Chapter 1

In all of Hollywood, it took only three magic words to make an entire soundstage exhale on a single beat.

“That’s a wrap!”

The crew burst to life, leaping forward onto the set, scurrying off to shadows unknown, dropping to the floor to begin tearing up the gaffer tape that kept the studio safe from lawsuits from idiots who couldn’t see a three-inch cable until they were lying on top of it. John Paravati dropped his arms from around his co-star and stepped off the fake shuffleboard court to give her room to straighten. “The kid’s got excellent timing. One more take, and I would’ve been using his head in place of that puck.”

Marjorie laughed as she passed the stick she’d been using to the waiting assistant director. “How many of these cruise commercials do we have to do before you remember it’s called a biscuit?”

“When they put it in the script, I’ll remember. Until then, it’s a puck.”

“Ah, John, never change.” She patted his cheek affectionately. “Just remember, it could be worse. We could be stuck shilling adult diapers.”

He pretended to shudder. “Don’t even joke about that.”

As Marjorie linked her arm in his, he offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. She was right, after all. Most of their peers had to sell their dignity to get hired, taking parts they would have mocked in their youth, tolerating directors who hadn’t even been born at the height of their acting careers. He was lucky to have fallen into the cruise line gig, especially since he didn’t necessarily need the income. No matter who he’d co-starred with in the past, or how many Love Boatepisodes he’d done, he was still just a seventy-seven year-old actor in a city that valued youth.

Edging off the set and into the dimmer light had him squinting at the floor to make sure he didn’t trip, so when someone materialized out of nowhere in front of him, he jerked back and nearly stumbled. Marjorie kept him on his feet, but when he saw who had nearly turned him into an emergency response ad, he scowled.

“What’ve I told you about sneaking up on me?” he snapped.

Corrine Callaway flushed, though sometimes he thought that was her permanent state. He’d hired her as his personal assistant in a moment of weakness two years ago. She’d shown up for the job fresh out of film school, not only able to recite his filmography in its entirety but also in chronological order. The deal was cinched when she espoused her admiration for the scripts of old. Jumpstarting his heart past light speed by startling him, however, was not part of the job description. Too bad he didn’t have the balls to forget how good she was at keeping his life organized and fire her.

“Sorry about that, Mr. P.” She tucked a loose auburn curl behind her ear, and he mentally sighed, his frustration dissolving away. One of her tells. She only did that when he scared her, which happened too often to make either of them comfortable. He had never envisioned himself turning into the stereotypical grumpy old man—wasn’t that Wilford Brimley’s schtick?—but more and more, that’s what it felt like he was. “I thought you saw me.”

“Still blind from the damn lights,” he said. “I’m the one who should apologize.” He didn’t have to utter the actual words, though, because she instantly smiled and relaxed. “Something wrong? I thought I wouldn’t see you until after dinner.” It was part of his and Marjorie’s ritual. After each commercial wrapped, they went out and spent far too much money on food and wine. The night served double-duty. He had fun with an old friend, and they both got the publicity being seen on the town. Their love lives were too well-known for it to be construed as romantic, but in the Hollywood world of the great pretenders, John was too much of a master to play any other game.

“Something came in your mail today I thought you’d want to see.” Even in the murky soundstage, Corrine’s eyes glittered with excitement as she held out an envelope. “It requires a response, so I wanted to get it to you as soon as possible.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. He forgot about everything else as he extracted a single page letter from the open envelope.

It was written on heavy ivory vellum, the quality of which was usually reserved for expensive attorneys and asshole producers. He had to turn around and tilt the paper toward the few lights still gracing the set in order to make out the name at the top. Eaker Enterprises. He’d never heard of it.

A paragraph into the letter, he knew why.