SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #6

Gorman Bechard

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, films, books, songs, TV programs, universities, cities, politicians and incidents, in other words EVERYTHING depicted in SLOW FADE TO BLACK: is fictitious, or use fictitiously. The events in this work of fiction are not real, nor are they intended to be so interpreted. For example, any quotes, speeches, thoughts, newspaper headlines, histories, anything and everything contained herein is completely a product of the author's imagination and there is no intention to imply that any of it is real.

CUT TO:

TWENTY-SEVEN

Max read the last two words out loud, "Fade out." He closed the script, held it for one contemplative moment on his lap, then placed it reverentially down on top of his new kitchen table, stood and walked over to the fridge, where he first pulled out a two liter bottle of Tab, then thought better of it, and instead pulled out a Rolling Rock.

"Want one?" he asked, offering up a green longneck.

Paige, who was just coming home from another of those cattle call auditions, tossed her backpack on the table, ran a hand through her hair and said, "I'd love one."

He handed her the beer and she took a long swig.

"Tough day?"

"I'm not cut out for the actress bit," she said.

"Then why continue doing it?"

"Makes me appear independent."

You are independent, he thought, nodding. He knew her script by heart.

Paige sat at the table, then noticing the script, she flipped back the maroon cover and read the title page, "Healer, a screenplay of sorts by Anatole Laferriere, based on his beloved best seller." She looked at Max.

"Homework," he explained.

"I thought you said he hated Hollywood?"

"He does."

"Then what's he doing writing the screenplay?"

"Told me he was the only one who had the right to fuck up his book."

"You met him?"

"He was in my office when I got there this morning."

"What was that like?"

Max thought about that for a minute. "Sort of like meeting, well . . . "

"God?"

"I was going to say Paul Westerberg."

"Oh."

"And he turns out to be exactly like you pictured him."

"Hmm. I'm not sure if that's real bad . . . or real good."

"Probably more of the latter."

They each took a long swig from their respective bottles.

Max slapped a hand down on the script. "Theilgard wants this to be a Christmas picture."

"This Christmas?"

A nod.

"Isn't that rushing it?" Paige asked. "It doesn't give you much free time to pal around with ol' Jeff."

"It doesn't give me much free time for anything."

Paige sighed loudly. "Are you sure you want to do this, Max?" she asked. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me to go screw?"

He looked at her, into her wide-eyed green eyed gaze, but was silent. Telling her off, to leave, to get out of his life, out of his way, was the farthest thing from his mind.

"This is what you've dreamed about," she said, knowing what he felt about the book. Hell, even she loved it -- though she had to admit it was a hard read, especially considering the subject matter, especially considering her circumstances. It was one of those books she'd never regret having spent time with, but likewise one she could never bring herself to read again. "To turn this book into a movie, your movie. You don't have time to play . . ."

"I'll find the time," he said softly, cutting her off as images flickered in his head -- images from the videos, images of Sarah, an echo of her laugh -- that laugh the size of Texas.

CUT TO:

The meeting took place first thing the following morning in Wendenstein's tenth floor office suite -- an office twice the size of Theilgard's. Wendenstein had insisted. "Double the square footage exactly, Jeffrey," he had said, "Or I'm off to Warners." The square footage was doubled. The suite comprised most of the floor, leaving little room for the small secretarial reception area, a minuscule restroom, and the elevator vestibule.

Only the view was insignificant -- but Wendenstein cared little of the available view. He had no desire to be able to gaze down on the Theilgard lot. The Wendenstein lot, that'd be another matter . . . some day . . .

Four men were present, Wendenstein, Svenwall, Laferriere, and Max, and one woman, Gloria Stern. Sharp, intellectually and visually, and ten years younger than her boss, she was Wendenstein's right hand and assistant. And, as he was always quick to point out, she was greatly responsible for his success.

