Souvenirs (12 page)

Grace sighed. She was thirty-five years old, and she didn’t own property, or even a car. Her tax returns showed she was productive, as did the books on her shelf, but she ate alone, and she traveled alone. Slept alone. Meg and Paul were her only friends because no one else could be trusted with her secret. Well, Adam and Nora had, so they counted. And Ben might’ve.

It didn’t matter. She’d not been enough for him.

No more self-pity.

“C’mon, Gracie,” Meg cajoled. “You can sit by the pool and write, we’ll go shopping, and I’ll make sure you eat. You can ride to work with Paul.”

She’d rent a car and buy a GPS. She would be on her own.

“You’ll have more room to spread out as you work, and your mother won’t worry about you,” Meg wheedled. “
I
won’t worry about you.”

Grace capitulated. “You’re right. I’d like the room and to be close to you two. But food is off limits. You’ll have me so fat I’ll have to roll down the hill. I can cook for myself.”

“Great!” Meg bounced on her toes and offered a cookie, ignoring the ‘no feeding the writer rule’ and making Grace feel like she’d given the right answer in obedience training. “Try one, please. It’s a new recipe.”

Chocolate and salted caramel teased her taste buds. Buttery pecans added crunch. “Oh, scrummy,” Grace mumbled around the bite.

“What? Is that bad?”

Grace’s throat closed off. Her lungs tightened. She dropped the cookie to the counter.

“Gracie?”

“Scrummy,” she squeaked. “Scrumptious and y-yum-my at the s-same t-time.”

She wailed the last word as she dropped her head into her hands. “He’s gone, Meghan. He’s
gone
.”

Chapter 12

Ben wondered what came after exhaustion, because he’d passed that in New York. Misery had come during the layover in Chicago when he’d had to sit opposite a gigantic poster for The Field Museum and stare at the T-Rex looming over the passengers. And then the flight had been delayed due to weather over the Rockies, and the L.A. traffic had been nightmarish. They’d barely had time to check into the hotel and change. He was late for his audition.

Behind him, Fe’s heels clicked on the asphalt parking lot and her purse clasp jingled like a tambourine. Noah had shortened his gait to tend to her. Ben opened the door, and they all clattered into the cavernous, almost empty hangar. He was glad to have them as a distraction, but they were slowing him down.

A tall brunette in ridiculous heels strode toward them. She must be the casting director. “Hello, Mr. Oliver?”

“Bennett, please. Marie?”

“Yes. Thank you for coming.” She was already striding away, and he had to rush to catch up.

“I apologize for being late.”

“Couldn’t be helped.” She stopped at a table. “Before we start, you’ll need to sign a confidentiality agreement.”

“For the audition?” Ben asked. What sort of prima donna crew required secrecy on a first meeting? And on their first movie?

“I know it’s unusual,” Marie said, “but I believe you’ll understand in a moment.”

Fe stepped to his side and whispered, “It’s fine, Ben. Noah’s reviewed it.”

He scrawled his name on the proper line and kept moving. If he stood still for long, he’d fall asleep on the spot. Fe and Noah stayed on his heels.

They walked into a smaller room, clearly intended as a break room. The walls and lower ceiling were better for sound. The executives were his age and they were all in casual clothes. They surrounded him in a smiling gaggle, performing introductions and making small talk before they took their seats.

“We’re missing two,” Marie sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

She stepped away and through a back door, returning in seconds. Two shadows stretched behind her. Marie’s clear voice rang through the space.

“We’re lucky to have the author working with us on every aspect of the film, including casting. E.G. Donnelley, I’d like to introduce Bennett Oliver.” She stepped aside.

“It’s a pleasure . . .” E.G. Donnelley’s voice trailed off.

She had freckles under her glasses. Her brown eyes widened.

Grace
?

Idgie.

E.G. This is a joke. This is a bloody unfunny joke.

“Ready?” Marie asked.

“A moment, please,” Ben mumbled as he walked away and straight to Fe. She couldn’t make him do this. Coming to L.A. had been bad enough.
This
was hell.

She dragged him further into the corner. “You listen to me, Nobby. This is an ace role with a blinding script. You’re perfect for this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” She pinned him with a glare. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you scarper and bodge this, I’ll tell everyone within earshot on both continents you lost your bottle. Get it sorted and get on the job.”

Ben scowled at her, but she didn’t flinch. Nodding, he took a deep breath and faced the room.

