The Promise of Change (18 page)

Sarah woke at dawn in her own bed for the first time in almost two months. It was a beautiful late spring morning, the kind of morning that reminded her why she lived in Florida. At least she would catch the tail end.

The birds already sang, and a gentle breeze stirred the sheers at the open window. She rolled over and grabbed the other pillow, hoping to fall back to sleep, but thoughts of the last few months, and the whirlwind that her life had become, dashed those hopes.

Her dream had become a reality in a big way.
The American and the Aristocrat
had not only garnered a book deal, but a movie deal.

In homage to the writings of Jane Austen, the novel tells the contemporary story of the beautiful, unmarried twenty-eight year old Amelia Hampton, who spends a year in England to fulfill her late Aunt Millie’s wishes before inheriting her estate, the value of which is unknown to Amelia.

During her stay in England, she meets the handsome and aloof Lord Christen Hare, a member of one of Britain’s noble families and respected member of the House of Lords. In true romantic fashion, the two clash repeatedly.

She sighed, rising from the bed. She was wasting the day, and after all the time away, she had a stack of mail, and various other chores waiting for her.

Her decision to turn down the hospital’s offer disappointed her former co-workers and frustrated Mr. Cheswick, who, despite her protests to the contrary, believed her decision was based on lingering resentment over being second choice in the first place.

He’d get over it, and so would her former co-workers. Maybe the board would be more careful about who they hired next time around, but Sarah argued it should be Kim. By the time they’d hung up, she thought Mr. Cheswick had come around.

Positioned at the breakfast table with a cup of tea and the mound of mail, she sorted through it, creating separate stacks by levels of importance. There was a letter from Lady Clara halfway through the pile. Lady Clara disdained e-mail, insisting that meaningful correspondence be in the form of pen and paper.

She shoved the other mail aside and opened it immediately. It was written shortly after she left, so was probably wondering why she hadn’t responded. She’d do that first thing.

Dear Sarah,

I hope this letter finds you and your loved ones happy and well. Life here is clacking along at its usual measured pace.

Her letter continued on for another page informing her of the goings on at Hawthorne Hall and in Oxford. Sarah skidded to a halt at the top of page two:

I was recently in London visiting a dear friend when I ran into Alex. He spends most of his time there now. It’s a shame that I have to run into my own grandson on the streets of London in order to see him, but he’s been filming on location.

Sarah’s heart stuttered. Though she’d thought about him almost daily over the past nine months, she hadn’t spoken his name, and neither had Ann or Becca.

He is looking very well, but of course, that could just be my bias. He’s finished filming his last movie, and is planning a little holiday for himself. His mother actually invited him along on one of her adventures. I believe they are taking a walking tour of Tuscany. What do you think of that? He asked after you, and of course I told him that as of your last letter, you were in excellent health.

Sarah could hear the insinuation even in her written lines. None of their previous letters broached the subject of Alex. She knew that was difficult for Lady Clara, but she seemed to understand Sarah’s desire not to poke that particular wound.

Write to me soon, my dear. I want to know all your comings and goings. They’re always vastly more interesting than my dull country life.

Yours,

L.C.S.F.

Time had softened the pain to a dull ache, though it had not yet healed the self-inflicted wound. Sarah wasn’t sure it ever would. Sometimes she thought she’d imagined that perfect week, but then the pain would return, and that was not her imagination.

He asked about her, but did he think of her, or was he merely being polite? If he did think of her, was it with loathing, or perhaps worse, indifference? She cringed, reminded of a line from the
P&P
movie: ‘I cannot bear to think that he is alive in the world and thinking ill of me.’

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, she retrieved stationary from her office.

Dear Clara,

I apologize for the delay in responding to your letter. When you read this, you will understand why it has taken me so long to write. I have so much to tell, that I don’t know where to begin.

I just returned last night from California, where I met with the director for the movie based on my book. Can you believe it? It’s true! Someone is actually making it into a movie!

