The Next Journey

Table of Contents

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Part I: The Offer

• Chapter 1: An Unexpected Letter

• Chapter 2: A Calculated Risk

• Chapter 3: The Mistake in Gulfport

• Chapter 4: A Heavy Homecoming

• Chapter 5: The Performance

• Chapter 6: A Secret Kept

• Chapter 7: The Journey to New York

• Chapter 8: A Desperate Confession

• Chapter 9: A Champion for the Story

• Chapter 10: The Longest Days

• Chapter 11: The Russian Tea Room

• Chapter 12: The Lie

• Chapter 13: The Reckoning

Part II: The Rebuilding

• Chapter 14: The Brutal Truth

• Chapter 15: A New Normal

• Chapter 16: A Different Path

• Chapter 17: Two Months in the Village

• Chapter 18: What If I Fail Her?

• Chapter 19: The Bones of the Story

• Chapter 20: Thanksgiving for Two

• Chapter 21: A Surprise from Home

• Chapter 22: FADE OUT

Part III: The Rising Tides

• Chapter 23: Welcome Home, Hollywood

• Chapter 24: Scouting the Ghost

• Chapter 25: On Set in the Marsh

• Chapter 26: A City of Illusions

• Chapter 27: That’s a Wrap

• Chapter 28: Guardian of the Tone

• Chapter 29: Welcome to the Show

• Chapter 30: A Beautiful, Heartbreaking Mess

• Chapter 31: A Bungalow with Ghosts

• Chapter 32: The Drive to the Dream Factory

• Chapter 33: Taming the Beast

• Chapter 34: A Mandatory Day Off

• Chapter 35: Running the Plays

• Chapter 36: Showing Them What a Team Looks Like

• Chapter 37: The Last Ghost of Gulfport

Part IV: The Release

• Chapter 38: The Final Cut

• Chapter 39: The Story Was Just Beginning

Prologue: Five Years Later

1

Amelie was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. Freshly brewed like Mary Louise taught her over ten years ago. It was 1998, and things in the Hebert and Richard home were going well. Mary was now a regional office manager for the health care company she started at with Sophia’s help. Mary obtained her master’s in business administration from Tulane University and was enjoying her job. She got to travel around the south of the company’s many offices.

Ams was also doing very well in her craft. Her writing was taking off. She wasn’t a famous author like Stephen King or anything, but she did well. She had two other books published. She was in several of the top magazines with her short stories. Her story “Rising Tides” was getting a lot of attention in the literary world and press. For Ams, it still didn’t feel real. There were times the words didn’t flow. Other days, she could sit typing and writing in her notebook for hours. Even late into the night, her mind was running at a fast pace. This time, she didn’t feel it was real. This time, she felt like she was fake. Mary knew how to cure her of that, too.

Amelie Hebert was looking over her new study. Since her first book, Journeys, she has become a well-known author. Amelie’s work includes two other novels and several short stories. She was proud of it, yet she still held doubts about her talent. She stood looking at her desk, holding a fresh cup of coffee, an envelope, still unopened, lying there. It was from a New York law office. Ams’ thoughts went in every direction. Why would lawyers in New York be trying to contact her? What was going on? Ams put her coffee cup down on her desk and sat. Grabbing the fancy letter opener Mary got for their fifth anniversary, she opened the envelope. It was thick and felt heavy. Ams removed the folded paper and began to read.

ROSEN, GOLDBERG & VANCE, LLP

Attorneys at Law 1 Rockefeller Plaza

New York, NY 10020

(212) 555-0182 www.rgv-entertainment-law.com

September 5, 1998

VIA CERTIFIED MAIL

Ams Hebert

632 Pauger Street,

New Orleans, LA 70116

Re: Inquiry Regarding Literary Property – “Rising Tides”

Dear Ms. Hebert,

This firm represents the esteemed motion picture producer, Mr. Jack Strong, and his production company, Stronghold Pictures. We are writing to you on his behalf.

Mr. Strong has recently had the great pleasure of reading your short story, “Rising Tides,” published in The New Yorker. He was exceptionally impressed by the work’s compelling narrative, vivid characters, and unique voice. He believes your story possesses significant cinematic potential.

Mr. Strong has expressed a serious interest in acquiring the motion picture, television, and ancillary rights to “Rising Tides” for the purpose of developing and producing a feature film.

Furthermore, Mr. Strong feels strongly that the authenticity and power of your voice are crucial to a successful adaptation. To that end, he has extended a formal offer for you to join the production as a co-writer on the screenplay. He believes your direct involvement would be invaluable in translating your vision to the screen.

To discuss this exciting prospect in greater detail, Mr. Strong would like to invite you to New York for an in-person meeting with him and the production team. All travel and accommodation expenses would, of course, be covered by Stronghold Pictures. This would be a wonderful opportunity for you to meet the team, share your creative insights, and discuss the framework of a potential agreement.

We would like to schedule a preliminary, confidential telephone call with you next week to introduce ourselves, answer any immediate questions you may have, and begin coordinating travel arrangements for your visit.

We understand this is a significant proposal, and we highly recommend that you consider retaining your own literary agent or legal representation to advise you in this matter. We would be happy to speak with your chosen representative should you designate one.

Mr. Strong is very enthusiastic about this project and the possibility of collaborating with you. We look forward to speaking with you soon.

Very truly yours,

Eleanor Vance

Eleanor Vance

Partner Rosen, Goldberg & Vance, LLP

Direct: (212) 555-0184

evance@rgv-entertainment-law.com

cc: Mr. Jack Strong, Stronghold Pictures

Ams sat in the chair, stared at the letter. Her mind couldn’t think. A grin started to blossom on her face, and small, soft giggles started to grow deep inside her. Then came the feeling of euphoria. She let out a high-pitched, quick scream. A joyful one that had been packed away just for a time like this. She picked up the phone on her desk and quickly dialed Mary’s number.

“Mary,” Ams shouted into the phone. “You’ll never guess what?” “What’s wrong? You ok?” Mary responded. “Yeah, I’m great. I got a letter today. It’s from New York. A movie producer wants to make my short story into a movie!” Ams shouted excitedly. “Oh God, baby. That’s just fantastic! What does it say?” “I’ll tell you tonight when you get home from work. We can celebrate this then, OK?” “Yeah, I might be a little late though. They’ve got me in Slidell again, so it’ll probably be after seven.” Mary said, sounding defeated. “No, just do what you need to and get home safe. We can talk about it then.” “Alright. THis is great news for you, Ams. You are really making it. I love you!” “Love you too, Mary”. And they hung up.

Ams turned in her chair and stared out the window. Through the sheer curtains of her study, the late afternoon sun came into her room softly. Ams just sat and stared. Her thoughts on how she and Mary had been so busy the past few months. They hadn’t really had any time to themselves. They saw each other in passing and slept in the same bed, but they still felt like they were strangers at times. Giving a “Hi” and “Bye” to each other. Mary couldn’t schedule time for Ams, and Ams would have commitments of her own at Tulane or L.S.U. some days. Both were feeling frustrated by each other’s busy schedules.

It was around eight in the evening when Mary arrived back at home. Ams was pacing in her study, trying to think of words to say on accepting this deal from the movie producer. Being a writer, she wanted it to sound professional and not like a young girl excited that she was asked to the prom. Ams heard the front door close and Mary calling her. “Ams! I’m home, baby.” “I’m in the study,” Ams shot back. Ams heard Mary drop her bag and coat and come to the study to find Ams pacing with a hard look upon her face. “Hey, how are you?” Mary asked as she walked up to Ams. Stopped her and turned her around to face her, then gave her a big kiss on the lips. “I missed you,” Mary said. “I missed you, too, Mary. So much.”

Ams guided Mary over to the futon Ams had in her study for those times when she would work, needing a place to rest and not disturb Mary, especially during the night. They sat. Ams handed Mary the letter and had her read it. Slowly, a smile grew on Mary’s delicate face. The smile grew bigger and bigger until Mary took her arms and wrapped them around Ams tightly. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I knew you’d be a big-time author. I knew it!” Ams looked down, blushing, a smile forming on her face, too. “I never figured on a movie deal.” Ams looked up into Mary’s eyes. Tears of joy were forming in Mary’s eyes. Ams hugged Mary and kissed her. For Ams, right now was perfect. Everything in their world seemed to be falling into place. Mary dropped the letter to the floor, and with the news of Hollywood forgotten, the only story that mattered was the one they told each other without words, long into the night.

2

Ams was the first to wake. Her mind switched on as soon as she opened her eyes. Ideas and possibilities came to Ams. She reached over to the nightstand, took a pencil and notepad, and wrote her ideas, not to disturb Mary, who was still asleep. Ams carefully rolled out of bed, looking back, making sure she didn’t wake Mary. It was five in the morning. Ams pulled on her oversized t-shirt and went to the kitchen to set up the coffee.

When the coffee finished, Ams brought a cup to Mary, who was just starting to stir. “Morning, beautiful,” said Ams. The morning light was coming through the window and curtains softly, giving a warm, soft glow to Mary. Mary was enveloped in a big, puffy white pillow and sheets. Her blond hair splayed out on the pillow. A smile was on her face as she stretched her arms over her head. Ams stood there, admiring the beauty she saw in her, inside and out. “Brought you some coffee.” “Thank you.” and Mary sat up. The sheet fell to her waist, exposing her.

Ams handed the cup to Mary, and she held it close, in both hands, to her nose, taking in the warm aroma of the coffee. She took a sip from the cup. “Been up long?” Mary asked. “Since about five or so,” Ams responded. “Thoughts and ideas woke me up.” Mary reached over for her shirt and put it on, only doing the first few buttons. “Worried ‘bout the movie thing?” “No. I guess. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel real to me yet,” Ams said. “Call Tom. Get him in on this and he can help you. He got you published and that worked out,” said Mary.

Mary got up, went to the bathroom, and started her morning routine of getting ready for work. “Want me to fix you something for breakfast?” Ams asked Mary as she put on shorts and a tank top. “Just some eggs and toast. I’ll just do a quick workout and jog around the block. I got to go to Slidell again this morning and then to Gulfport.” “Another long day for you, Mary, ain’t it?” Ams asked. “Yeah, too long. I probably won’t be home ‘til late, babe.” Mary started her exercises in the living room. “Think we can get together later when you get home?” Ams asked. “We’ll see,” Mary said. Ams felt a little dejected but knew Mary was into her work. Making sure she did it right.

Ams went into the kitchen and started to prepare the things she needed for breakfast. She pulled out the last of the eggs and bread. Ams also saw the coffee was getting low. “I’m going to the store today. Want me to pick up anything for you?” Ams shouted into the other room where Mary was. Mary came into the kitchen, sweaty. Kissed Ams on the cheek. “Not really. If I think of anything after my run, I’ll let you know.” Mary went out the side door and started her jog. Ams sat at the kitchen table, took her notepad, and started a shopping list.

About fifteen minutes later, Mary got back from her run. “It’s getting muggy out there,” she stated, peeling her damp shirt away from her skin. “You can already smell the rain coming.” She came over to Ams and gave her a big hug and kiss. “I love sweating all over you,” she said. “I bet you do,” Ams said with a laugh and spanked her on her butt as Mary went to clean up and get ready for work. Ams started fixing breakfast.

Mary came back to the kitchen, showered, and made up for the office. Ams had scrambled eggs, toast, grits, bacon, and coffee ready on the table. “You look fabulous as always, girl,” Ams noticed. Mary curtsied, “Thank you.” They sat and had breakfast. Mary and Ams talked about their schedule for the day. Ams asked once more if anything came to mind she needed from the store. “Is there anything I can have for you when you get home tonight, for dinner?” Ams asked. “No, I’ll get something on the way home,” Mary said. “Well, if it gets too late, stay there and drive home the next day so it’s safer,” Ams added. “I’ll call you with what’s going on, ok?” “OK,” Ams responded. They finished, and Mary went to brush her teeth. Before she left, she gave Ams a sloppy kiss with toothpaste. “Gee, thanks,” Ams laughed. “Anytime, lover,” said Mary, rinsing the toothpaste and darting out the door to her car. Ams smiled, waved, and saw it was time to clean up.

Ams finished up with the kitchen. Sat down at her desk in the study and worked on a few of her stories. One she had written in a notebook, another was typed on an old typewriter she found at one of the antique stores that were in the New Orleans area. This was one of her favorite finds, a well-used 1955 Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter. As soon as Mary and she saw it, and she touched it, Ams knew this was the one.

Ams tried to do some work, but the idea of her story becoming a movie was still dancing in her head. Nothing else was coming to her. She closed her notebook with the pencil inside on the page she left off at. She looked at the letter and called her agent, Tom. Tom was her friend from college and helped Ams get Journeys published for her. Then he became her literary agent for her other works. The movie deal she wanted to talk to him about. This was so new to Ams, and the clear thoughts weren’t coming. She needed an outside mind to help guide her like Jasper did all those years ago.

Ams dialed Tom’s number. The phone rang, “Hello, Tom here,” the voice on the other end said. “Tom, it’s Ams. I would like you to come over. I received a letter from a law firm representing Stronghold Pictures. They want to use one of my short stories for a movie idea and help write the screenplay.” “What!? Are you kidding me?” “No. They want my story and me,” Ams added. “Can you give me an hour and I’ll be at your place then.” “Sure, I’ll see you in an hour Tom,” and Ams hung up the phone. Ams processed this and figured she could write anything. So she would go upstairs and make the bed and get a shower before Tom came by.

It was the middle of September, and Ams wasn’t sure what to put on. It wasn’t like her younger days when it didn’t matter; now she was having meetings and meeting people, so modesty was required. She grabbed a pair of shorts, a sports top, and a loose t-shirt. That will help with this unsettled weather. Ams showered and cleaned up. She felt refreshed and somewhat calmer for her meeting with Tom. With an hour to kill before Tom arrived, Ams wore a path in the living room rug. She’d walk to the window, stare out at the street, then turn and pace back to the study doorway, her mind racing too fast for her body to keep still.

Tom arrived around ten and came bounding up to the door. Ams had already seen him on her, what felt like a millionth lap of the living room. “Hey there, Ams. How are you doing? Nerves got you yet?” announced Tom. “Get in here,” she cried out. “So, where is this letter you received?” Ams went to the study and brought Tom her letter. Tom stood there in the living room, reading it, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to genuine shock. A low whistle escaped his lips. Ams watched him intently, twisting the hem of her t-shirt in her hands.

“Well,” Tom finally said, looking up from the page, his eyes wide. “This is… this is the real deal, Ams. Stronghold Pictures is legit. Jack Strong is a major player.” He started to grin. “This is going to give you creative license to make sure they stay true to the story. I think you should do it. It will give the story a push, maybe you could even expand on it…” he trailed off, noticing her expression.

Ams stood there, unsure what to say. In that instance, she had no words, no ideas, nothing. Ams was blank. The words on the page, Tom’s voice, the very air in the room seemed to recede into a distant hum. All the ambition, all the excitement, evaporated, leaving a cold, silent void. She was a writer with no words, an imposter about to be discovered.

“Ams! Hey, you ok?” Tom’s voice finally cut through the fog. He was in front of her now, his hands gently on her shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good,” she said, the words feeling hollow and automatic. “No, you’re not. Come on.” He guided her over to her desk chair and had her sit. He pulled up a small stool from the corner and sat opposite her, leaning in. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Ams shook her head, looking at the letter on the floor where it had fallen. “They’ve made a mistake, Tom. It’s… it’s too big. I write stories here, in my study, on my old typewriter. What do I know about Hollywood? About making movies?” “They’re not asking you to know about making movies,” Tom said softly, but firmly. “They’re asking you to know about ‘Rising Tides.’ And nobody on Earth knows more about that than you. That’s why they want you to co-write. Don’t you see? They want to protect the story, and they know you’re the only one who can do it.”

“They’ll chew me up and spit me out,” she whispered. “I can’t write a screenplay. I don’t even know how.” “You’ll learn. And I’ll be there—that’s my job. To make sure they don’t chew you up. Look,” he pointed at the letter. “They’re inviting you to New York. All expenses paid. They’re not just buying a story, Ams. They’re investing

“I’ll get you something to drink to settle your nerves, and then we’ll make the call to the law firm,” Tom announced and went to get Ams something to calm her. Tom came back with all he could find: tequila and two glasses. “Here, this will help,” Tom said. Tom poured a decent amount in each glass and handed one to Ams. Ams took it and took a swallow. “Haaah!” Ams let out as the strength of the tequila caught her off guard. She did feel better and a little more relaxed. “Ok, let’s make that call,” Ams said. She found the number on the envelope, dialed the number, and put the phone on speaker.

Ams and Tom listened to Elenor’s offer and what everything would entail. Ams asked if Tom could come along and also come to the meeting, but she would be the main person making the deal. Eleanor went through what they wanted and how it would work. They would like her to come to New York next week to sit down and discuss the details of the movie idea and her role in the script. Ams looked at Tom with a look of, Should I? Tom nodded and whispered, Yes. Ams agreed, and they set up the details of when, where, and how she would get to New York, and then ended the call.

“Well, look for the Federal Express envelope with the itinerary of your trip, tickets, and meetings,” Tom said. “I’m here all day, Tom. I won’t miss it. I’ll have to tell Mary all about this. I also have to go do some grocery shopping. I’ll get back to you later.” Ams said. “Ok, call me when it comes in,” and Tom left.

3

Ams got home around two in the afternoon from shopping. She was feeling tired after everything from the morning, including her meeting with Tom and the lawyers, and then grocery shopping. She put everything away from the store and decided to take a nap on the futon in her study. The next thing Ams heard was the phone ringing. Ams rolled onto the floor, stood up, and grabbed the phone from her desk. The sun was slowly setting, so the remaining light cast long, dark purple shadows around the room.

“Hello,” Ams replied groggily to the person on the other end. “Ams?” it was Mary. “Ams, are you ok? I tried calling the house a couple of times, and no one answered. I was getting worried.” “I’m…sorry. I lay down for a nap and…What time is it?” “It’s almost eight,” Mary responded. The worry in her voice was slowly disappearing. “Ams shook her head to clear the cob webs. “I’m sorry I missed your calls. I got home from grocery shopping and lay down…next thing I knew, the phone was ringing.” “It’s all good. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be staying in Gulfport the night. The meeting went longer than expected, and Debbie and I figured it was too late to try to drive back. I should be home around noon tomorrow.” “Ok, sounds good. Thank you for calling. I miss you.” Ams said. “I love you too,” answered Mary, and they hung up.

Ams sat back down. Her head was still swimming in confusion. She was slowly trying to put together the words Mary told her. She heard them, but trying to understand them after waking up from a deep sleep wasn’t easy. Ams decided a shower was in order, so she slowly trudged up the stairs to the bathroom, slowly removing what clothing she had on that day. When she reached the bathroom, all she had to do was walk into the shower and stand there. Letting the warm water cascade over her and wash away the fog of sleep, and trying to think of what to do next.

Mary sat on the edge of her bed at the Holiday Inn. This was not her favorite place to stay the night. It was more for tourists, and she was here for work, not fun. Mary went to find Debbie and grab a bite to eat in the restaurant. Across the hall was Debbie’s room. Mary knocked on the door, and Debbie came to answer it. “Hey, come in,” Debbie said. She was on the phone with someone else. Mary sat on one of the two beds in Debbie’s room. Debbie had a view of the beach from her windows. Mary saw there were no people on the beach. It was getting dark, and mid-September was not very friendly for the beach. At least not today.

Debbie and Mary had dinner and a few drinks. They talked about work and their families, and their significant others. Debbie was seeing a guy she met at a conference in Baton Rouge. Debbie talked about how they met and how things were a little rough right now with both of them on the road so much for their jobs. Mary understood this and talked about Ams and her. After a couple of drinks, they went to the dance club next to the restaurant. This was the hotel night spot, called The Pirates Reef. They sat and ordered a few more drinks and listened to the music. A few times, someone would come up and ask either of them to dance. Both times, Debbie and Mary declined and would laugh about it.

It was getting close to midnight, and both ladies were feeling pretty good. They decided it was time to go. Mary helped Debbie from the table, and they leaned on each other as they slowly made their way to the elevators. While leaving the nightclub, they started talking to two guys who were also leaving. Jason and Brad were staying at the hotel and were at the same meetings that Mary and Debbie were at. They started talking about how boring they were, and they wished they had been given more advanced warning about staying here. All four took the elevator up and saw they were staying on the fourth floor. Brad helped Debbie, who was the worst off of all four. She was having a hard time walking. Jason walked Mary down to her door.

What happened next, neither Debbie nor Mary could say. Brad helped Debbie into her room, and they disappeared inside. Jason helped Mary into her room, and they started talking about each other’s lives and how they had a hard time with someone. Mary sat on the edge of one bed and Jason on the other. They sat and talked. Mary went over to the room bar and grabbed a couple of small bottles of whatever the clear liquid was inside them, handing one to Jason. The hum of the ice machine in the hall faded into the background. All that was left was the space between them, charged with a desperate, unspoken understanding. He wasn’t looking at her with desire, not yet. He was looking at her with recognition—the same exhaustion, the same lonely ache she felt in her own bones. In that moment, she wasn’t a manager or a partner. She was just a person, unraveling, and he saw it.

That was when he kept her from falling off the bed, and his hand lingered on her arm. The touch was a spark on dry tinder. She looked up, and in his eyes, she saw a terrible, magnetic recognition of her own loneliness. The kiss wasn’t a choice; it was a collision. The surprising heat of his mouth. The rough scrape of his stubble against her cheek. A hand tangled in her hair, not gentle like Ams’s, but urgent and desperate. The hotel bedspread scratched at her back as she fell onto it. Mistake, a voice screamed from a million miles away, but it was drowned out by the roar of a fire she hadn’t even known was smoldering. Mary’s head was foggy from the alcohol that was flowing in her. The warm sensation pulsing through her diminished any common sense that was left in Mary that evening. The next thing Mary knew, Jason’s body was on her and in her, and her nightmare was just beginning.

It was morning, and a dull, pounding ache behind her eyes was the first thing Mary registered. The second was the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped heavily across her waist. She blinked her eyes open, the hotel curtains doing little to block the harsh morning light. A man’s shirt lay tangled with her own shorts on the floor. An empty miniature bottle lay on its side on the nightstand. Then she turned her head. Jason. His face, slack in sleep, was a stranger’s on the pillow next to her.

That’s when the thoughts hit—not as a memory, but as a series of brutal, jagged flashes. The collision of their mouths. The scratch of the bedspread. The roar of the fire. A cold dread washed over her, so potent and sickening it felt like poison in her veins. A violent lurch in her stomach sent her scrambling from the bed, tangled in the sheet, stumbling toward the bathroom.

Collapsing in front of the toilet, her body purged the bitter taste of her own actions. But when the heaving stopped, leaving her shaking on the cold tile floor, she still felt... filthy. Contaminated. The feeling wasn’t in her stomach; it was on her skin, under her nails, in her memory. Stumbling to her feet, she turned the shower handle, cranking it as hot as she could stand. She stepped into the scalding spray, not for warmth, but for punishment, scrubbing at her skin with a desperation that bordered on violence. But the ghost of his touch couldn’t be erased, and the realization broke her. Her strength gave out, and she slid down the slick tile wall to sit on the floor of the tub. She pulled her knees to her chest, a shield against nothing, as ragged, silent sobs were lost in the roar of the water—a hopeless baptism that couldn’t possibly wash away her sin.

Mary sat in the shower for whatever length of time it was. It felt like hours, but she knew it wasn’t. Somehow, she managed to pull herself together, dry off, and get dressed. Mary surveyed the room one more time, another urge to vomit was in her by what she saw and felt. She gathered her things and bag and escaped into the hallway. Mary froze at Debbie’s door. She knew Brad, and she went into her room, but was scared to call and find out. Mary looked down both directions of the hallway. It was quiet. A couple of room service trays sat outside the room doors waiting to be collected. A stale smell began to encompass Mary as she stood there trying to decide what to do next. Out of instinct, she began wandering towards the elevator. She noticed a couple of chairs and a hotel phone on a small table between the two chairs.

Mary sat in one of the chairs, picked up the phone, and asked the operator to ring Debbie’s room. “Hello…,” a weak scratchy voice said. Mary whispered in response. “Debbie, it’s Mary. Are you alone?” “Yeah, why?” “I need to see you?” Mary pleaded. “Where are you?” “I’ll be right there,” and Mary hung up the phone.

Mary’s knock on the door is hesitant, a faint tap-tap-tap that barely disturbs the hallway’s silence. The door swings open, and Debbie is framed in the doorway, a white hotel sheet wrapped loosely around her, toga-style. The room behind her is warm and softly lit by the single lamp on the nightstand. A half-empty wine glass sits next to a rumpled, happy mess of a bed. Debbie herself is glowing, her hair tousled, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on her lips.

“Well, well, well,” Debbie says in a low, husky voice, her smile widening. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or… what the cat dragged herself away from.” Mary stands frozen on the threshold, pale and rigid in her crisp, buttoned-up work blouse and slacks. She clutches the strap of her overnight bag like a lifeline. She can’t meet Debbie’s eyes; her gaze is fixed on a spot on the beige carpet. “Can I… can I come in?” Mary’s voice is a hoarse whisper. “Of course, honey.” Debbie steps back, pulling the door wider. “Don’t look so serious. Did Jason wear you out? God knows Brad was a workout.” She lets out a low, throaty laugh and saunters back towards the bed, perching on the edge.

Mary steps inside, letting the door click shut behind her, the sound unnaturally loud. The room smells of stale wine, perfume, and sex. It’s the same smell that was in her own room, a smell she tried to scrub from her skin, and it makes her stomach clench. “Debbie, I…” Mary starts, her voice cracking. “Last night was…” “I know, right?” Debbie interrupts, flopping back onto the pillows with a sigh of pure contentment. “Honestly, it was just what I needed. No strings, no drama, just… fun. Remember fun, Mary? You looked like you needed some.”

The word ‘fun’ hits Mary like a physical blow. She wrings her hands, the leather of her bag strap creaking under the pressure. This isn’t going how she imagined. She thought she’d find an ally, a co-conspirator, someone who understood. Instead, she’s found a cheerful reminder of what she’s done. “It wasn’t fun for me,” Mary finally chokes out, the words tasting like ash. “Debbie, I made a mistake. A terrible mistake.” Debbie sits up slightly, her brow furrowing, but the smile doesn’t completely vanish. She’s misreading Mary’s horror as simple morning-after regret.

“Oh, honey, don’t be like that,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s not a ‘terrible mistake,’ it’s a hotel room in Gulfport. It doesn’t count. What Ams doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You just have to put it in a box, lock it, and throw away the key. That’s what I’m doing.” Debbie’s advice, meant to be liberating, feels like a judgment. A confirmation of how cold and calculated this should have been. For Debbie, it was a transaction. For Mary, it was a betrayal that had shattered her to her core. Looking at Debbie, so relaxed and unburdened, Mary realizes with a sickening clarity that she is completely on her own in this. There is no shared experience here. No comfort to be found.

Mary takes a step back towards the door, a mask of composure sliding over her face. The need to escape is overwhelming. “You’re right,” she says, the lie smooth and practiced, the kind she uses with difficult clients. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.” “That’s my girl,” Debbie says, lying back down, already drifting back into her pleasant memories. “Go get some coffee. You’ll feel better.”

Mary doesn’t say another word. She turns, opens the door, and slips back into the sterile silence of the hallway. The door clicks shut behind her, sealing Debbie in her warm, guilt-free bubble. Mary leans her forehead against the cool wall, the tears she refused to shed in front of Debbie now burning behind her eyes. She wasn’t just guilty anymore; she was utterly and completely alone.

4

Ams woke the next day in her study. Sleeping in the bedroom without Mary felt empty. It wasn’t the same, and Ams knew she never would have gotten to sleep. Ams always paced around when she was worried about Mary. She didn’t realize this until a few years ago, when Mary was sick and in the hospital. Ams didn’t sleep for two days. This time, Ams slept in her study on the futon. Her safe room when Mary was gone.

Ams woke with a headache. The weather is probably changing. It always did when the seasons changed and the pressure went up or down too fast. A human barometer, Ams thought. What a deal that is. Ams staggered into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. She knew if Mary was going to be home later, she’d need to clean up. She fixed herself a simple breakfast and began cleaning. During her mundane tasks, she was thinking about her trip to New York. When. Where. What she would do. All those thoughts flashed in her mind.

The doorbell rang. Ams went and saw it was the Federal Express driver with an envelope. Wow, that was fast, she thought. They must have overnighted the stuff to her. Ams signed and took the envelope, opened it, and examined the contents. Ams looked at the itinerary. Two tickets, first class to JFK. A driver would take them to The Four Seasons hotel. There, they will have a three-room suite and a list of appointments for her.

Ams went up to their room and looked into their wardrobe. She had nothing to really wear for anything important. Nothing Mary had would fit. She pictured one of Mary’s beautiful dresses. The waist might fit, but the fabric meant to stretch over Mary’s fuller bust and hips would just hang empty on her own slender, “beanpole” frame. She’d look like a child playing dress-up. With that thought, Ams called Tom. Ams told him that she had nothing to wear to these meetings. They would see her for what she was and laugh her right out of the room. Ams was beginning to feel the knot in her stomach grow again. The sweat started to build on her hands. Ams did what she did best, pace. Then she thought of her two friends when she came to the city. Lisa and Sophia still lived nearby in the Uptown/Carrollton neighborhood. Ams called asking either one for help.

“Hello, Lisa?” Ams asked. “Hey Ams, how are you?” Lisa responded. “I’m good. I have to go to New York next week with Tom. My story “Rising Tides “ is going to be made into a movie…I think.” “That is fantastic, Ams. We need to celebrate,” Lisa added. “I need help with my wardrobe first. You know I’m not much of a fancy clothes dresser. I…am what I wear. Simple and comfortable.” “I get it.When do you need me, or us?” asked Lisa. “This weekend?” “I’ll see if Sophia is free, I’m sure she is, and we can also celebrate your big event,” “Anytime on Saturday, just give us a call you’re coming and we’ll be ready,” Ams said.

Ams was upstairs, staring at her dresser and closet of things she knew she couldn’t wear to New York, when she heard the front door open. It’s Mary, she thought. Ams’s thought went from her wardrobe dilemma to rushing downstairs to see Mary. Mary was coming in the door when Ams saw her. Mary looked like a boxer after a long fight. She was dragging. Tired. The look on her face was long and worn. Her eyes were red from what Ams saw. She had no clue of the weight Mary was carrying into the house. Her shame and guilt.

“Hey, you,” Ams shouted out. Mary looked up; her tired face said it all, but there was something else in her eyes, something deeper than fatigue. A hollowness that Ams had never seen before. Ams pushed the fleeting thought away. Of course, she’s worn out. She’d been driving for hours. “Yeah, just a long drive and meetings. A shower and rest, I think, will do it,” Mary announced. “Ok,” said Ams, looking concerned at her. Ams helped Mary sit and had her relax. “Can I get you anything?” Ams asked. “No, I think a long shower would be fine for now,” Mary said in a low monotone voice. Mary forced herself up and dragged herself up the stairs to the bathroom. “Want some company?” Ams asked. “Nah, I just need to wash and rinse off the road,” Mary responded. “Alright, just holler if you need anything. I’ll put the kettle on for tea.” “Sounds good.” Mary slowly undressed on her way to the bathroom and closed the door. She was exhausted. She closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. She leaned against the vanity, her reflection a stranger with red-rimmed eyes. On the counter, Ams’s favorite lavender-scented soap sat in its dish. The familiar, clean scent filled her nose, and a wave of nausea hit her. It was the scent of home, of trust, of everything she had just contaminated. The sob that ripped through her was silent, a violent shudder. She choked back by pressing her fist to her mouth.

It was close to half an hour later when Mary came down in her bathrobe. Her hair was damp and looked uncombed. She still looked exhausted to Ams. She plopped herself on the couch and curled herself up into a ball, drawing her knees up towards her chest. “Hey, you ok?” Ams asked. “I’m fine,” Mary snapped back. “I’m sorry, you just aren’t yourself right now,” Ams said, worried. “I’ll be ok. I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night and the drive...took forever, it seemed,” Mary explained. “I get it. Take a nap. I’ll have dinner ready when you wake,” Ams responded. Mary tried to rest. She closed her eyes and listened to Ams in the kitchen. She didn’t deserve this. Ams, so happy and caring. Herself, a cheat, a liar, a fool who betrayed her friend, partner, lover.

It was around seven when Ams went over to Mary, who was asleep on the couch. “Hey,...Mary…time to wake up. Dinner is ready.” Ams sat down on the edge of the couch next to Mary. Her eyes looked puffy, her face devoid of color. Ams placed her hand on Mary’s back. She felt Mary tremble. ”Mary,” Ams said. Mary slowly opened her eyes and looked at Ams’s concern. “Hey, you feel better?” Ams asked with worry. “Yeah. I think the long drive wore me out more than I thought.” “Feel like eating?” Ams asked. “I just whipped up some spaghetti and a salad. Nothing fancy.” “I’ll have a little,” Mary answered. “You sit right there. I’ll bring you a plate.” Ams got up and went into the kitchen.

“Mary,” Ams shouted out from the kitchen. “Lisa and Sophia are coming over tomorrow. Lisa is going to help me find some things to wear for this New York trip.” Mary’s thoughts went right to the fact that she forgot about Ams’s trip. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten. Her palms began to sweat, and her head felt like it was spinning. How could she forget that? Mary felt her head was ten times its weight now. She lay back down on the couch, trying to keep it together. “That sounds good. It will be good to see them,” Mary forced herself to say.

Ams came back into the living room with a tray and two plates of food on them. “Anything to drink, Mary?” Ams asked. “A glass of wine would be fine,” she answered, still monotone and looking down at her food. She couldn’t eat. Not now. She had to force herself too. For Ams’s sake.

5

Saturday morning came, and Ams woke up in her study on the futon. Mary was tossing and turning to the point that Ams couldn’t get to sleep. Mary had gotten up in the night feeling sick. Ams thought it would be better to go downstairs and try to let Mary decompress from the business trip. Ams needed her rest to pack and make sure she had what she needed. This was going to be a big game-changer for her and Mary. They could finally do everything they wanted and be who they wanted.

Ams rolled out of bed and went to fix breakfast. She figured Mary would want anything heavy or greasy, so toast and tea would do the best for her. Ams thought, feeling hungry and excited, fixed it all. Scrambled eggs, bacon, grits, toast, and coffee, strong. Ams was just finishing up everything like Mary Louise had taught her when Mary came down to the kitchen. Ams turned and saw that she looked a little more refreshed. The “bags” under her eyes were still there, but she seemed to have some pep in her step. “I fixed you some tea and toast. If that’s ok?” Ams asked. “It’s fine. Everything does smell good. I think the tea and toast is just right.” Mary forced a smile on her broken soul.

Ams sat and ate for the morning feast. Mary sipped on her tea and tore bits from the slice of toast she had in front of her. She’d nibble a bit, put down the piece, and take a sip of tea. The tea felt good going down. It was just one thing so far that made her feel somewhat alive right now. “What time is Lisa and Sophia coming over?” Mary asked. “Not sure. They would call when they were on their way, so as not to surprise us,” Ams said with a grin. Ams touched Mary’s hand on the table. For a moment, Mary stared at it. She couldn’t move. If she did, she thought, Ams would know. Mary forced herself to accept this act and play her part perfectly. Ams stood and took Mary by the hand to her study, guiding her to the futon. Mary was scared. She didn’t know if she could. She didn’t know if she should. Ams’s touch was tender, her kisses soft and full of unspoken promises, but to Mary, it felt like a violation of the lie she was living. She felt paralyzed, a character in a play she no longer knew the lines to. As Ams made love to her, Mary felt a profound and chilling detachment, her body a hollow vessel moving through familiar motions while her soul recoiled. This wasn’t passion; it was a punishment, a slow, agonizing burn of undeserved affection. She felt the tears welling, and she turned her face into the pillow to hide them, praying for any kind of interruption.

A few hours later, the ringing of the phone was a reprieve she hadn’t dared hope for. Ams got up and put on her baggy t-shirt. “Hello,” Ams said. After a few oks and yups, Ams hung up. “Lisa and Sophia are on their way over.” “Mary lay there. She felt just as ugly as she did that night before. “I’m going to take a shower,” Mary responded. “I’ll join you,” Ams said and followed Mary upstairs. This is what a death sentence must feel like, Mary thought. The guilt was pushing against her, and she took all her might to keep it in check. Once in her life, she couldn’t wait for Monday to come so Ams could escape from her, and she could fall apart from the weight.

Ams exited the shower first. “I need to shave my legs, so I’ll be a minute, Ams,” Mary said. “Alright. I’ll see you downstairs.” Ams grabbed her towel and left the bathroom. Ams finished drying off and got dressed. AS she went downstairs, passing the bathroom, she thought but wasn’t sure, she heard Mary “wimpering”. Just as Ams got to the main floor, there was a knock at the door. A big smile blossomed on Ams’s face. She looked out the side window and saw Lisa and Sophia, opened the door, and in came the crew. They hugged, and Sophia asked where Mary was. “She’s upstairs in the shower,” said Ams. “I’ll go surprise her,” Sophia bounded up stairs. “So how have you been, Ams?” Lisa asked. “Tell me about this movie deal.” Ams went into detail about what was happening and the upcoming trip to New York this Monday. “I just need some help…getting the right outfit together. You know me. I wear whatever and don’t like being constricted with extras,” Ams explained. “I get it. Let’s see what you have, and I brought some things that might work for you.”