They were seated around a mahogany table. Coffee and donuts were the refreshments of the hour, Tab for Max. They sipped, munched and tried to wake up. Some small talk preceded the get-down-to-business rap, but soon enough talk turned to Healer.

"I take it everyone's read the script?" It was Wendenstein's question. He spoke it as he looked directly at Max. Nods all around. He turned to Anatole. "It's long," he said. "But good. Real good."

Max nodded. He too thought the script was good. Possibly brilliant.

"Thanks," Anatole said.

"But," Stern said. "It's got to be cut."

"Figured as much," Anatole said.

"Max here is contractually obliged to deliver a movie under one hundred, thirty minutes in length," Wendenstein said.

"Got'cha," Anatole said.

"Any ideas on where to trim?" Stern asked.

Max spoke. It was obvious that, aside from Anatole, he knew the book better than anyone in the room. But unlike Anatole, Max knew how to tell a story cinematically. "Begin by cutting all of the scenes regarding Leanna's history. They're not important."

"And flashbacks are death," Stern said, he winked at Max, "Unless your budget happens to be under a hundred grand."

"That's thirty pages right there," Anatole said. "But how can we care about who she becomes, if we don't know who she was?"

"Good question," Wendenstein said, then, "Max?"

He smiled and answered, "Her parents and her boyfriend will tell us who she was."

"I can buy that," Stern said.

"Okay," Anatole agreed.

"We can also cut some of the healings," Max said.

"I wrote a shitload figuring you guys would just pick out the best ones," Anatole explained.

"And the opening scene," Max said, turning to Anatole. "It's pretty disturbing."

"That was my intention," Anatole said.

"That's what I figured," Max said. "But it's so violent we'll be turning people off. It can work in a book, and I definitely think you should keep it in when you publish the original screenplay. But it won't work on film."

"We'll have the feminists crawling up our butts," Stern said.

"Look what a little protest did for Basic Instinct," Wendenstein pointed out.

"We don't need protest," Stern said. "We've already got the best selling book of the eighties."

"Okay," Wendenstein said. "How do we begin our picture then?"

"With Leanna crawling out of the bushes," Max said.

"Skip the rape altogether?" Wendenstein asked.

"Yeah," Max said. "Explain it, or show it, if you will, through quick flashes in her head, four or five frames, a jolt of sound."

"I like that," Svenwall said.

Anatole was confused. "But wouldn't that be a flashback?" he asked.

"In essence," Svenwall explained. "But they'd be so short, no one would be running for the exits."

"And they'd add to the tension," Max said, "'cause people in the audience wouldn't be sure exactly what they were seeing, just that something awful was going on inside Leanna's head."

"I like it," Wendenstein said. "Max, you sit down with Anatole and go through this sucker page by page. Trim it down and get me a revision by early next week."

CUT TO:

Theilgard sat behind the massive marble slab, an unlit cigar in his mouth. He was thinking, contemplating, trying to precisely word the offering he'd make to his daughter during that announcement party on Saturday night. The hows and the whys had to be perfect. The what part was easy.

Do you, Heather, accept the starring role in Healer? To have and to hold, to promote and protect, for better and for worse, on location and on sound stages, in sickness and in health, during rehearsals and in reshoots, from this day forward? And do you promise to once again love, cherish, honor, and obey your father -- your loving, confused, anguished father?

Till death do you part?

CUT TO:

Next subject: casting.

"I'm sorry to have to say this gentlemen," Wendenstein said.

Stern cleared her throat.

"People," he corrected himself, continuing, "The role of Leanna had already been cast."

"Who?" Max asked, expecting the worst, someone who couldn't act, or even worst than that, someone who just didn't fit the bill.

Wendenstein pulled an eight by ten black and white headshot from a briefcase than leaned against his leg and tossed it onto the table before them. She was pretty, very pretty -- a dazzling smile, quite sexy, and huge radiant eyes. But it was the name at the bottom of the photograph -- big black letters against the white border -- that made most around the table gasp, or squirm, or clear their throat, or all three. The name: Heather Theilgard.

