Magnolia May

Chapter 1

Magnolia Calhoun

Submission for Graham Barrett Workshop

I know my mama loved me, but that didn’t stop her from naming me after a tree. For nine blessed months, I went nameless.

“Then it was like you came right out and introduced yourself,” my Aunt Zilpha once told me.

Hi, Mama. I’m Magnolia May Calhoun. Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Hardly.

I spent most of my childhood convinced I was some kind of alien baby, born with abnormally long limbs and leaf-like hair. My twin brother Ben—just Ben, not Benjamin or Bentley or Benihana—may be responsible for that theory.

Just Ben had the good fortune of being named after our father, a process server sent to the Calhoun Sisters Hill Country Bed and Breakfast looking for Mama. Turns out, he served her a little more than a subpoena that day.

After ending her six-year dry spell, which I know more about than I care to admit, Ben Sr. set off down the road, never to be heard from again. Nine months later, my brother was born, and I arrived seven minutes after that.

The Calhoun Sisters became the Calhoun Family, and for fifteen wonderful years, our happy foursome ran the farmhouse B&B in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. But the following year, four became three when we lost Mama to a diabetic stroke.

That’s the only time I ever remember crying. Ben didn’t cry at all. And Aunt Z? She cried for six months straight until a knock came at our door that made her stop.

“Hey, Mags, you seen my boots?” My brother’s voice crashes through the kitchen like a braying mule.

“Jeez, Ben! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” I glance at the window. “It’s still dark outside. Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. What are you working on?” He catches my wrist before I can close my laptop. “New romance?”

I appreciate that he said new when what he meant was another.

“Biographical essay. Don’t judge. I just started it.”

“About who?”

“About—ugh. Autobiographical essay.” I smack him on the arm. “No grammar policing until the sun’s up. And it’s whom, genius.”

“Whatever. No one says that.” He leans over my shoulder, all six-foot-two of him, smelling like a dryer sheet. “For the record, you thought you were an alien baby because I convinced you that the empty barrel in the barn was your spaceship.”

“I remember no such thing.” I stifle a smile. “Your boots are on the front porch airing out. What the heck did you step in?”

“Probably cow shit,” he says. “Over at Mrs. Perkins’s place. She’s having trouble with her gate again.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two were up to something.”

“Ew, Mags. First of all, Mrs. Perkins is a sweet little old lady, and second, she’s a lady.”

“And third, she’s not Zach-ar-y,” I say, each syllable deepening the blush in Ben’s cheeks. “How’s that going, by the way?”

Zachary is Ben’s—actually, I don’t know what he is. I’d say crush, but the feeling appears to be mutual. My brother is head over heels, and while I’m positive Zack feels the same way, he’s hesitant.

“Let’s just say…his closet’s getting a bit cramped.” Ben grabs my empty coffee mug and carries it to the kitchen. “So, why the essay?”

“Graham Barrett’s hosting a writing workshop at his Katy ranch. Entry is a one-page autobiographical essay, and he’s only picking ten.”

To say Graham Barrett’s my favorite author is an understatement. I kind of idolize him. Okay, not kind of. I do idolize him. I’ve read his books so many times I can quote them. To be able to study under him? I’d sell my soul for that chance.

“Oh, shit, that reminds me.” Ben sets my cup on the counter. “I’m sure you’re aware of this, but I snagged a copy just in case.”

I turn in my chair. “Aware of what?”

He pulls a folded flyer from his wallet and hands it over. “I thought you said they were filming that Barrett movie in Houston.”

“They are.”

“Not according to that.” He nods at the page in my hand. “Or at least not all of it.”

My breath catches as I scan the flyer.

“Oh my gosh, Ben. Where did you get this?”

“There’s a stack of them by the register at the filling station,” he says, powering on the coffee machine. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. Don’t you get Graham Barrett Google Alerts?”

“Yes, I get Graham Barrett Google Alerts, and the last one I saw said he was on set in Houston.” My pulse scrambles. “Which means he’ll probably be on set here too. The set that’s right down the road from us.”

The scent of fresh coffee fills the kitchen as I stare at the flyer, a plan beginning to take shape. Ben sets a steaming cup in front of me, and my gaze jumps to his. “Graham Barrett will be right down the road from us!”

“Whoa, slow down,” he says. “I know how much you want to see him, but I’ve been to movie sets with Zack. You’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of the stars, let alone the writers.”