At the same time, Mary and Sophia were coming down the stairs. Mary, forcing a smile, said, “Look what I found.” “Yeah, yeah,” responded Sophia. When Lisa and Ams were upstairs and out of range, Sophia turned to Mary. “What gives? You are not yourself girl. You’re detached,...just very distant towards everyone. What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’m fine. It was an unexpected meeting with lots of pressure and I just wasn’t planning on staying over. I think I got something there too,” Mary said, sounding convincing. “OK, just remember, you need anything, you call me, Ok Mary?” Sophia stated. “Promise.”

Ams came down with Lisa with armfuls of clothes. “This should be good,” Mary said to give the feeling of interacting. Mary remembered when she did her fashion show for all when she got new outfits for work. For Mary, it felt like it was going to be another painful memory to relive. Ams would go into the kitchen, trying on different clothes. Then, coming into the living room to show them off. For a short time, Mary was able to forget the pain that was eating her from the inside. For the moment, things seemed right. Not better or fixed, but Mary was able to tolerate the moment.

The next-to-last outfit Ams tried on was one that she and Lisa had put together. Ams stepped out from the kitchen, and for a moment, the heavy knot in Mary’s stomach loosened. She wore a simple, white cotton knit sweater vest, its V-neck soft against her skin. It was cut just high enough under the arms to reveal a daring, clean line of bare skin along her ribs, a subtle challenge to the outfit’s otherwise buttoned-up feel. The vest was tucked into a pair of sharp, charcoal-grey pinstripe slacks that draped perfectly, their crisp lines adding a touch of classic, almost masculine tailoring. A structured black blazer was slung casually over her arm, and on her feet were a pair of simple, low-cut black pumps that grounded the entire ensemble in an understated femininity. The entire look was Ams in a nutshell: a confident blend of soft and sharp, artistic and serious, and it made Mary’s heart ache with a pain that was suddenly indistinguishable from love.

When the fashion show was over, it was getting late in the afternoon. A quick poll among them all showed no one really wanted to go out for food. Also, the weather was slowly becoming darker and stormier. Rain was trying its hardest to begin, but wasn’t being successful at it. Lisa looked around the room and made the call; pizza it is. Ams grabbed the phone and ordered two large pizzas to be delivered. Ams went to the kitchen and examined the contents of the refrigerator for beverages. She found some sodas, several different types of beer, a couple of bottles of wine, some juice, milk, and a couple of bottles of water. “I think we’re good on drinks shouted Ams into the living room.

The pizza arrived, and everyone enjoyed themselves. Mary put on a good front. She would nibble at her slice slowly, but enough to not draw attention to herself. Ams was the one who could eat, and it showed. Lisa remarked that Ams could eat for all of them and never show it. They laughed at that, as Ams grabbed another slice.

The empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door, and a comfortable lull had settled over the living room. Lisa stood up, stretching with a groan. “Alright, time for us to hit the road,” she said. “Thanks for the pizza night, you two. Ams, you call us tomorrow when you’re ready to start the final packing!” “Will do!” Ams said brightly, her face still glowing from the fun of the fashion show.

Sophia followed Lisa to the door but paused on the threshold, turning back. Ams was gathering the last of the paper plates, humming softly. Mary stood near the couch, a polite, static smile fixed on her face. It was the same smile she’d been wearing for the last hour, and to Sophia, it looked as fragile as glass. “Coming, Soph?” Lisa called from the hallway. “One second,” Sophia said, her eyes locked on Mary. She took a step back inside, gently closing the door just enough to muffle their voices. She kept her voice low. “Hey.” Mary blinked, her smile faltering for a second. “Hey. Thanks for coming over.” “Mary, look at me,” Sophia said, her tone soft but insistent. Mary reluctantly met her gaze. “You’re a million miles away. And you have been since you got home.” “I’m fine, Sophia. Just tired,” Mary said, the practiced lie sounding hollow even to her own ears. Sophia shook her head slowly, her expression full of a deep, knowing empathy. “No. It’s more than that. Something is wrong. And it’s big. It’s sitting right behind your eyes, and it is eating you up from the inside. I can feel it.” A flicker of raw panic crossed Mary’s face before she quickly masked it. She looked away, toward the sheer curtains of the window.

Sophia reached out and put a hand gently on Mary’s arm. The touch was grounding and terrifying. “I’m not going to ask you what it is,” Sophia continued, her voice a near-whisper. “But I want you to listen to me. Whatever this is, you are not alone in it. When you’re ready to talk—or scream, or cry, or whatever you need to do—you call me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. You promise me?” Mary could only manage a tight, jerky nod, a lump forming in her throat. “Good,” Sophia said, giving her arm a firm squeeze. “‘Cause secrets that heavy… they have a way of breaking you if you let them. Don’t let it break you.”

With one last, meaningful look, Sophia gave her a quick, firm hug—a silent transfer of strength—and then slipped out the door, pulling it shut behind her. Mary stood frozen in the sudden silence of the living room, the echo of Sophia’s words ringing in her ears. The smile was gone, replaced by a raw, hollow look of terror. She had been seen.

6

Ams opened her eyes and focused on the ceiling. She lay there watching the ceiling fan slowly spin. Ams focused on one blade. The one with a nick in it when Mary and her had a pillow fight several years ago, having fun. She tracked it in a slow, sometimes wobbly movement. Her mind was thinking of all the what-ifs her head could come up with: the trip, the story, the movie deal, and Mary. Like a merry-go-round, Ams’s mind was like that nick in the fan blade going round and round.

Ams noticed Mary wasn’t in bed either. So drawn into her thoughts, she felt something was also off, Mary. Ams sat up, looked around the room, and saw that Mary’s pillow and the afghan that sat on the back of the chair, the one Mary Louise made for them, were gone too. Ams got out of bed, put on her favorite baggy, worn-out t-shirt, and went downstairs. Sleeping on the couch, wrapped up in the afghan. Ams stood and stared for a moment, wondering what had made Mary so distant for the past two days. Ams went into the kitchen and started making coffee.

“Mary,” Ams said in a soft voice, gently rocking Mary’s shoulder. “Mary, time to wake up,” Ams announced. Mary stiffened, arms and legs outstretched, a yawn, and she opens her eyes. “What…what time is it?” Mary asked. “It’s seven thirty in the morning,” Ams answered. I have coffee going. Can I fix you anything?” Mary lay there, staring at an unfixed point on the ceiling. “Toast.” “Ok, I’ll get it,” Ams said.

Ams fixed Mary some toast, with butter and jam. She poured herself a cup of coffee. Then Ams opened the front door and picked up their Sunday newspaper. “Comics,” she asked Mary. “Ok,” Mary gave a low-toned response. “What’s wrong Mary? You just…seem off.” Ams asked. “I’m not feeling too good. I have a headache. I didn’t sleep well. I think I caught something in Gulfport.” Mary stated. “Do you want me to stay home with you?” Ams asked. “No.” Mary protested. “Go to New York and get that movie deal. I’ll be alright. Lisa and Sophia will be around if I need them. Please, don’t worry. Go and get that deal.” Mary pleaded.

The rest of the day was spent getting laundry done and Ams finishing her packing. “What time do you leave tomorrow,” asked Mary. “Tom is picking me up around ten and then we’re heading to the airport. Do you want to come?” Ams asked. “Nah, I’ll be busy with the transfer of the Slidell office back to New Orleans,” Mary said. “Wow, that’s happening soon.” “yeah, sooner than the company wanted but I’m in charge of it, so…” Mary drew her answer to a close when there was a knock at the front door. “That must be Lisa and Sophia,” Ams announced.

Ams opened the door, and in came Lisa and Sophia with food. “I figured we would stop at Popeye’s for some chicken, and we picked up some po-boys too. Sophia made her grandmother’s red bean and rice recipe, too,” announced Lisa Ams, who was all smiles from ear to ear. Mary stood helping Sophia with the crockpot she was holding. “Let’s take this into the kitchen,” Mary said. Sophia and Mary went into the kitchen with the pot. Lisa set the sandwiches and chicken bags down on the coffee table. “When does the game start?” asked Lisa. “I think it’s an early game. So in about fifteen minutes.” “I’ll get the plates and napkins,” Lisa said. Lisa went to the kitchen, where Sophia and Mary were talking. “You doing ok Mary?” Sophia asked. Mary was fighting to smile and sound upbeat. She coughed. “Yeah, just a headache.” “Whats wrong?” asked Lisa. “Mary isn’t feeling too well,” said Sophia, giving a very slight nod to Mary. Mary left the kitchen with the plates, napkins, and cups. Lisa looked at Sophia with an inquisitive look. “I’ll tell you later,” Sophia whispered to Lisa, and they grabbed the beverages and took them into the living room.

The coffee table was a beautiful mess of New Orleans comfort: a grease-stained Popeyes box, Sophia’s homemade red beans sending up a cloud of steam from the bowls, and two half-eaten po-boys on a platter. The noon sun streamed through the windows, glinting off the television screen where the game had just begun.

The game came on, Saints versus the Colts. Ams and Lisa went over her packing one last time during the game. Lisa had one of the blazers Ams had chosen for her New York trip draped over the back of the armchair. “Okay, so this one is for the big meeting with the producer,” Lisa said, pointing with a chicken wing. “It’s professional but still has that artistic edge. You’ll look great.” Ams nodded, her leg bouncing with a nervous energy that was more about the trip than the game. “You think? It doesn’t feel too... plain?”

Sophia was watching the game and every now and then would catch a glance at Mary. She saw the contrast immediately. Ams was buzzing, practically vibrating with excitement for the future. Mary was a statue. She noticed Mary was watching, but her reactions were muted. When the Saints gave up a crucial first down, Sophia groaned. “Can you believe that defensive hold? Come on!” She looked to Mary, hoping to see a spark of their usual shared frustration. Mary was in the room, but elsewhere in her head. She blinked, as if surfacing from deep water. “Oh. Yeah, terrible call.” Her smile was a fragile, paper-thin thing that Sophia could see right through. A commentator on the TV mentioned a “costly mistake,” and Sophia watched as Mary visibly flinched, her gaze darting away from the screen for a brief, telling moment.

The back-and-forth battle on screen mirrored the silent tension in the room. By the time the game was forced into overtime, even Ams and Lisa had abandoned the packing discussion, drawn into the nail-biting drama. The living room fell into a collective, held breath. The kick in overtime sailed through the uprights. The room erupted. “YES!” Sophia screamed, jumping up from her chair. Lisa cheered, clapping Ams on the back. Ams, laughing with pure relief, spun around and pulled Mary into a fierce, joyful hug. “We won! Can you believe it?”

Sophia watched them. She saw Mary’s arms come up a beat too late, her hands patting Ams’s back in a mechanical gesture that held no joy. She saw the bright, genuinely happy smile on Ams’s face and the hollow, perfectly performed one on Mary’s. In the middle of the victory celebration, Sophia felt a cold knot of dread settle in her stomach. The game was over, but the real trouble was just beginning.

What was left of the food was taken into the kitchen and put away for later. Sophia helped Ams store what was left of the red beans and rice in a container and placed it in the refrigerator. “Hey, Sophia?” “Yeah, what’s up?” “Can you do me a favor this week while I’m in New York? It’s probably nothing, but...” Ams asked. Sophia turned to give Ams her full attention. “Of course. Anything.” “Can you just... keep an eye on Mary for me? She says she caught something in Gulfport, but she just seems so down. More than just sick. I’m worried about her. With me being gone, I just want to make sure she’s okay.” Ams said. Sophia met Ams’s gaze with a steady, reassuring look. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll make sure she’s looked after. You just go to New York and focus on knocking their socks off. Lisa and I have got her. I promise.”

Ams and Sophia returned to the living room. Everyone sat around while Ams lit a fire in the fireplace. It was raining out, and a fire would take the damp chill out of the room and maybe help Mary feel better. “What are you trying to do, Ams?” Lisa asked with a smile and a laugh. “You’re going to make it too cozy to want to leave.” The only time they used the fireplace was on cool, rainy days. This afternoon was turning into that. “Hey Ams, you got some nice New York weather to get you ready for,” Sophia laughed. Everyone started to laugh, and Sophia saw Mary force her smile. At least this was kind of warming her up to feel more herself, she thought.

It was getting late, and Sophia and Lisa were trying hard not to feel drowsy. With that, Lisa announced it was time to head for home. “We better get going, you two. It’s Monday and everyone has work and important things to do,” Ams was thinking the same thing and helped gather up the rest of their things. Sophia got her crockpot and gave each of the girls a big hug. “You be safe Ams, “said Lisa and Sophia. They each hugged Mary. “Call me,” Sophia whispered in Mary’s ear, and they left. Time to turn in Mary. Ams checked the fire and took Mary by the hand and head upstairs.

7

The house was unnaturally quiet when Ams woke. The usual five a.m. energy, the silent hum of Mary getting ready for an early start, was absent. Ams rolled over in bed and saw the indentation on Mary’s pillow, the sheets on her side already cool to the touch. She’d left without a sound. A grey, damp light filtered through the bedroom window, the sky a uniform sheet of pewter from last night’s rain. Ams lay there for a long moment, the quiet amplifying the small, nagging worry in her gut. She pushed it down. Mary’s just busy, she told herself. This Slidell transfer is a huge deal for her.

Ams went and took a shower and dressed in something she could wear and feel comfortable in. A pair of soft sweats and a loose, baggy sweatshirt, along with her Converse. No one could ever tell she was dressed very minimally and super comfy. She brushed her hair and decided it was fine as it was. She wasn’t going to change anything about herself now.

Downstairs, the house felt empty. A single coffee mug, rinsed and placed neatly in the drying rack, was the only sign Mary had been there at all. Ams made her own coffee, the ritual feeling hollow without Mary’s presence. She walked through the living room, her eyes falling on the fireplace, now just a cold hearth filled with grey ash. The cozy warmth from yesterday felt like a distant memory.

She spent the next couple of hours in a haze of final preparations, her movements automatic. She checked the contents of her suitcase for the tenth time, the sharp, professional outfits Lisa had helped her pick feeling like a costume for a person she wasn’t sure she was. She was a writer, not a businesswoman. What if they saw right through her? She shook her head, forcing the familiar doubt away.

At precisely ten o’clock, a car horn honked softly from the street. Tom. Ams took one last look around the quiet living room. She pulled a notepad from her study, scribbled a quick note, and left it on the kitchen counter where Mary would be sure to see it.

Gone to New York. Knock ‘em dead for me this week with the transfer. I love you more than words. —Ams

She picked up her suitcase, the weight of it feeling both thrilling and terrifying. As she walked out the front door, the damp, cool air hit her face. It was the start of the biggest adventure of her life. She closed the door behind her, the solid click echoing in the quiet house, leaving behind a life that was, unbeknownst to her, already beginning to unravel.

Tom dropped Ams and their luggage off at the terminal building while he found a spot in the parking lot. Ams found a luggage cart and loaded up their bags. For a moment, it felt like her entire life was packed away in these things. Tom and Ams checked in and proceeded to their gate to board. They had some time before their flight left, so they stopped at one of the many airport bars for a quick drink. “How you holding up there?” Tom asked as the bartender came over. “Two beers, please.” “I’m nervous as hell. I can’t believe this is real. I have always dreamed of someone noticing my work, but never like this,” Ams said. “Well, believe it. From here on, everything changes,” Tom mentioned. “Yeah, but am I ready? Are we ready?” Ams asked. Tom sipped his beer and looked at Ams. “Yeah.”

Their flight was announced, and Tom paid for the beer, and they left for the gate. This was going to feel like the world’s longest trip, just to get there. Ams got a window seat and settled in for the flight. This was her first time on a plane. Ams looked around, trying to look calm, but inside her heart was pounding. She was starting to sweat. Her stomach was slowly knotting up, and she felt she had to run to the bathroom. Hold on, girl, she told herself. You can do this. Tom looked at Ams when they got to their seats in first class. “You look petrified there,” as Tom took her hand. He could feel her trembling. “First time flying?” he asked. “Yeah. Does it show?” Tom laughed. “Yup.”

Tom held her hand through the rattling, deafening roar of takeoff. Ams squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles white, convinced the massive machine would never leave the ground. But then came a stomach-lurching lift, and a moment later, the jarring bumps smoothed into a steady, powerful hum. She dared to open her eyes and looked out the window, watching New Orleans shrink below into a green and brown map, the great curve of the Mississippi glinting in the cloudy light. The fear didn’t vanish, but it was soon overshadowed by a different kind of awe. For three hours, she was suspended between the life she had left behind and the unimaginable future she was flying toward. By the time the plane began its descent over the endless, sprawling grid of New York City, the knot of anxiety in her stomach had transformed into one of pure, terrifying excitement. They had arrived.

Once Tom and Ams exited the plane and she had her ground legs back, it was off to collect her luggage. She and Tom walked out into the arrivals hall and saw a professionally dressed driver holding a discreet sign with her name, “A. HEBERT,” printed on it. He wasn’t a taxi driver but a chauffeur from a high-end “black car” service. The car waiting for them at the curb was a polished, black Lincoln Town Car, the absolute standard for executive transport. The driver handled their luggage, held the doors open, and the interior of the car felt like a different world—quiet, spacious, and smelling of clean leather. For Ams, who was used to her own car in New Orleans, the smooth, silent ride into Manhattan was her first real taste of the corporate luxury she stepped into.

She looked out at the size of the place, New York. She never dreamed of anything like this. It was everything she saw in movies and TV, but amplified, louder, and impossibly real. New Orleans was a city of wrought iron, quiet courtyards, and humid air that moved like molasses. This was a city of steel, glass, and a frantic energy that vibrated right through the leather seats of the car. For Ams, it was like it never stopped.

The car left the expressway and plunged into the canyons of the city. The sky, which had been a wide, grey sheet over Queens, disappeared, reduced to narrow blue slivers between the tops of buildings that clawed their way into the clouds. The sounds changed instantly. The steady hum of the highway was replaced by a chaotic symphony: the impatient bleating of a hundred horns, the distant wail of a siren that seemed to echo off the concrete, and the thunderous hiss of a bus releasing its air brakes.

She pressed her face closer to the window, trying to take it all in. People were moving in all directions with a quick, snappy purpose, a human river flowing down the sidewalks, parting and reforming around obstacles without ever slowing down. Steam billowed from manholes in the street, like the city itself was breathing. Street vendors hawked their goods—the salty, sweet smell of roasting nuts from one cart, the sharp tang of hot dogs and sauerkraut from another—the scents clashing and mixing in the cool air. It was a world away from the familiar Louisiana aromas of chicory coffee and sweet olive.

The lights were what truly captured her. Even in the late afternoon, the city glowed. An endless sea of yellow cabs pulsed through the streets like a swarm of fireflies. Giant electronic billboards on the sides of buildings flashed with brilliant colors, their advertisements bigger than her entire house. “Welcome to New York,” Tom announced, a grin on his face as he watched her awestruck expression.

The words barely registered. Ams could only nod, her mind struggling to process the sheer scale of it all. It wasn’t just bigger than New Orleans; it was a different species of place entirely. A vertical world of stone and light, humming with a relentless, terrifying, and exhilarating life force. The car ride took them just over an hour to get to the Four Seasons Hotel, but for Ams, it felt like she had traveled to another planet.

The Towncar pulled up to the front of the hotel, gliding to a stop so smoothly that Ams didn’t even feel it. For a moment, she just stared through the window, paralyzed. The building soared into the grey sky, a tower of limestone and glass that seemed to belong to another world. Before Tom could even move, the car door was opened by a doorman in a long, immaculate grey coat with polished brass buttons. He was tall, ramrod straight, and moved with a quiet efficiency that was both respectful and intimidating. “Welcome to the Four Seasons, Ms. Hebert, sir,” he said, his voice a low, polite murmur. He knew their names. Ams felt a jolt—they were expected.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the city’s chaotic symphony softened, replaced by the hushed, rarified air of the hotel. Another uniformed man, a bellhop, was already at the trunk of the Towncar, expertly loading their luggage onto a gleaming brass cart with a silent nod. There was no fumbling, no shouting; it was all a seamless, choreographed ballet of service.

Tom placed a steadying hand on her back and guided her through the revolving doors. “Deep breaths,” he murmured. The lobby hit Ams with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t ornate like the old hotels in the French Quarter; it was something else entirely. It was a cathedral of modern luxury. The ceiling soared stories above her head, the floors were a polished, cream-colored marble that reflected the soft, recessed lighting, and in the center of the cavernous space sat a floral arrangement so massive and perfect it couldn’t possibly be real. The air smelled faintly of lilies and money. The only sound was the hushed murmur of conversation and the whisper of expensive shoes on stone.

They didn’t so much walk to the front desk as they were drawn toward it. A woman with a warm, professional smile looked up before they even arrived. “Welcome, Ms. Hebert, Mr. Edwards,” she said, consulting nothing. “We have everything ready for you. Stronghold Pictures has taken care of all the arrangements.” She slid two sleek keycards across the polished counter. Then, she reached below and produced a thick, heavy manila envelope, sealed and bearing the Stronghold Pictures logo. “This was left for you by Mr. Strong’s office.” There was no request for a credit card, no signing of forms. It was all handled. The efficiency was more staggering than any overt display of wealth. Tom took the envelope and handed one of the keycards to Ams. “Ready?”

The elevator ride was a silent, swift ascent in a wood-paneled box. Ams stared at her reflection in the polished brass, barely recognizing the wide-eyed woman in the simple sweatshirt. Tom unlocked the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open, stepping aside to let her enter first. Ams stopped dead on the threshold. She didn’t see a room; she saw a space. A vast living area, decorated in soft tones of cream and beige, was spread out before her. A plush sofa faced a wall of windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. And through those windows was the view.

The city was laid out before her like a glittering, endless map. Central Park, a perfect rectangle of green and autumn gold, sat nestled amongst a forest of skyscrapers. Yellow cabs crawled along the streets below like tiny, luminous insects. It was a view she’d only ever seen in movies, a fantasy made real. Ams took a few hesitant steps in, her Converse sneakers silent on the thick, soft carpet. Her eyes darted around the suite—the fully stocked bar in the corner, the heavy art books on the coffee table, the welcome basket of fruit, and a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. It was bigger than the entire first floor of her house.

Ams walked to the window and pressed her hand against the cool, thick glass, feeling the faint vibration of the city below. “Tom...” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “This is...” She couldn’t finish. Tom came to stand beside her, looking not at the view, but at her face. “They’re rolling out the red carpet, Ams,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I told you this was the real deal.”

Ams turned from the window, her hand still pressed against the cool glass. Her first, overwhelming instinct was a deep, aching need to share this impossible reality with Mary. She spotted a sleek, cream-colored phone on a polished side table and walked toward it. Her hands were trembling slightly as she picked up the receiver and dialed the familiar number to Mary’s office.

The phone rang twice before Mary’s professional, slightly tired voice answered. “Mary Richard.” “Hey, it’s me,” Ams said, her own voice sounding small in the vast, quiet suite. “Ams! Hey! You made it okay? How was the flight?” Mary’s tone was bright—almost a little too bright. Ams could hear the faint, frantic clicking of a keyboard in the background.

“The flight was... a flight,” Ams said, focusing on the present. “But Mary... this place. We’re here.” She turned back to the window, needing to paint the picture. “I’m looking out the window right now, and... it’s not like looking out at the neighborhood. There are no oak trees, just... canyons. Canyons made of glass and stone, and they just keep going forever.”

The keyboard clicking stopped. There was a pause on the other end of the line, just a beat of silence long enough for Ams to wonder if the connection had been lost. When Mary finally spoke, her voice was carefully modulated, a forced warmth painted over a layer of profound exhaustion. “Wow, Ams. That... that sounds incredible.” It wasn’t the shared, breathless wonder Ams had expected. It was the voice Mary used with difficult clients—polite, controlled, and a little distant. Ams’s own excitement faltered for a second.

“It’s so quiet up here,” she pushed on, trying to draw Mary into the moment with her. “You can’t hear any of the horns, just a... a hum. And the cars, from up here, they’re like tiny, glowing bugs. It’s like looking at a map of a whole other planet.” She sank onto the arm of the sofa. “This is insane, Mary. The room... there’s a bottle of champagne on ice just sitting here. Like this is a normal thing that happens.” Ams laughed, a short, breathless sound. “I just... I had to call you. I wish you were standing right here with me. It doesn’t feel right, seeing all this without you.”

Another pause. “I know. Me too,” Mary said, her voice a little softer, but still strained. “Hey, you just take it all in for both of us, okay?” “I will,” Ams promised, a lump forming in her throat. “Okay,” Mary said, her voice becoming brisk again. The keyboard clicking resumed softly. “Now go be the brilliant writer. ‘’ They flew all the way to New York to meet. Knock ‘em dead, Ams.” “Okay,” Ams whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Ams hung up the phone. She stood in the silent, luxurious room, the euphoria of her arrival now tinged with a familiar, nagging ache. The Slidell transfer was clearly taking more of a toll on Mary than she’d let on. A fresh wave of determination washed over her. She would make this trip a success, not just for herself, but to get back home and finally, somehow, make things right for Mary.

Tom came out of his room and came over to Ams. “We have to get ready for the dinner. It’s five thirty and they are coming for us at six,” Tom announced. “Shit, let’s get moving,” Ams said. Tom put on a simple suit, and Ams stared at her choice of clothing. God, why did this have to be so hard? Jeans and a t-shirt would work for her, but not for a gathering like this. She stewed over her options. It seemed so easy back at home, now it was spinning in her mind on whether to do this or not to. Ugh, Ams grunted. She ended up grabbing a pair of khaki slacks and a sweater. It was already getting dark out and cooling off this late into September.

Tom and Ams stood near the hotel’s massive entryway, two small figures in a cathedral of quiet luxury. Tom, in a simple dark suit, looked comfortable and at ease. Ams, however, felt like a child playing dress-up in the khaki slacks and a soft, grey cashmere sweater Lisa had insisted on. Every few seconds, she would smooth down the sweater, the unfamiliar softness a constant reminder that she was out of her element.

Just as Tom was about to speak, a man approached them, moving with an easy confidence that seemed to command the space around him. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, with a warm, weathered face and intelligent eyes that crinkled at the corners. He wasn’t wearing a flashy suit, but a well-tailored navy blazer, an open-collared shirt, and grey flannel trousers. He looked more like a tenured professor than a movie mogul.

“Ms. Hebert? Tom?” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. He extended a hand first to Ams. “Jack Strong. It is a genuine pleasure to finally meet you.” His handshake was firm and warm. Ams, who had been expecting a slick, fast-talking Hollywood type, was momentarily thrown. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Strong,” she managed, her voice a little breathless.

“Please, call me Jack,” he said with a smile that immediately put her at ease. “We’re going to be collaborators, after all.” He turned to a younger woman who had been standing just behind him. She had a sharp, stylish haircut and an equally sharp mind in her eyes. “And this is Sarah Jenkins, my head of development. Sarah was the one who practically threw the magazine at my head and insisted I read your story.”

“It was a very polite toss,” Sarah said, shaking Ams’s hand with a bright, energetic grin. “I’m a huge fan, Ms. Hebert. Your work is incredible.” “Our car is just outside,” Jack said, gesturing toward the revolving doors. “I thought we’d go somewhere a little more relaxed for dinner. Get to know each other before we get down to business tomorrow.”

The restaurant was a discreet, old-world Italian place in Greenwich Village with dark wood paneling, white tablecloths, and lighting so dim it felt conspiratorial. As they were led to a quiet corner booth, Ams felt the last of her fight-or-flight instincts begin to recede. This wasn’t a boardroom; it was a conversation.

For the first twenty minutes, the talk was light. Jack asked about her flight, about New Orleans, and about her other work. He was an excellent listener, asking thoughtful questions that showed he wasn’t just making small talk. But it was when the first course arrived that he leaned forward, his expression turning serious.

“Ams,” he began, “I want to tell you why we’re here. It’s not just the plot of ‘Rising Tides.’ It’s the atmosphere. The way you wrote about the humidity, the smell of the marsh, the weight of the air before a storm... I could feel it. And the character of Elara. The way she’s haunted by the past but still so fiercely tied to her home. ‘The tide takes, but it also returns what was lost, just changed.’ That line... that line is the whole movie.”

Ams stared at him. He had quoted her. He had not only read her story but had absorbed it, understood its heart. The imposter syndrome that had been clinging to her like a shroud began to dissolve. For the first time, she wasn’t a fraud who had gotten lucky; she was the author of “Rising Tides.” “She feels like a real person to me,” Ams said, her voice finding its strength. “Elara isn’t just a character. She’s… she’s the part of everyone that wants to go home, even when home is broken.”

The conversation ignited. For the next two hours, they didn’t talk about contracts or ancillary rights. They spoke about Elara’s motivations, about the symbolism of the water, about the story’s ending, and what it really meant. Ams, guided by Jack’s genuine curiosity and Sarah’s sharp insights, found herself articulating things about her own work she had only ever felt subconsciously. Tom sat back, a proud, watchful smile on his face, letting his client shine.

“This is why we need you on the screenplay,” Jack said finally, swirling the last of the red wine in his glass. “No one else can protect that voice. We have a director in mind, an incredible talent, who is a master of atmosphere. I think you’ll love her work. But the words, the soul of it... that has to come from you.”

Ams felt a dizzying mix of terror and elation. A director. It was real. It was happening. She looked across the table at these two people who were looking back at her not as a commodity, but as a creator. For the first time since opening that letter, she felt a profound sense of belonging.

8

Back in New Orleans, the house was silent and dark. Mary had come home from work to an empty space that felt cavernous and cold. She walked through the rooms, the quiet amplifying the frantic, guilty screaming in her own head. She saw the stack of folded laundry Ams had left on the chair, a small, domestic act of love that felt like a judgment. In the kitchen, propped against the sugar bowl, was Ams’s note.

Gone to New York. Knock ‘em dead for me this week with the transfer. I love you more than words. —Ams

Mary picked up the piece of paper, her hand shaking so badly the words blurred. I love you more than words. The simple, heartfelt sign-off was a gut punch. Ams’s love was boundless and pure, and she had taken it and contaminated it, tarnished it with a cheap, meaningless mistake in a sterile hotel room. The secret was a physical weight pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. The confident, capable woman who ran regional offices and managed dozens of people was gone, replaced by a terrified fraud who was about to lose everything that mattered.

The mask she had worn for Lisa and Sophia, for Ams, for everyone, finally shattered. The loneliness was absolute. She couldn’t carry it another second. Her gaze fell on the phone on the wall, the same phone Ams had called from just hours before, her voice full of wonder from a world away. Her fingers felt numb as she dialed Sophia’s number. It rang once, twice.

“Hello?” Sophia’s voice was warm and clear. Mary opened her mouth, but what came out was not a word, but a dry, ragged sob, a sound torn from the deepest part of her. There was a sudden, sharp silence on the other end. “Mary? Mary, what is it? What’s wrong?” Sophia’s voice was instantly alert, stripped of all casualness. “I... I can’t,” Mary choked out, tears now streaming down her face, hot and shameful. “Sophia, I... can you just... come over? Please?” The response was immediate, without hesitation. “I’m on my way. Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Lisa and Sophia arrived at the house and went in. Mary had left the front door unlocked, not thinking about anything, as soon as she hit the door and walked in. The air around her is thick with misery. This isn’t sadness; this is a person who is being slowly suffocated by a sin so heavy it has stolen the very air from her lungs. She seems deeply lost, on the verge of the end of living. Mary was sobbing. No lights. A thin afghan covering Mary in parts. The TV was on, casting a cold blue glow throughout the room. Mary was transfixed on nothing across the room. Her grief had put her into a trance that Sophia needed to break.

Sophia approaches her gently, as if approaching a frightened animal. Lisa hangs back, her presence a silent, steady backup. “Mary?” Sophia says, her voice a soft whisper. She kneels in front of the couch. “Honey, we’re here. We were so worried.”

Mary’s gaze slowly shifts from the wall to Sophia’s face. Her eyes are hollow, empty. It takes a long moment for recognition to dawn, and when it does, her face crumples. The dam of her tightly held composure doesn’t just break; it disintegrates. “I did something,” she chokes out, the words ripped from a place of absolute despair. “I did something awful.”

The story tumbles out in a torrent of shame and regret—Gulfport, the loneliness, the hotel room, the man whose name she won’t say. “I slept with him,” she finishes, her voice a raw whisper. “I did what Ams did. And she’s in New York, having the biggest moment of her life, and I’m here, and I’m this… this awful, hypocritical person.” Sophia doesn’t flinch. She simply pulls Mary into her arms, holding her as she sobs. “Oh, honey,” she whispers, rocking her gently.

Lisa pulls the armchair closer, her face a mask of shock that softens into a deep, familiar understanding. “Okay,” Lisa says, her voice low and steady. It’s the same voice she used with Ams all those years ago. “You made a huge mistake, Mary. A terrible one. But you are not an awful person. You are a human who was in a lot of pain and made a self-destructive choice.” “But what do I do?” Mary cries, her voice muffled against Sophia’s shoulder. “I have to tell her. But how? How can I do this to her? It’ll destroy everything.”

“You’re right, you have to tell her,” Lisa agrees. “But not over the phone. Not now. You don’t blow up her world while she’s on the verge of realizing her dream. That would be cruel.” “Lisa’s right,” Sophia adds softly, rubbing Mary’s back. “Your job, for the next three days, is to survive. You breathe. You let us be here for you. When she comes home, when she’s standing on solid ground again, you tell her the truth. Face to face.”

Mary looks at her two friends, who weren’t called but came. Drawn by a force of nature, by a friendship so deep it bordered on instinct. They didn’t just happen to show up; they were an answer to a prayer she didn’t even have the strength to utter. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispers, the weight of the coming days feeling impossible. “You can,” Lisa says with absolute certainty. “Because you’re not going to do it alone. We’ve got you.”

9

The ride back to the Four Seasons was a silent, humming glide through the glittering New York night. Ams sat pressed against the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and white, her mind replaying the dinner in a euphoric loop. He had quoted her. He understood. The validation was a warmth that spread through her, more potent than any wine.

Back in the hushed quiet of the suite, Tom let out a low whistle as the door clicked shut behind them. “Well,” he said, loosening his tie. “If you were writing that scene, a critic would say it was too good to be true.” Ams laughed, the sound bright and unburdened. “You think it went well, then?”

“Ams, that wasn’t just ‘well.’ That was a home run,” Tom said, walking over to the silver bucket where the champagne was still chilling. “Jack Strong isn’t just buying a story; he’s genuinely invested in you as its creator. That’s rare. And it’s worth celebrating.” He expertly popped the cork, the sound of a festive thump in the quiet room. He poured two glasses and handed one to her. “To the screenwriter.”

Ams took the glass, the bubbles fizzing against her fingers. “It doesn’t feel real,” she said, shaking her head as she walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. She looked down at the river of headlights flowing ceaselessly below. “All those people down there... they have no idea that right up here, my entire life just changed.”

“Get used to it,” Tom said, joining her at the window. “Tomorrow will be different. The dinner was about art. The meeting will be about commerce. There will be lawyers, business affairs people... they’ll talk in numbers and clauses. Don’t be intimidated. Your job is done for now. You won them over. My job is to translate their numbers into the best possible deal for you.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Just remember what happened tonight. Remember that the man at the top of the pyramid believes in your voice.”

They drank their champagne, and for the first time, Ams didn’t feel like an intruder in the luxurious space. She felt like she belonged there. That night, she slept soundly, the city’s distant hum a lullaby of infinite possibility.

The next morning, Ams woke before her alarm. The sun was rising over the city, casting a pale pink and gold light on the tops of the skyscrapers. The view that had seemed so terrifying just a day ago now felt like a promise. This was not a place that would chew her up; it was a place where things were built, where stories were brought to life on a scale she had never imagined.

Today was not a day for sweats and a t-shirt. Today was a day for armor. She walked into the suite’s massive walk-in closet and found the outfit she and Lisa had put together, the one at which Mary’s face had softened. She slipped on the charcoal pinstripe slacks, their sharp tailoring feeling like a declaration of intent. She pulled the simple, white knit sweater vest over her head, the clean lines feeling both professional and true to her artistic self. Looking in the full-length mirror, she didn’t see a simple writer from New Orleans. She saw a woman who was ready for a meeting.

Tom was waiting for her in the living area with coffee and a copy of the New York Times. He looked up from the paper and gave an appreciative nod. “There she is. Ready to take on the world?” “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ams said, her nerves a low, electric hum beneath her newfound confidence. “Good,” he said, folding the paper. “Because the car will be here in twenty.”

The offices of Stronghold Pictures were on the 45th floor of a glass and steel tower in Midtown. The lobby was a symphony of polished marble and quiet efficiency. As they stepped out of the elevator, they were met with a panoramic view of the city that made the one from their hotel room seem quaint.

