Coming Attractions Read online

  Cara’s eyes drifted closed and her mind turned to Levi. Was he getting through his errands? Was he looking forward to their meal together tonight? Was he missing her as much as she was missing him?

  The thought brought her up short. She had only just met the man. Missing him seemed a little over the top. But she couldn’t deny the subtle ache in her chest when she thought of his arms around her, his mouth against hers, their breath mingling.

  “It’s a journal. Like Gran’s,” Freya said.

  Cara’s eyes flew open, her attention instantly zeroed in on the little girl.

  “That’s a great project, Freya. I read all Gran’s journals. It was a wonderful way to learn about parts of her life that I didn’t know. Do you think someday someone will read your journals?”

  “Maybe. But they’re mostly for me. To remind me.”

  Freya turned her serious face back to the papers and wrote a few lines. Cara was keen to ask questions, move the dialogue along, but she sensed that Freya operated at a different pace and forced herself to be quiet.

  “When you’re eleven,” the girl finally said, “you sometimes forget why you have to take care of things all the time. Sometimes you want to just go and play. Sometimes you just wish you could spend all your savings on movie tickets or an iPad. If I write it all down, it’s easier to remember.”

  Cara’s heart clenched at the girl’s solemn eyes and the weight of her perceived responsibilities. For several seconds, Cara’s mind was a rush of possible directions to take the conversation. Most pressing was her own need to know why Freya felt so compelled to burden herself so heavily. But, she knew the strand of trust she was developing with the little girl was fragile and tenuous.

  She also kept in mind that her goal, in the first instance, was to provide Freya with an escape route. Some way to lift a little of the pressure she was under, some means of allowing her some release. She didn’t need to dig up all the ins and outs to facilitate that outcome. But somehow, Cara didn’t think simply telling the girl to lighten up would work either.

  For a moment, Cara felt adrift. What did she really have to offer this girl? What did she have to offer anyone? She was a roving drifter, a freelancer, a nomad, a motorcyclist… Not a lot of substance there…

  But she was also a storyteller, she realized. Telling stories was both her passion and her livelihood. In writing Lost Treasure, Cara herself had recently discovered that telling stories could be a powerful balm.

  So, she cleared her throat and told the girl a story she had once heard from her father—

  “A young girl went to the foreman of a logging crew and asked for a job. ‘Let’s see you fell this tree,’ the foreman said. The girl quickly and skilfully cut down a massive tree.”

  “Did she give thanks to Gaia first?” Freya asked.

  “Of course,” Cara assured.

  The child nodded her approval.

  Cara continued, “Impressed, the foreman gave her a job. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday rolled by. On Thursday afternoon, the foreman approached the girl and told her to pick up her pay check. Startled, the girl replied, ‘I thought you paid on Friday.’ ‘Normally we do,’ said the foreman. ‘But we’re letting you go today because you’ve fallen behind. Our daily charts show that you’ve dropped from first place on Monday to last place today.’ ‘But I’m a hard worker,’ the young girl objected. ‘I arrive first, leave last, and I have even worked through my breaks!’ The foreman, sensing the girl’s integrity, thought for a minute and then asked, ‘Have you been sharpening your axe?’ She replied, ‘No, sir, I’ve been working too hard to take time for that!’”

  Freya was listening, entranced. Cara wondered when the girl had last let herself do something as simple as listen to a story. It made her heart ache to see this girl taking life so seriously.

  “Our lives are like that, Freya,” Cara said. “We sometimes get so busy that we don’t take time to ‘sharpen the axe.’ These days, it’s easy to be busier than ever—but less happy.”

  It was as though a lightbulb went off over Freya’s head. In one heartbeat, the girl’s eyes brightened and a smile tugged at her lips.

  “There’s nothing wrong with working hard and being responsible. But we have to remember not to get so busy that we overlook the truly important things in life, like taking time to play, read, hang out with our friends and family, and just have fun. We all need time to relax, to think and meditate, to learn and grow. If we don’t take time to sharpen the axe, we become dull and unproductive.”

