On Tuesday morning at a little past nine, just as I was pulling a new batch of muffins out of the oven and Deanne was getting Cory Sills — the mayor’s assistant — her usual mochaccino, a man I’d never seen before came into the coffee shop. He was on the pudgy side and had light brown hair scraped back into a skimpy ponytail, and carried a clipboard.
“Can I help you?” I asked, although I had a feeling I knew why he was here. Anyone who wore that kind of nervous expression had to be working for Perry Lockhart.
“Are you the manager?” the guy responded, even as he sent a quick glance over at Deanne. Since the two of us were the exact same age…well, give or take a few months…he probably was having a hard time figuring out who exactly was in charge at Levitation Latte.
“I’m the owner,” I told him. “Skye O’Malley. What can I do for you?”
He didn’t exactly relax, but at least he looked a little less nervous. “I’m with the Perdition Row crew. We’re going to be filming in front of your shop on Thursday and Friday, so I need to have you sign these release forms.”
By that point, Deanne had finished her business with Cory, and so she turned toward the stranger, a small frown pulling at her fair brows. “Release forms for what?”
I knew she was playing dumb, because she knew all about what a production might expect of businesses involved in a location shoot…and the sorts of compensation that were usually involved.
He shot her a dubious look, as if he wasn’t quite sure why my assistant was asking the questions. As someone who was used to a film shoot’s usual chain of command, he was probably startled that she hadn’t deferred to me.
In this case, though, I certainly didn’t mind. Besides, even though Deanne technically worked for me, ours wasn’t exactly what you could call a normal employee/supervisor sort of relationship.
“Um, to allow us to set up in front of your coffee shop during those two days,” the man said.
“Blocking the entrance?” she inquired.
“Well, probably.” As her eyes narrowed, the guy hurried on, stammering a bit, “We, uh…of course we’ll compensate you for any loss of business. We’ll pay two thousand a day?”
I had a feeling he hadn’t intended for his comment to end on an upward inflection, as though he was asking whether that was okay instead of simply offering a flat rate.
Either way, that was more than double what I usually would have earned over the same period. Deanne’s expression didn’t shift a bit, though, and I could see why she always cleaned up at poker when she and Mike spent an afternoon gambling at one of the local Native American casinos.
Because it looked as though she wanted to barter — and because I guessed this poor P.A. or minor producer or whoever he was hadn’t been authorized to offer anything more than the standard compensation — I figured I’d better cut in.
“Two thousand a day should work,” I said. “Let me see the forms.”
Looking infinitely relieved, he handed over the clipboard. I scanned the paperwork, but I didn’t see any gotchas that immediately leaped out at me. The filming would take place Thursday and Friday, September eighth and ninth, and would occur between the hours of eight in the morning and six in the evening. For each of those days, Levitation Latte would receive two thousand dollars for the disruption the production would cause my business.
I scrounged for a pen next to the cash register, then asked, “What happens if you end up not filming for an entire day?”
“Oh, you’ll still get the full per diem,” the guy replied, still looking happy that I hadn’t said no, and in fact appeared to be completely on board with the plan. “It’s only fair, since you would have already let your customers know you wouldn’t be open those days.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and went ahead and signed on the dotted line. They hadn’t given me much in the way of advance notice, but I’d put a sign in the front window and let everyone who came in between now and then know they’d have to go elsewhere for their coffee those two days. I gave the man his clipboard, and he tucked it under one arm.
“I’ll stop by at the end of the day on Wednesday to bring you a check,” he promised.
“Sounds good,” I replied. “We close at three-thirty.”
He filed that fact away with a nod, and headed out. Once he was gone, Deanne shot me a huge grin.
“Four grand to get a couple of days off?” she said. “What’re you going to do with all that money?”
I honestly had no idea. Shove it into the business’s savings account and hold it against a rainy day, most likely. While I’d spent a decent chunk of change renovating my house and fixing up the coffee shop, I generally wasn’t what most people would think of as a big spender.
More important to me, actually, was the chance to have those two days off work. While I loved the coffee shop and wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world, sometimes it did get a little exhausting, having to be up so early in the morning and knowing that so many people depended on me to get their days started with a jolt of caffeine. Being able to do whatever I wanted with this extra time was like a gift from the universe.
“Sock it away, I guess,” I said. “You never know when there might be an unexpected plumbing repair, or whatever.”
