Feast of Saints Read online

  Lilly thought she knew enough about eleven-year-old boys not to try to hug him in front of his friends, but Tyler was not your average boy. He ignored her outstretched hand, opened his arms wide, and in his best Austrian accent recited one of Kurt Von Trapp’s lines, “Only grown-up men are scared of women.”

  She didn’t hesitate and hugged him fiercely. She’d meant what she’d said to Gwen about Tyler just being ten years older.

  Lilly pushed thoughts of Andy from her head to keep her mood from turning sour and quietly opened her studio door. Madcap, who’d taken up residence in the cozy room, sprang out of her padded rolling chair and zipped past her, disappearing down the hall to her bedroom.

  She flipped open her laptop and Googled Mjicon and Phillip Greer in preparation for her lunch meeting the following day. Her search confirmed Mjicon was still the most desirable mid-sized agency in entertainment. Following a thread on the company’s history, she learned that the agency was owned by a conglomerate of Fortune 500 companies, with the major shareholder being JD Enterprises, Inc., a company run by actor turned businessman, Jake Durant. This must be the connection to Tyler that Gwen had referenced. A large number of businesses were listed as owned and controlled by JD Enterprises, most, but not all, tied one way or another to the sports and entertainment industry. She doubted Jake Durant had much of a hands-on role at Mjicon. Clicking the back button, she reviewed Mjicon’s services and was surprised by how much it offered clients, including legal and investment advice.

  Whatever project Sir Phillip had in mind for her, Lilly felt confident that it was going to be a lucrative opportunity.

  Pleased, she made a quick study of Phillip Greer. Originally from London, England, he had been a playwright, theatre actor, screenwriter, then, oddly, a tenured professor of economics at Columbia University in New York City, before leaving to accept the position as head of Mjicon. She perused the list of his written work. It was short but impressive. His screenwriting credits were mostly dramatic television, all of them hits. She wasn’t familiar with his plays (there were two), but the web-source noted that they’d had respectable runs on London’s West-End.

  Sir Phillip’s background and work in dramatic theatre explained the voice on the phone. Perusing images of him, he did look somewhat regal, and he really had been knighted several years ago. He was in his sixties with slightly receding gray hair and a close-clipped, salt and pepper beard and mustache. Although a big man, tall, with a barrel chest and large hands, caught on camera, his gestures were refined, not raucous. Feeling like she knew more about him helped cut some of the nervousness Gwen had inspired on the phone a few days ago.

  One of the things she loved about living in LA was meeting interesting people. She was looking forward to the luncheon, which took a bit of the edge off of her disappointment over Andy Hines.

  Turning off the computer, Lilly decided she had just enough time to zip over to Santa Monica Boulevard to buy some new shoes. She pulled the Vespa out of her back yard shed and headed to Haute Seconds, her favorite consignment shop. Last week, she’d resisted buying the caramel-colored, suede Gucci tassel kicks. Retail, the booties cost just under nine hundred dollars. Even with the steep second-hand price cut, they were spendy. Examining the pristine Italian leather soles, it was clear that whoever had owned them had never worn them. With a satisfied sigh, she plunked them down on the counter.

  On Friday, having spent longer with Gwen working on the Oscars submission than she had intended, Lilly had to rush to get ready for the luncheon with Phillip Greer. Stepping out of the shower, she ran her fingers through her wet hair.

  Her short-short, silvery blonde pixie cut was the product of a teenage fit of rebellion. Frustrated with the never-ending farm chores and tired of being overlooked by the boys at school, Lilly had walked into her small town’s only beauty parlor on the first day of summer before her senior year and demanded that Marcia, the store’s owner, make her hair match the magazine picture she’d brought with her of Swedish pop star, Robyn.

  Marcia, who had cut Lilly’s hair since elementary school in the same drab shag, grimaced at the photo.

  “Your mother would never have allowed this, Evangeline,” she said.

  “Well, she’s not here,” flared Lilly, refusing to be cowed by the shade of her dead mother.

  Her rising voice caught the attention of Marcia’s son, Kyle, who worked afternoons for his mom cleaning up the shop and organizing her stock. Kyle tugged the glossy shot from his mother’s grasp and looked from the pop star’s white blond hair to her dull light brown locks.

