by Nella Tyler
However, Anna was rummaging through my fridge and asked over her shoulder, “Was Friday night okay? Boldin pick a house? I was surprised when I didn’t hear from you yesterday.”
I shrugged as she turned around, her face bright and beaming. “It was fine,” I murmured.
“Cammie Book, the closed book,” Anna joked, plunking down a yogurt and tearing it open. “Come on, doll, give me something. Where’d he take you on Friday?”
“Highlands,” I said, glad to have something to latch onto.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow. A lot of ambiance for a business date.”
I shrugged. “He knows the chef or something, I think.”
“Mhmm. Oh, Cammie, please!” Anna pointed her spoon at me. “Why can’t you just admit that this guy is into you? Taking you to Highlands? That’s classic first date Birmingham material.”
Rubbing my arms, I wandered over to my tiny living room and fell onto the sofa. “Do we have to talk about this?” I groaned.
Following me, Anna placed her yogurt and coffee on the table between us and gave me a look. “Of course not. I just thought since I helped you get ready, you’d at least tell me how it went.”
I bit my lip, playing with the straw of my coffee. “Well, it went pretty nice,” I admitted.
“Nice? Geez, honey, let me know when the horse and buggy with his entire family in tow is gon’ pull up.” Anna drawled. “Okay. What did you talk about?”
“Not the houses,” I said in a small voice. “We never got around to it.”
Anna’s mouth popped open, then her eyes gleamed and her smile became curvier. “I knew it. So when are you gonna see him again?”
“Yesterday,” I said in an even smaller voice.
Rising to her feet, Anna gaped at me, then sat back down again. “Oh my lord. Did you go out for coffee? No, I can see it on your face. Did you go to his place?” I nodded, and she gasped. “Did you talk about houses?” I shook my head, and she squealed. “Did you give it up?”
I nodded, my hands over my face and said, “Yes, yes I did, Anna Dewitt.”
“Hallelujah!” Anna practically screamed. “Oh my gosh, Camilla Book, I am prouder than a pageant mama during semi-finals.” I lowered my hands to see Anna clapping her hands in delight and bouncing on the couch. “I do declare, I’m fit to burst. Tell me everything. I want details. Oh, don’t you dare hold back on on this.”
Putting down the coffee I was too jittery to drink, I picked up a pillow and curled my body around it. Shame and guilt were tugging at me, making it hard to accept Anna’s joy.
It seemed empty, mocking me like a present all wrapped up with nothing inside.
“Cams, don’t look like that!” Anna chided me as I chewed my lip in silence. “Come on, doll. He is into you. Bringing you to Highlands, inviting you to his place. So how did it go down?”
I told her. And in a way, telling Anna seemed to both solidify that it happened and make it less of a big deal. Anna’s frequent enthusiastic outbursts didn’t hurt either. She almost teared up as I told her about what he said about me, then what had happened between us.
By the end of it, she was fanning herself. “My Lord, I need to get a man who can put it down like that. Oh, Cammie. We have to celebrate. Let’s get lunch.”
After hustling me into my room to get dressed and out the door, we ended up at Mama Birch’s Café as usual and at our usual table. After we ordered, I glanced around, worried I’d see Kris pop out of nowhere.
“Why you lookin’ jumpier than a cat on a hot tin roof?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know. I keep worrying about bumping into Kris,” I murmured.
She smirked. “Can’t keep your hands off each other. Mm-mm! My favorite part of a relationship. All play and no drama.”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “Listen, I didn’t mention it before because you were so ecstatic and then you offered to buy me lunch, but it ended on a weird note.”
A blonde eyebrow arched at me, and Anna leaned forward. “Define weird.”
“I panicked, Anna!” I whispered. “I mean, I slept with a client. In his home! So once I could think straight, I got dressed and got the hell out of there.”