  The little girl was smiling outright now and Cara had a real sense that her parable had somehow breached the child’s defences and made an impact.

  “So, taking care of things all the time is actually not as good as taking some time off to muck around? Really? You’re not tricking me?”

  “Really, kiddo. So, how about we ditch this project for a while and go and see what your mom has made for our lunch?”

  They ate chicken salad sandwiches and fresh fruit salad at the glass-topped table on the patio. The sky was so blue and the air so warm it was hard to believe the weather was destined to turn stormy. After the meal, the children settled into a friendly game of cricket. Cara joined in for a few innings, hitting a four off Liam’s spin ball and bowling Freya out. Then she retired back under the shade cloth with Mia, where she forced herself to broach the topic she had been avoiding all day. Her sister provided the perfect opening.

  “So, what brings you back to Ocean Ridge, Cara?”

  Cara took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and forced out the words she needed to say.

  “I mentioned that Apollo Films is shooting my latest screenplay. It’s a biographical piece. About Mom.”

  Mia froze. Cara opened her eyes and watched the tell-tale blotchy red blush of anger creep up Mia’s neck and wash her cheeks. She waited as Mia’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed.

  Here it comes…

  “Tell me this is some kind of a sick joke, Cara.”

  “Not joking.”

  “Then tell me you can pull the plug on this.”

  “No can do.”

  “I can’t believe you would do this to me! To us!”

  “I’m not doing anything to you.” Cara kept her eyes steady, her voice even.

  “Stirring up memories best left alone. Arousing all that speculation again. Setting off the scandalmongers once more. Bringing back every freak and psychic, tabloid journo, and treasure hunter in the country. I can’t believe you would hurt us like that! I can’t believe you would turn our family into a circus!”

  “That is not what this is about, Mia...”

  “Then what is it about? Let me guess. It’s about catharsis. It’s about closure.” Mia’s words were coated thickly with sarcasm.

  “In a way, yes. But it’s a testament to Mom. It’s a celebration of her life, not some tawdry exposé.”

  “And I’m sure all the loonies and gold diggers will make that fine distinction,” Mia spat. “It’s easy for you, Cara. You waltz into town and rip the guts out of the quiet, anonymous life we have managed to eke out. You dig up the past. You make your movie. You cash in on Mom’s misfortune. And when all hell breaks loose and everything I’m working for is torn apart, you ride off into the sunset on your damn motorcycle and leave me to pick up the pieces. Just like you always do.”

  “My bike was—”

  “Stolen. Whatever.”

  Mia was crying and the children looked up from their game. Freya took a step toward the table, but Mia waved them all back to the cricket match and dried her eyes on a napkin.

  “You don’t know how much damage you’re doing, Cara,” Mia said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking…”

  “If I can just explain…”

  “Forget it. There’s nothing you can say to make this okay.”

  “I’m sorry you feel this way, Mia. I really am. But this is something I need to do. I was hoping you might listen to my rationale. That you might offer your support
or at least try to understand. I can see that won’t happen. But I’m a big girl. I don’t need your approval. I’m sorry, Mia. I’m making this movie, with or without your blessing.”

  Chapter Four

  Sails, the café/bar on the esplanade overlooking Ocean Beach was a place Cara fondly remembered from childhood, having shared many a morning tea there with her mother and sister, and having also spent considerable amounts of pocket money there on after-school ice cream. She’d had her first date with Tommy Hanson at the table in the corner. And she’d had her first—and only—fistfight by the ice fridge round the back. She’d heard Ryan Devlin’s nose still had an unnatural bend to it.

  Cara walked the few blocks from Mia’s house, stopping at the drugstore en route. She took the long way past the old high school and the football field, all the time keeping her ears and eyes out for her red Ducati. She strolled past the cinema and imagined posters for her film, Lost Treasure, in the windows. Then she skirted the town square, housing the library and the police station, and wandered along the esplanade to the café.

