February 1969 arrived in Los Angeles with a warm air.
Duke was sitting in his office in LA and he was staring at the telephone as if it were a bomb.
The Academy Award nominations were being announced.
In the original timeline, Love Story wouldn't hit theaters until 1970, starring Ryan O'Neal and Ali MacGraw. It would be a phenomenon, saving Paramount from bankruptcy.
But Duke had accelerated the timeline.
He had taken Erich Segal's tear-jerker script, and casted two unknowns who brought a raw intensity to the screen, Harrison Ford and Blythe Danner.
The phone rang. It was a heavy, persistent ring.
Duke picked it up. "Hello?"
"DUKE! YOU MAGNIFICENT SON OF A BITCH!"
The voice on the other end was unmistakable. It was Joseph E. Levine, the mogul behind Embassy Pictures.
"Joe," Duke said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I take it the news is good?"
"Good? It's not good, Duke. It's a sweep!" Levine was practically hyperventilating. "I just got off the horn with the Academy press office. You're in. You're all the way in."
Levine took a breath, then rattled them off like a carnival barker listing the wonders of the world.
"Best Picture! Best Actor for the kid, Ford! Best Actress for Danner! And you... are you sitting down?"
"I'm sitting, Joe."
"Best Director. Best Original Screenplay. And get this—Best Original Score. The hat trick, Duke! You wrote it, you directed it, you wrote the damn music! They love you!"
Duke leaned back in his chair, feeling a rush of genuine adrenaline. He had known the movie was a hit, the box office lines around the block had told him that.
He knew the Golden Globes loved it, they had won Best Drama last month.
But the Academy? The Academy was the establisment. They usually hated young people who got succesful fast.
"Harrison got a nod?" Duke asked. "That's the one I was worried about."
"They love him!" Levine shouted. "They're calling him the new Bogart. A brooding, angry intellectual."
"And Blythe?"
"She's great, less than Harrison but she's classicaly trained and the academy loves that. You made them stars, Duke overnight."
Duke looked at the poster on his wall. It was a simple shot of Harrison Ford and Blythe Danner walking through a snowy Central Park, heads bowed together.
"We need to ramp up the ads, Joe," Duke said, switching instantly into strategy mode.
"Now that we have the noms, we need to make sure we don't peak too early. Oliver! is the competition. It's a big musical and voters love musicals."
"Screw Oliver!," Levine barked. "Who cares about orphans? We got romance! I'm going to put an ad in Variety every day until the ceremony. 'Love means never having to say you're sorry'."
"Don't overdo things, Joe. Keep it classy. Remember, we're the 'Art' choice."
"I'll be as classy as I can dont worry," Levine promised.
Duke hung up the phone and sat in the quiet of his office.
He walked over to the piano in the corner. He played a few notes of the main theme, a simple, haunting melody in A minor that he had "borrowed" from Francis Lai's future composition.
He thought about the production. It had been a gamble.
Duke looked at the three categories on his notebook.
Best Director
Best Original Screenplay
Best Original Score
He was going to the Oscars. And he wasn't just going as a guest. He was going as one of the men to beat.
He picked up the phone again. He needed to call Harrison.
"Harrison?" Duke said when the voice grunted on the other end.
"Yeah?" Ford sounded tired.
"Put down the hammer. You just got nominated for Best Actor."
There was a long silence on the line.
"You're joking," Ford said, his voice flat.
"I never joke about awards. You're a movie star now, Harry. Get used to it and put down the hammer."
"I... I'm not working right now," Ford stammered.
"Finish your thing, i'll call you later" Duke laughed.
Duke hung up. He walked to the window and looked out at the Hollywood Hills.
The sun was shining. He had Butch Cassidy in post-production, Midnight Cowboy about to scandalize the nation, Pong being built in a garage, and now, Love Story succeding at the Academy Awards.
He was juggling fire, and so far, he hadn't been burned.
"February," Duke whispered to himself. "What a month."
---
Duke sat across from Blythe Danner at a italian restaurant.
In the flickering light, she looked less like the tragic Jenny Cavalleri and more like the beauty she was.
She wore a simple black turtleneck that accentuated her neck and eyes. She was swirling a glass of Chianti, looking at Duke with amusement.
