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“I can hear the zeal in your voice,” he said, his elbow touching mine as I lathered and then handed the slippery bar back to him. “So why are you making movies that don’t ignite your passion?”
I opened my mouth to reply with my standard studio reply of “I love the bold masculinity of Connor Days. He’s the last of a dying breed of male action heroes,” but I just couldn’t seem to cough that dredge up for the millionth time. Mostly because it wasn’t true.
“I don’t know,” I thoughtfully replied and shoved my hands under the water to rinse.
“Perhaps you should ponder on why you’re not making art that expresses your inner self while you’re on your sabbatical from the press. Art should never be driven by the capitalistic need for money but for the sheer joy of brush to canvas, quill to paper, or images to celluloid.”
“Or clay to pot,” I said, and he smiled down at me, his soft China-blue eyes glowing.
“Or clay to pot. Dig down to find the essence of your art and you’ll discover the real Elias.”
“Wow, that was deep,” I remarked, drying my hands on my shorts.
“Sorry, I tend to forget that the world is not remotely interested in my rambling thoughts and lengthy dissertations on religion versus ethics anymore. I left that behind years ago. Now, I’m just a humble potter with a pet seagull and a tiny yellow cabin on a tinier island.”
Ah. Aha. So that yellow cabin was his. I wasn’t the least bit surprised for some reason. He was the sort of man that tried to fit in but always stood out. I assumed. That was pretty presumptuous of me to say since I’ve only known him for an hour.
Still, he fascinated me. Not only his looks appealed, which was a new twist to my usual preferences, but his mind as well. I found myself wishing I could sit down to listen to him lead some philosophical discussion. I’d never gone to college. Acting lessons were about all that I could afford during those lean first years in California. Many a time I had had to choose between eating and acting lessons. The lessons always won. I could eat at work. You’d be amazed how much food people leave on their plates.
“Pet seagull?” I had to ask simply to keep him talking. Even as he was now maneuvering me to the back door as politely as he could, I wanted to engage him more.
“Well, she’s not so much a pet as a squatter. Every year she makes a nest in a pot that I planned to use for oregano. So, her name is Oregano, and she commands the yard.”
“Do you have a new pot for your herbs?” I asked as the back door opened, allowing the cooling air off the sea to sweep in.
“I do, several.” He rolled my bike outside and waited for me to step out into the sun. “I like to cook and give boring lectures to Oregano in the evenings. Captive audience and all that.”
I had a mad moment when I considered asking him if he would like company. More company than a cranky seagull, but I bit back that impulse. In matters of the heart, I tended to leap before looking, which sometimes left me bloody and battered along a steep cliff with my ex looking down—laughing manically—at me while sharing intimate images to the world.
“I hope you have a lovely meal,” I made myself say. Gibson inclined his head regally. “Thank you for everything. Letting me hide out here when it was probably nothing.”
“It’s always best to err on the side of caution. I had several students come to me over the years asking for a walking buddy to their dorms for one reason or another. I’m rather an imposing sight, according to some.” He seemed amused at that description. “I hope your stay on the island is a restful one, and that your future in films prospers. I’ll make sure to find one of your movies and stream it.”
We shook hands. I liked his grip. Truthfully, there wasn’t much I didn’t like about Gibson Vale, ceramist and savior of skittish students and actors. I pedaled back to the inn as if the hounds of Hell were snapping at my rear tire. Along the way I saw only birds, a red squirrel, and a small band of joggers who did double takes as I raced past a la Lance Armstrong.
I sighed heavily when I locked the door to my room behind me. Even with a marvelous view and amazing food being delivered at my beck and call, this inn was beginning to feel more and more like a prison every day. I was growing to despise the world and all those upon it other than my dad, Emelda, who kept me well fed, and of course, the potter who had talked me through a potential anxiety attack. Those were the only three. Oh, and Elle. And Katy. Five. Five people I liked. The rest could go take a long walk off an incredibly short pier. I padded out to the patio to watch the boats bobbing on the waves and eyed that stumpy dock that the world could stride off and smiled at the image of my ex leading the pack.
Chapter Five
Iwasstillcoveredwith sweat and feeling rather pungent when my phone buzzed in my side pocket. I slowed my gait, easing down into a light jog so I could see who was calling at the crack of dawn. Oh. My agent. Okay, this was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
It was the middle of the night back in California. Fuck.
“Hey,” I panted into my cell, easing off the quiet roadway into the drive for the inn. Guests’ cars were parked along the left and right, and the grounds were quiet except for a large delivery truck idling to my left. The stink of diesel fumes was killing my whole “run with nature and cleanse your chakras” vibe. “Are you drunk dialing your clients?”
“I wish I were drunk,” Elle replied, her tone sullen. Well, double fuck.
“Hold on,” I said, walking around the truck. A burly type of man gave me a long look as he toted in baskets of fresh shrimp. I heard Emelda in the kitchen barking out orders to stop and let her examine the shrimp before putting them into the cooler. My stomach growled. I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or nerves. Time would tell. With the truck and fumes behind me, I stopped to rest beside a small butterfly garden that overlooked the games area. The bees were already up and at it, but the butterflies were sleeping in. Standing with my sweaty back to the inn, I stared out at the sea and drew in a steadying breath. “Okay, tell me what is going on.”
The sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass tickled my ear. Wow, that was not a good sign. Elle wasn’t much of a drinker for the most part, so if she were knocking back a vodka on the rocks to get through this call…
I braced myself.
“Well, we’ve finally heard from legal. They’re reading over the fine details of your current contract closely.”
“Okay…”
More ice cube sounds. “Morality clauses are tricky things, Elias. Yours is narrow because the studio felt you were a reliable talent with no pings of any kind when they did a background check and your reputation was stellar.”
