Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “She seems like a nice girl,” Greer said.

  “Allie’s great. Got her head on straight, despite her screwed-up parents, which is a major miracle. She makes pretty good grades in school, and she’s been waitressing since she was fifteen, trying to save up for her first car.”

  “How did you happen to become her guardian? Her grandparents aren’t in the picture anymore?”

  “Like I said, Amanda’s parents are gone. My folks are both retired and in their seventies. They live in one of those retirement villages near Ocala. Dad has Alzheimer’s, and there’s no way my mom could handle a teenager. So that leaves me and Ginny.”

  He smiled. “Poor girl.”

  “You can’t be doing that bad a job. You said yourself she’s a good kid, works hard, and makes decent grades. How long have you had her?”

  He considered the question. “She’s seventeen now, and she came to live with Gin and me when she was thirteen, I guess. Nearly four years. It’s not always hearts and flowers. I wouldn’t wish a teenage girl on my worst enemy.”

  “And yet?” The question hung in the air.

  “She has her moments,” Eb admitted. He looked around the empty dining room and spotted the manager, Rebecca, counting out the cash register. He motioned to her and she came over.

  “Rebecca, is it too late for another beer for me?” He glanced at Greer. “You want another coffee? Or some kind of after-dinner drink?”

  “I can do that,” Rebecca said. Turning to Greer, she asked, “Anything?”

  “Maybe a sambuca?”

  “Be right back,” Rebecca said.

  * * *

  While they were waiting for their drinks, Eb tried to analyze why he was feeling this nagging attraction for Greer Hennessy, who was already becoming a major annoyance in his life.

  She was beautiful, yes, but not in an obvious way. He liked her thick mane of curly, dark blond hair, especially the way she was wearing it tonight, falling loose around her shoulders. She had wide, intelligent brown eyes that seemed to take in everything, a generous mouth, and a genuine smile. Greer wasn’t a fussy girly-girl but she knew how to dress, and he especially liked the way her skin glowed against the white cotton dress she was wearing tonight, and the way the loosely tied drawstring neckline kept slipping dangerously off her shoulder.

  Their drinks arrived, along with their checks. Greer handed Rebecca her credit card, and Eb sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “So. You’ve heard enough of my dysfunctional family history. Tell me about you. How’d a nice girl like you get in a racket like this? I mean, movie location scout—is that something you study in college?”

  “On this project I’m actually location manager as well as scout. I guess you could say it’s a job I was born to do.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I grew up in L.A. Which is still very much a company town. I’m the third generation in my family to be in the business. My grandmother started out as a bit player in the late forties and ended up working as a seamstress in studio costume departments. My mom was an actress, mostly television.”

  “And your father?” Eb asked. “Was he in the business too?”

  Her smile dimmed a little. “I guess. He was a stuntman. But my mother was the one who pushed me into the business. One day she mentioned that they were looking for a location to shoot a scene at her character’s kid’s school, and I volunteered to get the principal of my elementary school to allow them to shoot in our cafeteria. I got paid a hundred dollar finder’s fee. After that, I was hooked.”

  “You were never interested in acting? You’re certainly pretty enough.”

  “Thanks, but no, I’m not pretty enough. Just pretty doesn’t cut it in the business. You’ve got to be beautiful. The camera has to love you. And you have to love it back. Seeing how hard my mom had to work at getting work over the years, and then worrying about aging? That life never appealed to me.”

  “Would I have heard of your mom? I mean, is she famous?”

  “She certainly thought so,” Greer said wryly. “She died a couple months ago. Her name was Lise Grant. She played the mom for a couple seasons in an eighties sitcom called The Neighborhood Menace.”

  Eb scrunched up his face, searching his memory bank. “Sorry. About your mom and the fact that I don’t think I ever saw her show.”

  “Thanks,” Greer said. “I guess I got my real start ten years ago, working as a production assistant on a music video shoot.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A P.A. is a glorified gofer. They do whatever needs doing, from fetching coffee to driving another crew member to running errands. The pay is crap, but you meet a lot of people, and if you’re willing to do anything, and work under any circumstances, you can work your way up the ladder. That’s what I did, and that’s how I ended up here in Cypress Key, scouting for Beach Town.”

