Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (18 page)

“Do I ask it the question?” seven-year-old Bea had asked.

“Nope. No need,” her dad had said. “The question is already inside you. You just have to hold the shell to your ear and listen. Really listen.”

She remembered beach trips over the years when she’d find a shell and hold it to her ear, silently asking her burning questions. Will I make friends in my class? Does he like me back? Does my dad watch over me? She’d listen hard, and the shell itself never said anything, but as she pressed it against her ear, hearing the whoosh, she’d know the answers to her questions. Much later, Bea would learn the answer depended on what she believed deep down. Sometimes shells had no answer for her. Sometimes they confirmed the worst. Sometimes they offered hope. But Bea had been asking her burning questions to seashells for as long as she could remember.

Bea held the shell to her ear. “Should I call Veronica Russo after my shift today and introduce myself?” she asked.

Bea thought it was time. She’d arrived in Boothbay Harbor on Friday and now it was almost a week later. She’d struck
gold on seeing Veronica in the diner the day she’d arrived, but she hadn’t been back to the Best Little Diner in Boothbay; the thought of returning had made her feel both oddly exposed and like a stalker of sorts.

She listened. There was a whoosh. And then the answer, coming from inside her. Yes.

There were five guest rooms at the Three Captains’ Inn. The three on the second floor, and two on the third floor. Breakfast was served between seven o’clock and eight thirty for the current twelve guests. At seven on the dot, Bea’s first orders came in for the Osprey and Seashell Rooms—four various egg dishes, including a bacon and Swiss omelet, which was exactly what she’d made herself before her shift had started, a bagel with cream cheese, two bowls of cereal and a plate of sausage links for the kids, and two fruit plates. By seven forty-five, the dining room was in full swing, guests leaving, guests arriving, and Bea was in dynamo mode, scrambling eggs and flipping pancakes like an old pro. As Isabel had come into the kitchen with the orders, she’d commented more than once how impressed she was at Bea’s cooking skills and shared the compliments she’d gotten from her guests. After having her burgers measured and pay docked for every slight infraction at Crazy Burger, Bea was thrilled.

At eight thirty, she made crepes for the newlywed stragglers in the Bluebird Room, a couple in their late twenties who took their plates out to the backyard and fed each other bites. Bea watched them through the window as she began rinsing dishes for the dishwasher, smiling at how lovey-dovey they were.

Gemma came down in the nick of time for a hot breakfast, and when Isabel brought in her order, Bea made sure her omelet was perfection. Gemma had done her a huge favor. She was a little curious about the woman. Gemma had a warm, pretty face, and when she smiled, her entire face lit up, but something seemed to be troubling her just under the surface. Or maybe Bea was imagining it. Bea had noticed Gemma twisting her wedding ring a couple of times, and when she’d come in the dining room to clear the final tables, she found Gemma sipping her herbal tea and staring out the window a bit forlornly, and again she wondered what Gemma’s story was. Gemma’s husband wasn’t with her at the inn, unless Bea just hadn’t seen him. But then Gemma had gone off on an interview, the lovebirds cleared out of the yard, and just like that, the breakfast rush was over.

After the dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away, and the kitchen left spotless, Bea cleaned the dining room tables and swept and mopped the floor, then headed out to the patio to straighten the chaises and collect coffee mugs. She grabbed messy newspapers and neatened them, adding them to the basket just inside the door. In the parlor, Bea refilled coffee cups and sliced up lemons for iced tea for a few guests, collected more mugs and teacups, took the pie, bagels, and muffins that Isabel set up in the parlor for morning stragglers, and put everything away.

By ten o’clock, the inn’s common rooms were spotless, so Bea just hung around, making herself useful as needed. Straightening the maps and brochures on the table in the foyer. Cleaning up a trail of sand from the kids. She went through the refrigerator and pantry, making a list of what Isabel would need to restock. Eleven o’clock. Quitting time. Bea liked her duties. She wasn’t cooped up in the kitchen the entire time; she got
to mingle among the guests in the parlor and backyard, chatting about where they were from. And she’d surprised herself a few times by being able to answer questions about where certain landmarks were. A few days of walking around Boothbay Harbor, trying to get this place—in which she’d been born—inside her, and she’d learned more than she realized.

She had a phone call to make. Up in her room, she got out her notebook and her phone, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed in Veronica’s number.
Hi, my name is Bea Crane,
she practiced in her head.
I was born on October twelfth, twenty-two years ago. I’d like to meet you, if you’re interested. You can reach me at this number. I’m staying at the Three Captains’ Inn
.

Answering machine. “Hello, you’ve reached Veronica Russo. I’m unable to answer your call right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll return your call as soon as possible.” Beep.

Damn. Bea hung up, her heart beating a mile a minute. She could call back, leave a message. That would give Veronica a moment too, instead of being bombarded with the call and Bea at the other end all at once.