“You didn’t spend the night?” Anna almost yelled, and several people glanced over at us. I kicked her under the table, and she flashed a blinding smile around the room. “Drove all night, shoulda slept in a hotel, that’s what I say,” she blasted, then she hissed quietly, “Girl, that man wanted you to stay the night, believe you me!”
“How do you know?” I asked back in a sarcastic tone.
“I know,” Anna said, unruffled. “And you need to cut it out with this shame nonsense. In the first case, a woman is allowed to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.” I put a hand over my mouth to hide a smile and a gasp at that remark. “And in the second case, you did nothing wrong. You’re both consenting adults. He wanted you, you wanted him, and the rest is science. Biology. Chemistry.”
The tension in my shoulders seemed to loosen, and I nodded, lowering my hand. “There was a lot of chemistry,” I said with a giggle. “He was a pro, Anna.”
“Atta girl,” she said. “Now, next time, you spend the night. Or have him spend the night.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think there will be a next time.”
A strange smile crept across Anna’s face, and she gave me a superior look. “Oh, there’s going to be plenty of next times.”
“Now you’re just being creepy,” I informed her, and we both laughed.
“Well, at least you’ll definitely sell a house now,” Anna mused. “No way will he do anything that won’t please Ms. Cammie Book. And then some.”
“Charming, Dewitt,” I commented dryly.
“Hey, this lunch is to celebrate your blossoming sex life with a tall drink of water who is rich and good with his tongue. I am nothing but the epitome of southern charm, doll.”
Later that afternoon, alone in my house, I wandered around, too restless to do anything, but not really in the mood to go out again. Instead, I found myself daydreaming idly about Kris and selling him a house. And remembering that fierce, magnetic passion between us.
A shiver raced over my skin. All of that talk with Anna made me feel like a powerful, independent woman. She had a point. We were consenting adults, and we had a hell of a delicious time together. Who was I to feel ashamed of that? Kris certainly didn’t.
Anna’s words ran through my head again. That man wanted you to stay the night!
It would explain the look on Kris’s face as I left. He hadn’t seemed pleased to see me go, no. Hugging myself, I let out a sigh. Maybe next time I will.
Yes, Anna was right.
Right?
Probably. She knew men and dating far and away beyond what I did. It wasn’t that big of a deal to sleep with Kris.
Because if I had to be completely honest with myself, I’d wanted it just as much as he did.
Chapter 17
Kris
“I did say you could have this office if you wanted it, Max,” I tried to joke, but ruined it by yawning. I’d just entered my dad’s office on Tuesday morning to find Max sitting on the floor in front of one of the bookcases, frowning deeply and stacking books next to him.
Sucking down the last drops of the red-eye iced coffee I’d spent good money on at Starbucks, the caffeine seemed to half-heartedly wriggle through my veins, and I yawned again.
Without even looking up, Max said, “I never wanted this office. Mine has a better view.” He paused, then said, “For a second, I thought it was your dad coming in. You sounded just like him.”
Goosebumps broke out across my skin and in spite of myself, I glanced over my shoulder. Then I walked over and looked over the books he’d pulled out. They were all old school manuals.
“Oh God, what broke?” I groaned.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” Max murmured, flipping open a book and getting to his feet. “Leave those like that, would you? Thanks. I might need one o
f ‘em in a bit.” He dug into his back pocket and handed me a folded up football of a note. “This is from the kids. Maya learned how to fold notes like the other day. She’s very proud of it.”
I laughed as I held it up. “UK? United Kingdom?”
“Uncle Kris, you goof.” Max laughed affectionately. “Hey, so Simone was asking if Birmingham Realty was living up to the recommendation. See anything you like yet?”
An image of Cammie standing on her front porch in a dress that seemed brighter than everything else around it appeared behind my eyes. With a nonchalant shrug, but unable to suppress a smile, I said, “Not yet. Still looking. It’s a process.”
Max gave me a funny look. “Oookay. Well, hang in there. And don’t settle.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I retorted airily.
“You know, you’re in an oddly good mood for a guy who looks like he’d keel over without that caffeine.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, man.”
