California Dreaming (27 page)

The guests—enough celebrities to populate a studio movie premiere, because no one in Hollywood with any sense would decline an invitation involving America's Favorite Action Star—were stylishly and formally attired in the season's latest collections, and seemed to be having the time of their lives. Everywhere Anna looked, she saw elegant men and women, laughing, chatting, and—of course—networking. She realized that eight months ago, she'd have had no idea who these people were, but she sure knew them now. Tom Hanks and his wife were chatting amiably with Paul Haggis. Les Moonves was huddled with Cammie's father, Clark Sheppard.

Anna stood on the starboard side of the hundred-and-seventy-foot, gleaming white, three-decked vessel. She looked out to the glassy calm seas. The Santa Monica coastline was just three miles away, and the lights of the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier sparkled serenely in the distance. She took a sip of the Taittinger that had been poured for her the minute she'd stepped on board the vessel at the Malibu Yacht Club, clad in her pink bridesmaid's dress, per Sam's instructions. The smell of the salt air, the gentle rocking of the boat, even the soft fabric of the pink bridesmaid's dress that Gisella had designed and sewn for her—it was like a dream.

There was only one discordant distraction. Guests were still being ferried from the Malibu Yacht Club by helicopter and speedboat, and there was a constant
whup-whup
from the choppers and a roar of approaching and departing speedboats. But that would stop soon. The ceremony would start at eight o'clock sharp (no pun intended), when the city had dropped into the night and the moon was rising above the horizon.

Then, everyone would assemble on the rear deck of the vessel, where rows of pink leather and chrome chairs had been set out with a center aisle, pink-and-white rose petals scattered around them. Dee had brought in huge arrangements of pink roses that towered above the seats, and Anna had a matching pink rose in her hair. At the very back of the boat, a variation on a Jewish wedding canopy had been erected, again in a theme of roses. Underneath it was a small table covered in red velvet where the chief justice of the California Supreme Court—a personal friend of Jackson's—would perform the ceremony.

That was it. Simple. Tasteful. And very romantic.

Right now, as a sort of warm-up to the main event, just about everyone was up on the second deck, where a prewedding seafood raw bar buffet had been set out, with oysters, mussels, three different kinds of clam, Alaska king crab legs, and broiled, chilled lobster, plus the tiny sea snails that the French called
boulots
, which Anna had once dined upon during a memorable visit to Normandy. All of Sam's friends were in attendance. Cammie and Dee, of course. Adam and Ben. Parker Pinelli and his brother, Monte, whom Anna hadn't seen in ages. Plus some of the kids she'd gone to BHHS with—Krishna and Blue, who were planning to take a year off to explore Europe before starting college. Some others. They were all up on the second deck. Anna knew she should probably go up there, too, and socialize. That's what bridesmaids were supposed to do. But there was something bittersweet about standing where she was, all alone, letting the memories of the last eight months wash over her. There were so many. And so many of them involved—

“Excuse me? Someone told me you were Anna Percy.”

A voice behind her startled Anna. It belonged to an older guy—fifties, unshaven, but discordantly well dressed in an Armani tuxedo with a black silk shirt underneath. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him.

“Yes,” she replied. “I'm Anna. I'm one of Sam's brides-maids.”

“Marty Martinsen.” He held out a beefy hand for Anna to shake. “You know who I am?”

Now Anna remembered. Marty ran Transnational Pictures. He'd hosted the wrap party for
Ben-Hur
a few weeks ago. She and Sam had stayed for a week at his Malibu beach house earlier in the summer, when Marty and his family had been vacationing in Malta.

“You're a friend of Sam's dad, right? You let us house-sit at your place in Malibu earlier in the summer—that was so nice of you.”

“And I hope you enjoyed it,” Marty said smoothly, “as much as I enjoyed reading
The Big Palm
.”

It took a moment for what he was saying to register. He had read her screenplay? That had to mean … “Sam gave you my screenplay to read?”

“No, she gave me some other screenplay called
The Big Palm
by some other girl named Anna Percy,” he replied, deadpan. “Imagine the coincidence.”

