Chapter 2 Harper
Home is where the stories are.
Harper Rayne circled her mom’s favorite phrase twice on the lined pages of her Delve leather notebook, a gift from her mother before she passed away.
While Harper didn’t have much in the way of a home, she had a whirlpool of ideas swirling in her head, ready to spill themselves onto paper. Words, she’d discovered, needed to soak in the richness of ink before being transferred onto a computer and ultimately a movie screen.
Below her bench, the Pacific curled and thrashed against a cliff, every wave scrubbing sand along the California coast, sweeping away debris. The pounding roar and salty breeze kept rhythm for her pen, each empty line in her notebook begging to be filled.
Miles. That was her hero’s name. And the bit about home and stories seemed like the right thing for him to say as he neared the end of his walk across the United States.
It would be a nostalgic film, she’d tell any producer willing to listen.
Quirky and raw, heartwarming and funny as Miles traced his roots and reconnected with family.
At least, that’s how she saw the storyline in her mind.
The working out of this script had proven more difficult than the imagining, particularly in trying to figure out how to finish Miles’s long journey.
She simply didn’t have a conclusion, and the ending of a movie mattered even more than the beginning.
Those final moments had to surprise and satisfy everyone in the audience. Impress and inspire them.
If done right, a spectacular ending could linger in one’s mind for a lifetime.
She chewed on the end of her pen, waiting for the elusive ending to make itself known.
“Harper!”
Turning, she saw Kelsey Cantor teetering down the sandy cliffside in strappy, red heels.
Both gorgeous and talented, the woman was a magnet for fans and paparazzi alike.
She couldn’t even step out of her home in L.A.
’s Sierra Towers without someone snapping a photo or begging for an autograph.
It’s why Kelsey spent so much time at her mom’s ranch in Idaho or here at her dad’s estate just north of Santa Barbara, the hundred-acre property protected by a fence, locked gate, and round-the-clock security.
Kelsey had starred in a movie with her mother—actress Clella Vinton— when she was fourteen.
Won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress, then she swore off acting for the rest of her life.
Harper should probably hate her, but the only daughter of Clella Vinton and Evan Cantor, the famed director of more than twenty feature films, was her very best friend.
Harper pointed at the red spikes on Kelsey’s sandals. “You’re going to break those.”
“Probably.” Kelsey wrapped her arms across her lacy, cropped top. Cute, casual, and completely irresistible. “If I do, it’s going to be all your fault.”
“How could that possibly be my fault?” Harper tapped her pen, still waiting for Miles to say something witty. “I’m minding my own business down here, hoping your dad will actually like this story. Maybe it will become his next blockbuster.”
“I’m all for blockbusters, Harper, but right now my dad doesn’t need another screenplay. He needs a caterer.”
“A caterer . . .” She dropped her pen. “But dinner doesn’t start until seven.”
She’d timed out everything in her head.
“Six actually.” Kelsey offered her hand. “Guests will start arriving in less than an hour.”
Harper grabbed Kelsey’s hand, hopping to her feet. “Evan is going to kill me.”
“Yep.” Kelsey grinned. “You should see him. All hot and bothered and talking trash.”
“Great.” That was hardly motivation to return to the main house.
“He wants to impress his new girlfriend tonight.”
Ever since his divorce, Evan the Great—their secret nickname for him—rotated girlfriends like chickens on a rotisserie.
The Cantor estate was supposed to be a respite, of sorts, from the partying down south, but Evan played by his own rules.
And no matter how poorly he treated women, he was never at a loss for a date. “Most women are in awe of him.”
“I guess this one needs a little more incentive. She’s been out recently with a whole round of A-listers.”
“Maybe she’ll stick with him for a few months.”
“I doubt it,” Kelsey said. “Marlo is just another piece of eye candy.”
Harper shoved her pen and notebook into her backpack. “How did you turn out so—I don’t know—normal?”
Along with being rich, beautiful, and Mensa-smart. It was unfair, really. If only she’d been standing next to Kelsey when all those worlds collided.
“I know how to pick my friends.”
Harper laughed. “If you’re referring to me, I’m hardly normal.”
“True, but you keep me grounded.”
The women rushed up the path between patches of sage scrub and jagged shoulders of stone.
