Charlie reaches over to grab my hand, weaving her fingers through mine. “But you’re not.”
“I know.”
EXT. FLO AND FREEZE—DAY
A beautiful summer evening. Richard and Ellen eat at an outdoor table beneath the shade of a large tree.
People at nearby tables steal glances their way. TWO MEN stand and walk over. Richard keeps his eyes down. Ellen is scared but meets their gaze directly.
She knows what this is about.
ELLEN
Can I help you?
The two men keep their eyes on Richard.
MAN 1
Ma’am, is this man bothering you?
ELLEN
Have I given some indication that he is?
Their eyes shift to Richard again.
MAN 1
No, ma’am, but—
ELLEN
But what? We’re sitting here trying to eat our dinner, and you’re interrupting us.
Richard reaches for her hand on the table and speaks softly to her.
RICHARD
Ellen . . .
Man 2’s hand shoots out, gripping Richard by the wrist to stop him.
MAN 2
Son, you better mind those hands.
Richard freezes.
MAN 1
Don’t you live up on the big farm on Sutter Lake Road?
ELLEN
Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. It’s my father’s farm.
MAN 1
He know you’re running around with one of them?
A tense moment of silence. Richard has kept his eyes down, but lifts them to meet Ellen’s across the table. Richard’s face is tight with controlled anger.
ELLEN
My father doesn’t get a say in who I run around with. And if he did he’d sure as hell tell me to stay away from a couple of ignorant fools like you.
Man 1 moves towards Ellen. Richard stands up.
MAN 1
Somebody ought to teach you—
The MANAGER of the restaurant steps up to the table.
MANAGER
Is there a problem here?
ELLEN
These men were just commenting on the weather, but they’re done now.
The manager looks between them. The two men eventually leave. Alone again, Richard looks down at the table.
RICHARD
I wish you wouldn’t do that.
ELLEN
Do what? Try to eat my dinner in peace? I paid fifteen cents for this hamburger and now it’s cold.
A soft look across the table.
RICHARD
You know what I mean.
ELLEN
I do know what you mean. I always thought I was talked down to for being a woman, but I’m beginning to see it pales in comparison.
RICHARD
It isn’t safe.
ELLEN
These fools run all over the county on Friday nights tipping cows, for God’s sake, but have the nerve to think they have some sort of genetic superiority because of the color of their skin? (beat) I’m not naive, Richard. I know I’m allowed to speak up because I’m white, and you’ve been made to feel like you can’t because you’re black. Please don’t ask me to stay quiet. I know you worry. If I’m honest, I worry, too.
Richard holds her gaze.
RICHARD
Someone should marry you, Ellen Meyer.
ELLEN
Someone did.
RICHARD
Maybe someone should do it right . . .
“Cut.”
It’s as if everyone on set gives one collective exhale.
Gwen moves to check the shot, and Nick grins at me from across the table.
“Holy fuck, that was good.”
A breeze twists through the scattered picnic tables and I nod in agreement, unable to shake an odd sense of déjà vu. I rub my arms as goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. “Yeah . . . it was.”
Nick’s smile straightens; head tilting as he considers me. “You okay?”
“Just . . . intense, that’s all.”
He nods, and we’re both startled when Gwen claps her hands from behind the wall of monitors. “That looks good!” she shouts to the crew, before conferring with Sam and the script supervisor. Nodding in agreement, they each make a note, Sam in his laptop and the script supervisor in her book. When Gwen turns back to us, I force myself to focus on her, not Sam.
“Nick and Tate, you guys are killing it. That was exactly what I want to see. We’re losing light, so let’s break it down for the tight shots and we’ll start again in—” She checks her watch. “Fifteen.”
Devon follows suit with the extras, and the crew scatters. Nick stands and motions over his shoulder. “I’m gonna grab something to eat. Join me?”
The offer is tempting—I’ve barely had anything today and should probably eat—but I can’t shake this odd feeling, the notion that I’ve heard Ellen’s story before.
I pass on food and head toward Charlie’s trailer. Aside from being our backdrop, it seems to be business as usual throughout the majority of the farm. Fields of organic vegetable gardens and small orchards, a sprawling meadow tucked low in the valley feeds grazing sheep and cows—
I stop, my mind replaying the scene we shot today.
