Jason Page 5

  He finished his smoothie, picked up his phone, and started making calls.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MALLORY BELIEVED that flying around in private jets at the drop of a hat was an incredible waste of both environment and money. She was totally prepared to have her environmental principles completely offended. She was 100 percent going to tell Jason that calling her in the middle of the night to command her to fly to Maine was not only borderline psycho boss behavior, but also meant he didn’t truly care about his carbon footprint or the environment.

  But then she was distracted by the news coming out about Darien—specifically tweets claiming that the intern wasn’t the only woman who had trouble with him. So typical. But what surprised Mallory was that it was Darien. If it had been Cass Farenthold, she would have had zero problem believing it.

  Cass despised Mallory for reasons she did not really understand, particularly as she’d been perfectly respectful to him. She admired his work. She was thrilled when she got to meet him. But there was that one time when they were casting what was supposed to be a transgender friend of a season one character. The actor Cass wanted was not transgender. Mallory said she thought they ought to ask transgender actors audition. Cass’s gaze was cold enough to make her want a parka. He did not take suggestions well.

  On the day of shooting, the young actor could not convincingly portray a transgender character, and the writers were sent scrambling to repair the scene. The delay was costly, and since then, Cass could hardly look at her.

  Big baby.

  Anyway, on the way to the airport, Mallory found her indignation again, and was once again prepared to give Jason a talking to. But this time, she actually stepped onto that private jet, and it was awesome.

  Mallory could see why people might possibly forget their environmental principles to pass up the crowded airports and shrinking seats and the constant dinging of the wallet by the airlines. She could understand why the lure of wide and soft seats that made into beds made flying fun again. She was so glad she’d worn a dress instead of the “sweats” Jason had called her athleisure attire, because it seemed like a flight like this demanded a different sort of vibe. Preferably, a vibe of having some money. She did not have money, but she was a good enough actor to pretend like she did.

  The plane had six seats covered in supple leather, a bathroom that was the size of her closet, and recessed overhead lights. The trim was mahogany, the glassware crystal, and even the flight attendant looked like a superior form of human. His name was Chasen, and he was tall and quite fit, and was very solicitous of her, although he wore an expression that suggested he was bored by her. Maybe because he’d seen her type before. Mallory had blurted in her excitement, “This is my first time on a private jet!”

  Chasen kindly offered her a pre-flight glass of champagne. But beyond that, he seemed not inclined to share Mallory’s wonder at the marvels of private air travel. He was, however, inclined to show her how her personal lights and television worked, how to put the seat down into a bed, and where the blanket was stowed. And then he dimmed the cabin lights.

  Mallory had planned to eat and drink everything that flight offered her. She had intended to luxuriate on the leather seat in full recline position, with five full hours with on-demand movies and television. And she had planned to report back to her friends—nay, gloat to her friends. Unfortunately, no thanks to Jason and his middle of the night phone call, and maybe the two glasses of champagne she’d very cheerfully allowed Chasen to serve her, she’d fallen asleep almost at once, and didn’t wake up until the captain announced they were landing.

  The announcement startled her out of a deep sleep, and she was so disoriented for a moment that she jerked up and wrenched her neck. “Ow,” she whispered, rubbing her nape. She opened the window shade and looked out as the plane began to descend. They were over ocean—she couldn’t see much more than that until the plane touched down. Even then, the only thing she could really see was a rather plain building with one gate and a wind sock on top. Off to the side of the building were two smaller planes, and in the distance, a hangar.

  Chasen, from maybe three feet away, pulled down the mic and said, “We’ve arrived at King Harbor Regional Airport. Please wait until the captain has come to a complete stop before removing your seat belt or standing. Thank you.” He hung up the mic.

  Of course Mallory waited until the captain had come to a complete stop. She dragged her fingers through her hair and rooted around for her bag. She didn’t know what to expect, but that airport looked so small that she was suddenly hoping Jason hadn’t stuck her in some fishing cabin for the weekend. She knew the Blackthornes were very wealthy…but she also knew how eccentric wealthy people could be. Hollywood was filled with wealthy weirdos.

