Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Vivien
The second time I walk up to Graham’s door, I’m carrying a giant box of produce. Nothing to see here, just the normal, weekly squash delivery.
This time, when I knock, the giant box blocking his view of my face, he opens right away.
“Hey, Noah.”
I shift the package in my arms to meet his gaze. He’s still dressed like a homeless street urchin.
He frowns at me. “Where’s Noah?”
“He was otherwise engaged, so I’m here to deliver your squash.”
“Okay.” He reaches for it.
I step back.
“What are you doing?” The frown deepens further.
“Delivering your squash. But I need something in return.”
His response is clipped. “And what is that?”
“A signed copy of How to Survive Your Own Funeral.”
His jaw tightens. “Give me the squash.”
“Give me the signed book.”
“No.”
I shift the box slightly. “I suppose I could take these back. I’m sure Noah can find another buyer. Or I could keep them. I love my leafy greens. Prevents scurvy.”
He doesn’t speak for a few long seconds. “You’re really holding vegetables hostage?”
My arms ache. “Think of it as more of a negotiation.”
“This is extortion.”
“Look.” I move the box to rest on my hip.
“I need a signed copy of that book because Beverly asked me to do this. If that’s not enough for you, I don’t know what to tell you other than expect me to be banging on your door night and day until we can make this happen.
What do you want? Money? I am happy to pay for it. ”
A divot appears in his brow. “Why would Beverly have you do all this?”
“That’s a great question. It’s part of her last wishes.”
He shakes his head. “Was she unhinged, or are you?”
“It’s probably me.”
He turns and disappears into the house.
He’s either going to get me a signed copy of the book or a broom to shoo me out of here. Or something more violent.
A moment later, he’s back with a book in his hand, a paperback with worn edges, the title stamped across the cover in bold black lettering.
He stops inside the doorway, fixing me with a look. “If I sign this, you will hand over the squash and leave.”
“Totally.”
“And you will not come back.”
I hesitate. What if the next task involves more of this . . . madness? God, I hope not. What was she thinking? This man hates me, for sure. “Define ‘not come back.’ ”
He blinks in surprise. “Really? What about this situation is enticing to you?”
I laugh, and it’s only slightly manic. “I’ll do my best. I swear.
I don’t want to come back, if that helps.
This isn’t exactly fun for me.” But actually, it kind of is.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been in public in years, maybe it’s because people in this town either have no idea who I am or don’t really care, but this has been kind of a thrill.
He reaches for the box, and this time, I let him take it.
He sets it on the floor, grabs the book, and produces a pen out of somewhere in his robe. “What’s the name?”
I lift a brow. Really? “Vivien. Vivien Hart.”
His pen stills for a fraction of a second, then it scratches over the paper. He shuts the book and hands it to me.
I take it, tamping down the urge to do a victory dance. That can wait until he isn’t watching. Pretty sure I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day. “Thank you.”
He nods once, and then the door shuts.
He didn’t slam it this time. Progress.
I open the book.
Vivien,
You’re lucky Noah has the freshest squash in town.
—G.D.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. Then I practically skip back to the car where Daphne is leaning halfway out the window. “Did you get it?”
I hold up the book.
Her shriek of laughter is loud enough to reach the edges of town.
Hours later, I’m still buzzing with energy.
Day one and a seemingly impossible task already completed. I must be a genius. A prodigy. The smartest human alive.
After we got the book, we had to go back to the theater because Jack was hungry. We picked him up and went to eat burgers at Betty’s Diner before finishing up our work for the day. Daphne dropped me off back at the law offices when the temps dropped and the sky started spitting snow again.
It’s dark outside. Quinn went home an hour ago, and I’ve been sitting in the upstairs apartment with the door open, ears straining for any signs of life.
I wonder what Spencer is doing. He’s been gone all day.
In a town with a population of less than ten thousand, how many clients could he have?
My phone vibrates.
Audrey. I silence the call and send it to voicemail.
She’s been calling daily since I left Boston but hasn’t left a message, so I know it’s not an emergency.
I’m sure they’ve figured out I left the city, and Mother wants to know what I’m doing.
She’s only happy if she’s stalking me, which is why I moved to Boston, as far away from LA as I could get without leaving the country or ending up in the ocean.
