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Cars are scattered over an expanse of gravel that serves as the parking lot. Bobby Provost bursts out of a set of double glass doors and makes a beeline for the car. He throws his arms around me for the closest thing to a bear hug a hummingbird can pull off.
“You’re very welcome here, Gillian Bettencourt,” he says. The Irish greeting coming out of his American mouth sounds strange.When in Rome.“We’ve got a little while until the table read. Let me give you the express tour.”
I turn to Patrick. “Thank you for the ride and the company.”
He tosses me a salute. “I’ll take your things into Waterville.”
“Great.” I almost say “grand.” It is easy to slip into local speak.
Bobby drags me into the building.
The lobby is quite a contrast to the Irish country calendar scene outside. The theme is leather and black marble. Behind the reception desk is a massive painting that matches the picture from book one ofTheChieftain’s Sonwhere Donal Cam and Nieve drink each other in as if there is no one in the world but the two of them. I suck in a breath when it registers the novel version of the lovers has been altered to the likenesses of Niks Tellefson and Jack O’Leary. His wild Atlantic eyes blaze with eternal love. The same eyes that danced with mine last night in the dark corner of a Blennerville pub.
Bobby introduces me to Murphy, the guard who is even more imposing than Dev, the gatekeeper. We’re buzzed through two sets of double doors into a full-blown sound stage complex. I spent my childhood on sets of the shows my parents art directed, but here, the size, the scale, the authenticity of colors and texture are so magnificent, I’ve stepped back in time. A great hall with massive fireplaces twice my size and faux stonework so real I can almost hear moss growing in the cracks looms before us.
Off to our left is a set with an enormous bed covered in furs. There must be a hundred candles on ledges, tables, and in every niche. On the wall is an enormous map painted on what looks like tanned animal skin. I walk toward the room, drawn by the naturalism of the environment. I want to touch everything and savor the timelessness.
Bobby puts out a hand to stop me from further investigation. “Hot set. We’ve still got pickups to shoot in there from episode 106.”
I stop dead in my tracks.Hot set.The ultimate hands-off order from the art department. Everything in this environment has been captured by the camera. Bump one thing out of place, and the continuity of the scene will be screwed up. My parents’ mantra has always been “Respect the hot set.”
“I promise you can pet the furs later.” He waves his hands in the air when I wrinkle my nose. “Prop department fabricated furs. We’re completely animal friendly, down to stables filled with the most pampered horses in all of Ireland.”
I spin to take in this set and the others that occupy the massive sound stage. “This is breathtaking. Are you sure we weren’t buzzed through a time portal?”
Bobby beams. This is his baby, and he’s one proud papa. “Everyone in our art department is actually a wizard.”
“Definite evidence of magic wand work,” I say, holding arms out to the studio.
Bobby scurries behind a row of flats, waving me to catch up. “We’re all in-house here. We’ve got a kick-ass design studio, a shop right off the sound stages, and you should see the costume department. Think Willy Wonka with fabric and jewels.”
We leave the sound stages and move down a corridor flanked with glass walls. In one pearly gray and plum-themed office, I see a familiar dark brown bob.
“Hey, that’s Meg. I met her last night when she yanked me into the snug.”
Meg waves as we pass by.
Bobby’s chirpy countenance sours a little. “That was a screw-up extraordinaire.”
Next down the row is a classroom of sorts. There’s a long table in the middle and a wall of white boards. Doolin writes a sentence on one of the boards in a language that must be Irish.
“Hey, Doolin. Nice donkeys you’ve got out there in the field.”
He adds an accent mark to a word and turns to us. “Morning. I’m sure they’d like to make your acquaintance.” He looks over his glasses at me. “I’ll be seeing you in here soon, Miss Gillian. You’ve got a bit of catching up to do.”
“Catching up?” I look back and forth between Doolin and Bobby.
“Irish language class,” says Bobby. “Everyone takes it—cast, writers, designers, even guest directors. Absorbing the language builds the world, don’t you agree?”
“Honors the past,” says Doolin, pointing a marker at me. “He’ll be putting you on a horse as well. Now go away. I’ve got work.”
A thrill runs through me. Free Irish lessons. How cool is that? With Doolin. If his seriousness on the golf course is any indication, he’s got to be quite the task master with his language lessons. I wonder if he raps knuckles for mispronunciation.
“Wait, did Doolin say ‘horse’?”
“We’re all about immersion, Gillian. My writers ride horses and get some weapons training. We even did an overnight in the woods. I want organic writing. This story needs to be told from the inside out. Feel it. Live it. Write it.”
“So, we’re all Donal Cam and Nieve?”