They were led into a large conference room dominated by a long, dark wood table that reflected the sky outside. Jack Strong and Sarah Jenkins were already there, and they greeted Ams with warm smiles. But they weren’t alone. At the table sat Eleanor Vance, the lawyer from the letter, her expression sharp and professional. Next to her was a man in a severe suit who was introduced as the head of Business Affairs. The creative, conspiratorial feel of the previous night’s dinner was gone, replaced by the cool, crisp air of a negotiation.

The meeting began with pleasantries, but quickly shifted. Eleanor Vance took the lead, outlining the framework of the offer—an option/purchase agreement for the rights. Ams listened as they discussed figures and terms that flew over her head: backend points, box office bonuses, WGA scale. She felt a flicker of her old intimidation return, and she glanced at Tom, who gave her a subtle, reassuring nod. This was his territory.

It was the Business Affairs executive who paused, looking at a clause in the papers before him. “The co-writing credit for Ms. Hebert,” he said, his tone neutral. “It’s a significant ask for a first-time screenwriter. It complicates the budget and our ability to bring on a seasoned veteran for the polish.”

The air in the room tensed. Ams felt her stomach clench. This was it. This was the moment they told her, thank you for the story, but the professionals would take it from here. Before Tom could even respond, Jack Strong leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. His warm, professorial demeanor was gone, replaced by a quiet but absolute authority.

“It is not an ask,” Jack said, his voice calm and steady, his gaze fixed on the executive. “It is a requirement. The entire reason I am interested in this project is Ms. Hebert’s voice. We are not adapting the plot of ‘Rising Tides’; we are adapting her vision. If she is not a credited writer, there is no project. Is that clear?” The executive blinked. “Perfectly, Jack.” Eleanor Vance cleared her throat and seamlessly moved on. “Now, regarding the timeline for the first draft...”

Ams looked at Jack, who caught her eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible wink. In that moment, she understood. He wasn’t just her collaborator; he was her champion. The fear vanished, replaced by a surge of fierce determination. This wasn’t just their movie. It was her movie.

Later, when the discussion turned to creative elements, Sarah Jenkins turned to Ams. “Ams, if you had to describe the core of this story in one sentence, for someone who had never read it, what would it be?”

Ams didn’t hesitate. She looked around the table at the lawyers and executives, at the stunning view behind them, and spoke with a clarity that came from the very heart of her work. “It’s about a woman who has to learn that you can’t stop the tide from coming in,” she said. “But you can choose to rebuild what it washes away, and you can learn to live with the ghosts it leaves behind.”

A silence fell over the room, thicker and more profound than before. The lawyers and executives weren’t just listening; they were captivated. Tom sat back in his chair, a look of profound pride on his face. He watched as Jack Strong slowly nodded, a thoughtful, serious expression replacing his smile.

Jack looked away from Ams and met the gaze of his entire team, one by one. “That,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a final command. “That is the heart of it. Eleanor, make a note. We’re positioning this for a fourth-quarter release. This isn’t a summer blockbuster. This is a film with gravity.”

He then turned back to Ams, and the warm smile returned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, Ams. You’ve given us our movie.” The rest of the meeting was a blur of logistics and scheduling. As Ams and Tom rode the silent, swift elevator back down to the ground floor, Ams’s head was still spinning.

“I think that went okay,” she said, the understatement of the year. Tom laughed, a short, sharp sound of pure victory. “Okay? Ams, that was a coronation.” “What did he mean, though?” she asked, the professional jargon still echoing in her ears. “’Fourth-quarter release’?” The elevator doors opened to the soaring marble lobby. Tom put a steadying hand on her shoulder as they walked toward the exit, his grin wider than she’d ever seen it. “He means it’s not popcorn entertainment,” Tom said, his voice low and excited. “He’s not dropping it in July to compete with explosions and aliens. He’s saving it for October or November. He’s putting it on the launchpad.” He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in.

“He thinks it’s a contender.”

10

Mary woke up to a world tinted purple. The first light of dawn was filtering through the sheer curtains, painting the silent living room in hues of bruised twilight. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Then the memories of the night before crashed down on her, and with them came the physical toll. A dull, pounding ache throbbed behind her eyes, which felt gritty and swollen shut. Her work clothes from Monday were twisted around her, the fabric rumpled and askew, a testament to a night spent sleeping—if it could be called that—on the couch.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, her body stiff and protesting. The afghan Mary Louise had made for them pooled at her feet. The house was cold, the silence a living entity that pressed in on her from all sides. In her stomach, the familiar knots of anxiety tightened, but they were accompanied now by a hollow, gnawing emptiness. She hadn’t truly eaten since Sunday, and her body was starting to revolt.

The thought of facing her colleagues, of putting on the mask of Regional Manager Mary Richard, was impossible. It felt like trying to run a marathon with two broken legs. She stumbled into the kitchen, her hand shaking as she picked up the phone and dialed her office line. When her assistant answered, Mary forced her voice into a weak, scratchy rasp.

“Hey, Brenda… it’s me,” she croaked. “I’m not going to make it in today. I think I’ve come down with that stomach bug that’s going around… Yeah, it’s awful. I’m hoping to be back tomorrow, but I’ll keep you posted.” The lie came easily, a bitter taste in her mouth. She hung up the phone and leaned her forehead against the cool wall, a wave of pathetic relief washing over her. She had bought herself a day. A day to hide.

A shower was a necessity, not a comfort. She stood under the hot spray, scrubbing at her skin as if she could wash away the filth of her secret. The hotel shower had been a punishment; this was a desperate attempt at purification, at feeling human again. When she stepped out onto the cold tile, she couldn’t bear the thought of anything restrictive. No crisp blouses, no tailored slacks. She pulled on a pair of Ams’s old, soft sweatpants and one of her own oversized, worn-out t-shirts. No bra, no underwear. She just wanted to feel loose, to breathe, even if each breath felt like it was being drawn through gravel.

Downstairs, she opened the refrigerator and stared blankly at its contents. It was full. A testament to Ams’s care, there were leftover red beans and rice, fresh fruit, eggs, and juice. All of it looked like poison. The thought of putting anything in her mouth, of trying to swallow past the lump of guilt in her throat, made her stomach churn. She closed the door, defeated.

The house remained silent until mid-morning, when the sudden, shrill ring of the phone made her jump. She stared at it, her heart pounding. It was too early for Ams to call. Hesitantly, she picked it up. “Hello?” Mary said. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not hungry.” It was Sophia, her voice leaving no room for argument. Mary could hear the faint hum of office life in the background. “Soph, I…” “Nope. Not hearing it,” Sophia cut her off, her tone a mix of steel and affection. “I’m leaving the office for lunch. I am picking you up at noon. You are going to put on shoes, and you are going to get in my car. We’re going to find a quiet cafe, and you’re going to eat something. You need to see the sun, Mary. You need to start swimming back to shore.”

Mary was too exhausted to fight. “Okay,” she whispered. “Good,” Sophia said, her voice softening. “And you’re going to talk to me. You’re going to tell me the whole story, from start to finish. We’re going to practice saying the words out loud. It’ll be easier the second time.” There was a pause. “Lisa’s coming over after work. She’s bringing dinner. The three of us will be there when Ams calls tonight. You’re not doing that alone.”

Mary sank onto a kitchen chair, the phone pressed to her ear. They had a plan. They had thought it all through. They were refusing to let her drown. “Okay,” Mary said again, the word a shaky breath of surrender. “See you at noon,” Sophia said, and hung up. Mary sat in the quiet kitchen, the dial tone buzzing in her ear. She was being carried. For the first time since she’d woken up in that hotel room, a single, clear thought cut through the fog of her self-hatred. She had to survive this. Not just for herself, but for them. For the two women who were her rock, she refused to let the tide pull her under.

Noon came, and so did Sophia. Sophia’s words hung in the air, not as a judgment, but as a simple statement of fact. Mary didn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed by her appearance. She just nodded, her movements slow and detached, as if she were a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings. Sophia gently took the keys from Mary’s hand, locked the front door behind them, and guided her by the elbow toward the waiting car. The midday Louisiana sun was bright and oppressively cheerful, forcing Mary to squint. Each step on the familiar flagstone path felt like wading through mud.

The car was an oasis of cool, quiet air. Mary buckled her seatbelt on autopilot and stared out the passenger window as Sophia pulled away from the curb. The streets of her own neighborhood looked alien, the vibrant colors of the shotgun houses and the deep green of the live oaks seeming too saturated, too full of life. It felt like she was watching a movie of someone else’s city while she remained trapped in a grey, soundless fog.

For several minutes, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft click of the turn signal. Sophia drove with a calm, focused competence, sensing that Mary couldn’t handle chatter yet. Finally, as they turned onto Magazine Street, she broke the silence, her voice soft.

“I know this is hard,” she said, not taking her eyes off the road. “I’m not expecting you to be okay. I just need you to be present. That’s all.” Mary swallowed past the lump in her throat and gave a tiny, jerky nod.

“We’re almost there,” Sophia continued. “It’s a quiet place. A little courtyard in the back. No one will bother us. When we get there, we’ll order you some soup or something. And then, when you’re ready, you’re just going to tell me what happened. From the beginning. No detail is too small or too ugly. Just get the words out. Think of it like lancing a wound. It’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s the only way it can start to heal.”

Sophia pulled the car into a parking spot in front of a small, pale-yellow Creole cottage with dark green shutters. A discreet sign read “The Laurel Cafe.” For a moment, Mary didn’t move, her hand frozen on the door handle. The thought of leaving the anonymous safety of the car, of sitting at a table and being a person in the world, was terrifying. Sophia turned off the engine, and the silence returned, now charged with expectation. She didn’t rush her. She just waited, a pillar of patience. Then, she reached over and gently placed her hand over Mary’s.

“One step at a time,” Sophia said softly. “I’ve got you.” Mary took a deep, shuddering breath, the first one that felt like it reached her lungs. She looked at her friend’s determined, loving face. Then she nodded, unbuckled her seatbelt, and opened the door.

The Laurel Cafe was an oasis. Mary barely registered the quiet, sun-drenched interior—the scent of coffee and pastry, the soft clink of china—as Sophia guided her straight through to the back. They stepped into a small brick courtyard, a secret garden hidden from the city. Dappled sunlight filtered through the broad leaves of a magnolia tree, dancing on the wrought-iron tables. A small fountain gurgled in the corner, its gentle sound a balm on Mary’s raw nerves. Sophia chose the most secluded table, tucked away behind a large potted fern.

They sat in silence. To Mary, the vibrant green of the plants and the impossible blue of the sky felt like a different universe from the grey, suffocating world she’d been living in. A young waitress appeared, her smile soft and unobtrusive. “I’ll have an iced tea and the tomato soup,” Sophia said, her tone gentle but decisive. She looked at Mary. “That sound okay for you, too?” Mary could only nod, grateful to be relieved of the simple burden of choice. When the waitress left, the silence returned, heavier this time. Mary stared at the condensation forming on her water glass, tracing a drop with her eyes as it slid down the side. The air was thick with everything unsaid.

“Mary,” Sophia began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Whenever you’re ready. Just… start.” Mary took a shaky breath. Her eyes were fixed on the table, on the intricate pattern of the ironwork. The first words were the hardest, scraped from the depths of her soul.

“We were in Gulfport,” she began, her voice a hoarse, unfamiliar croak. The story came out in jagged pieces, a clinical, detached recitation of facts. She spoke of the long meetings, the exhaustion, the drinks with Debbie, the two men at the bar. Her voice was flat, the voice of a reporter detailing a car crash, as if describing it all from a great distance could somehow separate her from the person who had lived it.

Sophia didn’t flinch. She didn’t interrupt or ask questions. She just listened, her hands resting calmly on the table, her gaze unwavering. She was a silent, steady witness, and her presence gave Mary the courage to continue. The waitress brought their teas and soups, placing them down so quietly that it barely disturbed the confession. Mary didn’t touch hers.

She finally reached the hotel room, the stranger, Jason. Her voice faltered, the detached facade beginning to crack. “He wasn’t... it wasn’t... I was just so lonely, Soph. And he saw it.” She looked up for the first time, her eyes pleading for an understanding she didn’t deserve. “And I... I slept with him.”

The words, finally spoken aloud in the light of day, hung in the air between them, ugly and undeniable. A single tear escaped and traced a hot path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Sophia reached across the table and laid her hand on Mary’s forearm. Her touch was firm, grounding.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said softly. “I know how hard that was.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “You made a terrible mistake, Mary. But it doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you a human who was in pain and did something self-destructive.” Hearing the truth spoken with such calm acceptance, without a hint of revulsion, was like a key turning in a lock Mary didn’t know was there. A profound, shuddering sob escaped her, a release of pressure that had been building for days. It wasn’t the hysterical crying from the night before; it was a deep, sorrowful grief.

When the sobs subsided, something had shifted. The crushing weight on her chest felt… lighter. Not gone, but manageable. She took a slow, deep breath, and for the first time, she could smell the sweet scent of the jasmine climbing the brick wall behind her. She picked up her spoon. Hesitantly, she took a sip of the soup. It was warm and simple, and it tasted like nourishment. It was the first flicker of a slow morning sunrise inside her. The spark wasn’t happiness, but a flicker of fight. A nascent resolve to be the person worthy of Ams’s love again, even if it meant confessing her own unworthiness. She felt the first stirrings of being comfortable in her own skin again, not because she was forgiven, but because she was no longer hiding.

“Her meeting was today,” Mary said, her voice stronger now. “She’ll call tonight. She’ll be so happy, so excited about everything.” She looked at Sophia, her newfound resolve already warring with a tidal wave of fear. “How am I supposed to listen to all of that? How can I hear her voice and not just fall apart? It’s going to be like walking through fire, trying not to get burnt.”

“You won’t do it alone,” Sophia promised, her grip on Mary’s arm tightening. “Lisa and I will be right there with you. We’ll be your rock. You just have to get through the call. One step at a time. Just like this.”

11

Ams woke on Wednesday morning to the unfamiliar sensation of profound, untroubled calm. She had expected a “victory hangover”—a day of anxious jitters after the emotional peak of the meeting. Instead, she felt a quiet, settled confidence. She made coffee and sat by the vast window, not looking at the view with wide-eyed wonder, but with a sense of nascent familiarity. This was the city where her dream was becoming a tangible thing.

Just after nine, the phone in the suite rang. It was Tom, calling from his room. “Morning, contender,” he said, his voice still buzzing with yesterday’s energy. “Sleep well?” “Better than I have in years,” Ams admitted. “I think the terror is finally wearing off.” “Good. Don’t get too comfortable,” Tom said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “That was Jack Strong’s assistant on the line a few minutes ago. He was so energized by the meeting yesterday, he made a call last night. The director he has in mind for the project just happens to be in the city this week, prepping her next film.”

Ams sat up straighter, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips. “Already? He’s moving that fast?” “A-list producers don’t get to be A-listers by waiting around, Ams,” Tom said. “Jack wants to strike while the iron is hot. He wants the three of you to have lunch today. One o’clock. At The Russian Tea Room.”

The name hit Ams with the force of a cultural touchstone. The Russian Tea Room. It wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a landmark, a place she’d only ever read about in books and seen in movies, a legendary haunt for artists, writers, and musicians.

“He wants me to have lunch with a famous director at The Russian Tea Room?” she said, the words sounding absurd and wonderful. “Tom, what do I even wear to something like that?” “Wear exactly what you wore yesterday,” Tom said firmly. “It’s your new uniform. But that’s not the most important part. He told me her name.” Ams waited, her heart beginning to pound a fast, steady rhythm against her ribs. “It’s Katherine Pearce.”

Ams audibly gasped. Katherine Pearce wasn’t just a director; she was an artist. She was known for her visually stunning, atmospheric films that cared more about character and place than plot. Her last film, a quiet, haunting drama set in rural Montana, had earned her a nomination for Best Director. She was a storyteller who used a camera instead of a typewriter, a master of capturing the unspoken truths of a landscape. She was, in short, the perfect person to understand the soul of “Rising Tides.”

“Oh my God, Tom,” Ams whispered, a new wave of thrilling, terrifying awe washing over her. “Her work... it’s like poetry.” “Exactly,” Tom said. “Jack didn’t just pick a big name; he picked the right name. This isn’t a business meeting, Ams. This is your first real creative collaboration. He wants to see if the two of you connect. So, no pressure.” He laughed. “I’ll be there, but this one is all about you. Be ready by twelve-thirty.”

Ams hung up the phone, her mind racing. Yesterday, she had proven she was a professional. Today, she had to prove she was an artist worthy of sitting across from one of her idols, not as a fan, but as a peer. She walked to the window and looked out at the endless, sprawling city. Yesterday, it had been a place of commerce and power. Today, it felt like a city of art, a place where poetry could be turned into light and shadow.

Ams hung up the phone with Tom, her mind a dizzying mix of Katherine Pearce’s films and the impossible, legendary name of The Russian Tea Room. The next wave was coming. For the next couple of hours, though, she was suspended in the quiet before the tide. And like she always did when the world moved too fast, she slowed it down by capturing the details.

She began in her own room, taking a writer’s inventory. The bed wasn’t just a bed; it was a sprawling continent of white, a cloud of impossibly high-thread-count linen, and an ocean of pillows, each plumped to perfection. She pressed her hand into the mattress, and it yielded with a soft sigh. At home, her bed was a familiar, beloved vessel. This was an experience. The nightstand was a heavy block of dark, polished wood, topped with a lamp whose base was a cool, smooth sphere of marble. Even the phone felt different—heavy and solid in her hand, its dial tone a clean, pure hum. This was a room built from permanence and weight, designed to make its occupants feel significant.

She wandered over to the massive window that took up the entire far wall. Yesterday’s sharp, crystalline view was gone. Today, New York was breathing. A thick, pearlescent fog had rolled in, blanketing the city in a soft, mysterious silence. The tops of the neighboring skyscrapers were completely devoured by the mist, leaving only their steel and glass torsos visible, like the ruins of a city for giants. The frantic energy of the streets below was muted, the sharp bleating of taxi horns softened to dull, distant thuds. The city’s roar had become a murmur.

For a writer, it was a gift. The fog transformed the view from a declaration of power into a page of poetry. She could see individual squares of light in the building opposite—a corner office, a residence—and found herself inventing the lives within them. A banker staring at numbers that had lost their meaning, a painter dabbing color onto a canvas, a lonely woman making coffee for one. The fog made the city intimate, a collection of a million secret stories happening all at once.

Finally, she walked into the common area she and Tom shared, a space larger than the entire ground floor of her house. The sprawling, low-slung sectional sofa was upholstered in a nubby, expensive-feeling bouclé, the color a soft grey that matched the fog outside. She ran her hand over its texture, cataloging the feel of it. On the massive, dark wood coffee table, there were no celebrity magazines, only heavy, glossy books on architecture and photography. A single, perfect white orchid stood in a simple glass vase, its beauty a quiet, confident statement.

Her eyes were drawn to the fireplace. It wasn’t a rustic hearth for crackling logs like the one at home. This was a sleek, modern affair—a wide, black slate opening where a ribbon of clean, orange flame danced over a bed of polished black stones. It was warmth without the work, fire without the mess. A controlled, elegant version of a chaotic element. A perfect metaphor for this new world she found herself in.

She walked over to the gleaming chrome and dark wood bar, picking up a heavy crystal tumbler. It was cool to the touch, its facets catching the soft, diffused light from the window. She held it in her hands, feeling its weight, its history.

This was what she needed. This slow, deliberate cataloging of an alien world. By observing the weave of the sofa, the silent grace of the orchid, the controlled dance of the flame, she was taming it. She was breaking down this overwhelming, luxurious reality into sentences, into details she could own. She was turning it from an intimidating experience into material. The world stopped spinning. Her breathing evened out. The quiet work was done. Now, the excitement could start anew.

It was time to get ready. This time, Ams felt she knew what she wanted and had to do. This wasn’t hiding for Ams anymore, but it was time for her to fight for what she knew she wanted and what her champion wanted. The work was about to start, and this was for Mary and her. This time, in a simple statement of rebellion, Ams put on the outfit, grey pinstripe slacks, a white cotton sweater vest showing her smooth skin on its sides, with the black jacket and her statement style, her black Converse shoes. Ams looked herself over in the mirror and saw she was ready.

Tom was waiting in the common area when Ams emerged from her room. He looked up, taking in her sharp, professional outfit, and his eyes landed on her feet. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. “Perfect,” he said simply. “Don’t ever let them change that.”

The ride to The Russian Tea Room was different. The initial awe of the city had been replaced by a focused, electric anticipation. Ams wasn’t a tourist anymore; she was a writer on her way to a meeting.

The restaurant was everything she’d imagined and more. It wasn’t modern or sleek; it was an opulent, theatrical jewel-box, a relic from another time. The room was a symphony of deep reds, gleaming gold, and polished dark wood. Intricate oil paintings adorned the walls, and shimmering brass samovars stood like sentinels. The air was filled with the murmur of hushed, important conversations. It was the kind of place where stories were born.

A maître d’ led them to a plush, circular red leather booth in a prominent corner. A woman was already seated, nursing a cup of tea. She looked to be in her late 40s, with a cascade of dark, curly hair streaked with silver and intelligent, piercing eyes that didn’t just look at you—they seemed to see right through you. She was dressed in an effortlessly chic ensemble of black silk and wore a single, striking silver cuff on her wrist. This was Katherine Pearce.

She stood as they approached, her smile small but genuine. “Ms. Hebert, I presume,” she said, her voice a low, melodic alto. She shook Ams’s hand, her grip surprisingly firm. Her eyes flickered down to Ams’s Converse for a fraction of a second, and the corner of her mouth twitched in what looked like approval. “I’m Katherine. Please, sit.”

The small talk was minimal. Once they had ordered, Katherine leaned forward slightly, her intense focus solely on Ams. Tom, sensing the shift, receded into the background, becoming a silent observer. “Jack sent me your story last night,” Katherine began, her voice direct. “I read it twice. The second time, I put it down and couldn’t sleep.” Ams felt a nervous flutter in her chest. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It’s the best thing,” Katherine replied. “Producers read stories for theme and plot. I read them for images. Your prose… it’s remarkably visual. When I read your words, I don’t just see dialogue. I see the oppressive humidity on Elara’s skin before a storm. I see the murky reflection of the marsh in her eyes when she’s lying. I can feel the grit of the sand under her fingernails. You write in pictures, Ms. Hebert.”

It was the highest compliment Ams could have imagined. This woman didn’t just understand the story; she understood how it was told. “I just wanted to capture a feeling,” Ams said, finding her voice. “The feeling of being tied to a place that’s both beautiful and broken.”

“And you did,” Katherine affirmed. “That feeling is our movie. I have no interest in making a simple drama. I want to make a visual poem about memory and landscape. I want to put what you felt onto the screen.” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “But that only works if the writer and the director are seeing the same poem. And I believe we are.”

The rest of the lunch was a whirlwind of creative energy. They talked about casting ideas, the color palette of the film, and the sound of the marsh at night. For two hours, they were no longer a director and a writer; they were two artists building a world together.

They leave the dark, intense atmosphere of the restaurant and step out into the cool, grey afternoon. Instead of getting a car, Tom suggests they walk. They enter Central Park, the sounds of the city softening behind them. The fog from the morning has lifted, leaving behind a soft, overcast sky. For several minutes, they walk in a comfortable silence, Ams’s mind still buzzing.

“So,” Tom finally says, unable to hold it in any longer. “That’s the best first director meeting I have ever witnessed in my entire career.” Ams just shakes her head, a giddy, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “She gets it, Tom. She really, truly gets it.”

As they walk along the path, Ams asks, “So what happens now? Do I just… go home and start writing?” “First, the lawyers do their thing. Now that you and Katherine are both unofficially on board, Stronghold will draw up the formal contracts. That’ll take a few weeks of back-and-forth. That’s my job.” Tom said.

“While that’s happening, your first real assignment will be to work with Katherine on a detailed outline. A beat sheet. You’ll probably do that over the phone. You’ll map out the entire film, scene by scene, before you write a single word of dialogue. Jack and the studio will need to approve that.” Tom continued. “Once the outline is approved, you get the green light to go to script. They’ll probably give you ten to twelve weeks for the first draft. You’ll do that from home, in your study. Where you do your best work.”

Tom confirms that their work in New York is done for now. They will fly home tomorrow as planned. Ams isn’t just returning with a deal; she’s returning with a creative partner, a clear mission, and a timeline. The waiting period isn’t passive anymore. It’s the official, quiet start of her new life as a screenwriter. The journey home will be a potent mix of triumph for her future and, unbeknownst to her, a reckoning with her past.

12

Wednesday morning, Mary woke up on her own side of the bed. She’d made it there sometime after Ams’s phone call, after Lisa and Sophia had finally left, their parting hugs a silent transfer of strength. Sleep hadn’t been a rest, but a temporary ceasefire in the war she was waging against herself. The purple light of dawn was back, but today it didn’t feel like a bruise. It just felt like a morning.

Her head still ached, and the knots in her stomach were a cold, familiar presence, but the all-consuming paralysis from the day before had receded. It was replaced by a grim, weary resolve. Survive. That was the job.

She showered, and this time, it was just a shower. She chose her work clothes like a soldier selecting a uniform: a simple, conservative navy blouse and charcoal slacks. Each piece was a layer of armor, a part of the “Regional Manager Mary Richard” costume she needed to wear to get through the day. The clothes felt restrictive and false, but they were also a shield.

At the office, the bright fluorescent lights felt harsh, and the cheerful “good mornings” from her colleagues felt like blows. She gave tight, practiced smiles in return and made a beeline for her office, closing the door behind her. She told her assistant, Brenda, that she was still feeling a bit under the weather and needed to focus, asking her to hold all but the most urgent calls.

Then, she dove into her work with a desperate, single-minded focus. The Slidell office transfer. Spreadsheets, logistical timelines, personnel files, vendor contracts. Each task was a small, manageable box to tick. Each number crunched, each email sent, was a moment she didn’t have to think about Ams. About Jason. About the truth that was waiting for her like a guillotine.

Her mind, however, was a traitor. In the quiet moments between tasks, it would wander. A turn of phrase in a memo would remind her of Ams’s writing. The mention of a hotel conference would send a jolt of sickly adrenaline through her veins. She would stare at the phone on her desk, her breath catching in her throat, a phantom dread of it ringing with bad news—or worse, with Ams’s sweet, unsuspecting voice. This was her perceived “up-coming doom,” a constant, low-grade hum of terror beneath the surface of her feigned productivity. She would shake her head, take a sharp breath, and force her eyes back to the spreadsheet. Focus. Survive.

She ate lunch at her desk, a sandwich she didn’t taste. She kept her interactions with coworkers brief and professional, using her “lingering illness” as an excuse to avoid the breakroom chatter. She was a ghost haunting her own life, moving through the motions, her real self locked away.

When five o’clock finally came, the relief was so profound it almost made her dizzy. She drove home through the familiar New Orleans streets, the setting sun casting long shadows. The house was quiet. Too quiet. It was no longer a sanctuary, but a waiting room.

She changed back into Ams’s sweatpants and her own t-shirt, the soft fabric a small comfort. She puttered around the kitchen, wiping down counters that were already clean, rearranging the mail. She was just killing time, waiting for the inevitable call.

When the phone rang around eight, her heart leaped into her throat. She let it ring twice, composing herself. You can do this. You are not alone. The call was a masterpiece of loving deception. Ams was buzzing, telling her all about the “visual poetry” of Katherine Pearce and the impossible grandeur of The Russian Tea Room. Mary played her part, injecting her voice with a warmth and excitement she did not feel. She asked the right questions and laughed at the right moments. It was the most exhausting performance of her life. Every loving word from Ams was a fresh stab of guilt. Every one of Mary’s feigned words of pride felt like a lie that poisoned the air between them.

“I’ll be home tomorrow night,” Ams said finally, her voice soft with longing. “I can’t wait to see you.” “I can’t wait either,” Mary managed to say, the words tasting like ash. “I love you.” “I love you more,” Ams replied, and hung up.

Mary slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle and stood motionless in the silent kitchen, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the counter. The fire had been walked through. She wasn’t burnt, but she was scorched to the soul. She picked the phone back up and dialed Sophia’s number, her hands trembling.

“She called,” Mary whispered when Sophia answered, her voice cracking. “I got through it.” She sank onto the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, the dam of her composure finally breaking. “Oh God, Soph. Tomorrow. How am I going to do this to her? How am I going to break the heart of the best person I’ve ever known?”

13

The plane began its descent through a thick blanket of clouds, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Ams saw the familiar, swampy green of the Louisiana coastline. A profound sense of contentment settled over her. She had left New Orleans a writer with a secret hope and a mountain of self-doubt. She was returning a screenwriter with a mission, a collaborator, a contender.

“Ready to be home?” Tom asked from the seat beside her, closing his briefcase. “More than ready,” Ams said, a genuine, unburdened smile on her face. “I can’t wait to tell Mary everything. Properly this time. I feel like I haven’t really talked to her all week.” She felt a familiar pang of concern. “She’s been working so hard on this Slidell transfer. I just want to take care of her for a while.” “This deal will let you both do a lot of that,” Tom said kindly. “Welcome to the next chapter.”

The flight landed in the late afternoon humidity of New Orleans. The air, thick and fragrant with rain and vegetation, was a welcome embrace after the crisp, cool anonymity of New York. As promised, Tom drove her home, the car winding through the familiar, potholed streets. Ams was practically vibrating with a joy so potent it felt like it was lighting her up from the inside.

As they turned onto Pauger Street, however, the first discordant note was struck. Sophia’s car was parked out front. “That’s strange,” Ams murmured, her brow furrowing slightly. “I didn’t know they were coming over.” She pushed the thought away. They’re probably here to celebrate. They couldn’t wait.

Tom pulled up to the curb and helped her with her suitcase. “Alright, you’re home,” he said, giving her a quick, brotherly hug. “Get some rest. You earned every second of this. Call me tomorrow.” “Thanks for everything, Tom,” she said, her excitement returning. He drove off, and Ams stood on the sidewalk for a moment, suitcase in hand, looking at the warm, familiar facade of her house. She was home.

She walked up the path and opened the front door, a wide grin already on her face, the words “You are not going to BELIEVE what happened” ready on her lips. The words died in her throat. The air inside was still and heavy. No music was playing. The lights were low, casting long shadows in the late afternoon gloom. And in the living room, sitting like figures in a somber painting, were Mary, Sophia, and Lisa. Their faces weren’t celebratory; they were etched with a profound, quiet gravity. It wasn’t a party. It was a vigil.

Ams’s smile faltered and fell away. Her suitcase handle slipped in her sweaty palm. A cold dread, immediate and absolute, washed over her, eclipsing the brilliant joy of the last three days. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice small. “Is someone sick? Did something happen?”

Sophia and Lisa stood up in unison. Lisa came forward and took Ams’s suitcase, setting it silently by the door. Sophia enveloped her in a brief, tight hug that felt less like a greeting and more like an apology. They both looked at Mary, a shared, meaningful glance that communicated everything and nothing.

“We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us,” Sophia said softly, and she and Lisa retreated, leaving Ams and Mary alone in the charged silence. Mary was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollowed out. She looked fragile, like a single touch might shatter her. She didn’t stand. “Ams,” Mary began, her voice a raw, broken whisper. “I need you to sit down. Please. I need to tell you something.” Ams felt her legs go weak and sank into the armchair opposite the couch where Mary sat. The elation of New York, the meetings, Katherine Pearce—it all evaporated, a distant dream from another life. There was only this room, this terrible, suffocating silence.

Mary took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at her hands, twisting them in her lap. “When I was in Gulfport,” she said, the words scraped from a place of pure agony. “I was… I was not in a good place. I felt lost. And I did something stupid. Something awful.” She finally forced herself to look up, her eyes swimming with a shame so profound it was painful to witness. “I slept with someone, Ams.” The words hit Ams with the force of a physical blow. The air rushed from her lungs. The room tilted, the edges of her vision going dark for a second. The pain was immediate, a white-hot spike through her heart. She could feel Mary bracing herself, waiting for the screaming, the accusations, the rage she so clearly deserved.

But as the initial shock wave passed, something else rose in its place. A ghost. A memory. Her mind flashed, not with the image of Mary and a stranger, but with a vivid, searing recollection of her own past—the crushing weight of her own mistake years ago, the self-loathing, the terrible, consuming fear of confessing to Mary, the desperate hope for a forgiveness she hadn’t earned. She looked at the shattered woman on the couch, and she didn’t just see a betrayer. She saw a reflection. A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Mary finally broke, a choked sob escaping her lips as she buried her face in her hands. “Say something,” she pleaded, her voice muffled. “Please, just scream at me. Hate me. It would be easier.”

Ams took a slow breath, the sound loud in the quiet room. When she spoke, her voice was thick with a pain Mary had never heard before, but it wasn’t the sound of anger. It was the sound of a shared wound. “I’m not going to scream at you,” Ams said softly. She stood up on unsteady legs and walked over to the couch, kneeling on the floor in front of the woman she loved. She gently pulled Mary’s hands away from her face.

“This hurts,” Ams whispered, her own tears now falling freely. “God, it hurts like hell.” She looked directly into Mary’s devastated eyes. “But I know this feeling, Mary. I know what it’s like to be eaten alive by this. I know what it’s like to think you’ve destroyed the only good thing in your life.” She took Mary’s trembling hands in her own. “I’m not leaving,” Ams said, her voice firm with a conviction that seemed to come from the very core of her soul. “We’re not going to let this destroy you. We’re going to fix this.” She squeezed Mary’s hands. “Together.”

Mary’s world, which had already shrunk to the size of her own guilt, collapsed into the space between her and Ams. She waited for the explosion, for the hands she held to be ripped away, for the verdict she deserved to be delivered. The silence was an eternity. When Ams spoke, her voice was a raw whisper. “How?” Mary flinched. “How can you...?” “Because I love you,” Ams answered simply, her grip on Mary’s hands tightening. “Because I remember what this feels like. And I’m not letting you go through it alone.”

Mary could only stare, the forgiveness so absolute and immediate that her mind couldn’t process it. It was a language she wasn’t prepared to hear. The backlash she had steeled herself for was a tangible enemy she could fight. This compassion left her utterly disarmed and lost.

Sensing a shift in the atmosphere, Sophia appeared in the doorway of the living room, her expression cautious. She saw them on the floor—not fighting, but connected in a tableau of profound, painful intimacy. The relief that washed over her face was visible. Lisa appeared behind her, her own face a mask of stunned awe at the scene.

Ams looked over her shoulder at them, her eyes still wet with tears. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice still shaky but gaining strength. “We’re okay.” She turned back to Mary, whose face was a canvas of confusion and disbelief. Ams knew she couldn’t let Mary drown in this moment. She had to pull her out, give her something else to hold onto. She had to change the air in the room. “We’re going to talk about this,” Ams said, her voice becoming steadier. “We’re going to talk about it a lot. But not right now. Right now, you all need to hear some good news. You need to hear what happened.”

She shifted, moving from her knees to sit on the couch next to Mary, but she never let go of her hand. She tugged gently. “Come on. Sit up.” She looked at her friends. “You guys, too. Get in here. I have to tell you everything. From the beginning.” Lisa and Sophia exchanged a look and then moved to the armchair, their focus entirely on Ams. And then, Ams began to talk.

She started with the flight, her fear and excitement all tangled up. She painted a picture of the hotel suite, the impossible luxury, the view that made the world feel like a map. She described the nervousness before the first dinner, the kindness of Jack Strong, and the moment he quoted her story back to her. As she spoke, the story took over. The genuine, unadulterated joy that had been extinguished the moment she walked through the door began to glow again, soft and tentative at first, then brighter and brighter.

Mary listened, spellbound. The story was a lifeline, pulling her out of the suffocating darkness of her own confession and into the brilliant, impossible light of Ams’s world. Ams recounted the big meeting, the intimidating boardroom, and Jack’s fierce, unwavering defense of her as a writer. She told them about Katherine Pearce, her visual poetry, and the electric, immediate connection they’d shared in the opulent, red-and-gold world of The Russian Tea Room. She even laughed as she described her own small act of rebellion. “And I wore my Converse,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Because I had to be me. Katherine noticed. I think she approved.”

By the time she finished, the heavy, grief-stricken atmosphere in the room had been completely transformed. It was filled with the breathtaking reality of Ams’s triumph. Lisa and Sophia were beaming, tears of pride in their eyes. Ams finished the story and took a deep breath, turning her full attention to the woman beside her. Mary’s face was still stained with tears, but her eyes, for the first time in days, held a flicker of light. A dawning, fragile hope. “So,” Ams said, her voice soft but firm. “We have a deal to celebrate. A really, really big one.” She looked from Mary to her friends, then back to Mary. “And it seems to me, we have a new beginning to celebrate, too.” She stood up, pulling Mary’s hand and urging her to stand as well.

“I’m starving,” Ams announced to the room. “And we are not ordering pizza. We are going out. All of us. We’re going to Galatoire’s. We’re going to drink champagne and eat until we can’t move.” She looked directly at Mary, her expression a powerful mixture of love and determination. “We are going to celebrate this movie deal. And we are going to celebrate the first day of your new life.”

It was an impossible suggestion. An act of radical, defiant hope. But as Mary looked at the incredible woman in front of her, the woman who was offering not just forgiveness, but a future, she felt that tiny spark inside her glow a little brighter. She looked at Sophia and Lisa, who were smiling through their tears, nodding their encouragement. Slowly, shakily, Mary nodded back.

