“He’s a lone wolf, isn’t he?” Judith remarked as she
reached the top of the stairs.
Chips nodded. “A lot of writers are like that. They
work alone, they prefer their made-up characters to
real people.”
“I can understand that,” Judith said, though she really
couldn’t. People were the center of her world, her reason for being. Family, friends, and strangers—Judith
held out welcoming arms to them all. She would never
have been able to run a B&B if she hadn’t loved people.
Judith risked a touchy question. “I got the impression that directors and screenwriters don’t always
agree on how a movie is made.”
Chips flushed, his freckles blending in with the rest
of his face. “You mean that little dustup with Dade the
other night?” He didn’t wait for Judith to respond, but
shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “Typical. We call
it artistic differences. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Yes,” Judith said, “I see how that can happen. But
you and Bruno Zepf must have agreed on how
Chips cocked his head to one side, looking even
more boyish than usual. “Directors and producers have
their own differences. It wouldn’t be normal if they
didn’t. We’re all creative types, we all have our own
ideas about how a picture should be made.”
“Do you think Bruno had the wrong idea? I mean,”
Judith added hastily, “that he did something wrong to
get such a strong negative reaction to his movie?”
“Yes,” Chips said sadly. “Making the picture was
wrong. A passion for filmmaking is one thing—Bruno
had plenty of passion. But personal missions seldom
make for good box office. The project was doomed
from the start. Maybe,” he continued on a mournful
note, “Bruno was, too.” With a shake of his head, he
turned back into Room Five.
Judith headed downstairs. Joe had already gone to
early Mass and was bringing back pastries and hot coffee in big thermoses. But Judith’s priority was
Gertrude. The old lady would be fussing, since her
daughter usually showed up at least an hour earlier
than this with breakfast.
Indeed, when Judith entered the toolshed Gertrude
wouldn’t speak to her. She was sitting in her usual
place behind the card table, sulking.
“One of our guests passed away last night,” Judith
began.
Gertrude turned her head and stared at the wall.
“He may have had a heart attack. That’s why I
haven’t been able to make breakfast. I can’t go into the