My literary agent and dear friend, Samantha Bethancourt, is a genius! She took the manuscript to another friend and agent at the same time it was accepted for publication, rather than waiting for its release. Her friend apparently had a client who is always looking for adaptable novels. The client loved it, and bought the option right away. Things moved quickly after that. The screenplay was drafted, a studio accepted it, and now we’re off and running.

I’ve spent the last two months with the director, screenwriter, and pre-production team reviewing the screenplay, looking at the storyboards, set designs, and locations photographs. I leave for London in six weeks, after another two to three weeks in California, to begin production. I’ll be in London for a time, and then we’ll be filming in Oxfordshire, and I would dearly love to see you.

I would have to kill a few trees to tell you the whole incredible story, so I’ll save it until we’re together. I have to run. Becca and Ann are throwing a party for me tonight to celebrate.

Sarah read over the letter. Maybe she should say something about Alex. Lady Clara will think it odd if she completely ignores it.

I’m glad to hear that Alex is well, and that he and his mother are going to spend some quality time together.

Although slightly lame, that should do it. She finished the letter by adding her arrival date and a promise to call her after she knew her schedule.

When she arrived in London, a car waited to take her to the rented flat that would be her home off-and-on during the film’s production. She couldn’t believe production would get underway this week. She also couldn’t believe she’d get to see her manuscript come to life on the proverbial silver screen. It was times like this when she needed to pinch herself.

The flat was spacious and inviting, and more importantly, it was on a quiet side street in the exclusive Knightsbridge district of London. Tastefully furnished, with clean lines, neutral colors, and little clutter, it was decidedly masculine.

On the foyer table sat a basket of fruit and a bottle of champagne with a note attached. It was from Michael Williams, the film’s director, welcoming her to London and explaining that a detailed schedule was on the desk in the study.

She already knew her first meeting would be tomorrow afternoon to review the casting decisions, followed the next evening by the introduction party, where she would meet most of the actors and crew.

The schedule was on the desk in the study where Michael said it would be. It looked demanding. Didn’t they believe in sleep? Placing the schedule back on the desk, she noted the study’s floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were lined with books, mostly great works of literature from Austen to Wordsworth. The owner was well-read, or at least wanted to appear so.

Picking up the basket and the champagne, Sarah carried it into the well-equipped kitchen. Clearly the apartment belonged to someone who loved to cook. The cabinets and refrigerator were thoughtfully stocked with the essentials.

There were also some of her favorite foods: fresh strawberries, grapes, mascarpone cheese, seven-grain bread, fresh juice, stilton cheese, English Breakfast tea, and of course chocolate. She didn’t recall providing a list of her food preferences but perhaps it was the work of her fabulous agent. At least she didn’t have to go out for breakfast in the morning.

Michael, or most likely his assistant, had been attentive to every detail. The phone rang. Other than the studio, who else knew the number there?

“Sarah Edwards,” she answered, just in case the caller expected the owners to answer.

“Sarah? It’s Michael.”

“Michael, hi. I was wondering who would be calling me here.”

“How was your flight? Is the flat to your liking?”

“My flight was fine, and yes, everything is perfect. Thank you for the fruit and champagne.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

She gave a mental groan. All she wanted was a hot bath and a comfortable bed. “That would be fine . . . if you don’t mind making it an early one. I’m afraid if I wait too late, jetlag will descend and I’ll fall asleep in my plate.”

“Seven then?

“Seven is fine.

“See you then.”

The doorbell buzzed. The luggage she’d had shipped over had arrived. Perfect timing. Now she had something to wear to dinner.

After years in the business, Michael Williams had a lot of insight into what makes a memorable romance on paper an even more memorable movie. And he didn’t mind telling Sarah that. She was lucky to have gotten such a great director, especially since she was an unknown entity. And he didn’t mind telling her that either.

