“He’s in his lab, angsting for your talent. ‘I need Joy,’ he keeps moaning,” Wilkie imitated, adding a tremble to Seth Hightower’s gruff baritone for comic effect. “He’s been trying to reach you for hours. Where’ve you been, beautiful?”
“Don’t I have a life, or was that all my imagination?” Joy asked, grinning.
“You may have had a life before we began production on Maritime, but that’s all just a dream now, honey,” Wilkie drawled as he moved to the left breast, and his model yawned widely.
That’s all just a dream now.
Wilkie’s careless words struck her with frightening precision. She shrugged off the shadow of dread that hovered at the edges of her mind and walked on, willing the energy from her surroundings to distract her . . .
. . . numb her.
The drama and excitement of a Hollywood film set wasn’t Joy’s typical work world. As an art teacher for gifted high-school students and a painter, she preferred the atmosphere of the classroom or her quiet, sunlit studio at home. Even the clamor and bustle of a Hollywood makeup department couldn’t fully penetrate her dread, however.
Not today.
She felt as if she were moving through a dream . . . something like the brilliant, surreal underwater film director Joshua Cabot was creating for United Studio’s latest blockbuster, Maritime.
She willfully ignored the uncomfortable pounding in her chest and flung open the door to Seth Hightower’s office-studio. She needed to see the familiar, loved, bold-featured face of her uncle; he was the only true family member she still possessed. Seth glanced around at the sound of her tool kit rolling over the threshold behind her.
“There you are!”
“I didn’t get the messages until a half an hour ago. I was at the doctor’s. I came as quickly as I could.”
Seth looked contrite. “I know. Ignore me. I’m in a bear of a mood.”
Joy smiled. Her uncle was a bear of a man in stature, perhaps, but hardly in temperament. At least not with Joy, he wasn’t. He tossed a few tubes of paint and glue into his kit before he straightened, swept down on her from his great height and gave her a quick, affectionate kiss, his shoulder-length dark hair flicking against her cheek. “You’re not even officially part of my staff and I snap at you like an intern. Your mother would have my hide.” Seth focused on her face, his brows drawing together in a V shape, giving him an expression that anyone besides Joy would have found intimidating. “I know you had to take off school a few days last week. Is that why you were at the doctor? How’s the cough?”
“Better,” Joy said as she glanced around the meticulously organized room. As the makeup department head, Seth claimed the right to privacy. His office-studio was like the calm eye of a storm. “I don’t have pneumonia,” she reported honestly. “What’s the emergency?”
“It’s coming at me from all directions. Our leading lady decided to drink some Coke spiked with vodka without a straw. The latex is lifting around her mouth,” Seth said, referring to the actress’s prosthetic mask. “She’s throwing a fit and holing up in her trailer, refusing to let anyone touch her up but me. Meantime, I’m running behind on the tattoos.”
Joy gave her uncle a humorous glance of sympathy. “There’s a cost to being the best.”
“Anybody on my staff could reglue Ellie, you know that. She’s just throwing her weight around by asking for me personally.”
“She must think you’re the best at a few things.”
“As if I’d ever give that little shrew the chance to find out,” Seth muttered with a disgusted, distracted air. Joy’s heart went out to him. This had to be one of the most hectic days of his life. “Anyway, that only leaves you to do the last tattoo—”
Seth paused when someone rapped and the door opened several inches. Her breath caught at what she saw.
Joy had helped Seth with projects for Hightower Special Effects on several occasions, and she’d assisted him with the illustrations for his initial proposal to win the contract from United Studios and director John Cabot for Maritime. As such, she was used to Seth’s fantastical art concept for the film. She wasn’t so immune, however, that she didn’t stare in wonder at the bizarrely beautiful head of the part man, part exotic sea creature that appeared around the edge of the door.
Her uncle was going to have an Academy Award sitting on his mantel for sure, she thought with a mixture of admiration and pride.
“Hey, Tommy told me I should stop by,” the walking piece of art said.
“Perfect timing,” Seth mumbled. He pointed at an illustration and some scribbled notes on the table. “Here’s what I need, Joy. You’re the only one I trust to do it. Go ahead and touch him up after you finish the tattoo. I won’t have time before the photo shoot. Wish me luck,” he said, glancing at both of them.
“Luck. You’ll need it,” the marine man said, his lips twitching subtly.
Seth snorted in agreement and rolled his kit behind him toward the door. The man, who was probably one of dozens of extras, stepped into the room so that Seth could pass. Joy noticed distractedly that her uncle and the aqua-colored male were nearly the same height—an oddity, as her uncle was usually the tallest man in the room. The two men nodded to each other before Seth shut the door behind him. Joy lifted her kit to the table and began to extract her paints, brushes and tattoo pens.
“Give me just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” she said as she checked Seth’s notes and began to mix her colors.
He didn’t respond, but Joy was too focused on her preparation to mind. Actors and extras reacted to prosthetic and makeup application across a spectrum that ran from stoicism to whining to outright acting out. Hours and hours of sitting or standing motionless were often required while an artist created their magic. Maritime was a particular challenge. More than a hundred actors and extras required waterproof prosthetics and full body makeup in order to transform them into exotic sea creatures. Only dozens might be required to be in full makeup and costume during any given day of shooting, but Cabot had decided he wanted the entire cast in full regalia to give the grand scope of the movie for the photo shoot.
Joy was working up a sweat as she mixed her paints. She walked over to the unit air conditioner and turned it on high, the sound of the fan muting the cacophony of voices, music and movement just feet away from Seth’s office-studio.