Chapter 5
5
Sophie
A s soon as I finish reading the final words of the sample chapter in the recording booth, elation fills my chest like an overinflated balloon. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to a win when it comes to acting that I’m almost afraid to remove my headphones for fear the feeling will float away. After months of trying to reclaim the confidence of the woman I left behind in New York, I found it in the most unlikely of places. A place where there are no stage lights, costumes, cast, or crew members to contend with. Instead, the only things in view are a microphone, a deliciously intriguing fantasy novel on my iPhone, and the painfully attractive producer who isn’t a fan of my cat. And by the flat expression he wears now, he doesn’t seem to be much of a fan of me, either.
Despite Chip’s arrangement of today’s demo, it’s clear from the accolades on August’s wall and the variety of instruments stationed at the far end of his studio—not to mention the way I saw Chip defer to him through the viewing window—that his opinion is highly esteemed. Chip’s reaction to my reading may have been an enthusiastic thumbs-up whenever I raised my gaze to the glass, but August’s brows have remained permanently pinched.
Obviously, whatever favor I lost by surprising him with Phantom hasn’t been recovered in the last twelve minutes. I tell myself that this is fine, that his opinion of me doesn’t lessen the breakthrough I experienced while performing today. I tell myself that even if he rejects the idea of me recording in his studio in the future, I can still pursue this in-between dream with the time I have left in California. I tell myself that I am not as lost as I thought I was when I first arrived back in my home state.
And it’s for this reason, more than any other, that I vow to leave this studio with my head held high.
I slip off my headphones, square my shoulders, and then crack the booth’s door open.
One step out into the short hallway, I hear a phone ring.
“Dang. I have to get this. It’s the office.” The voice belongs to Chip. “A deal is going south. Here, take Phantom.”
“What? No ,” August hisses. “I’m not about to—”
“Talk to Sophie until I’m off,” Chip says, his voice growing closer. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
“Chip,” August growls. “Don’t you dare leave me with—”
But then Chip scoots past me, ducking into what looks like an unfinished recording booth directly across the narrow hall from the one I just exited. With his phone pressed to his ear, he gives me another thumbs-up as he begins to converse with whoever’s on the other end of his call.
Nerves gather in my belly at the thought of facing August’s disapproval alone, but then I remind myself that I’m too grateful to be a coward today.
I school my expression into something light and pleasant as I walk the short hallway and prepare to see August again. The studio isn’t large by any stretch of the imagination, but the rectangular building is well laid out. From what I’ve seen, August has two re cording booths, a private restroom, an open lounge area loaded with instruments, and a desk that holds a soundboard filled with more gadgets, knobs, and buttons than I can name.
Even after I see the grimace August wears as he holds Phantom far away from his body, I keep my smile locked on tight.
“I can take him from you, sorry,” I say, relieving him of my cat while doing my best to ignore the current of electricity that skips up my spine when our fingers brush.
I twist away quickly and head to the sofa, where I give Phantom a single reassuring squeeze before tucking him safely inside his backpack. What I wouldn’t give for my own little bubble of safety to crawl inside when I need it most.
From behind me, I hear a throat clear and hope it’s Chip returning from his emergency phone call. I glance over my shoulder. No such luck.
“So, um,” August begins while scratching the back of his head. Golden strands of sun-bleached hair slip through his fingers and sweep the tips of his ears. “About your demo, it was good....” His long, awkward pause has me rotating in full to study him. “I mean, the voices you invented when you were reading were, uh, creative and...”
It would appear that while this guy might have the best beach hair I’ve ever seen on a human being, small talk is not his forte. Nor is acting. The least I can do is put him out of his misery.
“I really appreciate you opening up your studio so I could try something new—and for putting up with my cat.” I give him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry again about the miscommunication on Phantom. You can’t know how much I needed this experience today. So thank you for the opportunity.” I lift the backpack off the sofa and slide my arms through each strap before craning my neck to glance down the hall. Chip is still on the phone, and by the sound of it, he won’t be off any time soon. “I’d be grateful if you would tell Chip the same for me. He has my number if he wants to follow up.”
August’s storm-blue eyes scan my face in earnest. “I don’t think you should leave without talking to him.” August grips the back of his neck and blows out a hearty breath. “He’s better at this kind of thing.”
Better at what kind of thing? I wonder. Unless ... unless August knows something I don’t. Understanding dawns then. Perhaps August is so uncomfortable because he’s afraid to tell me the real reason Chip wants me to stick around. Perhaps August knows Chip doesn’t need to follow up with me because I’m not what he’s looking for after all.