"The boss' kid?" Anatole asked.

"You got it," Wendenstein said.

"Holy fuck," the author said, beginning to laugh.

"There's no getting around it?" Stern asked.

Wendenstein looked at Anatole, then turned toward Stern to answer her question. "When you pay ten million dollars . . ."

"Ten million and one," Anatole corrected with gluttonous glee. No wonder, he thought.

"Right," the producer said. "When you pay that much for a book there's got to be a reason. And she's his."

"It all makes sense now," Anatole said.

"How so?"

"I made a fool out of the guy, and he kept coming back for more," Anatole explained. "I should have known it wasn't out of love for fine literature." Anatole shook his head, mostly out of self-pity. He didn't even know if his father was dead, alive, had remarried -- he didn't know squat. Except he was pretty sure his father would never spend a dime to make him happy -- never mind ten million and one bucks.

"What's she like?" Max asked, thinking, at least she looked the part.

"Cute kid, sort of weird," Wendenstein said. "Jeffrey hasn't even told her yet. The big surprise is going to come at his party. He's going to break the news then."

"What if she isn't interested?" Stern asked.

"We cast Claire Danes," Max said, not missing a beat, thinking that the teenaged redhead was, without doubt, the most talented of Hollywood's rising stars.

"Not a bad choice," Wendenstein said. "But I doubt Theilgard spent this sort of cash without some sort of prior knowledge."

"Like that it's Heather's favorite book?" Stern asked.

"Exactly."

"Okay," Anatole said. "The kid's playing Leanna. But what about the other characters?"

"Can't do anything but wish until we have a script to show," Stern explained, pulling a collection of headshots from her briefcase and spreading them out on the table before them. There were abundant possibilities for every major character -- and, surprisingly, none repugnant to Max.

"We need to start shooting in a month," Wendenstein said.

"That doesn't give us much time," Max said.

"But it can be done," Stern said, a confident shrug. "And it will be."

CUT TO:

TWENTY-EIGHT

The limo pulled off Elm into the circular driveway. It inched its way toward the main entrance to the house. Max and Paige were waiting in the driveway. She leaned up against the Jeep, he against the VW. They were as dressed up as either of them had been in quite a while, she in a long linen slip dress, black, with a maroon t-shirt underneath. He in yet another pair of old jeans, a white t-shirt under a black vest, under a black sport jacket -- grunge Hollywood style.

"Tell me again," Paige asked, "Why we didn't just walk the two blocks over to their house?"

"This is L.A.," Max explained, tongue planted firmly in cheek. "A half block is the maximum anyone's allowed to walk in this town. There are ordinances. You wouldn't want to spend the night in jail, now would you?"

She smiled. "That depends."

The driver's door opened and out jumped Joe the Chauffeur. He walked over to shake hands with the filmmaker. "Hey, boss. How's it going?"

Max stood and gave Joe the Chauffeur his best glad-to-see-you hand shake. "What are you doing here, Joe?"

"Mr. Laferriere offered me a full-time position," the driver explained, "and I accepted." He opened the door and allowed Paige and Max entrance into the posh rear section of the stretch Mercedes.

"Mr. Maxwell," Anatole said, doing his best to imitate Jeffrey Theilgard's bombastic drawl.

"Mr. Laferriere," Max mimicked back.

Joe the Chauffeur climbed into the front seat and yelled, "Where to boss?"

"Jeffrey Theilgard's illustrious mansion," Anatole replied.

"The one in Bel Air, or the one in Malibu?" Joe the Chauffeur asked.

"Damned if I know," Anatole shrugged.

"Malibu," Max said, "I think."

"Sure thing," Joe the Chauffeur said. And they were off.

Introductions were made all around.

"You're everything Max said, and more," Anatole said, kissing Paige's hand. He winked, "Have I got my line of one hundred percent certifiable Los Angeles glitter and glitz bullshit down, or what?"