  Two years younger than her, Kyle had just finished his freshman year at the same high school. The town’s only high school. In the conservative farm town, with his willowy, androgynous looks, he had an even harder time fitting in than Lilly.

  Smoothing out the crumpled paper, Kyle said, “I’ll do it.”

  All of the pluck went out of Marcia’s protest at Lilly’s stubborn expression and the beatific smile of her son.

  “You do know what you’re doing, right?” asked Lilly as she watched the growing pile of hair around her chair.

  Kyle met her nervous look in the mirror with a broad smile.

  “But of course,” he said grandly. “I grew up in this shop. I could do this in my sleep. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fabulous.”

  Two and a half hours later, Lilly wouldn’t go so far as to say she looked fabulous, but it was exactly what she had wanted.

  She was definitely noticeable. Luminescent blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. With the shag gone, her large, almond-shaped, hazel eyes and delicate bone structure were revealed.

  Kyle tweaked her petite, pointy ear and beamed at her. “You look like Tinkerbell,” he’d said.

  It was the start of a friendship that set her on a course to change her dismal life. When Lilly graduated the following year, with Kyle’s encouragement, she stood up to her overbearing father and insisted that she and her brother, less than a year older than her, be allowed to move into the dorms at college, rather than make the commute every day to and from the farm.

  By the time Kyle followed her to college two years later, Lilly had selected her major and had been accepted into a coveted medical prosthetics internship sponsored by Dow Chemical.

  When she wasn’t working, she was buried in biomolecular sciences, quantum mechanics and chemical processes. Sleep was about her only extracurricular activity. Kyle had forced her to pull her nose out of the dry engineering books, dragged her to parties and made her accompany him to the college’s theater, arts and fashion shows.

  Inspired by Kyle’s enthusiasm for fashion and art, she began to explore her own artistic side, experimenting first with Kyle’s passion, fashion, then moving on to painting, drawing and sculpting.

  The friendship was equally beneficial to Kyle. With Lilly and her brother’s unfailing support, and occasional fierce defense, Kyle stopped trying to hide who he was and embraced his diverse sexuality. Free to learn and be who he was, Kyle’s already sharp eye for style only increased its focus. His fashion blog, started in college, ballooned in popularity and led to an influx of freelance fashion journalism offers.

  Kyle now led a gypsy lifestyle, bouncing between the big four fashion capitals: London, Milan, New York and Paris, and occasionally landing in LA, where he often took up residence in Lilly’s attic guestroom.

  She had Kyle to thank for the outfit she chose for lunch with Phillip Greer. Two weeks after every fashion week, a package would arrive on her doorstep chock full of runway schwag and size 00 castoffs. Last year’s post-London August package had included a timeless creamy ivory, knit peplum top by British designer Alexander McQueen, may he rest in peace. February’s New York package included a luxurious pair of Diane von Furstenberg gold twill shorts that paired perfectly with her fab Gucci tassel kicks purchased the night before.

  Twirling before her hall mirror, Lilly’s artsy side was thrilled with the clash of fabrics and textures, from lin
en to gold twill to suede. Her practical side was assuaged by the muted colors. Snatching up a Hermes silk Qalamdan scarf in brown with pink detail, she was ready for anything, including the easy three mile zig zag on her Vespa down North Fairfax, Melrose and La Brea to the Campanile.

  At one-thirty in the afternoon, the lunch crowd was thinning out and Lilly had no trouble parking the motorbike. Taking off the helmet and fluffing her short hair, she headed into the historic building. Now occupied by the Campanile and La Brea Bakery, the space originally housed Charlie Chaplin’s offices.

  She was a minute or two early. The hostess was just telling her that Mr. Greer had not yet arrived when he walked in, right on time.

  Sir Phillip was not alone. Lilly blanched as she recognized the man holding the door for him. He was Cary Grant handsome. A bit sportier, but just as timelessly stylish. Scads of dark glossy hair swept back like he’d just pushed his fingers through it revealed a subtle widow’s peak over a squarely lined forehead and dramatically arched brow. High cheekbones slanted toward an aquiline nose. His square, strong jaw was punctuated by a dimple just right of perfect center.

