Finding Mr. Right Now

by Meg Benjamin

  Monica took a deep breath to relieve the pain of smothering her giggles. “Gee, ya think?” She sat up, pulling back from him slightly. “I probably need to go in now.”

  He touched her cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She pulled her shirt back down. The bra would just have to stay unfastened for now. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

  Paul began to laugh in earnest now, flopping onto his back, his hands on his stomach. “Oh God,” he muttered. “Sure. Any time. In fact, count on it, lady. Any time at all.”

  He was still lying there, staring up at the sky, when she slipped back into the Praeger House and headed for her bedroom.

  Chapter Twelve

  Paul wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to wake up by seven the next morning. Maybe it was because he hadn’t really slept that much anyway. Thoughts of Monica and the veranda and the wicker couch and what the hell he was going to do about all of it pushed their way into his dream space.

  As he walked downtown to find coffee and maybe a doughnut, he caught sight of a familiar figure—gray hair, beard, blue baseball cap, disreputable tennis shoes. Dick was heading into a small café down the street that had a scattering of umbrella tables on a deck outside. Paul tucked his cell phone in his jacket pocket and headed for the front door.

  He followed Dick inside, grabbed a cup of coffee and a Danish, then stepped outside again to find a seat at one of the umbrella tables. After another five minutes or so, Dick emerged from the café, a white Styrofoam box in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  “Richard Sonnenfeld?” Paul pitched his voice so that Dick could hear him above the buzz of conversation.

  Dick paused to look at him, then shrugged. “Yeah. So what?”

  “I really liked Stormy Wednesday.” Paul took a sip of his coffee. Fortunately, it wasn’t scalding. “Glad to see it made the last AFI Best 100 Films list.”

  Dick shrugged again. “Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy? ‘Gee, you know my work—you must be a great guy’.”

  Paul shook his head. “Not really. I don’t think ‘warm and fuzzy’ suits you. And I learned a long time ago you could like somebody’s work and still think they were a prime asshole. So…I like your work, Dick.”

  Sonnenfeld threw his head back and laughed. “Not bad, kid. Nice wind-up. Good delivery of the punch line. Still doesn’t make us buddies.”

  “Not one of my ambitions, Dick.” He tore off a bite of Danish.

  Sonnenfeld sat down at the other side of the table, placing the Styrofoam container in front of him. “You still pissed about the girl, Miss Right or whatever the hell her name is? Because I made her cry?”

  “Ah hell, anybody can make Ronnie cry.” Paul sipped his coffee again. “Take her to see Bambi, you’ll have buckets of tears. Take her to see Toy Story 3, and you might need smelling salts. She’s a crier, but she’s a lot stronger than she looks. She can take care of herself.”

  Sonnenfeld’s ice blue eyes were surprisingly sharp. “The other one, then. The associate producer.”

  Paul’s jaw firmed. “Monica doesn’t bounce back as easily. Picking on her is a lot nastier.”

  Dick opened the Styrofoam, pulling out a plastic fork. “Hell, she’s a producer. It’s not like she’s never going to get kicked.”

  “Yeah, and if she’d known you were a legendary former producer yourself, she’d probably figure you had some kind of professional bone to pick.” He tore off another bite. “But you let her think you were John Q. Public, man of the people, and that made her think you knew what you were talking about instead of just jerking her around for the fun of it.”

  Sonnenfeld shrugged. “Maybe I am John Q. Public. As far as you know, I could be. I live in small town America, after all.” His eyes took on that same nasty sparkle they’d had the night before.

  Paul leaned back in his chair for a moment. “First of all, I’d argue that Salt Box isn’t exactly Small Town America. And second, you’re no typical citizen. You’re in the business, for God’s sake, or you used to be. You know as well as I do most shows are a series of compromises, and some shows are pitched at a level that’s a lot lower than the average New Yorker reader. That doesn’t make them evil.”