The dinner at Galatoire’s was surreal. Surrounded by the timeless elegance of the French Quarter, the clinking of silverware, and the low hum of happy conversations, they existed in a small, fragile bubble. Ams, with Lisa and Sophia as her steadfast wingmen, kept the conversation light, telling funny stories about New York, gently pulling Mary back into the fold of their shared life. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Mary felt the knots in her stomach loosen. She even managed a few real, unforced laughs. It was, as Ams had declared, a celebration.

Later that night, back in the quiet of their bedroom, the weight of the day returned, but it was different. It was no longer the sharp, isolating agony of guilt, but the heavy, shared burden of healing. There was an awkwardness as they got ready for bed, a new map of their relationship they didn’t know how to navigate yet.

As Mary slid under the covers, she lay stiffly on her side, facing away, not wanting to presume anything. She felt the bed dip as Ams got in behind her. She braced herself for the chasm of empty space between them. Instead, after a long moment, she felt Ams’s arm gently drape over her waist, her hand coming to rest on her stomach. Ams pulled herself closer, her front pressing against Mary’s back, her chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t say a word. She just held her.

In that simple, profound act of holding, Mary finally, completely broke. Silent, hot tears streamed from her eyes, soaking the pillow. They weren’t the desperate, ragged sobs of guilt, but the quiet, cleansing tears of a soul that had been granted a grace it never expected. She wasn’t alone in the storm anymore. She was being held. And for tonight, that was enough.

14

Friday morning arrived quietly. Mary woke to the feeling of Ams’s arm still draped over her, her breathing a soft, steady rhythm against her neck. For a disorienting moment, the world felt normal, a perfect replica of a thousand mornings before. Then the memory of the last week crashed down, and with it, the terrifying, miraculous memory of the night before. This is real, she thought, a wave of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude washing over her. She didn’t leave.

The morning routine was a delicate, tentative dance. The silence wasn’t angry, but it was fragile, each of them afraid of saying the wrong thing and shattering the truce. Ams was the one who made the coffee, a simple, domestic act of care that spoke volumes. She handed Mary a mug, their fingers brushing. Mary looked up and met her eyes, and in them, she saw not judgment, but a deep, weary sadness and a flicker of unwavering resolve. “Are you sure you want to go in today?” Ams asked softly, her voice still rough from sleep.

Mary took a sip of the hot coffee, the warmth a small comfort. “I have to,” she said, her own voice quiet but firm. “I have a morning leadership chat I can’t miss. I... I need to feel normal. Even if it’s just for a few hours.” “Okay,” Ams said, nodding her understanding. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. We’ll talk more tonight.”

An hour later, Mary was in her car, dressed in the familiar armor of her work clothes, the professional mask of Mary Richard sliding into place. The drive to the office was an exercise in compartmentalization. She focused on the agenda for her 9 a.m. meeting, mentally running through talking points about the Slidell transfer.

The meeting took place in a sterile, glass-walled conference room. Mary stood at the head of the table, a model of corporate competence, guiding the discussion with her usual efficiency. “If we look at the Q3 numbers,” she said, pointing to a chart on the whiteboard, “we can see the initial outlay for the new servers is high, but the projected savings on maintenance will put us in the black within eighteen months.”

Her voice was steady, her gestures confident. But inside, a second, silent conversation was raging. As her finance lead discussed amortization, Mary’s mind was replaying Ams’s face, the flicker of pain when she’d first heard the news. While her operations manager detailed staffing logistics, she was remembering the impossible, life-altering feeling of Ams’s arm around her in the dark.

At one point, someone asked her a direct question, and for a terrifying second, she had no idea what they’d said. She blinked, the corporate jargon on the whiteboard blurring. She saw the expectant faces looking at her and managed to pull an answer from the ether, a response so smooth and plausible that no one noticed the lapse. But she noticed. Her composure was a paper-thin wall, and the truth was a flood waiting to break through.

The meeting ended. She returned to the sanctuary of her office and shut the door, leaning against it for a long moment, the sheer exhaustion of the performance washing over her. She sank into her chair and her eyes fell on the small, silver-framed photo on her desk—a picture of her and Ams from a trip to the beach years ago, both of them windswept and laughing, utterly carefree.

She stared at the photo, at the woman she had been, at the woman she had betrayed. The work ahead felt monumental. Not the Slidell transfer. The real work. The painstaking, day-by-day effort of rebuilding a life, of earning back a trust that had been so freely given, of becoming the woman in that picture again. But as she sat there in the silence of her office, for the first time in a week, the task didn’t feel impossible. It felt like a choice. And she was choosing to begin.

After the front door clicked shut behind Mary, Ams stood alone in the quiet house. The silence that greeted her was different from the heavy, grief-stricken stillness of the day before. This was a fragile, contemplative quiet, the calm air after a hurricane has passed. The devastation was all around her, but the storm was over. For now.

She walked through the downstairs rooms, seeing them with new eyes. She could see the faint signs of Mary’s week of neglect—a few dishes in the sink, a dusting of grime on the coffee table, a general air of disuse. It was the look of a house whose occupant had been too consumed by internal chaos to manage the external.

And so, Ams did what she always did when her thoughts were too loud and the world felt too big: she made her world small and manageable. She started with a load of laundry, gathering their clothes from the hamper. As she sorted the darks and lights, she thought about the simple intimacy of the act—her life, tangled up with Mary’s. She folded the warm, clean clothes from the dryer, her hands moving with a steady, practiced rhythm. She paused, holding one of Mary’s soft t-shirts, bringing it to her face for a second. The scent was just Mary. The hurt was still there, a deep, tender bruise in her chest, but it was mingled with an overwhelming love.

She moved through the house with a quiet purpose, cleaning with a focused, deliberate energy. Wiping down the kitchen counters, scrubbing the sink until it gleamed, and dusting the bookshelves in the living room. Each simple, physical task was a meditation, a way of bringing order to a world that had been thrown into chaos. She was literally and figuratively clearing the air, creating a clean, safe space for them to begin to heal.

With the house humming with a renewed sense of calm, she finally retreated to her study. This room, her sanctuary, now felt different. It was no longer just the place where she wrote books; it was the headquarters for their entire future. She sat at her desk, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and looked at a blank page in her notebook. She didn’t write. She just thought, letting the ideas for the Rising Tides outline begin to take shape. She thought about Katherine’s visual poetry, about Elara’s pain, about the symbolism of the water. The work was a refuge, a welcome, and an exciting puzzle to solve.

Around midday, she picked up the phone and dialed Tom. He answered on the second ring. “Hey,” she said simply. “Just checking in. I’m okay.” There was a pause, and she could hear the unspoken questions in the silence. Tom was perceptive enough to know that something had happened, but he was a good enough friend not to push. “Good,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “I’m glad you’re home. The contracts are in motion. You did the hard part. Take the weekend. We’ll talk about business next week.”

“Thanks, Tom,” she said, and hung up. She sat for another hour, making notes, the story pulling her in. Then, a sudden, impulsive thought struck her. She picked up the phone again and dialed Mary’s direct line at her office. Mary answered, her voice clipped and professional. “Mary Richard.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Ams said softly. The professional mask in Mary’s voice instantly vanished, replaced by a wave of surprise and vulnerability. “Ams? Is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine,” Ams reassured her, a small smile touching her lips. “I was just sitting here, and I was thinking about you. I wanted to see how your morning was going.”

There was a choked, silent beat on the other end of the line. Ams could almost feel Mary’s shock and relief radiating through the phone. “It’s... it’s a morning,” Mary finally said, her voice thick with emotion. “But it’s better now.” “Good,” Ams said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Ams hung up the phone, a quiet sense of rightness settling over her. The path ahead was long and uncertain, but she knew one thing with absolute clarity. They would walk it together, one small, deliberate step at a time.

The click of the front door closing that evening was soft, but it landed with the weight of a gavel in the quiet house. Mary was home. Ams was in the kitchen, stirring a simple sauce in a pan, the familiar, comforting scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air. She had decided on pasta—something easy, something warm. Something that felt like home.

Mary appeared in the doorway, her work armor shed, now wearing the soft sweats and t-shirt that had become her uniform of vulnerability. Her face was pale and drawn from a day of pretending. “Smells good,” she said, her voice quiet. “I figured we could just stay in,” Ams replied, not looking up from the stove.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words. They ate at the kitchen table, the sounds of their forks scraping against the plates unnaturally loud. The pasta was good, but neither of them tasted it. When they were finished, Mary stood to clear the plates, but Ams reached out and gently touched her wrist. “Leave them,” Ams said softly. “We need to talk.”

They moved to the living room, sitting on the couch, but with a careful foot of space between them. The fragile peace of the morning had held, but now, in the dim light of the evening, the time for avoidance was over. Ams took a deep breath, gathering her strength. “I’ve been thinking all day,” she began, her voice steady but laced with pain. “And I need to understand. Not the what... but the why. Why did you feel so far away that a stranger felt closer than I did?”

The question, devoid of anger but full of a deep, searching hurt, was the one Mary had been dreading. She stared at her hands, twisting them in her lap. The “brutal honesty” pact felt like a cliff’s edge she was being asked to step off.

“I was lonely,” Mary whispered, the words tasting like poison. “It felt like... like you were launching into the stratosphere, and I was just stuck on the ground, managing logistics in Slidell. Every new success you had, every story published... I was so incredibly proud of you, Ams. But there was this small, ugly part of me that felt... left behind. We stopped talking, really talking. We were just two busy people who slept in the same bed.” Her voice cracked. “In Gulfport, at that bar... he wasn’t anything special. He was just... there. And he looked at me and saw a person who was tired and lonely. At that moment, he felt like an answer to a question I didn’t even know I was screaming.”

The confession hung in the air between them, ugly and raw. Ams didn’t respond immediately. She just absorbed the words, her expression a mixture of profound sadness and dawning understanding. This wasn’t an excuse; it was a reason. A terrible, heartbreaking reason that implicated them both.

“I didn’t see it,” Ams said finally, her own voice thick with regret. “I was so wrapped up in my own world, my own deadlines... I didn’t see how lonely you were. I let you drift away.” “No,” Mary insisted, looking at her for the first time, her eyes pleading. “This is on me. My failure. I should have told you how I was feeling. I should have...” “We should have,” Ams corrected gently, closing the small space between them on the couch. “We both let the silence get too loud.”

There was no easy resolution. No magical absolution. But in that shared admission of failure, the first real foundation stone of their new life was laid. They sat in the quiet dark for a long time, the weight of their shared honesty a heavy but necessary blanket. It was a painful, exhausting end to a painful, exhausting week. But for the first time, it felt like they were on the same side of the chasm, looking at how to build a bridge together.

15

Saturday morning broke with a soft, forgiving light. The exhaustion from the night before had given way to a quiet, fragile clarity. The air between them was lighter. The worst had been said, and they were both still here. “We’re out of coffee,” Ams announced after checking the canister, her tone purposefully mundane. “And milk. And pretty much everything else.” “I can go,” Mary offered quickly. “No,” Ams said, turning to face her. “Let’s go together.”

The trip to the grocery store was a tentative foray back into the world as a couple. At first, they moved down the aisles with a careful, practiced distance between them. But in the produce section, as Ams was trying to decide on tomatoes, Mary reached past her to point out the better-looking ones on the vine. Their arms brushed. The casual, simple touch was electric. A memory of a thousand other normal moments.

Ams looked at her, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips. Mary smiled back, a hesitant, watery thing, but it was real. A few moments later, as they rounded the corner into the coffee aisle, Ams instinctively reached out and took Mary’s hand. Mary’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. She laced her fingers through Ams’s, her grip tight, as if holding on to a lifeline.

They finished the shopping in a comfortable silence, their linked hands a silent declaration. Back home, they put the groceries away, moving around each other in the familiar choreography of their kitchen. They found a rhythm, unpacking bags, opening the refrigerator, closing cabinets. It was normal. It was simple. And it felt like a miracle.

That afternoon, Ams retreated to her study, the door left open. The ideas for the outline were beginning to percolate, and she needed to capture them. Mary settled into the armchair in the living room with a book, but she didn’t read. She just listened to the soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Ams’s fingers on the typewriter keys. The sound, once just a background noise in their life, now felt like a heartbeat. The sound of their future being written. The house was no longer a place of tension and secrets; it was becoming a sanctuary again, a shared space where the quiet work of healing—and creating—could finally begin.

That evening, a sense of gentle normalcy settled over the house. They didn’t go out. Instead, they cooked together, using the groceries they’d bought. Mary chopped vegetables while Ams seasoned a piece of fish, moving around each other in the small kitchen with an ease that felt both ancient and brand new. They talked, not about the past week, but about simple things—a funny story from Mary’s office, a book Ams wanted to read, the ridiculously overgrown bougainvillea bush in the front yard. It was the kind of effortless conversation they hadn’t shared in months, a rediscovery of the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

Later, they sat on the couch to watch a movie, a bowl of popcorn between them. Partway through, Ams leaned over and rested her head on Mary’s shoulder. Mary stiffened for a fraction of a second, her mind still conditioned to expect rejection, then relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her. She wrapped her arm around Ams, pulling her closer. It wasn’t a gesture of passion, but of homecoming. A reclaiming of a place that had been hers all along. Mary focused on the feeling of Ams’s soft hair against her cheek, the familiar weight of her against her side, and felt a profound sense of peace. The butterflies were there, but they weren’t frantic and nervous anymore; they were a soft, warm flutter of rightness.

16

Sunday was lazy and slow. They read the paper in bed, their legs tangled together, the comics section passed back and forth between them. The house was filled with the scent of brewing coffee and the sound of a soft jazz station playing on the radio. The heavy, grief-stricken atmosphere that had suffocated the house for a week was gone, replaced by a quiet, hopeful light.

In the afternoon, Ams was back in her study, energized and buzzing with ideas. She came into the living room, a notebook in her hand, her eyes shining with a creative fire Mary hadn’t seen up close in a long time.

“Okay, listen to this,” Ams said, her voice full of excitement. “Katherine and I were talking about the opening scene. I think we don’t start with Elara. I think we start with the marsh itself. A long, slow shot over the water at dawn, the fog thick, just the sound of the birds and the water lapping. We establish the place as a character before we even meet the people. The land is what holds the memories, see? So we have to know it first.”

She was pacing now, the words tumbling out of her, painting pictures in the air. Mary sat on the armchair, utterly captivated. She listened as Ams talked about character motivations, about visual metaphors, about the rhythm of the dialogue she was hearing in her head. Ams wasn’t just talking about a story; she was building a world, brick by brick, right in front of her.

A profound realization washed over Mary. The woman pacing their living room, so alive and brilliant, was her future. And the job she had to go back to tomorrow—the endless meetings, the budget reports, the soul-crushing pressure of the Slidell transfer—felt like a cage. It was the life that had driven her to loneliness, the life that had almost cost her everything. How could she possibly go back to that world when this one, a world of art and passion and true partnership, was right here?

Ams finally stopped pacing and looked at Mary, a little breathless, a self-conscious smile on her face. “Sorry. I’m rambling. It’s just... it’s all starting to come together.” “Don’t be sorry,” Mary said, her voice soft with an emotion that was part awe, part longing. “Listening to you... it makes everything else, all those spreadsheets and quarterly reports... feel so small.” She looked at Ams, her heart in her eyes. “I wish I could be a part of that. Your world.”

Monday morning felt like a betrayal. After a weekend spent rebuilding a fragile, hopeful world with Ams, the harsh fluorescent lights of Mary’s office were a physical assault. She sat at her desk, the professional mask of “Regional Manager Mary Richard” feeling heavier and more false than ever. The silver-framed photo of her and Ams laughing on the beach seemed to mock her from the corner of her desk. That was a woman from another lifetime.

At ten a.m., she was patched into a high-stress conference call with corporate headquarters about the Slidell transfer. The disembodied voices droned on from the speakerphone, a meaningless soup of corporate jargon. “...if we leverage the Q4 projections, we can optimize the synergy between the departments...”

Mary stared out her window at the hazy New Orleans skyline, but her mind was miles away, back in their quiet house on Pauger Street. She wasn’t hearing about amortization schedules; she was hearing the rhythmic tap of Ams’s typewriter, the sound of a universe being created. “...the key deliverables for this phase will require a full-scale reassessment of our current vendor contracts...” The pressure in the room, and in her head, was suffocating. This was it. This was the life that had made her feel so hollow, so disconnected, so desperately lonely that she had shattered their world. Every soulless buzzword was a reminder of what she stood to lose all over again if she stayed on this path.

A vice president from Dallas cut in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Mary, I’m not seeing the cost-efficiency here. We need you to circle back with your team and get us a more aggressive proposal by end-of-day. Make it happen.” And that was it. The breaking point. It wasn’t a lightning strike, but a moment of absolute, soul-shaking clarity. She looked at the spreadsheets on her computer screen, at the endless chain of emails demanding her attention, at the phone that connected her to a world she no longer belonged to.

This isn’t my life anymore!

Without a word, Mary reached over and disconnected the call, plunging the office into a sudden, blessed silence. She stood up, her movements calm and deliberate. She walked to her credenza, opened a drawer, and took out her purse. Then she picked up the silver-framed photo of her and Ams. It was the only thing on her desk that was real. She slipped it into her bag, turned, and walked out of her office, leaving the door wide open. She didn’t look back.

At that exact moment, the FedEx truck pulled up in front of the house on Pauger Street. Ams signed for the large, crisp envelope, the weight of it a thrilling, terrifying promise in her hands. She laid it on the dining room table, the Stronghold Pictures logo staring up at her. It landed with a solid, definitive thud. She immediately called Tom. “It’s here.” “I’m on my way,” he said, his voice buzzing with excitement.

When Tom arrived, they sat at the table, and Ams carefully sliced open the package. Inside was a binder, thick with a contract so dense with legal clauses it made her head spin. “This,” Tom said, flipping through the pages with an expert eye, “is the real deal.”

An hour later, they were on a conference call, the speakerphone sitting in the middle of the table. Eleanor Vance’s sharp, professional voice filled the room, walking them through the key points. “...the option period is for eighteen months, with a pre-negotiated purchase price upon greenlight, as outlined in schedule C...”

Jack Strong joined the call, his voice warm and encouraging. “Ams, Tom, this is just the formal part. The real work starts when you and Katherine and the other writer begin the outline. We are all incredibly excited.” “We’re ready, Jack,” Tom said, looking at Ams with a proud grin. “We have the signature pages right here.”

Just as Eleanor began giving instructions for returning the signed documents, the front door opened and Mary walked in. She stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene—Ams and Tom at the table, the official contract spread between them, the confident voices from New York filling their home. She saw the future laid out before her, tangible and real.

Ams looked up, her expression shifting from professional focus to surprise, then concern as she saw the look on Mary’s face. “Mary? What are you doing home?” Mary didn’t answer right away. She walked slowly to the table, her purse clutched in her hand. She looked at the dense pages of the contract, at the life Ams was building. She looked at Ams, her partner, on the cusp of everything.

On the phone, Eleanor Vance paused. “Is everything alright?” Ams held up a hand to Tom, her eyes locked on Mary. The whole room waited. Mary took a deep breath, the stale, recycled air of her office finally leaving her lungs. She had walked out of one life and was now standing on the threshold of another. She made her choice.

“I quit,” she said, her voice clear and steady, surprising even herself with its strength. Tom’s jaw dropped. Ams just stared, her eyes wide with shock. Mary looked directly at Ams, her heart in her eyes, her proposal a torrent of love and conviction. “I quit my job. Let me do this with you. Let me be your partner, your manager... whatever you need. I’ll handle the lawyers and the schedules. I’ll make the coffee. I will do whatever it takes so that all you have to do is write.” She put her hand on the contract, on the pages that defined their future.

“This,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “This is more important.” A slow, brilliant smile spread across Ams’s face, a look of such profound love and relief that it lit up the entire room. She reached for Mary’s hand, her grip firm and sure. “Okay,” Ams whispered. On the speakerphone, after a moment of stunned silence, Jack Strong’s baritone voice came through, a warm chuckle in his tone. “Well, Eleanor,” he said. “It sounds like our writer just got herself an assistant.”

The silence that followed Jack Strong’s comment was broken by Ams, who, with a laugh that was half shock and half pure joy, squeezed Mary’s hand. “Jack, you have no idea,” she said into the phone. “Tom, we’ll sign these and get them back to you by morning.”

After a quick, celebratory closing, the line went dead. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Tom stared at Mary, his mouth still slightly agape. “Mary, are you serious?” he finally managed, his voice a mixture of awe and concern. “You just walked out on a major career.” Mary turned from Ams to face him, and for the first time in weeks, her posture was straight, her eyes clear and resolute. The haunted, hollowed-out woman was gone, replaced by someone who had just taken back control of her own life.

“My old job was about managing quarterly losses, Tom,” she said, her voice calm and even. “This”—she gestured to the contract, to Ams—”is about building something that will last. My MBA isn’t just for spreadsheets. It’s for recognizing a once-in-a-lifetime investment. I’m investing in us.”

Ams’s eyes filled with tears, but these were different from the tears of pain she had shed just days before. These were tears of overwhelming love. This act, this radical leap of faith, was the most profound ‘I love you’ Mary had ever spoken. It was a commitment not just in words, but in action.

17

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of focused activity. Mary, true to her word, became the engine of their new enterprise. While Ams spent her mornings in the study, deep in the creative work of the outline with Katherine Pearce over the phone, Mary transformed their dining room into her office. She was on the phone with lawyers, clarifying clauses in the contract. She created a detailed budget, mapping out their finances for the next year. She organized Ams’s notes, researched historical details for the script, and acted as the gatekeeper, ensuring Ams had uninterrupted time to create. They had found their new rhythm. Ams was the creative heart, and Mary was the steady, brilliant mind that gave that heart the structure and support it needed to flourish. The house was no longer just a home; it was a studio, buzzing with a shared purpose.

About a month into the process, the next step became clear. A call from Sarah Jenkins at Stronghold Pictures laid it out. “Ams, Katherine is thrilled with the direction of the outline, but you two need to be in a room together to really break the story for the script. We want to bring you both to New York for at the least, two months at the least. We’ll set you up in a corporate apartment in the Village. I send you the information in a follow-on letter with plane tickets and the rest of the information, via Federal Express. The real work begins now.”

That night, Ams and Mary sat on the futon in the study, the same spot where their world had seemed so perfect just before it all fell apart. Now, it was being reborn. “Two months in New York,” Ams said, a nervous excitement in her voice. “I’ll pack our bags,” Mary replied without a moment’s hesitation, already pulling out a notepad to start a list. “I’ll arrange for someone to look after the house. I’ll call the airline.” Ams looked at her, at this incredible, capable woman who had turned all of her formidable skills toward building their new life. “You’re really doing this,” Ams whispered. “You’re all in.” “I told you,” Mary said, turning to her, her smile soft and sure. “My new job is us.”

Monday came, and the work Ams was doing was going well. Ams was doing some refinements on some of the scenes she was working on. Ams had ideas flowing out of her fingertips, trying to put them down as fast as possible. There was a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” announced Mary. Mary opened the door, and it was the Federal Express driver with a large envelope. “Sign here, please,” he said. Mary signed and took the envelope. It was heavy. Mary closed the door, “It’s here. Our itinerary and tickets, Ams.” Mary handed the envelope to Ams.

STRONGHOLD PICTURES

1 Rockefeller Plaza, 45th Floor, New York, NY 10020 (212) 555-7800

---

October 17, 1998

VIA FEDERAL EXPRESS

Amelie Hebert & Mary Richard 632 Pauger Street New Orleans, LA 70116

Re: Pre-Production & Screenwriting Arrangements for “Rising Tides”

Dear Ams and Mary,

I hope this letter finds you both well. Following up on our recent phone call, I am writing to formally outline the arrangements for your upcoming two-month stay in New York City. Jack, Katherine, and the entire Stronghold team are incredibly enthusiastic about the progress on the outline for “Rising Tides,” and we all agree that the next crucial step is for Ams and Katherine to collaborate in person to bring this screenplay to life.

We have prepared the following to ensure your time here is both productive and comfortable:

## Travel & Transportation

• Enclosed you will find two round-trip, first-class airline tickets from New Orleans (MSY) to New York (JFK) for Monday, November 2, 1998.

• A car service will meet you at baggage claim at JFK and transport you directly to your accommodations. The driver will be holding a sign with your names. The same service will be arranged for your return trip to the airport.

## Accommodations

• We have secured a fully furnished, two-bedroom corporate apartment for your exclusive use. The apartment is located at 15 Jones Street, Greenwich Village, NY 10014.

• The building features 24-hour security and is situated in a vibrant neighborhood, offering a quiet, creative environment that we feel is perfect for this stage of the writing process.

• The lease and all utilities are fully covered by Stronghold Pictures for the duration of your stay. A welcome packet with keys, building information, and a neighborhood guide will be waiting for you upon your arrival.

## Workspace & Per Diem

• We will provide a dedicated writing space for Ams and Katherine at a shared creative office just a short walk from your apartment. This will serve as their primary workspace to ensure a focused environment.

• Stronghold Pictures will provide a generous per diem to cover daily expenses such as meals, local transportation, and incidentals. Mary, you will find a corporate American Express card enclosed for this purpose, along with instructions for submitting expense reports for any out-of-pocket costs.

## Initial Itinerary

• Monday, Nov. 2: Arrival and settling in.

• Tuesday, Nov. 3 (10:00 AM): A kickoff meeting will be held at the Stronghold Pictures office (1 Rockefeller Plaza) with myself, Jack Strong, Katherine Pearce, and you both to finalize the writing schedule and key milestones for the first draft.

We are truly excited to enter this next phase of development. The creative synergy between Ams and Katherine is already evident, and we believe this dedicated time together will result in a powerful and moving screenplay.

Mary, we are thrilled to have you on board in a production management capacity. Your involvement will be invaluable in coordinating the logistics and allowing Ams to focus entirely on the creative work ahead.

Please do not hesitate to reach out to my office with any questions. We are all looking forward to welcoming you to New York.

Warmest regards,

Sarah Jenkins

Head of Development,

Stronghold Pictures

Direct: (212) 555-7812 sjenkins@strongholdpics.com

cc: Jack Strong, Katherine Pearce, Tom Edwards

Ams looked it over and handed the pages to Mary as she read the letter. “We’re going to New York, Mary. “I’ll start working on the details for the house and our temporary move. Leave it to me, Ams,” Mary said. “We have two weeks to get everything done,” Ams said.

18

The decision, made in the bright, confident light of afternoon, felt different in the pre-dawn quiet. Ams woke long before the sun, slipping out of bed while Mary slept on. She padded into the dining room, where the FedEx envelope lay on the table like a continent of a decision. In the grey gloom, the Stronghold Pictures logo seemed less like an opportunity and more like a brand seared into their future. Her future.

A sudden, cold wave of panic washed over her, so potent it made her feel dizzy. What have I done? The words echoed in the silent house. It was one thing to write stories in the safety of her study, to send them out into the world like messages in a bottle. It was another thing entirely to have Jack Strong and Katherine Pearce—artists she deeply admired—betting their reputations on her. And Mary. Oh God, Mary. She had walked away from her entire career, from a life she had built, all on the faith that Ams could deliver.

Ams wrapped her arms around herself, a sudden chill prickling her skin. The writer who had sat across from Katherine Pearce in The Russian Tea Room felt like a different person, a confident stranger. Now, in the quiet of her own home, she was just Ams, a woman who sometimes stared at a blank page for hours, a fraud who was about to be discovered in a city of giants. What if the words don’t come? What if this story, her story, withers and dies under the bright, hot lights of New York? What if I fail her? The ghost of ‘what if’ was a far more terrifying monster than any rejection letter.

Ams went into her study and sat on her futon. She sat pondering what to do. What was coming next? What if she failed? Ams gently laid her head down on the pillow and stared at her desk. The typewriter, Mary said, had her understood like no other piece of machinery. Slowly, Ams drifted off to a place where she felt safe and secure in her thoughts. Then came a jolt. Mary was gently rocking her shoulder. “Ams,” Mary said in a soft, warm voice. “Ams, wake up.” Ams opened her eyes and saw Mary sitting next to her. Ams sat up and hugged Mary. “I love you,” Ams told Mary.

Ams walked into the dining room with two cups of coffee to find Mary already on the phone, a pen tucked behind her ear. The table was no longer for eating; it was the heart of their new operation, a beautifully organized chaos of research books, maps of the Louisiana coast, and a calendar covered in colorful notes.

“I know it’s a rare book, but it’s essential for her research,” Mary said into the receiver, her voice a blend of politeness and unwavering resolve. “Could you check with your archivist? She needs to get the details of that 1950s shrimp boat just right.” She saw Ams, winked, and held up a finger. Ams leaned against the doorframe, a slow smile spreading across her face. This was the woman who ran regional offices, who could organize the world with a smile. But now, all that brilliant energy, all that meticulous care, was focused on something smaller and infinitely more important: protecting the story. Protecting her. It was the most profoundly loving thing Ams had ever witnessed.

The next two weeks became a blur of purposeful chaos. Mary, with the focus of a CEO launching a new company, transformed their dining room table into a command center for their new life in New York. Even if for just a few months. It disappeared under a sea of checklists, shipping manifests, and a calendar with a large red circle around “NYC - DEPARTURE.” She was a force of nature on the phone, her voice calm and authoritative as she arranged for movers and confirmed travel, a stark contrast to the hollowed-out woman she’d been just days before. Ams, freed from the logistical whirlwind, moved through the house with a quiet reverence, placing bright yellow sticky notes on the things that would make their new life feel like home: a stack of worn research books, a framed photograph of them at the beach, and most importantly, the 1955 Royal Quiet Deluxe. Often, they would meet in the middle of a hallway, Mary with her phone pressed to her ear and Ams with a dusty box, and they would exchange a look—a silent, shared acknowledgment of the impossible, wonderful life they were building together, one box and one phone call at a time.

The night before they left, the house was eerily quiet, filled with packed boxes that stood like silent monuments to their decision. Lisa and Sophia came over, not with pizza and beer, but with a bottle of wine, papercups, and hugs that lasted just a little too long. Then, Sophia pulls Mary aside. Her concern is for Mary’s well-being. “Look at you,” Sophia might say, her voice low. “A month ago, I found you in the dark. Now... you’re glowing. You take care of that, you hear me? And you let her take care of you.” “You call us the second you land,” Sophia said, her eyes fixed on Mary. “And you,” she said, turning to Ams, “you write the best goddamn movie they’ve ever seen.”

“We’ll be fine,” Mary said, and for the first time, the words felt completely true. She was no longer the one being looked after; she was a partner, a protector. As she watched her friends drive away, she felt a pang of sadness for the home she was leaving, but it was overshadowed by the fierce, brilliant joy of the one she was flying toward.

The New York air was crisp and smelled of exhaust and roasted nuts, a world away from the thick, jasmine-scented humidity of home. The ride into the city was a silent, wide-eyed journey through canyons of steel and light. Their apartment on Jones Street was on the fourth floor, and when the door swung open, it revealed a space filled with the soft, grey light of a New York afternoon. It was smaller than their house, but the ceilings were high, and a massive window looked out onto the intricate brickwork of the building across the street.

They didn’t speak. Ams walked to the window, pressing her hand against the cool glass, a slow smile spreading across her face. Mary surveyed the room—the polished hardwood floors, the simple, clean-lined furniture, and the collection of professionally packed boxes from home stacked neatly against one wall. One box, smaller than the rest and marked FRAGILE - TYPEWRITER, sat in the center of the room like a cornerstone.

“Well,” Ams said, her voice a near whisper as she turned from the window. “I guess this is real.” Mary walked over to her, wrapping her arms around Ams from behind and resting her chin on her shoulder. They stood there together, looking out at the city that was now, unbelievably, theirs. “Welcome home, Ams,” Mary said softly. “Now, let’s get you set up. You have a movie to write.”

Why don’t we go get something to eat and see what’s in the neighborhood?” said Mary. “You read my mind, babe.” Ams grabbed the keys to the apartment and off exploring the Village they went. November was becoming longer and heavier. The sounds and smells of the neighborhood greeted the newcomers. Evening traffic was beginning to pick up. Car horns and music from a distant bar seemed to blend together, making a distinct New York sound. The cool air also amplified the smells of coffee, pretzels, and hot dogs. Mary and Ams’s eyes were wide open to everything New York and the Village offered. Ams squeezed Mary’s hand and smiled at her. “Where should we eat?” Ams asked. “Let’s try that little Italian restaurant over there.” Mary was pointing to. “Can you believe we’re really here?” Ams said.

They return to the apartment. The boxes are still there, waiting. But they’re not a chore; they’re a promise. Back in the apartment, the city hummed a steady lullaby outside their window. They didn’t unpack. Mary simply opened the box marked “Kitchen,” found two glasses, and poured them each some water. They stood by the window, looking out at the endless constellation of lights. The box with the typewriter sat in the center of the floor, a silent, waiting partner.

“The meeting is at ten a.m.,” Mary said softly, her voice full of a quiet pride. Ams leaned her head on Mary’s shoulder, a profound sense of peace settling over her. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, the real work begins.”

19

A loud bang went off like a bomb. Ams and Mary shot up in bed. The sheet falls, exposing them both to the cool morning air. “What the fuck was that!” shouted Mary. Without thought, Ams jumps out of bed to the window to see what the noise was. Ams peers out the window, her naked self on display for all of the Village to see. “It was the garbage truck,” Ams laughs as she strolls back to bed with Mary. “Geez, there is a lot we need to get used to here,” Mary injects. “I’d say so.” Ams looks at the clock on the desk, six in the morning, she thinks. I don’t have to be at the meeting until 10. So she snuggles back into her cozy wrap with Mary.

“We’ll need to get up soon, you know,” Mary said. “Yeah, I know.” “Want anything for breakfast?” Mary asked. “No, my stomach is doing somersaults right now,” Ams replied. “I’m getting up, making coffee, and taking a shower. Wanna come?” “Sure,” Ams said and got back out of bed with Mary. Being here in a new place and unfamiliar surroundings, both Mary and Ams knew this was going to be a fast learning curve to find a routine.

Once finished in the bathroom, Ams went and poured two coffees for each, and brought them over to the kitchen table. “We need to head out soon,” Mary said. “It’s only eight-thirty,” Ams said. “This New York, better early then late.” Mary and Ams went downstairs to the street. Mary held up her arm and hailed a cab. Ams stood there in awe of her. Ams knew she would be fine. Mary had this and everything under control. “I saw them do this in movies. I figured it might work,” said Mary enthusiastically. A cab stopped, Mary and Ams got in, and Mary gave the address. When the cab pulled up to the building, they had twenty minutes until the meeting. “Let’s grab a coffee, ok?” Mary insisted. “Alright.” They went into 1 Rockefeller Plaza, found a coffee shop, got two coffees and a danish and went to their meeting.

As the elevator doors open onto the 45th floor, they step into the serene, impressive reception area of Stronghold Pictures. The floors are polished marble, the walls are adorned with tasteful, framed posters of the company’s critically acclaimed films, and a massive window offers a stunning view of the city. It’s quiet, professional, and humming with a sense of purpose.

A sharp, professional assistant in her late twenties, already rising from her desk with a warm smile, greeted them before they even reached the reception desk. “Ms. Hebert, Ms. Richard? Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” This is where their paths immediately diverge, marking the beginning of their new roles. The assistant turns primarily to Ams. “Katherine, Matt, and Jack are ready for you in the writer’s room. If you’ll come with me?”

Ams, clutching her coffee and the small paper bag with her danish, would be led down a hallway, her heart pounding. The destination wouldn’t be a cold, formal boardroom. It would be a comfortable, creative lounge with sofas, a large corkboard already pinned with evocative images of coastal marshes and lonely houses, and a coffee table littered with art books.

Katherine Pearce was already there, nursing a cup of tea. Matt was looking out at the city skyline. They stood to greet Ams with a genuine, collaborative smile. “This is Matt Goldstein. He’ll be one of the writers with us on this project. He has written many movie and television scripts, so his expertise will be valuable for us. He comes highly recommended,: Katherine said. Ams smiled and shook his hand. Like sizing up a boxer before a prize fight.

Just as they’re shaking hands, Jack Strong walked in, rubbing his hands together, his face breaking into a wide, genuine grin as he sees Ams. He’d gesture with a nod toward the coffee and the paper bag in her hand. “Well, look at that,” he’d say, his voice booming with good-natured humor. “First day on the job and you’ve already mastered the New Yorker’s breakfast of champions. You’re a natural.”

The joke would land perfectly, a small, kind gesture that cuts through Ams’s remaining nervousness and makes her feel instantly welcome. Jack would cross the room and give her hand a warm shake. “Ams, welcome,” he’d say, his tone shifting from jovial to focused. “This is where the real work begins. We are so excited to have you here.” For Ams, the message is clear: You are one of us. You are the artist. This space is for you. Her journey for the day is creative, diving headfirst into the story with her new partner.

As Ams is led to the writer’s room, the assistant turns to Mary with the same professional respect. “Ms. Richard, Sarah Jenkins is expecting you in her office. We’ll join the others in about fifteen minutes for the kickoff, but she wanted to touch base with you first.” Mary is guided to the sleek, organized office of Sarah Jenkins. “Mary, it’s a pleasure,” Sarah said, greeting her with a firm handshake. “I trust the travel was smooth and you found the apartment and the card without any trouble?”

