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“That’s beautiful. You must be here for a reason, though. What is it? Are you researching your next film?” Wayne asked.
“Kind of,” Elise said.
“You said you were on a mission. Don’t think you can get out of telling me.”
Elise tilted her wine glass, now feeling the effects of the alcohol, and said, “I’m not sure if I’m there yet.”
“You need another drink before you can explain yourself?” Wayne asked.
“Maaaybe...” Elise said mischievously.
“You’re a monster,” Wayne said. Seconds later, he beckoned toward the bartender, a short, stout, and bright-cheeked woman he introduced as Marcy. “This is Elise,” he told Marcy. “I’m in the middle of trying to convince her to stay for the start of autumn.”
“Oh, you must,” Marcy said. She said it as though this was the most important thing she’d ever said, like it was life or death. “Seriously. I’m not from the island; I’m from out west. But I’ve never seen an autumn like the one they pull out here. I knew when autumn hit that first year that I had to stay for the rest of my life. That and I was pregnant,” she said with a wink.
Elise laughed as Marcy sauntered away.
“Wait! Marcy! We need two more drinks,” Wayne called after her.
“Already on it, honey,” Marcy called back.
The minute Marcy snapped the glass of wine and pint of beer on the table, Wayne was at her again.
“You have to tell me,” he said. “Your mission.”
Elise heaved a sigh. “Well, before I tell you, I have to assure you, I know how stupid it sounds. I haven’t told anyone. Not even my daughter nor my friends. Zero people.”
“Got it. So I’m your secret keeper,” Wayne said.
“Something like that.”
“I promise to take it with me to the grave,” Wayne said.
“Okay.” Elise drew a breath. “My parents met here in 1979. At least, I’m around 99% sure right now that that’s true. I haven’t had a paternity test or anything. I grew up with my mother, and she never got around to telling me who my father was. She died a few weeks ago—”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” Wayne said. He furrowed his brow.
Again, Elise was overwhelmed at the amount of care and compassion he gave her, even after knowing her for no more than a few hours in total.
“Thank you. It’s um. It’s been hard,” Elise said. “But it’s also opened up a lot of questions, like, how much did I actually know about her? And why didn’t she tell me that she worked here for Jane Seymour during the filming of Somewhere in Time?”
Wayne’s eyes flashed wide. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“We love that movie. We screen it every summer,” he told her.
“I guess that makes sense. It’s also really good. I just watched it for the first time.”
“A heart-stopper,” Wayne affirmed.
“So you like chick flicks?” Elise asked with a laugh.
“What’s not to like about a good chick flick? I’m not heartless,” Wayne said.
Sean had hated chick flicks. Even one of her ex-screenwriting colleagues, Matt—the guy who continued to text her every few days to see if she wanted to “hang”—said that chick flicks were generally banal and stupid.
“So. Your mother worked for Jane Seymour here in 1979. I’m assuming she met your father here?”
