Most everyone in town waited eagerly for Memorial Day, when the seasons clicked forward and the usual three-month frenzy of boaters and fishermen and honeymooners and vacationers invaded. Henley was like a great hibernating bear, dozing through the long winters before coming back to life again at the same time each year.
But as soon as summer rolled around, the population swelled to four or five times its usual size, a stream of tourists once again filling the gift shops and cottages and B&Bs that lined the coast. Through the winter, the full-timers rattled around the empty shops, bundled against the frost coming off the water. The size of the town rose and fell like the tides. It was June, so the crowds that had gathered to watch the men unload the trucks were fairly large. There were places in the world where a movie shoot was nothing more than a nuisance, a bothersome interruption of real life. They were used to filming in locations like Los Angeles and New York, cities where the locals gave them a wide berth, grumbling about the traffic and the disappearance of parking spots, shaking their heads at the huge lights that snuffed out the darkness. And as the people of Henley showed up to watch, even the most jaded members of the film crew couldn't help feeling a slight shiver of anticipation, a low current of electricity that seemed to pulse through the town. There was a sense of magic in the way it appeared as if from nowhere, cropping up so quickly that even those who had been expecting it were taken by surprise. Instead of clowns and cages and tightropes, there were production assistants and trailers and yards upon yards of thick cables. Only instead of elephants and giraffes, there were cameras and microphones. It was not all that different from the circus, and it came to town in much the same way.
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