Celluloid Memories (18 page)

“I never would have done that without talking to you first,” she said.

McCoy glanced at her, and for a brief moment she saw that electric spark in his eyes that had first appeared once they began to learn more about each other. The same spark had signaled awareness and interest and burgeoning respect, and something more that had not even been defined between them. But it was quickly gone, and Savannah was left with the prowess of a professional whom she knew she could trust. Anything else did not come into play at that moment.

“I'll talk to Punch tomorrow. Expect to get a call from this attorney.”

He flipped through a Rolodex and turned it to face her with a name and phone number displayed.

“Thanks,” she murmured, busily writing down the information.

“Is this what you want?”

She looked up sharply, not so much at the question but at the change in his voice again. For the first time since she'd entered his office, McCoy's question seemed personal, and closer to touching on what he'd learned about her in the past few months. His whole demeanor now was not only questioning, but seemed to be waiting for an answer that Savannah was sure had little to do with the contract or the script.

“What do you mean?

“This could open a Pandora's box. Or it could be the start of the Yellow Brick Road for you. It could get you a lot of opportunities and a lot of attention. It could change you.”

She had to smile at his use of fictional images and analogies, the sense of ominous drama. “To be honest, Mac, I wrote the script for myself. Whatever happens, happens. I want to be surprised.”

“I think you can count on that. If there's anything more I can do, let me know.”

A few things came spontaneously, and unbidden, to mind, but they had nothing to do with the contract or script or Punch Wagoner.

“You've already done more than you needed to,” Savannah said, keeping to the unstated rules McCoy had laid out when she'd entered his office. This was business. But there was another awkward hurdle to get over. “Should I see your assistant about payment?”

He stared at her and his eyes clouded over. McCoy averted his expression and stood up. “You don't owe me anything. I'm glad you believed I could be of help. Consider this a consultation call. Or a conversation between friends.”

She still didn't know what to make of his aloofness, but decided that now was not the time to confuse the issues.

“You've been very generous, as a consultant and a friend. I appreciate your honesty.”

She stopped short of offering her hand in thanks. That would have been too cold. But, given the distance that remained between them, she also didn't feel comfortable with offering a friendly peck on the check as she said goodbye. McCoy walked her to the door.

She turned and faced him and they stood very close together. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she was overcome with an image of the two of them riding together in his car from L.A. to Long Beach. And sitting at a café laughing over conversation and drinks. Savannah could see none of that Mac she'd spent time with in the strict, impersonal demeanor of the man next to her now. But she smiled at him.

“Thank you for everything, McCoy. I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

To her relief he seemed to soften for a moment. He reached out and stroked her arm, a gesture that went a long way to alleviating her qualms. But she'd said as much as she was going to. The ball was in his court. He reached beyond her to open the office door. He was once more the lawyer.

“Someone will get back to you with a revised contract. Sign it and return it to Punch. And then, wait to see what happens. And don't forget to register that script as soon as you can.”

“I will.” Savannah swallowed and rushed on. “Are you free to join me for drinks or coffee?”

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Are you still trying to pay me back?”

“I thought it would be nice to get away from business. Just enjoy ourselves. Like last week.”

He lowered his gaze, staring down at his shoes before looking at her again. “Thanks, but I can't. I have some catching up to do here before leaving tonight.”

Savannah silently nodded and hid her disappointment. It took all of her willpower to appear as casual and calm as she could when something entirely different was happening inside.

“Then I'd better go.” She waved briefly and turned away.

“Savannah?”

She looked over her shoulder and found that McCoy had followed her almost to the elevator. “Yes?”

“I hope this works out for you. But I hope you won't think me a spoilsport if I add a final caution.”

“What is it?” she frowned.

“You can't always get what you want.”

M
cCoy took a sip of his drink and looked over the gathering. The setting was a restaurant in West Hollywood on a drizzly weeknight. The hostess was Kay, a friend of Savannah's whom he'd only met for the first time when he'd shown up as a guest. Kay's response to his introducing himself had been revealing.

“Oh, you're the guy that Vann said ran into her a couple of months back on the freeway. I thought your name looked familiar.”

“What else did she tell you?” he'd asked, intrigued.

“Not a hell of a lot,” Kay had chortled. “I only know you two made up, and she's been keeping you all to herself. Now I can see why.” Kay frowned at him. “You didn't say anything to her about tonight, did you? It's a surprise.”

It was easy enough for him to admit that he hadn't, but McCoy held back from saying that he also had not spoken with Savannah for almost two weeks. That might have required a further explanation, and he didn't have one.

The fact is, Savannah's sudden interest in, and her immediate success with, writing a film script touched too close to home. The same thing had happened with his ex-wife Paula and, he'd believed, had ultimately been the cause of their divorce. Unexpectedly, she'd become an instant hit after a record producer, a friend of his, had offered to listen to her demo tape. He'd always known that Paula had an above-average singing voice, but she'd never once expressed an interest in a professional career. That is, until nearly three years after they'd married and moved to L.A. for his practice.

