Take Two (5 page)

He launched into a story about how the other side came dressed with the backs of their shirts dyed yellow, and how his team
had acted out a skit that ended up being mostly bloopers, especially after one of the girls got tongue-twisted and began fighting
for the wrong side. Bailey enjoyed the story, loved the way it felt to sit here sheltered from the rain on the steps of the
college theater with Tim warm beside her. She thought about the conversation Andi was having inside, and a pang of guilt pierced
her heart. She had no right to be bothered by Cody’s friendship with Andi. Neither of them meant to hurt anyone. Besides,
for now it seemed possible that Tim was part of God’s plans for her. That meant maybe Cody was part of God’s plans for Andi.
If that ended up being the case, Bailey could do nothing but embrace the situation. She was happy and content, and maybe this
was only the beginning for her and Tim. Cody was simply a part of her past.

If she could only convince her heart.

Because no matter what logic said, she couldn’t shake the hurt in her heart over losing him. Or the fear she lived with every
day — that a part of her would always love Cody Coleman, the boy who’d played football for her father and lived with their
family through his hardest years.

The once-in-a-lifetime guy she had fallen for when she was too young to know any better.

T
HE RENTED
S
ANTA
M
ONICA STUDIO EDITING
room was half the size of a single-wide trailer, with fewer frills. But that didn’t matter to Keith. He and Chase sat in
front of a computer control panel, their eyes glued to the spectacular images on the large screen overhead. Never mind the
stuffy room. The picture drew them in so they were no longer in Santa Monica, but in Bloomington, Indiana, where
The Last Letter
had been filmed.

The editing equipment was state of the art, available for rent only in the Los Angeles area and provided by the earlier investment
funds from Ben Adams. For the past few weeks Keith and Chase had spent Tuesday through Thursday working nearly around the
clock to edit their film. Constantly during that time, they were reminded that a production team could capture tremendous
acting on film, but the magic — the real magic — happened here.

In a ten-by-ten editing room.

“Mark that.” Keith hit a button on the control panel, pushed back, and stood. He stretched and rubbed his weary eyes. “Dinner?”

Chase squinted up at the plastic black-and-white clock, the only decor in the room. “Seven thirty.” He released a slow burst
of stale air and hit another few buttons. The screen overhead went dark. “When did we eat lunch?”

“We didn’t.”

“Right.” Chase chuckled, then yawned. “Late breakfast.” He rose and rubbed the back of his neck. “The hours run together.”

It was mid-November, and temperatures in Santa Monica hovered in the seventies, even at this hour. What little they’d seen
of the day had been warm and blue and beautiful. Typical Southern California beach weather. Keith flipped off the light and
locked the door behind them. Down a series of hallways and a flight of stairs and they were outside, a block away from Santa
Monica’s Third Street Promenade.

Keith drew a long breath. “The breeze feels good.”

“It’s called real life.” Chase slipped his hands into his back pockets, his pace slow and thoughtful. “I keep forgetting it’s
out here.”

They both laughed this time. Their editing hours were crazy — work through midnight, walk back to the Georgian Hotel on Ocean
Boulevard, climb the stairs to the second-floor two-bedroom suite they were sharing, and crash for five, maybe six, hours.
Then back at it by seven in the morning. With the price they were paying for the editing room, they had to keep this pace.
Besides, they had a deadline. Kendall had entered the film in a number of independent film festivals, and if any of them bit,
they’d need a finished product by the end of the year.

On top of that, they had a first-look deal with a major studio — something that guaranteed a DVD release, based on the actors
the film had attracted. The problem with that deal was that the studio might not want a theatrical release. Putting a movie
on the big screen cost millions, and rumor had it the studio was struggling. If the film didn’t make it to the theaters, there
was a chance Chase and Keith wouldn’t recoup the money they’d spent making it. The investors would be repaid, but the producers
would suffer the greatest financial loss.

So the pressure was on in a number of ways.

“The thing is —” Chase tilted his face toward the dusk sky overhead. “— even with all the madness, I love it.” He looked straight
at Keith. “I mean I absolutely love it.”

Keith smiled. He loved that Chase shared his enthusiasm. “I never imagined …”

“I know.” Chase stopped for a red light. “It’s like we’re sitting on this amazing movie, and no one has any idea.”