He wasn’t bad looking. In his mid-fifties, he had thick salt and pepper hair surrounding a tanned face with chiseled features. Tall and fit, he had a confident bearing that commanded attention when he entered a room.

They sat sipping after dinner drinks in a trendy restaurant not far from the apartment.

“I can’t believe I haven’t thought to ask you before, but how did you come up with the plot for your very first book? What inspired you?”

That would be because you’re too busy talking about yourself, she thought. They’d spent weeks together and this was the first interest he’d shown in her craft. Not that he hadn’t shown an interest in her.

“Um, I’m not sure I could point to any one thing, but the inspiration to actually write came from a friend’s very wise words about doors.” If she could still count Alex as a friend. She didn’t want to go into the whole Bitchkrieg-unemployment-college-manuscript thing.

“I don’t follow.”

“I needed a change, and he helped me see that.” She shrugged, as if it were that simple.

“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad for it. I’m excited about this project, and I haven’t been this excited since I directed
From Cairo with Love.
” He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling, while laugh lines formed parentheses around his mouth.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she’d never seen the movie. Before he could ask, she jumped in, distracting him with another question. “Are you pleased with the cast?”

At present, the cast was an unknown to her, but the big reveal would be tomorrow. She’d been involved in many aspects of the pre-production, with the exception of the cast. It was to be a surprise. What was it with men and surprises?

“The cast is top-notch. You’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”

Of course she would. She was mortified when she could no longer stifle a yawn. Between the jetlag, the wine at dinner, and the glass of port with dessert, she was suddenly wiped out. “I am so sorry. It’s not the company or the conversation, I assure you,” she laughed sheepishly.

“I shouldn’t have kept you out so long. Please forgive me.” His voice was kind, but he looked mildly annoyed. “Would you prefer that I call the car, or would you care to walk back?”

“No, a walk would be nice.”

He walked her to the door of the apartment building. “Thank you for dinner, Michael, I had a very nice time. I look forward to working with you.” She added the last as an afterthought, hoping to reinforce the label she put on their relationship.

“Good night then.” He waited until she was safely inside before walking away.

Sarah sat rigid in her chair, wondering why she was so tense. It was absurd. She looked around the generic conference room at the faces of the casting director, Edra Moore, two of her assistants, and an intern. She was about to see, for the first time, the actors who would breathe life into the characters she had so lovingly created.

“So Sarah, I thought we’d start with the minor characters and work our way up. How’s that sound?” Edra’s musical Irish accent made her sound perpetually cheerful.

Sarah had liked her on the spot. From their previous conversations, she could tell she’d clearly put a great deal of thought into the character’s personalities, blemishes and all.

“Sounds great.” Breathe
,
she told herself.

“For the role of Aunt Millie’s voice, we have Audrey Cole.” She placed a headshot on the table in front of Sarah. Of course, it didn’t matter what Audrey looked like, since they were only casting her voice.

“Okay,” was Sarah’s only response. It wasn’t as if she had veto power over who was cast for the movie. This was simply a courtesy.

Edra proceeded to place additional headshots in front of her identifying the other minor roles each would play.

“Now we’ve come to the major roles. This is where it gets exciting. Robert Chesser has been cast as Roderick and Angela Freeman as Margaret.” She placed two photos on the table side-by-side.

Margaret Fitzsimmons, an American ex-patriot, was Aunt Millie’s dearest friend. She and her husband, Roderick, a British diplomat and wealthy business man, ‘chaperone’ Amelia throughout her stay in England.

It is through them that Amelia and Christen are introduced. Christen and the Fitzsimmons travel in the same social circles, throwing Amelia and Christen together more often than the two would like.

After giving Sarah a moment to review the photos, she took them away.

“Lady Victoria Markham will be played by Cynthia Hollingsworth.”

Sarah looked at the photo of a young woman with long, straight dark brown hair and indigo blue eyes, framed by dark lashes. Lady Victoria is the daughter of a wealthy titled gentleman who was best friend to Christen’s late father, and as Christen’s equal in society is the expected choice as his wife.

