Hollywood and Vine - 23. Chapter 23

Hollywood and Vine

BBQ

Violet’s smile was measured, the kind that didn’t give itself away too quickly. She leaned back in her chair; her glass balanced lightly between her fingers and let the late sun catch the faint copper in her hair. The pool’s surface shimmered behind her, a slow, hypnotic ripple that seemed to underline her words.

“If we need to,” she began, her voice even but carrying the weight of calculation, “we can partner with another studio—someone like Lion Gate. They’d get a share of the gate.”

She let the sentence hang for a beat, her gaze shifting between Johnny and Sam, as if testing the air for resistance. Then she set the glass down with a soft click against the table’s edge, her tone tightening just enough to signal the next point was non-negotiable.

“And we need to talk with Charles Carrington,” she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Find out how much he wants for the script—and if we can work a deal.”

The way she said work a deal wasn’t casual; it was deliberate, almost tactile, as though she could already feel the shape of the negotiation in her hands. Her smile lingered, but now it was edged with intent—a quiet reminder that charm and strategy were never far apart in her world.

Johnny shifted his weight, beer bottle rolling between his palms, while Sam’s gaze stayed steady on her, reading the subtext. The breeze lifted the rosemary sprig in her drink, releasing a faint herbal note into the warm air, and for a moment the conversation felt like a chess game played under the guise of poolside ease.

Sam slipped quietly into the house, the screen door giving a soft sigh as it closed behind him. Inside, the air was cooler, touched with the faint scent of citrus cleaner and the day’s earlier cooking. He changed quickly, the muted rustle of fabric and the click of a drawer punctuating the stillness. When he stepped back out, the outside light bloomed to life above the patio, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the pool and the waiting table.

From the kitchen, he emerged with purpose—one hand balancing a platter of chicken wings lacquered in a glossy peach glaze that caught the light like amber, the other carrying a tray of stuffed mushroom caps, their breadcrumb tops golden and fragrant.

Johnny followed a moment later, the easy swing of his stride matched by the clink of glass and metal. The ice bucket was brimming, frost already feathering its rim, and nestled beside it were the gin, the tonic, and a small bowl of lime wedges, their green bright against the silver.

They set everything down on the picnic table in a quiet, practiced rhythm—Sam placing the food at the center, Johnny arranging the drinks within easy reach. The table, under the glow of the patio light, looked like an invitation: cold drinks sweating in the heat, the scent of peach and herbs drifting into the evening air, and the low hum of summer settling in around them.

The boys went back into the house and returned with the steaks—thick, marbled cuts resting on a platter that still held the faint chill of the fridge—and a deep ceramic bowl of potato salad, its surface dusted with paprika and flecked with fresh herbs. Johnny carried the bucket of beer, the ice clinking and shifting with each step, condensation already beading on the metal.

They set everything down on the picnic table, the spread now looking less like a casual evening and more like a celebration. The air was rich with the scent of peach glaze from the wings, the earthy warmth of the stuffed mushrooms, and the promise of seared meat to come.

Violet, leaning back in her chair with her cocktail balanced in one hand, let her gaze travel over the table. A slow smile curved her lips, the kind that carried both approval and a hint of mischief.

“Well,” she said, her voice warm but edged with that producer’s precision, “if this is the catering, I’d say we’re already halfway to a premiere party.”

She lifted her glass slightly toward them, the rosemary sprig catching the light. “Now all we need is the right location, the right deal… and maybe a few more bottles of gin.”

Johnny chuckled, reaching for the tongs, while Sam just shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. The feast was set, the light was golden, and the evening felt like it was leaning forward into something—part dinner, part strategy session, part ritual.

They started with the mushrooms. Sam set the tray down beside the grill, the caps already stuffed to the brim with a mixture of breadcrumbs, herbs, and a fine crumble of cheese that gave off a faint, nutty aroma. The heat from the open lid rolled over them in a wave, carrying the scent of charcoal and the faint tang of metal. One by one, he placed the mushrooms on the grate, the caps hissing softly as the first touch of heat met their moisture.

