Chapter 8 #2
It’s been years since Vivien Hart graced a red carpet, posted on social media, or gave so much as a quote to a reporter.
For most people, that would just be called living a private life.
But for someone who spent her childhood in front of cameras and who was, for a brief and dazzling moment, the most recognizable face on television, the silence has started to feel like something else.
“She’s not herself,” says one source close to the family. “The Vivien we knew was bright, so present. What’s happening now, the isolation and withdrawal, it’s been hard to watch.”
Since her quiet exit from the industry, Hart has largely avoided public life, declining interviews and scrubbing what little social media presence she had. Those who know her describe someone struggling to find footing outside of the world that made her famous.
“She’s fragile,” the source adds. “I just hope the right people are looking out for her.”
Hart’s representatives did not respond to a request for comment. Her mother, reached briefly by phone, said only that she remains “deeply concerned” and is “doing everything she can.”
My eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they don’t fly out of the window.
I’m sure their “source” was also Mother. This is just like her. I toss my phone to the side.
I have more important things to deal with.
After a few minutes of deep breathing and waiting a sufficient amount of time to make it clear that I was not eavesdropping, I clutch the book tighter against my chest and head down the stairs, making as much noise as possible to make my presence known.
But he’s no longer in the office, so I make my way to his residence and knock.
What if he’s in the bathroom? What if he needed to shower or something, and he’s totally naked, and he answers the door, all drippy and stuff—
The door swings open.
He’s not naked. Okay, so it had only been like two minutes.
The naked part was unlikely. But he does have his coat off, and he’s wearing a sweater vest. The kind Mr. Rogers wore.
Has he been wearing that all day under his coat?
He’s dressed like an old man, but he’s like, hot. How is Mr. Rogers sexy?
“Hey. Are you okay?” His brow creases.
He’s worried about me. Concern. For me, without expectation. That is also sexy. Jesus, I need help. Or sex. Or both. I guess the genuine protectiveness thing really does it for me.
“Yes. I just have something for you. I mean, not for you, for the . . .” I wave a hand. What the hell is the word? “Inheritance!” The word shoots out. Too loud. I take a breath. “Is now a good time? You’ve been out all day, so I can come back later. Or tomorrow.”
He smiles, kindly ignoring my inability to speak. “No, it’s fine. Come on in.” He waves me inside and we head into the kitchen.
He gestures for me to sit at the island, then he opens the fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” I hop up on the stool where I sat this morning.
He shuts the fridge and pulls open the freezer. “We’ve got frozen pizza, or . . . frozen pizza.” He turns around, rubbing his chin. “Sorry. I haven’t been to the store in a while I guess.”
“I’m good with frozen pizza.”
“Great.” He turns on the oven to preheat. “So, what do you have for me?”
I reach over the island to hand him the book.
He flips it over. “Ah. One of Graham’s books.
The great squash disaster turned into a success then, I take it.
I’ll just get the next letter from the safe to confirm.
Help yourself to whatever you want.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the fridge.
“There should be some red wine in that cupboard if you want to grab a glass.”
“Did you want some?”
He hesitates in the doorway. “Oh. Sure.”
While he’s gone, I open a few cupboards.
Everything is neat and orderly, but dated and unused.
An old set of China, covered in a thin veneer of dust, a food processor that looks like it’s from 1986, and an ancient blender.
The only things that aren’t dusty are the glasses and plates, and a half-full container of peanut butter.
Even the wine is dusty. I check the label. It’s a 1990 Bordeaux. Wasn’t that an expensive year?
I check through more cupboards, but this is the only bottle of anything I can find. I’m hunting for a wine opener when he returns.
“Oh, good, you found it.”
“Is this the right one? You’re not saving it for something special?”
He snorts. “No. Maybe my parents were. I’m not a big drinker. Trust me, tonight is as special as it gets around here.” He opens a drawer on the island and pulls out an opener.
