Finding Colin Firth: A Novel (14 page)

Her confidence had disappeared and returned every few seconds on the three-minute drive to Frog Marsh. She wanted this. Bad.

The set had grown since she’d last been here. Multiple trailers instead of just one. Three vans. Barricades stacked alongside one another. A long table was set up by one of the trailers, which Veronica learned belonged to the second assistant director. She knew this because as the line grew behind her to at least two hundred people, he came out of the trailer and said, “Peeps, listen up. My name is Patrick Ool. That’s right, Ool. And yes, I’ve heard it all. Fool. Tool—a favorite with a certain PA—that’s production assistant for those of you new to moviemaking. I’m the second assistant director on the film, which is as yet untitled. We’re filming four scenes here in Boothbay Harbor, one in the Best Little Diner in Boothbay, two on the streets, and one on a cruise boat. We’re looking to hire fifty to seventy-five extras—”

One in the Best Little Diner in Boothbay . . . Veronica glanced down at her apron and almost couldn’t contain her
smile. This just might be her lucky day. If Veronica could act like anything, it was like a waitress at the Best Little Diner in Boothbay. She supposed this meant the diner would be shut down for the filming days. The director or producer or whoever paid for these things must be paying Deirdre a small fortune.

“When’s Colin Firth coming?” a woman near the front of the line shouted out. “That’s all I really care about,” she added with a laugh.

“You,” Patrick Ool barked, pointing at the woman who called out. “You’re banned from the set. Please leave.”

“Wait, but—” she said.

A security guard, the biggest person Veronica had ever seen, was already next to the woman, ushering her away. Veronica felt sorry for the woman; you could see the tears shimmering in her eyes as she kept turning back.

“Sorry, folks,” Patrick said. “I’m not a jerk, but that was a good lesson. If you’re here to get a glimpse of the stars of the film, leave now. If you’re here because you think working as an extra on a major film sounds really interesting and like something you’d enjoy, please stay. Number one rule of working as an extra is that you don’t talk to the stars. You don’t bother them. You don’t take pictures of them. You don’t tell them you’ve loved them since blah, blah, blah. You just don’t. If we’re clear on that, and you’re still standing here, great.”

Well, so much for rushing Colin Firth the moment he appeared, not that he did appear; Veronica kept one eye on Patrick Ool and one eye on the trailers, hoping Colin would suddenly emerge with that dazzling smile.

She had to get hired. She had to. The more the second assistant director talked about what was required of an extra—their
time, sitting around for hours, being dead quiet during filming, following directions from him—the bigger her hope grew.

Finally, the line inched up, and Veronica was next to meet the three people—two men, including Patrick Ool, and a woman—seated at a long table with a stack of résumés. The woman eyed Veronica’s apron, took a Polaroid of her without even giving her the heads-up to smile, jotted something down on the back, then took Veronica’s manila envelope and attached the Polaroid to it with a paper clip. With a thank-you and “we’ll be in touch,” Veronica was dismissed and Patrick Ool called out, “Next.”

It all happened so fast that Veronica hadn’t even thought to ask questions, but luckily the woman in line behind her had, and Veronica overheard Patrick Ool say that selected applicants would be notified in the next few days. Tonight, if she wasn’t all pied out after her class, she’d make herself that salted caramel Hope Pie and have a huge slice.

The Cast-Off Pie for Veronica’s newest client was all boxed up with Veronica’s signature red velvet ribbon and waiting on the kitchen counter. Veronica glanced at her watch. Five forty. The woman asked for a special rush pie and then was late picking it up? Nervy. In twenty minutes, Veronica would have a kitchen full of students for the first pie class.

