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“It looks that way. Are you game for coming out to help us tweak the script?” I ask.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I do. When do you want me there?” Louise speaks fast, her voice high with excitement.
“I’m not sure yet. Give me a few days to nail down the schedule. Glad you’re part of the team.”
“What was that?” Fiona asks when I end the call.
“That was Louise Fontaine, the author of Radiant.”
“I know who wrote the book, Joe. What I want to know is why you invited her to work with us without talking to me about it first.”
“Who better to tweak the script and rework lines than her? She knows the story inside and out. Plus, she’s a pretty good screenwriter. I’ve worked with her in the past.” It’s how I got my hand on the script in the first place, but one look at Fiona’s face tells me now is not the time to bring that up.
“I thought we were a team. Working together on this,” she says, her tone completely different from the light playfulness of a few minutes ago.
“We are. This is no big deal. A favor for an old friend, that’s all.”
“Joe, I realize you are the director, but I am not one of those producers who sits back and signs the checks. I’m hands-on. I thought you understood that. We’re doing this together. And that means discussing people we bring on before we hire them.”
“I didn’t hire her,” I say.
“You basically promised her the gig and told her to come on out here.” She sounds genuinely hurt. Over not much of nothing.
“I can call her back and tell her we’ve changed our mind.” I pull my phone back out of my pocket.
“Don’t. It doesn’t matter.” She doesn’t say that the damage is done, but I can read it on her face as we pull into my parents’ driveway.
“Was that Fiona Anderson dropping you off?” Mom asks when I walk through the door.
“It was. She gave me a ride from Wilmington.” I put my bag down and pull her into a hug. “Did you redecorate the family room?”
“I did. Come see and tell me what you think. I actually used one of your movies as my inspiration.” She pulls me through the entryway into the room that’s the heart of the McAlister home.
“I like it.” It looked eerily like the set of Saving Margaret, a movie I shot last year, but somehow it works even though that story took place out in Montana.
“I’m glad you like it. Go sit on the sofa. It’s so comfortable. Your dad keeps falling asleep on it.” She gently pushes me in the direction of the puffy, tan leather couch.
“Candice, leave the boy alone.” My father says, walking in through the back door. “Welcome home, son.”
“It’s good to see you.” I take a seat on the couch to make my mom happy. "It’s a lot more comfortable than the one we used on set."
“I’m glad. Are you hungry?” my mother asks.
“I could eat.” I’m feeling slightly sick from the junk food we had on the road, but I know she’s anxious to feed me. Cooking is my mother’s love language.
“Good. You’re too skinny. I’ll have lunch on the table in half an hour.” She walks off to the kitchen, adjusting her apron as she goes.
“I’m sure you want to get settled and unpack,” my father says, turning to head back outside.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind checking on the Mustang. I’m hoping to get it running and drive it back to Wilmington on Sunday.”
“Sure. Let’s go look. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” My dad smiles and takes the lead.
“Let me guess, you’ve been cranking it up every once in a while?” I ask when we step into the garage out back where my car has been sitting since I left to move to California.
“Of course. Changed the oil a couple of months ago. Your mom and I took it for a spin up to the lake and back around that time. Of course, that’s not the same as diving it regularly ... “ He shrugs.
“Thanks, Dad.” He’s a busy man who works long hours and takes care of a large garden out back.