Deanne’s nose crinkled a bit. “And here I thought you were going to run off to Paris or something.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “No, probably not. I might go to Santa Fe, though, or up to Taos for the day. Just someplace where I can get a change of scenery.”
“That sounds like fun.” She paused there, and let out a very small sigh. “And here Mike and I just went to Santa Fe on Monday. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself.”
Did she think I didn’t want her to come along on my little expedition, just because she’d had her own trip to the capital city just a couple of days before? “Well, I was kind of hoping we could have a girls’ day out, since Mike is going to be working anyway. Or is that too much Santa Fe in one week?”
“Definitely not,” Deanne replied, her expression much more cheerful now. “Which day?”
“Oh, Thursday, probably,” I said. “You know how that place gets on the weekends, especially at this time of year when the weather’s nice.”
“Thursday, then.” The door to the shop opened then, and her face lit up with interest, but it was just another one of our regulars, Jesse Lopez, coming in for his ten o’clock grande French roast and a muffin. The disappointment in her eyes was almost comical. Not that Deanne had anything against Jesse, but I could tell she’d been hoping the P.A. or producer or whoever he was might be returning to tell us they actually needed to film in front of the shop for a whole week.
I had to shake my head, just a little. “Hi, Jesse,” I said with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
After that exchange, I made up a sign to hang in the coffee shop’s window, letting everyone know Levitation Latte would be closed that Thursday and Friday. There was some grumbling, but most people just seemed excited that a place they knew well would be featured so prominently in the film. True, the director and cinematographer would probably work hard to make the storefront look different from the way it did in real life — I had a feeling that the shop’s sign, with its woman floating in a lotus position as she held a large cup of coffee in both hands, wasn’t exactly period-appropriate for a Depression-era movie — but still.
The whole point of the sign was a little joke that the foam in my coffee drinks was so light, it would make you feel as though you were floating. I’d never been into yoga, and I certainly didn’t know how to levitate, but I thought it made a fun logo for the business, one I’d had designed by an old friend of mine from high school, Darren Myles, who’d gotten a degree in graphic design at UNM and then came back to Las Vegas to start his own business.
Anyway, it was sort of a game among us locals to watch movies and shows filmed here and then pick out all the various locations and discuss how they’d been doctored in one way or another so they wouldn’t be quite so recognizable.
Deanne and I decided to head out around ten-thirty on Thursday morning, putting us in Santa Fe just in time for lunch. Although I hadn’t bothered to set my alarm that morning, I didn’t sleep in as much as I would have liked to, with the time just cruising past six o’clock when I woke up and knew my body and brain were ready to start the day.
That was all right, though — I took extra care getting ready for our day out, puttered around the house a little, and then decided I might as well cruise by the shop before I picked up Deanne, just so I could get a glimpse of what was going on and make sure that Tilly, the big black alley cat who was the shop’s familiar spirit, had plenty of food and water to get her through my absence.
Tilly was even more of an independent creature than most cats, and although I’d tried to coax her to come home with me and have a much more stable existence than hanging around our little downtown area, she would have none of it. No, she was just fine with showing up on the back stoop when she was hungry, and occasionally deigning to come in through the cat door I’d installed if the weather was particularly nasty, but she’d made it painfully obvious she had no desire to become any more domesticated than that.
Which was fine, I supposed. Tilly had amply proven that she could take care of herself. All the same, I knew I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t ensure she would be well fed in my absence.
The film crew had blocked off Bridge Street, but that was all right — I had a parking space in back, off the alley. I pulled in, turned off the engine, and went up the back stoop to let myself into the shop’s combination kitchen/storeroom.
Everything looked in order, although even from back here, I thought I could hear the sound of someone shouting orders. I couldn’t make out the words, however. Was that Perry Lockhart, or did he have an assistant director to handle that kind of thing?
I wasn’t about to poke my head through the storeroom door to find out. There probably wasn’t much chance that a camera would pick up my movements that far away from the front window of the shop, but better not to take the risk at all.
No, I just rinsed out Tilly’s water bowl and refilled it, then poured a heaping pile of dry cat food in the other bowl. That would probably be enough to get her through the weekend, since my store wasn’t the only place she frequented. All the same, I planned to come back on Saturday morning and double-check that everything was still intact after the film crew had moved on to another location.