“Good?” Edra asks.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“The role of our lovely heroine, Amelia Hampton, has gone to Brooke Bellamy. Brooke is a rising star in the U.S. and should be a good draw.” The photo was of a lovely champagne blonde, with crystal blue eyes set in an oval-shaped face with delicate features. Her glossy lips were turned up in a soft smile. She looked very much as Sarah had envisioned Amelia.

More importantly, Sarah hoped she could portray the sharp-witted Amelia, who was particularly close to Sarah’s heart.

Although a woman from the American middle class, Amelia is not awed by the social circles of the British upper class. Always forthright and honest, she holds her own, sometimes to the dismay of those around her.

“She appears ideal,” Sarah said, reserving judgment.

“Finally, in the role of our handsome hero, Christen Hare, we have,”—with a flourish worthy of Vanna White, Edra placed a photo on the table—“Alex Fraser.”

Sarah’s breath skidded to a halt. Alex’s handsome face stared back at her with his warm, coffee-colored eyes, slightly crinkled at the corners, and the engaging smile that she’d committed to memory, punctuated by irresistible dimples.

His hair was a little tidier than she remembered it. He wore the black T-shirt typical of an actor’s headshot. She’d never seen him in black. The color made his eyes even darker.

Sarah didn’t know how long she sat there trying to keep her hand from reaching out to trace the familiar lines of his face, but apparently long enough for Edra to grow concerned. Edra cleared her throat.

“Isn’t this movie a little outside his genre? I mean, doesn’t he generally prefer literary adaptations?” Sarah struggled to sound neutral. She hoped Edra didn’t hear the quaver in her voice.

“True, but Christen is an allusion to Mr. Darcy is he not, and we think he’s perfect for the part,” she said, seeming unsure of Sarah’s reaction. “It’s as if you had Alex in mind when you created Christen.”

Sarah suppressed a nervous titter. She couldn’t be closer to the truth. After she’d revised Christen’s character profile from the previous manuscript, she’d realized Alex was her model, at least for the physical characteristics. Alex was too open and amiable to serve as the model for Christen’s aloof personality.

“No. You’re right. He’s . . . perfect.”

“Good.” Edra heaved a sigh of relief.

As soon as Sarah got back to the flat, she shot off a text to Ann and Becca:
You’ll never guess who’s playing Christen!

Ann’s response:
Colin Firth! No, Hugh Grant!

Sarah’s response:
No, Alex!

Ann:
OMG! Alex! SRSLY? How does that make u feel? BTW, is he still gorgeous?

Sarah:
IDK. Haven’t seen him F2F.

Becca’s response:
OMG! Apologize. Groveling should b involved.

Sarah:
Right. TNX.

Curled up on the sofa, Sarah poked at her Chinese take-out between text messages. She’d been invited to dinner after the meeting, but she didn’t have much of an appetite, or much interest in making small talk with people she’d only just met. Her stomach had been doing somersaults since the meeting. The insects in her stomach seemed more like bees than butterflies.

What were the odds? Of all the British actors, Alex was cast in the role of Christen. Of course, why should that really surprise her? It’s no one’s fault but her own. She created Christen in Alex’s physical image.

Obviously, when she’d written the book, the odds of winning the lottery were better than getting her book published, and the odds of getting hit by a meteor were better than someone believing in the manuscript enough to produce a movie.

He had to know it was her book. Everyone involved in the film, from the set designer to the locations manager, were required to read it. If he knew it was her book, would he have accepted the role if he hated her? Maybe he didn’t think she’d be on the set.

What would he say when he saw her? What would she say when she saw him? How would he behave? Would he acknowledge their previous time together, or would he pretend they’d never met? Worse, would he bring some leggy supermodel? So many questions, so many uncertainties, many of which would be answered tomorrow at the party.

