The island sits in the middle of the lake, a black smudge on the horizon. Although I can see it when the car pulls up to the dock, its details remain elusive, out of reach. Less an island than the suggestion of one.

It doesn’t help that I don’t know the island’s name. Or its size. Or even what awaits me there. The only concrete knowledge I have about the place is that it will be my home for the next five days.

Loretta is waiting for me on the dock, her ensemble as dark as the distant island behind her. Black slacks. Black blazer. Black Wayfarers. Her presence is unexpected. One, she’s the producer and, presumably, has better things to do. Two, I didn’t even know she was going to be here. And, three, I was supposed to be dropped off an hour ago.

Even though the delay was caused by a snarl of traffic near Albany and my driver’s fickle GPS, it’s never good to be late for your first day on the job. Especially one like this. That’s why I spring from the car before it comes to a complete stop, apologies at the ready.

“I’m so sorry! You wouldn’t believe the number of cars on the road at this hour.”

The corners of Loretta’s mouth twitch into a smile that might be sincere or might exist solely to mask her annoyance. “It’s totally fine,” she says. “I’m just thrilled you’re finally here.”

She pulls me into a half hug, finishing with air‑kisses to both cheeks. An act that surprised me the first time she did it. I’d always thought that was a Hollywood cliché. And maybe it is. Maybe Loretta Zeverin herself is the cliché, acting the role of high-powered producer because she thinks it’ll help her further climb the ladder.

Fake it till you make it.

Something I have yet to master.