Chapter 6 #2
I was going through a lot at the time, mentally and emotionally grappling with my childhood trauma.
Eventually, I decided it doesn’t matter. Money isn’t important. I would give it all up to have a mother who loved and supported me and didn’t expect anything in return.
But it’s something I should review again when I have time. Maybe I could hire Spencer to do it for me.
I lean back in the chair slowly. “This is depressing.” For so many reasons.
Daphne nods solemnly. “Reminds me of my love life.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, worse. At least the theater gets repeat customers.”
A surprised laugh barks out of me. “We’ll think of ways to save this place.” I already have ideas swirling in my head.
We can bring back special events. Themed movie nights that allow people to dress up, like Rocky Horror.
Seasonal showings. Halloween horror. Feel-good Christmas movies to bring in families with kids.
We could do new things too, like a membership option for movie buffs, merch with The Palace logo and funny movie quotes, private events, film festivals, the options are really limitless.
“Except.” I bite my lip. “I might have to wait until I can take full legal possession of the theater to do anything major. Right now, I only have the authority to run it. I should probably check with Spencer to see if that will prevent me from implementing any big changes, legally.”
“What do you mean? Beverly left you the theater, right? That’s why you’re here.”
“Not exactly.” Should I tell her? Can I trust her?
We just met. Spencer said she could help me.
I have to tell her something. I need someone to help me.
“Spencer didn’t mention anything to you about the specifics of the inheritance?
” Maybe he would have told her some of the rough details, since she’s been running the theater.
She snorts. “Spencer wouldn’t tell anyone anything. The man is like a vault. But like, a massive vault with forty-five locks and three doors that open in different and impossible ways.”
I hesitate.
Secrets are currency in my life, and trust is something you hand out carefully.
Not that I think Daphne would spill secrets to the press.
I’m more worried about Mother. If she thinks the theater is worth anything, she’ll try to get her hands on it or ruin it for me somehow, all in the name of “caring.”
But I don’t want to sell it. I want to fix it.
And to do all that, I need help.
More than that, I haven’t had a real friend in . . . well, ever.
Daphne is waiting, practically vibrating in her seat.
I make an executive decision. “First you have to swear you won’t tell anyone.”
Her eyes widen with delight. “I love secrets,” she whispers.
“I’m serious.”
“I can be serious.”
“Can you?”
She immediately raises one hand like she’s being sworn in at court.
“I solemnly swear,” she says gravely, “to never tell a soul anything you tell me in this room, lest turtles devour my innards, I hit every red light for the rest of my life, my coffee is always weak, and I have period cramps and the urge to pee with no bathroom in sight for as long as I live, amen.”
I choke on a laugh. “Okay, that’s sufficiently horrifying.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I take my oaths very seriously.”
I blow out a breath. “All right. Here’s the situation. In order to get the title to The Palace, I have to complete some tasks.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, exciting. What are these tasks? Oh wait. We should call them missions. That has so much more pizzaz.”
I give her the rundown of Beverly’s letter and what Spencer told me so far. How in order to officially claim the inheritance, I have to matchmake myself with someone and complete a series of tasks to ensure I’m moving toward that goal.
“You have to matchmake yourself? With who?”
“Graham Deadwyler.”
Her mouth drops in shock, and then laughter erupts from her body with so much force, she almost falls out of the chair.
I have to speak loudly to be heard over her amusement. “I take it you know him?”
She waves a hand. “Hardly. No one knows him. We were in school around the same time. He’s a few years older.”
“From what I could glean online, he’s kind of reclusive.”
“Reclusive is putting it mildly. The man hates other humans. He hardly leaves his house, ever. Peggy, she owns The Book Nook, has been hounding him for years to get him to do a signing, a reading, hell, a midnight appearance. It’s turned into almost a vendetta at this point.”
I frown. “Do you have any idea how I can get a signed copy from him? It has to be personalized.”
She rubs her chin. “You know, you could just show up at his house and ask him.”
“Do you think it would be that easy?”
She shrugs. “You’re famous. He’s famous. He might fall all over himself for you.”
I doubt it. No one in this town has reacted the way I expected. But it’s worth a shot.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve shut down the computer, told Jack we’ll return shortly, and I’m sliding into Daphne’s small white Toyota Corolla, which has to be at least ten years old.
“Can you drive in the snow in this?”
“They’ve plowed the main roads. I’m good. I grew up in this.”