  “You never really told me exactly how you found us,” Eb reminded her. “We’re not exactly on the beaten path.”

  “Sometimes I just get a vibe for a place and I know it’s right. And when I drove into Cypress Key and saw the pier, and the casino, I knew.”

  “Are you and Vanessa Littrell now conspiring against me?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a conspiracy,” Greer said, choosing her words carefully. “Let’s just say we agree that you’re all wrong on the matter of the casino. Seriously wrong. The city isn’t using the place, and face it, it’s crumbling, even as we speak. But if you’ll allow us to use it for the film we’ll pay you enough in fees that you’ll be able to get a start on a new building on the city’s own land. One that people can actually use.”

  “And how do you know so much about the condition of the casino?”

  “I’ve studied it with binoculars. Seen all the seagulls perching on the roof, which is damaged and sagging badly, and anybody can see several of the windows are busted out. The place is structurally unsound and you know it.”

  “Bullshit,” he said, and the wooden chair squeaked as he shifted his weight to lean forward. “You’ve been in there, haven’t you?”

  “Who me?”

  “There are NO TRESPASSING signs posted all over the place. If you broke in there, you’re breaking the law.”

  “Who says I broke in?” Greer sipped her sambuca and tried to look innocent.

  “You must have, otherwise you wouldn’t know what kind of shape the casino is in. C’mon. Fess up.”

  “Only if you swear not to have me arrested,” Greer retorted.

  He raised both hands in a surrender gesture.

  “Swear it,” Greer said. “On your honor, as the mayor.”

  “I swear I won’t have your cute butt arrested and thrown in the pokey.”

  “I might have figured a way to take a tour of the casino,” Greer admitted. “It’s a beautiful old building. Such a shame for it to sit there, boarded up. How old is it, exactly?”

  “Construction started in the teens but stopped when the first builder went bust. Finally, Manning Littrell—he was Vanessa’s great-grandfather—finished it and opened it for business in 1923.”

  “Was it actually a gambling casino? I didn’t know gambling was ever legal in Florida.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of casino,” Eb explained. “That was just a popular term during the time. It was originally a dance hall. Littrell brought in bands of the era for weekly dances and parties, and people came to Cypress Key from all over to dance. The rumor is that, during Prohibition, Chicago mobsters shipped hooch in here from Cuba and you could buy it under the counter. The casino was really big with servicemen during the war years, when guys home from leave would go to meet girls. In the fifties, the Littrells added a bowling alley on the second floor, but there was a big hurricane a few years later that literally blew the roof off the place, and they never rebuilt the top floor. Later on, in the sixties and seventies, rock bands played there. My parents actually met at there at a Tams concert. At some point in the seventies, Vanessa’s parents turned
it into a roller rink. And eventually it morphed into a bingo parlor and then, when the city leased it, a senior center.”

  “If it’s such a big part of the city’s history, why close it?” Greer asked.

  “The roof,” Eb said. “When the Littrells removed the second story, they just slapped a new roof on the first floor and called it a day. Over the years, other roofs were added on top of the original one. Now you’ve got fifty years’ worth of roofs and fifty years’ worth of saltwater intrusion from storms, and sagging, compromised ceiling beams, not to mention mold issues in the old stucco walls. The casino is structurally unsafe. That’s why it’s closed.”

  “Vanessa says you’ve applied for grants to restore the casino. Even though you don’t own it? What are the chances you could get any grant money? I mean, wouldn’t it cost millions to restore? Again, why not just make money on it while you can?”

  “You mean, why not just give up the lease and let Vanessa Littrell tear down the casino so it can be redeveloped?” Eb brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “Look, Greer, I can’t bring you up to speed in a few minutes on what amounts to a decades-long fight between the city and the Littrell family. But I can tell you that Vanessa Littrell cares only about herself—and the bottom line. We’ve had a feasibility study done, and we firmly believe there’s a good chance the city will win enough grant money to buy the pier and the casino—and restore it to what it should be. But that’s not what Vanessa wants. She wants to sell out to the highest bidder and make a quick buck and be done with it. And that’s not in the community’s best interest. No matter what she tells you.”