  She had hoped Mia would have mellowed enough to at least hear her out on the subject of the movie. Instead, she had been met with the same old histrionics. It was difficult to swallow her sister’s accusations without biting back. But she knew that overreacting to Mia’s words would only make things worse. Mia’s nature was fiery, like their mother’s had been. Only Mia leaned toward temper and melodrama where the elder Kelly had tended toward passion and delight.

  Cara regretted her sharp parting words to her sister. While it was true that she would press on with the movie with or without her sister’s sanction, she would prefer to enlist her sibling’s support. If only Mia could get past the knee-jerk reaction and just listen for five minutes, she might see where Cara was coming from. She would wait a few days, Cara decided, and then try again to explain to her sister the reasoning behind writing the film.

  Mia had been right when she had said making the movie was about catharsis and closure for Cara. But this was not some airy-fairy whim or some “woo-woo” hippy notion. Far from it. One night, a little over two years ago, Cara had scared herself. And it was that fear that drove her to begin the film. And it was the film that had propelled her to breathe and keep breathing for the last two years.

  But how to convey that urgency and power to her irate sister? First, she’d have to calm Mia down. Then she’d have to lay out her motives so Mia could understand them. Cara let out a disgusted snort. Maybe, while she was at it, she’d move Flinders’ Keep a few yards to the left.

  Cara picked a booth by the window and ordered a pot of Orange Pekoe. The chatty waitress promptly brought her tea, a complimentary almond biscotti, and a casual remark about the weather forecast. The waitress’ friendly manner, the sunny ambiance of the café, and the scents of coffee and bacon washed Cara in a moment of appreciation and nostalgia that calmed her irritation about her sister’s predictable short-sightedness. Then, gradually, the mellow memories of the distant past calmed her. And soon, even they ebbed away, replaced by more recent recollections.

  She pictured herself and Levi working side by side in the kitchen that morning. Sun streamed in through the window, lighting Levi’s hair in shades of honey and mead. The lemon fragrance of the dishwater mingled with the jasmine wafting in from outside and the deeper scent of the man beside her.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the power of his body, felt the strength of his convictions, and thrilled in the force of his protection. For so long, there had only been herself to rely on. Writing was lonely work and, since her mother’s death, she hadn’t been especially close to anyone. Her sister was caught up in the life of her own family, and any intimacy Cara had enjoyed with a man had been essentially physical—or superficial at best.

  It was a testament to her loneliness that a virtual stranger’s instant of kindness could almost reduce her to tears, she thought. Either that or there was something special about Levi that made her feel valued and gave her a sense of belonging...

  Cara was still pondering her place in space, and Levi’s influence on it, when he entered the café. She sensed him before she saw him, felt his breath in the air, heard the beat of his heart at some sub-audible level, scented his special aroma beyond the scope of the normal human sensory range. She looked up from her empty tea cup and their eyes met.

  Between them, in that split second, everything was open and illuminated and vulnerable. There was no past, not future, no veils of misunderstanding, no sheaths of pretence. There was only one man and one woman and a fine but undeniable mesh of fate joining them across an afternoon café.

  Then the fragile moment dissipated—the waitress dropped a knife, Levi held the door for a harried mother with a pram, and Cara’s phone buzzed. She scowled at Mia’s name flashing up on her screen.

  “What happened?” Levi asked, sliding into the booth across from her. “Bad news?”

  She watched him get comfortable, straighten his cutlery, spread his legs, touch his scar. She saw the care in his eyes, the inquiring half-smile, the considerate tilt of his head. She realized she very much wanted to share with him what had taken place between her and her sister. For once, she didn’t want to carry the entire load alone.

  “My sister doesn’t want the movie to happen.”

  “Which movie? Our movie? Lost Treasure?”

  Cara nodded.