“We’re ready.” Fiona walked to the table and extended her hand to Grace, who’d claimed a seat. “Fiona Ashe. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Donnelley. Maybe you have something he can read where Weathermore has jet lag?”

Laughter rippled through the room, but Grace didn’t join in. Even as she spoke to Fiona, she didn’t look at him. He was glad.

Fiona returned, and Ben read through the pivotal emotional scene. He rolled the words around in his mouth, getting the flavor of them. Every sentence was art. It was one of the reasons he’d liked this book.

Grace’s book.

He glanced up from the page. She was staring at the file in front of her. He recognized his head shot as she shuffled pages to read his résumé. As if she didn’t know it already.

Fiona elbowed him, and he focused on his job. Putting on the character he’d practiced during happier days, he squared his shoulders and lifted his jaw.

“With whom do I read?” The clipped, aristocratic tone he associated with Lord Weathermore jerked every head in the room to attention, including the writer at the end of the table.

God, but she was beautiful.

One of the producers spoke up. “Grace has been doing them.”

No. Not her.

“Marie can do this one,” she drawled the way she did when she was tired.

Of course she’s tired, y’ git. She’s busy plotting her career path.
Get on the job.

Marie gave him the prompt, and he ran with it. Pacing and prowling the room, Lord Weathermore argued with his lover to either stay with him or take him with her.

On the last line, he spun to the table with coffee service spread across it. One sweep of his hand sent paper cups and sweetener packets flying. The words roared from him. “You are condemning me to half a life, unfeeling witch!”

The room was silent. He faced the panel, pleased to see smiles and nods.
It doesn’t matter. I won’t take it. I won’t play whatever game she’s staging.

Grace was the only person unhappy, or at least not visibly happy. Truthfully, she looked ready to cry. Her perfume coaxed him closer, promising something more imaginary than the words in her script. He was tempted to pull her into his arms and find the nearest door.

He focused on the casting director. “Thank you for the opportunity. I believe you have my agent’s number. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.” It was a lie, but he needed to be a professional. He risked one last look over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Ms. Donnelley.”

He strode out the door and to the rental car, hoping Fe and Noah were behind him. As soon as Noah put the car in gear, Ben’s phone rang. He answered and Archie began rattling off the times and details for an appointment this afternoon in the West End.

“I’m not in London, Arch. See if you can move it to next week.”

Ben’s head spun as more pieces sorted in his brain. Fe never brought him audition news. That was Archie’s job, and he wouldn’t have double-scheduled meetings.

Unless he hadn’t known about this one. Grace must have skipped his agent and sent the invitation to him directly.

This was worse than a tabloid exposé. She’d used him to pitch her bloody movie. She’d probably promised to deliver him in exchange for a production credit. She’d used him for her career.

“Get me on the first plane out of here.”

Fe leaned forward in the back seat. “What about—”

“No.” The taxi was still rolling to a stop in front of the hotel when he opened the door. “I’ll be in the bar.”

As the car slogged through L.A. traffic. Grace sat in the passenger seat, oblivious to the city on the other side of the window as Paul chauffeured her to the hotel.

Bennett Oliver.
A good actor with stellar credits. He was exactly what they were looking for.

I can’t work with him
, whimpered the introverted, sweater wrapped writer on her right shoulder
.

Be a professional
, growled the businesswoman on her left shoulder clad in dominatrix heels, a pencil skirt, and a leather bustier.
He’s perfect. All he’d needed was the costume.

“Do you need help?” Paul asked.

They’d stopped in front of the hotel. The bellman was holding her door.

“I’m just tired and hungry,” she lied. “I’ll be good as new after a few days at home. I’ll call you on Friday with my decision.”

Up in her room, she threw her possessions into her suitcase and zipped it shut. Two weeks ago, she couldn’t wait to get to L.A. and see ‘Ben.’ Well, she’d been here and she’d seen him.

Back in the lobby, the smell of french fries made her stomach growl like a predatory animal. She had enough time to eat.

The hostess led her to a booth with high-backed red leather seats and a monstrous table. Grace sat, balanced her laptop bag against her carryon, and then rested one arm on the pile. Her appetite disappeared. “I’m not feeling well. Just a side salad please.”

The woman walked away, and Grace leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes, replaying the past.
How did I not know?

The table crashed against the wall, jostling and rattling the salt and pepper shakers. She opened her eyes, expecting to see a server sprawled in front of her and her salad in her lap. Instead, she saw Ben slouched in the opposite seat.