"I'd say you had it perfected," Paige said, smiling.

"Whoa, there," Anatole said. "That smile." He motioned with his chin toward Max. "How come you didn't warn me about that?"

Max just sort of shrugged, then turned to his partner. She was watching him, a little involuntary half-twitch of a smile on one corner of her mouth, and it was gone, and she turned away. That smile controlled too much of Max's free thought time -- it invaded his dreams nightly.

Carrie did most of the talking. She spoke a lot about Iowa. Paige listened, wondering how old she was. Twenty tops, she figured. And she knew Anatole was fifty-seven, or at least that's what the book jacket to this year's reprint of Healer claimed. Old enough to be her grandfather -- yet, somehow they looked natural together. He had a life in his eyes, Paige thought, a strange, attractive friskiness. A teenaged rebel in the body of an old man. But still, she couldn't help but wonder how it would appear to the public at large if their sexes were reversed: a fifty-seven year-old woman with a twenty year-old man. Wouldn't that would be fodder for the daytime talk shows? Wouldn't people be outraged? Mostly likely, she knew, wondering where was the teenaged rebel in the body of an old woman? Maybe it'll just have to be me, she thought, then, no, maybe not.

"I've never been there," Paige said, she said finally, during a lull.

"No one's ever been to Iowa," Carrie said, suddenly feeling a twinge of homesickness for her family and the house she grew up in. "And those that have, well, they just won't admit it."

CUT TO:

Max and Anatole had spent the past few days banging their heads together to come up with a one hundred-twenty page version of the Healer script. They had it down to one thirty-four, but the weekend interrupted their progress.

"Remember the party," Randall called to remind them late Friday afternoon.

"If it's all the same to you," Anatole said. "We've got a script to finish."

Randall laughed. "This is L.A., Mr. Laferriere."

"Don't remind me."

"And no one works on weekends in L.A.," Randall explained. "Not even writers."

Anatole hung up and walked back to the table where he and Max had individual scenes laid out in three neat piles: KEEP, CUT, and WHO THE FUCK KNOWS?

"What'd he want?" Max asked.

"Told me no one worked on weekends in L.A.," Anatole explained.

Max shook his head in disgust.

"Not into parties, huh?"

"Hate 'em," Max said. "I always end up drinking too much, then some geek tells me I've crossed the line because I was talking to his girlfriend."

"That's funny," Anatole said. "I always drink too much on purpose specifically so I can hit on some geek's girl. Gotta cross that line . . . any line," he laughed. "What do you do to the geeks? Kick the shit out of em?"

"Uh-uh," Max said, with a shrug. "I get the girlfriend's phone number."

"That's class," Anatole said.

"Thanks," Max said, standing suddenly, and rubbing his hands together. He picked up his knapsack and headed toward the door.

"Where the hell you going?" Anatole asked.

"I guess protocol is protocol," Max said, reaching for the light switch. "Let's get outta here."

"You convinced me," Anatole said, leaving his briefcase. He patted the WHO THE FUCK KNOWS? pile tenderly. "See you on Monday, darling."

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard's Malibu home was a sprawling castle in a palatial tradition that would have made William Randolph Hearst envious. Thirty-two rooms, plus servants' quarters, it was purchased in Spain for a mere million dollars cash, dismantled, stone by stone, and shipped to the United States, where it was reassembled, stone by stone, on this California cliff.

The limo pulled into the half mile long private drive that led to the castle. Elegance abounded, even in the parking lot. Chauffeurs chatted and smoked, standing beside limos of all makes and sizes. They pointed toward the valets -- those parking the non-chauffeur driven vehicles of choice, Range Rovers and hot-off-the-assembly-line, Porsche Boxsters, along with the usual collection of Lamborghinis, Jags, BMW's, Rolls, Ferraris, and Mercedes, not to mention one Astin Martin Lagonda Vignale.

Live music pumped energy into the air, magical and merry in palatial Hollywood style. "Isn't that Van Halen?" Carrie asked as she stepped from the car.

