“All right,” Paul said, looking sad. “But if you change your mind, we’ll be just a short drive away. And we’ll always have room for you.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, inadequately. But hell, he wasn’t a writer; he didn’t have the fancy words. Maybe he’d pen a thank-you note later.
Oh. But first Frank had to meet Carver Reed.
He stood and gathered his barely-touched meal. “Duty calls.”
“Remember, I have faith in you. And also, you know, it wouldn’t hurt if you have a little fun today.” Paul winked.
Blushing again, Frank clasped his cane and limped away.
CHAPTER 3
“—and thanks to all of you for letting me take a peek at your wonderful work. I’m so honored to play a part in your film.”
The clapping was thunderous.
Carver Reed had burst into the room twenty minutes late, accompanied by a small phalanx of studio suits, and everyone in the room had immediately frozen. Nobody drew, nobody ran around with stacks of paper, nobody engaged in a catfight with a neighboring coworker about the proper angle of a horse’s leg. Reed had insisted on meeting every damn person in the room—and there were magically a lot more people than usual—asking questions about their work while waxing rhapsodically over whatever they were doing. Even Kenny the office boy was told he brewed the most delicious coffee, which was the most bold-faced lie that Frank had ever heard.
Finally after nearly an hour had passed, during which no work was accomplished, Reed made a little speech that sounded as if he were accepting an Oscar. He ended by looking expectantly in Frank’s direction—they’d chatted briefly when Reed made the rounds—at which point Sylvia dragged Frank from his chair.
“I’ve got a nice quiet spot for you two,” she said. Which didn’t make Frank feel the tiniest bit more comfortable.
The studio suits went away, and Frank followed Sylvia and Reed out of the building, across the courtyard, and into the unimaginatively named Building Five. Sylvia and Reed chatted the entire way, ignoring the stares of passersby who ought not to be so shocked to see a movie star on studio grounds, and also ignoring Frank’s limp, cane, stack of sketchbooks, and silence. For which he was deeply thankful.
As they entered Building Five, curiosity banished a little of Frank’s discomposure. It housed two of the studio’s four stages, and Frank had rarely been in there. Before the war, the stages had been used when feature films combined animation with live action; during the war, the studio used them to produce propaganda films. Lately, Frank had heard rumors that Mr. Rask was considering delving into television production. But in the meantime, the stages were used primarily when orchestras needed to record audio scores.
Today, though, the building seemed empty of other people, and the fluorescents buzzed loudly in the slightly dusty corridor. Sylvia led them into a large room littered with folding chairs, music stands, microphones, and other equipment. “It’s not the Ritz, gentlemen. But there’s plenty of space, and nobody will interrupt you. There’s a phone in the back, so call if you need anything. I’ll have someone bring you coffee in a few minutes.” She paused. “Unless you want something stronger?”
Reed glanced at Frank before shaking his head. “I think sobriety is best for me this afternoon. How about you, Frank?”
Sobriety was always best for Frank. “Same.”
Sylvia swept out of the room, and it suddenly felt far too small.
Frank’s foot hurt, as usual, so he sat down in one of the folding chairs and set the stack of sketchbooks on the floor, retaining one on his lap. Meanwhile Carver poked around as if he’d never been in a studio before, which gave Frank the chance to truly observe him for the first time.
In person, his imperfections were more visible. His sandy blond hair was slightly messy, as if he’d been in a hurry with a comb and didn’t want to bother with Brylcreem. He hadn’t shaved today, which wasn’t immediately obvious because his whiskers were so light, but sometimes the light caught them. He looked a little sunburned. And was he carrying a few extra pounds around his belly?
Unfortunately, all of this made him seem more human—and also so handsome it almost hurt to look. His blue eyes were more piercing in person, his smile brighter, his chin just as square and his nose just as straight as they looked onscreen. He wore a pair of casual trousers and an aquamarine pullover sweater with a buttoned shawl-collar.
He moved with confidence and grace, as if his path around the room had been scripted and rehearsed. Frank felt envious, not of Carver, but of the animator who was working on the frog prince’s final scenes, when he’d returned to human form and danced with the princess.
Frank’s version of the prince mostly just hopped.
Carver finished his tour, grabbed the chair nearest Frank, and faced him while straddling it. “Okay,” he said with a grin, “what do you want from me?”
Frank nearly swallowed his tongue.
But dammit, he’d maintained his cool when under enemy fire. He could pull himself together and face an actor without seeming like an idiot.
“I’ve never done this before.” Frank was proud of how calm he sounded. “I’ve observed the way people and animals move, of course, but I’ve never focused on a single individual with the aim of, um….”
“Making a frog sexier?” Carver chuckled. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never modeled for a frog before. So we have something in common.”
It was impossible not to warm up to him at least a little bit. “I’m sorry they made you come here for this. I’m sure you have lots of better things to do.”
“You mean like flying around the globe, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, and collecting awards?”
