I put my hand on his arm. I didn’t know Harvey Beckner very well, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t the kind of guy who enjoyed having his artistic abilities insulted. Especially by someone whose talents he clearly viewed as inferior.
I cleared my throat and forced a smile. “I’m glad we’re having a chance to talk before the filming begins, Harvey. I read Marc’s book, and I have to say, I found not only the historical inaccuracies of the story off-putting, but also the crazy lives of John and Margot Trellis. People will know that’s meant to be us and might even believe that we have wild sex parties and séances in our home.”
Jack took a step forward, and I squeezed his arm in warning. I continued. “Please remember that we have a teenager and two toddlers living here. I think the story of Louisa’s murder and how Jack and I found the Confederate diamonds is much more compelling than salacious fiction. I’m sure if you let Jack look at the screenplay, he’d be able to—”
Jack pulled me back. “That’s enough, Mellie. I can fight my own battles.” He was still smiling, but his muscles tensed beneath my hand.
Harvey casually crossed his arms. “I’m guessing Jack hasn’t read the book, then.”
I looked at Jack to apologize or to warn him or to make sure he knew we were together in this. Although, I admitted to myself, if I’d had Marc’s book in my hand, I would have hit Jack with it. He should have read it months before. We both should have. But it was too late now.
“No, I haven’t,” Jack said. “For my own personal reading, I prefer books that are written above the fourth-grade level.”
Harvey made a noise that was probably his version of a laugh. It was hard to tell from watching his face because of all the Botox. I imagined the devil making the same sound each time he captured another soul. “Yes, well, it’s too late for objections to the script. You should have thought about that before you rushed to sign the contract. Regardless, your opinion doesn’t matter. Although you’re welcome to mention it to the new director, I have a feeling he’ll tell you the same thing.”
“New director?” Jack said.
“Yeah.” Harvey’s grin broadened. “That’s the other drastic change. It took some doing, but I finally convinced the other producers that we could save a bunch of money by hiring another director. Someone with less experience but who was already familiar with the story.”
I didn’t need to look at Jack to know we’d reached the same conclusion. I’d felt rather than heard his intake of breath, the chill night air pulsating between us like a living thing. As if it’d been summoned, a large black Escalade pulled up to the curb, the heavy beat of rap music vibrating the windows until the driver turned off the ignition and opened the driver’s door. Marc Longo, his shock of white hair stark against the now-dark night sky, walked toward us, his wide smile scaring me more than any ghostly specter.
He stopped in front of us, casually tossing his car keys in his hand. “Jack and Melanie. Like the new car? I figured, with Nola out on the road, I needed to drive something substantial. I’m assuming Harvey has already given you the good news.”
If I wasn’t already familiar with his cocky swagger and abnormally white hair, I might not have recognized Marc. He’d always dressed in conservative yet stylish Italian suits or crisp linen pants and Gucci loafers. And he preferred opera music on his car stereo—at least, he had when we’d dated. But this edition of Marc Longo was nearly unrecognizable. Yet still, apparently, insufferable. The fact that this wasn’t the version he’d shown us during our discussions in my office or with our lawyers sent tidal waves of anxiety through me.
Marc lowered his spiky-haired head as he placed his keys in a cross-body man bag that looked identical to the one Harvey sported across his own chest. Something twinkled on Marc’s left earlobe as it caught the house’s lights, and even without my glasses I could tell that Marc now wore an earring. Maybe two. I wanted to look at Jack to gauge his reaction, but I was too mesmerized by the train wreck I was about to witness to move.
“Hello, Matt. Perfect timing. Billy Idol just called and he wants his hair back.” Jack’s gaze flicked down to Marc’s neon green pants and matching muscle shirt, a black leather jacket with multiple zippers tossed casually over one shoulder. “You look like Billy Idol’s love child with a Troll doll. Please go inside and change so I can take you seriously.”
An almost imperceptible movement shifted Marc’s smile, nudging it toward sinister. “Always the jokester, aren’t you, Jack? Hasn’t gotten you very far in life, has it?”
I stepped back to stand next to Jack, to show solidarity. He took my hand, his touch burning my palm. I remained calm, but inside I was on fire. I could almost hear his teeth clenching, his jaw popping.
Jack shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve hit the bestseller lists and won several writing awards for books I actually wrote all by myself.”
I wasn’t sure if it was my eyesight or if Marc blinked, but suddenly his eyes darkened, the lights from the house no longer reflected in them, as if he’d flipped a switch. Jack must have seen it, too, because he squeezed my hand.
“Who cares? My book is being made into a major motion picture, and not only did I write the script, but I’m getting to direct it, too. You probably didn’t know that I was a film major in college. I actually have a few short films I made my senior year, as well as a documentary about alligator breeding that almost won an award.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. And I will admit to being surprised. I didn’t think you’d gone beyond the eighth grade.”
Marc’s nostrils flared. “Just make sure that you stay out of the way of the crew and actors—unless you want to volunteer to fetch coffee or toilet paper.”
“I’d love to be responsible for personally bringing you your coffee and toilet paper.” Jack’s affable grin hid all the devious possibilities I was sure were running through his fertile mind.