My cheeks prickle with an all-too-familiar heat. If this guy only knew how many times I’ve been booed off stage, cussed out in parking lots, and ripped apart in online reviews, I’m certain he’d speak more freely. I’m well practiced in the art of rejection.
At the thought, a seedling of doubt begins to take root. What if the breakthrough I experienced today while reading is little more than a fluke? A first-timer’s high? Worse, what if I won’t be able to recreate it in another studio for a different publisher?
“Is something ... wrong?” August tilts his head to catch my eye. It’s only then I realize how long I’ve been silently staring at the closed door behind him.
When I shake my head a little too enthusiastically for a trained actress, his eyes narrow.
“No, I’m good, I was just pondering how trying new things can be compared to a ... a sports analogy.”
What am I even saying?
He glances behind him at the door, as if trying to connect the dots. But it’s actually the tiny print of a sports brand on the cuff of his light blue sleeve that did it. “Which analogy is that?”
I rack my brain for literally anything having to do with a sport. “The one about how it’s better to play the game and strike out than to never have played the game at all.” I have no clue where this comes from or if it’s even a real saying, but I do my best to play it off before I edge closer to the exit.
“That’s love.”
My hand freezes partway to the doorknob. “What’s love?”
“The saying goes, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”
My smile slips as his words circle my head with an entirely new meaning. Is that how I feel about theater after losing it the way I did? Would I choose to do it all over again now that I know the outcome of my stage dreams? Before I can form an answer in my head, a rush of honesty escapes me. “I’m not sure if I believe that.”
“I’m not sure if I do, either.”
Neither of us break eye contact for what feels like a thousand heartbeats. Surprisingly, August is the one to speak next. “I don’t really feel qualified to give you feedback, as this isn’t my area of expertise.”
I begin to shake my head, to tell him I don’t require feedback, when he cuts me off.
“I’ve never cared much for fiction, but that—what you did back there—made me want to keep listening.” I watch the way his neck thickens when he swallows. “I’m not sure how you managed to bring those characters to life in just over twelve minutes, but that’s what you did. You made them real, which made the story real. And while I can’t speak for Chip, I think your talent is ... something special.”
My jaw actually unhinges, and it’s all I can do to keep from gawking.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Dumbfounded, I shake my head. “It’s just, is that really what you were thinking while I was in the booth?”
His nod is hesitant, as if I’m trying to stump him with a riddle, but I’m the one who’s stumped at the moment.
“It’s just”—I try to clarify—“your face said something very different.”
“How so?” He scowls.
It takes me half a second to re-create the expression he wore, and to my shock, he has the decency to look ... self-conscious? He runs a hand from his eyebrows to his chin and releases a slow exhale. “Not to play the victim card here, but I have recently been diagnosed with RGF.”
“RGF?”
“Resting Grump Face.”
I press my lips together, refusing the laugh that tries to bubble up my throat at his unexpected confession. “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Is your condition reversible?”
“Only time will tell.”
He drops his gaze to the small space of floor between us, and I note his perfect fan of dark lashes. “My condition tends to worsen the more I concentrate. And today I was concentrating rather hard on the specific tones and layers that make up such a captivating voice.”
When he meets my gaze again, my knees go soft.
“Captivating?” I all but whisper.
He nods.
It’s such a simple response, and yet the significance of it is anything but.
He clears his throat and braces his forearm against the doorjamb. “Like I said, audiobook production isn’t my forte. It’s new for me, too. But artistry isn’t new for me; neither is talent. And you have both.”
Just as my smile melds into something real, Chip rounds the corner, then halts abruptly. We turn our heads, and I watch as he takes the two of us in: August leaning against the doorframe, gazing into my eyes as I peer up at him with a look that likely doesn’t qualify as professional.
August drops his arm and takes an immediate step back. I do the same.
Chip drags an assessing gaze from me to August. “I take it you told her we were impressed with her work?”
August avoids eye contact as he says, “I’ll have the demo ready for you to send off within the hour.”
“Great.” The awkward moment ticks on until Chip crosses the room to shake my hand. “I’ll be in touch soon, Sophie. I think Allie is really going to love what you’ve done with her characters. In the meantime, I’ll work on securing you a studio space to—”
“She can record here,” August says, sparing a glance in my direction. “That is, if she wants to.”
Surprise pebbles my skin, and it takes me a moment to find my voice. “I’d like that, thank you.”