  When the plane had parked, Chasen opened the door. Someone had rolled steps up to the plane. “I guess this is goodbye,” Mallory said to Chasen.

  “It is,” he confirmed and with his arms folded over his middle, he indicated with his chin she should exit.

  “Okay! Thank you!” Mallory stepped out onto the top level of the stairs then proceeded to descend like a celebrity. Unfortunately, no one was around to see her do it.

  She continued on, to the tiny terminal.

  Inside, there were a few people milling about. There was one airline counter for Caribou Air, and two car rental counters that were manned by the same woman. She waited until a man in a yellow vest delivered her small suitcase, then rolled it the twenty feet across the terminal to the front window. As instructed, she’d placed a call to King Harbor Limos before taking off. The man who’d answered said, “Okay, when did you say you needed pickup?”

  Mallory had repeated her flight information.

  “Got it. See you then.”

  “Wait!” Mallory said before he could hang up. “Isn’t there a confirmation number or something?”

  “A what? No, none of that. I’ll be there.” And he’d clicked off.

  Well, if he was here, he was not presenting himself. She looked around the tiny waiting area, but she didn’t see anyone who looked like a driver, no one in a dark suit of clothing. No one holding a brightly lit iPad displaying her name. There was hardly anyone at all.

  Mallory took one of eight seats and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more. She tried to call King Harbor Limos, but got no answer. Two passengers leaving King Harbor eventually picked up their bags and walked out on to the tarmac. The rental car agent shut off the lights over her two counters. Mallory pulled out her phone and texted Jason:

  At the airport.

  She studied the text, wondering if she ought to say more. Like, Your limo service flaked out on me, or I cannot believe you made me fly out here. While she debated what else to say, three dots appeared on the bottom of her screen. And then vanished.

  Mallory frowned. She was starting to worry. The guy behind Caribou Air kept looking at her, then looking at his watch. The terminal, such that it was, was closing up shop and Mallory had been waiting for over an hour.

  She used her phone to google a hotel or inn—some place to stay in King Harbor. And then she began to wonder how in hell she would find her way out of King Harbor if Jason had flaked on her and flown off to Boston or—and she’d seriously kill him this time if that’s what he’d done—when a white van pulled up outside the glass doors and screeched to a stop. The driver door flew open and a mountain of a man bounced out and hurried to the doors of the terminal holding a crumbled piece of paper in his hand. He yanked open the doors like he was late for a flight and then stood with his legs braced apart, looking around. He was wearing a newsboy cap and a leather vest, had a long, scraggly gray beard. He reminded her of someone…who was it?

  The name suddenly struck her—he looked very much like George RR Martin, the creator of the Game of Thrones fantasy series. Mallory’s heart skipped a beat. For one tiny moment, she thought Jason might have hired —

  “Mallory? Mallory Pri
nce?”

  Mallory gained her feet and stood uncertainly. “Price.”

  He looked at his paper. “Right. Got some cousins in Texas named Prince. Confused you with them.” The man adjusted his glasses. “Need a ride to the Blackthorne place, that right?”

  That was right. She nodded. Her gaze slid to the plate glass windows and the windowless white van. The man’s gaze followed hers. “Flowers.”

  “Oh. I thought it was supposed to be, ah… I understood it was a limo service?”

  “That’s my brother. But he’s got a…” he made a whirling motion with his hand, “well let’s just call it a situation,” he said. “So I came to get you. That your bag?” he asked, gesturing to the one at her feet.

  “Yes.” She picked it up, but he trundled forward and grabbed it from her.

  “Come on,” he said, moving toward the door. “We’re late.”

  Mallory thought that the “we” in that statement was spreading the blame for being late a little too wide. She hurried to catch up with him, very uncertain about him and this van business. Did no one watch crime shows?

  George RR Martin glanced over his shoulder at her. “Are you a Blackthorne?”

