The Beginning

Ch. 62 - The cold

The assistant producer returns with mugs of coffee, apologizing for the delay. "The snow machine is jammed," he explains. "Sip on these so you don't freeze while we work on it."

"It's okay, Sandra's promised to keep me warm."

She grins despite herself. "I promise you nothing."

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Sandy,
Should I say 'Dear' Sandy like you did in your letter? I don't know, it seems too...formal. I'd like to think we're beyond formal at this point. Anyway, Sandy. How are you?

The light scraping of rubber across the paper removes this last line. It seems a bit cliché and he hates cliché. He carefully swipes tiny black pieces of rubber mixed with lead off of his lined paper, leaving his pencil dangling between two fingers of his left hand. Pressing the eraser end into the space above his lips, his hooded eyes grow heavier with weariness. They are burning the candle at both ends while filming, needing both dusk and dawn lighting to stage the scenes of this story built around a winery in Napa. He is as tired as he can remember, but rejuvenated. The fresh air, the cool breeze, the rolling hills of green all around, they invigorate him. It almost feels as though he truly has stepped back fifty years, to a simpler time after the war, when your immediate connections were all that mattered, when you didn't have a phone or other distractions from real life with you at all times.

He stands, pencil and notebook in hand, and grabs a sweatshirt, pulling it over his head as he walks toward the door of his room. Down the stairs at Saint Helena Inn, the bed and breakfast where the director decided all would reside for the next couple of months, he enters the common area, where a coffee pot is always ready with a fresh cup. Pouring himself a full mug, he sits at the long dining room table and opens the notebook again.

It's beautiful here. I think you'd love it. Babbling brooks, more stars than you could imagine exist, and it's quiet. I think you'd like the quiet. There's so much I'd love to show you. I promise not to tell Gesine how cold you've been in Chicago, but I have to say, she did warn you. Chicago winters are not like other winters. I hope you've found a way to warm yourself. I can think of a few suggestions, but I'll save those for when we both wrap. I'm glad to hear that Bill is so friendly. He seems like a—

Keanu flicks his pencil against the grey mug a few times. The truth is, he can't picture them together. He doesn't think they are a good fit. Still, he's never heard a complaint about the guy and he sure doesn't want to come across as overbearing.

—nice guy. It sounds like the whole cast has made your time pleasurable. We're moving slowly here. Watching Anthony Quinn work is an honor, and Aitana is nice. The director is a piece of work: quirky, brilliant, a little bit weird and a lot bit crunchy, but I love exploring new ideas. He brought an astrologer to the set. Apparently I'm not only a Virgo, but I'm a moon, sun, (Earth? Fire?) everything else Virgo, too. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Stay tuned!
Tell me more about your stay in the city. How do you spend your time off set?
Hope to hear from you soon,
Keanu

He seals the envelope and lays it on the desk in the foyer of the quaint, four bedroom inn. Nestled on three acres, there isn't another inn or business or even residence in sight, no matter which way one looks. There is no nighttime attendant, but the owners live there and with the push of a button, are available at any time.

The hardwood floor is particularly cold as he pads his way back to his room in bare feet. The long, narrow hallway is cloaked in Victorian era wallpaper, a detail he is certain is not accidental. The busyness of the patterns are in stark contrast to the silence of the night.