Not to Scale, page 7
Bobby’s hand returns to the steering wheel. It still feels like he’s on the wrong side of the car. I have intermittent mini jolts I should be grabbing a non-existent wheel on the dash in front of me. I wonder how long it took Bobby to acclimate to off-sided driving.
Bobby straightens his arms, pushing against the wheel. “True Time Network thought keeping the title Secrets of My Ireland might be interpreted as Jack being dishonest, keeping his relationship with Gilly a secret or, God forbid, that he was cheating on Niks with Gilly.” Bobby squints—his stress tell.
“Are you worried the show is going to suffer when they go public?”
His arms relax. “Maybe social media shit, but I don’t see it affecting our numbers. Meg’s original timeline was to have Jack and Niks announce their amicable split not long after Cali Con last July, then have them double date with other people at both the Crystal and TVUK Awards the next month. The appearances were designed to kill any toxic on set feud rumors.” He shares his focus between the road and me. “We know none of that happened. Meg’s still waiting for the greenlight from True Time to put her adjusted scenario into action. The delay is eating away at everyone. Ultimately, we’re banking the meant to be angle of My Two Loves will be cause for fan celebration and keep angst to a minimum.”
“I know I’m a sucker for a good fated-mates romance.”
Bobby’s glance darts over to me a few times. He looks nervous. Hell, did he think I was assertively laying out an opening for the subject of us? I pretend to be mesmerized by something outside the passenger window. “Thus the My Two Loves rebrand.”
“Yup.” His voice is strained. “It’s going to add ten years to my life when the hush-hush shit and mountain of NDAs are behind us.”
This is the closest I’ve ever heard him come to be pissed about the Jack and Gilly situation. The inkling of what sounds like judgement in his tone bothers me. “People are allowed to fall in love.”
He swerves. My stomach lurches as I brace myself against the dash.
“Sorry.”
“For the driving hiccup or being angry with Jack and Gilly for shaving years off your life?”
Fingers clamp around my bicep. “Elodie, no. I’m not mad at Jack and Gilly. The opposite. I’m over the moon for them. I’m the head writer of a romance series. Two people finding each other is my spirit animal.” He relaxes his grip a bit and lets his hand drift down my arm before he lets go. “The anger you hear is over True Time putting Jack in the position where he had to keep his real relationship under the radar. The strain on both Gilly and him breaks my heart. Fame—publicity playing with people’s lives—is fucked up.” His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “If anything, I’m pissed I didn’t stand up stronger to the network on their behalf. Some friend I am. True Time is a medium fish pulling whatever shit they can to become a big fish.”
“Like an inhuman production schedule?”
He scoffs. “One of many issues I have with the network.”
The lurch in my stomach has nothing to do with Bobby’s driving. There’s a disturbing degree of Screw you, True Time in his delivery. Not a great omen for the showrunner on the brink of season three with seven more seasons to go.
“I don’t get the sense Jack and Gilly are grudging against you.”
Bobby eases back in his seat. “They wouldn’t.” A rueful smile twists his lips. “Doesn’t mean I don’t hold one against myself.”
Before there’s time to second-guess my move, I’ve laid a hand on Bobby’s leg above the knee. “If they don’t, then you need to stop beating yourself up about it.”
Just as quickly, Bobby’s hand covers mine. “Thanks, Elodie. I needed someone to say that to me.”
Shame on me for wanting to slide my hand up higher during this heartfelt moment. I give Bobby’s leg a squeeze and let go. He doesn’t release my hand right away. I swear the surge of heat from our skin-to-skin contact threatens to fog the car windows.
I’m on the brink of taking control of my emotional narrative, launching caution out the window and initiating a subtle fishing expedition on the topic of Bobby and Elodie when Ireland sends me one of its messages in the form of the coolest castle I’ve seen yet.
“Wait, Bobby—”
Thank goodness Los Angeles’s brand of traffic is non-existent here as Bobby hits the breaks and sends us into a mini fishtail. In California the move would be a guaranteed rear end.