"Theilgard parties are noted for their live entertainment value," Joe the Chauffeur explained.

"You mean, that's the real Van Halen?" she asked, suddenly very excited.

"I'd bet on it," the driver said.

Max and Paige exchanged looks. He pulled her close and whispered in her ear. "I hate Van Halen."

"Shhh," she whispered back. "Remember where we are. It could be worse." And because of his suddenly crinkled forehead, she added, "Imagine listening to Steve Perry all night."

"No," he said, as if in excruciating pain. "Stop. At filmschool, the kid in the dorm room next to mine was a Journey freak. Fuck! What was his name? Sullivan! Bill, I think. He'd blast it. Argh! Now I'm going to be hearing Journey songs in my head all night long."

Paige couldn't resist. She sang the one line she could think of, "lovin', touchin', squeezin'," but as off key as it was, it got the point across.

"You're gonna pay for this," Max said, as the foursome walked up the marble sidewalk -- "He's certainly got a thing for marble," Anatole mumbled -- and entered the enormous foyer. Hundreds of the famous, about-to-bes, and wannabes as well, mingled about. Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere stood in one corner speaking to Madonna. Bruce Willis sat on the arm of an antique chair chain-smoking cigarettes. Parnell Jones traded witticisms with Sylvester Stallone. Sharon Stone was talking to a small circle of stars that included Garry Shandling, Paul Reiser, and Roseanne Barr. Johnny Depp seemed bored. Keanu Reeves and Beck were locked in a deep conversation. Seth Fusco and Jack Nicholson said something to Julia Roberts that made her laugh. Cher, dressed in a bright red gown, danced with Malachi Constant to "Running with the Devil." And Tommy Lee Jones and his date for the evening looked as if they were ready to leave.

Waiters dressed as mimes, carried silver trays loaded with champagne or hors d'oeuvre. Anatole snagged a few glasses and handed one to Carrie. Max and Paige passed on the bubbly.

Randall ran up from out of nowhere and gently shook Max's hand.

"Max," he said. "Good to see you."

Max nodded his hello and introduced Paige. Anatole grunted something resembling a, "Hey, how ya doin'?" and shook Randall's hand.

Randall turned and motioned toward a thin young man with a head of wild jet-black hair standing feel-his-breath-distance behind him. "I'd like you to meet Peyton Hanes." The young man nodded in their direction.

Carrie blanched. "I've seen every one of your movies," she said, grabbing his hand, and shaking it vigorously.

"Don't you just think that Peyton would be perfect for Gary?" Randall said, referring to Leanna's fiance in Healer.

"Oh, yes," Carrie said.

"My Gary?" Anatole asked, almost choking on his champagne.

"Of course, silly," Randall said. "What other Gary is there?"

"The one that this guy's perfect to play, maybe," Anatole said, with a grunt, then added, "Silly."

"You're quite an original," Randall said, then, "Mingle and enjoy. Mr. Theilgard will be making the grand announcement shortly."

"Can't hardly wait," Anatole mumbled as Randall and Peyton walked off together to parts of the castle unknown.

Carrie suddenly looked confused.

"What's wrong?" Anatole asked.

"I just met one of the cutest guys in the entire world and he didn't even look at me once," she said. "He just kept staring at Max."

Paige turned and elbowed Max lightly, then explained to Carrie, "I don't think you're the right gender for Peyton Hanes."

"You mean?" Carrie said.

Paige nodded. "Welcome to L.A."

"Oh," she said, shaking her head, downing her champagne. "I think I need another drink."

"Don't have to ask me twice," Anatole said. And the foursome walked off in the direction of the bar.

CUT TO:

Heather Theilgard wanted no part of her father's party.

"Beck is downstairs," Jeffrey Theilgard pleaded. "He was asking about you."

"Please," Heather said. "He's so five minutes ago." She was standing by a window that overlooked the grounds. Van Halen played "Jump" off in the distance. She shook her head slightly in disgust. "Couldn't you at least have gotten L7?"