The cat was apparently off doing something else important today, though, because I didn’t see hide nor hair of her. However, I knew she came and went on her own schedule, and so I wasn’t too worried about her absence.
I got back in my Subaru and headed down to Deanne’s house. Her neighborhood was on the south side of town, and therefore on the way to Santa Fe. And because she was like me and probably had been up since dawn, she was ready and out the door as soon as I pulled into the driveway, wearing a pretty embroidered top, skinny jeans, and cute little flats.
Hmm…maybe I should have made more of an effort when I got dressed this morning. Not that I looked like a complete slob or anything, but I couldn’t help contrasting my friend’s cheery outfit with my black wrap-style knit shirt, broken-in bootcut jeans, and black leather thongs. Black had been my go-to ever since my senior year of high school, and although I had a few pieces of clothing that actually sported a little color — like the dress I was wearing when Max and I had our little talk on Saturday night — the overwhelming impression you got when you peered into my closet was that I must be in perpetual mourning.
Or maybe from New York.
“How’s it going at the shop?” Deanne asked as she fastened her seatbelt, and I sent her a sideways glance.
“Why would you think I’d gone by the shop?”
That disingenuous question only got me a raised eyebrow. “Because I know you,” she said simply. “I know you just had to take a peek.”
“I was feeding Tilly,” I said, my tone a little more severe than I’d intended.
“Uh-huh. Did you see anything interesting?”
“Not really.” By that point, we’d exited the development where Deanne’s home was located and were on I-25 heading south. “I didn’t leave the storeroom — I just put out some food and water for the cat. But I could tell the film crew was definitely right in front of the shop, so it’s good we shut everything down.”
She nodded, then pulled a bottle of water out of her oversized purse and set it in one of the cupholders in the center console. A bottle of my own rested in the other holder; I might have made my living serving people coffee, but once I’d had my one cup in the morning, I was generally good on caffeine for the rest of the day.
“Maybe we should go by the shoot tomorrow and see if we can say hi to Max,” she suggested.
That sounded like a terrible idea. Yes, a bunch of people always showed up to looky-loo whenever something was being filmed in Las Vegas, but that didn’t mean I wanted to act like a complete fangirl.
“I doubt that would go over too well with Mr. Lockhart,” I remarked.
Because I’d already told Deanne all about my run-in with the director of Perdition Row, she didn’t seem too surprised by my comment. Even so, she shrugged and said, “Well, if other people are watching the shoot, it’s not like he can tell us to stay away.”
“Maybe not, but I’d rather just wait and watch the finished product,” I said. “You know how much the security guys hate having to ride herd on a bunch of gawkers.”
“I suppose so.” She didn’t say anything for a moment, only fiddled with the strap of her purse where it sat in her lap. Then she shifted and looked over at me, her expression much more serious now. “Heard anything else from Max?”
“No,” I replied. The silence since his Saturday night visit bothered me more than I wanted to admit, even though I knew he must have been doing some serious prep for his role and probably didn’t have any time for hanging out. No, he most likely thought that, since he’d cleared the air with me, we didn’t have a whole lot left to say to each other. Our lives were completely different now. Why should I expect him to resume a friendship he’d left behind almost a decade earlier?
“I’m sorry,” Deanne said, and I took my eyes off the road long enough to allow myself a quick glance at her face. She seemed awfully serious, clearly troubled…and that was a reaction I definitely didn’t want from her. This was supposed to be a fun girls’ day out, after all.
“Don’t be,” I told her. The day after Max’s visit, I’d told her about what had happened, and how things were just fine between him and me. Or rather, we were being friendly, which was about all I could ask for. Expecting anything else from someone of his stature was just crazy. “He’s really busy. Maybe we’ll all be able to get together and have a beer or whatever once filming is done, but he’s got other stuff to focus on right now.”
“True.” Her expression cleared as a faint smile touched her lips — probably as she was imagining a get-together at my place, just a bunch of us regulars hanging out with the one guy from Las Vegas who’d managed to make it big. Maybe such a gathering would always be a fantasy and nothing more, but I wasn’t about to burst her bubble.
Not when I’d been entertaining similar thoughts — idle notions about the two of us sitting together on my front porch and having a lemonade as we talked about what we’d been up to these past ten years, or hopping in the car and spending a day together in Santa Fe — foolish as they might have been.
