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“What do you have to say about all this, Charlie?” I rest a knee on the window seat and stare at the waves as they swell and race toward shore. “What’s that?” I cup a hand to my ear. “You’re putting the cart before the horse, Gilly. Stop stressing about shadows and lies. There’s no relationship between you and Jack O’Leary.”
I plunk onto the seat and drop my head into my hands. All that Jack asks is the chance to get to know me better. He says he doesn’t kiss women right off the bat. Given that he kissed me the first day we met, I don’t know whether I buy that or not.
Everything I’ve learned so far about Jack O’Leary tells me I can believe him.
Common sense advises a retreat from the breakneck speed at which Jack and I are getting to know each other better. I can easily achieve that today. Meet Bobby at ten, find out what my responsibilities are, and do them. If I see Jack at work today, I’ll keep it casual. No inadvertent meetings at the stables or any other dark corner of The Clan. If he wants to hang out, I’ll make sure we’re not alone.
I toss Mr. Chaplin a salute. “You’re right, Charlie. Avoid kissing situations.” It’s always smart to get a second opinion, even it’s from the bronze statue of a silent film star.
Professional distance is best for both of us. Jack can play the dutiful hot bachelor for Meg’s PR-painted scenario without any complications or deceit, and I’ll avoid feeling like I swallowed a beehive. From what I’ve seen so far, Jack is a great guy—a little pushy, but not obnoxious. I’d love to have him as a friend, someone to golf with, laugh with. The right move is to stick to my plan of an untethered Gilly.
Regret tugs at my heart. I’ve always wanted what my parents have. A pair of creative souls finding each other and navigating life through that filter. Treat was a bottom-line profit guy. His thinking had no color, no composition. My love of telling stories was something he never understood.
“I buried that part of me for you, you unworthy bastard.”
It’s been more than a year since I indulged my own creativity. It’s as if something vital of who I am withered.The Chieftain’s Sonis bringing that part of me back to life.
Jack lives in a creative reality. He would understand how sublimating a part of who you are slowly kills you.
The knock on my door makes me jump. Patrick isn’t supposed to meet me out front for another hour.Oh, God.Is it Jack? Did he do something stupid like climb a trellis to sneak in without anyone seeing him?
“Gillian, it’s Bobby.”
Bobby? The showrunner ofThe Chieftain’s Sonshould not be knocking on my door at eight o’clock in the morning.Shit.Did Moose tell him Jack and I were together in the stable?I’ve ruined my shot before I even started. For messing with the talent, Bobby is here to send me to Shannon Airport for the first flight back to LAX.
“How about breakfast to make up for dinner last night?”
Oh, thank God.“Sounds great. Just a sec.” I grab my purse and vow to commit to common sense from here on out.
Bobby’s phone is glued to his ear. “Fine. Put the first take back in.” He holds up a finger. “I’ll be in around half-ten.”
“What’s half-ten?” I ask when he slips the phone in his pocket.
“Ten-thirty, Yank.”
“So, I’m a Yank until I learn to tell time Irish-style?”
“As you say.” He yawns. Shadows beneath his eyes suggest a late night.
I turn to lock the door behind me. “I feel guilty for getting a good night’s sleep.”
He waves me off. “Someone should. Once I put this episode to bed, I can do the same.”
“Anything I can do? Assistant on duty.”
“As a matter of fact…” Bobby launches into the laundry list of my duties. During a breakfast involving lots of meat and potatoes at the pub painted with Baroque waves, he amends the list at least five times. He chews on his bottom lip. “I’m loading you up too much. I will not waste your talent. I want you pitching and evaluating ideas. You’ve got to meet Deidre. She’s the pulse of the show.”
His casual mention of Deidre LaRochelle, the icon, the author of a book series I’ve read a dozen times and am on my fourth listen of the audiobooks, knocks the wind out of me. “She’s here?”
“Of course. I’d never try to breathe life intoThe Chieftain’s Sonwithout its heart in residence.”
“Was she at the table read?” How could I not know I was in the presence of greatness?
He shakes his head. “No, I’ve got her chained to a desk writing the penultimate episode for season one. It’s her first foray into a script.”
The image of Deidre in irons conjures the scene from book four in the series,Witch on the Wind,where Nieve confesses to witchcraft, and it doesn’t go well for her. Bobby frowns.
“Where’s my head at? I should have connected you two right away. She’s the perfect person to talk to about making the leap from novel to script.”
