Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Chapter 16

  I’d had makeup put on before and was familiar with the feel of the wet sponge and the smell of the typical film makeup, usually served up in a flat blue container labeled Max Factor Natural Tan. I always thought it was hilarious that they called this stuff natural. It was without a doubt the most unnatural color you could possibly paint a person.

  —ALISON ARNGRIM, CONFESSIONS OF A PRAIRIE BITCH: HOW I SURVIVED NELLIE OLESON AND LEARNED TO LOVE BEING HATED

  WITH those unsettling thoughts in her mind, the last thing Tilda wanted to do was to continue sitting by herself, so she decided it was time to explore some more. First she pulled her camera out of her backpack to check the battery and memory card. Some behind-the-scenes photos would definitely help out her article. She’d already seen a studio photographer taking official candid shots, but Tilda was hoping to actually take some that weren’t staged. Her photography skills were basic at best, but with the wonders of digital photography she could use quantity to make up for her lack of quality.

  Edwina had left the food tray behind, and Tilda was trying to decide if she should take it back to craft services or not when Katrina the PA suddenly appeared to whisk it away and, like the Lone Ranger, didn’t even stay long enough to be thanked.

  “I am going to be so spoiled,” Tilda muttered to herself.

  She headed toward the backstage part of the beach, being careful not to disturb the carefully groomed sand. Tension seemed to be rising, particularly for the crew setting up the massive banks of lights. There was something ironic about needing so many lights for a sunset shoot, and Tilda decided that it was worth a couple of photos. Then she caught a pair of assistant somethings consulting a laptop to see if any airplanes were scheduled to fly over while they were filming. Her cousin’s wedding was the only occasion when Tilda had seen so much time and artifice expended on making something look natural.

  Speaking of time and artifice, Tilda spotted Laryea himself sitting in a director’s chair outside the makeup trailer and went closer to get her first look at the actor in costume. Since the actual comic was still fresh in her mind, she was able to admire the attention to detail: the blue gray flowing shirt ready to be ripped off at a moment’s notice so O’Taine could slip into the water, the snug breeches, the ornate torc that gave him the various mystic defenses the plot demanded, and the mismatched bracers—one with runes to protect creatures of the land and the other to protect the ocean.

  Tilda had attended enough comic book show costume pageants to know that it wasn’t always easy to translate an illustration to actual clothing, but the costume designer for the movie had done a terrific job with O’Taine’s garb. And every bit of it suited Laryea right down to the ground.

  Well, almost to the ground. While she was admiring, Laryea stood up to talk to a starstruck PA, and Tilda noticed that he was wearing ornate leather boots. In the comic books, O’Taine had gone barefoot. She’d have asked the actor about them, but mindful of Nick’s warnings earlier, she decided to settle for taking pictures of the star preparing for his role.

  But as she raised the camera to aim it, Foster jumped in front of her to block the shot.

  “Stop!” Foster commanded. “Don’t you dare use that pose.” He bustled in and pushed Laryea back into the chair, prodded the makeup artist to do something useless, and the PA was now leaning over so that her face didn’t even show in the picture. In other words, Tilda’s candid photo now looked as informal as a Noh play. She took a few shots anyway, and thanked them.

  “Let me see,” Foster said, reaching for her camera.

  “Excuse me?” Tilda said, holding it just a bit higher than the shorter man could reach without strain.

  “I have to approve all photos of Mr. Laryea. It’s policy.”

  “That may be your policy, but it’s not mine.”

  Foster actually snatched for the camera, and would have followed when Tilda took several steps back had Nick not suddenly been between them.

  “It’s about time,” Foster said. “Tolomeo, get that camera.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said evenly.

  “Excuse me? You work for us.”

  “Actually, I work for the movie company, and I was hired to protect Mr. Laryea, not to manhandle the press.”

  “Protection includes protection from shoddy journalism.”

