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I throw my arms around Deidre’s neck. “You may have just rescued me.”
“For now, my dear girl.” She holds me at arm’s length. “Promise me, when you finish this script, you’ll heal that gouge inside and claim the blue sky you deserve.”
I kiss her cheek. Before leaving, I turn back. “I know you think my blue sky is Jack, but what we had was a fantasy, not a romance. Different set of rules.”
“Blast that. Joy is not just about the kissing. It’s also the blissful comfort that comes after.”
“Maybe for you and Doolin, but showing up in Ireland to meet my dream man is too good to be true.”
Deidre’s features melt into a knowing look. “Maybe ‘too good to be true’ is just another way of saying ‘what’s supposed to be’.”
It’s a lovely thought. One that drives her stories, but not real life. As I walk toward my office and the script waiting to be written, Jack’s shining blue eyes fill my mind. I hold on to the vision long enough to say goodbye.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Bobby sits at the head of the conference in the writer’s room. The rest of the writing staff, including me, stand in a line, each with pristine, bound copies of our own versions of the finale. It won’t be long until they wear Bobby’s red slashes and margin notes.
“What I’m hunting for here is a strong base. You know I’ll cannibalize pages from all of you to build the final script.” He leans back, gifting each of us with an appreciative smile. “I do cherish this team.” Bobby knocks on the table in front of him. “Now gimme.”
It’s strange being back in “the room.” We’ve all scattered, writing our opuses in private. With a script in my hands, I feel more a part of things than ever before.
I tucked into my Waterville nest, only emerging to buy more tea or walk along the shoreline to feel the bite of wind against my skin. I’m exhausted from the emotional bloodletting it took to produce this script. Donal Cam and Nieve are not on my pages. Every embrace, kiss, and whisper are between Jack and me. As the hearts of the lovers ripped and tore, so did mine. All I want now is to sleep for a week until I can emerge from my chrysalis as an emotionally battered but serviceable butterfly.
Our procession laden with offerings marches toward the showrunner. Benny and Benj go first, placing their version on the table with such reverence I expect them to bow and back away. Danna follows, two crisscrossed pencils barely holding her bun together as she drops her script on top of B and B’s. A little attitude there, I think. She is Bobby’s second in command and probably expected to inherit the episode outright when he gave it up.
Collin gives his script a playful toss like he’s playing horseshoes. “Enjoy,” he says and heads for coffee.
Maureen dances up in mauve ballet flats, her footwear of choice, and a matching sweater. After adding her script to the pile, she slaps a twenty Euro bill on the top. Her wink at Bobby breaks the tension. Everyone laughs and then slaps their own bills on top of Maureen’s, trying to outbid one another.
Bobby gathers the cash and faces all the bills in the same direction. “This’ll stand a few rounds at the pub.”
I hold my position at the end of the line. Half of me wants to clutch the script to my chest and run out the door. What an idiot to think I can compete with the pros in this room. Maybe in a round of golf, but writing the finale of the world’s new favorite soul-rending, heart-thumping television show—not so much.
The room stills. Eyes lock on me.
“Do I have to pry that script from your cold dead hands?” asks Bobby.
I have an image of Jack wrapped around me from behind, guiding my hands to add this script to the pile. Emptiness throbs inside me with every heartbeat.
Bobby walks over to ease the script out of my hands. “Got it.” Everyone applauds when he holds it aloft.
The team, my team, surrounds me with congratulations and hugs for finishing my first script. I accept it for the tiny victory it is. Scant embers of happiness begin to warm my hollow places. Staying withThe Chieftain’s Sonwill set me on my path to artistic fulfillment. Of course, my script has no chance against the brilliance in this room, but just maybe it’ll earn me a shot at staying here to learn and grow. Tragically, committing to this vision cements the certainty that Jack can never be the partner to share my dreams of a creative life.
Our shared dreams have ended.
“Okay, I’ll get through these right away. I’ve scheduled an informal table read tomorrow morning to listen to whatever I come up with tonight.” He drums the table. “No studio people, but Alan, Jack, Niks, and the regulars have agreed to come in. Call it a bit of workshopping so we get this right.”
Bobby stuffs the scripts in his messenger bag. “Danna, I need you to finish up for me on set.” He turns to me. “Gillian, grab your coat and come with me.”
So much for my dream of disappearing under my new goose down comforter. I’m back on the job as Bobby Provost’s writing assistant.
We burst out the front door of the studio to face the cobalt sky of a crisp, late afternoon. “Where we off to, boss?” I’m going to bug out if he has any notion of including me in reading these scripts. I can handle rejection, but not in real time. The thought of watching his face screw up with disappointment as he reads my version of the finale makes my belly churn.
Bobby zips to the car in full hummingbird mode. “You’ll see.”
I barely have time to hop into the passenger seat before he’s swinging the car around onto one of the dirt roads leading away from the complex. It only takes a few minutes for me to figure out our destination. I grip the armrest as we off-road over fields to the base of the hill with the fairy tree where Jack tied my key fob and wished me into his life.
There’s a crowd on top, but not a film crew. It’s a photo shoot. Clothing racks line the edge of the hill and giant reflectors cast a dreamy haze over the tree and moss-covered rock where Jack and I made savage love under the moon.