She wished they could meet alone first, so she could prepare herself. Then again, maybe a public meeting would be better; no opportunity for him to tell her what he really thought of her. Regardless of his reaction, she was determined to handle herself in a professional manner. No drama on the set. A nervous giggle escaped at her pun.

The bees in her stomach buzzed again, attacking the honey chicken she’d barely managed to swallow. Ugh.
Sleep was going to elude her tonight.

Sarah planned to meet Lady Clara at eleven that morning at the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery, which housed paintings by the world’s renowned painters, including Botticelli, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Monet, among others, was one of Sarah’s favorite London haunts.

She arrived early at the Square, giving herself time to gather her thoughts before greeting that all too-perceptive lady. Sleep had been long in coming last night, and when it did come, it was fitful. Lady Clara would see immediately that she was troubled. Could she avoid talking about Alex? Not likely.

Sarah meandered around Trafalgar in the unusually warm weather, admiring the two huge fountains flanking Nelson’s Column. Trafalgar was the fourth most popular tourist attraction in the world, and as she looked around, she could certainly see proof of that claim.

The Square teemed with both tourists and locals. Among the throng, Sarah heard a variety of foreign languages, from the familiar languages of Europe to the unfamiliar languages of the Middle and Far East.

She could also detect the various accents of Great Britain, including Irish, Welsh, and Scottish, as well as some of the accents of the U.S. regions.

She turned back to the north side of the square facing the National Gallery, which had previously been the site of the King’s Mews since the time of Edward I.

On the lawn in front of the Gallery were two statues: one of James II and the other of George Washington. Washington’s was said to be built on soil imported from the U.S. so to honor his declaration that he would never again set foot on British soil.

She directed her steps to the main entrance where she and Lady Clara planned to meet. It was cool by comparison inside the Gallery, and it took her a moment to adjust her vision to the relatively dim interior.

“Sarah, my dear.” Lady Clara walked toward Sarah, arms outstretched.

“Lady Clara . . . I mean, Clara,” Sarah corrected at her frown.

“It is so good to see you.” She hugged Sarah close before stepping back just enough to examine her appearance. “You’re lovely as usual, although I must say you look a little peeked dear. Jetlag?” She tilted her head with her inquiry.

“Yes, jetlag.” Sarah latched on to the excuse she provided. “You’re looking well. I’ve missed you so.”

“And I you. Come, let’s walk the Gallery. Shall we go to the Sainsbury Wing first for a taste of the Renaissance?” She hooked arms with Sarah, leading the way.

As they strolled through the understated, intimate rooms admiring the exalted paintings of da Vinci, Raphael, and Botticelli, among others, they caught up in a way letters could never accomplish.

They talked of Rutherford, Oxfordshire, and Lady Clara’s recent travels to Italy, then moved to discussions of Sarah’s family, the book, the movie, and the enormous changes her life had undergone in a year’s time.

“Where are you staying?” Lady Clara asked.

“I’ve been provided a flat in Knightsbridge for the duration of the filming.”

“Oh! Alex lives in Knightsbridge. What a happy coincidence.”

Alex lives in Knightsbridge? Was she just being paranoid, or were there too many coincidences involving Alex? Lady Clara had asked another question. What was it?

“I’m sorry Clara, I was lost in Botticelli’s
Adoration of the Kings
.”

“I asked if you were going to see Alex while you were here?”

The question she’d been dreading. “Um, yes . . . every day on the set.”

“Why Sarah! He’s in the movie? Why didn’t you tell me?” she scolded. “For that matter, why didn’t he tell me?” Her cheerful expression turned to exasperation. “Wait until I see my grandson. The tongue-lashing I plan to give him.”

“I learned only yesterday he was in the movie. Besides, he probably hates me, or worse, doesn’t even think about me,” she muttered.