“Oh, crap. Sorry. Nothing’s wrong. Drive.” I flap my hands toward the road. “I meant wait as in ‘Oh my God will you look at that amazing castle.’”
I can tell he’s flummoxed by the way he squirms in the seat, trying to readjust after my outburst. “Shit, Elodie. A little warning next time before you explode or do lead with ‘Oh my God will you look at that amazing castle.’”
“I want to touch it.”
His head cranks back. “Touch it?”
I crane my neck to take in the castle disappearing behind us. “Can we go there after the shoot. I want to absorb the feel of those ruins of…”
“Dunluce Castle.”
“That’s Dunluce? I thought it looked familiar.”
“As I said.” Bobby busts out an Irish accent.
“Nice.” I swivel in my seat away from the castle back to Bobby.
He nods at the rear-view mirror to reference the castle. “Did you know Dunluce Castle is said to be the inspiration of Cair Paravel for C.S. Lewis in the Chronicles of Narnia?”
I invade his space to stare into the mirror as if it’s a looking glass the castle would fill. “Now I totally want to touch it.” Too late, I become aware I’ve clamped my hand on his thigh again to brace myself for the mirror peek. The skin of his neck and face glow with a color I dub Bobbymelon.
Ignoring his blush and acting as if the thigh grab was intentional and not a happy accident, I let go and settle into my seat. My, that thigh was delectably firm. I force my thoughts to old stones, moss, and sea fog instead of Bobby’s musculature.
He steals a glance at me before paying attention to our winding route. “This castle touching. What do you feel? Grit? Insects fleeing over your fingers?”
Is visualizing bugs the way Bobby attempts to recover from my bold contact? Did Bobbymelon want to recover, or did he share my desire to squeeze harder? “How very superficial of you, Mr. Provost. Engage your writer’s soul. What would you feel if you laid hands on an ancient edifice?”
He slides both hands to the top of the wheel and gives the question some thought. “I’d translate textures to emotions and try to imagine the life around the stones when they were in their heyday.”
I twist and rest my hand on the top of his headrest when I really want to slide it around to the back of his neck, savor the softness of his skin and the baby-fine hairs surely waiting to be tickled. “Ah, you see the descendants of Viking berserkers sharpening swords and taking selfies with their dragon ships in the background?”
“Get out of my head, Elodie Pettipas.”
That’s exactly where I want to be, Bobby Provost.
“Do explain what is so alluring about castle groping that forced Patrick into overtime, driving you to Kerry?”
I pull my hand back to homebase and attempt to make myself as small a target of Bobby’s discontent as possible. “Sorry. I’ll pay for the overage.”
Bobby takes his turn at touching and slides a hand down my arm again. “You’re fine. I’m messing with you.” When his fingers reach my wrist, he lingers over my pulse which is working its own overtime. “Engage your designer’s soul and tell me what you feel.”
I melt into my seat and close my eyes. “Yes to grit and texture. I also sink into the smells, the temperature, the sensation of the breeze, or if I’m lucky, mist. All the water on Earth has been here for millions of years, cycling from sea to sky and back again. What part of the journey passed through where I stand? Are dinosaur tears dampening the rock? Who hauled the stones and built the castle? Why? How many lives began and ended there?”
I’ve fallen so deeply into my right brain, it feels as if I’m waking from sleep when I become aware of the dull buzz of wheels against the road. I open my eyes to find Bobby’s gaze drifting over me like a lucky mist.
“You are a gift to the show, Elodie, and to me.” A rumble warns the car is skirting the rough edge of the highway, and Bobby whips his attention to the road. “From the first time we met online, I sensed you’d understand the story of The Chieftain’s Son at a cellular level.”
That’s how I’m a gift to the show, but how am I a gift to Bobby? Here’s an opening for me to broach the subject of our layers.
As I weigh a few openers, once again the chance is snatched away as Bobby swings the car off the main highway. “Here we are.”
Overlooking the Giant’s Causeway from the top of the rise, it appears the glacial level of October chill kept all but a handful of hardy souls away from the site. The crew has their pick of choice spots for the shoot. We head toward the sea down stone steps next to a wooden railing. On either side, grasses and plants show off myriad hues of green.