  “Shoddy journalism?” Tilda said, drawing out each syllable. “You little—”

  “Hey now,” Laryea said, coming up to put one hand on Foster’s shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

  “Your watchdog here seems to have some funny ideas,” Tilda said.

  “She won’t let me see the pictures she took,” Foster said indignantly. “How do I know what she’s made you look like?

  “Foster, Foster, Foster,” Laryea said. “I know you have my best interests at heart, but you don’t really think Tilda is trying to make me look bad, do you?”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Of course she isn’t.”

  “I’d be happy to show you the photos before I send them to Entertain Me!,” Tilda said, though she carefully did not say she would give Laryea—or Foster—veto power.

  “That would be great, wouldn’t it Foster?”

  Foster just glared at her before ostentatiously taking out his Blackberry to make himself look far too busy to deal with a shoddy journalist. Tilda thought about reminding him that it was a cell-phone-free zone, but decided it wouldn’t be wise.

  Laryea put his arm chummily around Tilda, which she had to admit was aesthetically quite pleasing, though she didn’t usually date men wearing so much makeup. “Are you enjoying seeing the magic come to life?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” she said. “Your costume is terrific. One question, though. Why the boots? Dylan O’Taine is always shown barefoot in the comics.”

  “Insurance regulations,” he said with a laugh. “Crazy, isn’t it? I can see why they wouldn’t want me performing stunts, but here they are worried about my stubbing my toe on a rock. I guess it’s just part of the price I pay when the production depends on me.”

  Even though that statement was probably completely accurate, given the nature of moviemaking, it still made Tilda’s skin crawl to hear Laryea say it.

  “Well, I better get out of your way,” she said, moving out of range of his arm. “I know you need to concentrate.”

  “Don’t go too far! You’re going to want to see this scene come together.”

  She smiled and nodded but didn’t stop.

  Nick came with her and said, “No offense, but you might want to be careful with Laryea.”

  Tilda raised one eyebrow. “That’s a bit dog-in-the-manger-ish.”

  “No, no, I’d be perfectly happy to see you with a good guy—some of the fellows from last night wanted to know if you were available, as a matter of fact. It’s just that Laryea has a tendency to date women in order to make professional connections.”

  “Oh, and he really needs a freelance reporter in his corner?”

  “He has a good eye for potential. He spotted Joni when she was directing commercials, and Edwina when she didn’t know squat about the business.”

  “You mean Laryea and . . . Both of them?”

  “I believe he introduced them, actually.”

  “Wow.”

  “Have you met the scriptwriter?”

  “Dolores? Her, too?”

  He nodded.

  “He must be something special. Maybe I should go back over there.”

  Tilda could tell Nick wanted to argue, but he manfully controlled himself and only said, “If that’s what you want to do.”

  She socked him in the arm. “As if! Seriously, he’s not my type.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said with a sigh of relief.

  “So tell me about the guys from last night. Which ones are helplessly in love with me?”

  Before he could answer, a claxon horn went off and an amplified voice said, “Sunset in thirty minutes
. Be ready and in position in ten.” A moment later, the voice added, “Everybody knows how much it cost to build that platform and that it has to come down tonight. If anybody does anything to make us miss this sunset, you will be thrown into the water and you will then be walking back to the hotel.”

  There were a few nervous chuckles, but all extraneous sound stopped.

  “What platform?” Tilda whispered.

  “The one out there,” Nick said, pointing to what looked like a square, wooden pier, except it was planted in splendid isolation a few yards from the shore. “Joni wants to film from the water to get the sunset behind Laryea, and that means they had to build that thing. They’re not sure how sturdy it is, so they need to get the shot today, before the tide comes in.”

  “It is even legal?”

  “Mine is not to wonder why, mine is just to keep the set secure.” He headed off, presumably to keep things secure, and Tilda got as close as she dared to the cameras so she could see what was happening. And since she knew how cold the water could be off the coast of the Cape, she checked again to make sure her phone was turned off.

