Wildest Dreams

2. Pierre

PIERRE

H arriett meets me at the Atlanta airport early on Saturday morning. She’s flying back to Los Angeles as I’m arriving in the South. It’s a hot, humid day, especially for May. It’s been years since I filmed a movie in this area — I had forgotten how sticky it is.

“You’ve got to be burning up,” I say, noting her hoodie with jeans and giving her a hug.

“I’m alright,” she says.

“How is the place?” I ask. She had traveled ahead of me to get everything set up.

“It’s, uh…”

“Bad?”

She shakes her head. “The house is very nice. Clean. The back is all windows and it has a great view of the river. It’s just in the middle of nowhere.”

“Fantastic!” I need a break from LA. I need a break from photographers. I need a break from traffic, from the industry, from constant scrutiny, from…well…everything in my life. One of the reasons I agreed to do this movie is because my agent said it’s a rural shoot.

“You think that now. Once you leave Atlanta, there’s basically nothing for three and a half hours. Not even cell service. It’s mostly back roads and farms.”

“As long as the GPS works, I’m golden.”

She hands me the car keys and an envelope. “This has the keys to the house and the owner’s card. She said the back door locks automatically. That’s about it.”

I open the envelope and look at the business card: Abbey Accounting with a little abacus on the side. I put the keys and card in my pocket.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay with you?” Harriett asks. As far as assistants go, she’s the absolute best. In fact, she may be the only true friend I have in LA.

“No, go home to your hot girlfriend. I’m actually kind of looking forward to not talking to anyone until filming begins. Do you happen to know where Marina is staying?”

Harriett makes a face. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Marina Breton is going to be my co-star. We did another picture together years ago and to say she had a crush on me would be an understatement. She had basically stalked me outside my trailer. I changed my number multiple times after that film wrapped, but she still managed to track down each one and blow up my phone. It took a year for her to lose interest. I’m hoping she’s still over it, but that may be blind optimism on my part.

When I’d first signed onto this project, another actress was set to play my love interest, but she backed out two weeks ago and somehow Marina’s agent got her in to be the replacement. If I’d known Marina was going to be here earlier in the process, I probably would’ve tried to get out of it too.

To make things worse, a few days ago the publicist for the movie sent me an email, saying she wants us to have a faux rekindled romance to drum up publicity on social media. It’s simply not going to happen.

“I wish I’d forgotten about it,” I say.

“I have no idea where she’s staying,” says Harriett, shaking her head and squinting in the bright Georgia sun. “Sorry.”

I give her another hug and we part ways. I load my suitcase into the back of my rental SUV, connect my phone to the car and, for the next three and a half hours between Atlanta and southern Alabama, there is nothing in my life besides a classic rock playlist and the wind in my hair.

* * *

M agnolia Row is beautiful. It’s early afternoon when I drive across a bridge over the Florablanca River and the town immediately transports me back in time. The median of Main Street is a solid line of massive magnolia trees in full bloom. The shops along the street look like a Hollywood set from the 1950s and everything smells like barbeque. My stomach howls.

It’s clear why I’m here. This is the perfect place to film a movie.

I turn onto River Avenue and pass about thirty houses built in the late 1800s, all in pristine condition with lawns manicured more perfectly than a lot of golf courses. Azaleas surround almost every one and each porch is outfitted with rocking chairs and ferns. It’s so stunning I have a hard time focusing on driving.

I slowly make my way north of town and turn into a neighborhood running alongside a wide inlet branching off the main river. My rental is the house in the cul-de-sac and has a magnificent view of the wide, sparkling lake.

I pull into the drive and get out. The lots on this street are spacious with plenty of pine and oak trees, so even though I’m in a neighborhood, I feel secluded.

The house looks brand new, craftsman-style with a back yard that slopes downhill to the water. It has a huge front porch with rocking chairs, and I can see a second-story deck peeping out from the rear. This is exactly what I’d imagined when the studio assured me I’d have a nice, quiet place to relax while I’m not on set. I feel rejuvenated just thinking about sitting on the back porch with a beer and a good book.

I grab my suitcase and go inside, placing the house keys on the counter. It’s an inviting space with an open floor plan, marble countertops, plush leather furniture, and a striking view of the water. I stand for a few minutes and take in the view. Pontoon boats dot the glittery horizon of the river and Spanish moss is dancing in the lazy late spring breeze. It’s so quiet, and the sky is as clear as clean water.

This is the opposite of LA.

I love it.

* * *

A fter unpacking, I fix a glass of ice water and walk out onto the back deck to take in the view. The door shuts behind me and I take a sip of my drink before closing my eyes and lifting my face to the sun, breathing deep.