Chip’s expression is one of excitement with an overlay of befuddlement. “Well, great! Then I’ll leave you and August to work out the schedule as soon as I get the green light from Allie. But one thing’s for sure, whether it’s this project or another, I want to get you contracted as a narrator for Fog Harbor Audio, Sophie. No doubt about it.”
The floaty feeling I experienced in August’s studio carried me through the night and into my eight-hour shift at the tasting room the following day. Saturday afternoons are typically the busiest shift of the week, considering we’re closed on Sundays—yet another stipulation of the Bentley trust. Even so, there’s rarely enough work for more than three employees at a time. One to plate the charcuterie boards in the kitchen, one to serve and bus tables, and another to work the tasting bar—a job I’ve yet to be scheduled for even though I grew up memorizing the tasting notes in each of our family wines the way most children memorize their capitals and states.
Along with serving the wine to our guests who pop in for an hour to sit on the patio or wander the property with a glass in hand before they’re off to their next stop, there are also walk-ins who range in number and purpose. Girls day out? Often. First dates? Absolutely. Celebrations for anniversaries, birthdays, graduations, job promotions? Regularly.
Today’s been a mixed bag of all of the above, and I find myself smiling and laughing and engaging in small talk with the patrons more than I have since I arrived. Some might guess my ease with customers comes from my years working in the food industry, but I know today’s mood has less to do with my experience and more to do with ... hope . It’s incredible how a small dose can have such a drastic affect on a person’s outlook, even if their immediate circumstances haven’t changed at all.
I slip my phone from my pocket and review the text thread August initiated this morning. I bite the inside of my check as I anticipate his next message.
August:
Hi, Sophie, this is August Tate. Sounds like Chip got the green light from Allie last night. Are you available to start recording next week? How much prep time do you need?
Hi, August! Yes, Chip sent me the full manuscript this morning. I can’t wait to read it! I plan to do nothing but read tonight and tomorrow. I can be ready as early as Monday, if you are? I’m free most mornings and afternoons. Thanks again for being so accommodating with your studio. I promise to leave Phantom at home during recordings. (Barring a natural disaster.)
August:
Seeing as we’re both Californians, we should probably define “natural disaster”?
You forget I lived in NYC where I survived brutal winter storms and blackout-inducing heat waves. I assure you, Phantom will be happy at home. For your peace of mind, I’ve recently purchased him a white-noise machine to help drown out the construction chaos near our living quarters.
August:
What a relief indeed. I’ll sleep better knowing that. How does Monday at 9 a.m. sound? (Barring any real natural disasters, of course.)
August:
I just opened Chip’s attachment. Did you realize this manuscript is 539 pages? ?? Maybe we should push back the start date a few days?
I discretely type out a cheeky reply.
T wo things you should know about me: 1. I love reading challenges! 2. The only award I ever won in school was for my speed-reading abilities in the third grade, Mrs. Deitz’s class. It came with a gold star-shaped button I pinned to my backpack that read, “I’m a superstar reader!” Unlike my math skills, my reading skills have only improved with time. Monday will be great.
I’m about to slide my phone back into my pocket when it buzzes in my hand.
August:
If you manage to read all 539 pages by Monday morning, you definitely deserve a superstar button. You can add it to Phantom’s backpack. A bright yellow button can only improve his habitat.
I’m still grinning as I wave good-bye to our last customers of the day, a delightful mother-daughter duo on an epic West Coast road trip. I then clear their table in preparation for the catering crew covering tonight’s private event—yet another change since my brother took the reins. From what I’ve gathered, there are only a small handful of staff on the winery’s payroll; the rest are contracted from a local catering agency as needed. I’ve yet to work with the same employee twice.
I’m humming along with the happy tune on the playlist when Natalie walks into the dining area. Like usual, she’s dressed in top-tier designer fashion: a flowy, high-collared jumpsuit and strappy, red-soled heels. Even if I could somehow tally the retail prices of my favorite curated consignment pieces, my eclectic boho selections wouldn’t hold a candle to her sophisticated, tailored wardrobe. I remember nearly choking to death on a coconut-battered shrimp when my mother slipped about the cost of Natalie’s wedding dress during their three-day wedding extravaganza in Maui two summers ago. My brother had spared no expense when it came to the big event—except, of course, when it came to my plane ticket from NYC. If not for my mother’s unexpected deposit in my money app, my brother’s fancy nuptials would have cost me more than six months in tip savings.