Luckily, Deanne picked up on my vibe, because she didn’t say anything else about Max, instead asking me where I wanted to eat lunch. We launched into a lively discussion of the various merits of several downtown restaurants, eventually deciding to go to The Shed, since neither of us had been there recently.
Totally normal, which was exactly what I wanted.
Even so, I couldn’t help wondering how the day’s shoot was going.
Apparently, it had been an uneventful day back in Las Vegas, because when I swung by the shop that evening after I dropped Deanne off at home, I couldn’t spy a single shred of evidence that a film production had even occupied the sidewalk in front of Levitation Latte. In fact, everything looked neater and cleaner than usual, as if they’d made sure to have a couple of crew members sweep the sidewalks and wipe down the windows after they were done.
I doubted Perry Lockhart would be so thoughtful, and guessed the clean-up had been the idea of one of his assistant producers or P.A.s. Either way, I definitely didn’t have anything to complain about, so I headed home.
My lunch had been huge, so I didn’t bother to make any kind of real dinner beyond throwing together a green salad and pouring myself a glass of ice water. No wine, because I’d had two margaritas with lunch, and hadn’t worried about driving afterward because I’d known Deanne and I would wander around downtown for hours before heading home. All the same, drinking in the middle of the day always made me a little tired, and I didn’t need any more alcohol. No, I just wanted to put my feet up and watch a little TV or maybe read, and then I could go to bed and put an end cap on my day.
I almost nodded off several times during my mini-binge of The Great British Bake-Off, and so I turned off the TV and headed upstairs. All day, my phone had been quiet, beyond a call from one of my suppliers asking to move a coffee bean shipment to the following week. I’d assured him that was fine, since the shop wouldn’t even be open again until Monday, and that had been the end of it.
So why had I been hoping for a call from Max?
Because you’re an idiot, I told myself as I pulled my hair back for the night in a loose scrunchie. I wasn’t much of one for makeup, but I applied moisturizer religiously both morning and night. Earlier that day at The Shed, I’d gotten carded when I ordered my first margarita, and I wanted to keep on getting carded for as long as possible.
Hence, the moisturizer.
It did feel good to climb into my big king-size bed and pull up the quilt. The day had been too warm to crack the windows, and so the central A/C — another of my recent improvements — hummed away in the background, keeping the room just cool enough that I needed my quilt.
I hadn’t really expected to dream. Dream, dream, that is. Or at least, the scene I fell into felt like one of my “true” dreams, and not just a jumble of scenes and impressions from the past few days.
Max and I were sitting on the porch swing. Not close enough to one another that the setting felt at all romantic, but there was still a friendly, nostalgic glow to the scene, thanks to the soft, dusky light that fell on the porch and the gentle chirping of crickets in the background. I’d had to get rid of the porch swing of my childhood when I did all the renovations, since it just wasn’t safe anymore, but there had never been any question about not replacing it. Having a gorgeous wraparound porch like that without a swing had to be some kind of crime.
When I looked closer, I realized why there was such a gap between the two of us.
Lying on the cushion was a gun.
What I didn’t know about guns could fit in a shipping container, but even I could tell it was some kind of revolver, with a shiny nickel finish and elaborate engraving along the barrel. The end of that barrel was pointed away from us, directed out toward the front yard, but its position didn’t make me feel any more comfortable about the situation.
Dream-Max must have noted where I was looking, even though my dream-self hadn’t moved. He said, “I really don’t like working with those things.”
“Mr. Action Star doesn’t like guns?” my dream-self joked. I could have probably counted on one hand the number of movies he’d appeared in where he hadn’t been shooting all kinds of guns — assault rifles, semi-automatic pistols, you name it. Max’s father was kind of a gun nut, and so he’d been shooting ever since he was old enough to pick up a BB gun back in grade school.
But the dream-Max’s expression was serious as he replied, “I’m okay with guns in the right setting. I just always worry that something’s going to go wrong.”
“Wrong how?” my dream-self asked. “You take all kinds of safety precautions, right?”
He nodded. “We do. I still worry, though.”
And he looked so troubled that my dream-self did something I would never be brave enough to do in real life. I reached over and took his hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay,” I told him. “You have nothing to worry about.”
His expression lightened just the tiniest bit. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, then.”
He picked up the revolver and hefted it in his hand, as though feeling its weight. “Then I suppose it’s okay if I do this.”
And he held the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.