“Youth,” I said, and Max shook his head again. “Hey, so we checked out the safe deposit box yesterday.” His eyebrows rose, and I grimaced. “It wasn’t that exciting. Deeds and stuff. No code.”
Sunday night I had come across the paperwork for a personal safe deposit box of my father’s. I was sure the code would be in there. Where usually the banks and lawyers wanted a few days to set up an appointment, I’d managed to persuade them to open it late yesterday afternoon. The fact that it had been a bust after all that effort had almost made me laugh.
I was starting to feel like I was in a comedy with all these dead-ends for the code. And I was starting to wonder if I was putting too much stock in what lay behind that little locked door.
Knowing my dad, it could be a collection of old film reels or photographs or dried out pen nibs some dead author had used. Stuff he thought was priceless, and other people would be confused as to why someone would go through the effort to even lock it up.
“That sucks.” Max seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as he said, “Listen, I know your dad put the pack in packrat. But at least we know that means it is around somewhere. Did you get an appointment for the one for Bold Pictures?”
I shook my head. “It’s in my dad’s name, so I assumed they’d have to have the board or someone present. I didn’t even bother – it seemed like a headache.”
“No, Kris. I don’t think that would be the case,” Max said. “You should double check that. I think since the company is in your name now, you are the CEO – much as you’d like to forget that – you can open it.”
“Damn, I wish I checked it out yesterday, then,” I muttered, wondering how irritated the bank would be if I asked them to come in again.
Then I shrugged. If it was my property, they should be happy to see me.
Max was heading towards the door. “By the way, Maya is going to expect a response. I’ll see you later, Kris.”
Sitting down, I opened Maya’s note and smiled at the doodles and swirly handwriting. And after I wrote her a long note back, taking care of the more important tasks first, I called the bank.
It was six-thirty when I got to the bank and ran inside. My tie was driving me insane, but I knew the bank manager was a fussy old coot so I’d have to suffer with it a little longer. I also knew my father had picked this bank because the guy was ferocious about the details, but man it was exhausting sometimes. Mr. Jogwell was tapping his foot as I burst in and gave me a startled look.
Offering him a sheepish smile, I said, “Sorry. Excited to be back.”
“Yes,” Mr. Jogwell said. “Well, I’m not sure why you couldn’t have done this yesterday, but we are happy to assist you again, Mr. Boldin.”
“Can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” I said as I followed him into the bank.
“Hm. Yes.” He opened the door to a small private room for viewing the contents. “I’ll bring the box along presently. All I ask is that you don’t take too long. The bank does close in a half hour.”
“Double the time I need,” I joked, but he just gave me a dour look. “I’ll be quick, thanks.”
Inside the small room, which had the feeling of a holding cell for prisoners, I paced around, unable to sit still. I had an uneasy feeling that I should have called the lawyers, but I was sure Mr. Jogwell would have insisted on a ten a.m. meeting next month if that was the case. I’d never met anyone more dedicated to their planner.
I thought of my dad then, with his fat planner, color-coded but chaotic. There were always folded up papers falling out of it, fat letters, and clippings from newspapers and magazines. It was almost more like a scrapbook than a planner.
Whenever someone said the “artistry of Lukas Boldin,” involuntarily I would think about my father with his planner and his sketchbooks, hunched over his desk at odd hours, a single lamp burning and the smell of burnt coffee in the air.
Suddenly I wondered where his old planners and notebooks had gotten off to. While he himself had claimed ninety percent of them were crap, I still wanted to look through them. They had to be somewhere in house, I reasoned, even as my stomach fluttered nervously.
Abruptly that thought process came to a halt as Mr. Jogwell reappeared, the safe deposit box in his hands. It was a long gray metal container looking like it came off a steamer ship. He carefully placed it down and then checked his watch. “Twenty-four minutes, Mr. Boldin.”
“Of course,” I said, wishing he’d go.
With a sigh, he said, “I’ll leave it to you then.”
