The Hearts of Yesteryear

Chapter 1 In all of Hollywood, it took only three magic words to make an entire soundstage exhale on a single beat. “That’s a wrap!” The crew burst to life, leaping forward onto the set, scurrying off to shadows unknown, dropping to the floor to begin tearing up the gaffer tape that kept the studio safe from lawsuits from idiots who couldn’t see a three-inch cable until they were lying on top of it. John Paravati dropped his arms from around his co-star and stepped off the fake shuffleboard court to give her room to straighten. “The kid’s got excellent timing. One more take, and I would’ve been using his head in place of that puck.” Marjorie laughed as she passed the stick she’d been using to the waiting assistant director. “How many of these cruise commercials do we have to do before you remember it’s called a biscuit?” “When they put it in the script, I’ll remember. Until then, it’s a puck.” “Ah, John, never change.” She patted his cheek affectionately. “Just remember, it could be worse. We could be stuck shilling adult diapers.” He pretended to shudder. “Don’t even joke about that.” As Marjorie linked her arm in his, he offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. She was right, after all. Most of their peers had to sell their dignity to get hired, taking parts they would have mocked in their youth, tolerating directors who hadn’t even been born at the height of their acting careers. He was lucky to have fallen into the cruise line gig, especially since he didn’t necessarily need the income. No matter who he’d co-starred with in the past, or how many Love Boat episodes he’d done, he was still just a seventy-seven year-old actor in a city that valued youth. Edging off the set and into the dimmer light had him squinting at the floor to make sure he didn’t trip, so when someone materialized out of nowhere in front of him, he jerked back and nearly stumbled. Marjorie kept him on his feet, but when he saw who had nearly turned him into an emergency response ad, he scowled. “What’ve I told you about sneaking up on me?” he snapped. Corrine Callaway flushed, though sometimes he thought that was her permanent state. He’d hired her as his personal assistant in a moment of weakness two years ago. She’d shown up for the job fresh out of film school, not only able to recite his filmography in its entirety but also in chronological order. The deal was cinched when she espoused her admiration for the scripts of old. Jumpstarting his heart past light speed by startling him, however, was not part of the job description. Too bad he didn’t have the balls to forget how good she was at keeping his life organized and fire her. “Sorry about that, Mr. P.” She tucked a loose auburn curl behind her ear, and he mentally sighed, his frustration dissolving away. One of her tells. She only did that when he scared her, which happened too often to make either of them comfortable. He had never envisioned himself turning into the stereotypical grumpy old man—wasn’t that Wilford Brimley’s schtick?—but more and more, that’s what it felt like he was. “I thought you saw me.” “Still blind from the damn lights,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologize.” He didn’t have to utter the actual words, though, because she instantly smiled and relaxed. “Something wrong? I thought I wouldn’t see you until after dinner.” It was part of his and Marjorie’s ritual. After each commercial wrapped, they went out and spent far too much money on food and wine. The night served double-duty. He had fun with an old friend, and they both got the publicity being seen on the town. Their love lives were too well-known for it to be construed as romantic, but in the Hollywood world of the great pretenders, John was too much of a master to play any other game. “Something came in your mail today I thought you’d want to see.” Even in the murky soundstage, Corrine’s eyes glittered with excitement as she held out an envelope. “It requires a response, so I wanted to get it to you as soon as possible.” Her enthusiasm was contagious. He forgot about everything else as he extracted a single page letter from the open envelope. It was written on heavy ivory vellum, the quality of which was usually reserved for expensive attorneys and asshole producers. He had to turn around and tilt the paper toward the few lights still gracing the set in order to make out the name at the top. Eaker Enterprises. He’d never heard of it. A paragraph into the letter, he knew why. Dear Mr. Paravati, My name is Amanda Eaker, and recently my husband and I finished renovations on The Crown in