  “No!” Mallory laughed…but she didn’t mean to laugh quite that hard. “I work for a Blackthorne.”

  “You never know around here,” he said. “There’s dozens of them if there’s one.” He held open the door of the terminal for her, then hurried on to the van a few feet away. He slid open the side panel door and Mallory was instantly hit with the strong scent of roses. He shoved her bag behind the passenger seat and a large cardboard box, then opened the front passenger seat, picked up a stack of papers and a map book, and tossed them in the back. “There you go.” He didn’t wait for her to get in—he was already hurrying around to the driver’s side of the van as if he suspected the airport was going to blow at any moment.

  Mallory hesitated. This van, those flowers—Jason had said a limo service. It didn’t seem particularly smart to get in a flower delivery van with a man who was not the limo driver. Which, come to think of it, was not a bad premise for an episode of Bad Intentions. She’d just make a quick note on her phone.

  George RR Martin climbed into the driver’s seat, picked up a clipboard and jotted something down, then tossed it onto the dash. He cranked up the van then looked at Mallory, still standing where he’d left her. “Well? Come on, now, we’re already late. We got some weather moving in.”

  She glanced at the sky. It was sunny and blue with some stripes of clouds across it. She glanced back. The airport was definitely closing and she hadn’t figured out a lot of options. So she got in.

  “The name is Ned,” he said.

  “Hi Ned.”

  “You been out to the Blackthorne place before?”

  “Never.”

  “Nice drive. Scenic, if you’re into oceans.”

  She was into oceans. Who wasn’t into oceans?

  Ned wasn’t kidding about the scenic part. He took a route along the rocky coastline. The tide was coming in, great waves crashing against the cliffs. They passed two lighthouses, and in the distance she could see trawlers and sailboats bobbing on the surface.

  They entered a quaint fishing village with a wooden sign that proclaimed it to be King Harbor. It looked like something you’d see on a postcard, a colorful fishing village that looked rustic and quaint with it’s Cape Cod-style houses facing the water, the fish and tackle shops along the docks. The harbor was calm, the surface smooth, and boats were peacefully anchored, hardly moving at all.

  Ned drove past restaurants that boasted the best Maine clam chowder. Several of them advertised the availability of Blackthorne whisky. From one shop, a colorful array of wind socks in the shape of fish dangled along the overhang. Shop windows were filled with miniature lighthouses at varying sizes, and of course, red lobsters were the symbol of most businesses.

  After they had gone through the village, Ned turned left onto a narrower road. It wended around the cliffs and through thick stands of trees until they came to a halt outside a tall white wooden gate. “Here you are,” Ned said, and put the van in park.

  “Here we are?” Mallory said, but Ned was already out the driver door.

  She got out of the van as Ned retrieved her suitcase. With his chin and beard, he indicated the gate. “You’ll find the Blackthorne place through there.”

  Mallory looked at the gate and the No Trespassing sign. “Through there. There’s a sign that says no trespassing.”

  “Just a warning.”

  She blinked. “But isn’t there a door or something?”

  Ned looked a little exasperated. “Look, it’s on the other side of that gate, and there ain’t much space between us and the ocean. You’ll find it well enough. Just go through the smaller gate there,” he said, and pointed to a small door next to the big gates. He rolled her suitcase to her, then hurried back to the driver’s seat.

  Mallory stood dumbly and watched him back the van up and drive off with a cheery wave, leaving her utterly alone on that road on the wrong side of a big wooden gate.

  She took out her phone and phoned Jason. No answer. He’d probably misplaced his phone. “Predictable,” she muttered.

  She adjusted her backpack, gripped her suitcase, and walked to the small door in the fence and tried the handle. It was open. She stepped through to a jungle of overgrowth on the other side. “This is not the Blackthorne place!” she shouted in exasperation. The undergrowth grew up and over the footpath. But she could see a road, and she managed to get her bag down the uneven path to a drive. Given how many weeds were poking up through the asphalt, this didn’t bode well. She pictured some sort of Grey Gardens scenario. Rolling her suitcase behind her, Mallory started down the asphalt road, glancing back over her shoulder every now and then, sort of wishing Ned would come through and pick her up. The wind had picked up quite a bit, and it felt as if her hair was standing straight up because of it. Plus, it was a fairly steep road, and her suitcase kept bumping into her heel.