Making the Cast-Off Pie had been an unexpected blessing earlier this afternoon. Measuring out the thick peanut butter and mixing in the shredded coconut and chocolate chips, making the graham cracker crust, had let her take her mind off tonight—having students like snobby former classmate Penelope
Von Blun, who never let her forget who she once was: the high school junior who’d gotten pregnant and sent away, and Officer Nick DeMarco, who always made her feel unsettled, perhaps because he represented Timothy to her in a way and brought back how Veronica had once—and never since—felt: deeply in love. Both people would be in her kitchen, the place that had long been her refuge. While making the pie, she’d focused on what she wanted to cast off from her own heart, her own mind: feeling less than, feeling ashamed, feeling sorry that she’d gotten herself into a situation at age sixteen that had had such incredible consequences—a baby taken away. A love destroyed. A family torn apart. Veronica, alone. She found herself putting all that into the pie, those negative feelings, but instead of feeling better, her heart felt heavier.

As she’d told her client, Cast-Off Pie didn’t always work. Then again, she hadn’t been making the pie for herself. The recipient would make the pie her own; that was how it worked, how it had always worked.

Veronica took a final glance around her kitchen, making sure everything was ready for class. She’d set up pie stations at the big center island, rolling pins and labeled canisters of ingredients for six people. Two students had called this morning to drop out; one forgot her knitting class started this week at the library, and another could barely get the words out that she was sick because she was coughing so violently. That made six students. Tonight they’d make a traditional apple pie, working on it together, unless anyone, such as Nick DeMarco’s daughter, wanted to make a special pie. Since Veronica had been teaching the class, she always handed out recipes for the special pies, as most people preferred to make them at home once they
learned the basics of pie making and saw that it wasn’t so hard at all.

The doorbell rang. Either a very late client or an early student.

Veronica didn’t recognize the woman at the door, and she knew all her students by sight. For a moment, the woman stared at Veronica, and she realized she had seen her around town a couple of times over the past few months. She was in her midthirties, with shoulder-length, swirly, highlighted blond hair and a dressy outfit, and she wore serious makeup, reminding Veronica of the way the Real Housewives of TV tended to style themselves. Veronica tried to imagine the Real Housewives of Maine, running around in fleece and L.L.Bean duck boots.

“I’m here for the special pie we discussed,” the woman finally said, hostility radiating from her. “You said it was called Cast-Off Pie.” She was dressed in such feminine, airy clothing at odds with her anger—a pale lavender silky tank top with ruffles down the front, off-white pants, and high-heeled mules. She wore a lot of gold jewelry too, including a wedding ring.

Her husband was having an affair? Veronica was no psychic, but she knew, somehow, that that wasn’t the case.

“I have it boxed up and ready to go,” Veronica said. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll go get it.” Veronica extended her hand. “Veronica Russo.”

The woman hesitated for a split second, making Veronica curious. What was up? “Beth,” was all she said in response.

As Veronica headed into the kitchen to get the pie, she sensed Beth staring holes into her back, shooting daggers, maybe. Her hostility didn’t seem truly focused on Veronica, though; there was something complicated at work here. When
she returned with the pie, Veronica said, “Do I know you from somewhere? I think I’ve seen you around town a couple of times, maybe.”

“I don’t think so,” Beth said, taking the pie. “So if the pie does its job, I just leave the fee in your mailbox, right? Fifteen dollars?”

“Yes. And if it doesn’t work, you don’t owe me a thing.”

“Well, we’ll see, then,” Beth said, offering Veronica a tight smile before turning and walking out the door, past two women coming up the walk.

Even if Veronica wanted to think about strange Beth, her first two students had arrived. And they were a lot friendlier too. A pair of sisters in aprons, Isabel and June Nash, who owned the Three Captains’ Inn, which had Veronica on standing order for two pies a week. Veronica liked both sisters, but she didn’t know them well. She was several years older than Isabel, who’d called her months ago to rave about her pie at the diner and to ask her to bake for the inn. Isabel had had a baby just six months ago, but you’d never know it from her perfect figure and how elegant she looked, even in jeans and a T-shirt. Veronica was at least ten years older than June, who had the most gorgeous wild curly auburn hair, secured tonight in a bun with chopsticks. June worked in Veronica’s favorite bookstore and had a very polite son.

