Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Vivien
“Are you sure this is going to work?” I hand Daphne another flyer.
“Are you kidding me?” She slaps it against the pole, lifts the staple gun, and shoots it into place, probably more times than necessary. “I have absolutely no idea.”
I stare at the paper mounted to the dark wood. The words are brightly colored, combining bold fonts with a flowery script. Perfect for a rom-com or feel-good story.
The Palace Theater Grand Reopening
Join us for a tribute inspired by the work of Graham Deadwyler!
A heartwarming coming-of-age story.
One Night Only - This Saturday
The words are surrounded by more vibrant colors and images, hearts and flowers and roses. It’s very attention-grabbing.
He’s going to hate it.
But that’s the point, apparently.
We’ve been brainstorming for five days about how to complete the next task. This was the best we could come up with, after Daphne set up a whiteboard and corkboard in the office and we filled both of them with notes, ideas, pictures, and sticky notes.
It’s like we’re solving a murder instead of trying to get a grouchy recluse to sit through an entire film next to someone he finds annoying or possibly hates with the fire of a thousand suns. It’s me. I’m someone.
This idea is a bit of a Hail Mary at this point.
But at least the work distracts me from thinking too much about Spencer.
About what his dreams are, besides running around town all day helping whoever needs it like it’s a personal vendetta. About why he wears sweater vests and how he makes them look way too appealing. About why he’s still single, even though he’s a major catch.
About how I think he was thisclose to kissing me the other night but didn’t.
And how I would have let him.
But we haven’t exchanged more than a few words here and there. I’ve only seen him in passing. There have been no more surprise meals. He’s been gone by the time I get up almost every day, and only Quinn is there, typing away or answering calls.
It’s like I’m twelve again, dealing with the ill-advised crush on my co-star Whitman. Thank God I got over that one quickly.
I follow Daphne down the sidewalk. The snow has mostly melted except for where it was piled up along the curb. “How is he even going to hear about it if he doesn’t leave his house?”
“Oh, he’ll hear about it. Men cannot live on squash alone. Noah will tell him, if no one else. We’ll make sure he gets a flyer in his squash box. Don’t worry. The whole town is going to be in on this by the time we’re done.”
“But how—?”
She’s on the move before I can finish my sentence.
I chase her across the street and to the next block as she hands the flyer to a group of teenagers and says, “Tell your friends. And your parents.”
We keep moving. “I still don’t get how this will guarantee he shows up and stays.”
She stops and turns to me. “Graham is a famous writer, which means he has a massive ego. He doesn’t write heartwarming coming-of-age bullshit; he writes crazy, funny, super-smart horror books.
This is going to kill him. Not to mention the potential legalities.
An unauthorized use of his work in a way he will hate. ”
“Why wouldn’t he just send his lawyer then? Or a cease and desist?”
She shrugs. “He’ll want to see for himself who’s behind this. Plus, he won’t have time to bring someone else into town for him, and he can’t hire Spencer or ask him to interfere because it would be a conflict of interest, and Spencer would have to turn him down if he tries.”
“Okay. So, let’s say he shows up. How do we get him to stay for a whole film?”
“That will be a little trickier. But I have an idea.”
“And that is?”
She waves a hand down the street. “Come on. We’ll put some of these up at the diner, then we need to talk to Peggy.”
I vaguely remember Beverly mentioning someone with that name. “Who’s Peggy?”
“She owns the bookstore, and she knows everything. If anyone can figure this out, it’s her.”
“That’s your idea? Find someone else with an idea?”
“Better than bupkis.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pushing open the door to The Book Nook.
The space is cozy and cluttered. Tall wooden shelves line the walls, packed to the brim with books in every color and size, some stacked neatly, others in intentionally precarious piles.
There’s an old-school register at the front, the kind with real buttons instead of a touchscreen.
Here and there, green plants dot the shelves with life, interspersed with colorful placards with funny phrases about reading: so many books, so little time, I like big books and I cannot lie, I have no shelf control.
I follow Daphne to the counter, where a customer is finishing up. The woman behind the register hands over a paper bag, thanking them warmly.
Her face lights up the second she spots Daphne. “Well, hey there, stranger.” She steps out from behind the counter and pulls Daphne into a hug. “I haven’t seen you in a hot minute. Been busy?”
“Working, as usual.” Daphne returns her hug and then steps back. “Peggy, I wanted to introduce you to Vivien Hart.” She gestures to me.
Peggy’s probably in her seventies, with short white hair, warm brown eyes, and a pair of dangly gold earrings that catch the light when she moves. Her top is loose and colorful, with long, flowy sleeves. She looks like she stepped out of the seventies. It reminds me a lot of Beverly.
Recognition sparks in her eyes when they meet mine.