He never saw it coming, and he still wondered if it had all been part of her game plan. Paula had never sought out singing engagements. At least, as far as he knew. But she enjoyed being asked to perform and had an alluring stage presence. When had the applause and attention taken hold and spawned bigger dreams? When had Paula decided that being married to a real-estate attorney might be holding her back?

Mac had thought he could handle her record deal. After all, not every singer registered with an audience, let alone hit the charts. But getting a chance to perform as a backup singer for a group that led off the concert tours of a few big names had really set the ball rolling. He'd found himself caught between wanting his wife to make singing and performing second place in her life, and knowing that if he had to ask that of her they were already in trouble.

Mac had never been able to decide what had disappointed and hurt him the most: that she'd made the decision in favor of a singing career, or that she'd only returned from touring long enough to move her things out of their home.

McCoy finished the rest of his drink and placed the glass on a nearby table. There was a wait staff circulating trays of sushi, spring rolls and spicy Buffalo wings. There were platters laid out in various places with cheese and fruits, and there was a stand for pasta dishes made to order.
Very nice,
Mac thought. He was impressed that Savannah's friends thought enough to surprise her not only on the accomplishment of writing a script, but on the recent news that Punch Wagoner had optioned it.

McCoy had felt all the warning signs go off inside when Savannah had called with the news. He'd gotten a voice-mail message from her. An unsettling feeling of déjà vu had immediately cropped up. He hadn't been very responsive to Savannah, and he knew full well that his behavior was confusing to her. He could have stayed away and yet here he was to help celebrate her good news. And it
was
good news. Savannah had still not arrived, so McCoy grabbed another drink from a passing waiter as he meandered through the slowly growing number of guests. He didn't recognize anyone until he spotted Punch Wagoner sitting at the bar, having an animated conversation with a young man.

“Punch. Good to see you,” McCoy opened.

Punch Wagoner stopped in mid sentence and turned to him.

“Hey. McCoy Sutton himself. Good to see you, man.”

They shook hands. The young man chatting with Punch stuck out a skinny arm to McCoy.

“Taj.”

Punch looked to McCoy with an indulgent expression. “Aka Tyrone James Sparks. Grab a chair. Join us. Tyrone and I were just talking about Savannah Shelton. Tyrone is the one that found her, brought me her script to read.”

McCoy arched a brow at Taj. “You
found
her? I didn't realize she was lost.”

Punch laughed at the obvious humor. Taj stayed cool and went along with the joke. “Baby Girl wasn't lost, but she needed me to get her jump-started.”

“Baby Girl?” McCoy questioned, not realizing the tone of objection he used.

“Yeah, that's what I call her,” Taj admitted openly. “'Cause she's clueless about the business. She's not one to be impressed by actors and actresses, and all the Hollywood stuff. Savannah is
real
folks. That's why I thought her script was so off the charts. Right?” he said, turning to Punch for confirmation.

“I think you should know, Tyrone, that my man here is responsible in some ways for Savannah's success. He gave her good legal advice, and wouldn't let her sign my contract until I'd made changes.”

McCoy watched as Taj nodded and looked at him with newfound respect.

“Cool. She sure ain't like every other black woman who comes to this town. She already had a career. Her father is a famous dude and she's not easily impressed, know what I mean? You gotta work to get her respect and trust. I was the first person she let read her script,” Taj boasted nonchalantly.

McCoy was surprised at the tinge of envy he felt at that announcement. He wondered how he would have responded had Savannah shown the work to him first. Would it have made a difference in how he was feeling now?

“I'm sure she appreciates you being in her corner,” McCoy said.

“Yeah, but it was like pulling teeth to get her to see Punch. The girl didn't even know who he is. Sorry, Punch.”

Punch shrugged good-naturedly. “No offense taken. Savannah is clearly an excellent writer. Must have inherited some of her father's talents, but she sure don't come across as a dilettante. And she's very clear on what she will and won't do.”

“What do you mean?” McCoy asked, interested.

“Well, she absolutely refuses to let me use her father's name to talk about her and her work. But she will take meetings with producers or even actors interested in the script. It's not like she's shy or anything.”

McCoy looked into his wineglass, pursing his lips. “Maybe just private?”

“Yeah, that's it,” Punch and Taj said almost together.

“How come you know Baby Girl?” Taj asked.

McCoy realized quickly that he didn't much like Taj's nickname for Savannah, even though he knew it was said affectionately. “We met by accident,” he said wryly. The other two men stared blankly at him, waiting. “I'm serious. I rear-ended her on the highway one night about two and a half months ago. She made no bones about calling me a lousy driver.”

Both men broke into laughter.

“Ah, man. My girl ranked on you,” Taj chuckled.

McCoy turned to Punch who was silently watching him.

“Are you two dating? I'm just curious,” Punch quickly added defensively.