“I’m determined to learn how to make my own piecrust without it turning all crumbly or getting all wet,” Isabel said. “Every time I try, it’s a disaster.”

“You should have tasted the banana cream pie I made for a bake sale for Charlie’s school last year,” June said. “I think I forgot the sugar entirely. Someone bought a slice, then came back to the table and asked for their money back!”

Veronica laughed. “That’ll never happen again, I promise.”

Next to arrive was Penelope Von Blun, who announced that her friend CeCe couldn’t take the class after all because of a conflict with something. Once again, Veronica was struck that Penelope looked different. For the past few weeks, she seemed . . . toned down. Her shoulder-length dark hair, which was usually flat-ironed to model perfection, was natural and wavy. The makeup was minimal. And without her usual fashionista wardrobe, she looked kind of like everyone else, like someone who lived in Maine instead of New York City. She’d always worn gobs of jewelry, but lately, Veronica noticed she wore only a gold heart locket around her neck and her wedding ring. A “make-under” instead of a makeover, really. Veronica wondered what it was about. Penelope Von Blun had had the same flashy, expensive style since middle school. But instead of pushing past Veronica and making snide comments about what Veronica was wearing or how small her house was, Penelope offered everyone a huge smile, complimented Veronica’s foyer painting of wildflowers and her earrings, then chatted up the Nash sisters and told them she’d heard “fabulous” things about their inn. This was a new and improved Penelope.

As Isabel and June chatted with Penelope, Nick DeMarco and his daughter, Leigh, arrived.

Nick knew everyone, of course. Between patrolling around town and writing tickets for speeding and expired registration stickers, Nick DeMarco and the other cops in town stood out. Women usually fawned over him, since he was good looking and widowed, and though Isabel and June were warm and friendly, especially to Leigh, they certainly weren’t fawning. Penelope was very friendly to him but not flirtatious. And Veronica, the
only single woman in the house, focused her attention on his daughter instead of Nick.

Just when Veronica thought Penelope couldn’t possibly get any warmer or fuzzier—or less snooty—she shone her attention on young Leigh DeMarco, asking her all about her summer camp, then shook Nick’s hand and told him that it was thanks to hardworking police officers like him that Boothbay Harbor was such a safe and wonderful place to live. Veronica had no idea why Penelope Von Blun had turned . . . nice, but it was a welcome change.

“So, let’s head into the kitchen and get started,” Veronica said, leading the way. It’ll be just the five of you, a perfect number for a pie class.”

“I love this kitchen,” Isabel said, glancing around the large room.

Veronica did too. The moment she’d seen the yellow bungalow, she’d known it was the right house for her, but when she stepped into the kitchen, she couldn’t believe her luck. A big country kitchen with painted white cabinets, lots of counter space, and original wood floors, the room was made for baking pies. Veronica had painted the walls a very pale blue and had a professional oven installed, but otherwise, she hadn’t had to renovate much at all. A back door opened to a small deck overlooking a tiny yard and Veronica’s container garden. She didn’t have much of a green thumb but liked to see flowers when she looked out the window.

The group gathered around the island, checking out the canisters and picking up the rolling pins.

“Tonight we’ll make a traditional apple pie,” Veronica said. “I know some of you might be interested in learning to make my
special elixir pies. I have the most requested recipes printed out, so if you’d like any of them, just let me know. If anyone would like to instead make a special pie, you can do that too and be off on your own, asking for help as you need it.”

“Apple pie for us, right, Leigh?” Nick asked his daughter.

Leigh glanced at the floor, then at Veronica. “Actually, I’m making a special pie. Shoofly pie.”

“I think I remember my great-grandmother making that when I was a kid,” Nick said, smiling at his daughter, then Veronica.

“Shoofly pie,” Isabel said. “My aunt Lolly used to love that! It’s molasses, isn’t it? She had such a sweet tooth.”