“I’m not really her granddaughter.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Peggy reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. “I remember you at the theater. Always tucked into the corner, watching everything and everyone. So shy for someone who lived in the spotlight.” Her smile softens. “She talked about you often. It’s nice to finally meet you formally.”
“You too.”
Daphne claps her hands once. “We’re here for your help.”
Peggy’s brows lift. “With what?”
Daphne grins. “Embarrassing Graham Deadwyler.”
Peggy gasps and grabs Daphne’s arm. “Oh, finally. I’ve been waiting for this day.”
“I knew you’d be on board,” Daphne says.
Peggy gestures for us to follow. “Come on. Our scheming requires tea and maybe some cookies.”
I won’t say no to cookies.
We move toward a reading nook in the back, where a mismatched collection of armchairs surrounds a low table. A kettle is already steaming on a small cart with a three-tiered cake stand full of small cakes and cookies.
I throw Daphne a startled look. She just has a full tea service set up? Like all the time?
Peggy hands us plates and gestures for us to take some goodies.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
“That man.” She grabs the teapot. “He’s been to Los Angeles, London, even Florida—Florida,” she spits out the word, “to sign books. But he won’t spend a few minutes in his hometown bookstore?” She shakes her head. “Disgraceful.”
“Criminal, really,” Daphne agrees.
“I’ve considered revoking his local privileges.” She sets out three delicate teacups laced with thin rims of gold and painted with floral accents. “Make him unwelcome everywhere. Even a loner like him has to go to the grocery and hardware store sometimes.”
“Can you do that?” I ask.
“No. Not really. Maybe temporarily. But I can fantasize about it vividly.”
She pours the tea into our cups. “Do you know how many copies of his books I’ve sold for him? Do you know how many times I’ve asked him to come in for a reading or a meet and greet with fans? You want sugar, honey?”
“Yes, please.”
She hands me the dish of sugar cubes. A small tong rests inside it for grabbing.
“Three times?” Daphne pours a little cream into her cup and then sits back.
“Seven,” Peggy corrects. “I counted. I keep records.” She sits across from us, holding the cup to her lips. “I hold grudges.”
Daphne lifts her own cup in a cheers salute. “I respect that.”
“So, tell me everything.”
Daphne and I exchange a look. We can’t tell her everything.
“We need to fill the theater for the Saturday show,” Daphne says.
I continue. “And we need Graham to be there for an entire movie for . . . reasons.”
“Reasons?”
“Reasons we can’t fully explain.” Daphne pulls out our flyer. “But this is our idea to get him and the rest of the town there. And we stopped by here because I thought you might have an idea to get him to stay.”
Peggy takes the page from Daphne, lifting her reading glasses from where they are hanging on her neck to look it over. “Oh, this is a hoot. We will have those seats filled, no problem. But getting Graham there will be tougher.”
We get quiet, drink our tea, and nibble on the sweets while she’s thinking.
After a few minutes, she sets her cup down.
Daphne leans forward. “You’ve thought of something.”
Peggy’s eyes gleam. “There’s only one person in this town Graham Deadwyler has ever cared about.”
She stalls for so long, the suspense gets to me. “Who?” I ask.
“Mrs. Hammond,” Peggy says slowly.
“Who?” I repeat.
But Daphne gasps. “Mrs. Hammond! Of course!”
“Who is that?”
“Our high school English teacher,” Daphne tells me. “She retired. Lives over in Haven.”
Peggy points at Daphne. “You mark my words, he won’t leave the theater.
Not if he sees her. That boy wouldn’t have written a single word without her.
She’s the one who told him he mattered. She used to come in here all the time, talking about how good his writing was and how he would be famous someday. ”
Daphne bounces in the seat next to me. “Yes. This is perfect. I’ll go talk to her. I applied for a job there, so I wanted to drive over anyway.”
“You will not kidnap a retired English teacher,” I say.
Daphne purses her lips. “Define kidnap.”
“Daphne.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “I will convince her.”
Peggy picks up her teacup. “I don’t think she’ll take much convincing. She loved that boy. I might have her number somewhere. Or I’ll get it. I always do.”
This whole thing still feels impossible.
“You look skeptical,” Daphne says to me.
I lift my hands. “This man slammed a door in my face. My face. I try not to be all ‘do you know who I am,’ but . . . do you know who I am? People don’t slam doors in my face.” Even here, where they mostly act normal around me.
Past me might have found Graham’s apathy intriguing, and Beverly might have gotten her wish for me to fall for the uninterested author if . . .
Don’t finish that sentence.
“Welcome to Surrender,” Daphne says. “Where no one cares, and everyone’s a little unhinged.”
I laugh.
This plan is ridiculous.
Complicated.
Probably doomed.
I let out a breath. “Okay. Let’s do this. My life is in your hands.”