There was a thin line between well-meaning and someone who thought they knew best. My parents typically overshot the former and ended up firmly in the latter.
Dawn had been the overachiever, the valedictorian, the responsible adult they could be proud of. Even when she’d decided to go the nontraditional route in her thirties and had a baby on her own, they’d never been happier.
Now, at over seventy, my parents didn’t have the capacity to raise Georgie, starting all over once again. It wasn’t their fault that their grandson was a painful reminder of the daughter they’d lost. None of this was fair. But Icouldn’t make them see that Georgie was a beautiful part of Dawn, one that they should be grateful for.
As frustrating as the situation was, I understood and wanted to help. I would do everything I could to make sure my nephew felt supported in the things he loved—in the person he’d become.
Georgie was a good kid—a great kid—and he deserved better than a part-time uncle to stand in for an amazing mother who’d been taken too soon. But I was doing my best, and that had to count for something.
I wanted my nephew to have a support system he could rely on. It was about more than ensuring he was safe and warm and fed. I needed Georgie to know that he could always count on me.
Adjusting to life with a small child hadn’t been easy, but the love and protectiveness had been there from the beginning. The desire to do right by Georgie had me rethinking the future of Dorian Masters and re-evaluating all aspects of my life. Did I really want my nephew growing up in Hollywood? I wasn’t sure how to rectify the public demands of my career with my need to maintain a safe environment for Georgie. But it was something I was actively trying to figure out.
“Thanks for managing breakfast, Soph,” I told the young woman.
She nodded, dark eyes patient and understanding. “No problem, boss.”
I stepped around the kitchen island to where Georgie sat on a high-backed leather stool. He was missing a sock and still had pillow creases on his cheek.
“You have a good day, buddy. Listen to Miss Sophia and remember to stay close to the house. You scared us the other day when you wandered off.”
Georgie’s little brows furrowed. “You said I could see the apple trees, Uncle Ian.”
I ruffled his hair. “I know. But I meant the ones onthisfarm. Crossing the highway on your own is very dangerous.”
He appeared betrayed that I could find him so incapable. “I lookedbothways.”
Sophia snickered from behind me, where she was digging around in the pantry. Georgie was big on following the rules, but he was also a proponent of technicalities. He was a very literal kid. You had to spell things out for him explicitly.
“I’m sure you did. But it’s still dangerous. Plus, they have bears here. So stay close, yeah?”
“Okay, Uncle Ian.”
“Thanks, Georgie.” I smiled and gave him a big hug. He was stiff in my arms and gave my back an awkward pat.
Ah, well. We were getting there.
The production meeting was being held downtown at the Sterling House Bed and Breakfast, where our director, Della Stewart, was staying for the duration of filming. They had a meeting room on-site, and the owner had put out a nice breakfast spread and fresh coffee for everyone.
If you ignored all the lace doilies, inspirational wall art, and the handsiness of Vera Sterling, then maybe this little trip into town wouldn’t be so bad.
Della and a few of the other assistant directors and executive producers had yet to arrive to the meeting. I was pouring coffee into a mug as several of the production assistants argued on the other side of the room.
“Can’t we just talk to Candace about clearing that part of the property to build the set? It’s only ten yards more than what we originally discussed,” Zoe whined.
Archer snorted. “You know Joan handles equipment, and we’re going to need her help to do it.”
“But Candace is the nice one,” Zoe argued. She was only a few years younger than me, but she sounded like a teenager being forced to clean her room.
“Too bad,” Angelo added before taking a big bite of cheese Danish and licking his thumb. “Someone is going to have to bring it up with Joan.”
The production assistants all groaned in unison, and I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Of course, the woman had a reputation on set, and we hadn’t even started filming.
“Let’s just draw straws,” Zoe suggested.
I drifted closer and took a seat next to Baxter, content to watch this play out. My assistant was quiet, reviewing something on the tablet in front of him.
“I’m not doing it,” Archer argued. “I refuse.”
