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  Beaming at me, Mr. Westfall stood up, and I did too, vaguely realizing my heart was thumping a mile a minute in my chest. Does he mean what I think he means?

  Walking me to the door, he stopped in front of it and shook my hand again. “We’ll be in touch real soon. You keep an eye out for our call, Ms. Book, you hear?”

  Nodding, I thanked him again, shook his hand again, and then walked through the lobby of Birmingham Realty light as air. I barely noticed that had started to rain.

  Blissful, I ran to my car, laughing as I splashed through the puddles. For a brief moment I was a kid again, happy just to be alive.

  He all but said the job is mine! I crowed in my head, pushing back my damp curls as I met my bright eyes in the rearview mirror. Birmingham Realty’s newest broker, Cammie Book!

  I took a deep breath in, unable to stop smiling. I’d never forget this day. The way the rain seemed to sparkle as it fell from the damp gray sky, the way it mixed with the heavy saltiness of the air and the smoky sulfur smell – one that often wafted through Birmingham, reminding us all that after all, Alabama or not, this was a city.

  I suddenly found myself recalling a few treasured moments from my childhood when I’d proven myself more than a match for the odds against me. The second-grade spelling bee, where I’d won the state championships, even though my mother had worried I was too much a mouse to go up on a big stage like that. Then in sixth grade, when I became captain of the debate team and led us to the semi-finals. Later, in high school, where I’d graduated valedictorian, but opted not to go to college – instead, I was determined to make my own way in the world.

  While I’d been offered a few partial scholarships, some very generous, college wasn’t feasible. Not with three little brothers. Yet in spite of that, teachers and advisors had been united in their incredulity of my plans. Cammie Book, straight-A student, not going to college?!

  But the financial strain would have been too much. Mom needed me to chip in, and I couldn’t do that if I was in school. I needed a job and a good one, as soon as possible.

  After all, my parents hadn’t graduated high school or even thought about college. When my dad had been alive, we’d been comfortable, if poor. Later on, my mother supported her four babies’ mouths on a tiny paycheck from the bakery she ran with her childhood friends.

  Some weekends she also drove out to Pell City or beyond, working a shift as a maid at a motel, and leaving us with Gramma. More than anyone, my mother had shown me the value of hard work. But she’d also showed me what a toll it could take on you when you were always scraping to make ends meet. I didn’t want to live like that, and I certainly didn’t want my family to live like that.

  However, now with my brothers in high school, also working, I felt like Mama could finally relax. If I did get the job, I’d maybe send her, Gramma, and my aunt all on a trip somewhere nice next year. Florida or the Caribbean. Then I almost laughed at the thought of the three of them clustered on a beach somewhere, gossiping about Cropwell, with their accents noticeable from a mile away.

  Pulling my purse into my lap, I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother – still smiling.

  Chapter 5

  Kris

  Walking into Bold Pictures, I tried not to sigh or make a face at myself in the glass doors. Two weeks had passed and every day was a new rollercoaster of stress. Now, I also felt like the CEO’s doofus son, not the CEO. Never the CEO. It sucked. I’d never dealt with such a crippling anxiety before – it drank all of the confidence right from me.

  But then again, I’d never been expected to suddenly navigate a massive, expensive ship through unknown waters. Most people worked up to captain.

  I was like the deckhand who’d been thrust to the wheel and wished good luck.

  Well, wished good luck by a few people.

  As I walked through the lobby, I couldn’t help but feel there were some covert looks being thrown my way, some thinly veiled hostility. There was a sense of disillusion and fear running through the company, which I couldn’t quell. Nor was I sure where it was coming from.

  Maybe it was just losing my dad. Or maybe it was that a twenty-five-year-old who’d spent much of the last year backpacking in Peru was now signing their paychecks.

  While Lucy and Max still had my back, and to some extent, Hans, as much as that jumpy dude could – other people seemed to be nursing an animosity towards the son being handed the keys to the castle, bypassing people who’d worked for my father for years.