Her father sighed. "They don't do private parties." He walked over to where his daughter stood. "Please come down. It's important to me."

"How 'bout what's important to me?"

He wanted so badly to tell her. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"Umm."

He walked toward the door. "So, I'll see you downstairs?"

"Yeah, sure," she said. "Whatever."

"Thank you."

Heather waited until her father had left the room. Then she walked over to her dresser and opened the small antique jewelry box. She took out the purple velvet bundle and unwrapped its contents. She held it up to the light then moved its chain over her head. It perched serenely between her breasts. How her father hated when she wore it. "I never want to see that on you again," he yelled, brushing off her question of Why? with a curt, "Stop living in the past." But she would wear it tonight to his Goddamn party. Let him choke on his bad memories, for all she cared.

CUT TO:

"What can I get you, sir?" the bartender asked Anatole.

"Anything," he said, then motioning toward Carrie, "And she'll have one of the same."

The bartender smiled and poured two generous scotches on the rocks. "And you, sir?"

"Two Rolling Rocks?" Max said.

The bartender turned and pulled two ice cold long necks from the cooler, and handed them to Max, who in turn handed one to Paige. The clicked their bottles together, then he turned and noticed Bill Wendenstein speaking with Whoopi Goldberg. They were laughing up a storm. The producer spotted Max, excused himself, and was soon standing by the director's side.

"What do you know?" he said, his words drunkenly slurred. "Healer's Whoppi's favorite book." He nodded toward Anatole. "What do you think, Anatole? Whoppi Goldberg as Leanna?" Wendenstein pointed out the comedienne.

The author snorted. "At least then that Peyton kid couldn't play Gary."

"Peyton Hanes?" Wendenstein asked.

"Uh-huh," Carrie said.

"Whoever suggested that?" Wendenstein asked.

"Randall," Max explained.

"In his dreams," Wendenstein said, suddenly noticing someone else he needed to greet. "If you'll excuse me." And he was gone.

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard approached and shook Max's hand. "Are you excited, Mr. Maxwell?"

"Something like that," Max said.

"Well, nothing to be nervous about. You'll do fine."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"Your contract was my vote of confidence."

Anatole nodded the big man's way. "Jeff. How's it shakin' tonight?"

Theilgard smiled slightly. "Tonight, Mr. Laferriere, it's shaking fine."

Anatole smiled. "That'a boy."

"Mr. Theilgard," Max said, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Paige Thompson." He was following the script.

Theilgard turned and came to face with Paige. He was startled, just for a moment, by her unique beauty, by the raw power of those wild green eyes. What the hell was Utz thinking? He took her hand and squeezed it softly, all the while gazing into her face. So beautiful, he thought. No wonder.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Paige said, doing her best not to recoil at his touch, resisting the urge to pull her Colt Mustang Pocketlite from her purse and put the fucker away at point blank range.

"The pleasure's all mine, Miss Thompson," Theilgard said. "Believe me."

There was an awkward moment as Theilgard continued to gaze at Paige. A moment during which Max elbowed Anatole, and motioned toward Carrie.

"Oh, yeah," the author said. "Jeff, I'd like you to meet my POSSLQ. This is Carrie."

The Iowa native smiled uncomfortably as Theilgard likewise squeezed her hand. And with a gracious nod said, "Carrie." Very cute, he thought, star potential.

"Mr. Theilgard," she said, shooting Anatole a quick I'm-going-to-kill-you-for-introducing-me-as-your-POSSLQ sort of look.

Anatole shrugged and chuckled, and patted Theilgard on the back. "So, when's the shit going down?"

Theilgard turned toward the author and said with an unnatural grin, "The shit will be going down in a few moments, out back."

"We'll be there."