“Months of trying to get on the same continent, and we end up in the same hotel,” he sneered.

She searched for a snarky reply to prove he wasn’t killing her. It eluded her. “Why are you so angry with me?”

He flipped his wallet open and thrust a folded piece of newsprint at her. Unfolding it revealed one of the memories she’d been reliving. They’d been on their way to Paris. Across the table, his warm smile had been replaced by a chilling one. His eyes were hard.

“That was on the front page of
The Sun
just after Christmas.”

She’d be sick about it later. “Okay. Well, that sucks. And?”

The question set him off. “You expect me to believe you didn’t give it to them? That you and your mother had no idea who I am? I mean,
my God
, she practically threw you at me while she waited for the perfect shot. And all your writing while we were traveling? I’m surprised there’s not been an exposé of our trip. Is that coming? Is it why you invited me out here?”

Grace sat, stunned into silence.

He continued with a snarl, “And as if one invitation wasn’t enough, you sent me a script to sweeten the pot. An audition my agent knew nothing about. It came directly to my office. Come read for
your
movie. And now,
now,
we’re in the same hotel, in the same bar, sharing a bloody drink like old chums.”

Of all the narcissistic, egomaniacal, haughty—as if she needed him for anything! He threw himself back against the upholstery and smirked.
Self-satisfied jackass
.

It was her turn to twist her face into a sneer as she kept her voice low. “Believe it or not, this
is
a coincidence. The studio books everyone into the same hotel. I came down here for dinner before my flight home.” She motioned toward the untouched salad at the edge of the table.

“I didn’t know you had an office, or an agent,” she added. “For all I
know
you live under a bridge like a troll. I don’t know how we got your name or your credits. They called me to come meet actors, but I have no say over who gets to audition. And we’ve seen more than
you
.

“As for my writing, the screenplay put me behind on the deadline for my next book, and my publisher and
my
agent were leaning on me. They want to time it with the movie release.”

She stopped while the server exchanged the salad for a check. She scrawled her room number on the bottom and hoped they’d charge her. She had precious minutes before she started to cry, and she had to get through this.

“My mother had no idea who you are.” She put her hand up to stop his interruption. “She wouldn’t have kept something like that from me knowing the hell it would play in my life. She certainly wouldn’t have
thrown me at you
.”

Grace gulped back her tears and nodded at the clipping. “Do you really think I’d subject myself to this? Did you pay attention to
anything
about me?”

As she stood, she grasped her bags in one hand and his tumbler in the other. She tossed back the remainder of his whiskey. “
Sod off, Bennett.
”

Keeping her momentum, she walked out of the bar through the lobby to the street and into the first taxi she could find. Slamming the door, she didn’t bother to check if someone else was waiting. “LAX, please.”

Refusing to look out the window, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. This was awful.

Paul and his partners were depending on her series to kick-start the studio. She’d spent weeks learning everything she could, or closeted in her hotel room with paperwork spread across the king-sized bed. She’d wolfed down continental breakfasts while managing social media; spent lunches arguing with her agent about public appearances.

The buzz was building. Bestseller. Blockbuster. Her story. If she wasn’t so exhausted, and so terrified, she’d be grinning from ear to ear.

The heartbreak had nothing to do with it.

Knowing they were on the freeway and safe from Ben’s ugly sneer, she stared out the window and watched the traffic creep by. It wouldn’t matter how much she’d done or how hard she’d worked. She’d be branded a hormonal girl mooning over a boy she couldn’t have.

Everything was in danger because she’d kept a secret.

I know it’s scary,
the writer on her shoulder whispered,
but it’s time to take charge
.

Without giving herself time to second-guess the decision, she called her agent. “Rick? I’ll do a public appearance. It needs to be in the L.A. area, and I want it scheduled far enough out that I can practice.
I’ll
choose the venue.”

No more secrets.

She hung up and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry.

Those three words remained her mantra through the long flight home and until she arrived on her doorstep.

“C’mon up, Idgie,” her mother called from the back deck of the main house.

Flinching at the once-loved nickname, she yelled back, “I’m exhausted. We’ll catch up later.”

Inside, she was confronted with a house full of lies. Pictures from Europe were everywhere, but he wasn’t in them. Her desk still had a spot for her laptop so he wouldn’t see the storyboard covering the wall. Her turquoise chemise hung on the bathroom door. On the bedside table, propped against a lamp was the only picture she had of them together—from Vienna, right before their first kiss.