Johnny leaned in with the tongs, adjusting their positions so each one sat squarely over the indirect heat. The cheese began to soften almost immediately, the herbs releasing their oils in a slow, fragrant bloom. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward, carrying with it the earthy scent of the mushrooms and the buttery richness of the filling.

While the mushrooms began to take on color, Sam moved to the second tray—the chicken wings, lacquered in a peach glaze that caught the light like molten amber. He laid them down in neat rows, the glaze sizzling as it hit the hot metal. The air filled with the sweet perfume of ripe peach, undercut by the faint bite of vinegar and the whisper of spice.

Johnny turned the wings with practiced ease, the glaze caramelizing at the edges, forming a thin, sticky crust that clung to the skin. Every turn released another burst of aroma—sweet, smoky, and just a little sharp—making the space around the grill feel like its own small, fragrant world.

The mushrooms were ready first, their caps darkened and tender, the filling bubbling gently in the center. Johnny slid them onto a warm platter, the golden tops glistening under the patio light. The wings followed soon after, their skin crisped and burnished, the glaze set into a glossy sheen that promised both sweetness and heat.

They set the platters on the picnic table, the two dishes side by side—a pairing of earth and fruit, savory and sweet—ready to be joined by the rest of the feast.

Violet reached for a mushroom first, biting into it with a small, appreciative hum. “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” she said, her voice warm and unguarded. “The herbs, the cheese… it’s like you’ve been holding out on me.”

She followed it with a wing, the glaze catching the light as she turned it in her fingers. One bite, and her eyes closed briefly, savoring. “Alright,” she said, opening them again with a slow smile, “these might be dangerous. Sweet, smoky, and just enough heat to keep you honest.”

Johnny grinned, pleased. “We aim to please.”

Sam chuckled, reaching for a wing himself. “Careful—compliments like that might get you roped into taste-testing the steaks too.”

Violet raised her glass in a small toast. “If the rest of the night tastes like this, I’m not going anywhere.”

Johnny lifted the first steak from the grill, the crust dark and seared, the butter now fully melted into the meat, leaving a glossy sheen that caught the patio light. One by one, he laid them onto a warmed platter, the juices pooling at the edges in rich, savory ribbons.

At the center of the picnic table, the small ceramic bowl of steak sauce he’d made the day before waited like a final flourish. Its deep mahogany surface glistened faintly, the aroma of wine reduction, shallots, and herbs rising in a slow, tempting curl. Sam slid it closer to the platter, the gesture almost ceremonial.

Johnny spooned a little over the first steak, the sauce clinging thickly before spilling down the sides in slow, deliberate trails. The scent deepened instantly—smoke, butter, and the sharp-sweet complexity of the sauce weaving together until it was almost dizzying.

Violet leaned forward, her cocktail set aside, eyes on the platter as though it were the unveiling of a long-anticipated scene. “Now that,” she said, her voice low and certain, “is how you close an act.”

Sam chuckled, passing her a plate. “Careful. You’re going to make him think he’s the headliner tonight.”

Johnny only grinned, setting the platter down in the center of the table. “If the reviews are this good before the first bite, I’ll take it.”

They began to serve themselves, each plate starting with a thick, butter-glossed steak. Then, with the same unhurried care, they spooned generous mounds of potato salad alongside—its creamy dressing flecked with herbs, the coolness a perfect counterpoint to the heat and char of the meat. The clink of cutlery and the soft scrape of serving spoons mingled with the night sounds—the hum of the patio light, the faint rustle of palm fronds, the quiet lap of water against the pool’s edge.

The feast had arrived, and with it, that rare alchemy where food, company, and the warm press of summer all met in perfect balance.

They began to eat, the first bites slow and appreciative. The steaks were tender, the butter and sauce mingling into a rich, velvety layer over the charred crust. The cool, creamy potato salad balanced the heat of the meat, each forkful a small reset before the next bite.

Violet cut into her steak, the knife gliding easily through, and took a moment to savor before speaking. “Alright,” she said, setting her fork down briefly, “now that you’ve softened me up with food this good… let’s talk numbers again.”

Johnny smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I knew there was an angle.”

She gestured with her fork toward him. “There’s always an angle. If we’re serious about shooting on location, we need to lock in the budget before the weather window closes. That means talking to Charles Carrington this week—find out exactly what he wants for the script.”