  In no more than five minutes, Joni was up in a contraption where she could survey the entire area, a flotilla of rowboats had delivered the camera and cameraman out to the platform, more cameras were in place on the beach, and Laryea was standing just out of range, relaxed with a half smile on his face. Then they waited, and to Tilda it seemed much longer than half an hour, probably because she was afraid to move.

  Just as she started to notice the shadows deepening, Joni gave a signal and the traditional clapperboard was snapped shut. Laryea immediately tensed and strode through the sand, heading straight for the ocean but stopping just short of the water’s edge to stare out into the distance. His expression was one of such longing that Tilda knew that O’Taine must be thinking of his love Melusine, the mermaid with whom he could never completely share his life. He slowly knelt, picked up a perfectly shaped shell, and brought it to his lips for an instant. Then he flung it into the surf just as the sun dipped down below the horizon.

  For an instant, nobody seemed to breathe. Then the man with the claxon yelled, “CUT! Print!” Laryea turned and bowed with a flourish. Tilda didn’t know if it was planned or not, but the applause that broke out sure seemed spontaneous to her. She was clapping and cheering, too.

  Maybe all of the equipment and people and money and time and effort had been worth it. Even if the rest of the movie turned out to be absolute crap, they’d created one moment of pure magic.

  Chapter 17

  Though Wilder’s cartoon-hosting days are long over, he says he still misses it. “I know I had a good run, first on The Blastoffs and then on Quasit’s Cartoon Corner, but it feels as if it went by in an instant. Life changes very quickly.”

  —“HEY KIDS! IT’S CARTOON TIME!” BY TILDA HARPER, ENTERTAIN ME!

  WITH that one glorious moment in the can, the shoot was finished. So began the incredible task of packing everything up and lugging it back to wherever it belonged. Tilda took a few pictures of the tumult but, as interesting as it was from a logistical viewpoint, she didn’t think readers or editors would be so interested that she needed to hang around to chronicle the entire process. Instead she dodged and weaved her way back to her car, and drove back to her cottage.

  It was dinnertime, but after all the nachos, she wasn’t ready to eat, whereas the time she’d spent disconnected from both phone and e-mail had made her antsy. So she logged onto her computer to see what had happened with her baker’s dozen of Leviathans.

  Five more had responded, and three of those gave such inaccurate tales of hooking up with Fitzwilliam at Regal that she could cross them off the list immediately. One of the other’s answers were vague enough that they could be true, and the other one said he’d never met Fitzwilliam, so he was still in the running, too. That got it down to ten.

  Tilda took care of some other e-mails that had come in, including a few minor editing requests from Entertain Me!, then did a quick and dirty description of the film shoot she’d just seen while it was still fresh in her mind. She downloaded her photos to her computer, too, hoping that she’d got a shot of Foster with his mouth hanging open or picking his nose or something to laugh at, but no such luck. She’d have to try harder.

  Once all that was done, the nachos were a fond memory, so she was ready to head up to the inn and get something to eat on the film crew tab. It was a warm night, and rather than drive such a short distance, Tilda decided to walk. The streetlights were few and far between, but there was a flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer, complete with fresh batteries.

  Plenty of cars passed her on the way, and she guessed that the film crew was returning from the shoot, and when she got to the lobby she wondered if she should have eaten sooner. The hostess at the restaurant said it would be at least an hour before she could be seated, which made a burger from the inn’s bar sound wonderful. There were a few places left there, so she grabbed a stool and shamelessly eavesdropped as crew members chattered about the day’s shoot and what was coming next. They seemed equally divided about whether a successful first shoot was a good omen or a warning of disaster to come.

  About the time her order arrived, Laryea showed up, dressed in running clothes. He made a circuit of the lobby to briefly work the crowd, then headed out. Foster was trotting along behind him, and Tilda briefly wondered if his job included fighting off dogs and removing sticks from the great man’s path.