Who cares what they think! These fools run all over the county on Friday nights tipping cows, for God’s sake . . .
“Tipping cows,” Sam had told me, talking about his life in Eden. “Drinking beer in the middle of nowhere. Weird races and games in cornfields. Trying to build an airplane. It’s easy to be crazy on a farm.”
It’s right there, the memory of everything he told me. About growing up on the farm. About Roberta.
And then it slams into me, an echo from fourteen years ago.
“She didn’t care one iota,” Luther said. “Even when they set the barn on fire.”
For just a moment the fields disappear. The chirps of birds and the tick tick tick of irrigation sprinklers in the distance are replaced by the muffled sound of traffic and the chime of Big Ben. How did I miss it before?
Rosebushes line a stone wall and there’s nothing but starry sky overhead and damp grass at my back.
nineteen
I DON’T EVEN BOTHER to knock. Sam, sitting at the small table in his cabin, jumps when the door flies open and slams behind me.
“Tate?”
“What’s going on?”
He pushes himself to stand, confused. “What’s going on with what?”
I throw a copy of the script down on the table. “The barn burning down? This. Milkweed. It’s not just some random love story, is it? It’s Luther and Roberta.”
He frowns, waiting for me to continue, like he’s not at all surprised. He’s still waiting for me to get to the part where I explain why I’m mad.
He thought I knew.
“Oh my God.” I sit down in one of the chairs, mouth open. “I’m Roberta.”
He drops slowly onto his seat. “It’s still just a love story, Tate.”
“But the irony here is that I’m Roberta, in love with Luther, the man who helped you con me in London.”
“Con?” He leans forward, intense now. “Wait. No. That’s not true.”
Shattering, I look up at him. “What isn’t true? That I fell in love with a script about the couple that helped swindle me?”
I’m thirty-two now. Fourteen years have passed, but I don’t feel a day wiser than I did when Nana and I asked the hotel to ring the Brandis room and heard the words, They checked out yesterday.
With a sigh, Sam runs a hand through his hair and leans back against the counter. “You didn’t want to talk about it when we first got here. You didn’t want me to tell you what happened.”
“Tell me now.”
He looks to the side; jaw tight, like he doesn’t know where to start. “Do you remember when I told you I thought Luther was sick?”
Arms folded protectively across my chest, I give him only a curt nod.
“Well, he was,” Sam tells me. “Very sick.”
“It’s good to know that some of it wasn’t a lie.”
He takes a step forward but seems to think better of coming any closer. “None of it was a lie.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know I hurt you, I realize that, and—”
I stand and burst forward to get right up in his face. “You know you hurt me? Is that how you think of it? Like a broken leg or a sad couple of weeks over a high school crush? I had never let anyone in the way I did with you. You took my virginity, Sam.”
His eyes soften and he must see how close I am to tears. “The last night we were together,” he begins, wiping at his brow.
I feel my lip curl. “The night you said you were falling in love with me.”
A tiny pause and then, “Right.”
“The night before you called the Guardian.”
I’ve never had actual confirmation of this, but it was the only explanation that made sense. Still, his quiet “Yes” makes the floor tilt beneath me. “Roberta called at around three in the morning, after I left you at your door.” He inhales deeply. “Apparently Luther had a necklace made for her, nothing too extravagant, but more than they could normally afford. On the day it was delivered out of the blue—that last day we—”
My stomach dissolves just at the moment he closes his eyes, stopping just short of saying made love in the garden.
“She got an inkling what was going on,” he says, voice rough. “She called their doctor. Found out Luther’s prognosis was shit. Taking me to England and getting Roberta a gift like that was his way of saying goodbye. He didn’t want . . . they didn’t have much. Not enough for a lengthy treatment. They would have lost the farm, literally.”
Richard is Luther. Ellen is Roberta. The truth feels so obvious, it slots into place with a quiet, unobtrusive click. I think about the script I fell in love with; I think about Ellen’s strength and their bottomless devotion. It didn’t convince me that love like that was waiting for me, but it gave me hope that it could exist. After feeling nothing for years, it was enough.
“So you sold me to save him,” I say numbly.
Sam opens his eyes, and I can tell from his expression that he hates the way I’ve put it. But he gives another quiet “Yes” anyway.