Free Scar Flowers by Maureen O'Donnell Page B

insight of an actress. Or a director. This could be it, the chemistry to create a great film.
    Karen , studying her lines last night for today’s scene, had called at eleven.
    “I ’m worried,” she said. “I can’t do this. I’ve lost it.”
    Onscreen in his trailer, the image of her face moved its lips as its eyes looked into his. Karen needed his attention—her performance thrived on it, and she wrote down every note he gave her in rehearsal. When he arrived at her hotel room, she apolo-gized, said she was scatterbrained from having forgotten to eat dinner, so he ordered room service. She had the shrimp, touched her fingertips to her tongue and parted lips to get the last traces of butter. The waiter brought a bottle of champagne, “Compliments of StarBorn Studios for our hard-working star.”
    Last night it had felt like what he wanted to do, to lean in close to run Blake’s lines with his star, into the scent of Karen’s hair. To reach for the elusive presence of his Julia as it flickered into solidity. Julia looking out at him with eyes that gleamed with patient concentration and held tiny flames of fear. He had seen eyes like that somewhere else, just a few days ago. In real life. But whose?
    At the time, he believed an idea could be made tangible. No , it wasn’t just that. He had grown close to Karen the woman, not just the actress. He knew what he wanted.
    The bathroom door opened, and Karen walked out naked, toweling her hair, his cell phone in her hand.
    “That was Gunnar. He’s sending a car in five minutes.” She handed Simon his phone. “Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t want it to ring and wake you is all.” She kissed his forehead on her way to the closet.
    He wiped the print of her lips from his skin. It was only one night. It doesn’t have to change the dynamics of the set . Somewhere, the ghost of his ex-wife was laughing— I told you so .
    As Karen put on lip gloss in the back seat of the Teamster’s car, Simon dialed Gunnar and deflected the where were you ques-tions, though everyone on the set would know where he had spent the night as soon as he arrived with Karen.
    Shooting. The possibility of magic.
    Outside the rows of palm trees that marked the boundaries of StarBorn Films Studios drew into view, the beds of saguaro and clumps of pampas. Men in studio-logo polo shirts rattled by in golf carts.
    6:30 a.m. The Teamster dropped him off at his trailer while Karen went to makeup. He grabbed his backpack and made his way to the set as the sun pried at his skull like an ice pick. The lawn outside the house-set swarmed with people carrying walkie-talkies, and a line of onlookers stood with their backs to him. What was scheduled first for today? He would check his notes inside.
    Simon stood poised to cross the street to the set when a studio worker driving a golf cart full of hatboxes slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian. The man, engrossed in a phone conversation, wore an Armani jacket with jeans and espadrilles, a pair of black-and-gold sunglasses perched on his head.
    “Hold on a sec,” the man said into his phone as hatboxes bumped and rolled past him in the dust. He turned to Simon. “Help her pick those up, will you?”
    As if he were speaking to a servant, someone who should be glad to have a real job in the great U.S. of A.
    “Sorry, I’m union.” Simon set one of the hatboxes that had landed at his feet back on the golf cart as he passed. Most of the boxes were empty, but this one contained several pairs of elbow-length, antique leather gloves with tiny pearl buttons.
    “Listen, Pedro, you ’ll be on your way back across the border in an orange crate if you don’t bust a nut right now. That’s studio property.”
    Simon laughed.
    “You’ve got wrong. I’m Chief, not Pedro.”
    The man snapped his cell phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. “What’s your name, wise-ass? And your boss’s name.”
    Simon walked past the man without answering.