  Some part of me wanted to slam my fist down on the table in meetings and ask them if they thought I wanted this. If they thought this was some kind of master plan – losing my dad and getting saddled with a monumental job in a three-month span.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t. I joked, I charmed, and I dazzled them with my wordplay.

  After all, I had spent my formative years traveling the globe, plied with works by the greatest minds, sitting in the back of interviews with world leaders, criminals, scientists, artists, and the like. If there was one thing I knew, it was my way around a conversation. I’d seen the way politicians could change the course of one, make you believe them, and have you eating out of their hand. With just a handful of words.

  Of course, I’m not only talking about the schmaltzy ones who wanted to use their power to get their own way – I mean the great men and the great thinkers – the ones who cared about the fate of their people and their country. Dad had introduced me to them and more.

  That was a good lesson to learn as a kid. If you care, people know. They can sense it. And I cared about this company and these people. I may have been a spoiled kid in many ways – I had no illusions about the privilege my father had afforded me throughout my life – that education that could not be bought or sold. The kind that was garnered from meaningful experiences.

  Thus, no matter what, I was always genuine to a fault.

  Once upstairs, safely enclosed in my father’s office – I still couldn’t think of it as mine – I breathed a sigh of relief. Running the gauntlet of the company eye was more wearying than climbing ten flights of stairs. Sitting down at the desk, I at least had a routine now. Voicemails, emails, numbers, and then everything else.

  As I was glancing through the numbers, I heard a light knock, and Max came in. He was wearing a more formal outfit than usual, and I frowned as he came closer.

  “What’s with the fancy duds?” I drawled. “Hot date with Simone for lunch?”

  Max shook his head as came over and flung himself into the chair by my desk. “Nah, Miles Buck will be here today. He’s been traveling, and he’s big on appearances.” Rolling his eyes, Max tugged on his sleeves. “Your dad never appreciated him being brought on, he has an appetite for dissent, but he does have good business sense, and he made a hell of an investment.”

  “But he’s not here all the time?” I asked, suddenly very glad I opted for a more formal all black ensemble this morning on a whim. “Oh, he’s Mucky,” I said, grinning a little. “That was his nickname in the stories Dad used to tell about him.” I rubbed my forehead. “Sounds like a delight.”

  “Hey, listen, all of the films are on schedule, Hans is only breathing into a paper bag every other hour, and Lucy hasn’t incinerated anyone in two weeks.” Max’s voice was bright. “The company is chugging along. Our stocks dipped after your dad passed…” His voice skipped a little on those words, as though snagging on something, and he swallowed hard. “But they’re creeping back up. Even the media has backed off with their reports of us ‘floundering.’”

  I nodded, remembering the uproar of last Tuesday when the Wall Street Journal had published a rather contrite Op-Ed about the future of our company. It hadn’t mentioned me by name, but there was a line in there about the “Prodigal Son” splurging his father’s riches or some nonsense like that.

  Part of me wished my dad had been alive to see it. He probably would have laughed his ass off and then fired off a letter to the editor that would have been trending on
Twitter in twenty minutes flat. While Dad was born a filmmaker, there was no denying the man had flair when wielding a pen in moments of need.

  As Max continued to discuss the stocks and investments, an idea tugged in my brain, starting to form and coalesce into something bright and shiny. The company was already hovering at the edge of the public eye, and any move we did was going to bring it on us anyway.

  In that case, why not do what Bold Pictures did best – make bold moves and lineup ideas for a new documentary? Something that hearkened to the old school Lukas Boldin, but also tied together the vision for the future.

  After all, my father had made his name making a movie about my grandfather’s love of shoes and his start in America as a shoeshine boy – one that ended with my grandfather as an affluent, beloved businessman selling shoes. I recalled how Dad told me how people had shaken their heads, raising their eyebrows, and glancing at each other as this eager twenty-six-year-old explained his idea.

  No one wanted to fund it, not even my grandfather, who thought making movies was a waste of time. (To this day, he was still dubious about it, shaking his head whenever someone brought it up.)