I’ve seen pictures of the Giant’s Causeway, but the real thing surpasses any attempt to capture the phenomenon. Scores of hexagonal basalt columns create this living, geometric art installation. We pass a fortress wall of pillars a good twenty feet high that reach up to the gray clouds on our way to the pathway of hexagons stretching out to sea.
We spot the scant crew prepping a shot near the point where the trail of stones rises to a series of terraces on the way to the water’s edge. I see Danna, Bobby’s second in command on The Chieftain’s Son but head honcho for My Two Loves deep in conversation with Jack and Gilly. The stars huddle together, bundled in matching show jackets.
Gilly catches sight of us and breaks away, picking her way carefully over the uneven pillars. “You made it.”
I gulp air so frigid it burns going down and try to catch my breath from our hike to the causeway. I consider myself in decent shape. Clearly there’s LA in-shape vs. Ireland in-shape, and I’m sorely lacking in the latter.
She swipes a pesky lock of strawberry blond hair out of her eyes. “We’re on the last setup, but it’s the long one—the Fionn mac Cumhaill pages.”
Bobby squints at the crew. “You started early.”
Gilly shrugs. “Yeah, Jack and I did the drive last night so we were already here. The crew came down yesterday to preview the shots they wanted, and apparently Dermot said today’s weather he’s tracking isn’t cracking,” she says, imitating the line producer of their spin-off. “He and Danna wanted to wrap before sloppy rain starts.”
For a moment the clouds take five and sun breaks through.
“What do you think?” says Gilly, fanning an arm over the causeway.
I’ve managed to resume regular breathing. “I’m sure it’s magnificent on camera even though it’s clearly fake in person.” I thoroughly enjoy the way they both gawk at me. “My Two Loves has a far superior production designer than the poor slob Bobby hired for The Chieftain’s Son,” I say, thumping my chest. I’m gratified by their duet of laughter. “Am I right though? This place is so unique it stretches the boundaries of believability.”
“Much like the story of the causeway,” says Gilly, tapping a toe on the nearest tan hexagon.
Yay, a chance to bust out my research. “Yes, building this dandy road from Ireland to Scotland for Fionn to stage a smackdown with his evil Scottish giant nemesis, Benanadonner?”
“Bobby already told you.” Gilly slaps the side of her leg. “There goes the whole mystery of the scene. You might as well leave.”
“He didn’t tell me. I’m obsessed with Irish legends.”
Gilly flashes a satisfied look from me to Bobby. “As is Bobby.”
Add Gilly to the Jack, Deidre LaRochelle, winkfest, starring Bobby and me. Gilly reacts with a smirk to the cautionary expression Bobby flashes at her. Are these people giving Bobby a hard time because he’s brought me up, or are they just poking at him to poke?
A production assistant hops from stone top to stone top, making her way to us. “They’re ready for you, Gilly.”
The four of us navigate nature’s pavers to the setup. Gilly’s facial glow is tamed with a makeup brush, then she joins her hubs in frame. Before we enter the throng, Bobby slides his lips close to my ear. “Let’s back up a bit. My Two Loves is Danna’s gig, and I don’t want to hover.”
His hot breath slices through cold air, treating the shell of my ear to a slow burn that seeps under my skin and fills my chest with pulsing warmth. Attempting to nod and walk at the same time on the maze of stones goes south, and I stumble. Bobby is there, threading an arm through mine to catch me.
“Thanks.”
He changes his grip to my hand and holds tight. “I see some stones just over there that would love to be touched.”
His smile is broad and delighted with itself. Hand in hand we scoot off enough to give Danna space but still enjoy the scene. There are a convenient pair of seat-high pillars for us to settle on. To my great disappointment, Bobby breaks our connection. My fingers grip the front edge of my rocky chair. I take in the tumultuous peace of the area. The stones fit together in a tapestry fading from tans to nearly black. The gray sea dips and rolls as a backdrop. Anywhere they can, green shoots and patches of moss make their presence known.
