Beach Town (49 page)

Greer rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Clint came home with this busted-up Charger which he'd bought for seventy-five dollars. Without consulting Lise. He had some grand scheme to do all the body work, repaint it, and lease it back to Warner Brothers for the show. Unfortunately, Lise had been planning to use that money to buy herself a new outfit for a callback she had for a television pilot. They had a huge fight, and Clint left.”

She took a sip of her wine. “I don't have a lot of memories of the times they were together, but I do remember the fight that night. I remember her screaming about seventy-five goddamn dollars. And I remember Clint lifting me into the front seat of the Charger and letting me blow the horn.”

“Which played ‘Dixie,'” Eb said.

“Which made my mother really go insane. After he left she took all his stuff and threw it out into the front yard. The next morning she called our next door neighbor to babysit me, because she had that audition.”

Greer took a deep breath. “Here's where the story gets interesting. That first time, when I met Clint at his house, he was totally indignant that I thought he'd walked off. He admits he left that night—to drive around and cool off—but he said when he eventually did go go home, the teenage babysitter had been there all night. Because Lise never came home. And she never called, either. Clint said he kept me all weekend, with no word from Mom. Finally—because, let's face it, he was a guy and he didn't know what to do with a kid who screamed all night because of an earache—he called Dearie and asked her to come help.”

“He's saying your mother was the one who took off and left you?”

“Dearie confirmed it,” Greer said. “She didn't want to admit what Mom had done, but she finally confirmed Clint's version. She says Lise came home after a few days, never said where she'd been, and after that is when they got divorced.”

“Sad story all around,” Eb said. “So maybe your dad wasn't Atticus Finch. Most dads aren't.”

“But he also wasn't Dr. Evil.”

Their food arrived, and they found other things to talk about. They were sipping coffee when Greer noticed Eb looking at her oddly.

“What's on your mind?”

“You won't get mad if I ask you one more thing about your dad?”

“It's about that damned car, isn't it?”

He looked sheepish.

“Go ahead.”

“What happened to the Charger? I mean, every once in a while you read about one of those cars selling at auction, for like hundreds of thousands of dollars. Does he still have it?”

“He actually did fix it up and lease it back to the studio. I think he told me his General Lee was used for the last season of
Dukes.
Clint's kind of a pack rat—like you, I guess. He's got the car in a barn at his place, along with maybe three dozen other vintage novelty vehicles—old fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, school buses, like that.”

Greer could tell from the dreamy expression in Eb's eyes what he was thinking about. And it wasn't about getting into her pants—it was about getting into her father's storage barn.

 

58

“You want dessert?” The restaurant had filled up and was now so crowded it was hard to hear each other over the din of the crowd. Greer shook her head no. She'd placed her phone on the top of the table earlier, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a text message flash across the screen.

At the same time, she caught sight of a familiar face sitting at a table closest to the bar. Two familiar faces, actually. Bryce and Vanessa Littrell.

Bryce held up his own phone.

The text was from him.

Did u ask him about using the boathouse?

Eb saw her reading the text. She flipped the phone around so he could read it too. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I can't believe we've been sitting here all this time and I forgot to mention it. We're not going to demo the casino after all. The studio exec who flew out here this week killed the whole idea because it's too expensive.”

“You're serious?” A slow smile spread across Eb's face.

“Bryce told me himself, after I got back to the set today. That's what this text means. Instead of the big explosion, Terry's writing a new ending with a boat chase. Bobo—he's the transportation captain—is supposed to be bringing in some high-powered cigarette racing boats tomorrow. For the location, we need an old boathouse, which is where you come in. Interested?”

“Why not? Just as long as you don't blow it up.”

“Bryce wants to try to start shooting Monday, which doesn't give us much time. We'd need to start setup tomorrow and Sunday.”

“Sure. It's not like we're exactly humming with activity. Business is so slow it won't make much difference. I'd have to go in tomorrow, or tonight even, to let my boat owners know. Would I have to shut down over the weekend?”