But it hasn’t stopped her from trying to get me back into Hollywood and the public eye.
I can’t wait to hand over this book and get Beverly’s next letter. I am going to ace this whole inheritance thing. I’m going to get all these tasks done and claim the deed to The Palace and the house before the end of the month.
I just need to figure out a way to avoid the whole endgame matchmaking bit because there is no way Graham Deadwyler is going to date me or anyone else. He’s like a volcano. Hot and unreachable without serious damage to your skin and ego.
The front door creaks open, and I grab the book. I’ve only made it down a few steps when Spencer’s voice echoes up the stairs.
“No, you cannot come over.”
I halt in my tracks.
“I don’t care. It’s not happening. I won’t let you bother her.”
Her? Is he talking about me, or someone else? Another client?
My heart beats a little faster.
“If anyone so much as looks at her sideways, they will have to answer to me. No, listen, Kevin, I mean it.” His tone is gruff and heated.
“She might be a celebrity, but everyone has a right to their privacy, and she has fought hard to get out of the spotlight. If she wants a feature in the paper, she’ll come to you. ”
I sink down, pressing my hand against the hardwood step.
He’s talking about me. He’s protecting me?
There’s silence except for the rapid beat of my heart in my ears.
I’m not sure what to make of it. I shouldn’t be listening. Should I make my presence known?
A drawer opens, more papers rustle, then slams shut. “She hasn’t worked in over five years, that’s how I know. I don’t have to ask her, and I won’t. If she wants publicity of any kind, she knows how to get it herself; you don’t need to track her down.”
The wood floor in the office creaks under his feet, like he’s pacing. When he talks again, his voice is like leashed thunder. “No, I don’t want your money.”
Here it is. The moment everyone caves. Mother used to pretend to advocate for me too, but it was always for a higher payout, not because she cared that much about my well-being, although she framed it that way, more than once. She was helping my career. Thanks, but no thanks.
“Listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.
There is not enough money on this earth to compel me to be a part of this, and if anyone so much as takes an unauthorized photo for their own personal use, even if no one else will ever see it, I will personally take them apart literally and figuratively.
They will answer to me in court and on the street.
Publish that in your paper.” His voice is like granite, but it may as well be like soft petals against my flesh.
I’m stunned, motionless.
After another pause, he releases a frustrated huff.
“It’s not like that, and you know it. She’s Beverly’s granddaughter and my client.
It’s a professional relationship, and it can’t be anything more.
She’s moving to the farmhouse as soon as the power comes back on.
No, I will not go on another date with Rebecca, we are just friends, and she’s moving anyway, and getting married, I think.
” His voice loses volume as he moves toward his rooms.
I carefully ease back up the steps into my room and shut the door, leaning back against it and breathing hard.
Warmth spreads in my chest. Beverly said I could trust him, and I trusted her, but hearing him defend me, defend my privacy, protect me, is like someone taking a hammer to the hard wall I’ve built around myself to survive. The fear is still there, the wall is still present, but there’s a crack.
It’s because this is his job, I’m sure. He has to do his duties, right? I’m his client, he said so himself. His job includes ensuring I’m able to finish my necessary tasks to fulfill the agreements in the will or whatever, without interruption or disturbance. It’s a professional relationship.
And yet, no one has ever protected me like he just did.
Not my agent, not my manager, definitely not my mom.
I had to appease everyone all the time. Don’t upset the reporters, even if they ask you uncomfortable questions.
Always turn your best side to the camera.
Always be on your best behavior. Smile brighter.
Be nicer. Let people say whatever they want about you, in the news, wherever.
It’s all press. If people are talking about you—no matter what they are saying—it’s all clicks and likes and money and power.
And I was always at the center of the firestorm, with no control and no say.
Helpless. Despite what they want you to think, despite what people want to believe, words aren’t harmless.
Words can cut deeper than any knife. They have the power to uplift and the power to push down. And boy, do people love punching down.
The ding of an incoming text sounds from my pocket.
My stomach dips. It’s from Mother Dearest.
Did you see this article? I know all press is good press, but you might consider giving a formal statement.
Against my better judgment I click the link.