“Everything was perfect, thank you,” Mary replied, feeling her confidence settle. “Excellent,” Sarah said, gesturing to a slim folder on her desk. “This is just a small packet for you, then. It has the keys to the writing office space on Bleecker Street, a full contact sheet for the production team, and the templates for submitting your expense reports. My assistant can walk you through the software later; it’s pretty straightforward.”

Sarah leaned forward, her tone becoming more direct and collegial. “The main thing is, we are so thrilled to have you handling this side of things. It truly allows Ams, Matt, and Katherine to just disappear into the creative work. Your role is invaluable.” You are our partner in this. We trust you with the business, and here are the specific tools you need for the next phase. Mary then joined the main meeting for the overview and timeline discussion, now officially equipped to manage their New York operation.

The kickoff meeting lasted until lunch. Ams, Matt, and Katherine, however, are deep in a creative trance, wanting to work right through. Jack and Sarah understand this. After the initial all-hands portion of the meeting, around 11:30 AM, Jack said, “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it. Mary, we have everything we need for now. We’ll let you know if we need you for anything.” This was Mary’s cue. She has the entire afternoon free. Her mission: to turn their empty corporate apartment into a functional, comfortable home and workspace.

Being at 1 Rockefeller Plaza puts Mary in the absolute heart of Midtown Manhattan, with easy access to everything she needs. She tackles her list methodically. Her first stop is across the street to Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s November in New York. Their New Orleans clothes won’t cut it, and standing at Rockefeller Center, she is literally steps from Fifth Avenue. Mary efficiently buys the essentials: warm wool sweaters for Ams, a proper winter coat for each of them, gloves, scarves, and warm socks.

Next, she finds a drugstore. There are dozens all over Midtown. She’d grab a basket and fill it with everything: toothpaste, soap, shampoo, toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning supplies, etc. Then it’s off to find writing supplies. Mary was given a list of places she can get these. Ams is going to need her tools. Mary, knowing her partner, wouldn’t just get any notebook. She’d head to a quality bookstore or stationery shop. Kinokuniya, the famous Japanese bookstore near Bryant Park, has an incredible stationery department, she was told. Mary buys a stack of high-quality notebooks, smooth-flowing pens, and a new ribbon for the Royal typewriter.

Next was her last stop, the Groceries. Finally, the most important task: stocking the kitchen. Mary took a cab over to D’Agostino. There, she filled a cart with all the comforts of home: good coffee beans, milk, eggs, bread, pasta, fresh vegetables, a bottle of wine for that evening, and maybe a few of Ams’s favorite snacks.

Loaded with bags, she’d hail another cab back to Jones Street in the Village. As she fumbled for the keys, juggling three shopping bags and trying to keep a fourth from tipping over, a wave of exhaustion hit her. For a moment, the sheer scale of the city and the task ahead felt enormous. But then she thought of Ams, lost in the world of the story, and a determined smile touched her lips. As she unlocked the door to their apartment, she was no longer just a visitor. She was the architect of their new life, methodically and lovingly building a sanctuary so that her partner could create.

The end of their first day in the writing office. The room is a mess of index cards, empty coffee cups, and scribbled-on legal pads. They are both exhausted but buzzing with the energy of a creative breakthrough. Ams starts to gather her things, a little unsure of her next move—how to hail a cab during the evening rush, which direction to even walk in. Katherine is putting on a simple, elegant black coat. Matt grabs his things. “I’ll see you two tomorrow then. It will be a true pleasure working with you Ms Hebert. You have lots of great ideas and a wonderful story,” With that, Matt disappeared out the door. “He’s a good writer. If he likes your work, then he truly likes it,” Katherine added. Ams felt her pride grow inside her. On her first day in the big city, the fears were slowly dissolving away. But she still felt small and lost.

“My car’s downstairs,” Katherine said, her tone casual. “Where are they putting you up?” “Jones Street,” Ams replies. Katherine gives a small, knowing nod. “The Village. Of course. That’s on my way. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” It wasn’t a grand offer, just a simple, practical statement. An A-list director like Katherine has a black car service on call, paid for by the production, making her gesture even more natural. They sank into the quiet, leather-scented interior of the Lincoln Town Car, the chaotic sounds of the city muted outside the windows. The streetlights blurred past as they talked. Katherine offered a piece of encouragement that stuck with Ams. “We did good work today,” Katherine said, looking out the window. “This is always the hardest part—finding the bones of the thing. Once you have the bones, the rest is just putting the skin on.”

The car pulled up to the apartment on Jones Street. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ams,” Katherine said with a small smile. Ams got out, watched the black car disappear down the street, and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, the keys to her new life feeling heavy and real in her hand. She didn’t just feel like a hired writer; she felt like she had a partner and a guide in this overwhelming new city.

20

The days that followed settled into a rhythm that was both exhilarating and exhausting. Life became a series of distinct, sensory experiences. For Ams, it was the smell of old paper and lukewarm coffee in the Bleecker Street writing space, a spartan room with a large window overlooking a perpetually busy street. It was the smooth, satisfying glide of her favorite pen across a fresh notebook page and the steady, rhythmic clack-clack-ding of the Royal typewriter as she, Matt, and Katherine hammered out the story’s “bones.”

Katherine Pearce was not a collaborator; she was a force. She pushed Ams, challenged her, and, in doing so, drew out a depth in the story Ams hadn’t known was there. Matt was the teacher and guide. Ams had the picture; it was Matt who would help Ams put it into a picture for the screen. How to write a scene, taking words and putting them into a picture, and feelings for the actors. Their work was an intense, creative dance. They filled a massive corkboard with index cards, moving scenes around like chess pieces, arguing passionately over a single line of dialogue, and then falling into a shared, awed silence when they stumbled upon a perfect, undeniable truth for a character.

For Mary, the days had a different texture. It was the crisp November wind whipping down Sixth Avenue as she ran errands. It was the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly balanced expense report and the surprisingly complex logistics of getting a specific research book from a New Orleans library shipped to their apartment. She became the guardian of their world on Jones Street. While Ams was off building a fictional one, Mary was building them a real one. She learned the best route to the grocery store, found a dry cleaner who could be trusted with Ams’s sweaters, and discovered a small, family-run bakery with life-altering cannolis.

Evenings were their sanctuary. Ams would return to the apartment, her mind still crackling with the day’s creative energy, to find the lights low, soft jazz playing on the radio, and the scent of a simple, home-cooked meal in the air. Over dinner, Ams would excitedly recount the day’s breakthroughs—”Katherine had this incredible idea for the ending, where the tide doesn’t just represent memory, it represents forgiveness!”—and Mary would listen, asking sharp, insightful questions that often helped Ams untangle a narrative knot. This was their new partnership. Ams provided the art; Mary provided the world that made the art possible.

The first real test came with Thanksgiving. It arrived on a Thursday that felt no different from any other brutally focused workday. By Wednesday evening, a wave of homesickness washed over Ams. She stood at the window of their apartment, looking at the warm, golden lights in the buildings across the street, and was hit with a sudden, aching longing for the easy warmth of her friends, the smell of Sophia’s grandmother’s red bean and rice, and the comfortable chaos of a holiday in New Orleans.

“It doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving is tomorrow,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with melancholy. Mary came to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She’d seen this coming. She’d felt it herself. “No,” Mary agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”

The next morning, Ams woke up to the smell of roasting turkey. She walked into the kitchen to find Mary, already dressed, pulling a surprisingly large bird from their tiny oven. A small, handwritten menu was taped to the refrigerator: Roasted Turkey for Two, Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Green Beans with Toasted Almonds, and Canned Cranberry Sauce (Because It’s Not Thanksgiving Without the Can Shape).

Ams stared, her eyes filling with tears. “How... when did you even do all this?” “I’m your professional assistant now, remember?” Mary said with a gentle smile, gesturing with a basting brush. “Looking after you is my specialty. I figured if we couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving, so I would bring a little bit of home to us.”

They spent the day in a cozy, quiet bubble. They watched the parade on TV, ate their feast at the small kitchen table, the ridiculously large turkey taking up most of the space. They talked to Lisa and Sophia on the phone, their friends’ cheerful, boisterous voices filling the apartment. And later, they curled up on the couch under a warm blanket and watched old holiday movies, the sounds of the city a distant hum outside.

It wasn’t a New Orleans Thanksgiving, but it was theirs. It was a quiet, profound celebration of the new life they were building, a testament to Mary’s unwavering ability to create a home, no matter where they were.

As the days grew shorter and colder, however, the intense pace began to take its toll on Ams. The initial exhilaration of creation slowly gave way to the grueling marathon of the first draft. The words didn’t always come easily. Some days were a frustrating slog, staring at the same paragraph for hours, the blinking cursor a tiny, mocking judge. The pressure—from the studio, from Katherine to Matt, but mostly from herself—was immense. The ghost of the ‘what if’ she’d felt in her dining room weeks ago returned, a quiet, insidious whisper in the back of her mind.

She grew quiet, withdrawn. The creative fire in her eyes was often replaced by a look of weary exhaustion. Mary saw it all. She saw the way Ams pushed her food around her plate at dinner, her mind still on a troublesome scene. She heard her tossing and turning at night.

The breaking point came one Tuesday evening in mid-December. Ams came home from the writing office, her face pale and drawn. She dropped her bag by the door and sank onto the couch without a word. “Tough day?” Mary asked gently, coming to sit beside her. “I can’t do it,” Ams whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s all wrong. The dialogue is clunky, the ending feels forced... It’s all just dead on the page. They made a mistake, Mary. I’m a fraud.”

Mary wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight as the silent, shuddering sobs began. “No,” Mary said firmly, her voice a steady anchor in Ams’s storm. “You are not a fraud. You’re a writer. And you’re exhausted. You’re burnt out, and you miss home.” She held Ams for a long time. And as she did, a plan began to form in her mind. A logistical, loving, perfectly executed plan. Ams needed more than a home-cooked meal. She needed a lifeline. She needed her family.

The next morning, while Ams was in the shower, Mary went to the living room. She opened her laptop and pulled up an airline website. Christmas was on a Friday. She booked two tickets from New Orleans to New York, arriving on the evening of Monday, December 21st, and returning the Sunday after New Year’s. Then, she picked up the phone and dialed Sophia. “Hey, Soph,” she said, a confident, determined smile on her face. “How would you and Lisa like to spend Christmas in New York?”

21

The week leading up to Christmas was a monochromatic blur for Ams. The city, which had once felt like a thrilling landscape of possibility, had shrunk to the four walls of the writing office. Days were spent staring at a blinking cursor, the words feeling like bricks she had to haul into place. Evenings were quiet, shadowed by the hollow echo of a day’s creative failure. The vibrant, confident artist had been replaced by a weary ghost, haunted by the fear that she had nothing left to say.

She was so lost in her own grey slush of self-doubt that she barely noticed Mary’s sudden flurry of “logistical” phone calls and the secretive, smiling texts she exchanged while Ams stared blankly at a bowl of pasta. On the evening of Monday, the 21st, Ams was slumped on the couch, a notebook lying open but untouched in her lap, when the sharp buzz of the apartment intercom jolted her. She glanced at Mary, who was trying and failing to hide a grin.

“Expecting someone?” Ams asked, her voice flat. “Maybe a delivery,” Mary said, her eyes sparkling. “Could you get that?” With a sigh, Ams pressed the button. “Hello?” “Honey, you’re not going to believe the commute on this flight,” a voice, impossibly familiar and full of laughter, crackled through the speaker. It was Lisa.

Ams froze, her mind unable to process the sound. Before she could respond, another voice chimed in. “Tell her to buzz us in before we freeze our Louisiana butts off out here!” Sophia. Ams’s head snapped toward Mary, her eyes wide with disbelief. Mary was already at the door, her hand on the knob, her face radiating a pure, triumphant love. “Surprise,” she whispered.

When Ams pulled the door open, the hallway exploded with color and sound. Lisa and Sophia stood there, bundled in brand-new scarves and hats, their suitcases at their feet, their faces beaming. The sight of them—her home, her history, her family, standing right there on her fourth-floor landing in Greenwich Village—broke through the grey fog. Ams let out a sob that was half laugh, half pure relief, and threw herself into their arms.

The next few days were a joyful, restorative whirlwind, orchestrated by coordinator Mary. Her first order of business was a shopping trip. “You can’t survive a New York winter in those thin jackets,” she declared, hailing a cab with the confidence of a native. She swept them away to Fifth Avenue, a dazzling assault of light and sound. Amid the throng of holiday shoppers, Mary was in her element, navigating the floors of Macy’s and then Nordstrom’s with purpose, picking out warm wool coats and cashmere sweaters. She watched, her heart swelling, as the simple act of trying on clothes and laughing with her friends brought the color back to Ams’s cheeks. They even managed to sneak in some Christmas shopping while one would distract the person the current gift was being purchased for. The overt operation worked well with everyone having a sense of what was being bought.

Mary was their tour guide. She took them to visit FAO Schwarz. It was a place where everyone could be or feel like a kid again. They held steaming cups of hot chocolate at the Rockefeller Center ice rink, their breath pluming in the crisp air. They stared, mesmerized, at the fantastical holiday window displays, and bought roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, the warm paper bag a welcome comfort in their cold hands. One afternoon, while Ams was finishing a final session with Matt and Katherine, Mary took Lisa and Sophia to the writing office on Bleecker Street. She unlocked the door and let them peek inside at the controlled chaos—the massive corkboard covered in a mosaic of index cards, the stacks of research books, and the pages of the script, dense with Ams’s familiar handwriting. “This is it,” Mary said, a quiet pride in her voice. “This is her world now.” Lisa ran a hand over the corkboard, her expression full of awe. “My God, Mary,” she whispered. “She’s really doing it.”

On Christmas Eve, the four of them embarked on their most important mission: finding a tree. First, they all went out for breakfast. Ams and Mary wanted them to have a “traditional” New York diner breakfast in every sense. After which, they explored the sights and sounds of New York City at Christmas time. The four of them even took a carriage ride through Central Park. and finished with finding a tree. They found a man selling them on a street corner, a small, fragrant forest on the concrete. They chose a lopsided but charming spruce, and the four of them giggled as they struggled to maneuver it up the narrow apartment staircase. They decorated it with a string of lights Mary had bought and makeshift ornaments of folded paper and ribbons from their shopping bags.

Christmas Day was a pocket of New Orleans warmth in the heart of New York. Everyone exchanged gifts. It was magical, and Ams, Mary, Lisa, and Sophia all behaved as children do on Christmas morning. The apartment filled with the rich smells of a holiday meal as Mary and Sophia took over the kitchen, their easy, familiar banter and comforting music. Ams and Lisa sat on the floor by the tree, sipping wine, as Ams explained the story’s structure, her voice once again alive with passion and ideas.

That evening, after a dinner that was both celebratory and deeply comforting, Mary made an announcement. “I spoke with Sarah Jenkins yesterday,” she said, looking at Ams. “Jack and Katherine were thrilled with the progress you and Matt made. And they both agree that you’re on the verge of burnout.”

Ams opened her mouth to protest, but Mary held up a hand. “So, they’ve signed off. You are officially on holiday. No writing, no notes, no thinking about the marsh. Not until the Monday after New Year’s.” A look of profound relief washed over Ams’s face. “But the deadline...” “Is being extended,” Mary said with a confident smile. “They’re extending our stay through February. This is a bigger movie than they thought. The work will be here when you get back. This week,” she said, looking around at the three most important people in her world, “is for us.”

The gift was more than just time off; it was permission to rest, to refill the creative well that had run dry. In the days that followed, they were tourists. They saw a Broadway show, the magic of the stage leaving them all breathless. They wandered through Central Park, the bare branches of the trees like intricate black lace against the grey sky. They went to Rockefeller Center and went ice skating. Well, at the very least, they attempted to, since none of them ever tried before living in New Orleans. Luckily, there were no major injuries except maybe some bruised pride.

They celebrated New Year’s Eve in their apartment, watching the ball drop on the television. They toast with cheap champagne from the bodega around the corner, a far more intimate and joyful celebration than any massive crowd in Times Square.

On the last night, as they all sat in the cozy living room, the little tree still glowing in the corner, Ams felt a shift inside her. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a thrumming, eager energy. The love and laughter of the past week had done more than just provide a respite; it had reminded her of why she wrote in the first place—to capture the complicated, beautiful, messy truth of human connection. The story was waiting for her, and for the first time in weeks, she couldn’t wait to get back to it. “Thank you,” Ams said to Mary, and proceeded to give her a passionate kiss.

22

The new year brought with it a jolt of creative electricity. The holiday reprieve had worked its magic, and Ams returned to the Bleecker Street office not as a weary laborer but as an energized architect. But the cold temperatures outside were a specter of what was yet to come with the story brewing inside. The tension was running high when they got back to work on the screenplay. Everything up to this point was going well; their holiday break came before any of them got to the troubling parts that still needed working out.

“It’s bullshit,” Matt said, stopping his pacing to jab a finger at a blue card in the middle of Act Two. “Pure, unadulterated bullshit. We’ve just had the biggest fight of Elara’s life. She’s just found out her father’s secret, the lie her entire identity is built on. And what do we have her do? She goes to a goddamn bar to brood? It’s a cliché. It’s lazy. And worse, it’s not her.”

Katherine, a study in stillness, sat at the small table, a half-empty mug of cold tea by her elbow. She pushed her glasses up her nose and sighed, the sound barely audible. “We need a fulcrum, Matt. A moment where she finds something that propels her forward, that changes her objective. The bar was a placeholder.”

“It’s a shitty placeholder,” he shot back, his voice raw with frustration. Ams had been standing by the window, watching snowflakes melt against the grimy pane, the argument a familiar, frustrating hum. She’d felt the same disconnect with the scene but hadn’t been able to articulate why. Now, staring out at the slushy gray streets, an image surfaced. The low tide back home. The smell of salt and decay.

She turned from the window. “What if she doesn’t go to a bar? What if she runs?” Matt stopped. “Runs where?” “Home,” Ams said, the idea taking shape as she spoke. “Not her house now, but the old house. The one they abandoned after the hurricane. It’s on the edge of the marsh. The tide is out. The whole landscape is exposed—the mudflats, the oyster shells, the rotting cypress knees. It’s a visual for her emotional state. Everything ugly and buried is now out in the open for the world to see.”

Katherine’s eyes lit up. “Yes. And that’s where she finds the locket. Her mother’s locket. He told her it was lost in the storm. It makes the discovery more personal, less accidental. We just need to adjust the timeline of Act Two a bit, and I think it makes the whole sequence flow smoother.” “Exactly,” Ams agreed, the words flowing effortlessly. “It feels earned. “She finds it in the mud. Not by accident. She’s there, in the wreckage of her past, and she finds the one piece of truth he tried to bury.”

Matt stared at the corkboard, his mind visibly racing. He strode over, plucked the blue “BAR SCENE” card from its pin, and crumpled it in his fist. He pointed a finger at Ams, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “That’s it. Good instinct, Hebert. It’s active. It’s motivated. The discovery becomes a consequence of her emotional journey, not a lazy plot device. Structurally,” he said, grabbing a fresh index card and a black marker, “it’s a much stronger anchor for the back half of the act. We can build the whole sequence from it.”

The logjam was broken. The ensuing weeks were a blur of grueling, exhilarating work. The writing process was a three-way tug-of-war, a constant negotiation of competing instincts. Ams fought for the story’s emotional truth, for dialogue that sounded like it was spoken by real, wounded people. Katherine, with her painter’s eye, championed its visual poetry, arguing for scenes that could be conveyed with a single, haunting image. And Matt, the pragmatist, was the relentless guardian of structure, of pacing, of the rigid architecture a screenplay demanded. He was the one who would slash a beautiful, meandering monologue and replace it with three sharp, declarative sentences. “A movie is movement,” he’d bark, circling a paragraph of Ams’s prose. “What is the character doing?”

Their tiny office became a testament to their war, littered with coffee-stained manuscript pages, crumpled notes, and the ghosts of a hundred takeout meals. Some days were a grinding stalemate, ending in tense silence. But on other days, a breakthrough would ripple through the room—a perfectly turned line of dialogue from Ams, a brilliant visual transition from Katherine, a structural fix from Matt—and the shared, exhausted satisfaction was more potent than any drug. Ams wasn’t just telling a story anymore; she was learning the brutal, beautiful craft of building one, one hard-fought scene at a time.

Her evenings with Mary were a lifeline. She would stumble out of the Bleecker Street office, her brain buzzing with plot points and character arcs, and step into the quiet sanctuary of their apartment. Mary had become the silent, essential partner in the enterprise. Her official role was moral support, a title that felt laughably inadequate. She was the architect of their life, the buffer between the creative chaos and the demands of the real world. On one night, Ams came home, walking as if she were a zombie. Mary saw it in her mannerisms. Ams plopped down her messenger bag and collapsed on the sofa. Mary walked over to Ams as a nurse would to her patient. Took Ams by the hand to the bedroom, stripped her down, and had her lie face down on her stomach. Mary went to the bathroom, took a towel and a small bottle of massage oil from the cabinet. Draped a towel over Ams’s butt and straddled her. Gently dripping the oil over Ams’s back, and slowly worked it in. As soon as Mary started to massage Ams’s back, Ams could feel the tension, cold, and troubles of work fade away. This was Mary’s greatest contribution to date.

Mary’s days were a meticulous ballet of logistics. She managed their per diem with a hawk’s eye, reconciled every receipt for Sarah Jenkins’ notoriously fastidious accounting department, and navigated the byzantine bureaucracy of film research. She became a regular at the New York Public Library’s archives, tracking down obscure photos of 1970s Plaquemines Parish for Katherine. She spent an entire afternoon on the phone with a retired shrimper in Biloxi, taking detailed notes on the mechanics of a trawl winch. She created an environment of such seamless order that Ams was free to exist entirely within the world of the script.

As February drew to a close, the deadline loomed like a tidal wave. The final push meant nights that bled into early mornings. One evening, Mary arrived at the office around nine, carrying a thermos of tomato soup and a bag of crusty bread. She found Matt and Ams hunched over the typewriter, locked in a fierce debate. “‘The silence was heavy’ is weak,” Matt insisted. “It’s telling, not showing.” “It’s how she feels, Matt,” Ams countered, her voice frayed. “The air has been sucked out of the room. How else do you say that?” “You don’t say it. You show it. A clock ticking. The hum of the refrigerator. Something that makes the silence active.”

Mary quietly set the food on a clear corner of the table. They barely noticed. She watched them for a moment—two exhausted, passionate people fighting for the soul of a story. She saw the deep, professional respect that had grown between them, forged in the crucible of their arguments.

The bones of the story were strong, and now they were putting on the skin. Ams would spend her days lost in the world of the marsh, her fingers flying across the keys of the Royal typewriter. Evenings were a welcome return to reality, where Mary had transformed their apartment into a seamless support system. Mary’s days were a different kind of creative process. She wasn’t building a story; she was building the machine that would allow the story to be told. She was in constant contact with Sarah Jenkins’ office, managing their extended lease and revised budget. She created detailed research binders for Ams, filled with historical photos of the Louisiana coast and articles on marsh ecology. She was no longer just Ams’s partner; she was, as Jack Strong had so presciently joked, her first and most essential producer.

The last week of February arrived with a sense of finality. They were close. The push to finish the first draft meant late nights for Ams, fueled by coffee Mary would bring to the writing office. Mary would often find her there at 8 p.m., still hunched over the typewriter, the floor around her littered with crumpled pages.

On the final Friday of the month, Ams typed the last two words of the script: FADE OUT. She rolled the final page out of the typewriter with a definitive thwip. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a radiator. She leaned back in her chair, a profound wave of exhaustion and elation washing over her. She had done it. The sound of the last key striking the page echoed in the profound silence that followed. For a long moment, nobody moved. Then, Matt slowly fed the last page out of the typewriter. He stacked the nearly 120-page manuscript and squared the edges with meticulous taps on the table. It felt impossibly heavy, a physical manifestation of their collective effort.

Katherine ran a hand over the cover page, a rare, wide smile transforming her usually stoic features. RISING TIDES, it read. Screenplay by Amelie Hebert and Matt Goldstein. “Well,” Katherine said, her voice husky with fatigue and pride. “We have a draft.” Ams took her copy, the pages still warm. The walk home through the deserted, pre-dawn streets of the Village was surreal. The city felt asleep, and she felt more awake than ever. It wasn’t the giddy flight of inspiration she’d felt in the beginning, but the quiet, bone-deep satisfaction of a laborer who had completed a monumental job as part of a team.

She let herself into the apartment. A single lamp was on in the living room, casting a warm glow. Mary was asleep on the couch, a book resting on her chest. Ams stood there for a moment, just watching her. She didn’t say a word. She walked over, gently took the book from Mary’s hands, and placed the heavy script in her lap.

Mary’s eyes fluttered open, confused for a second. She looked down at the title page, at the two names printed there. Her gaze traveled from the script up to Ams’s face, and her eyes filled with tears that shone in the lamplight. “We did it,” Mary whispered, her voice thick with sleep and emotion. Ams sank onto the couch beside her, a wave of exhaustion and relief washing over her. “Yeah,” she breathed. “We did.”

Two days later, they were all on a speakerphone in the apartment, the little black box sitting on their coffee table. Katherine and Matt were patched in from their respective homes. Jack Strong’s voice, even filtered through the speaker, was a force of nature.

“Team,” he boomed, and the word was full of genuine, unvarnished excitement. “I spent my entire weekend with this thing. I cancelled brunch. I ignored my children. The draft is magnificent. It’s not just good, it’s… vital. It’s everything I hoped for and more. It’s quiet, powerful, and utterly heartbreaking. I sent it to the studio head yesterday morning. He called me at midnight.”

Ams held her breath, squeezing Mary’s hand so tightly her knuckles were white. There was a perfectly executed dramatic pause. “We’re making a movie.” The breath rushed out of Ams in a dizzying, joyous sob. Mary wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Now the real fun begins,” Jack continued, his voice shifting into a business-like clip. “Pre-production starts immediately. We’re fast-tracking this. I want to shoot this summer to capture that oppressive, authentic Louisiana humidity. Ams, we’ll need you with David, Leo, and Katherine back in New Orleans in three weeks to start location scouting. Welcome to the show, ladies.”

The call ended. Ams and Mary sat in the quiet apartment, the distant sound of a siren the only thing breaking the silence. Ams looked at Mary—the woman who had managed their finances, their home, their research, and her heart, the bedrock on which this entire dream had been built. “Ready to go home and help make a movie?” Ams asked, a brilliant, fearless smile spreading across her face.

23

The call from Jack Strong had turned their New York apartment from a creative sanctuary into a launchpad. The days that followed were a flurry of controlled chaos, orchestrated by Mary. She was on the phone from dawn until dusk, scheduling movers to ship their carefully packed boxes back home, coordinating with the airline, and arranging for a deep clean of the Jones Street apartment before the lease was up.

Her first call was to her own personal support crew. “Sophia, I need a favor,” she’d said, a confident energy back in her voice that had been absent for months. “We’re coming home. Can you and Lisa open up the house for us? Air it out? We’ll be there in two weeks.”

While Mary commanded that they get home, Ams drifted through the apartment in a state of happy disbelief. The project was no longer a dream; it was a series of concrete tasks. Ideas for locations were flying through her head as fast as she could write them down in a notebook Mary had labeled “LOUISIANA SCOUTING.” Every now and then, she would find Mary on the phone, a pen tucked behind her ear, and ask, a tremor of awe in her voice, “Is this really happening?” Mary would just smile, cover the receiver, and say, “It’s really happening.”

It was a Tuesday morning, a week before their departure, when the bubble they had so carefully built around themselves officially popped. The phone rang, and Mary answered, expecting it to be the moving company confirming a pickup time. “Mary, it’s Tom,” his voice was buzzing with an energy she recognized from his most successful deal-making days. “Are you sitting down? Is Ams nearby?” “I’m sitting. Ams is in the other room,” Mary said, a knot of anticipation tightening in her stomach. “What’s going on?”

“It’s out,” Tom said. “The news broke in Variety this morning. It’s official.” He cleared his throat and read from his paper, his voice taking on a formal tone: “’Stronghold Pictures has officially greenlit ‘Rising Tides,’ an atmospheric drama based on the acclaimed short story by Amelie Hebert. Visionary director Katherine Pearce is attached to direct, with Matt Goldstein and Hebert herself co-writing the screenplay. Jack Strong is producing, with production slated to begin in Louisiana this summer.” Mary sank back in her chair, the breath leaving her lungs in a rush. Hearing it read aloud from a Hollywood trade paper made it real in a way the contract never could. “My God, Tom.”

After she hung up, Mary walked into the living room where Ams was staring out the window, lost in thought. She held a printout from her dot-matrix printer. “What’s that?” Ams asked. “It’s the morning paper,” Mary said, her voice trembling slightly. She handed the sheet to Ams. Ams took it, her eyes scanning the headline Tom had sent over. She saw her own name, a name she was still getting used to, printed right there next to Katherine Pearce and Jack Strong. She saw the words “acclaimed short story” and “visionary director.” Her private world, the quiet, internal landscape of her imagination, had just been announced to the public. She felt a wave of nausea mixed with a dizzying, terrifying thrill.

“They’re all going to be watching now,” Ams whispered, her voice barely audible. “Everyone.” The proof of that came two days later. The phone rang, and Ams, thinking it was Lisa, picked it up. “Amelie Hebert’s residence,” she said, a habit she hadn’t quite shaken. “Ms. Hebert, hi,” a cheerful, professional voice replied. “My name is Susan O’Connell, I’m a features writer with the Times-Picayune down here in New Orleans. We saw the incredible news about your film, and we were hoping to do a profile on our hometown author making it big. Would you have some time to talk this week?”

Ams stood frozen, the phone pressed to her ear. It wasn’t just Hollywood anymore. This was home. The story was out, and it was coming for her. She looked over at Mary, who was watching her with a look of fierce pride and protectiveness. The next chapter hadn’t just begun; it had been announced on the front page. She took the phone. “Hi Susan, this is Mary Richard, Ams’s partner. She’s on a tight deadline, but she could spare you fifteen minutes for a phone call tomorrow morning. How does ten a.m. sound?”

The next day, they sat side-by-side on the couch. Ams, twisting her hands, and Mary, giving her a reassuring nod. The interview began with Ams giving clipped, nervous answers. But when the reporter asked about the story itself—about the marsh, about Elara, about the pull of a home that can both hurt and heal you—Ams relaxed. The words began to flow. She wasn’t a celebrity; she was a writer talking about her work. Mary sat beside her, a silent, steadying presence, and squeezed her hand when the call was over. They had cleared another hurdle together.

Their last night in New York was quiet and bittersweet. The movers had come that morning, and the apartment was now a ghost of the life they had built there, filled with the echo of their footsteps on the bare wood floors. The only things left were their suitcases and the lopsided Christmas tree, which they’d decided to leave for the next tenants.

“Don’t you want to take one last walk?” Mary asked. They bundled up and stepped out into the chilly night. They walked the familiar chaos of Bleecker Street, past the cafes and bakeries that had become theirs. They didn’t talk much. They just absorbed the sounds and smells, imprinting the memory of this impossible chapter of their lives. Back in the empty apartment, they stood at the window one last time, looking out at the endless constellation of lights. “We did it,” Ams said softly. “We survived New York.” “We did more than survive,” Mary replied, wrapping an arm around her. “We started to build.”

The flight home was a peaceful descent back into a world they understood. As the plane broke through the clouds, the familiar, swampy green of the Louisiana coastline was a welcome sight. But the real welcome was waiting for them at the airport.

As they walked through the arrivals gate, tired and laden with carry-on bags, a boisterous whoop echoed through the terminal. “THERE THEY ARE!” Sophia and Lisa stood there, beaming, holding a ridiculously large, hand-painted banner that read: WELCOME HOME, HOLLYWOOD! (DON’T FORGET THE LITTLE PEOPLE!). Tom stood beside them, a wide, proud grin on his face.

Laughter erupted from Ams, a sound of pure, unburdened joy. She dropped her bags and ran, collapsing into a group hug that smelled of home and chicory coffee and unwavering friendship. The stress of the city, the weight of the last few months, all of it melted away in the humid New Orleans air.

Later that night, back in their own house on Pauger Street, the comforting scent of Sophia’s red beans and rice lingered in the air. Their own bed felt impossibly soft. The house was the same, but they were different. They were partners. Stronger than ever, and on the verge of an incredible adventure. They had been through the fire and chosen to rebuild. Ams turned to Mary in the quiet dark. “Ready for what’s next?” “Ready for anything,” Mary said, and pulled her close. The story wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

24

The two weeks between their return from New York and the arrival of the production team were a blissful, productive hum. Their house on Pauger Street, once a silent witness to their private turmoil, was now their sanctuary, alive with purpose. Mary had officially returned the dining room to its former glory- a dining room. A large whiteboard leaned against the wall in the kitchen, covered in her neat, precise handwriting, outlining schedules for Ams, contact lists, and her downtime.

Ams, for her part, had reclaimed her study. But instead of the solitary angst of a novelist, she worked with the collaborative energy of a storyteller whose words were becoming a vision. The floor was no longer littered with crumpled drafts but with topographical maps of Plaquemines Parish and historical photos of shrimping villages she’d checked out from the library. She wasn’t just the writer anymore; she was the world’s foremost expert on the universe of “Rising Tides.”

When the day finally came, Mary was a portrait of calm competence at the arrivals gate at MSY. Ams stood beside her, a quiet confidence radiating from her. This was her turf. Katherine Pearce was the first one through the gate, her chic New York black softened by a linen scarf. She greeted Ams not with a handshake, but with a warm, conspiratorial hug. “It’s exactly as you described it,” she said, her eyes taking in the hazy, humid air visible through the terminal windows. “You can feel the weight of it.”

Jack Strong followed, along with two men Ams knew were essential to translating her words into images: David Chen, the production designer, a thoughtful man with a sketchbook perpetually in his hand, and Leo Garza, the director of photography, whose quiet intensity was legendary. Mary and Ams took them to the baggage claim to collect their bags, then it hit. Like an old friend to Mary and Ams, a harsh welcome to the blanket of humidity and dampness that enveloped the newcomers. Sweat began to show its homage to the Louisiana heat and humidity. Stepping outside into the oppressive March heat, Jack boomed, “Good God, it’s like walking into a steam room,” as he loosened his collar. “Mary, lead the way. We are in your capable hands.”

The first day of scouting was a revelation. They didn’t look at a single building. Ams directed the caravan of rented SUVs away from the city, south, deep into the winding roads that frayed into the marshlands. Several hours later, they ended up on a rickety pier overlooking a vast expanse of water and sawgrass.

“This is it,” Ams said, her voice carrying over the sound of lapping water and the distant cry of a gull. “This is the feeling. This is what Elara sees every morning. It’s not just scenery. It’s beautiful, but it’s also menacing. It gives, and it takes away. This is the thing she can’t escape.”

Leo, the DP, was already holding his hands up, framing a shot of the bruised purple and orange sky reflecting in the brackish water. Katherine stood beside Ams, silent for a long moment. “The loneliness is palpable,” she finally whispered. David, the production designer, was sketching furiously, not the landscape, but the texture of the weathered wood on the pier. Jack watched Ams, a look of profound respect on his face. He wasn’t just seeing a writer; he was seeing the guardian of his film’s soul.

That evening, they didn’t go to one of the grand, famous restaurants in the French Quarter. Mary had insisted on hosting them at their house. As the SUVs pulled up to the curb, the crew was hit with a sensory assault before they even got out of their cars. The rich, complex perfume of a seafood gumbo and the joyful sound of Zydeco music spilled out into the humid evening air.

Sophia, wiping her hands on an apron, met them at the door with a tray. “Y’all get in here,” she commanded, her smile wide and genuine. “But you ain’t crossin’ this threshold ‘til you’ve had one of these.” On the tray were delicate rounds of fried green tomatoes, each topped with a mound of creamy shrimp remoulade. Jack Strong’s eyes widened at the combination of the tangy tomato and the cool, spicy shrimp. “Good Lord,” he mumbled.

The party had already started to spill into the backyard. But in a neighborhood this tight, a party’s walls are porous. The music and the smell were an open invitation. The first neighbor to be drawn in was Mr. LeBlanc from two doors down, who appeared at the edge of the yard, leaning on the fence. “Hey, cher!” he called out, his voice a gravelly drawl. “Y’all makin’ a roux over dere, or you burnin’ da house down?” Sophia let out a hearty laugh. “Get in here, you old gossipy gossip, before it’s all gone!” she shouted back, already motioning for him to grab a bowl.

Within the hour, the gathering had swelled. The young couple next door wandered over, contributing a six-pack of craft beer and a still-warm platter of crispy boudin balls. Soon, the long dining table Mary had set up on the patio was groaning under the weight of spontaneous offerings. The backyard was a lively mix of Hollywood brass and Pauger Street regulars. The crew was no longer just a group of visitors; they were absorbed into the neighborhood’s gravitational pull. Katherine Pearce found herself captivated by Mr. LeBlanc’s stories of Hurricane Betsy. At the same time, Jack Strong listened, enchanted, as Lisa told a hilarious, wildly embellished tale that somehow involved a stolen pirogue and a psychic parrot.