The Cantor mansion stood above them, a half-timbered marvel of plaster and beams. Like it had squirreled itself away on a German pirate’s ship many centuries past and collided with the cliff on the obligatory dark and stormy night.
Shipwrecked, of course. All fifteen thousand square feet.
Feet. The strangest measurement of success, Harper thought, but it seemed everyone in Hollywood circles wanted to know how many feet a person owned and if those feet were located behind exclusively locked gates. The Cantor mansion alone overlooked a thousand-foot span of sea.
She didn’t own much, but on sunny days like this, she flaunted her two feet, painting her nails and padding shoeless around the estate’s grounds. Who needed thousands upon thousands of feet squared when they had an entire coast to explore?
Warm sand poured over her toes as she took another step. “I’m here to humor you, Kelsey.”
“And you do it well,” she said. “Dad’s rat pack is on their way, and you’re infatuated by your own script.”
“I was caught up in the story!”
“Impress Dad with dinner first and then maybe you can hand it over.”
“Your dad barely knows I exist.” Even though she’d lived on his estate for fifteen of her twenty-three years, even though she’d helped with catering on several of his movies and taken over the official role of housekeeper after her mom passed away, Evan preferred communicating with her through his personal assistant.
Nine months ago, she’d applied to work on the production team of his next movie. Four years of film school behind her and not even the courtesy of a rejection.
The two screenplays she’d given Evan had been ignored.
Not that he’d actually make a movie from her work, but feedback was what she craved most. To become the kind of writer who would attract his attention.
Instead of seeking out a producer or director on her own, she wanted to write a script that he might recommend.
If not, she was one in a million with a script that would never be found.
Kelsey glanced at her. “My dad is quite aware of your existence at the moment.”
“Only because I’m late.” And, admittedly, rotten at the job her mom once thrived in. Harper kept things running well enough while the Cantor family was away, but these elaborate events with their many Evan-peculiar details overwhelmed her.
On days like this, she wanted to escape into the safety of her latest story, but her imaginary world didn’t provide a job or housing.
Without taking over her mother’s prior role, she’d never be able to afford living in SoCal.
Even at twenty-three, with her mom gone, Harper still wanted to make her proud.
The women circled the estate’s swimming pool, its underwater tiles shaped like the sea creature that made Evan the Great famous, then they stepped onto a flagstone patio with cozy couches and fire features that remained dormant.
In the cooler months, the patio would be ablaze with gaslit tables, pits, and bowls.
Ahead, inside the lanai, were two round tables dressed in white, perfectly positioned under a gothic chandelier.
Dirk, the family’s chef, was overseeing the food prep, and Evan’s personal assistant, a middle-aged woman named Wendi, doubled as event planner.
It was Harper’s job to set all sixteen places in record time, then manage the hired catering staff as they served guests.
Kelsey stared down at Harper’s feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“I left them in the shack.”
“Oh, Harper.” Kelsey sighed as if she’d lost all hope. “You’ll have to borrow a pair of mine.”
“I have time to grab my own shoes.” The tiny house that she and Kelsey had deemed shack was less than three minutes away, beyond a citrus garden and grove of palms. She never called it home as it seriously lacked any good stories.
Kelsey shook her head. “If you’re a minute later, Evan is going to fire you.”
“Do you think he’d really—”
“Harper!”
“Your shoes are too big for me.”
“Beggars aren’t allowed to be choosy.”
“I’m not begging,” Harper said. “Besides, you always wear heels.”
Kelsey rolled her eyes. “I own plenty of flat-ish wear.”
“Right,” Harper quipped as they stepped into the lanai. “I still don’t want to—”
“Thank God.” Wendi rushed through a pair of French doors, both fists implanted in her slender sides. She wore a simple black dress and white apron. The epitome of perfection, no matter what role she played. “Dirk needs you in the kitchen pronto.”
“Tennis shoes,” Harper called before Kelsey disappeared through the doors. Then she turned to Evan’s assistant. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“What happened?” Wendi asked as they rounded the corner, stopping beside a door that Harper had named secret. Never the servant’s entrance.
“I was trapped inside a story.”
Wendi groaned. “You’ll have to come up with a better excuse for Mr. Cantor.”
“If anyone appreciates a good story, it’s him.”
“He’s not going to appreciate it tonight.”