  “Evil’s in the eye of the beholder, kid, at least as far as TV’s concerned.” Sonnenfeld took a bite of scrambled eggs from his Styrofoam. “Some shows are evil from beginning to end. And some of them are just dumb. My guess is yours falls into the latter category. But that doesn’t make what you’re doing right.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “So you’re on a crusade for honest, straight-forward television?”

  Sonnenfeld gave him a dry smile. “No such thing, kid. Most of it’s crap, no matter what you do. Still, there’s a lot of crap in films today too.”

  Paul blew out a breath. “You would know.”

  Sonnenfeld nodded. “Yeah, I would. So tell your girlfriend if she wants to play with the big boys, she’ll need to toughen up. If you’re producing crap, you need to learn to be damn proud of that crap. You don’t let some old fart like me get under your skin.”

  “Is that why you left? You got tired of defending your own crap?”

  Dick snorted. “Who says I left?”

  “Your Wikipedia entry for one.”

  “Right.” He shook his head. “I think my nephew put that thing up. Probably got a lot of his information from one of my ex-wives. I wouldn’t trust it if I were you.”

  “Plus there’s the fact that you’re here.” Paul gestured in the general direction of town. “Salt Box.”

  Sonnenfeld gave him a bland smile. “I like it here.”

  “Good for you.” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Still, not exactly the center of the film industry.”

  “These days the film industry’s anywhere you want it to be. Sometimes the farther you can get from California, the better.” Sonnenfeld picked up his coffee cup again. “I got some advice for you, too, if you want to hear it.”

  Paul leaned back in his chair. “Fire away.”

  “Nobody likes a smartass, kid.” Sonnenfeld stared off at the distant peaks.

  “Right.” Paul took a last swallow of his coffee. “We’ll be taking off this morning. Here’s hoping you’ll refrain from saying goodbye in your own unique way.”

  Sonnenfeld didn’t bother to look at him. “I can pretty much guarantee that I have no interest in you people, one way or the other.”

  “Good enough.” Paul pushed himself to his feet, tossing his trash into the barrel at the side. “Nice talking to you.”

  “So you say,” Dick muttered. But Paul thought the old man might have been smiling as he walked back up the street.

  At least the drive to Elkhorn Run was quiet. Monica had been waiting for Ronnie to say something about last night, but she’d apparently suffered an attack of amnesia. Either that or, unlikely as it seemed, she’d decided to be discreet about it.

  Monica herself managed not to say anything. The SUV looked somewhat the worse for wear, with its dented fender and scraped side, but Al Monteith assured her it was drivable, which was all that was necessary.

  They piled their luggage in the back again. Billy Joe looked like he’d spent the last two days raising hell. He had deep circles under his eyes and his checks were black with beard stubble—real stubble this time, not just for effect. He grabbed the inside seat in back, plopped a pair of sunglasses on his nose and promptly fell asleep. Faisal reluctantly sat down beside him, with Brendan bringing up the rear.

  Ronnie took her seat up front. She wore a flowered sundress with a color-coordinated cardigan. Her hair looked like it had been professionally done. Apparently, she’d been able to locate the blow dryer that Monica had missed.

  Monica headed for the driver’s seat, only to feel Paul’s hand on her arm. “Let me drive.”

  She frowned. “Al said it wasn’t a hard drive from here. I can manage it.”

  “You can, but why no
t let me do it?” He nodded toward the front seat. “You take the middle seat beside Ronnie. Take it easy for twenty minutes or so.”

  She blew out a breath. All of a sudden having a few more minutes to rest before they hooked up with Fairstein seemed like a very good idea. “Okay, but if anything happens, we switch back before the cops arrive.”

  He grinned. “Okay. But nothing’s going to happen.”

  She felt like knocking on wood, but nothing was available unless she wanted to hike over to the aspen grove on the other side of the road. “Let’s do it.”

  She figured neither of them would have a chance to say anything significant before they got to Elkhorn Run, given that Ronnie was babbling again. Paul seemed content to stay quiet, except to point out the rock formation that resembled an elk antler and was supposedly the source of the resort’s name. That gave Ronnie enough material to keep her going all the way to the actual resort area.

