Method(48)

It’s been almost a month since we buried Blake and Lucas is set to start shooting in a few days. For the last few weeks since our night on the balcony, he’s been holed up in his office doing extensive research or keeping appointments with wardrobe. Nova drops by every day or so to run lines with him which hurts me because I’ve been replaced for the job. Maybe he’s giving me the freedom because I’m going back to work, and I can’t dwell on that.

We have rules for a reason.

It’s what I signed up for when I married Lucas. What I didn’t expect was when it came to the most compelling roles, how far he would take his absences and how much of himself he would let his characters absorb. The process for any actor who lives for their passion is taxing, but the creative isn’t the only one who has to suffer through it.

I read somewhere that before Angelina Jolie filmed Gia, she told her then-husband that she wouldn’t be talking to him during filming because she was now a gay, dying supermodel. Nothing is off the table, nor is it a ploy for attention. Half the time, the public has no idea what these artists go through to prep and execute a character. For Method actors, what looks effortless on screen takes far longer to put together.

When I got involved with Lucas, and he explained the process, I’d done my homework and found out plenty of actors used these insane tactics and went beyond just the basic principles.

Adrien Brody shed thirty pounds, declared himself homeless, left his girlfriend and possessions and fled the country so he could identify with a Holocaust survivor for The Pianist.

Heath Ledger was rumored to have isolated in a motel room for weeks to deprive himself of sleep catapulting him into a state of perpetual madness to play the Joker in The Dark Knight.

Christian Bale has done things that borderline lunacy, and yet all of his performances have been brilliant. The list goes on and on.

Even though I was aware of this when I took my vows, it doesn’t make the progression any less grueling. Once immersed, Lucas never breaks character, ever, for any reason.

Pulling up to the small restaurant overlooking the Pacific, I scour the bistro and park. Striding toward the restaurant I smile when I see Yanni opening the door for me.

Every light step I take confirms my decision to get back to work. Lucas has his passion, and I have mine, and we both get to indulge until he comes back to me in pieces, in need of the refuge he’ll seek and that I’ll offer without hesitation. And once the layers he’s so carefully cloaking himself in are peeled away, I’ll have him back. We’ll talk. We’ll work through his grief. Three months, give or take a week, and I’ll get my husband back.

That’s showbiz.

“Remember the rules, Dame.”

Taking a deep breath, I let go and trust.





Two hours later, we’ve narrowed down six selections for the menu, and I’ve just had one of the best meals of my life. Yanni kisses me goodbye on both cheeks with enthusiastic thanks, and I’m validated for all the work and research I’ve done to prep for our meeting. He doesn’t just want my suggestions; he wants me to be a more integral part of the opening and present the tasting for the investors coming in a month.

Happily, I accept the job, far too excited to pass up the opportunity. And the paycheck is enough to have me daydreaming again about the possibility of trying my own label. Though a spend-thrift millionaire, Lucas has offered many times to buy me a spot in wine country and make my dream a reality, but the truth is, I want to be self-made.

The drive home is much more relaxed.

When I arrive, I find Lucas on the balcony of our bedroom, his script in his lap, slowly flipping a coin between the slots of his fingers. He’d left early this morning for a meeting, and I was surprised to see him home at this hour so close to filming. The door is open, the breeze lifting our sheer white curtains and filling the room with salty air. He’s staring out at the sea, so I don’t feel like I’m interrupting. Tossing my purse on the bed, I kick my heels off stretching my toes in the plush carpet and begin to undress.

“Babe, I’m back. God, it was wonderful, I’m so excited. Yanni loved my ideas, and the place is perfect. I think this is going to be good for me! I’m stuffed, but I don’t mind cooking for you if you’re hungry.”

He stands abruptly and turns to look at me, still flipping the coin through skilled knuckles. Audibly I gasp when I see his eyes are bloodshot, blotchy stains on his tan cheeks. The look in his eyes terrifies me.

“Lucas?” Taking a tentative step forward, he sharply shakes his head once as he studies me.

“Lucas, what’s wrong?” My voice is filled with fear. Shoulders rigid, his whole body draws tight as if he’s about to explode. I move to go to him, and he takes the few steps to the door before sliding it closed and shutting me out. Open-mouthed, I stand in my bra and panties sinking with unease.

We face off like that for endless seconds, before he averts his gaze, resuming his seat and picking up his script.

Rule number one, don’t take the process personally.

Nothing about this situation seems like process, and I fight myself to keep from opening the door and demanding answers. Something is horribly wrong. I’ve never seen such devastation on his face, never seen him so distraught.

I have to believe he’s finally broken down about Blake, which is probably the right explanation and maybe what he needs, but the look on my husband’s face will haunt me for the rest of my life.