  Levi gave her hand what she was sure was meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but actually seemed to trip the switch to her pulse, sending it skittering out of control and taking her breath with it. Despite her inner chaos, his touch, warm and sure, was comforting.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She nodded.

  Levi signaled to the waitress for a coffee and another pot of tea and then patiently waited for Cara to be ready to talk.

  “Mia thinks I’m ruining her existence and exploiting my mother’s life by making the film. You’ve read the screenplay, obviously. There’s nothing cheap or crude about the way Mom’s life is portrayed. I meant the film to clear the air, both for viewers and for myself. I was hoping to shed some light on the real woman behind the legend and maybe, in the process, gain some clarity and closure about her life…and her death.”

  “All that comes through unmistakeably in the screenplay, Cara, and we’ll do our damndest to make sure it translates that way on to the big screen.”

  “I’m not doubting that you can do that, Levi. The last two films you produced managed to turn what could have been trite stories with shallow characters into epic screen legends. Winterson’s End was such a haunting take on the plight of the homeless. And Bust’s insights into the life of a drug runner was just breathtaking.”

  “I can’t do anything without the right script, Cara. And while I’m glad you liked the last two films I produced, this film has ‘the one’ stamped all over it. It’s your film that has the hallmarks of a blockbuster. It’s your film that will propel us into cinema history.”

  His confidence heartened her and she shook off the vestiges of her argument with her sister. Surely, when Mia saw the finished product, she would understand that Cara was not trying to taint their mother’s memory but rather to dispel some of the less than savory myths about the woman they had both loved. Ultimately, Cara wanted to honor and commemorate her mother’s life.

  Her mind ricocheted to the other reason she had written the film—the darker, more pressing reason—but almost before the thought surfaced, she slammed the lid shut on it, just like thumping down the lid on a treasure chest. Levi gave her a quizzical look that told her he had seen her fleeting thought, and she was relieved he didn’t press her about it.

  “Thank you so much for your belief, Levi. It makes a real difference to hear you talk that way. Creating a box office smash is not what drives me. It’s getting the truth out there that’s my motivation.”

  “Think of it this way.” He smiled reassuringly. “The more people we get through the box office, the more people
learn your truth.”

  ****

  The ride back to Flinders’ Keep was an emotional mixed bag for Levi. What he’d said to Cara about his belief in her film was true. With a few tweaks, Cara’s Lost Treasure really would put all their names in lights. The story of Alessandra Kelly, prominent socialite turned notorious treasure hunter, would have audiences queuing up to see it. It was an adventure story on two levels—the woman’s quest to find the ultimate secret treasure in the Middle East running in parallel with her inner journey to come to terms with the conflicting roles of mother and fortune-hunter.

  In the end, Alessandra had abandoned her family for one last shot at finding what she wrote in her journals was the most profound treasure humankind could ever conceive of. Psychics had hinted at pirate chests and Egyptian gold. Journalists and historians had variously hypothesized that she was on the trail of Pandora’s Box, the Ark of the Covenant, or the Holy Grail itself. Whatever the truth was, it was enough to motivate a mother to desert her children on a quest that ultimately cost Alessandra her life.

  The screenplay was so tightly crafted and so mercilessly objective, it was hard to believe that Cara had written it about her own parent. How could someone write about their own abandonment in such a controlled and systematic way? How had Cara balanced the Alessandra character, portraying the woman’s greed without judgement, representing her maternal love as genuine, creating a true and impartial depiction of Alessandra’s dilemma—her children versus the mystical treasure? In the end, of course, the lure of fortune and adventure overrode Alessandra’s maternal obligations. How had Cara written such an ending without bitterness, without bias? The ruthless, rational streak Cara demonstrated should give him pause, he realized.

  But there was no pausing where Cara was concerned. The tilt of her chin, the cadence of her laughter, the fall of her hair, the scent of her perfume, in fact, everything about her seemed to draw him irreversibly closer to her. She was irresistible to his senses, rendering him as helpless as an addict, completely in her thrall.