They walked north. In this part of the city, Third Street was blocked off, allowing tourists and locals the chance to shop
and ogle at the artists stationed up and down the Promenade. Up ahead a man stood in the middle of the street, a makeshift
spotlight shining up on him. Head to toe the guy was silver. Tinfoil around his clothes, silver spray paint covering his arms,
hands, and face. He played a flute. Next to him, a cheap portable table held a glass jar containing a handful of bills.

“Makes you wonder.” Keith watched a few seconds longer. “The guy just woke up one day and decided he wasn’t happy flipping
burgers?”

“At least he’s out here.” Chase grinned and started walking again. “Doing something.”

“Using his talent.” Keith picked up his pace. “Pizza work for you?”

“Absolutely.”

They ordered by the slice — two each — at a small dive just off Third and ate the first piece back out on Third Street at
a tiny worn-out table with uneven legs. The breeze was cooler, the sidewalk fringed with street people, everything they owned
on their backs or smashed into a shopping cart. The salty ocean air pulsed with heavy rap music from a couple street dancers
at the other end of the block, the sound blending with the occasional honking horn and rumbling truck heading east on Santa
Monica Boulevard.

Conversation was too hard against the noise, so they boxed up their second slices. Back in their rented editing room, they
finished the pizza as Keith reviewed their notes from the earlier session. It was eight o’clock. Four hours until they could
call it a night.

Keith grabbed two cans of Diet Coke from the small refrigerator in the back corner of the room and handed one to Chase. “Okay.”
He popped the top of his can and took a swig. “I want this scene less than two minutes total. We’re still at five and change.
I have an idea, but let’s look at it again.” He sat down in front of the console.

Chase took the chair next to him and hit the Play button. Three seconds from the front of a clip, two from the back, a camera
angle deleted. A half hour disappeared, every cut piece saved in a digital file in case they needed it again. When the scene
was down to two minutes, fifteen seconds, Chase rubbed his eyes. “That’s better. Let’s move on.”

Before Keith could advance the film, his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID. The area code was Los Angeles, otherwise
he wouldn’t have answered it. “Hello?”

“Keith Ellison? Barry Gaynor here. Los Angeles Film Festival.”

“Yes, Mr. Gaynor.” His heart slammed into double rhythm. The deadline for entering the LA Film Festival was December 5, weeks
away. Entry in the competition was one of the reasons they were hurrying with the edit. “This is Keith. How can I help you?”

“Well,” the man chuckled. “First off, call me Barry.” He allowed a dramatic pause, then dropped his voice a notch. “Don’t
usually make these calls, but I had to this time.”

Chase stopped fiddling with the control panel. He turned and watched the conversation, his brows raised. “LA Film Festival?”
he mouthed.

Keith nodded.

“Anyway …” The laughter faded from Barry’s voice. “I hear from my good friend Kendall Adams you’ve got yourself a hit film.”

“Kendall called them,” Keith mouthed to Chase. He swallowed hard and tried to focus. “We were happy with it. Everyone gave
it their best.”

“That’s what I hear. Kendall can’t stop talking about it.”

“We’re editing now, my coproducer and I.”

“Good. Think you’ll be finished by the fifth?”

Keith allowed a smile. “That’s the goal.”

“So you’re entering our festival, right? Kendall promised me.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“When you submit it, send it to my attention.” There was a smile in Barry’s voice. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Definitely. Will do.” They made small talk for another minute and the conversation was over.

Keith had cautioned himself not to get overly thrilled at any stage along the way of movie making. Too many things could go
wrong. But as he set his phone down he had to work to keep from shouting out loud.

“What’d he say?”

“Kendall’s the real deal. I guess she’s friends with the guy who heads up the festival. You won’t believe this.” Keith stared
at his friend and released a single laugh. “He called to make sure we were submitting.”

“Because of Kendall?” Chase leaned back in his seat. “That could be huge. I mean, that doesn’t happen.”

Keith’s heart settled down some. “Except with God. He might be using Kendall, but none of this happens without Him.” He nodded
at the oversized screen above them. “Let’s get back at it.”