  Suddenly it was like someone lit a fire in the pit of my stomach – I could barely pay attention to what Max was saying. Grabbing my phone, I typed in a quick note to myself, and then checked the time.

  “Let’s go muck around with Miles,” I said, standing up and stretching.

  Max shot me a hard look as we exited the room. “Did you hear a word I said, Kris?”

  “I heard most of your words,” I said painstakingly, striding down the hallway quickly, my veins still buzzing with from the idea. “Just not all in order or in any way I could respond to you.”

  “Kris…” Max said in a warning tone, but we had come to the double doors of the meeting room. It was already packed with people. I wasn’t sure if my dad had inspired these people to be on time or if they now treated every meeting like a sideshow and I was the dancing monkey.

  Buck was sitting near my seat, and I quickly shook his hand. Though he was the only new face in the room, something about his presence seemed to give a new dynamic to the group. Everything felt sharper, more keyed up.

  He was a tall man, with sandy blond hair, gray eyes, and a smile with something of a sardonic twist to it. Basically, Miles Buck looked like he could snap his fingers and have you served up as a side dish while he sipped champagne on his yacht.

  Part of me wanted to hate him on sight, but I couldn’t do that anymore. Repressing a sigh, I reminded myself, Play nice with the other kids, Kris.

  After smoothing over the feathers still ruffled from the Wall Street article, going over the numbers, and discussing the budget for another documentary, I saw an opening for broaching my brand-spanking new idea.

  In my mind, I saw the same fervor I felt lighting up the faces around the table, and I did a little drumroll on the table in spite of myself. Buck raised an eyebrow, while Max's eyes darted to me in alarm, and Lucy sat up even straighter. I ignored all of them.

  Smiling, I said, “It occurs to me that there is a sense of aimlessness pervading Bold, which is a word I don’t think any of us would acquaint with this production house. To that end, friends, Romans, countrymen, I propose we prevent ourselves from further ossifying and shake things up.

  “I think we need a new a documentary – a big one, something that calls to the past and future of this company. Tells the world why we win a fancy award almost every year. And maybe make a run for another Emmy or a Grierson in the meantime.”

  While I didn’t expect a rising up like what Marc Anthony had inspired with his poem, I had expected some kind of reaction. But I was met with a sea of blank stares. Even Max looked flabbergasted. Suddenly I felt like I’d just delivered my own eulogy.

  “Let me get this straight – you want to take a company that’s already teetering on an interesting edge of progress – and push it further?” Buck was speaking, leaning forward, and smiling at me. But his eyes were cold and flat, a wolf scenting prey.

  “It would stir up the right kind of publicity,” Hans offered up, albeit weakly.

  “Absolutely not!” exclaimed a woman from the other end of the room. Her face was thunderous. “Our budgets for next year’s films are already accounted for. Where would that come from? We’d have to liquefy assets…”

  “Please do not speak of the company’s assets as though you handle them, Shelby,” said Lucy, her eyes sparking and voice tight. “If Kris thinks this is the direction, then we need to find the money and get it done. That’s the Bold way.”

  “What exactly would this movie about, though?” Buck asked, his tone friendly, but his gaze still calculating. “I mean, I’m not a movie guy, but that sounds like a big idea. The past and future wedded together? Wouldn’t that take time to hash it out and test it and all that?”

  “Our time and Bold’s money would be better spent,” spoke up Shelby again, her voice even colder, “remastering some of the old documentaries. Perhaps even doing a limited release in iMax theaters. I know that Lukas was investigating that for one of the documentaries he did about the advancements in telescopes. The science community was certainly clamoring for it.”

  A murmur of assent ran around the room, and Lucy bit her lip as she met my eyes.

  Frank Giallio, an older guy, leaned back in his chair. “Remastering would be an ideal marketing push. We need one anyways. Plus, as Kris pointed out, we also need to get back to our roots here at Bold. Remember, we make movies that matter.”

  The meeting started to disintegrate as people broke up, discussing marketing and what films should get remastered, and a sense of being about two feet tall came over me.