Once alone, I slid the key in and popped it open. Then I blinked in surprise at the neatness of the contents. I’d been expecting a chaotic pile.
A thick manila envelope was on top. And my name was scrawled on it in handwriting I knew well. Heart pounding, I lifted it out slowly and then flipped it over. Undoing the tabs took forever because my hands were shaking so badly.
Dumping it out, a letter slid across the table, and I grabbed it. It was written on a handful of torn out pieces of notebook paper, the handwriting inky, splotchy and a little uneven. The first two words were Dear Son. My throat was growing tight as my eyes watered. Weight seemed to push down on my shoulders, and taking a steadying breath, I read it.
A long time ago, you asked me why I wanted to make movies. Why not paint or write books, since I seemed to like those just as much? And I do, of course. You’ve been to enough museums with me and had enough books thrown at you to know that.
But film was the most demanding. Especially documentaries. It’s harder to create appeal.
Why would anyone waste good time or money to watch something about tiny penguins or the Amazon Rainforest or a bespectacled scientist spending his days peering into the vastness of space?
That. That was it, Kris – that challenge of capturing those stories in a way that would bring them to light for the rest of the world.
I always felt there is a great tragedy in losing stories – the ones on the fringes that people forget about or get passed over for explosions and fast cars.
But I’ll tell you one thing about this business, son: Hollywood persistently shoots itself in the foot. And in that regard, that’s where you rush in and fill the void.
At first, I made films for the “art crowd,” figuring those stories would appeal to the high-brow judges. And they did. But I misjudged everyone else. The average Joe is not so average.
There is curiosity and love for those quieter stories.
That’s why I succeeded. That’s why you will. You love those quieter stories more than anyone I know. You have a gift for finding them out, and you don’t even know it fully. Not yet.
Now I know you just dealt with Jogwell and are probably bogged down with a million checkboxes to tick off. I know you thought of me as good with the details.
And I was. As are you.
But one of the secrets is to not get bogged down. A lot of the details take care of themselves. You have to enjoy the process – the journey of it. The squabbles about money, the n
itty-gritty stuff – it can eat you alive. I’m sure you’re overwhelmed and pretty incensed with your old man for dumping this business on you without a manual. Although I’m sure Max has one.
For that, I’m both sorry and not sorry. It is unfortunate you have to learn how to deal with all the pestilential aspects of running a business all at once, but it is also the greatest learning experience you could ask for. A year in, you’re going to know more than I did probably after twenty.
As I alluded to earlier, you’ve always had a good eye, Kris. Scratch that. An excellent eye. You may not think so right now, but you have an innate gift for delving into stories. Ferreting out the good from the bad.
An old Scotsman said as much when you were seven, laughing as you sat with his family and listened eagerly to their stories. You probably barely remember it. We’d been filming in Inverness. It was like a land out of legend, and you seemed to expect the Pendragon to pop up at any moment. The locals weren’t thrilled at having a film crew around, but your curiosity and open heart won even the sourest of Scotsmen over.
And that sour fellow admitted to me, in a gruff, respectful tone, in a thick accent I could barely discern, “Your son has the gumption of a gray-beard. He’ll be a great man someday.”
I agreed.
And now you are that great man, Kris. You’re doing those great things. Or you will. Soon.
While I hope I’ve left you enough to get started – the necessities, money and such – I also know you must be desperate for ideas and goals and all that.
Some part of me is reluctant to pass it along, but I suppose I should. I have a notebook (kept in a safe in my office) with all sorts of grand plans for documentaries and BP. Feel free to peruse at your leisure. The code is in this box.
But trust your own instincts, Kris. I know you’ve never considered yourself a filmmaker, but story-telling is in your blood. Your grandfather may have been a salesman of shoes, but he made his fortune because he could weave a story about pressed leather that had even a tightfisted Scrooge pay handsomely. And your female relations were all formidable storytellers in their own right, too. Your grandmother can make a monk laugh, you know that.
