Preview of IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK
The October wind whistled past Eleanor’s ears, bringing an icy chill across her face.
“Let’s hope the inside of the property is as good as the outside.” She surveyed the morose landscape surrounding the three-level expansive Victorian farmhouse. The gray-brick house appeared fairy-tale-like. Tall, yet bristly hickory and pine trees dotted the landscape, blocking out most of the overcast sky. Today was yet another test from her boss. Another assignment dropped in her lap that the senior art director let slip through the cracks.
After a long drive from NYC to southern Maine, she was determined to get the Foster farmhouse into shape before the production crew arrived.
“The pictures of the inside don’t do it justice,” her assistant Gail said with a smile. “C’mon, just look at this place!”
She did have a point. With the wrought iron gates and stony driveway, an approaching camera shot with monologue would be perfect for America’s Mysterious Hotspots. “This is so last minute. Why did production agree to this again?”
“Mr. Donahue promised us we’d like the inside.” Gail got out of the passenger seat, her thin fingers tapping hard on her cellphone screen. Brody, the art department intern, trailed after her.
A last minute text message from the producers about a new location would be welcomed right about now. Not likely though, since they had a few days until filming had to start. The deadline couldn’t be moved so the production staff had left her crew, the set designers to deal with this house with a reputation built on rumors and a drenched landscape. A lone scout had handled the go-see not too long ago and he had taken the steps to secure the site.
Another farmhouse with chipped white paint and haphazard green shutters came to mind. The Donahue home dwarfed that tiny house, yet somehow a lone window on the Victorian’s third floor drew her eye. Maybe it was the red curtains that resembled the ones from her childhood bedroom. A breeze shook the trees and forced her to return to the present. The weathervane, a hunting hound perched on the highest point of the slanted roof, whined as the metal scraped back and forth. The stench of rainwater and mud clung to everything. As fast as the clouds raced across the sky, more autumn rain would come soon, making their work even more unpleasant.
The front door opened and a man in a long-sleeved white shirt walked across the wide porch toward them. As he approached, something about his facial features appeared familiar. She’d seen that angular face before. The haircut was like any other man’s—a simple buzz cut in a conservative style. Eleanor forced herself to smile.
By the time they’d retrieved their equipment from the van, he’d walked across his lawn to greet them.
The man shook Gail’s hand first. As the main contact with the location manager Gail knew his name. She offered introductions.
“Ellie, this is Patrick Donahue, the homeowner.” When he reached for Eleanor’s hand she shook his stiffly and let it go quickly. In a city as big as New York City, you met someone new every day, yet she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before. She’d met countless executives and businessmen so she pushed the thought aside. He could be any of them.
Patrick kept smiling at her as she grabbed a bag and walked past him to the porch. The wood was worn and repainted in a few places, but in terms of authenticity it would make do if the spot needed to be used for filming. She sensed someone standing behind her. It had to be Patrick.