I hand him the bottle, and he opens and pours us two glasses.
“Here.” He hands me the letter along with a glass of wine.
Our fingers brush, and my stomach does a flip-flop.
Stupid sweater vest.
“The fireplace is on in the living room if you want to read it in there while we’re waiting on the pizza. I’ll join you once the oven’s done preheating.”
A fireplace and wine on a cold, snowy day? Uh, yes please.
I make my way into the living room, tucking myself into an oversized chair in the corner.
A heavy wooden coffee table sits in front of the couch, its surface marked with faint scratches and water rings.
There’s a matching side table beside me with a framed photo.
I pick it up. Spencer is wearing a black graduation gown and red stole. He’s standing in between an older couple, one arm slung around the woman’s shoulders. Her smile is bright and proud. The man beside him looks more reserved, but his smile reaches his eyes.
He has the same brown eyes as Spencer. They look kind.
His parents.
I vaguely remember them from when I would visit. Not much, just that they were nice and friends with Beverly, but everyone was.
I set the photo back down carefully.
The rest of the room is similar to the office area, a mix of heavy wood and muted tones, deep browns, worn leather, thick fabrics that are more functional than decorative.
After taking a sip of wine, I turn my focus to the letter still in my hand.
Fingers tingling with excitement, I slide the pages out of the envelope, and a key drops into my lap. I examine it. Gold-toned, with an ornate bow and a long, narrow shaft.
A skeleton key.
I know this key. It’s the key to the reel room. Unexpected emotion washes over me. I blink back the heat in my eyes to read.
Vivien,
Well, my girl, you did it. I’m not surprised at all.
You always had a way of setting your mind to something and seeing it through no matter what.
Even when it was something your mother forced you into and you hated every second, you buckled down and got it done.
You’ve always been stronger than you realize.
Hopefully you didn’t hate that task though.
Graham is not hard to look at, don’t you think?
And creative, intelligent, successful. You need someone who matches your level of accomplishments. Men are such fragile creatures.
Now it’s time for your second task, and this one will be a little tougher (the hardest things in life are always the most rewarding though, don’t you think?) because this time it is twofold.
First, you must fill every seat at the theater during the next Saturday show. I don’t know what day of the week you’re receiving this notice, so to give you adequate time, we’ll make it the Saturday after the upcoming weekend.
That’s good news since today is Tuesday. That gives me ten full days.
So, what does this have to do with the matchmaking?
Well, the second part of this task is to get Graham Deadwyler to sit with you in the front row during the show.
I know what you’re thinking, Beverly, the man is fine, but he’s pricklier than a porcupine with a full set of knives.
Don’t be discouraged. You will figure this out and maybe have a little fun.
After all, every character must struggle to reach their happy ending.
It’s the hero’s journey and the way we learn best.
What else is there to do with your one big, beautiful life?
The key to the reel room is in this envelope. You will need to pick a reel worthy of this task.
Truth is, ticket sales have been declining for years, and without me around to bully people into showing up, I’d be surprised if they’re filling a full row anymore.
I’m counting on you to find a way to bring them back in and find yourself a little slice of happiness.
Give Spencer a ticket to the show and make sure it’s the seat behind you and Graham (for accountability). Once it’s all said and done and he’s ensured you and Graham sat through the whole movie (pee breaks are okay), he will give you letter three.
Good luck. I’ve always believed in you.
Beverly
I set the letter down in my lap, grief and irritation warring within me.
Taking a sip of wine, I trace over her words again, rubbing the corner of the paper between my thumb and forefinger. My heart aches. I miss her so much.
Filling the theater is one thing. How am I supposed to get Graham, a man who just told me to never darken his doorway again, to come to a movie with me?
Holding his squash hostage probably won’t work a second time.
Maybe blackmail? Gunpoint? Those are honestly the only options that might convince him.
I need to call Daphne.
Crap, I don’t think I have her number.
I drink more wine.
I’m definitely going to need help with this one.