Anna laughed. “You're right, that was a silly question. It's just that Sam didn't tell me anything about it.” She couldn't decide whether to hug Sam or to yell at her when they next crossed paths.

“For a young writer, you've got a lot of talent.”

One of the tuxedoed waitstaff passed by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Marty nabbed two of them neatly, offering one to Anna. She took it and set it on the edge of the deck, trying to digest what Marty was saying to her, and why. She nodded slowly, trying to decide if he really meant that or was simply being nice. She knew so many people in Hollywood who would hand out compliments, oozing faux sincerity to a person's face, only to berate and insult them behind their backs as soon as they were out of sight. Finally she smiled. “That's very kind of you.”

Marty snorted, then swiped a knuckle against his stubbly chin. “You don't know me yet. You'll come to find out that I'm rarely kind. It's a highly overrated character trait.” He swirled his Taittinger around in his flute, the bubbles glistening in the late-evening light. “So here's the thing, Anna. I was going to call. But hey, here you are—we might as well discuss it face to face. I want to make you an offer. If we can reach a satisfactory deal, Transnational will make your picture.”

Anna scratched at her ear, as if to make sure she had heard correctly. The noisy choppers made it difficult to understand what he was saying. “Excuse me?”

Marty swallowed half of his champagne in one gulp. “I've got a new low-budget division in the works for the fall, and I've been looking for a good first niche project. I think we can do it for under ten mil, which is less than I spend on craft service for one of Jackson's babies.” He laughed dryly and grabbed a piece of-shrimp from a passing waiter, tossing it into his mouth.

Anna put her champagne down on a nearby banquette and blinked twice. “You're making my movie,” she said slowly, as if English weren't her first language.

“If we can reach a deal, I don't see why not. I need a project like it, this film needs studio support, and if we can get the right cast—Hayden Panettiere or that cute redhead Amelie Adams for the girl, maybe Michael Graziadei for Brogan—I'd say we shoot on location in New York, then come back here. I'm thinking mid-October. It's a little rushed, but I say, what the fuck. These small movies we can go wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, put it out next summer, do some kind of commercial tie-in with BMG Music or MTV, open it fast, close it fast, be on video by Columbus Day. So who are your people?”

Her
people?
Was he asking about her family? “Well, I grew up in New York. My mother is in Italy now—”

Marty held up a meaty hand to interrupt. “Who handles your material, Anna? Who's your agent?”

Anna colored.
Of course
that was what he meant. But she didn't have an agent. Or a manager. Or a lawyer. Or anyone else whose job it would be to negotiate a movie deal, because the idea that she would be making a movie deal on the day before her departure to Yale was so remote as to be laughable.

A name flew into her head.

“Clark Sheppard,” she said smoothly.

Well, why not? Cammie's father was one of the biggest agents in town; in fact, she'd briefly worked for him as an intern. No way on this planet would he represent a writer as young as she was, someone who had never sold anything. But she needed something to tell Marty—maybe she could ask Clark to recommend her to someone else at his agency, a junior agent or someone—and she could see that the CEO of Transnational was suitably impressed.

“Clark Sheppard, huh? Well, I shoulda figured it—that I'm not the only one who knows a good script when he reads it.” He finished his champagne and poured the remaining drops in his glass over the side of the
Look Sharpe
for good measure. “Now I have to negotiate with the son of a bitch.” He waved a hand in the air. “Fine, fine, I'll have one of my business-affairs people give him a call. Just don't expect the moon.”

Anna nodded. She didn't expect the moon. She'd come to learn during her time in Hollywood that as a new screenwriter on her first film, she could barely expect to be a guest on her own movie set. There was every chance, too, that the studio would bring in another writer to rewrite her, and that she'd be forced to share credit.

On the other hand, she didn't have to have this movie made. She had plenty of money. She had plans for the fall, and for her future. Which was why she was willing to make an audacious request.

“This all sounds good. But I'd like to select the director.”

Marty's graying eyebrows went up into his forehead. “You're shitting me.”