CUT TO:

The back lawn was lit up like the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza on Christmas Eve. A podium had been set up on one side of the pool that more resembled a natural lake, than anything man-made. It was beautiful, yet sanitized. Mankind had yet to invent unscented chlorine. To the left of the podium, a royal blue sheet covered Theilgard's surprise.

The entertainment media was there -- an Entertainment Tonight camera crew -- along with the usual national media throng -- the ABC, NBC, and CBS affiliates, CNN, Associated Press, Entertainment Weekly, and the Los Angeles Times -- just in case this press conference of sorts did indeed turn out to be something special.

Heather watched as her father approached the podium. Bill Wendenstein stood just slightly to his right, between Theilgard and a good looking man who looked more like he belonged in Greenwich Village than in Hollywood, and to that man's right, a disheveled but well-tanned older gentleman who looked just a bit familiar. Heather sipped from a glass of red wine. TV hunk Joey Lawrence came over and introduced himself with some sort of corny come-on line -- one that began with "Yo," and ended with "Babe."

"Fuck off," she said.

He got the message and walked over in the direction of some blonde in virtually nothing who seemed more than a little enthusiastic about meeting one of her television fave-rave cream dreams.

"Ladies and gentleman," Jeffrey Theilgard began. "I have asked you all here tonight to announce the acquisition of one of our greatest works of literature."

Heather shook her head sadly. To her father, Danielle Steele was literature. Jackie Collins was literature. Tom Clancy and Stephen King were literature. If it made the best seller list it had to be good -- or so her father believed. She wondered aloud what collection of stale cliches he could possibly be speaking of.

He continued. "And to tell you about the production that will surely go down in history as one of the most important cinematic achievements of all time."

Heather yawned. She looked to her left. Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli were smiling into each other's faces. They look so in love, she thought.

"And also to welcome," Theilgard said, "One of the brightest stars on the motion picture horizon to the staff of Theilgard Studios."

Anatole patted Max on the back, whispering in his ear, "He means you."

Max nodded.

Heather was seriously considering heading back into the castle, when her father suddenly yanked on a silk rope that raised the royal blue sheet. The cover was all too familiar: thick white block letters against a solid black background. "Healer," the words read, "a novel by Anatole Laferriere."

Heather froze. Emotions chocked up in her throat. She gazed at her father across the pool. What the hell had he done?

"The novel that couldn't be bought," Theilgard's voice boomed amidst the flashes and a certain buzz from the press corps, "Is mine." He motioned for Anatole to join him at the podium. He inched forward as those in attendance slowly recognized, then began to cheer the renowned novelist.

Heather nodded to herself. She knew the old man looked familiar, but the thought of seeing Anatole Laferriere at one of her father's parties -- hell, it never even occurred to her. She heard Valerie Bertinelli shriek to her husband, "I told you that was him!"

Cries of "How much?" came from the reporters covering the story.

Anatole smiled. "Ten million and one dollars," he said, yelling over the applause, the hoot of it all gleaming in his eyes. "And I get to write the script."

There were scattered chuckles, and a smattering of applause. Heather smiled and stared. Anatole Laferriere -- she had read and re-read every one of his books. She had searched out his every article and short story. And here he was, live and in person. It somehow didn't seem real.

"A record breaking amount, as you all well know," Theilgard said, then motioned toward Wendenstein. "You're familiar with Bill Wendenstein. He'll be producing Healer." Wendenstein, by now quite buzzed, stepped forward two steps and waved to those in attendance. He received a respectable round of applause, but nothing to equal the welcome given Anatole.

"And I'd like to introduce you to a man who'll be winning me a lot of Academy Awards in the not so distant future. He'll be directing Healer. Ladies and gentlemen, the director of Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request, the film that took Sundance by storm . . . John Maxwell."

Max stepped forward a step and nodded hello to the crowd. He felt embarrassed somehow. This was weird. He liked being behind the camera, behind the action, he liked hiding from it, not being at its center.

Heather eyed the grungy director. Cute, she thought, as she seemed to every time someone interesting caught her eye, quite cute.