Shakersville, Illinois, a property we purchased for the sole purpose of reviving it to its former glory. We will be celebrating its relaunch on March 20 and would love to invite you to attend as our VIP special guest… “Tell her no,” he said, shoving both the letter and envelope into Corrine’s unsuspecting hands. Corrine gaped. “But why? You love the old movie palaces. You say all the time how it’s a travesty they keep getting torn down.” His legs were shaking, and his stomach had begun twisting into unbreakable knots. Shakersville. Damn. Why did Fate have such a mean sense of humor? “I’m too busy.” “No, you’re not. I checked your schedule to make sure. I wouldn’t have bothered you with it, otherwise.” “It’s too soon,” he tried. “That’s less than a month away. Plane tickets will cost a fortune.” “They’re offering to pay all your expenses. Flights, food, hotel, a car, all of it.” A growl rumbled in his chest. The one time he could’ve done with Corrine being an i***t. “I haven’t been back to Shakersville since 1956. Did you ever think even for a single second, that maybe, just maybe, there might be a reason for that, you foolish, foolish girl?” He didn’t wait for Corrine’s comeback. Pulling free from Marjorie, he stomped off toward his dressing room. Well, in this case, the men’s bathroom. Marjorie’s heels clicked on the concrete behind him, spurring him to quicken his step. His attempts to flee the scene were thwarted when she grabbed his elbow right before he reached the bathroom door, dragging him to a halt. “Everybody’s watching your little hissy fit,” she whispered, her voice sharp. “So get back there and tell her you’re sorry before they write you off as another old queen who wouldn’t know a good manner if it slapped the botox right off his face.” Marjorie’s words stung, but for as right as she was about his behavior, he couldn’t bring himself to move. “You don’t know what she’s asking me.” Inwardly, he cringed. He was so whiny he was ready to slap himself. “Neither does anybody else, so do you really want them coming up with their own versions when they walk out of here and tweet to the world about your temper tantrum?” John glanced past her shoulder. Corrine hovered exactly where he’d left her, head bent, her hair falling forward to hide her face from view. She’d put the letter back in the envelope, but its rumpled appearance felt too much like his heart for him to look at it for long. “Corrine!” he called out, softening his tone. “Would you come here, please?” He didn’t trust his legs to carry him back. She obeyed, because that’s who she was, which made him an even bigger jerk by the time she stood in front of him. Smiling, he held out his hand, prepared to take back the letter. “Since you think it’s so important, let me give it another look. I’m obviously more tired than I thought.” As a way to improve his reputation, it wasn’t great. On his high horse or on his last leg. I am never getting another part again. Marjorie, bless her heart, angled to block out the worst of the rubberneckers. Though Corrine hesitated, telegraphing her wariness long enough for him to fear it was too little, too late, she passed the envelope over with a nod. “I looked up the company online when I read the letter. It’s legit.” Corrine began rummaging around in her huge, quilted tote bag. “They’ve been posting pictures of their progress, so if you want to see them, I’ve got my iPad with me—” “No, that’s not necessary. I remember perfectly well what it looked like.” Marjorie snorted. “Someone’s afraid of a little technology.” No, he was afraid of more memories coming flooding back, but he kept that part to himself. “It looks fantastic,” Corrine said. “And I really do think this would be a great opportunity. I can think of at least a half dozen blogs that would run with this kind of story.” She paused. “It might even be the little extra PR nudge you need to get that Coen brothers movie.” That was the other reason he kept Corrine on. She knew how to keep her eye on the big picture when he forgot. “It is a good thing she’s doing,” he said slowly, turning the envelope over and over in his hands. “Too many of the old places are left to rot.” “Yes.” Corrine jumped on his concession, brightening even more. “And if the word spreads because they get a bigshot actor like you there, it might convince other investors to do the same thing.” He grimaced. “Now you’re playing dirty pool.” “Is it working?” “I’ll tell you after dinner.” It would take him that long to read the rest of it. If he couldn’t block out the memories after two sentences, he would be drowning by the end of the letter.