  He pushed his half-empty beer across the table and reached for his billfold.

  “Hey,” Greer said. “You don’t have to get all mad about it. It’s just that I happen to disagree with you about the casino. This could be a win for everybody.”

  Eb was counting out bills. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the answer is still no. The casino is a historically sensitive building. As long as I’m mayor, I’m going to protect it any way I can.”

  “And I’m going to try to find a way around you, any way I can,” Greer said. “And I warn you, I can be very, very persuasive when I need to be. That said, it’s been nice chatting with you tonight. And I enjoyed meeting your niece.” She smiled her pretty, deliberately disarming smile and walked out of the dining room.

  Eb watched her leave. Greer Hennessy was disruptive and annoying, and she had just announced that she had every intention of fighting him tooth and nail. So why was he already regretting he hadn’t found an excuse to pick another fight with her—just to prolong the evening?

  13

  On Monday afternoon, Greer stood on Main Street at 2:23 p.m., anxiously shifting from one foot to the other, alternating between staring at her phone, willing it to ring, and watching the street, wondering if Bryce Levy and his colleagues had somehow managed to get lost after leaving the Gainesville airport three hours earlier.

  It wasn’t cool to be this apprehensive. She shouldn’t be this apprehensive. How many films had she worked on over the years? What was there to worry about? Oh yeah. Only everything.

  The call from Bryce that she’d been dreading had never come. She’d had an early-morning text from CeeJay, telling her they were about to board the flight from L.A., but that was all she knew.

  She turned around again and examined the dusty plate glass window of the empty storefront she’d rented for the Beach Town production offices. According to Eb Thibadeaux, the space had last been used as a bookstore, a business called Tiny Tales, “back when people in Cypress Key had money to buy books.”

  The interior had pinkish-tan faux wood-grain paneling, a dropped ceiling of yellowed ceiling tiles, chipped linoleum floors, and zero aesthetic appeal. But, due to some fevered efforts on Greer’s part, it did have two dozen rented desks and chairs, two working bathrooms, Wi-Fi, lots and lots of electrical and phone outlets, a brand-new copy machine, and most importantly, a three-hundred-dollar espresso machine.

  Its most attractive asset was its huge dedicated parking lot in the rear of the building, a lot that would hold all the tractor trailers necessary for the movie’s base camp.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” she muttered under her breath. Time was short. Bryce’s most recent e-mail had made this clear. This afternoon his agenda included tours of all the locations, including a boat ride on the Choklawassee, a meeting with the town council, and in between, back-to-back production meetings.

  Finally, a gleaming black Lincoln Navigator came into sight, trailing two more identical Navigators in its wake.

  Greer waved frantically. The lead Navigator’s headlights blinked. She inhaled sharply. The circus had come to town.

  * * *

  Bryce climbed down from the driver’s seat of the Navigator. It was the first time she’d seen him since their top-secret meeting at the Brentwood mansion. Back in L.A. he’d looked like a successful businessman. For the Florida trip he’d gone rockabilly casual, with black snakeskin cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a black pearl-snap Western-style shirt, and Ray-Ban Wayfarers. CeeJay’s influence, Greer was sure.

  He stood, stretched, did a 360-degree turn, taking in all of Cypress Key’s historic downtown in one panoramic view. The Navigator’s passenger-side door opened and CeeJay stepped out, wearing a black tank top and skinny black jeans. Her hair was stuffed under a black denim newsboy cap, and she clutched a huge Starbucks cup in her right hand.

  “Greer!” Bryce folded her into a bear hug, then held her at arm’s length. “This place is great,” he said, beaming. “I can already feel it. It’s great.”

  Greer felt her stomach unknot just a little. “Hope so,” she said.

