will be a time of great creativity and collaboration. I’ve worked with most of you before and am honored and humbled you’ve agreed to be part of another project. There’s not a day I don’t shake my head in disbelief that people are actually willing to pay me for doing what I love. I’ve loved the movies since before I could speak, watching at my mother’s feet the classic movies on television. It was a look of pure pleasure instead of the face of a woman who faced the hard physical work of cleaning rich people’s houses every day. In those moments she escaped into the story, into the characters. She was Grace Kelly or Katharine Hepburn or Bette Davis. And I thought then, as I do now, what better way to spend my time than to create stories people can fall into and escape from the drudgery and difficulty of this hard life? And my sensibilities have never strayed. I choose scripts with happy endings. I aim to make films that make people feel good. Films they can escape into like my mother did all those years ago. I’m scorned sometimes by the critics, these cowardly men and women who hide behind computers and say my work is fluffy and unimportant, but who are unwilling to get into the ring, as Theodore Roosevelt so aptly put it in his famous speech. ‘Another feel good movie from Richard Greenwood,’ they’ll say. There will be no Oscar nods my way.” He gestured toward his stars before putting his hand over his heart for a moment. “Although the three talents we have on this film may break my streak. How I’d love that! Regardless, I don’t care what they say about my films or me because this is who I am. The people who need our films, they come in droves. Every time. Because we give them comfort, escape, a moment away from their troubles, and there’s honor in this.

  “And now I will get off my proverbial soapbox with these last parting words. Do good work and people will notice. This is all we need to commit to, my friends, each and every day. It’s the harder way. I know this. It’s easier to cut corners, smudge the details, accept mediocrity. But this isn’t why we’re here on this earth. No, we’re here to be something bigger and more beautiful than we think we can be. It’s in the small choices, of integrity, of quality—working from our hearts and pushing ourselves a little harder than we think we can bear that adds up to something in the end. And that something is art. It’s beauty.”

  Bella, in tears, glanced around the room. Many of the others were obviously feeling the same. The burly cameraman Stefan was talking to earlier wiped under his eyes. Tears streamed down Genevieve’s face. Tiffany, holding an unlit cigarette in her hand, was staring at the ground, her cheeks flushed like two red apples. But Stefan was smiling, his hands clasped behind his back. A man content with himself, she thought. Both he and Richard were not only at the peak of their creative careers but also inhabited a tranquility, a peace about who they were and what they were doing with their lives.

  It begged the question, was this true for her? What about for Genevieve? Certainly not for Tiffany.

  Bella noticed Sabrina then, standing in the back. She was in the corner, jotting something in a notebook, pulling long blond hair over her angry scar, as she often did.

  Graham was standing by Bella again. How long had he been there? He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and spoke under his breath. “Where does Richard get this shit? Seriously.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “People like you will never know.”

  Bella walked outside, slipping into her rain jacket, shivering in the cool air. They were to film at various locations around River Valley but the primary location was this farmhouse, perched on a small hill down one of the many country roads outside of town and owned by Lee Tucker, who owned Riversong, the restaurant where Annie was head chef. Annie told her Lee had it completely restored, but the original feel of the house remained, which made it perfect for a film set in the 1930s. Bella stood gazing at the house and felt transported to a place that felt familiar in a way she couldn’t quite understand. She’d certainly never lived in a place like it when she was a child. No, it was cramped apartments with the sounds of traffic and people’s voices in the various impoverished parts of Seattle she remembered from her childhood, not a cozy and sweet house such as this. It was painted white with black shutters and had a sweeping porch with several rocking chairs.

  A week ago, the movie crew had begun work on the set. The grassy hillside was covered with trucks and equipment. The house had been stripped of its furniture and filled with set pieces, carefully selected by the set dresser from antique shops in Los Angeles, to reflect life in the late ‘30s in an Oregon logging town. Now it was expertly furnished with pieces from the era, including a wood stove and colored glassware.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bella saw Tiffany, smoking a cigarette, sitting on the wooden swing hanging from a large oak. She was dressed in an orange raincoat and black rain boots with white polka dots. Bella walked towards her. It had rained the night before and the ground was damp. Her rain boots sank into the wet grass.

  “Hey Tiffany. You doing all right?”

