Chapter Eleven
“You wereserious when you said there’d be no work today,” Beverly said as they walked hand-in-hand down Congress Avenue. They’d just finished a fabulous brunch at the Four Seasons, and now Griffin was leading her somewhere else. He just hadn’t told her where.
“I’m glad you told me to wear flats. Are we walking all the way to Dallas?”
“Funny,” he said, though she thought the question was reasonable. Brunch had been near the river, which was essentially on Second Street, though it was now called Cesar Chavez. They’d been walking perpendicular to the river, and now they were approaching Sixth Street.
“Are we going to The Fix?” she asked.
“No. Wait and see.”
She didn’t have long to wait. Griffin soon drew them to a stop in front of Austin’s historic Paramount Theater, a beautiful venue that had celebrated its centennial just a few years before.
“What’s going on here? Is there a show?”
“We’ve been working so hard on our movie, I thought we should go watch a couple of classics. Okay?”
She turned to him with genuine pleasure. “Are you kidding? I love classic movies. What’s playing?”
“Double feature. The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep. You up for it?”
“Do we get popcorn?”
“Popcorn, wine, whatever you want.”
She grinned, absolutely delighted with his plan for the afternoon. “I am totally in.”
“Good. And after the movies, I have one other place I want to take you.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret.”
They got their tickets, hit the concession stand, then grabbed a couple of middle seats, which as far as Beverly was concerned, were the best seats in the house. Griffin had timed brunch and the walk perfectly, so they only had to wait a few minutes before the trailers began.
Beverly munched her popcorn, her hand occasionally brushing Griffin’s, the contact sending nice little frissons of pleasure coursing through her. By the time the first movie began, they were halfway through the bucket. He put it on the floor, then took her hand. He lifted it and kissed it gently, then flashed her a quick smile. “Buttery goodness.”
She laughed, then leaned in for an even more buttery kiss.
She'd seen both movies before, but it had been years, and she became quickly absorbed in the film noir storyline. So much so, that when the intermission between the movies came, she had a hard time believing that they were halfway through the afternoon already.
By the time the second movie ended, she wished there were even more on the program.
“Did you like?” he asked as they left the theater.
“Are you kidding? They were great. That’s what I want to do,” she added as they headed back toward the Four Seasons and his car. “Make movies that last. Movies that have that kind of resonance.” She paused on the sidewalk, catching his eyes. “Do you think ours will have even close to the merit of those films?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want that, too. The script is solid, and Deaver’s talented.”
“Now he’s talented?” she teased.
“Since you swear he doesn’t have designs on you, yes. He went from asshole to filmic genius.”
“Maybe we should—”
But she didn’t get to finish the thought because he pulled her to a stop with a sharp, “Dammit.”
“What?” she asked, watching as he bent his face and pulled his hoodie more forward. Then she saw the answer. There, across the street and standing by the local landmark sculpture of a woman shooting a cannon, was a burly photographer with a long lens, doing his own kind of shooting. And his camera was aimed right at Griffin.