  * * *

  Greer was at the wheel of Bryce’s Navigator. Bryce was in the passenger seat, with Stephen, the production designer, and Alex, the art director, in the rear seats. CeeJay was wedged in between the two men in the back.

  Greer steered the Navigator slowly down Main, pointing out the coffee shop, the Cypress Key Inn, city hall, and the bars.

  “Love it,” Alex whispered, pressing his face to the glass. “It just reeks of failure and desperation.”

  Greer pressed her lips together and said nothing. Failure and desperation? Not exactly a chamber of commerce promotional pamphlet.

  “The moral decay is a palpable presence here,” Bryce agreed. “It reminds me of, oh, what’s the film? Stephen? You know, Bogdanovich’s masterpiece?”

  “You mean Last Picture Show?” The production designer nodded emphatically.

  “That’s it!” Bryce said.

  “Absolutely,” Alex said. “If only we could shoot in black-and-white.”

  “Never get away with it,” Bryce said. “But it would be fabulous. Maybe we could manage a black-and-white trailer?”

  An hour later, after stops at the boatyard, the Silver Sands Motel, and the adjacent beach, Greer parked the Navigator in back of the store.

  “I’ve lined up a charter captain to take you guys down the Choklawassee in an hour,” Greer told Bryce. “There are a couple of small keys, owned by the state, that we can use for the island scenes, but since I still haven’t seen a working script, I don’t have a clear handle on what else we need.”

  “Terry’s working on fleshing it out,” Bryce said. “He’ll stay at the house you’ve rented for me, so I can keep my eye on him, and I intend to lock his ass in his room until he comes up with an ending. Once he’s here, he can get a real feel for the setting. I think he’s really, really close to finishing.”

  “He’s not finished with the script? Not even a first draft?” Greer felt a chill go down her spine.

  “Do you know Terry?”

  “Only by reputation,” Greer said.

  “Great guy. Genius. We’re like brothers,” Bryce said. “He had a slip, that’s all. But it’s all good now.”

  “A slip?”

  “Like a relapse. A little one. Anyway, the good news
is we’re out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll put a lock on the liquor cabinet, and he won’t have a car, so he won’t be able to get to a store. Right?”

  “Uh…”

  CeeJay walked out to the parking lot, talking on her cell phone. Bryce hurried toward her, then stopped.

  “I’ll get CeeJay to drop me off at the dock for the boat ride,” Bryce said. “And we can hook back up later this afternoon. You’ll take us over to the pier and casino, right? We want to walk it, get an idea of the light, camera angles, all that.”

  Greer flinched. “About the casino. We’ve got a slight hitch.”

  “You’ll work it out,” Bryce assured her. He hooked a hand around CeeJay’s elbow and guided her toward the Navigator. Watching them go, Greer was struck by the fact that Bryce was a good four inches shorter than his new lady love.

  “Work it out,” Greer muttered, watching them drive off. “Yeah. I’ll work it out.”

  14

  The Beach Town crew had been on location for a week, but today was the first day the film’s principals would be on set. Greer had been up since 3:30 a.m., mainlining coffee, a machine in motion, directing the location of the trailers at the base camp, coordinating with the transportation drivers and the off-duty cops who were securing the perimeter of the shoot, and supplying answers to all sixty crew members who’d converged on Cypress Key at exactly the same moment.

  Now, though, there was a temporary lull in the chaos, and she’d decided to reward herself with breakfast at the Coffee Mug.

  Greer was considering the bowl of grits. It was steaming hot, flecked with chunks of bacon, and a half-dollar-size pat of golden yellow butter was slowly melting in the middle. Just this one portion of grits probably contained two bajillion calories. She lifted the spoon to her lips and, after a taste, decided this bajillion calories would be worth it.

  “You’re really gonna eat that whole bowl?” CeeJay asked, wrinkling her nose.

  Greer yawned widely. “I’m gonna eat it, and then I’m probably gonna lick the bowl.”

  CeeJay speared a strawberry from her own virtuous bowl of fruit, and chewed slowly. “Gross.”