“Sorry I can't satisfy your curiosity,” McCoy said, and he knew he was being completely honest. Not that he would have willingly shared information he considered private. Yet, he knew that not only was he confused, but that Savannah had to wonder about his aloofness. He'd seen the question in her eyes when she'd first come to him with Punch's contract.

His ego had made assumptions that his feelings couldn't justify.

They all turned when the latest group of people walked into the restaurant, and Kay suddenly made a bloodcurdling yell.

“
Surprise!
Gotcha, didn't I?”

There was a smattering of applause and whistling. McCoy moved away from Punch and Taj, who'd both remained seated at the bar, so that he would witness Savannah's arrival. Not only did she look totally surprised, she looked bewildered. An attractive woman, tall and slender, ushered her forward as Savannah blinked in silence at the people rushing forward to welcome and congratulate her. Slowly, a smile replaced the stunned look, and her eyes filled with warmth as she was hugged and kissed, and a glass of champagne was thrust into her hands. She nearly spilled it when Kay threw herself at Savannah, making everyone laugh when she said,

“I
know
you have a part for me in your script, right?”

McCoy stayed out of sight as Savannah's gaze scanned the small crowd, greeting everyone as she recognized them. She suddenly looked up and right at him. She froze for a moment, her expression unreadable, but her eyes large and bright. Found out, McCoy silently raised his wineglass to her in a private toast.

An elderly white man who held out his hand as he talked with her grabbed Savannah's attention. She looked surprised but pleased to see him, and gave him a brief hug. McCoy rejoined Taj and Punch, but Taj excused himself to go and say hello to Baby Girl.

“Tell me about the option,” McCoy asked Punch as Taj walked away.

“It was pretty easy. I know this producer who has a three-picture deal with a cable network that does a lot of made-for-TV movies. He was blown away by Savannah's script and wanted it. I was able to get her a nice bit of change, but it came with a warning. He's already considering two other scripts, so it's not a done deal that he'll buy Savannah's outright and put it into production. We're still a long ways from that.”

“What do you think her chances are?”

“As good as anyone else's in this business. It's all about timing and who you know, and whether or not the sun is shining on the second Tuesday of the month, and if the director got
any
the night before reading the script.”

McCoy laughed at Punch's assessment, and knew that to a great extent he was right. It was a capricious process, at best.

“I want to get one thing straight, Mac. About that producer credit in the contract…”

McCoy put his glass down and wiped his damp hands together. “Don't even try that with me, Punch. You know full well you were hoping to get over. I don't blame you, but I wasn't going to let you use Savannah that way.”

“She asked some sharp questions herself. Like, what do I get out of it moneywise if I become producer.”

“And you said?”

“I was honest with her. I said, a lot of money. She's nobody's fool, and she understood that. I handled it badly with her.” Punch studied him intently. “Do I detect a special interest in Ms. Savannah Shelton?”

McCoy hesitated for just a second. “Savannah can take care of herself. But I
will
have to hurt you if you try to take advantage again.”

Punch burst out into a boisterous laugh.

“What's so funny?”

Punch came quickly to his feet and McCoy turned to Savannah, who stood gazing between them with an uncertain smile.

“Guy talk,” Punch said. He picked up his glass. “Nice party. You looked genuinely surprised.”

“I was,” Savannah said, as Punch patted her shoulder.

“There'll be many more, if everything works out.”

“I'm ready.” Savannah grinned, watching him walk away to greet someone else he recognized.

McCoy was glad that Punch and Savannah had had the exchange, giving him time to decide what he was going to do and say to her.

She looked wonderful and was dressed not in the way most people would expect of someone in Hollywood with a career about to break out. But then, what had attracted him to Savannah from the start was that she followed no one's dictates but her own. Her style was her own. And she seemed not to care what anyone's opinion of her was.

Many of the women in the restaurant were dressed fashionably in light, colorful, eye-catching attire, designed to reveal décolletage and/or belly buttons. Savannah was wearing a simple black dress with a V-neckline, emphasizing her face, short brushed-out hair and slender neck, under a coral-colored V-neck cardigan with a single button closing. Her only jewelry was a pair of large pearl ear studs, and a wide mother-of-pearl bracelet. Her sandals were not Jimmy Choo or Blahnik, but espadrilles with ankle-ties.

“Hi. I'm surprised to see you,” Savannah said bluntly, though without any rancor or emotion.

McCoy knew this might not be his finest moment, but he hoped he did a credible job of showing Savannah that she had every right to her skepticism.

“I consider myself lucky to be invited. I wouldn't have missed this for anything.”

Savannah continued to study him. “Not for anything?” she questioned, taking a drink of her champagne.

“Only if I'd known you wouldn't want me here.”

Savannah's gaze held his without flinching. “That's not fair.”

McCoy blushed. “You're right, but that's not how I meant it. I think I've been behaving like an ass, and you don't even know why.”