“Chrystelle isn’t interested in our family discussions.” Quint’s voice held warning.
“Darling, at thirty, I believe it’s time you settle down. You work harder than your father did when he built the production company,” Frances said.
“We’ll discuss this later, in private. We never know when someone with a link to the media is looking for a scoop to sell.” Quint tipped his head at his mother.
“You’re right about that.” Frances gave a weary laugh and fanned an elegant hand in front of her face. “How I long for the days when no one knew who I was.”
“What, and give up all this?” Quint gestured at the room.
“Maybe not all of it but being subject to media scrutiny is certainly something I could live without. Here comes the master of ceremonies. We need to take our seats.” She looped her arm through Chrystelle’s. “Come, dear, I want you to sit next to me and tell me all about yourself.”
“Me?” Chrystelle touched two fingers to her chest. “That’ll take three seconds.” She let Frances lead her to a chair near the podium. “Tonight’s been the most exciting night of my life.”
“I once thought being cast as the lead in a high school play my senior year was the pinnacle of my life. Never did I dream I’d be starring in Hollywood movies. Of course, that was back in the day when Hollywood was glamorous.” Frances flashed the high-wattage smile Chrystelle had seen on the screen a million times.
“One of the most memorable nights of my life was when I attended your performance at the Anaheim dinner theatre. My life changed forever,” Malcolm said as he looked at his wife, his eyes shining.
“As well as mine.” The love Frances held for her husband glowed in her eyes.
“What about you, Miss Bach?” Malcolm asked. “What brought you to California?”
“I want to be a scriptwriter.” Should she confess her deep desire? Would he think she was begging for a job? Too late now. She wasn’t ashamed to be a scriptwriter, but to most people, it sounded naïve. She was one of thousands of hopefuls who wanted to sell a script. She forged on. “I’ve seen every movie and television series Fairchild Films has ever produced. I’ve been writing scripts to submit to your production company since high school. Your company is one of the few that produces family-oriented features. Unfortunately, I can’t live in Colorado and interest Hollywood producers in my writing, so I came here hoping to get my scripts into the right hands.”
“A scriptwriter after my own heart,” Malcolm said and patted her hand. “Send a script to Quint. He can decide if what you write fits our standard.”
“I already have, sir,” Chrystelle said.
“Is that so?” Malcolm said slowly and looked expectantly at his son.
“Chrystelle’s effort to put her script in the right hands worked this morning,” Quint said.
Her throat burned. What must Quint’s father think of her bold move?
“Chrystelle was my driver this morning since Jerry was unavailable. She had a script with her which she asked me to look at.” Quint’s mouth curved with amusement.
Chrystelle flushed with unbearable heat. More like demanded he look at it. She glanced at Quint’s father and saw his knowing look. “You must think I’m brash, but I’m really not.” She was speaking too quickly, but she needed for him to know the truth. “Granted, I had hoped for an opportunity to present my script which was why I had brought it with me. I used the opportunity to give it to Quint.”
Malcolm gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You have to be bold in this town. The competition is fierce.”
“It’s a clever script, Dad.” The intensity in Quint’s face made Chrystelle’s heart flip over. “I haven’t read the entire script, but so far it definitely meets the Fairchild standards. With a few tweaks, it might work.”
“I want to hear all about it.” Eagerness flickered in Malcolm’s eyes.
“I’ll let Chrystelle answer that.” Quint dropped his gaze to her.
“Well ...” she began but never finished. Every star she’d ever seen in the movies, or producer or director whose name had graced the credits, came to their table and greeted them. She met so many people that had she not already known who they were, she’d never remember their names. Everyone she’d been introduced to seemed truly delighted to meet her. She was stunned and ecstatic to shake hands with the movers and shakers of the industry.
Quint and his parents were quick to explain Chrystelle was a scriptwriter and several of their acquaintances told her to have her agent contact their offices.
If she only had an agent. Quint had said if they reached an agreement, he’d help her get one. Would he remember?
She needed to manage her expectations. Hollywood was filled with people who said anything to get what they wanted, but why would Quint want her? She looked around at the glamorous women filling the theatre. He could have his pick. These women were beautiful and successful. She was a nobody who’d accomplished nothing except how to drive a limo and serve a Tom Collins.
The awards banquet was a night to remember as she conversed with Quint, his parents, and other Hollywood stars while nibbling tofu Wellington and a salad of dandelion greens. Servers dashed around the tables keeping the wineglasses and the water glasses full. Dessert was a dairy-free cheesecake parfait topped with strawberries and blueberries, accompanied by organic coffee and tea. During the dessert, the master of ceremonies commended Quint for his dedication to the film industry and his volunteer work within the community. Thanks to Quint’s hard work, several young filmmakers had premiered their films. Quint humbly accepted the award and gave a short speech.
After the ceremony, audience members crowded around Quint to offer their congratulations. He accepted the praise with modesty and was quick to turn the conversation to the latest project of his friend or acquaintance. He introduced Chrystelle to each associate, who were all eager to know her connection to the industry.
Chrystelle’s head was spinning by the time Quint led her to the waiting limousine.
“It’s been delightful,” Frances said as she stood next to her on the red carpet. Camera crews still crowded around the entrance and scrambled for interviews from the exiting stars and other executives. “Quint, you must bring Chrystelle by the house. An awards dinner is hardly the place to make conversation, and we need to get to know her better.”
“Trust me, Mrs. Fairchild—” Chrystelle began.
“Now, dear, you must call me Frances. All my friends do, and I do hope we’ll be friends.” Quint’s mother patted her hand.
“Frances.” The name could barely escape Chrystelle’s lips. She was talking to America’s Sweetheart. Your majesty seemed more appropriate than calling the world’s most famous movie star by her first name. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Of course, there is. Everyone has a story. We’ll see each other soon.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and blew her a kiss before turning away.
“Quint, my boy, bring this young lady to our house for dinner,” Malcolm said.
“I’ll make arrangements.” Quint smiled at Chrystelle.