being included in the picture, so she looked up at Payne with an adoring smile that would, no doubt, come across as brainless. It didn't matter. She would probably be cut out of the picture.
As engaging as she was in person, Jill took truly horrible pictures. Her friends in the business—Payne, Susannah, and the others—all looked better, more vibrant, on film than in person. Not Jill. The camera captured nothing of her personality. At best, photographs made her look vacantly pretty; more often she looked subnormal.
The photographer thanked Payne and moved off. "I'll probably be labeled an 'unidentified female companion,' " Jill grumbled happily.
"Oh, come on." Payne dropped his elegant pose. "That happened to you once. You've been dining out on that story for three years. You should look on the bright side. At least they knew you were female. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You had just finished lecturing me about how egotistic and self-centered I am becoming and were about to tell me why you were at the old studio on Friday."
So that was what this was about. "How did you know I was there?"
"I saw you. But I was being driven, and you, lowly billionairess that you are, were trudging along on your beauteous gams. Now, what were you doing there? You have to tell me. The thought of all that money walking around unescorted makes me nervous."
"I was just poking around. I found out something odd last week. Apparently my father once took out an option on remaking Weary Hearts, and—"
"Wait a minute." Payne jerked away from the fence. "Say that again."
"My dad took out an option to remake Weary Hearts."
"Your father was thinking about remaking it?"
"I don't know. It's strange. He never talked to any of his people about it, but he renewed the option a couple of times."
"He did?" All the young heartthrob postures had dropped out of Payne's manner. He sat down next to Jill, an intent businessman. His fans would have never believed it of him, but twenty years ago Jill had seen him engineer some shrewd baseball card trades. "Do you have any idea what his plans were?"
"No, none."
"Has anyone been through his papers? Was there anything about it?"
"Not a thing."
With his thumbs pressed to the wings of his cheekbones, Payne rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He was thinking. Then he dropped his hands. "Jill, will you do a favor for me?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Did you speak to anyone at the studio about this?"
Jill thought back on her conversation with Cathy. "No. I did raise it with some of the people who used to work for him... and with Ken and Lynette, and my mother. But not anyone at the studio."
"Will you not say anything to anyone else? At least not until I tell you?"
"Of course, but why?"
"You know I have tremendous respect for your father. My dad always said that in that whole crowd, Cass was the best."
Jill did appreciate him saying that. This was what she was used to, Cass being praised, Cass being spoken of as "the best."
Payne went on. "So if he thought Weary Hearts was worth remaking, then maybe it is."
Jill blinked. She knew that Payne's new company was looking for material, but... "You'd remake Weary Hearts?"
"I can't say that. I've known about this for ninety seconds. But I want to think about it. I'd like to look at the movie again, read that old treatment that guy found, see what's what. And I'd rather not have a hundred other people doing the same thing at the same time."
Jill could understand that. She hadn't much cared for having been half a step behind Doug Ringling all week. "I won't say a word," she promised.
Payne gave her arm a quick squeeze. "Then let's get back to our tables. They're about to start the drawing."
Jill had always found it a little odd that people who were worth millions and wore dresses with sticker prices like those of cars had to be enticed to charitable benefits with party favors and door prizes. She was perpetually winning things she didn't want, a Bob Macke dress
As engaging as she was in person, Jill took truly horrible pictures. Her friends in the business—Payne, Susannah, and the others—all looked better, more vibrant, on film than in person. Not Jill. The camera captured nothing of her personality. At best, photographs made her look vacantly pretty; more often she looked subnormal.
The photographer thanked Payne and moved off. "I'll probably be labeled an 'unidentified female companion,' " Jill grumbled happily.
"Oh, come on." Payne dropped his elegant pose. "That happened to you once. You've been dining out on that story for three years. You should look on the bright side. At least they knew you were female. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You had just finished lecturing me about how egotistic and self-centered I am becoming and were about to tell me why you were at the old studio on Friday."
So that was what this was about. "How did you know I was there?"
"I saw you. But I was being driven, and you, lowly billionairess that you are, were trudging along on your beauteous gams. Now, what were you doing there? You have to tell me. The thought of all that money walking around unescorted makes me nervous."
"I was just poking around. I found out something odd last week. Apparently my father once took out an option on remaking Weary Hearts, and—"
"Wait a minute." Payne jerked away from the fence. "Say that again."
"My dad took out an option to remake Weary Hearts."
"Your father was thinking about remaking it?"
"I don't know. It's strange. He never talked to any of his people about it, but he renewed the option a couple of times."
"He did?" All the young heartthrob postures had dropped out of Payne's manner. He sat down next to Jill, an intent businessman. His fans would have never believed it of him, but twenty years ago Jill had seen him engineer some shrewd baseball card trades. "Do you have any idea what his plans were?"
"No, none."
"Has anyone been through his papers? Was there anything about it?"
"Not a thing."
With his thumbs pressed to the wings of his cheekbones, Payne rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He was thinking. Then he dropped his hands. "Jill, will you do a favor for me?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Did you speak to anyone at the studio about this?"
Jill thought back on her conversation with Cathy. "No. I did raise it with some of the people who used to work for him... and with Ken and Lynette, and my mother. But not anyone at the studio."
"Will you not say anything to anyone else? At least not until I tell you?"
"Of course, but why?"
"You know I have tremendous respect for your father. My dad always said that in that whole crowd, Cass was the best."
Jill did appreciate him saying that. This was what she was used to, Cass being praised, Cass being spoken of as "the best."
Payne went on. "So if he thought Weary Hearts was worth remaking, then maybe it is."
Jill blinked. She knew that Payne's new company was looking for material, but... "You'd remake Weary Hearts?"
"I can't say that. I've known about this for ninety seconds. But I want to think about it. I'd like to look at the movie again, read that old treatment that guy found, see what's what. And I'd rather not have a hundred other people doing the same thing at the same time."
Jill could understand that. She hadn't much cared for having been half a step behind Doug Ringling all week. "I won't say a word," she promised.
Payne gave her arm a quick squeeze. "Then let's get back to our tables. They're about to start the drawing."
Jill had always found it a little odd that people who were worth millions and wore dresses with sticker prices like those of cars had to be enticed to charitable benefits with party favors and door prizes. She was perpetually winning things she didn't want, a Bob Macke dress
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