  Tiffany jumped. “Oh, hey Bella. Yeah, I’m fine. I guess.” She took a deep drag from her cigarette and blew it out slowly. “It’s just I can see them all looking at me, wondering if I’m going to mess up the film for all of them. Despite what people think, I’m not completely self-centered. I know they support families and if I misbehave it hurts them.”

  “So don’t. Misbehave, that is.”

  Tiffany tapped the end of her cigarette, the red tip falling in the mud. “Not as easy as it sounds, I guess. They told me at rehab to hire a sobriety coach. I’m like, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. Plus, I have my sister so far up my ass it’s pretty much like having one of those.” She paused, taking another drag of her cigarette. “I used to be good, you know. People used to look at me with respect instead of fear or dread.”

  “You’re still good. Richard wouldn’t have hired you otherwise.”

  “Richard’s speech made me feel like a loser.”

  It’s because we’re not at peace with ourselves and when you’re in the light of someone who is, it makes you feel like you might fall farther into the abyss, she thought.

  Tiffany tossed her cigarette into the mud under the swing, stomping it out with her boot. “It’s beautiful here. Sabrina and I were raised in Idaho. It’s pretty there too, except everyone’s so bass-ackwards and redneck no one like us could stand to live there.”

  No one like us? What did she mean by that? “I like backwards. It’s refreshing after living in L.A. for so long.”

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” Tiffany’s light eyes were piercing, watching, narrowed.

  “Sure I do.”

  Tiffany took in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders for a second before slumping forward in the swing. “I’m glad you’re here, Bella. It helps to have a friendly face. Someone I feel is on my side.”

  “Gennie and Stefan are on your side too. They believe in you. Both have told me how good they think you are.”

  “Really?” Tiffany’s hard face relaxed slightly, making her appear young and vulnerable. “I didn’t think either of them had an ounce of respect for me.”

  “They’re good people. Not like so many we know in the business.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her raincoat pocket and lit another. “Can’t seem to give up the smokes.” The sun glistened on the dewy grass and the air smelled of Tiffany’s cigarette. She swayed slightly on the swing, pushing at the ground with her foot. “Graham Rouse isn’t worth it, you know.”

  �
��What did you say?” It was a jolt in Bella’s stomach, like lightning on a clear day.

  “He’s not worth giving up your life in the hope he’ll do the right thing.”

  “It’s been over for months now.”

  Tiffany’s knuckles were white, gripping the rope. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I can tell by the way he looks at you. He’s in love with you.” She took another drag from her cigarette, brought it into her lungs and blew out. “My mother said I noticed all the details about people. I still do. All my self-destructive ways haven’t killed that part of me.”

  Bella was hot and her legs shaky; perspiration gathered on her nose despite the cool air. She put her hand on the tree’s rough trunk, wishing she could erase the fact she’d ever been involved with him. And that people might know? It was too much. Why had she come here? Gennie. Don’t forget Gennie needs you. Out loud, she said, “He’s in love with himself and nothing else.”

  Tiffany looked at her directly then, with clear eyes. “Good, because you’re way too good for him. You know that, right?”

  “Tiffany, sometimes I don’t know. I’m working on it. Self-love, that is. I know, it sounds so cheesy but it’s true.”

  “Me too. But the demons are always there, telling me I suck.”

  “I know.” She moved away from the tree, standing directly in front of Tiffany. “Prove to them you’re back in the game for good.”

  “The demons or the cast and crew?”

  Bella laughed. “Both.”

  Tiffany nodded, with a tremulous smile. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Screw the haters.”

  “Screw the haters.”

  Chapter 3

  Bella, at the end of Riversong’s bar, nursed a dirty martini and let Tommy’s beautiful voice and guitar-playing wash over her. Tommy was married to Lee, the owner of Riversong, and they had a beautiful little daughter, Ellie-Rose. His band, Los Fuegos, was rocking the joint, alternating between fast and slow tunes and reacting to the calls from patrons for this song or that. The restaurant turned into a bar after ten o’clock and tonight was at full capacity, the crowd mingling and dancing. Cindi, behind the bar, poured draft beers and made the occasional margarita, setting them on the end of the bar for the cocktail waitresses to carry out to waiting patrons.