Anna's heart pounded, but she stood her ground opposite the powerful executive. “I'm not. I'd like Sam Sharpe to direct. I know you probably think of her as a kid, the daughter of your friend, but she really is brilliant—”

Marty threw his head back and laughed. “You're good, you.” He wagged a finger at her. “You had me going there. Some little birdie told you I was gonna have her direct, am I right? She brought me the screenplay, it's part of the deal.”

It was? “Well, great, then.” Anna held out her hand. “My people look forward to hearing from your people,” she finished, feeling like she might laugh out loud hearing those words come out of her mouth.

Marty shook her outstretched hand, a bemused look on his face. “Congratulations, Anna. You wrote a fine script. We'll talk soon.” He moved off, nabbing one more flute of champagne from a passing waiter as he did.

Anna felt faint, her knees actually weak. She wanted to sit, to breathe, to play over again in her mind what had just transpired with Marty.

She spotted a single empty rattan deck chair and made for it. Just as she did, Sam appeared from the steps to the upper deck and blocked her path. She wore a beautiful pink Chloé sundress; Anna knew she would be changing clothes very soon.

“Hi,” her friend said with studied nonchalance. “What's new?”

“I just got the shock of my life. You gave my screenplay to Marty Martinsen! Why didn't you tell me?” Anna demanded.

Sam grinned, her brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “Come on. And ruin the surprise? Besides, I only found out he wanted to buy the script this afternoon. I thought he'd passed. If he had, I wasn't going to say a word. Call it kindness by omission.”

Anna made a face. “Marty says that kindness is a highly overrated quality.”

“If you're a studio chief, it probably is,” Sam acknowledged. “But I have a confession. Marty had me standing on the upper deck right above you so I could listen in.”

Sam pointed. Right above where Anna and Marty had been discussing the movie, the second level of the
Look Sharpe
dipped a bit. It would have been easy for Sam to stand there and hear everything.

“Isn't that against the law?” Anna mock-chided.

Sam laughed. “This is the movie business It's the law of the jungle. What I want to know is, you got an offer from a huge producer to make the very first movie you ever wrote. And you were going to turn the deal down unless
I
got to direct?”

“Yes,” Anna confirmed.

“You are either a total idiot or the best friend I ever had, or both,” Sam said, the emotion clear in her voice.

“You gave him my screenplay without telling me,” Anna pointed out. “I'd say it was a fair trade.”

“True,” Sam acknowledged. She glanced at the antique gold watch that she'd acquired at a Sotheby's auction a couple of years before. “I don't have much time. I needed to change like five minutes ago. But listen. I've been thinking about the title.
The Big Palm
sucks ass.”

“You have a better idea?” Anna asked.

“Definitely.
The A-List.
”

“The A-List.”
Anna considered the title. “I like it.” Then another thought occurred to her. “I wonder if Yale will let me start late. What if they won't? That is, if you even want me on the set.”

Sam howled with laughter. “See, your problem, Anna, is that you write about the A-list but then you don't act like you're part of it. I talked to the dean of the film school at USC. They'll give me credit to direct. Call Yale. Don't ask them.
Tell them
you've written a studio picture, that it's shooting in the fall, and that they have to make some accommodation for you. If you don't want to do it yourself, let Cammie's father do it. He went to Yale too.”

“He did?” Anna was astonished. “I didn't know that.”

“You probably never asked.”

Anna gazed out at the coastline. It was all just so overwhelming. Just when she thought her life would never really change, it did. Simple as that.

Sam took her arm for a moment, and they stared out to sea together. The darkness had fully descended and the sky was now a gorgeous midnight blue, the ocean a few shades darker. They stood in silence, joined only at the elbow, Sam's skin warming Anna's own against the stiff ocean breeze.

Finally Sam pulled away, glancing at her watch. “Well, I gotta get changed for the main event. Ready to watch me make a fool of myself?”

Anna smiled back at her. “Always.”

“Cool. Wish me luck. And pray I don't trip walking up the aisle.”

“Why the fuck not?” Cammie asked herself rhetorically. There was a first time for everything.

Adam was standing on the bridge of the
Look Sharpe,
talking quietly with the black-uniformed captain, a gentleman straight out of central casting for a remake of
The Poseidon Adventure,
with his chiseled chin, silver moustache, gold brocade on his shoulders, and white captain's hat.