Page 8 of Out of the Gold

Chase

Melody snaps thestupid rubber band around her wrist two times and repeats, “Put your hand here.Please.”

Her last word sounds more like Noble’s orders—pleaseget this done in one take so we can all go to lunch—rather than a polite request. Despite that, I plunk my hand down on the cloth. She traces an outline, twice, with a Sharpie, repeating the same process for my other hand.

Pacing inside the trailer, I head over to the fridge and grab one of my waters to calm my nerves. I’m renowned for never getting upset on a shoot. Directors always comment about how even-tempered I am, and how much they enjoy working with me. I’m not a diva.

Then why am I running on empty for this movie?

When we were in Florence, it wasn’t bad. Everything went pretty well, with the usual hiccups. Something changed with the salt air, ever since we arrived in Amalfi. Maybe it’s the realization I’m wearing a stupid superhero costume again, no matter how well designed this one is. Perhaps it’s the two hours it takes for me to get into said costume.

Yeah. That must be it. I’ve never had so much attention paid to my wardrobe before.

Placing the blame for my surly attitude squarely on the learning curve for my new costume, I twist the bottle open. A burst of fizz soaks into my soul, and I take a sip. The water flows down my throat, leaving inner peace in its wake. All I need to do is adjust to this new normal. Besides, it’s only another couple of weeks of filming, and this trial will be over.

“There. Try these on.” She shoves a couple of slips of material at me.

While I was finishing up a bottle of my water, she made a prototype for the new gloves. I take the hastily made garments from her and slide my hands into them.

She turns them in all different directions. “How do they feel?”

I form fists, then release them and wiggle my fingers. I count to five before replying, “They’re good.”

The door to my trailer opens and her colleague enters. Helene’s older than Melody and doesn’t put me on the defensive like she does. Perhaps I can ask to have my dresser switched? Walking over to us, she examines the muslin gloves on my hands and whispers something in Melody’s ear.

She nods at her co-worker then moves each one of my fingers. “I agree,” she addresses me. “I think these will work.” Melody points to the ends of the gloves that finish partway up my arm. “I made them this length so your bodysuit will easily cover them.”

Whatever. It’s a smart design. I don’t bother telling her that. “How long will it take you to make real ones?”

“About an hour.”

“Okay. I want to get out of the bodysuit.” After stripping out of the new gloves, I head to the back of the trailer and stand with my legs wide. Reaching down, I unsnap the material.

In the front, Helene holds out a black fabric. “Here, I found this silk. Judith agrees—should be perfect.”

Melody responds, but I’m not interested so long as the gloves get fixed. I try to wiggle out of the bodysuit, but it gets caught across my upper body. Damn. Without a word, Melody appears at my side and helps me take it off. Freed, she returns to Helene while I toss the bodysuit on a table, throw the damp undershirt away, and leave the two women in the trailer to create gloves that should’ve been done correctly the first time.

A few steps from the trailer, Judith meets me. “So very sorry for what happened to you back there. We never considered the possibility the glove could become a liability for you.”

“Thank you, Judith. I appreciate your words.” Not like either of her assistants offered any such sympathies.

“How are the new gloves coming along?”

“Okay.” I point toward the trailer. “Melody created a pattern and Helene dropped off the new fabric.”

Her eyes follow the direction of my finger. “I’ll make sure everything will work as you need it to.”

Before she takes a step, I ask, “How about switching up Melody for Helene as my dresser?”

Judith grimaces for a split-second, then schools her features. “Did something happen between you and Melody?”

We grew up together in Chicago and, even though we never met there, she knows who I really am.

She’s living her truth—being a costume designer.

Her beauty rubs me the wrong way.

No sooner do these thoughts enter my brain does my ingrained need to be seen as easygoing resurfaces, and I shrug. “I just feel more relaxed around Helene.”

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