They worked until after midnight, then walked back to the hotel. Fewer street people were out, but they were offered cocaine
from a guy in a trench coat, and halfway to the Georgian they passed a pair of interested call girls. Keith and Chase never
made eye contact.

“Have you thought about where this could go? I mean with Ben Adams behind us, and if we get picked up by a few of the festivals?”
Keith tempered his voice. The wind off the ocean was stronger now, and he had to talk loud to be heard.

“I try not to.” Chase shrugged. “I mean, it’s exciting. But almost none of it’s in ink.”

The conversation faded until they’d climbed the green-painted steps to the hotel and walked up to their suite on the second
floor. “You aren’t convinced it’s going to happen, are you?” Keith tossed his things on the small table near the television
set.

“I believe in contracts.” Chase flopped onto the sofa with a long sigh. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. Kendall’s full
of great ideas. The LA festival director wants us to submit our film. Stephanie Fitzgerald wants us to produce
Unlocked
. Brandon Paul wants to star in it. I’m having a blast, and everything sounds great … but none of it’s in ink. We still have
a long road ahead.”

“Reminds me of something I heard a director say once.”

“What’s that?”

Keith smiled. “’Movies very badly do not want to be made. It’s the nature of the business.’”

“Exactly.”

“Either way we have a great film.”

Chase took a paperback from his bag and tossed it onto the coffee table.
Unlocked: A Novel
, by Stephanie Fitzgerald. “See?” He grinned at Keith. “I think it could happen. With God all things are possible, right?”

“You’re gonna love the book.”
Unlocked
centered around an autistic boy miraculously changed by the power of music, a boy whose life changed everyone around him
— especially his older teenaged brother. It was a story destined for the big screen. Keith had finished the book a week ago.
“The whole time, I could see Brandon Paul as the boy’s older brother.”

“It’d be huge.” Chase smiled, but he didn’t look excited. “All we need is an option from the author, an A-list screenplay,
a meeting with Brandon Paul’s agent — vice president of the top talent agency in town — and about ten million in the bank.”

“Right.”

“Makes teaching jungle tribes about Jesus look like a picnic.”

Keith laughed and fell into a chair adjacent to the sofa. “Same God.”

He took the remote and flipped on the TV. On the way to ESPN a news story caught his eye and he stopped clicking. Ten high
school kids caught on camera playing drinking games.

“This one’s for YouTube,” one of them shouted out as the shots were poured.

“Yeah, YouTube!” One of the guys grabbed a glass and raised it high. “Winner’s gonna be famous.”

The anchor cut in and explained that before the end of that night one of the kids had died, and another stopped breathing
and suffered brain damage. When the first two teens passed out — with one kid’s video camera still rolling — the other teens
merely laughed and clanked their shot glasses toward the forms on the floor.

Keith pictured Andi, his precious daughter, getting drunk at a frat party last quarter, and he felt suddenly sick to his stomach.
He clicked the Power button and turned to Chase. “Knocks the wind out of you.”

Chase was still staring at the dark TV screen. After a few seconds he leaned back in his seat and exhaled hard. “Saddest story
I’ve seen in a long time.”

“Makes me think of Andi.” Silence fell heavy between them, the story, the reality of it, hitting its mark. Andi still hadn’t
shared all the details of her drunken night, but what if that had been her? Stepping up to the challenge of her peers, downing
one shot glass after another? The boys who had fallen to the floor didn’t look like particularly bad kids. Just kids. Teens
giving in to the culture around them.

“Sometimes I need to remember —” Chase leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. There was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t
been there before. “— that’s our audience, those kids. That’s why we’re doing this.”

“It’s why we’ll be back at it tomorrow, why we have to stay with it and believe God’s doing something big.”

“You’re right.” The clouds of doubt cleared from Chase’s eyes. “It’s why we believe in Kendall Adams and Brandon Paul and
every other detail along the way.”

“Exactly.” They were quiet again, and Keith turned his eyes to the window and the sheer curtains dancing in the ocean breeze.
The pictures wouldn’t leave his head. The teens gathered around someone’s kitchen, the vodka bottles lining the counter. The
shot glasses and the laughter. All the laughter, as if they were bullet proof. As if they wouldn’t be attending a funeral
a few days later.