“Mmm, probably. I'm thinking we'll want to tie the boats up there at your dock, so we need that secure from other traffic. We'd pay you, of course, to compensate for all the lost business.”

“I like that plan,” Eb said. “Ballpark it for me, would you?”

“How's a thousand a day?”

“I like twelve hundred better.”

“You got a deal.”

Eb flagged the waitress down and asked for their check. As they were leaving the Inn, Bryce motioned for them to stop by his table.

“Are we good for the boathouse?” he asked Greer.

“He's in,” Greer said.

Eb reached over to shake Bryce's hand, and after a second's hesitation, the producer shook it.

“Sorry about all the unpleasantness at your place the other day,” Eb said, addressing himself to Vanessa. “I got pretty hot under the collar and said some stuff I shouldn't have. I'd like to apologize to both of you.”

“I get it,” Bryce said. “No offense taken.”

But Vanessa didn't intend to let Eb off that easily. “I guess it's a win-win for you,” she said, leaning forward. “You get to save the casino, thereby screwing me over, and you even get to make money off your own property. Nice work if you can get it.”

“Weren't you the one who said it's just business?” Eb said.

“The demolition deal might be off the table, but don't think I'm going to let you off the hook that easily on the whole conflict-of-interest thing,” Vanessa said.

Bryce patted her hand. “Okay, enough vendetta talk.” He addressed himself to Greer. “I'm going to want to start blocking the scenes at the boathouse between Nick and the sheriff as early tomorrow as possible. I saw Kregg sitting at the bar a little while ago, and I let him know he's got a ten a.m. call time. I'll text Nate, too. Bobo said the boats should be delivered before that. Can you text him the address of the boathouse?”

“As soon as we leave here,” Greer promised.

*   *   *

They were almost at the Inn's front door when Greer saw the black Hummer pull up to the curb outside. Jared Thibadeaux was at the wheel and Zena and Kregg were climbing into the backseat. They could hear the heavy bass thump from the Hummer's CD player as it sped away from the curb with Zena sitting on Kregg's lap.

“Did you see that?” Greer asked, looking over her shoulder at Eb. “It looks like Kregg found himself a new playmate.”

“Good. Now he can be somebody else's headache,” Eb said.

 

59

The alarm on Greer's phone buzzed at 7:00 a.m. She reached across Eb's motionless form to grab it.

He stirred, turned to her, and planted his forehead next to hers. “Don't you ever get a day off? Ever get to sleep in?”

“Not during the last days of a location shoot,” Greer said, rummaging in the overnight bag she'd brought the night before. “It gets pretty intense. Total crazy-town.”

“Hey!” Eb sat up in bed. “What do you mean, ‘the last days of the shoot'? I thought you were supposed to be here for at least another week.”

“We were, but along with deep-sixing the casino demo, the studio told Bryce everything has to be finished here by Wednesday. Anything we don't get done by then we'll have to shoot once we're back in L.A.”

“What's that mean for us?”

Greer came back and sat on the edge of the bed. She picked his glasses off the nightstand and gently placed them on his face, then kissed his nose. “I don't know. I haven't even had time to process it yet.”

He shook his head and his jaw tightened. “When were you going to tell me you're leaving? Were you just going to go out for ice cream and never come back? Maybe text me from the airport?”

“I'm telling you now,” Greer said quietly. “I only found out late yesterday. We had a lot to catch up on last night, remember?” She glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand.

“Can we please not fight about this right now? Can we sit down and talk it out tonight? If I don't get to the boathouse in thirty minutes, Bryce is going to pop a vein.”

“Go,” Eb, giving an irritable wave. “Wouldn't want to keep the great and mighty Bryce Levy waiting.”

She was getting ready to climb into the claw-foot tub when she spotted it on the pine vanity holding the sink: a new, wrapped toothbrush, a bar of rose-scented goat's milk soap, and full-sized bottles of the expensive hair salon shampoo and conditioner she favored. Beside the toiletries was a shiny brass key. She knew it was the key to the loft.

