Page 87 of The Oscar Escape
The pitch: Come to see the rare lobster. Stay to shop, eat, take in a concert, and partake in the various arts attractions the island has to offer.
In essence, they had one shot to put Havenmatch Island back on people’s radar and into the tourism board’s good graces. With the residents eating up their suggestions, they’d even brainstormed a long-term plan to partner with local high schools, colleges, and community centers. They’d tossed around ideas about creating mentorships and residencies to jumpstart the island’s artistic community. They certainly had the space and the facilities.
But they couldn’t get ahead of themselves.
As of right now, those proposals were pie-in-the-sky musings, and the love the residents were showering on them for finding Clawdia Junior could disappear in a heartbeat if he and Aria didn’t deliver.
Step one was making the Love and Lobsters Festival a rip-roaring success, and that required more than a cotton-candy-colored lobster to harness the attention of the masses. They needed well-integrated elements that would stick with people long after they got a glimpse of the lovely crustacean.
What elements were required?
Visual and auditory content to convey the story of Havenmatch Island—content that invoked wonder, adoration, and curiosity. Images that grabbed the eye and music that captured the heart.
With Del and the other lobstermen as his guides, they’d scoured the island. From the rocky bluffs to the gray-shingled quaint village to the sandy surf-kissed beaches, he’d filmed and photographed the splendor of the place. And yes, there were plenty of shots of Clawdia Junior and the lobster boats bobbing in the harbor. But that was only part of this project. The lobster might be the main draw, but the people, the islanders, made this place so remarkable. He’d taken as much footage of the residents, with one exception. He’d made damn sure to keep Aria’s face out of the frame. He couldn’t forget that the public—especially those blood-thirsty paparazzi—couldn’t learn of her whereabouts. The last thing the island needed was Aria Paige-Grant mania taking over. Luckily, he was good at his job, and there wasn’t a chance she’d be identified in any of his recordings. The video was nearly ready. The last piece to complete was adding the soundtrack.
That’s where Aria came in.
Barely an hour after they’d stepped foot on the dock with Clawdia Junior, Aria had gathered the musicians, pushed up her sleeves, and opened her notebook. Sequestered in the schoolhouse with Georgia Winstegan by her side, she’d expanded on what she’d composed. Working straight through the night, she’d written her heart out, crafting a sweepingly emotive tune that whispered of the sea and the waves. It called to the heart like a siren’s song—a song that beckoned drifters and dreamers, welcoming them to this magical island. He’d thought “The Ballad of Havenmatch Island” sounded terrific hours ago, but his maestro fake wife wasn’t satisfied.
He checked his watch.
She’d need to be good to go in the next nineteen minutes, or the window of opportunity would close.
Still, despite the time crunch, he took a minute for himself. He sat back in his chair and zeroed in on her. Standing front and center, conducting and cueing the musicians, Aria was in her element, and she was absolutely breathtaking. Radiating joy and passion, she moved with the music, beckoning it to crash and roil like the surf, then coaxing it to settle into gentle, harmonious waves.
This was her calling—not grueling nights spent belting out tunes plastered in makeup and glitter and hanging from a crane like a life-sized puppet.
She was a composer.
She was a conductor.
She was an artist.
And she was his.
He knew what she needed. He understood what truly made her heart sing.
The piece ended, and he watched as she reached for her pink highlighter.
There was no time for another revision. He had to intervene.
“Aria,” he called. “I need to record the final version.”
Aria turned to Georgia Winstegan. Seated at the piano, the woman nodded. “It’s ready, Aria. Pulling back the violins in the final measure was the tweak that was missing. Don’t you think, Gibby?” Georgia surveyed the cluster of residents who’d taken up vigil in the schoolhouse, observing as the makeshift orchestra brought the piece to life.
The jowly judge gave a thumbs-up. “When Georgia says it’s ready, it’s ready.”
The musicians nodded. Those with bows tapped them on their music stands.
Oscar studied the woman he loved, and he knew that look. Aria wasn’t convinced.
She held the highlighter against her chin. “Can I have twenty more minutes?”
She wouldn’t like his answer.
“No.”
“No?” she repeated, frustration slicing through the syllable. “I understand you want to post the video online as soon as possible. But why the rush? Why do you need it this very second?”
