Page 88 of The Oscar Escape
“I’ve got a reason, but I didn’t want to mention it until I knew it was a real possibility.”
“Mention what?” Del called, walking inside with a few tapered candles clutched in his hand. Odd. Perhaps he was already prepping for the festival.
Aria pursed her lips. “What are you hiding? We’re not supposed to have any secrets,Mr. Elliott.”
Shit.
“It’s not a secret. Not really,” he reassured her, feeling every pair of eyes in the schoolhouse fall on him. “A couple of years ago, I worked on a documentary with another cameraman—Phil. I remembered that he’d mentioned he was from Maine. I reached out to him to see if he had any media connections. Turns out, he lives not far from here on the mainland. He’s a cameraman for a local news station.”
“They’re putting us on the evening news?” Margo quipped as she handed Aria bonbons.
Aria popped the treat into her mouth.
Thank God for chocolate. It saved him from being raked over the coals for keeping this from her.
“Maybe,” he replied, not wanting to oversell it—not yet. “Phil said his producer was excited to hear about the cotton candy lobster. I told him the video promoting the festival was the only footage available with the creature. Phil says they’ll air it tonight if they can shave a little time off one of their segments. But he needs the final cut in,” Oscar checked his watch, “eight minutes.”
While eight minutes didn’t sound like a lot of time, they could easily make the deadline.
The video was a little less than a minute.
It couldn’t be too long, or people would tune out. It couldn’t be too short, or the message wouldn’t stick with them. Aria had distilled her composition to this length. One would think the shorter the piece, the easier it would be to perfect, but Aria proved that hypothesis incorrect. She believed it meant that there was no room for error and painstakingly evaluated each note.
She set her highlighter on a music stand and nodded to herself. “Okay, then it’s time. Are you ready to record?”
He got up and checked the mics. “Yeah, we’re good.” He’d done a few test recordings and had the video synced up to the music. He was waiting for her to agree upon the final version.
Aria returned her attention to the musicians. “This is it. You know what Havenmatch Island means to you. The spirit of this place lives in your heart. This is where you tell the story. I’ve only known you for a short while, but it’s an honor to collaborate with you. Oscar,” she continued with a catch to her voice, “do you want to say anything before we begin recording?”
He could tell she was nervous. No one else could. On the outside, she was calm and collected, addressing the musicians like a seasoned pro. But nobody knew her like he did. And he knew how to put a sly grin on her face and ease her worries.
He walked to the center of the room. “I do have something to add. I’m not sure where I’ve heard this,” he lied, “but I think it could help. It goes something like this. Believe in who you are. Know yourself. And know your heart. Yeah, that’s it. I must have heard it somewhere.” Yes, he quoted her song to her. Was it a risky move? Not really. These people had no idea pop’s reigning princess was their musical mastermind.
But Aria caught it.
And his gamble had paid off. The corners of her lips curved as she bit back a grin. And then came the icing on the sass cake. She glanced at her red boots, then tapped her foot five times.
Butthole douche nozzle, yes, indeed.And this butthole douche nozzle was here to make sure she was at her very best.
Pride and adoration flooded his system. There she was—tenacious, playful, and as sharp as a knife’s edge. Sugar and spice and everything he’d ever wanted.
Knowing he’d gotten his girl into the right headspace, he returned to his laptop. He raised his hand.
Aria looked over her shoulder and held his gaze as he signaled the countdown.
Three, two, one.
She tossed him a cheeky wink, then faced the musicians.
With her back to him, he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a breath, preparing to lead. She raised her arms, and the air thickened with anticipation. With a snap of her wrist, the musicians responded to her command. The music seized the room like a tidal wave crashing into a rocky bluff. He picked up his cell to make a recording for himself. The documentarian in him needed to capture this moment—a moment that felt like the beginning of a new chapter. As a professional, he’d trained himself to remain neutral when on the job. But he couldn’t now. Not when it came to Aria. His heart was in his throat. While he’d heard the ballad at least a hundred times today, this final version stripped him of every pretense. The raw honesty woven into the piece brought tears to his eyes and unearthed a long-forgotten memory.
He recalled his tiny hand from when he was five years old. He felt the sun warming his skin as his mother set a piece of driftwood on his palm. And then he recalled a flash. No, a sparkle. The sun caught the light off her new ring. He pictured suitcases, his mother’s journal with the pages flapping in the breeze, and the ferry. They were leaving. It was their last day.
Like he’d fallen back in time, he recalled his mother wiping a tear from his cheek.
He didn’t want to leave.
“Don’t worry. You’ll see this place again,” she’d assured him.