Greer felt like weeping.

Eb had gone to a lot of trouble to figure out what brand of products she used, and to make her feel at home here—in his home—and she'd managed to hurt him again. When was she ever going to get the hang of this relationship thing?

He was standing in the kitchen, dressed and drinking coffee.

“Eb, I'm sorry,” she started to say. “I swear, I'm not running out on you again. I want this to work. You are the dearest, most thoughtful, sexiest—”

He thrust a thermal coffee mug into her hands. “Let's just save it for later. You've got to get to work, and so do I.”

*   *   *

There was no time to brood over their latest argument. Bryce and the production designer were waiting outside the boathouse when she pulled up in the Kia. Eb's truck was already there, and he was unlocking the door.

While the two men walked the building and the docks outside, Greer joined Eb in the office. He was already on the phone, contacting boat owners, letting them know the dock and boathouse would be closed for business for the next three days.

When he'd finally hung up from one call, she interrupted before he could start another. “Anything special I should know about your neighbors around here?” she asked.

“It's mostly commercial stuff,” he said. “The clam processing plant isn't running right now, so that won't be a problem. Green's, the auto body shop to my right, isn't open on weekends, but he does open early on Monday. The guy to my left, Cypress HVAC, isn't open on the weekend either. He's got three or four vans that come in and out during the week, though.”

“Okay. I don't think the HVAC guy will be a problem for our shoot, but I guess I'll need to contact the auto body guy and see if there's a way to do a work-around with him. If he's using loud power equipment over there while we're shooting, our sound equipment is going to pick that up. And that's
no bueno.
”

Eb rifled through the top drawer of his desk and handed her a business card. “That's Joey Green's shop, and his cell number's on there, too. He's not the friendliest guy in the world, but I guess if you show him the money he'll work with you.”

“Thanks,” Greer said. She looked out the office window toward the parking lot. “Zena should have been here by now. I wanted her to deal with the neighbors. But I guess it's all me.”

*   *   *

It was after ten by the time Greer finished canvasing the block around the boathouse. She'd answered questions from curious neighbors, handed out pizza gift certificates and, along the way, had a phone conversation with Arnelle Bottoms about security for the shoot at both locations on Monday.

“Is Kregg gonna be over there today?” the police chief asked.

“Yes, they're going to be rehearsing and dealing with the boat stuff,” Greer said. “We won't have that big a presence to attract the public's attention; none of the big trucks need to come in until tomorrow. But I guess I should probably have an off-duty officer, if you've got somebody you could spare today and tomorrow.”

“How about me?” The chief laughed. “I'm off, and I wouldn't mind getting some of that movie money. And I'll be keeping an eye on that low-down Kregg, too.”

As the morning wore on with no sign of her assistant location manager, Greer's irritation increased to the point that her shoulders and neck were knotted with tension. They needed to pack a week's worth of prep work for Monday's shoot into two days, and she felt herself stretched to the point of snapping.

She left phone messages and fired off texts and e-mails to Zena, with no reply.

Shortly before eleven, as she was getting ready to tape off the boatyard parking lot for the equipment trailers, Kregg zoomed up in his black Porsche. He bounded out of the car and headed for the door of the boathouse. A full two minutes later the passenger-side door opened and Zena slowly climbed out.

Greer stood with her hands on her hips, momentarily enjoying the spectacle of her assistant's walk of shame.

Zena's eyes were shaded with dark sunglasses, but she wore no makeup and had a baseball cap jammed over her hair. The usually fashionable girl wore an oversize black Kregg concert tour T-shirt over a pair of ripped and tattered jeans, and a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops that still bore the orange convenience store price sticker.

If appearances meant anything, Zena was experiencing the mother of all hangovers. She was clutching a huge Styrofoam cup of coffee with both hands, as though her life depended on it.