I half expect her driving to match her personality, flashy, quick, and full of energy, but instead, she’s steady and competent, and we make it off Main Street and into a nearby neighborhood without any issues.
“Okay, here’s the plan.” She comes to a halt in front of a small cottage. “I’ll wait in the car, so we don’t spook him. You go up to the door and knock.”
I blink at her. “That’s it? Knock? Then what?”
“Then, when he comes to the door, you tell him who you are and ask him for a signed copy of his book. Easy peasy.”
“You said he hates other humans.”
She puts the car in park. “You’re not like other humans, you’re famous.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you should come with me.”
“That definitely won’t help. He hates me.”
“Why does he hate you? You said you hardly know him.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m being hyperbolic, he doesn’t hate me, hate me, he just views me like one of the peons. Beneath him. He definitely won’t answer the door if he sees me on the stoop.”
I frown at her. There has to be more to the story. I shove the curiosity aside. We just met; it’s none of my business.
“I’ll wait for you. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I walk carefully toward the front door. The sidewalk has been shoveled, but I keep my eyes down to avoid icy patches. When I reach the porch, I stomp some of the snow off my feet and glance around. The house is charming.
I had imagined a crumbling Gothic mansion with iron gates, maybe a few strategically placed ravens or gargoyles. Something with lightning rods and an attic window that occasionally flickers with candlelight and shadowed figures. Or clowns.
Instead, this place looks like it wandered out of a fairy tale.
The exterior is warm red brick, the front partially covered by a wooden trellis that must explode with green leaves in the summer.
Even bare in winter, the vines twist across the wood like delicate lace.
Dark green shutters frame the windows, and a narrow stone path curves through the small front garden, now buried under a soft blanket of snow.
A pair of tall maples stand watch over the yard, their branches skeletal against the pale sky.
The front door is thick oak.
It’s cozy. Quaint.
Basically, the opposite of spooky. The type of house that would have pumpkins and orange live laugh love signs instead of Halloween spiderwebs and skeletons.
I grab the heavy brass knocker and rap three times.
And wait.
I try again.
A cold gust of wind rattles the bare branches overhead, sending a scatter of loose snow swirling across the porch. I shiver and glance over at Daphne. She lifts her hands in question, and I shrug.
I knock again.
On the fourth strike of brass against wood, the door jerks open.
Surprise yanks me backward, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Can I help you?” a gruff voice asks.
Much like his home, Graham Deadwyler is not what I expected from a horror author. He’s a bit rumpled, wrapped in a dark robe that looks like it’s seen better days, years ago. Gray sweats bunch around his ankles, disappearing into a pair of white fluffy slippers.
Huh.
His hair is a shade darker than mine and overgrown, brushing his cheek. His jaw is covered in scruff. His eyes pin me in place, a bright, piercing blue.
We do sort of match, in a Barbie and Ken doll kind of way. We both have blond hair and blue eyes, anyway.
But that’s where the resemblance ends. Is this what Beverly thought I would like? A cranky recluse who dresses like he lost a fight with a pile of thrift store rejects?
None of it matters. What matters is getting the book and moving on to the next step.
I give him my best movie star, thousand-watt smile, the one I practiced in the mirror every day to prepare for interviews and meeting directors and industry executives. “Hi, Graham, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Vivien Ha—”
His gaze flicks behind me to Daphne in her car. “Not interested.” The door slams in my face.
I blink at the door a few times in disbelief.
When I open the passenger door to Daphne’s car, her laughter spills out.
“Did you know he would do that?”
She pats me on the shoulder, catching her breath. “I knew he might. He’s a prickly SOB.”
My mouth drops open. “Why did you tell me to go up there?”
“Because this was very entertaining.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “For whom?”
“Oh, come on. That was fun. Admit it.”
I shake my head. “That was not fun, that was humiliating. And I didn’t get the book. How am I going to do this? He won’t even talk to me.”
“You’re smart. You’ll think of something. Hey, maybe you can get like your fancy agent person or manager to call him. Don’t you Hollywood types do that all the time? My people will call your people, and all that?”
“No.” There is no way in hell I’m calling anyone in the business. I can’t risk it. They’ll tell my mom everything, then she might figure out where I am. I need another way.
But the suggestion does remind me, I do have another contact who knows Graham Deadwyler. “Wait. Maybe there’s someone local who can help us.”
Her mouth twists, skeptical. “Who?”
“We’ll need to go see a guy about some squash.”