  She really, really wished she had taken the time to read up on Jake Durant.

  Chapter 2

  Standing as straight as possible, Lilly stepped toward Phillip Greer and braved an outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Greer, I’m Lilly Rose.” She could feel a stammer coming on and quelled it. The two men dwarfed her. True to his photographs, Sir Phillip was big and burly. Jake was just big. Quarterback big. Even in the four-inch Gucci’s, he stood a foot taller than she and he was at least twice as broad.

  Sir Phillip grasped her hand warmly. “Please, call me Phillip. Let me introduce you to Jake Durant,” he said, extending an arm to Jake. Jake took her hand, but was looking at Phillip for a further explanation.

  “This is the young lady we were telling you about,” said Phillip. Jake continued to stare at him. With her hand stuck in Jake’s, she was caught in the middle of the two men who appeared to be having a wordless exchange.

  Turning back to Lilly, he looked her over. Lilly was used to a strong reaction to her appearance, sometimes outright laughter. Jake examined her longer than might be considered polite but his expression was unreadable. She stared back at him, a smile plastered on her face in an attempt to keep her nervousness from causing her lips to tremble. Damn Gwen. It was bad enough she’d gone on about her lunch with Sir Phillip. She couldn’t imagine what Gwen would say if she knew Lilly’d gotten the double whammy.

  When the inspection was over, Jake made a slight bow over her hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Ms. Rose.” Lilly searched his face. There was a subtle interruption in the bridge of his nose where it had once been broken. His eyes were surprisingly blue. Surely they had never met before. She would have remembered meeting Jake Durant.

  “Shall we head in?” Phillip breezed on ahead with the hostess leaving Jake and Lilly to fall in behind.

  Jake finally let go of her hand to follow Phillip. Lilly tried to stretch her steps to keep pace with him, but in two strides it was futile. She saw the hint of a smirk when he looked down at her tasseled booties and shortened his long stride to better match hers. His expression reminded her so much of Tyler that Gwen’s words, “Distant cousin or something,” rang in her head.

  “Mr. Durant, are you related to Tyler?” she inquired.

  “Call me, Jake. May I call you Lilly, or would you prefer Evangeline?”

  “Lilly, please. It’s less of a mouthful.”

  They were taking their seats at a table in a secluded alcove before she registered that he knew her given name, and that he had deflected her inquiry into his connection to Tyler. Sometimes she had trouble navigating the social niceties of LA, which were so different from how she was raised. At times, LA natives were wildly uninhibited when compared to her hometown. At other times, they were oddly private and stuffy about things her townsfolk would have gossiped about to anyone who would listen.

  “Have you been here before, Lilly?” asked Phillip, passing her a menu.

  “I’ve ridden by many times, but I’ve only stopped at the bakery. This is a treat,” she said. The menu was full of specialty cheeses, a variety of interesting salads, sandwiches and entrees, all with a farm-fresh flare of ingredients and served with the sister bakery’s award-winning bread.

  After the waiter explained the specials, Lilly insisted that Phillip order first. If all Phillip planned on having was a salad, she’d restrain herself and do likewise. However, if he ordered several courses, she would not hesitate to indulge herself.

  Phillip ordered a plate of charcuterie and cheeses for the table, then for himself a bowl of the day’s special Tuscany wedding soup, duck confit with truffle fries and bleu cheese aioli. She smiled broadly at him and, licking her lips, followed suit, ordering a hefty repast of potato leek soup and an entrée portion of the sautéed trenne pasta Bolognese.

  Lilly felt somewhat abashed when Jake ordered grilled striped bass with no side dishes and then watched as she and Phillip consumed the lion’s share of the meats and cheeses, while he munched on a cornichon.

  Phillip, a devout foodie, dominated the conversation with a mini-dissertation on the varieties, medicinal properties and market success of blue cheese, which apparently had been around since the birth of Christ. Spreading the last piece of Roquefort L’Aigle Noir on a honeyed baguette, Phillip segued from food small talk to business.

  “We’ve been following your work Lilly, and neither of us was surprised by the Academy’s inclusion of Fox Hollow in the pre-list for best makeup,” Phillip gestured with the bread crust to Jake, then Lilly.