"You're entirely too calm," Blythe said, "We are going into the lion's den in two months, and you're eating ravioli like it's a tuesday."
"It is a tuesday," Duke pointed out, spearing a piece of pasta. "And the ravioli is great."
"Duke," she said, leaning forward. "Have you seen the list? I'm serious. Look at who I'm up against."
She began counting on her fingers, her nails painted a pale, frosted pink.
"Katharine Hepburn for The Lion in Winter."
"She's great," Duke admitted. "But she's the past, Blythe. You're the new."
"Barbra Streisand," Blythe continued, ignoring him. "For Funny Girl. Have you heard her sing?"
"Barbra is... loud, nobody likes her." Duke countered. "The Academy respects newcomers that went through a theater time."
Blythe blushed as took a quick sip of wine.
"Then there's Joanne Woodward for Rachel, Rachel. And Vanessa Redgrave is around with Isadora. It's too much, Duke."
Duke reached across the table and gently took her hand. Her skin was cool, her pulse racing slightly.
"You aren't some random girl either, Blythe. You're part of the biggest movie of the year."
He squeezed her hand.
"Hepburn is brilliant and Streisand is funny. But you were great and we can only hope for the best."
Blythe looked at him, searching his face. "You really believe that, don't you? You're always so certain about things."
"I have to," Duke smiled. "If I didn't, I'd be hiding around like Harrison."
Blythe threw her head back and laughed, a bright sound that made a few heads turn nearby.
"Oh, god. Harrison," she giggled. "I called him yesterday. He's hiding in his workshop. He told me he's thinking of not going to the ceremony since he doesn't own a tuxedo."
"I'll buy him a tux," Duke said. "I'll buy him ten. If he doesn't show up, I'll drag him. He's up for Best Actor against Peter O'Toole, Alan Arkin and Ron Moody. He has to be there."
"O'Toole is incredible in Lion," Blythe mused, turning serious again. "And Ron Moody... Oliver! is amazing, Duke. Everyone is humming those songs."
Duke nodded, his expression darkening slightly.
He knew the history.
In the original timeline, Oliver! the bloated, cheerful musical about Victorian poverty had swept the awards.
"Oliver! is a good show," Duke said carefully. "It's big. It's colorful. Carol Reed directed the hell out of it."
He took a sip of his wine.
"Love Story is amazing too, but our movie hurts. And sometimes, the Academy wants to award movies that hurt."
"And 2001?" Blythe asked. "Did you see Kubrick got snubbed for Best Picture? That seems... crazy to even consider."
Duke's eyes lit up. "It is. It's the best movie this year by far. Fifty years from now, nobody will be watching Oliver!, but they'll still be talking about 2001."
"So where do we fit?" Blythe asked softly. "Between the orphans and the epics?"
"We're hanging there," Duke said. "We're the biggest romance movie of the 60s. Let's hope at least we get 1 award."
Blythe smiled, a soft, melancholy smile that reminded Duke why he had cast her. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel like the only person in the room.
"You wrote a beautiful script, Duke," she said quietly. "Even if we lose. Even if Hepburn and Streisand tie for the win which would be just my luck, I'm glad I did this film."
Duke froze. He stared at her.
"What?" she asked, noticing his expression.
"You said... tie for the win."
"Yeah. It could happen, right? Mathematically?"
Duke chuckled, shaking his head. It really was a bizarre moment of accidental prophecy.
In the original timeline, Hepburn and Streisand did tie. It was the only tie for Best Actress in history.
"If there's a tie," Duke said, raising his glass, "I'm buying you dinner."
"Deal." She clinked her glass against his.
The waiter arrived to clear the plates, sensing the shift in the conversation.
"Would you like dessert?" the waiter asked. "The tiramisu is fresh."
"We'll take two," Duke said.
"Duke," Blythe warned, "I have to fit into a gown in eight weeks."
"You'll fit," Duke said, signaling for the check. "Besides, you need the energy. Tomorrow, we start the interview circuit. Life Magazine wants a cover story."
Blythe groaned, but she was smiling. She reached across the table and took his hand again, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what? The pasta?"
"For coming to see me," she said.
"The pleasure is mine, Blythe," Duke said softly.
---
This wont last long