Rugged(24)

“It’s sort of the unofficial motto of this entire project,” he says, but he’s smiling again. That’s a good sign.

“Then let’s get this shot while there’s still good light.” I open the door and pick up the camera. “Muss your hair a little bit. It’s shooting time.”





9


It’s Sunday night, and somehow we got the footage that we need. I’m tucked up in my room, sitting on my bed and going over the reel, editing as fast as I can. It’s been a long afternoon of me working nonstop, inhaling coffee and handfuls of trail mix and not brushing my hair, but it’s been worth it. With a few more clicks, I’m actually done.

“I’m a goddess,” I whisper, and flop backwards. I’m tempted to cuddle up under the down quilt and take a long autumn’s nap. This little bed and breakfast place is pretty much heaven, cozy and full of strange, adorable things. Especially the George and Martha Washington pewter beer tankards. They look at me from their shelf, all proud and patriotic as I review the sizzle reel. If there wasn’t a nice elderly couple staying next door, I’d be tempted to bang on the walls and make wild monkey sex noises, because I am loving myself so hard right now.

Friday afternoon was a gift from the television gods, perfect in both a sexy and a classy way. Flint, standing against the lowering sun with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, talking about laying the foundation on the perfect house…I mean, just give me the show now. As Leo Bloom sang in the Mel Brooks musical, “I’m gonna be a producer, with a hit show on basic cable reality television during prime time.”

All right, I adjusted the lyrics a little bit, but the point is clear.

My cell rings. It’s Callie. “Your brother is brilliant, just so you know,” I tell her when I pick up.

“Please don’t tell him that. His massive swollen head is already something I have to deal with on a daily basis.” She laughs, and then swears as something breaks in the background. “Are you in the mood for a family dinner before your big flight out tomorrow?” It sounds like she’s wrangling screaming cats. The twins, most likely.

“I’m already on my way. Sounds like you need a hand.”

“A hand, sure. An all-expenses paid weekend at the spa, better.” There’s a loud clatter on the other end, and I jump. The line goes dead. It sounds like she dropped the phone. Or was kidnapped. Either one.

The house is in town, so I don’t even need to take my car. I take a nice long shower, put on a clean blouse and a pair of dark jeans that hug my ass just right, and head out on foot for the address Callie gave me.

When I get there, I walk up the path and curse as I step on a Thomas the Tank Engine and my foot shoots out from under me. Thomas rockets away across the yard. The whole area is littered with playthings, actually, GI Joes and teddy bears face down after some epic battle. Something tells me I’m at the right house.

Meanwhile, every light’s turned on inside, it sounds like the TV’s blaring, and silhouetted shadows are darting back and forth in front of the window. I ring the bell. No one comes, so I try again, until finally a man in his mid-thirties swings open the door. He’s got thinning hair, a ginger beard with a shot of gray in it, and a dish towel thrown over one shoulder. His eyes are kind but there are dark circles under them; looks like the poor guy hasn’t slept. Knowing the twins, it’s probably been a while since he’s had eight uninterrupted hours of rest.

“You must be the big shot producer.” He holds out his hand. “David Winston. Callie’s husband.”

“I guessed that,” I say, shaking and laughing. David kicks a squeaky dinosaur toy out of the way and lets me in. Lily rushes by, toddling fast after Callum, who’s chasing a very angry looking tabby cat. The house is a lot smaller than Flint’s, and the living room is kind of dingy. The carpet is fraying, the leather sofa cracked and worn. Cal corners the tabby, and triumphantly sticks the poor animal’s tail in his drooly mouth. The cat hisses.

“Cal! No! Kitty is off limits,” Flint says, striding into the living room. He’s a big presence in this small, rundown place, sort of like if Superman walked in and kindly didn’t judge your bad housekeeping. He lifts Cal into the air, making rocket launch noises. “Big man.”

Cal laughs and claps. Flint puts him down and gives Lily a rocket launch too, just to be fair, before he finally notices me. “You ready for a beer?” he asks, grabbing both twins and leading us into the kitchen.

“When am I not?” David says. He sighs.

“Wasn’t asking you, man. It’s your house,” Flint says, laughing. The kids are each riding on one of his shoulders. Most parents would be a little nervous about that, but David seems too tired to care. He yawns pretty widely.

“Sorry if I’m not the most scintillating conversationalist. Work’s been a drag,” he says to me. We enter the kitchen. Personally, I think Callie has even more reason to feel tired. She’s got two pots going on the stove, the cat rubbing against her leg, and the phone clamped against her ear. To the side, Jessa’s making a salad very slowly, smiling at all the ingredients she sprinkles in.

“This beet root is very blessed,” she says to me, grinning as she chops. I don’t know what you say to that.

“Jessa, isn’t that ready yet?” Flint says, sounding bewildered. “How the hell does it take you forty minutes to make a salad?”