Today was another ordinary day, devoid of surprises or disappointments. George Wells, a lean figure, emerged from the conference room muttering to himself. As the head of the script review team at Touchstone Films, a subsidiary of Disney, he felt increasingly frustrated. Since taking on the role, he hadn't overseen any significantly impactful films.
To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault. Disney's primary focus remained on animated films; their live-action division had only been established in 1984 and was still trying to catch up with Hollywood's major studios. Despite producing a few decent films over the years like live-action versions of "Splash," "3 Men and a Baby," and "Who Framed Roger Rabbit," their impact remained average.
"Mr. Wells, Miss Myers is waiting for you in your office," his secretary reminded him.
"Nancy? When did she arrive?" George asked, surprised.
"About fifteen minutes ago."
"Well, I hope today brings some surprises, if God is listening to my prayers," George muttered to himself as he hurried towards his office.
Pushing open the door, he found Nancy Myers seated at his desk, absorbed in a book. She looked as professional as ever in her grey suit. Hollywood had many independent producers, but few were women, and even fewer combined producing with screenwriting. Her husband, Charles Sawyer, was a director, and together they had garnered considerable respect in the industry. This year, their film "Father of the Bride," distributed by Touchstone, had done well at the box office. Her visit likely meant she had a promising script she hoped Disney would invest in.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Nancy," George greeted her. He and Nancy, along with her husband Charles, were old acquaintances.
"Not at all, George. Time flies," Nancy closed her book with a smile.
"You make me sound like a buffalo hunter eager for winter," George chuckled, taking his seat, "Got a good script for me?"
"You know, George, you seem as impatient as those Indians hunting buffalo for winter," Nancy shook her head, amused.
"Don't tease me, Nancy. You know my predicament. I pray every day, but apparently God is on vacation," George shrugged helplessly.
"Alright, take a look at this," Nancy handed him a neatly handwritten stack of papers.
"Beautiful handwriting," George admired, taking the papers and reading. Soon, he looked surprised, nodding occasionally and letting out a few chuckles. Finally, he shook his head, smiling, "Quite impressive. It's a romantic comedy told from a young girl's perspective—charming and fresh. Did you write this?"
Then, slapping his forehead, he laughed, "No, wait. Not your handwriting. The scene transitions are also not meticulous enough. Are you mentoring someone new?"
"Well, in a way... Take a look at these," Nancy handed him a few more pages.
George took them, puzzled. The handwriting matched the previous ones. He read aloud, "Dear Miss Myers, I am your loyal fan and have greatly enjoyed your films, whether 'Baby Boom' or 'Father of the Bride,' or even your script for 'Protocol.' These films have brought my family and me joy and warmth. I believe you to be a gracious lady and would love to meet you. Enclosed is a script idea that struck me out of the blue. If you like it, consider making it into a film. If not, please keep it as a gift from a fan. Regards, Catherine Mason."
George scratched his head, waved his hand as if unsure what to say, and after a while looked at Nancy, "So, this script is... from a fan who sent it to you, right?"
"From the literal meaning of the letter, it seems so," Nancy shrugged.
"How interesting! This is the first time I've seen a fan send a script directly to a producer. Doesn't this lady know about the film production process?" George couldn't help but laugh.
"It's not certain," Nancy sighed, handing him the envelope, "Take a look at the address."
George frowned slightly, took it and looked at it. Soon, he showed an expression of disbelief, "128 Brunkert Street?!"
A car slowed down by the roadside, and a man and a woman got out. The woman, in her early forties, wore a gray professional suit, looking very capable. The man, around thirty, though slim, wore a neat suit and looked spirited. They were Nancy Myers and George Wells. George covered his eyes, looked around, and finally his eyes fell on the door of the Mason villa.
"128 Brunkert Street, an upscale residential area," he muttered, then looked at Nancy, "Hey, Nancy, are you sure the lady who sent you the script lives here?"
"My dear George, we've discussed this in your office. I think neither of us has aged to the point of needing glasses," Nancy smiled.
"Well, well, I can almost confirm that this script was just written by some rich girl in her spare time," George shrugged, "Although it's well written, it's still quite surprising."
As they spoke, they reached the door and rang the doorbell. Soon, a female voice came through the intercom, "Hello, this is the Mason residence. May I ask who's calling?"
"Hello, is Miss Catherine Mason at home?" Nancy answered.
There was a moment of hesitation before the voice replied, "Please wait a moment, okay." Then the sound of hurried footsteps running away could be heard. Nancy and George looked at each other in confusion, exchanging helpless shrugs.
Soon, the intercom at the door sounded again with the same female voice, "Please come in, the lady is waiting for you at the door."
"Lady?" Nancy and George exchanged glances again. It seemed that the lady who had sent the script had transformed from a wealthy young lady into a wealthy lady.
With the opening of the door, the two walked through the beautiful garden to the front of the villa. In the middle of the lawn, a marble fountain sparkled in the sunlight, reflecting its crystalline light. It was evident that the owner had exquisite taste. At this moment, a woman of noble temperament was already waiting at the door, extending her hand to greet Nancy.
While admiring the woman's grace, Nancy politely shook hands and said, "Hello, Mrs. Mason. I'm Nancy Myers, an independent film producer."
George also stepped forward to shake hands and said, "Hello, Mrs. Mason. I'm George Wells, head of the script review team at Disney."
Mrs. Mason raised her eyebrows slightly, a hint of surprise flickering in her eyes. However, she quickly concealed her emotions and gestured politely, "Please come in."
After sitting down as guests in the living room, Nancy and George were once again surprised. From the decorations to the layout, everything in the living room showcased the owner's taste. They couldn't help but wonder how someone with such wealth and taste could have the leisure to write scripts. At this moment, Mrs. Mason smiled and asked, "Coffee or tea?"
"Tea, please. Thank you," Nancy said.
"Coffee, thank you," George said.
Mrs. Mason signaled to her maid, who quickly brought a tray with a tall and a short pot and three cups. The tall, spoutless tin pot naturally contained coffee, while the silver, round, stout long-spout teapot contained black tea.
"This is authentic Chinese Lapsang Souchong tea, with a strong pine fragrance, suitable for afternoon tea. My husband and I both like it very much," Mrs. Mason smiled elegantly as she poured tea and coffee for her guests. Then, she added a little milk and sugar to her own cup, sipping it gracefully.
Nancy became increasingly puzzled. Unlike George, her years in film production had given her bright eyes. The layout of this villa and the silver teapot set showed the owner's identity and taste. How could such a person write such lively and romantic words? How could she write such a warm and enthusiastic letter to her?
At this moment, George, who was impatiently setting down his cup, had already started talking, "Mrs. Mason, the script you sent Miss Nancy has been read by us. It's really good, so we decided to invest in this film. I hope to get your consent, but because you are not a professional screenwriter and a newcomer, the price may be lower, around $40,000."
Mrs. Mason raised her eyebrows slightly, seeming a bit puzzled. George quickly explained, "This is customary, madam. $40,000 is already a high price for a novice screenwriter, even with the level of David Kopp."
"Thank you for your explanation, Mr. Wells," Mrs. Mason said calmly. "However, I think we may have misunderstood something."
She smiled slightly, "Let me introduce myself. I'm Susan Mason, chief designer at Phelps Jewelers. Catherine Mason is my daughter!"
Facing the surprised two people, she quickly added, "She's eleven years old this year!"