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forward to working with you.” He handed her her coat, which she draped over her arm.
    Dione extended her hand and smiled. “Nice meeting you, also.”
    Garrett and Dione stepped out into the corridor and across the hall. “A couple of my crew members are shooting a PSA—a public service announcement—in the main studio.”
    â€œHow many do you have—studios?” she asked as they walked into the control room and stood in the doorway.
    â€œTwo. The second one is down the hall.”
    She watched the three monitors in the control room while the woman on the screen told whoever cared to listen why they should make a donation to the historical society.
    â€œThat’s Najashi,” he whispered not wanting to disturb them, as he pointed to a man in all black with the short twists in his hair. “And that’s Tom on the end working the audio.”
    The first thing she noticed about Tom was the tattoo of a snake that peeked out from the collar of his oversized Tommy Hilfiger shirt.
    â€œCome on, I’ll show you where the real work is done.”
    He took her into the editing room, closed the door and dimmed the lights. Dione’s pulse quickened. Her body and mind went on full alert.
    Garrett didn’t even notice her agitation. Once in the dimly lit editing room, he was in his element, explaining the different machines and lighted dials, what they did and how a program was put together from raw footage.
    â€œSometimes it can take hours just to put five minutes worth of usable footage together. But it’s the key to making the work look good.”
    On the monitors, he showed her some of the projects he’d worked on and what each one was about.
    As she listened to him talk, her tension slowly began to ebb. She could tell that he loved and believed in what he did, and he probably was just as good as he claimed. She had to admit she liked listening to the deep resonance of his voice when he spoke, watching the cool control of his long fingers as he demonstrated how the equipment worked and the way he took his time and answered her myriad questions about what each machine did and how without making her feel silly.
    It was fascinating. And so was Garrett Lawrence.
    â€œThat’s about it for the dog and pony show,” he said switching off the tape and turning to her in the black swivel chair.
    There was that nice smile again.
    â€œVery nice,” she said in her best, I-don’t-impress-easily voice.
    His smile didn’t waver. She’s a tough one.
    â€œHow long do you think our, I mean the documentary project will take to complete?”
    Oh, I heard that one. You’re not as cool as you’d like me to think. “Hmm. If we get started within the next week, hopefully before Christmas.”
    â€œChristmas! But I need—I mean, why will it take so long? The whole point in my agreeing was to…get this over and done with as quickly as possible. I don’t want your filming to interrupt the girls’ holidays.” She’d be damned if she’d tell him that Chances Are was in financial trouble and it needed this documentary to appeal to funders.
    â€œIs interrupting the holidays another no-no that you forgot to mention?” He hated the holiday season. It always reminded him of what he’d never had. So he always made it a point of working right through them. Kept his mind off himself. After so many years he rarely thought of what it meant to others and didn’t care to know.
    Her eyes widened and she was just about to open her mouth when Garrett held up his hand. “Listen, like I said before, the whole process takes time. We both want a great piece of work. Now I can come in and do something half-assed—excuse me, I mean—-no, that’s exactly what I mean.” His eyes narrowed. “Or I can do what I know I can do—a fantastic job that everyone can be proud of. It’s your choice.”
    He