Sam took a sip of beer, nodding slowly. “And if it’s high?”

Violet shrugged, spearing a piece of potato salad. “Then we negotiate. Or we bring in a partner—Lion Gate’s still an option. They’d get a share of the gate, but it could make the whole thing possible.” She paused, then added with a wry smile, “It’s a blockbuster, so it could cost more… but we’ll see.”

Johnny leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “And if we do bring them in, we keep creative control. No point in making it if it stops being ours.”

Violet’s eyes met his over the table, steady and certain. “Exactly. We do it right, or we don’t do it at all.”

The conversation drifted for a moment as they returned to their plates, the clink of cutlery and the hum of the patio light filling the space. The pool shimmered in the background, catching the last streaks of gold from the setting sun, as if the evening itself was listening in.

The mascarpone was melting now, pooling into the softened peaches, the honey glaze swirling into the cream in pale gold ribbons. Violet took another slow bite, her fork lingering in the air for a moment before she set it down. The patio light caught the curve of her glass, the rosemary sprig casting a delicate shadow across the table.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table, the satisfied ease of someone who knew the meal had landed exactly as intended. Sam topped off his beer from the bucket, the ice shifting with a muted crackle, and glanced toward Violet.

“So,” Sam said, “if Carrington plays hardball, what’s our move?”

Violet dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, her expression thoughtful but not tense. “We don’t blink. We make it clear we’re the right team to bring it to life. And if he still pushes, we let him know we’ve got other irons in the fire.” She took a sip of her cocktail, the ice chiming softly. “But… if we get him on board, we lock him in before anyone else catches wind.”

Johnny’s gaze drifted toward the pool, the water reflecting the last streaks of twilight. “And the location?”

Her eyes followed his. “I’m thinking cliffs. Something with wind and salt in the air. A place where the light changes by the minute. It has to feel alive—like the setting is breathing with the characters.”

Sam nodded slowly, picturing it. “That’s going to mean a crew that can move fast. No waiting for perfect weather.”

Violet smiled faintly. “Exactly. We work with what the day gives us. That’s where the magic is.”

The night had settled fully now, the air warm but edged with the faint coolness of late summer. Somewhere beyond the pool, a cricket started its steady rhythm. The table was scattered with the remains of the feast—bones from the wings, empty beer bottles, the last streaks of sauce on plates—and at its center, the peaches and mascarpone, half gone but still glowing under the patio light.

Johnny reached for another peach, his fork cutting cleanly through the tender flesh. “If the movie feels half as good as this night,” he said, “we’re in business.”

Violet raised her glass, the rosemary brushing her cheek as she tilted it toward them. “Then let’s make sure it does.”

The plates were pushed back now, the last of the peaches and mascarpone reduced to faint streaks of gold and cream on the serving dish. The night had settled fully, the patio light casting a soft amber glow over the table while the pool shimmered in deep, quiet blue.

Johnny gathered the empty bottles into the ice bucket, the clink of glass softened by the melting cubes. Sam returned from the kitchen with a fresh round—tall glasses beaded with condensation, each holding a final drink for the night: gin and tonic with a twist of lime, the scent of citrus bright against the warm air.

They carried them to the poolside, settling into low chairs where the water reflected the stars in fractured glimmers. The conversation had slowed to an easy drift—no more numbers, no more logistics—just the low murmur of voices and the occasional ripple of laughter.

Violet set her glass down on the armrest, the rosemary sprig brushing her wrist as she stood. She stepped between their chairs, the soft sound of her sandals against the stone, and leaned down first to Johnny, then to Sam, pressing a light kiss to each of their cheeks.

Her voice was low, warm, and certain. “Any time you want to do this again,” she said, a smile curving at the edges, “just say the word.”

Johnny’s grin was lazy, content. “Careful—say things like that and we’ll hold you to it.”

Sam lifted his beer in a small toast. “To next time, then.”

The three of them sat back, the night folding in around them—the scent of rosemary and lime, the faint hum of the patio light, the water’s gentle lap against the pool’s edge. They walked Violet to her car and watch her drive off.

The next day, the mail came.