I assume Natalie’s purpose for stopping by ranks higher than my need-to-know status, so I’m more than a little surprised when she beckons me to follow her into the butler’s pantry behind the wine counter. Perhaps if I wasn’t riding so high on endorphins, I would be more alarmed by her assertiveness, but I’m too curious to be cautious. This is the most interaction the two of us have had since she went over the rules of my temporary employment.
Once we’re tucked into the pantry next to shelves of catering supplies and stemware, Natalie sheds the outer layer of her aloof shell and speaks to me directly. “Is there any chance you can work another shift this evening? One of my regulars called in sick. I can double your hourly wage and offer you a fair split of the tips at the end of the night.”
Given my debt-to-income ratio at the moment, I’m hardly in a position to turn her down, but oddly enough, I’m not thinking about my overdue bills when I agree. “Sure, I can help.” My plans to start Allie Spencer’s romantasy novel will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m definitely gonna put my elementary school button to the test. “Where would you like me?”
Before she answers, I note the flicker of relief that crosses her features. “Mason and Brianne will tag-team food prep and plating in the kitchen, and Christina prefers to work the floor, so I’d like you stationed at the wine bar. Is that alright with you?”
I employ my best acting skills and nod as if she isn’t going against my brother’s wishes to have me front and center. “That’s no problem at all.” I study the way she’s styled her dark hair into a slicked-back twist that makes every feature of her face all the more striking. I was thirteen when my brother brought Natalie home for the first time his senior year of high school, and I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. My opinion hasn’t changed. Unfortunately, her outside appearance and her choice in men are the majority of what I know about my sister-in-law, even after all these years.
“ What’s the event?” I ask.
“It’s a VIP networking social for some of Jasper’s business associates.”
My stomach dips as I realize what this means: My brother will be in attendance. We might be able to avoid each other due to the size of the winery, but the tasting room was designed to be intimate—with richly textured walls and an open floor plan, barring the large wine cellar below the stairs. I push the unwelcome fact from my mind and recall, instead, the only exception I’d requested from Natalie the day she became my official supervisor. “I’m happy to do any task you assign in order to fill my hours,but I’d like to request that any job involving the wine cellar go to someone else .” She didn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions; everybody in my family would know the reason, even if some refused to acknowledge it. Still, she’d simply bobbed her chin and said, “ We can work around it .”
“Tonight’s patrons are,” Natalie begins with obvious hesitation, “important to your brother and to the winery. We do our best to accommodate any requests from our guests.”
The statement is odd, but I suppose there’s little about this pantry conversation that isn’t. I can only hope Jasper will be too busy schmoozing with his carbon-copy friends to notice me behind the bar.
Before I can ask anything else, we hear voices, and soon Natalie is instructing the per diem employees—Mason, Brianne, and Christina—about the evening. It’s obvious by their familiarity with one another and with Natalie that this is not their first time working a private event. I have just enough time to grab a quick snack in the kitchen, refill my water bottle, and check my phone—no new texts—before returning to the tasting room and setting up for a night behind the counter.
Over the next three hours, a couple dozen men wearing different versions of the same designer suit fill the tasting room. Thankfully, the steady stream of wine orders is enough to keep me on my toes but not enough to completely overwhelm me. Staying busy is a good buffer between me and my brother. Jasper is in full public m ode tonight: mingling, joking, smiling, and of course, charming and wowing his captive audience with his brilliance.
I’m uncorking a vintage bottle of our reserve Sauvignon Blanc when a clean-shaven man I served early on in the evening approaches the counter. He unbuttons his suit coat at the waist and casually leans an elbow on the bar top. Between his carefully groomed hair, smooth, easygoing grin, and over-confident demeanor, I know his type well. And it’s far from the type of man I want to engage with. Almost immediately, I see someone else in my mind’s eye. A man with striking blue eyes and a rough-around-the-edges personality. Or maybe that’s not quite a fair assessment of August. He invited me back to his studio, after all, and his texts have been surprisingly personable. And fun.
“Good evening, again,” coos the gentleman, resembling the majority of my brother’s acquaintances from Stanford. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of Pellegrino back there, would you?”
“You’re in luck,” I say amenably as I turn away to retrieve the chilled glass bottle. “Would you like that over ice?”
“You read my mind.”