  Trying not to be too obvious in tooting her own horn, she paraphrased Gwen, “I understand that consideration for a Best Makeup nomination is something of a harbinger for Best Picture.”

  Phillip pressed his hand on the table, leaned toward her and said, “That’s why we wanted to meet with you today, luv, before you start swimming in other offers. Jake’s been approached to play the lead on a Nolan screenplay, an adaptation of Jessica Palmer’s Feast of Saints. We’d like you to consider doing the makeup.”

  Lilly gripped her napkin under the table. It sounded like he was offering her a job on a blockbuster production, a studio-backed film with a mature theme. She hadn’t read Palmer’s book but knew it had sustained months atop the New York Times’ bestseller list.

  She also knew who Nolan was. Another Brit, Chris Nolan had rocketed from writing screenplays for low-budget, independent films to writing for some of the biggest box office successes ever, including the Dark Knight Batman trilogy. Today, he was a producer and director in his own right. A Chris Nolan screenplay was, well, priceless.

  “Feast of Saints is a vampire book, isn’t it?” she said, trying to convey her enthusiasm through numb lips.

  “Precisely,” said Phillip. “There are other supernatural characters, but you’d only be responsible for Jake, who is playing a vampire. A naughty one, like the man himself,” he added, his comment earning a frown from Jake.

  Lilly turned to squint at Jake’s angular, scowling face and discovered that she could easily imagine him as a blood-sucking, fanged monster.

  “I can see that,” she said, distractedly talking to herself.

  He turned his frown on her, and asked, “Do you have any interest in moving away from children’s fantasy tales, Lilly? You’ve created quite a niche for yourself.”

  “Of course she does,” interrupted Phillip throwing up his hands and startling the waiter arriving with their soup. “The offer is grade A. Monty’s prepared to do anything to get Jake interested in the part of the villain Allegrezza, including letting him pick you as effects designer for his character.”

  Lilly, who was still peering at Jake as Phillip talked, saw him flash an irritated look at Phillip.

  Jake Durant had personally selected her? That couldn’t be right, she thought. They’d never met. Their only c
onnection was Tyler, whom she suspected was a closer family relation than Gwen had considered.

  At Jake’s warning glance, Phillip changed direction, but still worked to sell Lilly on the film. Turning to Monty’s progress in obtaining nothing but top shelf talent, Phillip said, “As we speak, Monty’s people are meeting with Maya Trent’s people about the female lead role. Alan Hume has already signed on for the other male co-lead.”

  Lilly sipped her soup and listened. Monty, like other big Hollywood directors – Steven, James, Martin – was known by his first name only. Monty meant Muldraugh “Monty” Davidson. Born in Kentucky but raised in Ontario by his Canadian father, who at one time headed the Canadian Film Institute, Monty had been making mainstream smash-hits for over thirty years.

  Italian model turned actress Maya Trent was also strictly A-list. She’d been nominated for two Oscars for leading female in the last four years, her wins thwarted only by scripts slightly too flimsy to compete with more cerebral nominations.

  Alan Hume was an up and comer. A well-known British crooner and heartthrob, this would be his first lead in a Hollywood production and most certainly not his last.

  Phillip, the ultimate Hollywood insider, said, “Alan Hume has been biding his time waiting for an opportunity just like this. He and his agent chose wisely.”

  As the waiter cleared the soup bowls and set down their entrees, Phillip reached into a brown leather man-bag and pulled out a hard copy of Jessica Palmer’s book, along with a white envelope containing a multi-paged legal document. Tapping the envelope, he said, “Warner’s standard confidentiality agreement is in here, which you must sign before we can provide you with the screenplay. But,” he tucked the envelope inside the book and handed it to her, “this will get you started. I can message over the screenplay as soon as you sign. You’ll find that it cries out for some truly capital special effects treatment.”

  Over entrees, Phillip discussed the timetable. “We have just under two months before the studio expects final artistic designs. Jake is here in LA for the next couple of weeks, then headed to New York and Hong Kong. He’ll be back in time for the first preproduction meeting with Monty the first of September.”