But when she picked up the phone, she found herself unable to press the numbers. She needed to do this in person. She needed to go see her, to not draw this out anymore. Bea changed out of her work clothes and back into her interview dress, which was just a pale yellow cotton dress with cap sleeves, a little something more than just jeans and a T-shirt, but nothing fancy. She put on her sandals and headed out, her heart beating too fast again.

Bea walked the half mile to Veronica Russo’s house. She’d driven past it at least ten times since she’d been in town, and
the sight of it, a cute lemon-yellow cottage with glossy white shutters and flower boxes on the windowsills, started her heart going crazy again.

But there wasn’t a car in the driveway, and the house didn’t have a garage. Veronica was likely at work, and Bea had a feeling she’d gone to her house as a stalling tactic. Bea would never be ready for this, it would never feel right, so she might as well get it over with now.

Just in case Veronica was home, Bea walked up the path to the front door. Bea rang the bell and waited, but she knew Veronica wasn’t here, that the door wouldn’t open.

She could go to the diner. She could introduce herself, then tell Veronica that perhaps they could chat on Veronica’s break. She wants to meet you, Bea reminded herself. She drove back to the inn and parked there, then walked down the two long, winding streets to Main Street and over to the diner.

She glanced in the big front windows and didn’t see Veronica, but maybe she was in the back. It was in between breakfast and lunch, not very crowded. Bea pulled open the door, her heart beating, her hope rising.

This was it.

She’d sit in Veronica’s section, and when she came to hand her a menu or ask her if she could get her something to drink, Bea would come right out with it.

My name is Bea Crane. I’m sorry for just showing up like this, but I don’t really know how to do this, and I felt funny leaving a message. I was born on October twelfth. Twenty-two years ago
.

It would be a start.

Bea glanced around for Veronica to determine what section
was hers, but she didn’t see her. Maybe her shift started later? She’d ask a waitress if Veronica was working today.

She went to the counter. The young waitress who’d served her the day she’d arrived was refilling a woman’s coffee. Bea waited until she came over.

“Menu?” she asked.

“Actually, I just want to know if Veronica Russo was working today.”

“Lucky stiff got hired as an extra on the Colin Firth movie—made first cut too. Instead of delivering eggs and burgers all day, she’ll be hobnobbing with the stars.”

An extra on the Colin Firth movie? That was unexpected.

Now what? Maybe she could find out where they were filming today. Equipment was still out by Frog Marsh. She’d start there. A friend of Bea’s from college had been an extra on a romantic comedy once, and she’d said the extras mainly sat around for hours until they were called. Perhaps Veronica was just sitting on a blanket, reading a book or staring into space.

She had in her mind to do this and couldn’t see putting it off any longer.

Three huge beige tents, trailers, lights, cameras, and barricades were set up by the pond now. There were barricades in front of the tent and a guard sitting beside it with a plate of chicken wings on his lap and one wing in his mouth. The guy she’d met the night she’d arrived came out of a trailer beside the tent, eyes on his clipboard.

“Filming today?” she asked him from the other side of the
barricade. It was the grumpy production assistant. Tyler Echols. The girl reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
wasn’t around this time.

He didn’t look up from his clipboard. “I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

So officious. “Can you tell me where the extras are?”

This time he did look at her. With irritation in his eyes. “Are you an extra?”

“No, but I know someone who is, and—”

He went back to his clipboard. “You’ll need to stay behind that barricade, then.”

“Can you just tell me where the—” Bea began.

Tyler rolled his eyes and walked away, disappearing into the crew coming and going. Who needs you, anyway, she shot at him silently, then weaved her way through the crowd watching from behind the long barricades, straining their necks to spot anyone famous. She eyed signs on the tents for the word
extras.
Bingo. The one at the far right. Ten minutes later, as she crossed the barrier to peer inside it, Tyler Echols was back, pointing beyond it, then at the big guy sitting in a chair and devouring chicken wings, paying more attention to them than to anything else.

She moved behind the barricade. The grump grimaced at her and went back to his clipboard. She turned to the woman beside her. “I guess they’re filming today?”

“Test footage, apparently,” she said. “For lighting and whatnot.”

Bea strained to look at the group of people lining up at a table on the far side of the extras tent. Food. Bagels and tubs of cream cheese, cold cuts, cookies. She looked for Veronica but there were so many people milling inside the tent. Bea saw the
grump with the clipboard chewing out some guy who looked like he wanted to punch him, and she headed around the other side, where two new trailers were now, surrounded by barricades and guarded by a large man balancing a plate of scrambled eggs and home fries on his lap.

She waited until he was looking down at his plate, then leaped over the barricade. If she could just get to the other side, where the tent flap was wide, she could peer in. Maybe she’d catch Veronica just sitting or eating breakfast and Bea could ask to speak to her.

“God, you don’t give up, do you? I assure you, Colin Firth is not here. He’s what, more than twice your age? Go take your daddy issues to a therapist.”