  The road slowly began to curve, and as it did, the top of a massive structure came into view.

  She could see a roof. And then…a hotel? But it had dormers and a widow’s walk. An inn? It had to be—this looked much bigger than a house. Had Jason ever mentioned a Blackthorne inn or resort?

  Her phone suddenly startled her and she almost killed herself trying to get it out of her pocket. “Jason!” she shouted into the phone.

  “Whoa, that was loud,” Jason said. “Where are you?”

  “Walking down a road toward this inn. Where are you?”

  “Mallory? Are you there? I can’t hear you—you’re breaking up.”

  “I’m on a road!” she shouted.

  “Text me when you get here.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I think I’m—”

  “Wow, the reception is really bad, Mallory. You’re all garbled. TEXT ME WHEN YOU GET HERE,” he shouted, and clicked off.

  “Wait!” She hurried down the road trying to get a better signal, but it was too late—he’d hung up. “Damn it, Jason,” she muttered. That was so like him, rushing from one thing to another, couldn’t give it ten seconds to see if she could get to a better signal.

  She walked on, annoyed now, watching the inn or whatever it was get larger and larger until she was standing right outside another, smaller gate in a white picket fence. The fence surrounded a garden. Attached to the garden was a Cape Cod cottage with dormer windows and a porch that faced the sea. It was so picturesque.

  She noticed a small woman with a head full of white hair, dressed in red sneakers and clam diggers, wandering through the garden. Mallory hadn’t seen an actual pair of clam diggers since she was a girl.

  The garden the woman was wandering was bursting with color. She seemed to be focused on the peonies and rhododendrons, clipping off dead leaves, filling a bucket with the blooms. There were hollyhocks that stood as tall as her, and patches of larkspur and foxglove so t
hick that Mallory worried she’d get lost in them. Mallory would bet that old lady knew everything there was to know about the rhododendrons she was bent over.

  She parked her suitcase, adjusted her backpack onto her shoulder, and began to walk toward the woman on the gravel path. “Hello!” she called.

  The woman turned around and stared at Mallory. Her clear blue eyes were filled with curiosity, as if she thought she might know Mallory from somewhere. Or maybe didn’t know her at all.

  Mallory smiled to put her at ease. “Do you work here?” she asked as she drew closer. She looked around the garden. “It’s so pretty.”

  “Do I work here?” the woman asked incredulously. “I most certainly do not.”

  Mallory blanched. “I’m sorry. I just thought that you…you were working on the rhododendrons and I…” Okay, back it up. “I was looking for Jason Blackthorne. I think he’s staying here?”

  “Well of course he is. It’s his home.”

  Mallory tried gamely to compute that statement. Jason’s family lived in an inn? Were they maybe innkeepers? She looked over her shoulder and studied the structure. That wasn’t an inn for the rich and famous, it was a house for the rich and famous. It wasn’t as if Mallory hadn’t seen giant houses—she lived in L.A. after all. But this was so huge and so charming, with so many nooks and crannies and angles and windows and doors. And the widow walk! It looked like an expensive inn. The kind that had been converted to a treatment facility where celebrities were sent to recover from “exhaustion.”

  Mallory had heard Jason was whisky rich, which, okay, Mallory didn’t really know what that meant. He had a respectable house in Hollywood Hills—she’d had to deliver scripts to him once. But this house was a whole other level, and never in a million years would she guess whisky was this kind of rich.

  “You better go let him know you’re here,” the woman said, waving toward the house. “You don’t want to get caught in a storm.”

  Mallory looked up at the spring sky. Wavy puffs of white clouds were bunching together over the ocean.