I close my eyes and drink in the essence of this place, the saturation of salty air. The distant hiss of ocean. An old smell, not stagnant but weary. How many thousands of years have these pillars stood as the conduit between Earth’s past and present?
A truth that’s hovered slightly out of reach finally surges through me. The castles, the causeway, the complicated scents of earth and wind, Ireland isn’t only a chronicle of now and then. It’s a living storybook, mingling what was and what is, valuing both. It’s Donal Cam’s never-ending quest to marry his origins to his destiny of loving the same woman through time. This land is a loop of lives and loves, not a straight line. When one tale ends, it’s only to make room for the next.
I’ve interpreted history as static, not fluid. Epochs stacked in a row like these basalt pillars. I create cold castle walls, battle encampments, a bedchamber. Current Elodie, sitting on a slice of eternity finally sees the wavy ethereal film coursing through and between the pieces of Ireland. I recognize the invisible pull I experienced riding Streaker. Honoring that intangible is my duty to the show.
Bobby leans against me and whispers. “What do you feel?”
When I open my eyes to answer him, the first thing I see is Jack, drawing his wife in for a passionate kiss with no acting involved. The kiss goes on past Danna’s call of “cut.” Afterwards, the couple stays locked in each other’s arms, foreheads pressed together, murmuring words in an intimate language no one else is invited to hear.
Danna gives them space without leaking a single drop of her authority. She allows the perfect amount of breathing room before she calls for another shot. The woman exudes confidence and power. I envy her comfort of command.
After today’s experience, I will channel Danna and work harder to beat down nagging thoughts I’m an imposter in over my head. That’s where the road to confidence lies. I am custodian of the visual myth and must share it with every person watching our show. Deidre understands what I’m just discovering. It’s on every page of her books.
I repeat Bobby’s question to me, “What do I feel?” and throw my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. “Everything.”
He’s so surprised, his body jerks in my embrace. I back off. Yikes. I’ve found the line where the answer to the Is this Okay? question points to no.
I execute a Bobby Provost scamper as I jump up and head over to the shoot, desperate to tell Jack he was so right encouraging me to come out here. I want him to know how much I appreciate his faith in the odd experience I had while riding his horse. The man plays the son of an otherworldly mother on the show, and I’m beginning to believe there may be a touch of the otherworldly about Jack O’Leary himself.
While the camera resets, I make my way to Jack’s side. Gilly has pulled away to down a bottle of water. “Hey Chieftain’s Son, breaking news, I accepted the invitation.”
Jack slings an arm around my shoulders. “Told you the Causeway would do it. Now that you know what to look for, you’ll feel it everywhere.”
A firm hand presses into the small of my back. “Feel what?” asks Bobby. My entire consciousness slams into the point of contact. Okay, maybe I misread his no to Is this okay?
Jack and I share a tacit agreement not to launch into an explanation here in front of the crew. My chest pounds with the urge to share my revelation with Bobby. Surely he’s been on a similar journey of seeking connection while writing so many of the key episodes of The Chieftain’s Son. He’ll get me. I want him to get me.
I want him.
I look up into the face I first met on a screen that’s become a very desirable part of my daily life.
Gilly rejoins us, hugging her jacket tight to her lithe frame, looking breakable next to her husband. Jack folds around her and nods at the stone steps I’m just now realizing I’ll have to climb to get to the car. “I promised Gilly I’d take her across the rope bridge over to Carrick-a-Rede island when we’re done here.”
She snuggles into him. “It’s taken him a few years to pay up, but I’ll finally see the place he secretly called me from before his doomsday interview in Belfast.”
Bobby winces. “Ugh, that interview.”
Jack’s face flares as red as a generous pour of cab.
My gaze falls to Jack, Bobby, then Gilly. “Out of the loop here.”
The men stay tight-lipped, so Gilly steps up. “Jack and I were dating behind everyone’s back and some idiot managed to grab a picture of us.” She whirls a hand. “Technically Jack’s face but not mine. It started a mystery woman rumor when the question about who I was came up in the interview.”
“I didn’t cover fast enough and nearly gave Meg McGrath a stroke,” said Jack.