They devoured Sophia’s seafood gumbo, which she served with fluffy rice and a surprising but essential scoop of potato salad. But that was just the centerpiece of a feast that had materialized on the patio table. There was a smoky chicken and andouille jambalaya that someone had dropped off, a tray of char-grilled oysters sizzling in garlic butter, and a cast-iron skillet of golden cornbread, its edges perfectly crisp. Later, as Ams brought out a massive, steaming bread pudding drenched in a warm whiskey cream sauce.

Ams saw David Chen sitting alone in the living room, his sketchbook open. “I’ve been looking at pictures of fishing camps for weeks,” he said as Ams sat beside him, his voice full of a new understanding. “But it wasn’t until tonight, watching your neighbors just walk into your yard like it was their own, tasting this food… that I understood. The houses aren’t just structures. They’re a part of the family. They have to feel lived in, loved, and a little bit broken, all at the same time.” “Exactly,” Ams said, her heart swelling. He got it.

The next few days were a blur of successful hunts. They found a perfectly moody, dive bar in the Marigny that would serve as the story’s main watering hole. They discovered a shrimp boat, the “Wanderin’ Star,” whose grizzled captain had the exact weary authenticity Katherine was looking for. But the hero location, Elara’s house, remained elusive.

On the last day, Ams had a long shot. An old fish and tackle camp her grandfather had told her about, long since abandoned. They drove for nearly two hours, the last twenty minutes on a shell road that seemed to lead to nowhere. And then they saw it. It stood on stilts at the edge of a bayou, accessible only by a long, weathered boardwalk. The house was silvered with age, its tin roof rusted to a perfect shade of ochre. One of the shutters hung from a single hinge, like a lazy, winking eye. It was surrounded by nothing but water, sawgrass, and an endless, indifferent sky. It wasn’t just a house; it was a ghost. It was the physical embodiment of Elara’s soul.

The group stood at the edge of the boardwalk, speechless. Leo raised his viewfinder to his eye, his breathing the only sound. Katherine strolled toward the house, her hand outstretched as if to touch a sacred object. She turned back to look at Ams, her eyes shining. She didn’t have to say a word. Jack Strong broke the silence. “Well,” he said, his voice full of awe. “I guess we found our movie.”

That night, after dropping the team at their hotel, Ams and Mary returned home. They sat on their own porch, the familiar sounds of their neighborhood a comforting symphony around them. The air was thick with the promise of rain. “They listened to you,” Mary said, her voice soft with pride. “Every step of the way. You were in charge.”

Ams leaned her head on Mary’s shoulder, a deep, bone-weary satisfaction settling over her. “We were,” she corrected gently. “This whole time, you were the one making sure the road was clear for us to drive on.” Mary smiled, wrapping an arm around her. The whirlwind of pre-production was over. They had found the physical heart of their story. Now, all that was left was to bring it to life. The actors would be arriving next. The real show was about to begin.

Mary and Ams were too tired to think or do anything else. Each looked at the other and knew; bedtime. They slowly made their way up the stairs. It felt like a long flight this time. They helped each other up and to the room. Their room. The one place no one but them could take away from Mary and Ams. This was their sanctuary, their safe place to be. They undressed and crawled into bed, each holding the other, and drifting off to sleep and to the next chapter of their lives.

25

The air in Plaquemines Parish in June wasn’t just hot; it was a physical presence. It was a thick, wet blanket woven from humidity, the scent of brackish water, and the drone of a million cicadas. It clung to the skin, seeped into clothing, and warped the very light, making the late spring sun feel like a forge.

Weeks before the first actor arrived, the dilapidated fish camp had been swarmed by a different kind of crew. Ams had watched, fascinated, as a team of engineers and carpenters descended on the location. They weren’t changing its look; they were saving its life. They drove new pilings deep into the mud beneath the house, reinforcing the structure to bear the weight of dozens of people and heavy equipment. The long, weathered boardwalk was rebuilt from below, each original plank numbered, removed, and then replaced over a new, stronger frame. It was a resurrection disguised as a repair. During this process, a quiet man with a camera followed the carpenters, meticulously photographing every angle, every peeling paint chip, every rust stain on the tin roof. These images, Ams knew, were for the soundstage replica where the more controlled interior scenes would be shot. They were capturing a ghost to rebuild it elsewhere. She pulled an old silver Zippo from her pocket, its surface worn smooth with use. Her thumb traced the cool, familiar edges of the lid, the familiar click-clack a comfort object, a ghost of a habit for a ghost of a building.

Now, with filming underway, the camp was a chaotic, teeming ecosystem. A city of white production trailers had sprung up on the nearest patch of solid ground, connected by a snaking network of thick black cables. On the boardwalk, crew members scurried like ants. In the center of it all was Ams, standing beside Katherine Pearce, the story’s anchor, the quiet, undeniable authority on this world.

She had found her voice on set quickly. Not a loud voice, but a firm one, used only when the emotional truth of a scene was at risk. In the first week, she had gently stopped a take. “The coffee pot,” she’d said quietly to Katherine. “It’s too new. Elara’s father would have used the same blue-speckled enamel percolator for thirty years. It would be chipped, stained with the ghost of a million cups of coffee.” Katherine had looked not annoyed, but grateful, immediately relaying the note to the props department. The next day, a perfectly aged pot sat on the stove.

This was their new dynamic. While Ams was the creative soul, Mary was her logistical and emotional spine. She had no official title, but her role was vital. While Ams watched the monitors, Mary was the one who appeared with a cold bottle of water before Ams even knew she was thirsty. She was the one who set up a shaded chair for Ams and Clara to talk through a difficult scene, and who ensured the PAs kept the path to their private trailer clear. She was a brilliant, unflappable guardian, creating a protective bubble in which Ams could do her most important work.

That work often centered on the lead actress, Clara Thorne. A rising star known for her immersive, raw performances, Clara had latched onto Ams immediately. She’d adopted the character’s on-screen look as her own off-screen uniform: a simple, worn-soft tank top, cutoff shorts, and bare feet whenever possible. It wasn’t about being revealing; it was about survival.

“But why does she lie to her brother in this scene?” Clara asked one afternoon, sitting with Ams and the dialect coach, a true local named Remy Theriot, whom Ams had known since childhood. “Because down here,” Ams explained, “sometimes the truth is a burden you don’t ask other people to carry. It’s a kindness. She’s protecting him from a hurt he doesn’t need to feel yet.”

Remy nodded, adding, “And the way you say it, cher, it ain’t sharp. It’s soft. ‘Non, I ain’t seen him ‘round.’ You swallow the words a little. Like you tastin’ somethin’ bitter.” When they shot the scene an hour later, Clara’s delivery was layered with a heartbreaking, protective melancholy.

To truly immerse everyone, Mary decided they needed a proper introduction to the culture. The first Saturday, she and Ams, with the indispensable help of Sophia and Lisa, threw a massive crawfish boil. They had mountains of bright red crawfish, corn, and potatoes dumped onto newspaper-covered picnic tables. Ams watched, her heart full, as Jack Strong got a lesson from Sophia on how to properly peel a tail and suck the head. She saw Leo, the stoic DP, laughing as Lisa tried to teach him a Cajun two-step. This wasn’t just a meal; it was an initiation.

The culmination of all this work came during the third week. They were filming the pivotal scene—Elara, shattered, returning to the abandoned house as the tide receded. It was magic hour, the setting sun painting the sky in streaks of violent purple and soft peach.

Clara, as Elara, walked through the mud, her bare feet sinking with each step. She knelt, her hands digging into the muck, and found the small, tarnished silver locket. As she pulled it free, a single, perfect tear traced a path through the grime on her cheek.

A profound silence held the set, then the crew broke into spontaneous, quiet applause. Ams was openly crying, tears of catharsis and disbelief. Katherine turned and wrapped her in a hug. “There she is,” the director whispered in her ear. “That’s our Elara. That’s the heart of the film, right there.”

That night, driving home, Mary finally broke the silence. “You okay?” Ams turned from the window, her face illuminated by the soft green glow of the dashboard. Her eyes were clear, and for the first time, all the doubt was gone. “It was real,” she said, her voice a marveling whisper. “Today, I saw it. It was real.”

As their SUV rumbled along the two-lane blacktop, a familiar green sign glowed in the headlights: Fleur de Chêne - 15 miles. Ams pulled the SUV to the side of the road. She turned and looked at Mary. “You want to…” “Yeah,” Mary replied softly. Ams made the turn. About ten feet from Mary’s house, she stopped. The lights were on, and her father’s car was in the driveway. “He must have just gotten home,” Mary said.

Ams pulled into the driveway. “You still want to do this?” “I need to,” Mary responded. She got out and walked to the front door. “I’ll be out by the pond,” Ams called after her.

Mary knocked. A moment later, the door opened, and there was her father, his face a mask of shock that slowly melted into something softer. “Mary,” he said, his voice raspy. “Ah…come in.” He held the door open, and Mary stepped into the house she grew up in.

Meanwhile, Ams had turned down the narrow dirt trail beside the house. The path was more overgrown now, the branches of yaupon and sweet bay scratching at her arms, but her feet remembered the way. The air grew stiller, the sounds of everything else fading behind her, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the deep thrum of bullfrogs. And then, she saw it. The pond. It was smaller than she remembered, the water dark and still under the twilight sky. The old downed log where they used to leave their clothes was still there, now covered in a carpet of moss.

She stood at the water’s edge, the humid air wrapping around her. This place was a ghost. A ghost of two naked, laughing girls splashing in the cool water, of whispered secrets on a sun-warmed dock, of a restless, searching boredom that felt like a fire in her veins. She had spent so many hours here, dreaming of escaping this very spot.

She took out her small notebook and a pen, a habit as ingrained as breathing. For a long moment, she didn’t write, just stood at the water’s edge chewing on the pen’s plastic cap, the familiar taste a strange comfort. She wasn’t that girl anymore, the one desperate to flee. She was the woman who had fled, who had found her world, and who had now returned to this place not as a prisoner, but as an artist. This pond, this town, this humid sadness—it wasn’t something to escape from anymore. It was material. It was the source.

Back in the house, the air smelled the same—of lemon polish and Mary’s mother’s rose-scented potpourri. Her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes widened, and she let out a cry that was half gasp, half cheer. “My baby!” she hollered, rushing forward to wrap Mary in a fierce hug. “Oh, my baby girl, you’re here!” “Mama,” Mary cried, tears forming as she hugged her back tightly.

“We saw the stories in the paper! The one about the big movie deal,” her father said, his pride finally breaking through his shock. “We told all our friends, that’s our girl.” Her mother released her, holding her at arm’s length to look at her. “You look tired. Are you eating enough? Let me see you.” She led Mary to the living room, where a small stack of newspaper clippings sat on the coffee table. “See? We’ve been saving them.”

Mary’s heart ached with a familiar mix of love and frustration. “I can’t stay long,” she said gently. “Ams is out waiting for me, and we need to get back. We have an early call time tomorrow.” The air in the room changed instantly. The warmth frosted over. Her mother’s smile tightened, and she began straightening the clippings, her movements suddenly brisk. “Oh,” her mother said, her voice a little too bright. “Well, surely she can wait a minute. I’ll put on some coffee. Your father just bought that pecan praline blend you like.” “It’s late, Mama. We can’t,” Mary insisted softly.

Her father cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “It’s just… we worry about you, Mary. This whole Hollywood business it’s a fast crowd. And you two, out on those dark roads so late…” Mary looked from her father’s feigned concern to her mother’s tense back. The old dance, the one she had no more energy for. “I’m happy, Mama. Daddy,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “The work is hard, but it’s good. We’re making something beautiful.” She took a breath. “And Ams is my home. I know that’s hard for you to hear, but it’s the truth. I just wanted to come by and… I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.”

Her mother finally turned around, her face a complicated mask of love and pain. She couldn’t accept it, but she couldn’t deny the conviction in her daughter’s voice. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, a thousand questions and warnings, but they all got stuck behind her teeth. The silence that followed was heavy with years of unspoken words. Finally, her father stepped forward and gave her a stiff, brief hug. “You be safe now, you hear?” Her mother hugged her next, a quick, desperate squeeze. “Call us sometime,” she whispered. “I will,” Mary promised, though they all knew it was a polite fiction.

Mary walked slowly to the SUV and saw Ams standing there, a dark silhouette against the deeper darkness of the trail. “Let’s go,” Mary said, her voice strained. They got in, and Ams slowly backed out. They drove for miles, the only sound the hum of the engine and the chirping of crickets, the silence in the car more profound than the quiet of the night outside.

26

The last day in Plaquemines Parish felt like an exhalation. The final shot at the fish camp was a simple one: Clara, as Elara, standing alone on the weathered porch, looking out at the endless marsh as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the water in shades of bruised plum and molten gold. There was no dialogue. There didn’t need to be. Her posture, a mixture of weary resignation and unbending resilience, said everything.

When Katherine Pearce finally called out, “And… cut. Ams stood at the video monitor next to Katherine, her hand covering her mouth. She was watching a ghost, the exact embodiment of the phantom that had lived in her head for years. She felt Mary’s hand slide into hers, her grip firm and grounding. Katherine breathed, her voice thick with emotion. “Print that.”

That’s a wrap on this location,” her voice was quiet, almost reverent. A wave of cheers and applause rippled through the exhausted crew. The oppressive heat, the swarms of mosquitoes, the logistical nightmare of running a film set at the edge of the world—it had all been worth it. They had captured the ghost.

That evening, Jack Strong addressed the assembled cast and crew, his voice booming across the gravel lot where the production trailers were parked. “What we did out here,” he said, gesturing back toward the dark silhouette of the house on stilts, “was capture something real. Something with a soul. Now, we’re going to take that soul and give it a body. Pack it up, everyone. We’re going to the city.”

The move was a study in contrasts. The slow, rumbling convoy of production trucks leaving the shell roads for the smooth asphalt of the highway felt like a journey from one century to another. The primal quiet of the marsh, punctuated only by cicadas and water, was replaced by the clatter of the St. Charles streetcar, the distant wail of a saxophone from a French Quarter courtyard, and the constant, energetic hum of New Orleans.

For Ams, it was a surreal homecoming. She was seeing her city, the familiar grid of her life, through a new lens. One day, they were filming on a bustling corner in the Marigny, the controlled chaos of the set a strange island in the river of everyday life. Tourists and locals would stop and stare, trying to catch a glimpse of the magic. Ams stood beside Katherine, watching Clara deliver a line of dialogue Ams had written in her quiet study, the words now echoing off the colorful facade of a Creole cottage she’d passed a thousand times.

While the exterior shots brought the city’s vibrant, chaotic energy to the film, the interior scenes required a different kind of magic. This was the next phase, the one that moved from capturing reality to constructing it. The soundstage was in a cavernous warehouse in an industrial park in Elmwood, a place devoid of any romance or history. Inside, under a soaring ceiling of steel girders, the world of “Rising Tides” had been meticulously reborn. All the pictures taken at the fish camp were now here in real life, but indoors. Elara’s bedroom, which in the script was a small, cramped space in the fish camp, was now a three-walled box floating in a sea of darkness, meticulously dressed with the perfect degree of clutter and age. Across the vast concrete floor sat a perfect replica of the dive bar’s interior, every sticky-looking bottle and neon sign precisely placed. It was a factory for manufacturing feelings, and seeing it for the first time left Ams breathless. “It’s all real,” she whispered to Mary, running a hand over a faded quilt on Elara’s bed, “but none of it is.”

Her role shifted here. In the bayou, she was the expert on the soul of the place. On the soundstage, she was the keeper of the characters’ internal worlds. She would sit quietly in a canvas chair behind the monitors, listening intently to the actors’ delivery. Her notes to Katherine were no longer about the type of coffee pot, but about the subtle tremor in an actor’s voice. “He’s angry,” she’d whisper to Katherine between takes, “but underneath, he’s terrified of losing her. We need to feel that terror.”

Mary, meanwhile, thrived in this new environment. Mary was Ams’s support at home. Their home was a safe zone that Ams could find refuge in. On the days when frustration on the set came to a hot Louisiana boil, Ams knew she could feel safe here. Mary had the things she might need to decompress. Beverages, food, music, and the hot tub.

One afternoon, Ams stood in the cool darkness of the soundstage, watching a pivotal, emotionally charged scene between Clara and the actor playing her brother. The set was silent except for the actors’ voices and the soft whir of the camera. The scene was raw, heartbreaking, and unfolding perfectly. Then came problems. Lights would break down. One of the actors became sick. A bird even became stuck indoors and stopped production for the day so it could be safely removed. These events sent Ams and the crews’ anxiety levels rising. Ams went outdoors from the soundstage. Walking, nowhere but around the vast building. The heat and humidity in the afternoon and the Ams walking, drenched her in sweat. Her clothes were sticking to her, most uncomfortably. Ams’s anger peaked when one actor had trouble with his lines in the Cajun accent needed.

One day, she felt a presence beside her and turned to see Mary, holding out a steaming paper cup. “I thought you could use this,” Mary said softly. “The dailies from the Marigny shoot came in. Jack is thrilled. He said Leo is a magician.” Ams took the coffee, her eyes never leaving the intensely lit scene before them. She leaned her head for a moment against Mary’s shoulder. Out there, under the hot lights, two actors were pretending to be family, their emotions carefully crafted and captured on film. Here, in the quiet darkness, was the real thing.

The assistant director’s voice echoed through the vast space. “Alright, that’s a cut! Moving on to the reverse shot!” Ams looked at Mary, at the quiet competence and unwavering love in her eyes. In the heart of the illusion, they had found their most unshakable truth. And the work went on.

The next several weeks of shooting went on and on. Ams and Mary had a routine down, and everything was humming for them. They would have their weekends off and spend time with Lisa and Sophia, or the production crew. At times, Mr Strong would throw together a get-together for everyone on a Saturday or Sunday to help ease the tension.

There were also times when Ams would come home, frustrated with scenes or certain parts that just weren’t working as Katherine and she envisioned. These were hard on Ams. Mary would see Ams’ frustration. “Hey, babe, you ok?,” Mary asked. “UGH!,” Ams let out a low grunt. Ams was pacing around the living room, angry. Ams became really good at spinning a pencil or pen in her right hand like a mini baton. “What’s got you all upset, Ams?” Mary asked. “The scene in the kitchen. They can’t get the lighting right. When they do, the objects in the room cast ungodly flashes, which mess up the shot. The actors get flustered, and then everyone gets flustered,” Ams vented in anger. “I understand. Katherine and her crew are good. They’ll figure it out,” Mary said, encouraging her. “I know. It’s just hard when one thing sends everything else crashing,” Ams added.

Mary came over to Ams and held her. She seemed upset. She had seen it before in her, when they first came to the city. “Let’s get something to eat and relax. I’ll get the hot tub out back going and we can just let all this melt away,” Mary said softly. Ams thought that was the best idea she had heard in the last few days. “What da ya want?” Ams wondered. “You order a pizza. There is a half bottle of wine in the fridge,” Mary suggested. “Deal.” Ams went and ordered the food while Mary went and got the hot tub going. For an August evening, it was starting to cool off at times, and this was one of those evenings.

The pizza came, and Ams got it from the delivery person. Mary was out back in their small courtyard, which was their own secluded little world. Where no one could see in from any direction around. Ams entered the courtyard, and Mary was already in the tub with her glass of wine. “Sorry, I couldn’t wait. I had to test the waters,” she giggled. Ams smiled. Put the pizza down on the table on the patio, undressed, and joined Mary in the hot tub. This is just what she needed, Ams thought.

27

The last weeks of shooting blurred into a single, sustained effort, a marathon sprint through the thick August heat. The hot tub became a nightly ritual, a quiet sanctuary where the stress of the day was boiled away, leaving only the bone-deep satisfaction of the work. The final day of filming wasn’t on the sterile soundstage in Elmwood but back where it all began, at the dilapidated fish camp in Plaquemenes Parish. The call sheet was for a single, final shot.

The August air at dawn was so thick you could taste the salt. The entire crew moved with a quiet, reverent exhaustion. Ams and Mary stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind the monitors, the steam from their coffee cups disappearing into the humid air. On the weathered porch of Elara’s house, Clara Thorne stood alone, facing the marsh. The script called for no dialogue. She just had to watch the sun rise, a new day breaking over the landscape that had both trapped and defined her.

Leo Garza’s camera, perched on a dolly track on the boardwalk, slid in slowly, capturing the first rays of light catching the unshed tears in Clara’s eyes. It was a look of profound loss, but underneath it, a flicker of unbreakable resilience. It was the entire movie in a single look.

Katherine Pearce let the camera roll for a long, silent minute. The only sounds were the lapping water and the waking chorus of the marsh. Finally, she breathed into her headset.

“And… cut!”

For a beat, there was absolute silence. Then, a single person started clapping, and it grew into a slow-building wave of applause that rolled across the water. Crew members hugged, their faces streaked with sweat and grime and relief. Ams found herself enveloped in a fierce hug by Clara, who was sobbing with the catharsis of letting Elara go. “Thank you,” the actress whispered. “Thank you for giving her to me.” Katherine joined the hug, her own eyes wet. “We did it, Ams. We captured the ghost.”

Hours later, the sun was high and brutal. The production trucks were being loaded, the carefully constructed world of the film being dismantled piece by piece. Ams and Mary stood alone on the now-empty boardwalk, looking out at the house. “It feels so quiet,” Ams said, her voice raspy. “After all the noise… the shouting, the generators… I don’t know what to do with myself.” Mary slipped her hand into hers, her fingers lacing through Ams’s. “Get used to it for a little while,” she said softly. “The war is over. Now the peace talks begin.” Ams looked at her, a question in her eyes.

Tom came walking up to Mary and Ams. He wanted to catch the final scene of this story Ams believed in, and see what she saw all this time. “I was on the phone with Jack this morning,” Tom explained, his agent hat now sliding comfortably into place. “The footage is already on its way to the editing bay in Los Angeles. They start the assembly cut on Monday.” “So I’m… done?” Ams asked, the thought feeling both liberating and terrifying. “Not even close,” Tom said with a smile. “Your job just changes. You’re the Creative Consultant now. Katherine and the editor will send the cuts to review from home. You’re the “guardian” of the story, the last word on whether it feels right.” Mary squeezed Ams’s hand. “And for the big decisions, they’ll fly you out to L.A. First class, of course, your contract is very specific about that.” “...and Mary too?” Ams asked. “Yes.”

Ams let out a laugh, a sound of pure, unburdened relief. She looked from the house back to the endless expanse of the marsh. All those months ago, she’d stood on a pier just like this one and explained the feeling of this place to a group of strangers from Hollywood. Now, they had caught it and put it in a bottle. The next step was to show it to the world. “So, L.A.?” Ams mused. “And New York,” Tom added. “For the sound mix. But mostly, your work will be done in L.A.. They stood in silence for another minute, watching the real tide slowly begin to creep back in. One part of their journey was over. The next was just beginning.

Right now, Ams and Mary have the weekend to themselves. This was two days to let their hair down, so to speak, and enjoy this moment before the next part of work comes up. Ams laid the ground rules for this weekend. “It’s really simple. No work. No movie schedules. No timelines. No, nothing,” Ams emphasized strongly. “Understood,” Mary responded with a grin. When they made it back to the house, it was evening. Others on their block were gathering and discussing what things they would do for their weekend, like they always did. This weekend was a well-earned one for Ams and Mary. It had been a long time coming, and both deserved it.

Ams parked the car in the driveway to their house. Mary jumped out and ran up to the front door, and hurriedly opened it. Ams knew what was going on. She had the same idea as Mary. It was a moment of unguarded playfulness, the kind of lighthearted joy that can only exist between two people secure in a deep and loving history. Mary bolted inside and began removing her clothes as fast as she could while running up the stairs. Ams closed and locked the front door and charged right behind her, doing the same.

When Ams made it to the bedroom, Mary was already getting the shower started. Ams stood behind her. Grab her waist and had her pivot around to face her. Ams placed both hands on either side of Mary’s face and kissed her passionately. Her gaze was a tangible thing, a look that both rediscovered a familiar landscape and saw it for the first time all over again. They moved to the shower, dried, and then to the bedroom. To finish what was started.

Later that evening, both feeling happiness as they did the first time Ams and Mary were together, both were hungry. Ams pulled on her favorite aged vintage baggy t-shirt and went downstairs. Mary was close behind Ams with her own baggy sweatshirt on. The cool air between her legs felt good to her. In the kitchen, they pulled out leftovers they had in the refrigerator. Chinese, Italian, some Cajun, and a couple of hot dogs. Those Ams weren’t sure where those came from, so those were dumped right away. They took their hodgepodge of food into the living room, turned on the TV, and ate. It didn’t matter what was on; it was the company of each other that made the evening special.

Mary watched Ams laugh at something on the screen, a genuine, unburdened sound. She reached out and put her hand over Ams’s on the couch. “You know,” Mary said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “This... it feels different than before.” Ams turned, her smile softening. “Different how?” “Stronger,” Mary said, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “Like we earned it.” Ams squeezed her hand, a universe of understanding passing between them. “We did.”

This was what they both were looking for and wanted. They both knew that come Monday, days like this would be hard to have, and they wanted to savor the time they had together before the next rush came. Until that time, Mary took the food from Ams’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. Ran her hands up and under Ams’s shirt, caressed her. Leaned in, kissing her all over. Ams’ head went back. Lost in the warm tingling feeling that washed over her, starting from Mary’s touch, which started from deep inside her and flooded over her, everywhere. Ams felt herself building up to an overwhelming burst of ecstasy. Ams’ eyes, barely open, gazed at Mary’s playful smile. Ams loved it when Mary made the first move. It was more than her mind could endure, and she went limp from the magic she did to her on the couch.

28

Monday arrived, and a new chapter in the story came to life. Tom was due to come over around ten in the morning to go over the next process in more detail and be with Ams when the one o’clock conference call came in with Katherine, Jack, and the others. Ams stretched in bed. Her arms and legs were extended out as she tried to get the stiffness out of her. Quietly, she got out of bed, being careful not to wake Mary. They spent a long night with Lisa and Sophia last night, telling stories and laughing.

Ams made her way downstairs into the kitchen, the familiar scent of home, a comforting welcome. She started the coffee maker, the gurgling sound the first note in the day’s new symphony. As she waited, she glanced at the calendar tacked to the wall, a grid of their lives that Mary had meticulously updated. Her eyes scanned the dates. It was the last Monday in August. A thought, sudden and sharp, pierced her quiet morning fog. Wait a minute. The last Monday in August… isn’t that Labor Day? She squinted at the calendar. No, that’s next week. God, my brain hasn’t started yet.

She peered closer at the date: Monday, August 28th, 1999. A wave of relief, followed by a small laugh, washed over her. After the timeless, sun-drenched bubble of the film shoot, where days bled into one another, she had completely lost track of the outside world. It was both unsettling and oddly thrilling. “Talking to the calendar already?” Mary’s voice, warm and rough with sleep, came from the doorway. She was wearing Ams’s t-shirt, which was a little too small for her frame, and her hair was a delightful mess. “It’s a symptom of creative genius, you know.” “I was just confirming that our entire future doesn’t hinge on a conference call scheduled for a national holiday,” Ams said, handing Mary a freshly poured mug of coffee.

Mary took a sip, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “See? This is why you need an assistant. I would have caught that weeks ago.” They stood in a comfortable silence for a moment, the morning light slanting across the polished wood floor. “Nervous?” Mary asked softly. “A little,” Ams admitted. “It feels like we just finished a long battle of wills, and now we’re walking into the peaceful realm of this. I don’t know the rules of this new game.” “The rules are the same,” Mary said, her tone steady and reassuring. “You tell your truth. Katherine will make sure the room is quiet enough for everyone to hear it. And Tom will make sure we get paid for it.”

At precisely ten o’clock, Tom arrived, looking less like a literary agent and more like a seasoned Hollywood player in a crisp linen shirt. He breezed in, full of energy. “Morning, ladies. Ready to enter the dark arts of post-production?” he said, accepting a cup of coffee. They gathered around the desk in Ams’s study, where the speakerphone and a legal pad sat next to her prized typewriter. “Okay, Ams, here’s the deal,” Tom began, all business. “Today, they’re going to introduce you to the editor. He’s your new best friend and your new sparring partner. They’ll lay out a timeline. You’re not writing anymore; you’re protecting. You’re the last line of defense for the story’s heart.” Tom then pointed at himself. “...And I’m the point of contact. All scheduling, all logistics, all notes go through me. I’ll be your firewall.”

The hours until one o’clock crawled by. At 12:55, the three of them were seated around the desk, a silent, unified front. The phone rang exactly on time. Mary pressed the speaker button. “Ams, Tom, are you all there?” Jack Strong’s familiar, booming voice filled the room. “We’re here, Jack,” Tom replied, his voice calm and professional. “Excellent! First of all, congratulations again on a spectacular shoot. The dailies look breathtaking. Katherine, you’re on the line?” “I’m here, Jack,” Katherine Pearce’s melodic voice joined them. “Ams, the footage is just… it’s poetry. You’re going to weep when you see it.” “I’ve already done plenty of that,” Ams said, and was rewarded with a warm chuckle from the group. Mary held Ams’s hand, keeping Ams reassured and grounded.

“Alright,” Jack continued, “I want to introduce the final member of our creative trio. Michael Chen is joining us from the editing bay in Santa Monica. Michael, say hello to your writer.” “Ams, it’s an honor,” a new voice, calm and thoughtful, came through the line. “The footage is stunning. You’ve given me a beautiful puzzle to solve.”

For the next hour, they laid out the plan. Michael explained the process: he’d spend the next four to six weeks assembling the first cut, a rough, sprawling version of the film. After that, Ams and Mary would be flown out to L.A. for a private screening. Ams’s job, Jack clarified, would be to provide notes, “to be the protector of YOUR story .” “You know the rhythm of this world better than anyone, Ams,” Katherine added. “You’ll feel it if a scene is held a beat too long, or if a cut is too sharp. We need your instincts.”

The call ended with a clear set of next steps and a palpable sense of shared excitement. Mary clicked the phone off, and the room was suddenly quiet again. The next mountain to climb had just been revealed. Tom leaned back in his chair, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. “Guardian of the Tone,” he said, letting the words hang in the air. “That’s not a contractual obligation, Ams. That’s respect.” He stood up, gathering his papers. “My work is done for today. Yours is just getting started.”

After Tom left, Ams and Mary remained in the study. Ams looked at the silent speakerphone, then at Mary. The nervous energy was gone, replaced by a quiet, focused resolve. She reached over and took Mary’s hand. “Ready to go to Hollywood, partner?” Ams asked, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across her face. “Waiting is part of my job,” Mary said. Her grip firm. “And I’m very good at it.”

The first week was defined by one single sensation, exhaustion. The adrenaline that had kept them going through the rough shoot and the rapid return home was finally beginning to drain away, leaving a bone-deep weariness upon them. They didn’t set any alarms or make any real schedules. They slept in late. The morning sun, already deep into its day, would wake them. Their conversations were soft and short. The comfortable whispers of two people who had been through so much and were now relearning the peace that came. Ams would read on the back deck for hours. Rediscovering the pleasures of reading stories not her own, but for the pure joy of it. Mary reclaimed the house as theirs. Packing away all the piles of papers, notebooks, and scraps of paper. Making this their place for meals and friends.

By the end of the first week and into the second was Labor Day weekend. Ams and Mary made plans to enjoy the long weekend with their closest friends, Lisa and Sophia. This was Mary’s fun part of being there for Ams. She put together a menu for the next couple of days. Saturday, Ams and Mary cleaned up the house and started on the preparation for the meals that would be cooked. Mary handed Ams a notepad. “Here’s the grocery list of everything we will need,” Mary said. “Wow!,” Ams’ eyes popped. “This is a lot of stuff. Are we going to have the room for it?” Ams asked. “Yeah, I got us a fridge to put out on the back deck for such events. I got us covered.” Ams smiled, knowing Mary did. She was really good at that, and she relished her newfound role. Ams kissed her on the cheek and left, out to tackle the list.

Mary started in on the rue and other dishes for the get-together. When Ams returned... she jumped in to help where she could. Mary was happy for the help; no one could make a roux quite like Ams, a skill she had honed to perfection with Mary Louise.

“I think we have everything for the seafood boil and the Jambalaya,” Ams said. “Do we have enough shrimp for the grill too?” asked Mary. “Yeah. Ten pounds worth for four of us,” Ams gave a laugh. With that, Ams got started on the Jambalaya. “Just don’t make it too hot. Ok?” Mary added. “Gotcha, I’ll keep the hot sauce on the table next to it so anyone can decide on their level of kick they like,” Ams said, grinning.

29

Lisa and Sophia came over that Sunday, not as a crisis response team but as the friends they got to know over the years, and enjoy the long weekend together. “So, you’re telling me,” Lisa said, her eyes wide as she leaned forward, “that you, Amelie Hbert, stopped a multi-million-dollar movie shoot to argue about a coffee pot?” “It was a crucial detail!” Ams protested with a laugh. “It spoke to the character’s history of generational poverty!” Sophia turned to Mary, a look of deep admiration on her face. “And you. Look at you. You went from a regional manager to keeping Ams held together and from going off the deep end.”

Mary thought for a moment, swirling the ice in her glass. “It feels… right,” she said, her voice quiet but sure of herself. “All those years, all those skills I was using to increase quarterly profits for someone else… now they’re being used to build something. To protect her.” Mary glanced at Ams, and the look that passed between them was so full of shared history and profound love that Lisa had to clear her throat. “Well,” Lisa announced, raising her glass. “To the new power couple of the Vieux Carré. Just don’t forget us when you’re walking the red carpet.”

The rest of the weekend was spent eating, drinking, walking to the French Quarter, and seeing all the happenings of the Labor Day weekend. The publication of the Times-Picayune article was the first real tremor of the earthquake to come. Their anonymity, which they hadn’t even realized was a precious commodity, vanished overnight. The first casualty was their Sunday afternoon trip to the French Market. An older woman in a wide-brimmed hat stopped Ams near the Café Du Monde.

“You’re that writer, aren’t you? The one from the paper?” she asked, her voice a loud, carrying drawl. “My book club read your story. We thought the ending was a little bleak.” Ams was so stunned she could only stammer a thank you. Mary smoothly stepped in. “She’s on a very tight deadline, but thank you so much for reading,” she said, gently guiding Ams away from the woman and the curious stares of the people nearby. As they walked away, Ams’s heart was pounding. “They have opinions,” Ams whispered, a note of panic in her voice. “They have opinions about the people who live in my head.” “Welcome to the show,” Mary said grimly, but she squeezed Ams’s hand. “We’ll get used to it.”

That evening, Lisa, Sophia, Mary, and Ams spent the evening in the hot tub. Having a little wine and talking about their future and dreams that may come. “Ok, so when you make it big,” Sophia said, laughing, the wine and warm water taking their effects on her. “...what are you going to do with all that money you will make?” “Buy a new car,” Ams said, laughing. “What about you, Mary?” Lisa asked, feeling the wine and warm water overtake her. “I don’t know. Maybe plan a trip for the two of us. We haven’t taken a real vacation, ever.” “Ah, that does sound nice,” Lisa said, then giggled uncontrollably, then squirmed. Lisa cast a playful gaze toward Sophia, who looked at Ams and smiled mischievously. “Careful where you put your hand, girl. I may have to hold you to that promise,” Lisa said, slyly.

Mary and Ams started laughing, then Mary slid into Ams so she could be held close. The world seemed to narrow and go quiet for Ams as Mary’s hands began to probe under the water, touching her lovingly. All the noise from Lisa and Sophia, the taste of wine, the cool night air on her shoulders—it all faded away, replaced by the singular, electric focus of Mary’s touch. It was a slow, delicious torment that made Ams’s head fall back with a silent gasp. God, Mary knew just where and how to touch her. There. The spot that shut out the world to Ams and brought her to the edge of passion without falling off. With Lisa and Sophia locked in an embrace and Mary and Ams finally meeting in a kiss that was both a surrender and a demand, it was determined that it was time for bed, and that night, Mary put Lisa and Sophia up in the study on the futon for the night.

The next morning, Ams was up, not able to sleep very well. Her mind was racing in every direction about the movie and the editing. Making breakfast would give her something to focus on. Ams went all out. With the ease of a top-notch chef and the soundlessness of a church mouse, Ams had a big spread all ready when the first of the guests started to stir. Lisa and Sophia came wobbling in. “Good morning, you two,” Ams said with the energy of a five-year-old on Christmas morning. “We have it all. Just grab a plate and loader up.” “Lisa looked at Sophia, who felt like her head was going to explode from overdoing the wine. “Coffee, first, please,” she sounded out in a low, gruffy tone.

Mary came downstairs in a more human approach and kissed Ams on the cheek. “Morning, lover,” She said, smiling. Ams smiled back. “We got it all. Take a plate and enjoy.” They all sat around the kitchen table and ate. After the second pot of strong coffee, everyone started to feel more alive. “I figure we’d just take it easy today and lounge around. Get some sun and I’ll cook some chicken on the grill later,” Ams announced. “Sounds good,” Lisa said. Sophia just grunted her approval. Mary laughed. “Tom is coming over about one with his wife around one. I figure maybe eat around three? Sound good?” Ams asked. “Good for me,” Lisa answered. Sophia just grunted a second time. “I guess she is with us,” Mary giggled.