  Clearing my throat, I managed to get the attention of the room back. “I agree,” I said, and there were some expressions of surprise. I nearly bit my tongue off in resisting the urge to say something snarky. “Let’s work on that for now. Frank, would you be so kind as to take the lead?”

  Nodding, Frank handed out other assignments, as I leaned heavily on the arm of my chair, dry-eyed, humiliated, and hoping I didn’t look as though my bones were made of lead.

  After that, the meeting broke off, and people headed to lunch. As Buck passed me, he lightly said, “Heavy is the head. Hang in there, Kris.” I jerked my head in a nod at his words, gritting my jaw, and trying not to think how satisfying it would be to sink my fist into his smug face.

  Five minutes later it was just Max and me sitting in the room. The quiet between us was heavy, and he frowned, clicking around on his laptop. Finally, he sighed and moved into the seat next to me.

  “Yikes,” I remarked. “Maybe I should have avoided invoking the name of a tyrant while trying to pitch my first big idea. Although you’d think a bunch of film buffs would appreciate a dose of culture during a meeting.” My sarcasm was thicker than usual, and Max saw right through it.

  “It wasn’t a bad idea.” He hesitated. “It’s more that it wasn’t thought out. Everyone could tell it was spur of the moment – it was too impulsive. You’d think for creative types, they’d be all over it. But initially, they spook like sheep and go running for the hills.”

  Sitting forward, I looked at him. “Wait, you’re saying to pursue it?” I shook my head. “I don’t know, Max, it seemed wildly unpopular. Almost as much as me. Or watery ketchup. Nobody likes watery ketchup.”

  I couldn’t distract Max. “I’m not saying pursue it in the hopes of getting their approval – I’m saying do it and do it right. But you need the full pitch. Remember, most of the people in here went to film school. They’re used to having their ideas raked over hot coals, critiqued in front of large groups of people – I mean, why do you think Hans is so twitchy all the time?”

  “I assumed he had a fear of birds,” I joked. “And, hm, an actual, well-constructed idea. That’s a new one.” But my mind felt as blank as a white sheet of paper. “Alright…”

  Suddenly, I understood what my dad had meant when he
said the empty page was one of the scariest things a man had to face down.

  “Remember too, they’re expecting you to be able to handle criticism,” Max said. “You hung in there today, but don’t let Buck or Shelby get to you. If other people see the leader getting worried, they’ll get worried. You don’t want to set off any shockwaves of panic.”

  “Thanks,” I remarked hollowly, already cursing myself for doing that. “Anything else, Sensei?”

  “Yeah,” Max stood up and gave me a hard look. “Take the rest of the day off. You practically live here. You look beat. And I know you haven’t looked for a new place to live.”

  Watching him leave, I realized he was right. I wanted to get out of here.

  Hell, I had to get out of here. This place was driving me insane, and I knew that anything I tried to get done would just frustrate me to no end.

  Recalling how Max had recommended Birmingham Realty, I went to my office, spoke quietly with the assistant about holding my calls and rescheduling anything else for the day, then escaped the overly bright, airy halls of Bold Pictures for the heavy, warm Alabama springtime.

  Breathing in the fresh air, I hopped into my Land Rover, the sun already blistering my black clothes. Ripping off my jacket, I loosened my tie and threw that to the side too. Then I roared out of the parking lot and headed for downtown Birmingham.

  The music was loud and loose, and my hand dragged through the air currents out the window. But it seemed like I was pretending to enjoy it. My mind was back at work, my stomach filling with guilt for taking off, and my body thrumming with adrenaline after that meeting.

  An idea… An idea…

  “Wish you told me how the hell you did this year in and year out, Dad,” I grumbled out loud.

  Once downtown, I found a spot in the parking lot near the realty office and strode towards the building. My mind was still racing, fists clenched, when I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.

  A young woman was walking down the sidewalk towards me, a tray of coffees in her hands. She was wearing a pretty white and blue floral dress, demurely flaunting her curvy figure and showing off her nice legs. Her face was tilted up to the sun, and long brown curls swung over her shoulders. At that moment, a sweet, relaxed smile crossed her face.