  Monica sighed. What significant thing could he say to her anyway, even if Ronnie hadn’t plopped down beside them? Great sex on the veranda, babe? Yeah, right. That wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear first thing in the morning.

  What do you want to hear, Monica?

  She managed to block that train of thought before it could take her into areas she wasn’t ready for. Time to be the Associate Producer again, even if she wasn’t exactly excited about it right now.

  The main road into the resort area was clogged with pedestrians and cars with out-of-state license plates. The open slopes of the ski area were covered now in bright green, the gondola drifting silently up to the restaurant at the top of the mountain.

  “Where am I going?” Paul asked.

  Monica checked the instructions she’d gotten from Sid before they left Denver. “You turn right at a street called Elk something.”

  “Great.” His voice was dry. “If you’ll take a look around, you’ll find that most of the streets here are called Elk something.”

  She glanced at the street signs—Elk Run, Elk Meadows, Elk Highlands.

  “That’s it,” she said quickly. “Elk Highlands.”

  They navigated through the summer crowds, finally turning onto the road that led higher into the mountains. A peeled log sign at the beginning of the drive marked the entrance to the Alpine Highlands Resort, still hidden by the sizeable pine forest.

  As they came around the final bend to get a full view of the hotel, it occurred to her that the Praeger House would probably have made a much more picturesque setting for the show rather than the resort they were apparently using. The metal-and-glass structure of the hotel sat uneasily on the mountainside, as if it might slide down at any moment. The swimming pool at the back probably had a great view of the mountains on the other side of the valley, but it looked to be in shade for most of the day. And the mountainside next to the resort had a forest of what looked like dead trees, a maze of orange needles and bare black branches.

  “Ooh,” Ronnie murmured. “What’s wrong with those trees?”

  “Pine bark beetle,” Paul said flatly. “They’re hitting the forests around here hard. Forest Service can’t keep up. You’re lucky they haven’t been taken down yet.”

  Monica wasn’t sure a logged-over slope would look any worse than the spread of dried-out pine hulks, but she wasn’t in any position to argue. “Should be fun for Faisal,” she muttered, “finding a way not to get that forest into the shots.”

  Paul pulled the SUV into a parking space at the side, and Ronnie opened the door immediately. “It’s really pretty, isn’t it,” she said brightly. “I think it’s going to be great. Don’t you think it’s going to be great?”

  Monica forced herself back into companion mode. “Sure, sweetie. It looks…great.”

  “Ronnie,” Glenn Donovan walked toward them, his hands outstretched. “You look wonderful, sweetheart. Hope you’re feeling okay. Let’s get you into makeup. We’ll shoot some interviews today, get going on the dates tomorrow.”

  While he talked, Glenn drew Ronnie toward the door of the resort, his arm around her shoulders to nudge her along. She grinned beatifically, apparently not minding a bit that she was being hustled away from the rest of the group.

  Monica blew out a breath, glancing back at Brendan and Billy Joe, who now stood next to the car looking bored (in Billy Joe’s case) and wistful (in Brendan’s). “Hang on a minute. I’ll find out where you’re supposed to be and we’ll take you over there.”

  She headed toward the front door of the resort just as Glenn emerged again. “Okay,” he snapped, “get everything sorted out here. Guys are staying in east wing over there.” He gestured toward a building in the barren part of the landscape. “Tell ’em to unpack and get cleaned up. We’ll shoot some interviews with them too. We’ve already got the three who came up here with us.”

  He turned toward the car as Billy Joe and Brendan headed up the hill. “Faisal, how much film did you shoot?”

  “Oh,” Monica began, “he couldn’t…”

  “About ninety minutes,” Faisal said, talking over her. “Maybe a little more.”

  Glenn nodded absently. “All right. What all did you get?”

  “Mostly Ronnie, but I got some candid shots of the guys too.” Faisal hoisted his equipment bag onto his shoulder. “You can maybe use them for inserts or transition shots.”