There’s a dock with a bench on the riverbank, so I walk down the deck steps and make my way to the water.

Suddenly, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn, thinking there may be a deer or large dog by the trees at the edge of the property.

But no. It is not a deer. Or a dog. Or anything I want to see.

It’s an alligator. And it’s massive.

The gator emerges from the tree line with a determined stride, coming straight towards me.

Panicked and clearly out of my element, I turn and run as fast as I can, briefly tripping over a tree root before stumbling up the stairs of the deck. Luckily, there’s a gate on the landing so I have something between me and the massive beast slowly closing the gap between us. I run across the deck, my heavy steps beating the wood, and try to turn the knob on the back door. It doesn’t budge.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Harriett said the back door locked automatically. She told me that. And as soon as she said it, I forgot. Now I’m stuck on the deck with an alligator in the yard waiting to eat me. As it turns out, quiet country life may not be for me after all.

I fumble through my pockets and pull out my cell phone, then stare at the blank screen like an idiot.

Who do I call? Do police come for alligator emergencies? Or animal control? Does a town this small even have animal control? What the hell am I supposed to do? Wait for it to go away?

I look over the rail. The alligator is still looking at me from the bottom of the steps. It has no intention of leaving, and its massive teeth give the impression that I’d make a good afternoon snack. Luckily, the deck’s gate is a barrier, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck.

A white card on the wooden floor catches my eye and I remember I have the homeowner’s number. I pick it up with shaky hands and dial.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounds like a teenager.

“Hi, um, I’m trying to reach Kendall Abbey?” I say, reading the name on the card.

“That’s me. Who is this?”

“Um, I’m renting a house from you.”

“Oh! Hi.” She sounds confused.

“Yeah, um… I have a situation. I’m not sure what to do.” I try to steady my voice, but it’s no use.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“There’s an alligator in the backyard,” I blurt out.

“Oh! That’s Bertha.”

The alligator has a name. Of course it does. She doesn’t even sound surprised or remotely concerned.

“Okay, well, Bertha has trapped me on the back deck, and I don’t have the key on me so I can’t get back in. Is there an animal control for me to call, or do I?—”

“No, no, no,” she says. “There’s one animal control guy and he’s, like, eighty years old. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right over.”

My stomach drops. I don’t need a young girl to rescue me. Nor do I want photos of me hiding from an alligator to show up online. For all I know, she could use this to earn a quick buck selling pictures to a tabloid.

I shake my head. This will be on TMZ by tomorrow morning. I just know it.

“You don’t have to?—”

“No, really. I can handle Bertha. Hold tight. I’m on my way.”

“Am I safe? I have the deck gate closed.”

“Probably.”

Probably is not yes.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to die and photos of an alligator carrying my body to the river will be all over the internet until the end of time.

“I’m leaving now. Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” I can’t. There’s ten-foot-long alligator looking at me like I’d make an excellent dinner.

She hangs up and I watch Bertha stalk back and forth across the yard. The sun is high and I start sweating through my shirt.

So much for country life. I’m a joke. Harriett was right. This is what I get for thinking things would be better outside LA.

After what seems like an hour, but is probably closer to fifteen minutes, a small Audi SUV comes flying down the driveway and stops in the back yard, a cloud of dirt trailing behind. The sunroof opens and out pops a tiny woman with long chestnut hair, holding what looks like a small basketball.

“Bertha!” she yells in a cute, mousey voice. This scene is so absurd that I can’t help but laugh to myself.

She unwraps the little package and I realize it’s a chicken - a small rotisserie chicken.

Bertha, like a trained dog, makes her way toward the SUV and the girl rears her arm back and hurls the chicken across the yard towards the river. Bertha responds, turning her attention to the meat rolling down the hill and close the water. She takes it in her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp, and walks away.

I breathe a sigh of relief and look back as the woman frantically gets out of her car. She’s little, barely clearing five feet tall, and wearing pajama pants, flip-flops, and a t-shirt from Auburn University. I unlatch the deck gate and make my way down the steps as she runs towards me, apologizing profusely. She’s older than I thought she was from judging her voice—maybe late twenties? Early thirties? Either way, she’s beautiful and I’m humiliated.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I can’t believe she’s still here. No one has lived in this house?—”

I raise my hands to cut her off. “It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting an alligator.”

We meet in the middle of the sloping back yard. I run my hands through my hair and realize she’s frozen, staring at me.

And here it comes: the first embarrassment of recognition.

“Oh my god,” she says, her face blanching. “You’re Pierre Chatham.”