I twist and pour and place the short glass on a cocktail napkin for him, but instead of reaching for the drink he’s requested, he holds out a hand to me. I don’t miss the way his sleeve inches back to reveal his designer watch. It’s the same brand my father wears. My brother, as well. “I’m Clinton Owens.” He flashes a grin I’m sure any orthodontist would proudly hang on their wall and shakes my hand. “And you are Miss Sophie Wilder, the younger and, dare I say, most intriguing Wilder of the bunch to date.” Though his voice registers low on my creep radar, his boldness is unnerving. I’m not wearing a name badge, so I’m not exactly sure how—
He unclasps my hand but keeps his eyes trained on me. “Forgive me. I couldn’t help myself.” He winks. “Your brother gave up your identity when I complimented the spot-on wine pairings you recommended to me at the beginning of the night. Good taste must run in your bloodline, although I’m curious as to why you’re back here and not out there.” He tips his head to the patio, where the majority o f the VIPs have migrated. It’s only then I realize how few people remain in the dining area. Three, no four, men occupy a corner table. All on their third or fourth round of something or other.
It’s then I pull out my bag of tricks and aim to play the part of a woman with far more confidence than I possess naturally. It’s always been easier to assume the identity of a character I create than play myself, especially while in proximity to my family. “I’m afraid my good taste doesn’t count for much outside the realm of wine pairings. You should know I’ve been known to indulge in pickle-flavored ice cream when the mood strikes.” I shrug to say, See, this is why you shouldn’t be impressed and wait for him to pull a sour face. But the expression he pulls is not sour at all.
“A bit of a daredevil, then? I like to walk on the wild side myself. I didn’t become a stockbroker for nothing.” He scans my face in a way that feels too familiar. “Without risk, there’s no reward.” He lifts his glass as if to make a toast, then sets it down when I don’t follow suit, as I have no beverage. Or interest, for that matter. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but considering you’re the one pouring them tonight, it’s hardly an enticing offer.”
He’s good, I’ll give him that. “I don’t drink while on shift, but thank you anyway.” I smile politely and reach for the damp rag I keep under the counter. Nothing needs cleaning at the moment, but I could use something to do with my hands. “May I get you anything else? Another Chardonnay or a—”
He rotates toward me fully. “I’m still waiting to hear the reason you’re stuck working behind that counter tonight.”
If my pulse were a color, it would be a flashing yellow light.
“I don’t care much for crowds.” It’s a blatant lie, but one the character I’ve created believes wholeheartedly. And by his studious nod, Clinton buys it.
He plants an elbow on the custom bar top and stares into my eyes. “How about a private tour, then?” A subtle eyebrow raise followed by a once-over assessment. “I’ve been waiting—not so patiently, I might add—to see your brother’s art collection in the cellar.” He rocks in closer until the arms of his suit coat pull taut.
A t the mention of the cellar, something inside me begins to quake, and it takes every ounce of my acting skills to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Owens, but I’m afraid I know nothing about my brother’s collection and even less about art. You’d be much better off asking him for a tour.”
“No offense to your brother, but he’s not my type.” Clinton gives me yet another wink. “However, I’d be up for negotiating a trade. If you escort me to the cellar, then I’d be happy to give you a lesson in fine art. I keep a few of my favorite pieces aboard my yacht in the bay.” His voice drops to a suggestive whisper. “You’d be welcome anytime.”
Just as I open my mouth to refuse him, my gaze collides with something else. Or rather, on someone else. My brother. The overseer of my future. He’s eyeing me expectantly as if he’s somehow heard every word of this conversation. Natalie’s instructions at the beginning of the VIP event boomerang back to my ears in full surround sound: “ We do our best to accommodate any requests from our guests .”
I ball my trembling hands into fists under the counter and fight against the way my vision collapses in on itself. I can’t act my way out of this one. And I also know I cannot go down to that cellar. No matter what.
“Come on, Sophie.” Clinton eyes me with a level of presumption that twists my stomach. “I’m sure your brother won’t mind if you step away for a few minutes.”
“I’m–”
“Actually, Mr. Owens, I’m afraid Sophie has a previous engagement to get to tonight, but I’d be happy to give you a tour of the cellar and answer any questions you may have regarding Jasper’s collection.” Natalie turns to me and makes a show of checking her tiny gold wristwatch encrusted with diamonds. “You’d better be on your way. Thanks for stepping in tonight.”
Though I have no clue what prompted her fabricated tale or her willingness to stick her neck out for me, when she gestures to Mr. Owens to follow her, he does. Albeit with more than a little r eluctance. “It was nice to meet you, Sophie. I hope our paths cross again someday.”
I want to tell him I hope the opposite, but instead, I check the corner of the room where my brother was only moments ago. He’s gone, and I have a strong feeling Natalie timed her intervention accordingly. But why? I don’t know.
I also don’t wait around to find out.