  “Okay, give it to Sid. I’ll want to look it over tonight.” He nodded toward Monica again. “Go get Ronnie set up for her interview.” He turned and headed back toward the main resort building.

  Monica stared at Faisal. “You shot video? I thought you agreed not to do that.”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t worth my job, Monica. Besides Ronnie didn’t care. She enjoyed it. I got some great shots of her dancing with the locals.”

  She closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead. “And did you get releases from the guys she danced with.”

  Faisal’s smile was smug. “Yes ma’am. Most of the people at the Blarney Stone were excited about being on camera.”

  “Terrific.” A headache was starting somewhere around her frontal lobe. Odd how she hadn’t noticed any headaches the whole time they were in Salt Box. She hoped she still had her giant economy bottle of aspirin.

  Faisal at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry Monica. I know why you didn’t want me to do it, but I couldn’t come up here with nothing. Glenn would have skinned me.”

  Monica sighed. So much for the two-day pass. “It’s okay. I guess I was being unrealistic.”

  Faisal nodded, hefting his pack along with the equipment bag. “I’ll talk to you later. I need to get this to Sid.” He headed off toward the side where the crew was setting up for exterior shots.

  Paul leaned against the SUV, watching her. “Welcome back to reality, Ms. McKellar.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Right. I should have expected this, shouldn’t I? It’s not like this is my first rodeo.”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t know about expecting it, but now that it’s here, I’d say just let it happen.” He touched his fingers to her cheek, lightly.

  She knew she should turn away. They were supposed to at least pretend the potential affair between Ronnie and Paul was real. Ronnie might even think it was herself, although given what had happened on the veranda last night she probably didn’t. But his touch felt too good. Her body had started to hum again. She closed her eyes. Associate producer, Monica. Get back on the job.

  “I should probably go in and find out where they’ve got me stowed away,” she murmured. “Thanks for driving. It made things easier all around.”

  “Don’t close up on me, Monica,” he said softly. “I’m still the same guy I was yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but we’re not in Salt Box anymore.” She gave him a tired smile. “More’s the pity. I’ve got to go.” She gave his hand a small squeeze before turning toward the hotel. Behind her she heard him sigh as she started up the walk toward the front door again. Strange how her feet suddenl
y seemed to weigh fifty pounds each.

  Paul watched Monica trudge away from him. He should probably go after her. Or go to the Bachelor House, although there were few places he wanted to go less. He leaned back against the SUV again, trying to think of a way to postpone the inevitable.

  After a moment, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, flipping it on. He hadn’t had any coverage in Salt Box so he hadn’t bothered to run down the battery.

  He frowned at the icons. Two voice mails and a few texts. Most of them probably work-related. The first call was from his agent.

  “Got the preliminary word, Paul. El Capitan’s interested. Very. You’ll need to fly back here for a meeting, maybe next week or the week after. Call me back ASAP.”

  He gripped the phone, trying to keep his excitement in check. It wasn’t the first time a production company had been interested in his scripts, and he knew how little it could mean in the long run. But if this one sold, it would be big, no question. It was a series, and he and his partner would get credit for the idea, along with writing the episodes.

  He blew out a breath. Steady. It’s probably headed nowhere. Probably. Not certainly, though.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Paragliding,” Darryl said, his voice almost trembling with enthusiasm. “There’s a place here in town that will rent them the equipment and teach them how to do it. They jump off the mountainside and float down.” He leaned back, grinning gleefully, his arms crossed over his chest. “Think of the visuals.”

  Monica pinched the bridge of her nose, careful not to look at Glenn. She was pretty sure he’d veto the idea, but she didn’t want to jinx it. Over the past couple of days she’d grown to despise Darryl Fielding with a passion that surprised even her. Every activity he came up with was either hazardous or stupid, frequently both.

  Sometimes they could work with Darryl’s suggestions, like his plans for midnight horseback riding, which became an after-dinner horseback ride to see the sunset over the mountains. But sometimes, as with the freakin’ paragliding, there was no hope.