Ams and Lisa went to the market for the meats and fixings and came back by noon. Ams started preparing the meat, just as Mary Louise had taught her. She put all herself into making this right. This was one skill Ams learned and kept safe within herself and shared only with Mary and their two closest friends. This was their special gift, only this small group shared and enjoyed. Tom and his wife were to be one of the rare exceptions this time. The holiday was a hit for everyone to decompress.

The waiting began to weigh on Ams in the fourth and fifth weeks, truly. With no script to write and no set to visit, the silence became a breeding ground for anxiety. She would pace her study for hours, spinning a pencil through her fingers. “What if Michael is cutting the wrong things?” she asked Mary one night, her voice tight with worry. “What if he doesn’t understand the rhythm? The whole fish camp scene, the mood of it is in the long takes, the silence. What if he turns it into a music video with a bunch of quick cuts?”

“Then you’ll tell him,” Mary said calmly, looking up from the budget report she was reviewing. “That’s your job now. You are the Guardian. You trust the team you chose, and you prepare your notes. Panicking in the middle of Louisiana isn’t going to change how a single frame is cut in Los Angeles.”

The words were firm, but her eyes were soft. Later that night, Mary found Ams in her study at 2 a.m., staring at a blank page in her notebook. “You can’t sleep either, huh?” Mary said from the doorway. “My brain won’t shut off,” Ams admitted. “It keeps replaying scenes, rewriting dialogue that’s already been shot.”

Mary walked over to the old Royal typewriter that sat on its stand in the corner. She ran a hand over its cool, metal curves. “Maybe you’re trying to speak the wrong language,” she said softly. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer and rolled it into the machine with a satisfying ziiiiip-thunk. She looked at Ams. “This one doesn’t have an editor in L.A. This one only answers to you. Why don’t you talk to it for a while?”

Ams looked at the blank page, then at Mary’s knowing, gentle smile. A wave of profound gratitude washed over her. Mary didn’t just manage her career; she understood her soul. Ams sat down, her fingers hovering over the familiar, worn keys. She began to type, not a scene from the movie, but the first sentence of something new. A story that was entirely hers. The rhythmic, steady clacking filled the quiet house, a sound of creation that finally pushed the anxiety away.

30

She was still writing a week later when the phone rang. Mary answered it in the kitchen. Ams heard her professional assistant’s voice. “Yes, Sarah, hello… That’s fantastic news… Yes, we can be ready. Just send the itinerary.” Mary appeared in the doorway of the study, a brilliant, excited smile on her face. Ams stopped typing, her heart giving a sudden, powerful leap.

“That was Sarah Jenkins,” Mary said, leaning against the doorframe. “Michael has finished the assembly cut. He says it’s clocking in at just under three hours, and it’s a beautiful, heartbreaking mess.” She paused, letting the moment land. “They’re flying us out to L.A. on Tuesday.” “God, that feels so fast. Are you sure? I mean, it can’t be ready yet. Something must be wrong with it. They wouldn’t have us…” “Hey, get a grip, Ams. It’s fine. She said everything is ok. It’s just a rough assembly, and they want us to take a look so it can be refined,” Mary interrupted.

Mary began to organize everything they would need for the L.A. trip. This was going to be a long stay. “We have three days to pack and get things together, Ams,” Mary announced. “Looks like we’ll be taking a noon flight to LAX and they’ll have a driver to pick us up.” “Do we need to take any special stuff?” Ams asked. “No, we just bring ourselves and notes. I’ll take care of it Ams. You’ll be fine.”

The weekend, Mary took care of everything, giving Ams time to absorb this next step on the film’s production. Mary gathered and packed their notes. She put together the outfits they will need for their trip. It was going to be a long stay in L.A., like New York. Mary confirmed the hotel, car service, and meetings. There would also be a dinner at Michael Chen’s residence on Saturday. So Mary would need to find a couple of formal outfits for the event. Mary knew Ams wasn’t going to be happy with that. Mary thought of the best way to let Ams know and help her find something she would be most comfortable in.

Mary went into Ams’s study and found her at her desk trying the New York Times crossword puzzle. “Hey, Ams,” Mary asked with caution. “Umm…there is going to be a formal dinner at Michael’s place on Saturday. Which means…,” “Yeah,” Ams cut in. “...We need to have something to wear for that.” “I’m NOT wearing a dress, if that’s what you mean,” Ams stated. “I know. I was thinking maybe something like the outfit you wore in New York. The slacks. The vest and the shoes,” Mary interjected. “But instead of the sweater vest, I was thinking maybe a black satin or silk vest, and of course, a pair of new black Converse. A smile slowly crept on Ams’s face at the idea. “Ok,” Ams said. “How about we go now and give ourselves Sunday to relax and Monday to panic?” Ams added. “Deal,” Mary grinned.

Mary and Ams went to the mall and found exactly what Mary was talking about, and Ams liked. It felt silky and not too snug. It didn’t show too much skin, but enough on the sides that Ams didn’t care. She wasn’t shy about who saw what. She liked it. “We can take the jacket just in case, but you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Mary said.

Sunday was a nice day. Mary helped Ams to relax and just be. This was Mary’s time to shine and take care of her lady. She fixed Ams’ breakfast to start. It wasn’t as good as Ams could do, but Ams loved it. Ams had a smile on her face that she had been missing the past week. Ams helped through Sunday to keep the stress to a minimum, too. Mary invited Lisa and Sophia over for dinner to watch some football and enjoy the rest of the weekend before the new work week began. Mary talked with Lisa and Sophia about the quick turnaround. They would be staying out in L.A. for several weeks if not months. “Really? Can they do that?” Lisa asked with a concerned look on her face. “Yeah, they have us staying at a hotel with separate bungalows and a car, so we’ll be fine there. It’s here I am worried about. I need to find out but I am thinking I am going to need to fly back here to take care of some things unless you can for us.” Mary said.”Sure, whatever you need.”

Monday arrived, and Mary was in full action mode. She allowed Ams to sleep in while she took care of last-minute details. When Ams finally woke up, the coffee was ready for her. “I got everything finalized and ready. The tickets will be at the airline counter, and Lisa said she would take us to the airport. I’ll pack the suitcases and we care take it easy until tomorrow. THe things we we need out there I’ll have Sophia or Lisa have them shipped to us, if we really need it,” Mary said. Ams went over to Mary. Put her arms around her waist and rested her head on Mary’s shoulder, kissed her neck. “I love you so much.”

Mary ordered pizza for dinner that night and brought it to Ams in her study. She also grabbed two beers left from Sunday. “We can just relax in here and watch football,” Mary said. “I’d like that,” Ams answered. They lounged on the futon in the study and watched Monday night football on Ams’s old black and white TV.

31

Mary and Ams were up and ready even though they still had a few hours before their flight left. Tom stopped by to wish them luck and give them some advice for when they arrived. “I know you got this, you two. Ams you protect the art. Mary you keep your artist sane and keep the ball rolling,” Tom said. Tom hugged them and left. Lisa showed up and helped get the bags into the car with Mary and Ams’ help.

Lisa hugged the girls and saw them off at the ticket counter. The ride to the airport was so far the best part. Inside the airport was a different story. The one major airline was having issues, so crowds were forming. Ticket agents were scrambling to get things organized the best they could. Ams and Mary were able to get through and get their bags checked. Many of the people were not in a great mood. Mary and Ams kept to themselves and waited by the gate until it was time to go.

Their flight was called, and Ams and Mary got on board and into their first-class seats. Once in the air, Mary took Ams’s hand and held it tight. “Try and rest if you can, OK?” Mary said. Ams tried, but it wasn’t easy when they hit bad weather near Texas. When they finally arrived in Los Angeles, it was three fifteen in the afternoon. Mary and Ams were tired, but the change in scenery was a boost to their energy. The sunshine, blue sky, palm trees, and the people. Everything said, this was L.A.

Once Mary and Ams collected their luggage, they saw the driver holding their names on a card: HEBERT/RICHARD. The moment they stepped out of the LAX terminal, the air itself was a shock. It wasn’t the thick, wet blanket of a New Orleans afternoon; it was a dry, hazy heat that tasted of exhaust and sun-baked asphalt. A driver holding a discreet sign led them to a polished black Lincoln Town Car, a silent, air-conditioned sanctuary that immediately sealed them off from the chaotic symphony of the airport. As the heavy door thudded shut, Ams pressed her face to the cool glass of the window, watching a world she’d only ever seen in movies begin to unspool. The initial crawl through the airport’s concrete maze soon gave way to the sprawling boulevards of the city, and the sheer, relentless scale of it all began to sink in.

For nearly an hour, they were suspended in a slow-moving river of traffic, a stark contrast to the languid pace of home. The landscape wasn’t built of historic Creole cottages and wrought iron, but of an endless succession of low-slung strip malls and pastel-colored apartment buildings with faded, optimistic names. Giant billboards loomed over them, their impossibly beautiful faces advertising films and television shows, a constant reminder that they had arrived in the dream factory itself. Ams found herself just staring, trying to absorb the details, her writer’s mind cataloging the unfamiliar architecture and the determined, sun-glassed faces in the cars beside them. Mary was quieter, her hand resting on Ams’s, her gaze taking in the endless grid of the city with a producer’s pragmatic awe. This was a place of immense scale and power, a world away from their quiet street in the Marigny.

Finally, the landscape began to change as they turned onto the legendary Sunset Boulevard. The energy was electric. Iconic names flashed past them—The Roxy, the Whisky a Go Go—and tall, skinny palm trees stood like sentinels against the smoggy, golden-hour sky. The car then made a sharp turn, climbing a steep, winding driveway that felt like an ascent into another realm. At the top, the Chateau Marmont revealed itself, a grand, castle-like silhouette against the twilight. As the driver opened their doors, the cool, recycled air of the car was replaced by the warm evening and the distant hum of the city. They stepped out, leaving their quiet, isolated bubble, and stood for the first time in the very heart of a Hollywood legend, two girls from the bayou now on the doorstep of the rest of their lives.

Grace Andrews, a Production Assistant with Stronghold Pictures in L.A., was waiting for them in the hotel lobby. “Welcome to Los Angeles, Ms Hebert and Ms Richard. I’m Grace Andrews. I’ll be helping you with anything you need while you are here.” She handed Mary her card with her contact information. “Here is your welcome packet. Inside you’ll find the itinerary during your time here. Locations, dates and times. Also the keys to a Mercedes-Benz ML320. Here is your key to your bungalow, number 6. Do you have any questions for me?” Grace asked.

Ams took the heavy brass key from Grace, its weight feeling solid and real in her hand. “Thank you, Grace. We’ll call if we need anything,” Mary said, her protective voice taking over with a calm authority that made Ams feel a little less like she was about to float away. With a final, efficient smile, Grace had their luggage sent with a bellhop and then disappeared back into the elegant hum of the lobby, leaving them standing alone. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the same thought passing between them: this is real. Ams led the way, following a discreet sign that pointed them toward the bungalows, leaving the main hotel building behind. They stepped out into a lush, winding maze of garden paths, the air suddenly thick with the sweet, intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the gentle rustle of palm fronds and the quiet splash of a hidden fountain.

Finding Bungalow #6 felt like discovering a secret cottage. It was tucked away, shielded by a curtain of bougainvillea, its own private entrance giving it the feel of a secluded home rather than a hotel room. Ams slid the heavy key into the lock, the mechanism turning with a satisfying, old-fashioned click. The door swung open into a living room that seemed frozen in time. It wasn’t modern or sleek; it was filled with classic, slightly worn furniture—a deep, comfortable sofa, a heavy wood coffee table, and a fireplace with a mantelpiece lined with old books. A soft lamplight cast a warm, golden glow over everything, and French doors at the far end of the room stood slightly ajar, revealing a private, stone-paved patio. This wasn’t the corporate luxury of New York; this was a place with ghosts, a room where a hundred screenplays and a thousand heartbreaks had probably been written.

While a bellhop quietly deposited their luggage, Mary immediately went into scanning the space for its practicalities—a small but functional kitchen, a well-stocked mini-bar, and the thickness of the curtains. Ams, however, was drawn past it all, as if pulled by a string, straight through the French doors and onto the patio. She stood there, wrapping her arms around herself, looking out at the glittering tapestry of lights that was Los Angeles spread out below them. She could feel the creative energy of the place humming in the air. Mary found her there a moment later, coming to stand beside her and slipping an arm around her waist. “It’s a long way from the bayou, huh?” Mary said softly. Ams just nodded, leaning her head on Mary’s shoulder, too overwhelmed to speak. “This is home for the next few weeks or months,” Mary injected with a weak smile.

After a long, shared silence, Mary gently broke the spell. “I’m starving. And I am not getting dressed up to go anywhere tonight.” She pulled the welcome packet from her messenger bag. “I’m calling room service. Burgers? A club sandwich? Something easy?” Ams let out a laugh, the tension finally breaking. “A burger sounds like the best thing I’ve ever heard of.” While Mary placed the order, Ams sank into the deep sofa, pulling her legs up underneath her. When Mary was done, she sat beside her, opening the itinerary Grace had given them.

“Okay,” Mary said, her voice a mix of business and excitement as she scanned the page. “We’re meeting Jack and Katherine at a screening room in Burbank at 10 a.m. tomorrow for the first cut.” She looked up at Ams, a determined glint in her eye. “That means I’ll need to map out the best route to get us there. We should probably leave here by nine, just to be safe in that traffic.”

Ams’s stomach did a nervous flip. The whole reason they were here. She looked at Mary, who was already focused, already planning their drive, and felt a profound wave of gratitude. They were home, for now, in a bungalow of Hollywood ghosts, on the eve of seeing their story on a screen for the very first time.

Mary left a wake-up call with the front desk for seven in the morning. Then, being practical, she also set the alarm on the clock radio in their room. “Whana take a shower before we turn in? Wash all that travel grime off and maybe help you relax and help you sleep,” Mary suggested. “Sure.” Mary led Ams to the bathroom and they showered. Ams was distant in her thoughts. She stared at the soap in the tile tray as Mary washed her back. “Where are your thoughts at, Ams?” Mary asked. ‘Everywhere and nowhere,” she answered. “Come on, let’s dry off and get to bed. I’ll massage your shoulders,” Mary insisted. They dried off, and Ams crawled straight into bed. Mary placed a call for room service to bring two mugs of warm milk. When it arrived, she handed one to Ams. They finished it, and Ams settled in, lying back in front of Mary as Mary massaged her tight shoulders. Ams slowly began to disconnect her thoughts from her mind and drifted off to sleep.

32

The phone next to the bed rang exactly at seven. Mary ordered breakfast for two and had it brought to their bungalow. Mary and Ams cleaned up and got dressed. Mary made sure Ams had some food in her. “How are you feeling this morning?” Mary asked. “Better. Thank you for last night. It really helped me relax and fall asleep. You are magical with me, Mary,” Ams smiled broadly.

Mary checked her watch; it was eight-thirty. “You ready to go, Ams?” Mary asked. “You’re anxious too, aren’t you?” Ams laughed, the sound a little tight. “How could you tell?” Mary laughed back, grabbing the keys to the Mercedes from a small ceramic bowl by the door. “My stomach feels like it’s trying to digest a box of butterflies.” “Mine too,” Ams admitted. “Let me get my bag and we can go.”

Mary would drive. It was an unspoken agreement; Mary was the steady hand, the one who could navigate the practical world while Ams navigated the emotional and creative one. Ams’s role was just as critical: she was the navigator, armed with the hefty, spiral-bound Thomas Guide that had been left for them. They stepped out of the cool, jasmine-scented air of the bungalow into the already-warm morning. The silver ML320 was a quiet, leather-scented cocoon that sealed them off from the city’s low hum. Ams settled into the passenger seat, flipping the Thomas Guide open on her lap with a soft thump.

“Okay,” Ams said, her finger tracing a red line on the map page. “It looks like we just get back on Sunset and head east for a couple of miles. It’s page 593, grid C5, if you want to follow along.” “I trust you,” Mary said, pulling smoothly out of the Chateau Marmont’s winding driveway and onto the legendary boulevard. “Just tell me where to turn.” The morning light was hazy, casting a golden, almost dreamlike filter over everything. They drove past the iconic facades of The Roxy and the Whisky a Go Go, their neon signs dormant in the daylight. Towering billboards advertised movie blockbusters, and skinny palm trees clawed at the smoggy blue sky.

“This is so weird,” Ams murmured, looking out the window. “I’ve seen this street in a hundred movies, and now we’re just... driving on it. On our way to see our movie.” Mary reached over and squeezed her knee. “Get used to it.” She turned on the radio, fiddling with the dial until a familiar, slinky guitar riff filled the car. It was Santana’s “Smooth,” an inescapable song. “Man, it’s a hot one...” Rob Thomas sang.

Ams let out a real, unburdened laugh. “Okay, now it just feels like they’re writing the script for us.” They listened in a comfortable silence, the song a perfect, cruising soundtrack for the surreal moment. As the song faded, the traffic on Sunset thickened. “Alright, we need to make a left on Gower Street in about a half-mile,” Ams announced, her head bent over the map. “Then we merge onto the 101.”

The transition to the Hollywood Freeway was like being swept into a massive, fast-moving river. The eight lanes were a solid mass of cars, moving in a stop-and-go rhythm. Mary’s knuckles were a little white on the steering wheel, but her driving was confident, expertly navigating the lane changes. Stuck in a crawl near the Hollywood Bowl exit, Ams looked over at her. “What are you thinking about?”

Mary let out a slow breath. “Honestly? I’m thinking about that hotel in Gulfport. About how small and lost I felt. And now...” She glanced around at the sea of cars, at the Hollywood Hills rising to their left. “Now I’m driving my partner to a screening of the movie she wrote. It just doesn’t feel real.” “It’s real,” Ams said, her voice soft but firm. “We made it real.” She looked down at the Thomas Guide in her lap. “What if it’s awful, Mary? What if we see it and it’s just a complete mess?” “It won’t be,” Mary said with absolute certainty. “And even if it’s a mess, it’s our mess. We’ll give our notes, they’ll fix it, and we’ll move on to the next step. That’s the job now. We’re a team.”

As she spoke, they passed the iconic Universal Studios exit. The landscape began to shift from the grit of Hollywood to the more sprawling, business-like feel of the San Fernando Valley. “Okay, Barham Boulevard is the next exit!” Ams said, her focus snapping back to the map. “We need to be in the right lane.”

Mary expertly guided the SUV across two lanes of traffic. Once they were off the freeway, the city felt quieter, more suburban. They followed Barham as it curved, the massive Warner Bros. water tower suddenly looming into view like a friendly giant. Ams felt her breath catch. “There it is,” she whispered. “Okay, nav, get us to the gate,” Mary said, her own voice tight with excitement. “Right on West Olive Avenue,” Ams instructed, her finger now on the final grid. “The entrance should be... there! Gate 4. On the left.”

Mary slowed the car, flicked on the turn signal, and pulled up to a security kiosk. A uniformed guard stepped out, clipboard in hand. “Good morning,” Mary said, rolling down her window. “Mary Richard and Amelie Hebert for a ten o’clock screening with Jack Strong.” The guard checked his list and smiled. “Right this way. Park in any of the spots marked ‘Visitor’ in Lot L. The screening room is in Building 80. Have a great morning.”

He raised the gate arm, and Mary drove the car onto the legendary studio lot. They were no longer on the outside looking in. They had crossed the threshold. She parked the car, turned off the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. They sat there for a long moment, the weight of it all settling over them.

Mary turned to Ams, her eyes shining. “Ready?” Ams took a deep breath, meeting her gaze. A slow, brilliant smile spread across her face. “As long as you’re with me.” Then Ams leaned in and kissed Mary on the lips.

Ams grabbed her bag and exited the vehicle. Mary got out and locked the doors. Mary walked around to Ams. She stood next to her, took her hand. They looked up at the building before them. Gazing at it, the large structure in that style that said Hollywood. Mary checked her watch; nine forty-five. “Ready,” as Mary gripped Ams’s hand tightly. “Let’s go.”

33

The walk from the parking lot to Building 80 was a surreal journey through the heart of the dream factory. Golf carts driven by people with headsets zipped past them, their conversations a clipped jargon of set numbers and call times. The monolithic, windowless walls of massive soundstages loomed on either side, silent containers of untold stories. Ams could feel the history of the place in the sun-baked asphalt, a century of ambitions and heartbreaks.

The interior of the building was a stark contrast to the brilliant California sun. It was cool, dark, and hushed, the air smelling of air conditioning and popcorn. The walls were lined with framed posters of films that had been mixed and finalized in this very building, a gallery of legends that made Ams’s stomach clench.

Jack Strong and Katherine Pearce were waiting for them in a small lounge area outside the screening room, their faces radiating a tense, excited energy. Standing with them was a man Ams hadn’t met, with thoughtful eyes and a calm, centered demeanor that seemed at odds with the high-stakes environment.

“There they are!” Jack boomed, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet hall. He enveloped Ams in a quick, paternal hug. “Ready to see what we’ve made?” “I think so,” Ams said, her voice a little shaky. “Ams, Mary, this is the man who’s been living with your story for the last six weeks, Michael Chen, our editor,” Katherine said, making the introduction.

Michael shook Ams’s hand, his grip firm and respectful. “It’s an honor, Ams. You gave me a beautiful, powerful puzzle to solve. What we have is… well, it’s a lot. But it’s all there.” Mary felt Ams tremble slightly and gave her hand a firm, grounding squeeze. This was it. They were led into the screening room. It was smaller and more intimate than a movie theater, with two rows of deep, plush leather chairs and a mixing board at the back that looked like the cockpit of a spaceship. Ams and Mary took seats in the center of the front row, with Katherine and Jack on one side and Michael on the other.

“Alright,” Jack said into the quiet. “Three hours, no interruptions. Let’s see our movie.” The lights dimmed to absolute black. The only thing Ams was aware of was the feeling of Mary’s hand holding hers. Then, the screen flickered to life. The first image was a long, slow shot over the marsh at dawn, the fog thick, just as she had imagined. The sound of lapping water filled the speakers. It was her vision, but amplified, made real and breathtaking by Leo’s camera. A tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek.

For the next three hours, Ams lived in a strange, bifurcated reality. She was watching a movie, captivated by Clara’s raw, heartbreaking performance as Elara. But she was also the story’s creator, her mind a frantic checklist of every beat, every line, every emotional nuance. She saw moments of pure, undeniable magic—the scene where Elara finds the locket was so powerful it made her gasp. She also saw the problems. The “beautiful, heartbreaking mess” Michael had described. A scene between Elara and her brother felt rushed, the cut too sharp. A piece of temporary music laid over a montage felt jarringly wrong. A quiet, five-minute sequence she had fought for, showing Elara painstakingly mending a fishing net, felt like it went on forever.

When the final shot of Elara on the porch faded to black, the silence in the room was absolute. It stretched for what felt like an eternity. Ams’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure everyone could hear it. The lights slowly came up. No one spoke. Katherine was staring at the blank screen, her expression unreadable. Michael was scribbling notes on a legal pad. Finally, Jack Strong let out a long, slow breath and rubbed his hands together.

“Well,” he said, his voice echoing in the stillness. “We have a movie. A very long, very beautiful movie. Michael, you’ve done an incredible job assembling the beast. Now… let’s talk about how we tame it.” And with that, the debate began. They broke for a quick lunch of sandwiches in the lounge, the conversation a rapid-fire analysis of pacing and structure. Then it was back into the screening room, this time to go through it scene by scene.

“The net-mending sequence,” Michael said, pausing the film on a close-up of Clara’s hands. “It’s beautifully shot, Katherine, but it’s five minutes long and it stops the narrative cold. I think we can trim it to ninety seconds, just get the idea across.”

Ams felt a surge of protective panic. She took a breath, remembering Mary’s words. You tell your truth.

“I understand the point about pacing, Michael,” Ams said, her voice steady and clear. “But the length of that scene is the point. The audience is supposed to feel trapped in that moment with her. They’re supposed to feel the endless, repetitive boredom of her life right before she makes the decision to break from it. If we make it too quick, we lose the weight of her choice.”

Michael looked at her, considering. Before he could respond, Katherine spoke. “Ams is right. The feeling is more important than the pace in that moment. We’ll keep it, but maybe we can find a few trims within it.” Ams felt a wave of relief. She had a voice here. Later, Jack pointed to a different scene. “This argument on the pier. It’s powerful, but we have a similar, smaller argument in the kitchen two scenes earlier. We don’t need both. It’s redundant.”

Ams watched the kitchen scene again and saw he was right. The pier argument said everything more powerfully. “Cut the kitchen,” she said without hesitation. “He’s right.” The afternoon was a masterclass in collaboration—a tense, passionate, and ultimately productive push and pull. By five o’clock, they were all exhausted, but they had a roadmap, a list of trims, and a shared vision.

As they were packing up their notes, Michael turned to Ams and Mary. “My wife and I are having a small dinner party at our place Saturday night. Very casual. I’d love for you both to come. A chance to talk about something other than box office projections.” “We’d love that,” Mary answered for them both, seeing the exhaustion on Ams’s face.

As they walked back to the car under the violet L.A. twilight, Ams leaned her head on Mary’s shoulder. “I feel like I just ran a marathon.” “You did,” Mary said, unlocking the car doors. “And you were incredible.” “So what’s the plan for tomorrow? More notes?” “No,” Mary said, opening the passenger door for her. “Tomorrow, according to the itinerary, is a mandatory day off. I was thinking we could go to the beach. Get all this recycled air out of our lungs and feel the sun.”

Ams looked at her, at the incredible woman who had not only anchored her through the storm but was now planning their peace. “That,” Ams said, a real, tired smile spreading across her face, “sounds perfect.”

Mary started the long journey back to their bungalow. The drive was long and slow as it was that morning. Ams turned on the radio to break the silence that was overpowering in the Mercedes. Ams navigates them back to the hotel, taking detours along the way past sights they both wanted to see, and to not think about all they saw.

It was seven-thirty by the time they made it back to their refuge. Mary and Ams dragged their way to the bungalow. The exhaustion etched in their faces. “I’ll order dinner, you start the bath, Ok?” Mary asked. “What would you like? “Steak, baked potato, salad, and wine,” Ams said. “I’ll make it two,” Mary injected. Mary went and ordered their meal, and Ams began to run the bath. “It’ll be here in an hour,” Mary said. “Good, let’s take that bath.” They put on the plush terry robes, had dinner, and went straight to bed.

34

Thursday dawned not with the sharp ring of an alarm, but with the soft, diffused glow of California light filtering through the bungalow’s curtains. Ams woke first, feeling a profound and unfamiliar lack of tension in her shoulders. The marathon was over, at least for a day. She lay there, listening to the gentle sound of Mary’s breathing, and felt a quiet, simple gratitude that was more potent than any professional triumph.

By the time Mary stirred, Ams had a pot of coffee brewing in the small kitchen, the rich aroma filling their temporary home. They sat on their private patio in the hotel’s plush terrycloth robes, the morning air still cool and smelling of damp earth and blooming bougainvillea.

“So,” Mary said, tucking her legs beneath her on the chaise lounge. “A mandatory day off. What does one do with that?” “I have no idea,” Ams admitted, taking a sip of coffee. “My brain doesn’t have a setting for ‘not working.’”

“Well, I decided while you were sleeping,” Mary announced, a playful glint in her eye. “We are surrounded by land. I require a large body of salt water. The itinerary I’ve created for us today is very simple: beach.” Ams’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile. “I love your itineraries.” She paused, a practical thought piercing the idyllic morning. “We don’t have swimsuits.” “Minor logistical hurdle,” Mary said, her voice instantly taking on the calm, capable tone that Ams had come to rely on. “We’ll go buy some. Then, the beach.”

An hour later, they were navigating the bewildering, multi-leveled labyrinth of the Beverly Center. For newcomers, a large department store was the most logical choice, a one-stop shop to solve their immediate problem.

The swimwear section was a dizzying kaleidoscope of late-90s fashion—triangle tops, fussy patterns, and metallic fabrics that seemed to shout for attention. Mary, ever practical, found her comfort zone quickly. She selected a sophisticated navy blue tankini, its simple, clean lines designed to be both classic and flattering. It was a suit for swimming and reading a book in, confident but understated.

Ams, however, moved through the racks like a predator, her eyes skipping over anything with frills or strings. She wasn’t looking for something “cute.” She was looking for something that felt like a second skin. She found it on a mannequin in a small, more athletic-focused section. It was a one-piece, but it was unlike any other. The neckline was high, a sleek mock turtleneck that zipped a few inches down the front. The fabric was a matte, almost neoprene-like material in a deep, earthy rust color that seemed to absorb the light. It was cut to be skin-tight, a seamless sheath that would highlight every line of her slender, athletic frame without revealing a hint of cleavage. It was less a swimsuit and more a piece of athletic armor.

In the dressing room, she zipped it up. It felt incredible. Powerful. She looked at her reflection, not with vanity, but with a sense of recognition. This was her. Like her Chucks, it wasn’t about following a trend; it was about defining her own. She stepped out to show Mary. “What do you think?”

Mary’s eyes widened with sincere admiration. The rust-colored suit was like a second skin, its high neck and sleek lines showcasing Ams’s long, athletic form. The thin, unlined fabric did little to hide the distinct, proud peaks of her nipples pressing against the material. It was a detail that might have made another woman self-conscious, but on Ams, it just looked like part of the defiant design. It was as honest and unapologetic as she was. “Ams, it’s... perfect,” Mary said, a slow, fond smile spreading across her face. “It’s so you.” “I figure if it makes anyone uncomfortable, they can just look away,” Ams said with a shrug and a grin. “That’s my girl,” Mary laughed.

While Ams paid, Mary did a final lap. Her eyes caught a simple, classic string bikini in a vibrant, jewel-toned teal—a color she knew Ams loved. It was far more revealing than the tankini. Thinking of the private pool at the Chateau, she took it from the rack. For Ams’s eyes, and her eyes only. She bought it separately, tucking the small bag into her larger one, a secret promise for a later time.

With their mission accomplished, they pointed the Mercedes west, leaving the city behind for the legendary Pacific Coast Highway. With the windows down, the dry heat was replaced by a cool, salty breeze. They drove north, the road a ribbon winding between sun-scorched hills on one side and the impossibly vast, glittering expanse of the Pacific Ocean on the other. “It’s so… blue,” Ams said, her voice full of awe. She was used to the murky, brackish waters of the Gulf. This felt like a different element entirely.

They chose a stretch of beach in Malibu, far from the tourist-clogged shores of Santa Monica. It was a wide, clean crescent of sand, dotted with only a few other people. They laid out their towels, and for the first hour, they did nothing at all. Ams fell asleep in the sun, her notebook lying unopened beside her. Mary read a novel, the tension from the week finally unspooling from her shoulders.

They ran into the surf, the initial shock of the cold Pacific making them both gasp and laugh. After a while, they walked out of the water, sleek and dripping, the afternoon sun warm on their skin. Ams slicked her short, dark curls back from her face, her eyes bright with a carefree joy Mary hadn’t seen in months.

The cold water had made the thin fabric of her suit cling even tighter, and Mary noticed the sharp, pebbled points of Ams’s nipples clearly outlined against the rust-colored material. She glanced around at the other women on the beach, most in carefully padded tops, and then looked back at Ams, who was completely oblivious, utterly at home in her own skin. Mary felt a surge of overwhelming love. It wasn’t just a physical detail; it was a testament to the fearless woman she had fallen for, the one who refused to hide any part of herself from the world.

Later, they walked along the water’s edge, letting the cool, powerful waves rush over their ankles. They talked, not about the movie or deadlines, but about simple things—the strange shapes of the pelicans flying overhead, what Lisa and Sophia were probably doing right now, how strange it was to be in a place with no humidity.

For lunch, they found a sun-bleached seafood shack right on the PCH, its deck crowded with surfers and locals. They sat at a splintery picnic table, sharing a basket of fish tacos and watching the motorcycles roar past. It was simple, perfect, and utterly anonymous.

On the drive back, feeling sun-drenched and peaceful, Mary took a detour. “One more stop,” she said. They ended up at the Santa Monica Pier. It was a riot of sound and color, a complete contrast to the quiet of Malibu. They walked the bustling wooden planks, past fishermen and caricature artists. On impulse, they bought tickets for the giant Ferris wheel. As their car rose into the air, the entire coastline spread out below them, a breathtaking panorama of city, sand, and sea. At the very top, with the sun beginning its descent over the Pacific, Ams leaned her head on Mary’s shoulder.

“Thank you for this,” she whispered. “I needed this more than I knew.” That evening, they were too tired and content for a fancy dinner. They ordered club sandwiches from room service and took them not to their room, but to the hotel pool. The legendary pool at the Chateau Marmont was empty, the water a tranquil, glowing turquoise under the night sky. They slipped in, the cool water a balm on their sun-warmed skin. They floated on their backs, looking up at the unfamiliar constellations, the sounds of the city a distant, muted hum. It was a perfect, quiet end to a perfect, quiet day—a pocket of peace carved out in the very heart of the storm.

When they got back to their bungalow, it was Ams’s turn to bring Mary to new heights. As Mary did to her, Ams was going to let Mary feel how much she loved her. As soon as they walked into the bedroom, Ams took Mary and held her. “Now it’s my turn to show you,” Ams said in a soft, delicate voice. Mary smiled and put her arms around Ams’s waist. “What did you have in mind?” Mary asked, a twinkle in her eye. Ams removed her swimsuit and guided Mary to the bed. Mary lay down, and before she knew it, Ams was with her. Mary closed her eyes as wave after wave of powerful sensations flowed through her. A soft moan slowly escaped past Mary’s lips, letting Ams know she found the spots that curled Mary’s toes and insides.

35

Friday morning came like all other Friday mornings. For mid-September, it was a repeat of the past several days. Clear skies with haze mixed in the sky. Ams woke up at six in the morning. Ams sat up. Rubbed her eyes and focused on the palm outside the bedroom window patio. A cool breeze blew in from an open window and brushed her bare skin, giving her a chill. Ams got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and put on her fluffy bathrobe. I should really get one of these for Mary and myself to take home, she thought. She was starting to feel much warmer now that she had the robe on her naked body.

Inside Ams’s head, it was like two people were there. One was trying everything it knew to keep Ams calm and focused on anything but today’s meetings. The other half was constantly going over and over things to fix, change, and move around. Agreeing with one idea and then wanting it out. She really wants a little peace right now. Last night, focusing on Mary, did the trick. She knew she could spend the rest of the movie process in bed.

Coffee. Making coffee right now would give her the distraction she needed. Off to the kitchenette, Ams went. Mary would be up in an hour, so Ams went into the living space of the bungalow and ordered pastries, fruit, cheese, and croissants for a quick and easy breakfast for Mary and her.

Mary woke to breakfast in bed. A rare treat she relished when she got it. “Whats the special occasion here?” Mary asked, smiling. “A simple thank you for all you do, have done,” Ams responded softly. “A simple; I love you.”

Mary and Ams ate, dressed, and left for the studio by eight-thirty. Traffic was just as busy as it was on Wednesday. This gave Mary the slowness to remember her turns and lanes, with Ams checking the map along the way. Mary navigated the river of traffic on the 101 with the practiced ease of a local, her hand resting on the center console next to Ams’s. Ams wasn’t looking at the landmarks; she was staring at the legal pad in her lap, covered in her sharp, dense handwriting—notes on pacing, on the emotional arc of a single, crucial scene. “You’re quiet,” Mary said, glancing over as they took the Barham Boulevard exit. “Just running the plays,” Ams replied, her thumb tracing a circled paragraph. “The scene after the storm, where Elara finds the wreckage on the shore. Michael’s cut is too fast. It’s a funeral. It needs to feel like one.”

“So, tell him that,” Mary said simply. “That’s why you’re here. You’re the only one who knows what she’s burying.”

Mary parked in their now-familiar spot in Lot L. As they walked toward Building 80, the morning sun casting long shadows, Ams felt a shift in herself. She wasn’t the scared writer from New Orleans anymore; she was a collaborator walking onto her own turf. Mary carried Ams’s bag and their coffee cups. Mary saw that Ams was deep in thought, and she didn’t want to disturbed her process.

The editing bay was a dark, cool cave, a world away from the brilliant California sun. It was dominated by a massive console of screens and keyboards that glowed in the gloom. Michael Chen sat at the center of it, a focused conductor orchestrating a symphony of images. Katherine Pearce was in a plush leather chair beside him, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. The air smelled of ozone from the electronics and stale coffee.

“The guardians have arrived,” Katherine said with a small, tired smile, not taking her eyes off the main screen. “Morning,” Ams said, her voice steady. “What are we fighting about today?” “Transitions,” Michael said, swiveling in his chair. “And the goddamn net-mending scene.” He gestured to a small table laden with the fuel of post-production: a half-eaten box of donuts, several empty paper coffee cups, and a precarious stack of takeout sushi containers. “Help yourselves. It’s going to be a long day.”

Mary quietly took a seat on a small sofa at the back of the room, pulling out a binder and a day planner. She was a silent, essential presence, the logistical hub that allowed the creative storm to rage. Mary was the Ams keeper of the information she would need to fight in this battle for the story. Mary was ready.

