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JULIAN
Callum O’Conner told me to go fuck myself.
Actually, he faxed it to Dana, and it wasn’t those words exactly, but it was the gist.
“What do you want to do next?” Dana asked after I looked up from the fax.
I folded up the paper into fourths and stuck it in my back pocket. I’d expected this. The obvious first step was to up our offer, but I wanted to talk to our father before we did. He was the original Lewis of Lewis Productions, and he’d dealt with his share of tough characters. “Let’s go get a home cooked dinner,” I said to Dana.
She snorted. “If having a personal chef counts as home cooked, count me in.”
I didn’t say anything about her meal delivery service that came every Sunday and Wednesday. I tried to keep to onefuck youa day, and Callum had already fulfilled my quota. We drove down to Malibu where my parents had retired, zipping through and around the traffic in my Porsche 911-Turbo until we finally reached their private road. The guard at the gate shack recognized me and waved us through.
“Loved your last alien flick,” he said cheerfully.
I smiled automatically, but I was glad that my friends were all too busy to make impromptu trips to Malibu to see my folks these days. Yourlastalien flick implied there had been several, and there hadn’t–three was afew, and it wasn’t like it was all we were doing. Lewis Productions had multiple arms. For example, right now we were producing a multi-year documentary on a kid named Michio Kaku, one of the best skateboarders in the world. Now that skateboarding was being added to the Summer Olympics, everyone thought he’d take home the first gold. We didn’t even know that was going to happen when we started this documentary, but now we were going to have it–and the last few years of his journey–on camera.
It wasn’t just about aliens.
I muttered something about the documentary to Dana, who just shrugged. “Ilikealien movies,” she said like that was all that mattered. “You’re the one who cares about the prestige films.”
“Dad cares, too,” I reminded her as we pulled into their driveway. As always, their place made me fantasize about leaving the city behind and moving out here. The house was modern, all open-concept, wood floors and natural stone foyer, more glass than wall to bring in the view provided by the 88-feet of beach frontage.
“Dad only cares about his boat these days,” Dana disagreed.
I shook my head. It was true that he’d embraced retirement with more zeal than anyone expected, but I knew the reputation of Lewis Productions still mattered to him. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t be at every premiere and calling me every Sunday about opening weekend numbers. He’d read Callum O’Conner’s book, too, and he’d sent over tips on how to craft our first proposal.
Inside, after we’d hugged our parents and taken our wine out onto the expansive deck that was separated from the beach only by a small bit of greenery, my dad didn’t even mention his boat. He got right down to business.
“Give him space,” he advised. “You got any promotional material for the documentary you can send over?”
As usual, he was reading my mind. I needed to show Callum that Lewis Productions did more than save the world from extraterrestrial invasions. This documentary was going to be gritty, intimate, like his book had been. Obviously, it wouldn’t be a documentary, but the camera angles, the way the director got at the story–it would show him.
“We’ll get some together,” I said, running timeline calculations in my head. “How long do we back off?”
My father frowned at the ocean. It was chilly tonight, despite the fire dancing in the trench that ran the length of the table. It smelled like salt and dusk and something colder, cleaner, than the city ever got. “I’d normally say a few days, but time moves differently for that man. Maybe give him a full ten days.”
My gut clenched. Ten days was a lifetime. Ten days was Fletcher James dripping poisoned honey in his ear, slipping the option out from under us.
“We’ll give him a week,” Dana said firmly. I could tell she didn’t like the idea of waiting any more than I did, but we both trusted our dad. If he said Callum needed time, we’d give him some. But not too much.
The conversation wended its way away from the business for a bit–my dad always made a concerted effort on my mom’s behalf–but inevitably it wound its way back around.
“How is the footage from the documentary?” my dad asked keenly, leaning in. “Skateboarding becoming an Olympic sport was a good bit of luck, wasn’t it?”
“A great bit,” I agreed. “The dallies look good. I need to check in on Miller. There’s too much turnover on the set. Another production assistant just quit.”
“The man is a genius.” My dad frowned as he said it, faint disapproval coloring the words. My dad hated to work with geniuses. Sure, he liked the finished product, but the process was all wrong with geniuses. They didn’t listen. They didn’t collaborate.
Still, I myself thought they were worth the hassle once in a while. I didn’t want to fill the stable with them, but I’d deal with the neuroses and on-set drama every few pictures for a brilliant payoff. And Miller wasn’t even that bad; he was just born without a filter. I could handle him, and if I could find a production assistant that could handle him for the next few months until filming wrapped, even better.
We ate the meal that my parents’ chef had exquisitely prepared and drank another glass of wine, letting the conversation drift back into waters my mom preferred.
“We have to do something for your birthday,” she said fondly, reaching over to squeeze my arm. “I can’t believe my baby is turning forty.”
“I’m your baby,” Dana reminded her. “And maybe you should worry more about planning my wedding.”
We were all tactfully silent about that. Dana had been engaged multiple times. She’d broken her engagement to her current fling–Shelly Monroe–twice before now. We were all hoping the third time was a charm.