  Since people continued to come in and seating space was tight, Tilda didn’t linger after she ate. It had been a long day, and she was more than ready to head back to her cottage, take a quick e-mail check, and hit the sack.

  Her cell phone rang just as she stepped out into the moonlight. It was Cooper, and she filled the first part of the walk with telling him about the shoot and Leviathan, ending with complaints about Dianne. It was just after hanging up from talking to him that Tilda saw two people on the other side of the road, coming toward the inn. And a minute after that, the limo came roaring down the street, swerved across the oncoming lane, and, as Tilda watched, slammed into them.

  Chapter 18

  A lot of life is dealing with your curse, dealing with the cards you were given that aren’t so nice. Does it make you into a monster, or can you temper it in some way, or accept it and go in some other direction?

  —WES CRAVEN

  LATER on, Tilda thought it likely that she’d screamed, but at the time, she didn’t notice. She was running toward the other people, not even looking for traffic as she crossed the road. The flashlight was still in her hand, and it showed the blood on one man’s face. It was Foster, and he wasn’t moving.

  Tilda hadn’t much liked Foster—in fact she’d loathed the little worm—but it didn’t make her any happier to see the man’s crumpled body lying in the sandy weeds on the side of the road. His eyes were open, staring, and she didn’t think he’d ever insult anybody again.

  Just a few feet away, Laryea was moaning and cradling his arm. “Foster, get some help! That bastard hit us!”

  Tilda said, “I’m sorry, I think he’s dead.”

  “What? What!?” He started to scramble up, but Tilda went to kneel by him.

  “Don’t move. I’ll call for help.”

  She pulled out her cell phone, dialed 911, and told the woman who answered what had happened, where they were, and that they needed an ambulance right away. In a lower voice, she added that she thought one man was already dead.

  As soon as she hung up, she dialed Nick’s number and thanked God when he answered right away. “Nick, it’s Tilda. There’s been an accident. Mr. Laryea is hurt, and Foster is . . . I’ve called an ambulance, but you better let people there know, too.”

  “Where are you?”

  Her mind went blank when she tried to think of the street name. “We’re on the road that goes right by the front of the inn. Come out the front door, and go left. You’ll see my flashlight.”

 
“Hang on!” He barked orders at whomever he was with, and said, “I’m coming.”

  “Okay.” She hung up, and then said, “Help is on the way.”

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Are you sure Foster is . . . ?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure.” Tilda put her hand on Laryea’s shoulder, afraid to hurt the man but wanting to comfort him. He didn’t speak, but he clasped her hand to his chest and she thought he was crying.

  Maybe five minutes later, Nick showed up at a dead run, and threw himself down next to her. “Are you all right? Where are you hurt?”

  “Not me—I’m okay. It’s Mr. Laryea who’s hurt. And Foster.” Nick took a quick look at Foster, then looked back at Tilda. He’d come to the same conclusion she had.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Laryea?” he said. “You hang in there. Help is on the way.”

  As if in response to a cue, a police car and ambulance pulled up, and their headlights illuminated the area in lurid detail. For an insane second, Tilda started to suggest that somebody bring the lights from the film company so they’d be able to see better, but stopped herself just in time.

  The EMTs looked at Foster only briefly. Then, after checking to see that Tilda was uninjured, they politely but firmly pushed her out of the way to tend to Laryea.

  Nick tentatively put his arms around her. New girlfriend or not, Tilda hugged him back fiercely, telling herself she would have done the same thing if it had been Dom who were there. A second later, Dom was there, and he did indeed give her a hug before asking what was happening.

  Events moved too quickly for Tilda to keep track of. At various points, Joni, Edwina, and Dolores showed up. The ambulance took Laryea away, but from what Tilda could hear, his injuries weren’t severe. His three ex-girlfriends argued over which one would accompany him, and when Joni won, the other two dashed off to get a car to follow them to the hospital. Meanwhile, Foster’s body was covered up, which helped.