“That’s the day after tomorrow,” Cass said. She looked over at Hattie. “Even if you were interested, where would you get that kind of money that fast?”
Hattie jingled her truck keys, a nervous habit she’d picked up from Hank. “Zen, how soon could we get into the house to take a look around?”
“You can’t. House is being sold as is.”
Cass waved a finger in Hattie’s face. “No. Do not do this. I know you think you’ve got something to prove, but this house is not the one. It’s got bad vibes.”
“There’s no such thing as bad vibes.” Hattie cranked the truck’s ignition.
9
The Other Rebecca
Mo paced around the tiny living room of the carriage house he’d rented on Charlton Street. He’d found the place online, attracted principally by the location, in the downtown historic district, price—cheap by L.A. standards—and the fact that the place came with an off-street parking space.
He’d been alarmed when Rebecca called late the night before to say she’d be arriving in Savannah—today.
“Don’t worry. It’s all good news,” she’d assured him. “Tony loves your idea. In fact he loves it so much we want to fast-track everything. Can you set it up for me to meet your star? Tomorrow? She doesn’t have an agent, right?”
“Okay, that’s great,” he said, too startled to ask any more questions. “I should be able to set up a meet with Hattie. And no, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have an agent.”
“Perfect,” Rebecca said. “Shoot me the address where you’re staying. I’ll text you when my plane lands. Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll just grab a cab.”
* * *
He heard a car pull into the lane behind the carriage house, went to the back door, and opened it.
Rebecca looked impossibly fresh for someone who’d just gotten off a red-eye flight from L.A. with a stop in Atlanta en route to Savannah. She was wearing a relaxed version of her power suit in chocolate brown, along with her signature oversized Jackie O tortoiseshell sunglasses.
“Look at this place,” she exclaimed, admiring the pocket-sized walled garden. “It’s like a storybook.”
“That’s Savannah for you,” he said. “Come on inside. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got Pellegrino in the fridge.”
“Perfect,” she said, following him through the kitchen and into the main living space. “Ooh. This is super cute. Maybe your Hattie can flip a house and make it look like this?”
“Doubtful,” Mo said. “This house, unrestored, sold for $1.2 million three years ago. Just guessing, but I’m thinking my landlords probably sunk another half a million into it.”
“So, out of our girl’s price range,” Rebecca said.
“Not just that. Historic properties like this one, which was built in 1848, are subject to review by the historic preservation commission. You can’t change out a doorbell in the historic district without having approval from them. Which can take months.”
“We certainly don’t have the time or budget for anything like that,” Rebecca reminded him. “That’s one of the reasons I flew out here. Tony wants you to start shooting immediately.”
“That’s impossible. You know what kind of preproduction timetable I need, Becca. Six weeks is the absolute minimum, and I’m not sure I could even do it that fast.”
“You’ll have to, if you want that Wednesday night slot,” Rebecca said, blithely ignoring his protest. “Another thing. We’re going to tweak your concept. Just a bit.”
“Tweak it how?”
She sipped the Pellegrino. “First off, Tony’s not fond of the name Saving Savannah.”
“But that’s what the show’s about,” he protested.
“Now, don’t get all defensive on me,” Rebecca said. “You can still save or preserve an old house. That doesn’t change. But we need the show itself to be more exciting, more high concept, high risk, high drama.”
He sighed, waiting for the inevitable.
“So!” she said brightly. “I had this thought. Why not do something really daring? And original? Even … provocative.”
“You’re not talking about doing a nude flip or something crazy like that, right?”
“Nude flip!” She laughed giddily. “That’s cute, Mo. No. Okay. Get ready. I think you’re gonna totally love this. Homewreckers!”