For the next four hours, they worked. It was a painstaking, granular process. Michael would play a sequence, his fingers flying across the keyboard, trimming a frame here, extending a shot there. They argued, not with anger, but with a shared, desperate passion to get it right.

“I think we lose this line,” Michael said, pausing on a close-up of Clara Thorne’s face. “Her expression says it all. The dialogue is redundant.” “No,” Ams said immediately, leaning forward in her chair. “That’s the line where she’s lying to herself, not just to him. We need to hear the lie. The audience needs to know she’s trying to convince herself as much as him. It’s the crack in her armor.” Katherine nodded slowly. “She’s right. Keep the line, Michael. But let’s trim the reaction shot after it. Let the lie hang in the air.” The work continued up to lunchtime. This was to be a working lunch and so food was ordered and sent.

Lunch was brought in—salads in clear plastic boxes and bottles of sparkling water. They ate at the console, their eyes never leaving the screens. This was the moment Ams brought up her note. “The funeral,” Ams said, setting her fork down. “The scene after the storm. Can we look at that again?” Michael cued it up. The images were beautiful—Elara walking through the debris-strewn marsh, the grey light, the devastation. But the cuts were efficient, moving the story forward. Ams watched, a knot tightening in her stomach.

“It’s wrong,” she said when it was over. “It’s just a woman cleaning up. It needs to be a spiritual act. She’s not just picking up pieces of her house; she’s gathering the ghosts of her old life. We need to slow it down. We need to stay on her face, see the memories flicker there. We need to feel the time. It should be painful to watch.” Michael looked at Katherine, who was staring at Ams, a look of profound respect in her eyes. “Give her the controls, Michael,” Katherine said softly.

For the next hour, Ams sat beside the editor, not just giving notes, but guiding the rhythm of the scene. “Hold on that shot,” she’d whisper. “Longer. Let the audience feel the emptiness… Now, cut to her hands when she finds the photograph. A hard cut. Like a memory stabbing her.” Under her guidance, the scene transformed. It was no longer a plot point; it became the film’s emotional centerpiece, a quiet, heartbreaking meditation on loss and resilience.

When they finished, the room was silent. Michael leaned back, running a hand over his face. “Okay,” he said, his voice full of a new understanding. “Now I see it.”

With a few more cuts and corrections to make, things were slowly and painstakingly coming together. Mary had fallen asleep on the couch. Ams, sitting with Katherine and Michael, would stand, pace, and get the juices to flow. It was when Ams did her best work, pacing. I think we got it.

They left the studio long after the sun had set, having won the day’s battles. The drive back to the Chateau was quiet, filled with the comfortable exhaustion of a shared, monumental effort. Back in the bungalow, Mary had already ordered dinner—a simple, perfect roasted chicken from room service. Ams collapsed onto the sofa, drained but buzzing. Mary brought her a glass of wine and sat on the coffee table in front of her, taking her hands.

She looked at Mary, at the incredible woman who had made all of this possible, who had built the fortress that allowed her to go into battle every day. “Mary,” she began, her voice thick with emotion. “When we go to that dinner tomorrow night at Michael’s… I need you to know something. When people ask me what I do, I’m not going to say I’m just a writer.” She squeezed Mary’s hands. “I’m going to tell them we’re partners. Because I can’t do any of this without you.”

36

The quiet of Saturday morning in the bungalow felt earned. After the intense, fourteen-hour marathon of an editing session on Friday, they had come home and collapsed into the simple comfort of the roasted chicken Mary had ordered, eating in a near-silent exhaustion before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Ams woke to the unfamiliar feeling of stillness in her mind. The frantic loop of scenes and dialogue had finally quieted, replaced by the bone-deep satisfaction of a battle won.

Mary was already in the kitchenette, a silhouette against the bright morning light in her favorite worn-out t-shirt stopping just below her butt, pouring two cups of coffee. She turned, a soft, knowing smile on her face. The exhaustion was still there, etched in the faint lines around her eyes, but it was overshadowed by a calm, radiant pride. “Morning, partner,” Mary said, the word feeling both new and perfectly natural. She handed Ams a mug. Ams took a sip, the hot coffee a welcome jolt. The weight of Friday’s declaration—we’re partners—and the incredible work that followed had settled between them, a new and powerful foundation. “Morning,” she replied, her voice a little raspy. “I feel like I could sleep for a week.” “You earned it,” Mary said. “But we have a dinner party to get to tonight. So, today’s mission is simple: we recharge. No work, no notes, no discussing the emotional motivation of a woman mending a fishing net.” She took a sip of her own coffee, her eyes sparkling. “I was thinking we could be tourists. A real, shameless, see-the-sights kind of day. See what this place is all about when you’re not locked in a dark room.”

An hour later, they stepped out of the Chateau’s secluded garden oasis and into the vibrant, chaotic energy of Sunset Boulevard. The sun was bright, the air was dry, and the city was wide awake. Their first stop, by unspoken agreement, was the messy, chaotic, and utterly essential heart of the fantasy: the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Stepping out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the Mercedes onto the crowded sidewalk was a full-body shock. The noise hit first—a cacophony of traffic, competing boomboxes, and the high-pitched patter of street hawkers. The air was a mix of car exhaust, the sweet smell of street-vendor hot dogs, and a cloying trace of cheap perfume. It was nothing like the jasmine-scented hills of their hotel. Ams froze for a moment, overwhelmed. This wasn’t the glamorous Hollywood of the movies; it was a gritty, teeming, and slightly desperate place. She looked down, and the dissonance was jarring. Beneath her Converse, the sidewalk glittered with the brass-and-terrazzo stars of legends, their names scuffed and ignored by the sneakers of a million tourists.

A man in a sweat-stained Batman costume argued with a woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe, her white dress looking grey in the harsh sunlight. “Come on,” Mary said, her voice a grounding presence. She took Ams’s hand, her grip firm, and began to navigate them through the throng. Ams let herself be led, her writer’s mind cataloging the sensory overload. She saw a star for Judy Garland and felt a pang of sadness. She saw one for William Faulkner and felt a jolt of kinship mixed with profound imposter syndrome. What am I doing here? She whispered. These people built worlds. I just wrote about a swamp. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Mary said, having read the look on her face. “It’s… the machinery,” Ams replied, her voice a near-whisper. “You can feel the desperation. Everyone here is selling a piece of a dream.” “It’s where you have to start,” Mary said, steering them around a group taking a selfie. “You have to see the raw, messy foundation before you can appreciate the finished product. You have to walk over the legends to find your own spot.”

After an hour, Ams had seen enough. The relentless energy had begun to fray her nerves. They escaped back into the quiet of the car, the sudden silence a profound relief. As Mary pulled away from the curb, Ams leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “That was… intense,” Ams breathed. “It’s a factory town,” Mary said, expertly navigating the traffic heading west. “The product just happens to be fame.” The landscape began to transform as they drove. The gritty facades of Hollywood gave way to the manicured perfection of Beverly Hills.

The cars around them became sleeker, the storefronts shifting from souvenir shops to the gleaming, intimidating names of Chanel and Gucci. They found a small, sun-drenched cafe with a patio shielded by a wall of ficus trees, an oasis of calm where they ate crisp salads and watched impossibly beautiful people walk impossibly small dogs. “Did you see their faces?” Ams asked, picking at a piece of grilled chicken. “The people in costumes, the tourists… everyone’s looking for something. Validation. A connection to something bigger.” “And you’re providing it,” Mary said simply. “You’re creating the thing they’re all looking for. That’s a powerful position to be in, Ams. But it’s also just a job. Don’t get lost in the machinery.”

Their final stop for the day was an ascent into a different kind of temple. The drive up to the Getty Center was a winding, quiet journey away from the city’s hum. They parked in the cool, silent subterranean garage and boarded a sleek, silent tram that climbed the mountainside. As they rose, the sprawling, hazy grid of Los Angeles spread out below them like a map of a new world, the chaos of the city rendered orderly and beautiful from a distance. The museum itself was a masterpiece of gleaming white travertine and tranquil gardens, a serene fortress of art floating above the city. The change in atmosphere was palpable. Here, the currency wasn’t fame; it was beauty, history, and quiet contemplation.

They wandered through galleries filled with the works of Rembrandt and van Gogh, speaking in the hushed tones the space demanded. Ams found herself lost in the stories captured in the frames, the raw emotion in a painted face, the timeless sorrow in a landscape. It was a powerful reminder of what art could be, stripped of all the Hollywood machinery. But it was outside, on a wide balcony overlooking the Central Garden, that the day’s true meaning coalesced. They stood side-by-side, leaning against the cool stone balustrade, looking out at the panoramic view that stretched from the downtown skyline to the distant, glittering Pacific. “When we were driving here,” Mary said softly, “I was thinking about that first day, scouting in the bayou. You stood on that rickety pier and you told all of us what this world was supposed to feel like. You created that whole universe from nothing, just from what was in your head.”

Ams looked at her, at the unwavering belief in her eyes. “I had a good partner,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “And now look,” Mary continued, gesturing out at the endless city spread before them. “You’re here. We’re here. You navigated all of that,” she nodded back in the direction of Hollywood, “to get to this. You didn’t just create a story, Ams. You created this entire new life for us.” Ams took a deep breath, the clean, dry air filling her lungs. The self-doubt, the fear of being a fraud—it all felt a million miles away, a small, insignificant part of the sprawling map below. She was a writer who had walked on the stars of legends and now stood on a mountaintop overlooking her new domain. She leaned over and kissed Mary, a simple, profound kiss of gratitude and shared victory.

They drove back to the Chateau as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of dusky rose and pale orange. Back in the bungalow, the comfortable silence was filled with a new, focused energy. It was time to get ready for the party. Ams stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the fit of her own chosen armor: the sharp, charcoal pinstripe slacks, the new black silk vest that left the lean, hard lines of her sides bare, and a fresh pair of black Converse. The look was a perfect distillation of who she was: artistic, sharp, and utterly unwilling to compromise.

She was checking her reflection when Mary came to stand behind her. Ams’s breath caught. Mary was stunning. She wore a sleeveless sheath dress in a deep, vibrant emerald green. The soft crepe fabric draped beautifully, its elegant square neckline showcasing the confident lines of her shoulders and a figure that was all soft curves, where Ams was sharp angles. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a chic, low chignon, and a pair of simple pearl earrings was her only jewelry. She looked poised, brilliant, and completely in her element—the capable, intelligent woman who could command a boardroom or charm a dinner party with equal, effortless grace.

She met Ams’s eyes in the mirror, her own gaze full of a profound, unwavering love. She rested her hands on Ams’s shoulders, the reflection showing them as a study in contrasts that made a perfect, powerful whole. “Ready to go, partner?” Mary asked, her voice a warm whisper against Ams’s ear. Ams looked at the two of them in the mirror, at the incredible, beautiful woman standing with her. A brilliant, fearless smile lit up her face. She took Mary’s hand, their fingers lacing together. “Yeah,” she said, her voice full of a confidence she had finally, completely earned. “Let’s go show them what a team looks like.”

37

The air in Bungalow #6 was a quiet hum of anticipation, fragrant with the lingering scent of Mary’s hairspray and the faint, clean smell of Ams’s nervous energy. The clock on the mantelpiece read 6:15 PM. Mary, a vision of effortless elegance in her emerald green dress, did a final check in the hallway mirror, adjusting a pearl earring. She turned to find Ams standing by the French doors, a silhouette against the deepening twilight, her hands shoved into the pockets of her sharp pinstripe slacks.

“It’s not too much, is it?” Ams asked, gesturing to the bare skin revealed by the black silk vest. She met Ams’s eyes in the mirror, her own gaze full of a profound, unwavering love. Mary’s eyes traced the cut of the black silk vest. The armholes were low and deliberate, following the lean line of Ams’s ribs. With the slightest turn, the design revealed a graceful, unadorned arc of skin and the soft curve of her breast. It wasn’t a statement of seduction; it was a statement of Ams—confident, unconcerned with convention, and beautiful in her own unvarnished truth. Mary rested her hands on Ams’s shoulders, the reflection showing them as a study in contrasts that made a perfect, powerful whole. “Ready to go, partner?” Mary asked, her voice a warm whisper against Ams’s ear.

“I’d settle for not spilling wine on anyone important,” Ams murmured, but she let Mary lead her out the door, their hands finding each other in a familiar, grounding clasp. The valet brought the silver Mercedes around, its engine a low, powerful purr. Mary slid behind the wheel, the driver’s seat now her natural domain. The drive began with a winding descent from the Chateau’s exclusive hilltop, depositing them onto the legendary Sunset Boulevard just as the city was slipping into its Saturday night attire. The street was a river of light and sound. Neon signs from The Roxy and the Rainbow Room bled onto the asphalt in pools of electric pink and blue. The sky above the skinny palm trees was a deep, bruised violet, the last vestiges of daylight surrendering to the city’s artificial glow.

Inside the car, it was a pocket of calm. Mary navigated the traffic with a practiced, steady hand, while Ams stared out the window, watching the vibrant, chaotic performance of Hollywood unfold. “It feels like we’re driving through a movie set,” Ams said, her voice a near whisper. “In a way, we are,” Mary replied, turning left toward the coast. “It’s just our movie now.” The energy shifted dramatically as they left the city’s dense grid behind and merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The world opened up. To their left, the vast, dark expanse of the Pacific Ocean breathed in the darkness, the white foam of the waves a ghostly trace under the moonlight. To their right, the Santa Monica Mountains rose like sleeping giants. Mary rolled down the windows, and the cool, salty air flooded the car, chasing away the last traces of city exhaust.

“Nervous?” Mary asked, glancing over at Ams. “Not about the film,” Ams admitted, her gaze fixed on the endless horizon. “Just… this. Small talk. Pretending I belong in a room with these people.” “You do belong,” Mary said, her voice firm. “They need you more than you need them. And you’re not pretending. You’re just walking in and telling your truth. Besides,” she added, a playful smile touching her lips, “I’ll be right there. If you get stuck, just start talking about the mechanics of a shrimp boat. It’s a guaranteed conversation stopper.” Ams let out a real, unburdened laugh, the sound carried away by the ocean breeze. She reached over and placed her hand on Mary’s knee, a silent thank you that said everything.

After another twenty minutes of coastline, Mary slowed the car and made a sharp right, turning onto a narrow road that wound steeply into the hills. The houses here were hidden, tucked away behind gates and long driveways. Finally, they found the address: a modern, low-slung home made of glass, wood, and stone that seemed to grow organically from the hillside. Warm light spilled from its floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a gathering of people inside.

Mary parked the car and turned off the engine. In the sudden silence, they could hear the faint sound of jazz music and laughter drifting down from the house, mingling with the rhythmic crash of the waves below. She turned to Ams, her eyes shining in the soft glow of the dashboard. “Ready to show them what a team looks like?” Mary asked. Ams looked at the house, then back at the incredible, beautiful woman beside her. She leaned over and gave her a slow, confident kiss. “Yeah,” Ams said, a fearless smile spreading across her face. “Let’s go.”

The door was opened not by Michael, but by a man in a crisp white jacket. Before he could speak, Michael appeared behind him, a warm, welcoming grin on his face. “George, it’s alright. They’re our guests of honor.”

Ams felt a blush creep up her neck. Mary gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as they stepped from the cool night air into the grand foyer. The house wasn’t opulent in a classical way; it was a breathtaking exercise in modern architecture. Ams’s eyes widened, her gaze following a wall of glass that seemed to dissolve into the night sky, revealing the glittering coastline below. The seamless blend of raw nature and polished design—warm, rustic wood against cool leather and steel—left her momentarily breathless.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Michael said, leading them further inside. “Ams, Mary, this is my wife, Karen.” A tall, petite woman with jet-black hair and a very form-fitting black silk dress extended a hand. Her smile was as sharp and elegant as her attire. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you both,” she said, her voice smooth. She looked at Ams. “Michael hasn’t stopped talking about the poetry you’re bringing to the script. It’s a relief to finally meet the person who has been living in our house, rent-free, for the past month.”

The gentle humor in her tone immediately put Ams at ease. “Ah... thank you,” Ams managed. “This is my partner, Mary Richard.” “Mary,” Karen said, taking her hand with a firm, confident grip. “Michael said you were the one who keeps the whole operation running. I can respect that.” Then Karen took Ams and Mary on a tour of the home. She should then go to Michael’s work area. “He rarely like me showing guests his space but you are a professional and I think you’d enjoy seeing another’s universe for their work,” Karen speculated. She took them to the outdoor garden. The sun was just setting below the horizon, and the sky was painted with deep purples, blues, and pinks. “This is such a wonderful place, Karen,” Ams is in awe of everything. “I never imagined it could be so beautiful.” “I hear New Orleans is the same in it’s own way. You painted that picture for us. It was brilliant,” Karen added. “Thank you very much,” Ams blushed.

The dinner at Michael Chen’s house was a world away from the backyard crawfish boils of Pauger Street. His home was a stunning example of mid-century modern architecture nestled high in the Hollywood Hills, with a wall of glass that overlooked a glittering panorama of the city. The air was filled with the low hum of industry talk, the clinking of expensive wine glasses, and the scent of jasmine from the meticulously landscaped garden.

Ams, true to her word, wore the sharp outfit, a defiant statement of self. She was a quiet star in the room. Writers and producers, having heard the buzz about “Rising Tides,” sought her out, eager to talk about her “authentic voice.” Ams, buoyed by the success of the screening, handled the attention with a shy, burgeoning confidence.

Mary, ever the guardian, kept a watchful eye from a slight distance. She was talking with Katherine Pearce near the fireplace when she noticed a man zero in on Ams. He was handsome in a classic, leading-man way, with a charismatic smile and the easy confidence of someone who had never been told “no.” Mary recognized him as Julian Thorne, a screenwriter whose last two films had been major box office hits.

He moved to Ams’s side, his approach smooth and practiced. “Amelie Hebert,” he said, his voice a warm baritone. “I’m Julian. I had to come over and tell you, I read your original story after the Variety announcement. It was breathtaking. You have a gift for capturing the weight of a place.” “Thank you,” Ams said, a genuine, pleased blush rising on her cheeks. “That means a lot coming from you. I loved your work on ‘Fires of Autumn.’“ Julian slowly, carefully moved his hand to Ams’s lower back, holding it there.

Mary watched, a flicker of a memory—a hotel bar, a lonely night, a stranger’s easy charm—prickling at the edge of her consciousness. The old Mary would have felt a surge of cold, resentful panic. She would have seen Ams, so brilliant and captivating, being pulled into a world where she, Mary, couldn’t follow. The silence would have started right there. But she wasn’t the old Mary. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her posture relaxed. She wasn’t watching a threat; she was observing a dynamic. She trusted Ams. The foundation they had built over the last year wasn’t made of sand. It was granite.

The conversation between Ams and Julian grew more intense. He leaned in closer, his other hand gesturing animatedly as he spoke of the “solitude of the writer’s soul,” a language Mary knew was designed to create an intimate, exclusive connection. His other hand stayed in place, but more pronounced. “It’s a lonely business,” Julian was saying. “You pour your entire heart onto the page, and you just hope someone out there understands the language. I can tell you do.”

That was her cue. With a calm, easy smile, Mary excused herself from Katherine and walked over, slipping her hand into the crook of Ams’s arm. She didn’t interrupt, just seamlessly joined the circle, her presence a quiet, undeniable fact. Ams’s face lit up as she turned, her body naturally leaning into Mary’s. Julian’s hand retreated quickly to his side, then his pocket. “Julian, this is my partner, Mary Richard,” Ams said, her voice full of a warmth that was entirely different from the professional admiration she’d shown him. “Mary’s the one who actually makes it possible for me to write. She’s the brilliant producer of our entire life.”

Mary extended her hand to Julian, her handshake firm, her gaze direct and friendly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Julian. Ams is right, the solitude can be intense. That’s why we make sure to get away from it all and head back to the bayou every chance we get. There’s nothing like the real thing to recharge your soul.”

The “we” and “our” hung in the air, a polite, impenetrable wall. Julian’s charming smile didn’t falter, but a subtle shift occurred in his eyes. He saw it. This wasn’t an artist and her assistant. This was a fortress. “Well, it was wonderful to meet you both,” he said after a moment, taking a step back. “Congratulations again on the film, Amelie.” And with a final nod, he melted back into the crowd.

They ate at a very long table outside in the garden. Ams and Mary were seated at the end nearest Jack, Katherine, and Michael. Questions about her ideas, other stories, and how she became a writer. Everyone who could hear hung on Ams’s every word. Mary sat there beaming, proud of her girl. She knew she had them. In that exact moment, Ams had some of the most powerful people in Hollywood, trans fixed on her and her words. During the stories, Ams kept hold of Mary’s hand, as though she might disappear from her side.

Later that night, back in the quiet sanctuary of Bungalow #6, Ams was toweling her hair dry as Mary watched her from the bed. “He was laying it on pretty thick,” Mary said, her tone casual, completely devoid of accusation. Ams paused, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “He was, wasn’t he? It’s funny, a year ago, I might not have even noticed. I would have just been so thrilled that a writer like that wanted to talk to me.” She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, taking Mary’s hand. “But tonight, all I could think was, ‘He has no idea what a real partnership looks like.’”

Mary’s heart swelled; the last ghost of Gulfport finally, completely vanished. “I wasn’t scared,” she confessed, her voice a near whisper. “Watching you, I just felt… proud. I knew you were coming home to me.” Ams leaned in and kissed her, a kiss that wasn’t about passion, but about a deep and settled certainty. “Always,” Ams said against her lips. “My story starts and ends with you.”

38

The victory at Michael’s dinner party was a brief, perfect pocket of peace. The weeks that followed were a return to the war room, but with a renewed, unified sense of purpose. The assembly cut was a beautiful beast, but it was still a beast. Now, the real artistry began: the delicate, brutal work of carving it into a masterpiece.

October was a blur of dark rooms and glowing screens. Ams, Mary, Katherine, and Michael became a nomadic tribe, migrating between the editing bay in Santa Monica and the sound mixing stage at Warner Bros. The arguments were just as passionate, but the dynamic had shifted. It was no longer a fight against each other, but a collective fight for the film.

“The cicadas are too loud here,” Ams would insist during a sound mix, her eyes closed as she listened. “This is the scene after the funeral. The world should feel muted, like it’s holding its breath. We should only hear the water and the wind.” The sound designer, a quiet genius named Ben, would nod, his fingers flying across the massive mixing board, pulling one element down, pushing another forward until the soundscape perfectly mirrored Elara’s grief.

Mary was the unsung hero of this final push. She was the one who anticipated when Ams would be too drained to drive and arranged a car. She was the one who appeared with thermoses of hot, strong coffee at 10 p.m. and who calmly dealt with the studio when they needed revised budget reports for overtime. She was the steady, brilliant ballast that kept their ship from foundering in the storm of creative exhaustion.

By the end of the month, they had a locked picture. The story was told. And in the sudden, unnerving silence that followed, Ams began to wilt. With no scenes to fight for and no dialogue to defend, a profound homesickness set in. The dry, hazy sunlight of Los Angeles felt alien, the endless traffic a meaningless hum. She grew quiet, pacing the bungalow not with creative energy, but with the listless restlessness of a caged animal. Mary watched her, seeing the vibrant, fierce bayou girl she loved beginning to shrivel in the arid climate of success. She was a fish out of water, and she was starting to lose her color.

One afternoon, Mary found Ams standing on their patio, staring at a perfectly manicured palm tree. “It doesn’t even move right,” Ams said quietly. “The wind here… it’s so thin. It doesn’t have any weight to it.” That was all Mary needed to hear. While Ams was in the shower, Mary took her phone to a corner of the living room and dialed. Lisa answered on the second ring. “Hey, it’s me,” Mary said, her voice low and urgent. “I need a favor. I need you and Sophia.” “What’s wrong?” Lisa’s voice was instantly alert. “Is Ams okay?”

“She’s… drifting,” Mary explained, struggling for the right words. “The big creative fight is over, and now she’s just floating. This place is all business and sunshine, and she needs a little bit of home. She needs her mud.” Sophia got on the extension. “What do you need us to do, honey?” “I need you to call her. Tonight. Don’t talk about the movie. I need you to talk about how the Saints looked last Sunday, about Mr. LeBlanc’s ridiculous new fishing lure, about that pothole on Dauphine Street that could swallow a car. I need you to send a little bit of New Orleans through the phone. Remind her who she is when she’s not ‘the writer.’” “Say no more,” Lisa said, her voice full of understanding. “Operation Grounding is a go.”

That evening, as Ams was pushing her food around her plate, Mary’s phone rang. She answered, then held it out to Ams. “It’s for you.” Ams took it, a confused look on her face. “Hello?” Mary watched as her partner’s entire posture changed. A look of stunned surprise melted into a real, unburdened smile. Then came a sound Mary hadn’t heard in weeks: a deep, genuine laugh that echoed in their quiet bungalow. She was no longer a fish out of water. She was home.

The final crucial element arrived in early November: the score. Jack Strong had secured the legendary composer, Thomas Newman, a master of evocative, melancholic melodies. Ams and Mary sat in a plush screening room as Newman, a quiet man with kind eyes, watched the final locked cut for the first time. He didn’t take a single note.

A week later, they were summoned to a scoring stage. An orchestra of strings and woodwinds was assembled. Newman stood at a podium, and on a massive screen behind the musicians, the opening scene of the marsh played. He raised his baton, and the first notes of the main theme filled the room—a haunting, achingly beautiful melody played on a single piano, interwoven with the mournful cry of a cello. It wasn’t just music; it was the sound of loneliness, of memory, of the film’s very soul. Ams gripped Mary’s hand, tears streaming down her face. It was perfect.

With the score being recorded, the machine of Hollywood marketing roared to life. One morning, Mary opened Variety and saw it: the first teaser poster for “Rising Tides.” It was a stunning, artful image—a tight shot of Clara’s face as Elara, her eyes filled with a fierce sorrow, with the silvered, ghostly image of the fish camp reflected in the dark water below. The tagline was a single, perfect line from Ams’s script: The tide takes. It also returns what was lost. “My God, Mary… it’s real,” Ams whispered, tracing the title with her finger.

The pressure mounted. The studio, emboldened by the growing internal buzz, set a date for a limited, Oscar-qualifying release: the second week of December. Suddenly, the finish line was in sight, and it was hurtling toward them at terrifying speed. The final color grade was a week of fourteen-hour days, with Ams, Katherine, and Leo Garza painstakingly adjusting the saturation of a sunset, the depth of the shadows in Elara’s eyes, ensuring every frame felt authentic.

The night they finally signed off on the finished film, there was no grand celebration. The four of them—Ams, Mary, Katherine, and Michael—simply stood in the quiet of the empty screening room, the weight of their shared accomplishment a heavy, satisfying presence. “Well,” Katherine said, her voice husky with emotion. “We have a movie.”

That night, back in the quiet sanctuary of Bungalow #6, Ams couldn’t sleep. She paced the living room, the nervous energy that had been her constant companion for over a year now a roaring fire in her veins. Mary found her standing on the patio, looking out at the endless, glittering map of the city. “It’s done,” Ams said, her voice a marveling whisper. “We actually did it. No more notes, no more arguments. It’s… finished. All that’s left is for the world to see it.” She turned to Mary, her eyes shining with a mixture of terror and elation. “What if they hate it? What if no one understands what we were trying to say?”

Mary stepped forward, taking Ams’s restless hands in her own, her grip firm and steady. “They will,” she said with a quiet, absolute certainty. “But even if they don’t… it doesn’t matter.” She looked at Ams, at the incredible woman who had weathered every storm, who had fought for every word, who had created this entire new world for them. “We know what we made. And we made it together. This was always our movie, remember?”

Ams looked at her partner, her fortress, her home. The fear didn’t vanish, but it was dwarfed by a profound, unshakeable love. She pulled Mary close, burying her face in her neck, the familiar scent of her a grounding anchor in the dizzying whirlwind of it all. The work was done. The story was told. Now, all they had to do was let it go.

39

The first check from Stronghold Pictures wasn’t just a piece of paper; it was the first tangible return on Mary’s monumental investment. It arrived in a crisp FedEx envelope, and when Mary, the de facto business manager of their new two-person enterprise, opened it, she let out a low, satisfied whistle. Ams looked at the number, at the string of zeros that validated Mary’s leap of faith, and felt a dizzying mix of terror and vindication. It was real.

A week later, while Mary was on a conference call organizing the logistics for the premiere, Ams slipped out of the house. She drove not to a familiar haunt, but to a quiet, discreet jeweler on a side street in the French Quarter, a place that smelled of old velvet and quiet money. She didn’t look at the flashy, elaborate pieces in the main display. She described what she wanted in a low, determined voice. An hour later, she walked out with a small, heavy box tucked deep in her pocket. Inside was a simple, elegant platinum band, holding a single, square-cut diamond. It wasn’t a statement of wealth; it was a statement of clarity. It was a ring that looked like Mary: brilliant, strong, and timeless. Ams hid the box in the back of her sock drawer, a secret promise waiting for the perfect moment.

The night of the premiere felt as if she were in a dream. A black Town Car, the same kind that had first introduced them to the impossible luxury of New York, purred at their curb on Pauger Street. The ride to the historic Orpheum Theatre felt like a slow-motion float through their own city, now transformed into the backdrop for their own movie.

When they stepped out of the car, the world exploded into a chaos of light and sound. The roar of the crowd, the blinding staccato of a hundred flashbulbs, the shouted questions from a line of reporters—it was the Hollywood machinery they were now a part of, and they were walking right into its heart.

Ams wore her armor, but it was a new, elevated version. The pinstripe slacks were beautifully tailored from dark wool. The black silk vest was custom-made, its cut just as daring, a quiet statement of her uncompromised self. On her feet were a pair of crisp, new black leather Converse. She was undeniably Ams, but an Ams who owned her place in this world.

But it was Mary who took everyone’s breath away. She wore a floor-length gown of deep sapphire blue silk, a gift from a young designer who had been so moved by her story in a magazine profile that he’d insisted on dressing her. The dress was a masterpiece of understated elegance, its simple lines showcasing her poise and grace. As she stepped onto the red carpet, a confident, brilliant smile on her face, she wasn’t just the writer’s partner; she was an essential part of the film’s success, and she looked it. Ams took her hand. “Ready?” she asked, her voice a low murmur against the roar. Mary squeezed back, her eyes shining. “Let’s go show them what a team looks like.”

They walked the carpet together, a perfect, powerful whole. They posed for the cameras, their hands linked, an undeniable statement. Inside, the theatre was a cavern of red velvet and anticipation. They found their seats with Jack and Katherine, and as the lights went down, Ams’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She felt Mary’s hand find hers in the dark.

For the next two hours, she watched their ghost story unfold. It belonged to the audience now. She heard them gasp at the reveal of the locket. She heard them cry in the quiet, heartbreaking aftermath of the storm. And in the final, resilient shot of Elara on the porch, a profound, respectful silence held the entire theatre captive. The credits rolled. For a beat, there was nothing. Then, the applause started, a wave of it that grew into a roaring, standing ovation.

The months that followed were a strange, quiet waiting game. The film was a critical darling. Reviews praised its haunting atmosphere, Clara’s raw performance, and the “fiercely authentic, poetic voice” of its screenplay. They returned to their life in New Orleans, the surreal glamour of the premiere fading into a comfortable routine. The world was talking about their movie, but in the house on Pauger Street, they were just Ams and Mary, partners in work and life.

The call came on a Tuesday morning in January, before the sun was even up. The phone on the nightstand jangled, piercing the pre-dawn quiet. Mary answered, her voice thick with sleep. “Hello?” Her eyes shot open. “Jack. Yes, of course. Hang on.”

She shook Ams awake. “Ams. Ams, wake up. It’s Jack. He says to turn on the television. The Today Show.” They stumbled downstairs, their hearts pounding. The living room was dark and cool. Ams fumbled with the remote, the television flickering to life with the bright, cheerful set of the morning show. They were just about to announce the Academy Award nominations.

Ams and Mary sat on the couch, wrapped in a single blanket, their hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white. Sophia and Lisa, summoned by a frantic call from Mary, burst through the door just as the category for Best Adapted Screenplay was being announced.

The announcer’s voice was crisp, distant, unreal. “And the nominees are...” He read three other names, three other films. Ams felt her hope begin to drain away. “...and Amelie Hebert and Matt Goldstein, for ‘Rising Tides.’”

The name hung in the air for a fraction of a second before the room erupted. Sophia screamed. Lisa started crying. Mary just pulled Ams into a fierce, desperate hug, her own sobs lost in the joyful chaos. This wasn’t just Ams’s victory; it was theirs. It was the validation of Mary’s impossible choice. The nominations kept coming. Katherine for Best Director. Clara for Best Actress. And finally, the one that made Ams feel like the floor was tilting beneath her: Best Picture.

Later, after the champagne had been opened and their friends had finally gone home, a quiet, luminous peace settled over the house. The morning sun was streaming through the windows, glinting off the celebratory mess of glasses and empty bottles. The biggest dream, the one so impossibly large she had never even dared to voice it, had come true.

Ams turned to Mary in the sun-drenched quiet of their living room. All the noise, all the accolades, all the Hollywood machinery faded away, leaving only the incredible, beautiful woman who had made the ultimate bet on her. This was the moment. The perfect moment.

“Mary,” she began, her voice a little shaky. She got down on one knee on the worn Oriental rug, pulling the small, heavy box from her pocket. She opened it. The single, perfect diamond caught the morning light, scattering a tiny rainbow on the ceiling. Mary’s hands flew to her mouth, a gasp catching in her throat as fresh tears welled in her eyes.

“You quit your job. You left your entire life behind on the faith that we could build something new,” Ams said, her own eyes now wet. “You didn’t just support me, you built the foundation that made all of this possible. You are the brilliant producer of my entire life, and the best business decision I’ll ever make.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Mary Richard, will you be my partner, officially, for all the chapters to come?”

Mary sank to her knees in front of her, her answer a joyful, tearful whisper. “Yes. Oh God, yes.”

Ams slid the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. They held each other, two partners in the quiet of their own home, the brilliant light of their future streaming in all around them. The work was done. The healing was complete.

The story was just beginning.

Prologue: Five Years Later

New Orleans - Spring 2005

The late afternoon sun, thick and golden as honey, slanted through the open French doors of the house on Esplanade Avenue. The air smelled of sweet olive, damp earth, and, faintly, of chlorine from the small saltwater pool shimmering in the courtyard. The sound of children’s laughter—a bright, chaotic music—spilled in from the yard.

Inside, the house was a world away from their first small place on Pauger Street. It was a grand old Creole mansion, but they had filled it not with antiques, but with life. The walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves, modern art, and a collection of framed, candid photos from film sets in Louisiana, Morocco, and Prague.

Mary sat at a large, reclaimed cypress table that served as the command center for their lives, a laptop open in front of her. Her hair was a little shorter now, a chic, no-nonsense bob, and she wore a pair of stylish reading glasses. She wasn’t just Ams’s partner anymore; she was the co-founder of Bayou Noir Productions, a small but fiercely independent company they had started after the success of “Rising Tides.” While Ams was the creative engine, Mary was the one who navigated the treacherous waters of financing, distribution, and studio politics with a calm, smiling lethality that was legendary among those who knew her.

Ams walked in from the courtyard, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. She was wearing a paint-splattered t-shirt and cutoff shorts, her legs tanned and strong. The Oscar for “Rising Tides” hadn’t changed her signature look, but it had vanquished the last of her ghosts. The quiet confidence she had found in Hollywood had settled into a deep, unshakeable certainty. She had two more critically acclaimed screenplays to her name and was in the middle of directing her first feature, a small, gritty film they were financing themselves.

She leaned down and kissed the top of Mary’s head, her eyes glancing at the complex spreadsheet on the screen. “Are you saving the world or just balancing it?” “Just making sure our daughter’s preschool tuition is paid and that our Czech production crew gets their per diems on time,” Mary said without looking up. She pointed a pen toward the yard. “And your son is currently trying to teach the dog to swim by throwing beignets in the pool. You might want to intervene.”

Ams laughed, the sound easy and unburdened. She walked to the open doors and watched her children. Their daughter, four-year-old Louise, with Mary’s blonde hair and Ams’s intense, observant eyes, was trying to coax their beagle, Boudreaux, into the water. Their son, two-year-old Jasper, was sitting on the edge of the pool, happily gumming a powdered-sugar-covered pastry.

A moment later, Sophia and Lisa arrived through the side gate, their arms laden with groceries for their weekly Sunday dinner. The chaos level in the yard immediately doubled, the sound of greetings and laughter mixing with the children’s squeals. Ams leaned against the doorframe, watching the beautiful, messy, wonderful life they had built. All the noise, all the struggle, the years of fighting for stories and for each other, had led to this. This perfect, ordinary peace.

Mary came to stand beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. She followed Ams’s gaze to the courtyard, where Sophia was now engaged in a splash war with Louise. “Pretty good, isn’t it?” Mary said softly.

Ams turned to her wife, her partner, the brilliant producer of her entire life. She saw the simple platinum-and-diamond ring on Mary’s finger, an ever-present symbol of their unbreakable bond. She leaned in and kissed her, a kiss that wasn’t about passion, but about a deep and settled certainty.

“It’s the best story we’ve ever told,” Ams whispered.