“You’ve been to one movie set with Zack, and it was a next-to-no-budget indie film he interned on, one that arguably didn’t have writers.” I pick up my mug. “And Barrett’s not technically a writer. According to the alerts, he’s more of a hoverer.”

Ben laughs over the gurgle of the coffee maker as he brews a second cup. “I bet the cast and crew are loving that.”

“Can you blame him? Yesterday’s Son is his baby, and let’s face it, Hollywood tends to butcher just about every book it options. If it were one of mine, they’d have to lock me up to keep me away.”

Ben snorts. “Don’t think you have to worry about that anytime soon.”

I know he’s teasing, but it’s true. I’ve written three books and published zero, and until someone like Graham Barrett gives me their stamp of approval, I don’t see that changing.

Which is why I need to win.

“If I get into his class, it might be sooner than you think. Ben, we have to do this. They need dancers. We’d be shoo-ins!”

He whirls around, hot coffee sloshing onto his fingers. “Wait, what? You want to go to the casting call? It’s tomorrow.”

“Why not? You said it yourself. The chances of meeting Barrett from the sidelines are slim to none. But if we were extras…”

I could get in front of him. Charm him. Submit my essay in person.

“There’s no we in this scenario, Mags. I have class.”

“Class? That’s your excuse?” I tap a chipped blue nail on the table, my gaze returning to the flyer. “Hey, wasn’t Holden Shaw the guy you made me watch in that movie last year because you said, and I quote, ‘You gotta see that fine ass in a wetsuit?’”

“A year is a long time in the life of a young man,” Ben says. “I’m not into surfers anymore. Sorry.”

“He’s a surfer? Like, in real life?” I make a face.

“Hang on. Do you think that because Holden Shaw surfs in his free time, he’s not qualified to play a bull rider?”

I shrug. Yeah, kind of.

I don’t bother pointing out that blonde-haired, blue-eyed Katie Evans is being played by dark-haired, brown-eyed Brazilian bombshell Gabrielle Martin, and I’m totally cool with it. That girl could play Abe Lincoln and I’d still be down.

“Surfing’s a lot harder than bull riding if you don’t actually have to get on a bull,” Ben says. “Yet Patrick Swayze, who wasn’t a surfer, played one in Point Break. And he actually surfed. On a surfboard.”

“Don’t go comparing gods to mere mortals.” I wag a finger at him. “Patrick Swayze was a genius.”

Before he can argue, I pull my laptop forward and Google “Holden Shaw.” The first image to pop up is a sun-bleached, uber-tanned surfer standing beside a surfboard. I frown.

“If it helps,” Ben says, “he’s not usually so blond. That was just for Coral Coast.”

It helps. I can handle a brunette Katie Evans, but Tripp McCoy as a blond? That’s just wrong.

“He’s not, like, in his forties or something, is he?”

Ben gives me a look. “Late twenties, maybe? Hang on, I’ll check.”

He reaches for his phone, but I wave him off, bringing us back to the matter at hand: Graham Barrett.

“Come on,” I say. “Do this with me. It’ll be fun.”

“I can’t, Mags.” He straddles the bench beside my chair, both hands wrapped around his favorite maroon Texas State mug. “They’re filming during finals, and I’ll be gone next weekend.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Zack wants to take me to his family’s place in Galveston. For my birthday.” He pauses. “Our birthday.”

Our birthday? My face falls before I can stop it.

“Sis?”

“Ugh, I’m the worst. Just pretend you didn’t see that, because I really am happy for you.” Disappointed for me, but happy for you. “So this is happening? The elusive Zachary Morel is taking you to meet the fam?”

Now it’s his face that falls. “Uh, no. It’s a vacation house, and they won’t be there. No one will. And from the way he keeps going on about the pool and the new outdoor kitchen they just put in, I doubt we’ll see another soul the entire weekend.”

“Give him time. You know what it’s like to be out before you’re ready.”

“Yeah.” He rubs the sleep from his eyes. “I know you’re right.”

High school taught us both that the people you love, the people who are supposed to love you, can turn on you faster than milk in the Texas sun.

“Still sucks,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You know what? It’s fine. I’m glad it’ll just be the two of us. No friends, no roommates…”

“No buffers.”

“No buffers.” He sets down his mug. “We’ve never been apart on our birthday before, little sis. Not sure how I feel about that.”

“We’re turning twenty-four,” I say, masking the sting as I take my untouched coffee to the sink. “As much as I love our annual drunken gin rummy tournament, I think we’ve outgrown it.”

“What will you do?”

My eyes drift back to the flyer on the table. “Hopefully I’ll be dancing.”