“Sarah, he doesn’t hate you. He couldn’t. His expression when he asked after you was one of genuine concern, not indifference.” She touched Sarah’s cheek. “From the little I’ve seen of him these months past, I can tell you he’s different. No longer the playboy. He’s very focused on the estate business, and his filmmaking. He’s even managed not to irritate his brother more than necessary.” She smiled. “I think he misses you.”

Sarah’s heart gave a little squeeze. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough I guess. I’m meeting the cast and crew tonight,” adding, “it will be the first time I’ve seen him,”—in person anyway—“since . . . well, you know, and I’m terribly nervous.”

“Things will work out as they should,”—she patted Sarah’s arm reassuringly—“they always do. You will see.”

An elegant Georgian townhouse on Grosvenor Square served as the setting for the Fitzsimmons’ London home, the location for Amelia’s and Christen’s first meeting. It was an appropriate venue to hold the introduction party, since filming would begin there before moving into Oxfordshire.

Michael escorted Sarah through the home’s carved oak door and into the foyer. Sarah looked around with pleasure. The interior was elegantly furnished in the Queen Anne style, noted for its graceful cabriole legs, and simple fan or scallop shell embellishments.

From the foyer, she heard the hum of voices drifting from the drawing room and saw the room’s soft, pale creams, roses, and sages common to that era of design. It was indeed a lovely home.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the huge gilt-framed mirror in the entrance. She’d paid special attention to her appearance when dressing for the evening, knowing she would see Alex.

Tastefully clad in a black sheath dress with pearls at her throat and ears, her now-long hair fell in soft waves down her back. In the months she’d been unemployed and working on her manuscript at home, rarely leaving the house, she’d paid little attention to maintaining her previous hairstyle, letting it grow until it hung to the middle of her back.

She entered the crowded drawing room with Michael’s arm encircling her waist and immediately saw Alex standing across the room directly opposite the door through which they’d entered.

His face was an inscrutable mask until his eyes flashed to Michael’s arm. His dark eyes narrowed briefly, before the mask returned. Michael’s once-comforting arm now felt heavy and cloying. As they approached, Alex was as cool and aloof as the character he was cast to portray.

“Alex.” She couldn’t help the breathless pronunciation of his name, as the bees took up residence in her stomach again. Classically dressed in black slacks and a blue dress shirt that was open at the neck, he was striking.

She realized her memory had not done him justice. Or was it possible he’d just grown more handsome? He looked tan, perhaps from his recent walking tour of Italy.

“Hello, Sarah. You’re looking well,” he said with polite reserve. He nodded a curt greeting at Michael. The gulf between them stretched as vast as the Atlantic Ocean, and seemed just as impassable. “Congratulations on your success.”

“Thank you.” She smiled tentatively. Before she could say anything further, a tall willowy young woman joined the group.

“Ms. Edwards, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I couldn’t wait to meet you. I’m Brooke Bellamy.” She extended her hand. “I recognized you from the book jacket, and I just had to come over and tell you how much I loved your book. When I read it, I knew I had to play Amelia. She is the perfect heroine.” She gushed. “I’m hoping we can sit down together so I can pick your brain and get more inside Amelia’s head.”

She was even lovelier in person than in her picture. A good four inches taller than Sarah, notwithstanding the stiletto heels she wore. Beneath the lights from the crystal chandelier she virtually sparkled, with her champagne blond hair and gold sequined halter top. The skinny jeans she wore hugged her long gazelle-like legs. Standing next to her in her little black dress, Sarah felt almost dowdy.

“Yes, Brooke,” Sarah said as she took her offered hand. “I recognized you from your picture. And please, call me Sarah.” She examined Brooke’s face. “Honestly, you are my image of Amelia.” Brooke blushed under the praise, though there was something about it that appeared contrived. Was it possible to fake a blush?

“And Alex is the perfect Christen. I think we will make a great couple–on screen I mean.” She blushed again as she looked at Alex’s impassive face. Sarah thought she saw a flash of disdain. Was that directed at her? Or Brooke? Or both?