Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Vivien
I trudge upstairs with my bag, still reeling over Beverly’s words. I must have missed something. Misread something. Maybe I’m having a stroke.
I need to read it again once I get to my room.
My thoughts spin to Spencer. I can’t believe he reached out to Noah and got my things before I even woke up, then the cooking and the care and concern . . . it’s all so thoughtful.
What does he want from me?
The thought surfaces before I can stop it.
Past experience has taught me that no one does anything for free or out of the goodness of their hearts.
That sweet journalist who brought me my favorite tea?
Spun my quotes to make me sound like a diva.
That makeup artist who gave me all the tricks and tips?
Sold details of my personal life to the press.
That director who was kind and understanding?
Convinced me to have a kissing scene with Hudson.
I was thirteen. My first kiss, and it was on a sound stage in front of twenty adults.
But Spencer doesn’t act like most people do around me.
And this isn’t LA or New York. He’s not trying to be famous.
I don’t think. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be living in the middle of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nowheresville Massachusetts.
Either way, I’m going to be cautious. I don’t know any other way to be. I’ve been burned too many times.
Back in my rooms, I tuck myself into the chair next to the window, plug in my cell phone to charge, and then pull the envelope from my pocket, sliding out the first page to read it again.
Vivien,
Here is where the fun begins.
Enclosed is the key to The Palace. Daphne has been managing the theater for a while now, and she will give you all the details you need to take the reins from her. She’s a hoot. You’ll love her.
Before we get to the first task, some background. Your mission is to take over the list of people I didn’t have time to finish matchmaking, starting with the couple at the top.
I slide the second page out of the envelope.
Graham Deadwyler & Vivien Hart
Nope. I didn’t imagine it. It’s all there, written in pencil, with a whole slew of names scratched underneath. I don’t recognize any of them. Except for the one at the top. Me? Is she kidding?
I skim through the rest of the letter.
Surprise! It’s you, my dear.
Your task is to get a signed copy of Graham’s first book, How to Survive Your Own Funeral.
And you can’t buy it online or in a store.
It must be personalized. This will ensure you’re doing what you need to do to make the match.
Once you have the book, give it to Spencer, and he’ll give you the next letter and the next task that will push you toward your final goal.
You have two days to complete this task.
Chop chop.
It doesn’t make sense. Isn’t the whole matchmaker shtick about matching other people together? How am I supposed to match myself?
“Graham Deadwyler.” The name is vaguely familiar. Did we meet when I stayed here with Beverly? I search my memories. Maybe that’s why she thinks we should be together, or whatever? I think I would remember him though. But it was a long time ago.
I grab my cell phone. It should be charged enough now.
Ugh. There are a million notifications. A bunch of emails from Mother, forwarding me manuscripts I should “consider,” audition opportunities she knows I’ll decline, and a request to have lunch with a director.
More texts asking where I am and requests to call her.
No, thanks. Delete, delete, delete.
I open the web search and key in Graham’s name.
He’s a writer. Maybe that’s why I recognize the name.
I thumb past the Wikipedia link and skim past some news headlines. He writes comedy horror. They’re making Burn After Beheading into a movie.
Didn’t Noah mention delivering him squash or something?
I click one of the articles that’s titled “Graham Deadwyler—The Man, The Myth, The Recluse.”
Graham Deadwyler has made a career out of writing stories where terrible things happen to very unlucky people, and then making readers laugh about it.
We asked the notoriously private author of Curiosity Killed Everyone and Rotten to the Cottagecore to answer a few questions via email, though “answer” may be generous.
When asked what inspires the strange blend of horror and humor in his work, Deadwyler replied, “Most frightening things are a little ridiculous if you look at them long enough.”
Pressed for examples, he declined.
Deadwyler also declined to discuss the persistent rumor that several characters in his early novels are based on real people from the small Massachusetts town where he now lives.
“I write fiction,” he wrote. “If people recognize themselves, that’s probably something they should unpack privately.”
As for whether he plans to appear at any public events in the near future, the author’s response was even shorter.
“No.”
When informed that fans might find that disappointing, Deadwyler added, “Fans should try writing their own books. It keeps you busy.”
So, Graham is reclusive and kind of an asshole. Great.
