Frank ran out of paper.
He was seriously considering drawing on the walls when someone knocked and entered. Sylvia smiled at them both. “Do you know that it’s almost six?”
“That explains why I’m so hungry,” said Carver, while Frank blinked at his watch in shock. He had no idea it was that late, and he just now noticed that his drawing hand was cramping.
“I take it the session was a success?” she asked.
“The most fun I’ve had in ages,” said Carver. “Seriously. Thanks for giving me Frank. Or giving him me—I’m not sure which way it was. Either way, it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant.”
“He is,” she agreed serenely.
Carver looked at Frank, expression chagrined. “I’ve got a thing tonight. Black tie, stuffy people, too much booze…. Sorry. I wish I could stay.” He seemed to mean it.
Frank managed not to wince as he stood, but he clutched his cane tightly. “I’ve already taken up a lot of your time.”
“I wish you’d take up more. Hang on.” Carver grabbed the pencil stub from Frank’s pocket and hastily wrote on the back of the drawing pad. “That’s my number. Not my agent’s—mine. Call me if you want more from me. Really.” He even went so far as to waggle his eyebrows. Right there, right in front of Sylvia.
Her expression remained impassive. “I can accompany you to your car if you’d like, Mr. Reed. I hoped to discuss a few small matters with you.”
“Yeah, sure.” It looked as if Carver had started to put out his hand for a shake but stopped when he realized that Frank was holding the cane with his right hand. Instead he settled his palm on Frank’s shoulder. “Thanks again, Frank. It’s been a pleasure.”
Long after he had gone, Frank continued to feel the warmth and gentle pressure of that hand.
CHAPTER 4
Sylvia was probably going to say something to him, and Frank didn’t think he wanted to hear it. So he chickened out and, through the means of strategic waiting, managed to get to his car without seeing her. He drove home, ate soup and a sandwich, turned on the radio, and spent another two hours drawing Carver until his hand was too sore to hold a pencil.
He went to bed, tossed and turned endlessly, and finally, helplessly, stroked himself off with his sore hand while thinking about Carver. After that, he fell sleep.
On Saturday, he awoke before dawn and drove to the studio. “You guys are really working hard to crank this one out,” observed the security guard at the gate.
“We want to make it a good one.”
“You will.”
Fueled by coffee, the guard’s optimism, and a teensy hint of obsession, Frank got to work. It was still the scene in which the frog asks to be let in to the castle and then accompanies the king down a long corridor. That meant the frog would be in motion for most of the scene. The script called for him to simply hop behind the king, but that didn’t feel right now. The frog should meander, pausing often to peer at the paintings and statues that lined the hallway. He’d poke his webbed fingers at a precious vase and grin at a depiction of a long-dead king wearing a ridiculous hat. This would add humor to an otherwise flat scene and would humanize the frog, showing the viewers important aspects of his personality.
Frank spent the morning drawing a storyboard for the action, adding notes to share with the writers. Technically he was overstepping his role, but it was usual for animators and writers to collaborate on a story. And hey, the studio had insisted that he meet Carver, so they should damn well consider the results of that meeting.
If the scene was done properly, the audience—especially the adults—would see not only a frog on the screen but also the man within the little amphibian body. Carver Reed, in fact.
Several other animators appeared throughout the morning; people often worked on Saturdays, especially when the timing was tight. But nobody spoke much to Frank until Sylvia emerged from her office and hovered over his shoulder. “So tell me what’s going on here.” She sounded interested, not angry.
Frank explained while she nodded and sifted through the morning’s work. “I like this,” she said. “I like it a lot.”
“Me too.” He tried to hide his relief.
“Your time with Mr. Reed was fruitful.”
“I guess it was.”
“Hmm.”
He didn’t know what that meant. Maybe she wanted him to admit that she’d been right and he’d been wrong, and he opened his mouth to do just that, but she held up a hand. “I’ll call a meeting for first thing Monday. I hope everyone’s there.” He must have looked blank, because she sighed. “Next week is Christmas, Frank. The holiday’s on Thursday. People like to take time off to spend with their families.”
Including Paul. Frank had forgotten about that. “Can it wait until after the holiday?”
She scrunched up her mouth. “Dunno. Anyway, nothing to be done about it today. Go home. Think about something besides the job. Come back early Monday.”