Was Beverly a terrible matchmaker? Is that why she still has a list of leftover names?
There has to be more to this whole thing.
I flip the pages over, like different words will magically appear.
But that’s it. There’s nothing else.
What do I do? I don’t even know where to start. I can’t ask Spencer for help. Maybe Quinn? Or this Daphne person who’s been running the theater? Maybe she will have an inkling of how the hell I’m supposed to get a signed copy of Graham Deadwyler’s first book. From him. Where does he even live?
I guess I’m going to have to figure it out. I swallow back a wave of overwhelming anxiety and fear. Will I even be able to do this? What if I can’t? Will I have to move back to Boston?
The thought is depressing. And lonely.
I showered last night, so it only takes a few minutes to brush my hair and dress in dark jeans, boots, and a cashmere sweater. I slap on a layer of mascara and some lip gloss, and I’m ready.
After shoving the theater key into my pocket along with my barely charged phone, I head downstairs.
Spencer is already in his coat, talking to Quinn at her smaller desk across from his.
“Are you ready to go?” he asks when he spots me.
“Yeah.”
We say goodbye to Quinn.
The sun is out, bright and sharp against the snow. The air is still frigid, sneaking through my jacket.
Spencer’s old 4Runner warms up outside, cleared of snow except for a thin crust clinging to the wipers.
He opens the car door for me. “I tried calling Moe a minute ago, and he’s not answering, so I thought we could stop by the shop first and see what he says.”
“Sounds good.”
The mechanic’s office smells like motor oil and burnt coffee. Moe scribbles my name on a work order and then adds it to a stack of smudged papers. He promises to take a look at my car that afternoon and call with an update.
A few minutes later, we’re back on the road.
The drive through town to the theater is short. The snow has been plowed and stacked up along the side of the road. People are shoveling the sidewalks in front of Brewed Awakening and Betty’s Diner.
One of them waves at Spencer as we pass. He lifts two fingers off the steering wheel in return.
“You okay if I drop you off?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of the theater. “Daphne should be here soon. I’ve got a few errands to run, and I want to swing by the farmhouse to check it out, make sure there wasn’t any storm damage before I call to get the power restored.”
“Okay. That sounds good.” I unclick my seat belt.
“Quinn’s going to call the inn and book you a room until the house is ready. If you need a ride anywhere, call the office. Either Quinn or I can get you where you need to go.” He pauses. “Fair warning, since you’ve never met her, Daphne is very high-energy.”
High-energy? “What does that mean?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not a bad thing. She has five older brothers.”
“Impressive.” It really is. I barely survived my childhood dealing with two boys, let alone five.
“She had to learn how to be loud to be heard over the chaos. She’s very direct, but she’s also hilarious.”
I smile. “Good to know. Do you have any siblings?”
“No, I’m an only child.” His head tilts. “My parents were older, so it was always on the quiet side growing up. What about you? Don’t you have a sister?”
My chest aches when I think about Audrey. I haven’t seen her in three years. “Yeah. Audrey.”
“Vivien and Audrey. Great names. Very classic Hollywood.”
“Yeah. Mother loves Vivien Leigh and Audrey Hepburn. I’m more of a Katharine Hepburn kinda gal.” I wave a hand. “Anyway, Audrey is six years younger than me, so I don’t really feel like we grew up together.”
Except it’s not the age gap that kept us apart.
When Audrey was little, from when she was a toddler until she was about ten or eleven, we were really close.
She looked up to me, mimicked me, and wanted to be around me all the time.
And I adored her. She was a cherubic child who was quick to laugh and loved being silly.
But then Mother said we were too close and that our relationship was weird. She insisted I needed friends my own age. I shouldn’t spend so much time with Audrey.
She kept us apart more often than not, and when I had breaks from filming, I was sent to Surrender with Beverly or to private schools for tutoring. I didn’t miss Mom or my stepdad. He was nice enough, just . . . passive. Like all Mother’s husbands. Easy for her to manipulate. But I did miss Audrey.
I shake away the thoughts, focusing on the conversation. “I do feel like I grew up with two brothers, because of Whit and Hudson.”
He nods. “That makes sense. You worked together for most of your childhood. I’m sure you are really close.”