Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Spencer
I flick the curtain aside and peer out the window. The street is dark and empty, except for a circle of light cast by a nearby light post.
I check my watch.
It’s nearly eight. Vivien has been getting in around seven over the past few days. Never this late.
I should call her. It’s not stalkerish, right? Just to make sure she’s okay. Her and Daphne, I amend.
Although if someone were to kidnap Daphne, I am not sure if I would feel worse for her or them.
They have been working hard over the past week getting the theater ready for an event this weekend and, apparently, doing their best to piss off Graham Deadwyler.
The whole town won’t shut up about it. Everyone is talking, making bets, guessing about this mysterious show based on his work, which is obvious bullshit, but that doesn’t stop them from speculating and calling me day and night for “help” when all they really want is to get details from me about my guest. The guest I’ve been doing my best to avoid so that I don’t think about her is all anyone wants to talk about when I’m around.
There was an article published in the local newspaper a couple days ago about the movie night, but Kevin only mentioned her involvement at the bottom as an aside. Probably to avoid my fist in his face.
What’s happening is obvious, to me, at least. Beverly is still matchmaking, even from the grave.
A hard ball forms in the pit of my stomach.
But it makes sense.
They are both celebrities—well, Graham is a reclusive writer, but he’s well-known, anyway. He’s celebrity adjacent. They are both beautiful, bright, and shiny . . .
If anyone can turn Graham’s head and pull him out of his self-imposed exile, it would be Vivien.
The power is finally turned on at Beverly’s house. Which means we can get it ready for her to move in soon, a few days max. I have to get a plumber out to check all the pipes and the water heater and whatnot to make sure it’s all functional.
Moe has experienced some delays with getting the parts shipped in for her car, but it should be fixed around the same time.
It will be much easier to avoid her when she’s not living in my home.
I look out the window again. Still dark and empty, just like it was five minutes ago. And five minutes before that.
Maybe I’ll call her. Casually. To check that everything is good. To see if she wants me to save her some food from . . . from the nonexistent dinner I ate earlier.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and, before I can continue second-guessing myself, find her name in my contacts and call.
Her phone rings several times, then goes to voicemail.
The worry nibbling at me starts taking bigger bites. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time worrying about my parents, worrying about the people in this town, worrying about Dad’s business surviving like he wanted, worrying about everything, it’s like a natural state of being at this point.
I’ll try Daphne. That’s not weird. I call her sometimes. Infrequently. Not often, but it happens . . . like once or twice a year.
Dammit.
Daphne answers after one ring. “Hey, so hypothetically speaking, if someone was being super annoying, like so annoying it caused temporary insanity, would it be okay to murder them? It might be, like, justifiable homicide?”
“What? Why are you asking me this?”
“Uhhh, no reason. Why are you calling me?”
“I was checking if you were with Vivien. She hasn’t come back yet, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” I don’t even believe my own bullshit right now.
“Dude. It’s like eight o’clock, not midnight. She probably just got involved in something at the theater. We’ve been cleaning everything up, repainting in spots, and going through some of the old photos and boxes. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Although . . . it has been a few hours since I left. And we got all the major things accomplished. I can come back to town and—”
I’m already moving for my coat. “No, it’s fine. I’ll go check on her. It’s kind of a long walk, anyway, I can give her a ride.”
She tsks. “It’s like three blocks, and they’ve shoveled all the sidewalks.”
“It could be icy. She could fall and hit her head or something.” I grab my keys off the counter.
There’s a pause, and then she laughs. “Oh. Oh, no. You’ve got it bad, buddy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I know exactly what she means.
“Uh-huh, sure. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her that her attorney is panting over her.”
I lock the front door on my way out. “I’m not panting over anyone.”
“Oh, please, you are down bad.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Keep telling yourself it’s nothing, I’m sure you’ll believe it, eventually.”
“Thanks, Daphne.” I hang up before she can say anything else.
Five minutes later, I’m pulling open the front door to the theater. Some of the tension leaks out. It’s unlocked.
“Vivien?”
The overhead lights hum faintly, but there are no signs of life. I stalk toward the office but come up short in front of an arched doorway that’s cracked a few inches, faint light spilling out onto the carpet.
I rap my knuckles on the door and then press it open.
Vivien sits cross-legged on the floor, photos and books scattered around her.
“Hey.”
She looks up and blinks, like she’s coming out of a daze. “Hey.”
My shoulders relax for the first time since the sun went down.
She’s fine.
Her hair is pulled back from her face in a messy bun, blond tendrils floating around her face. Her jeans have a dirt smudge on the thigh, her gray hoodie looks like it’s seen better days, but she’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Thought you could use a ride so you aren’t walking in the dark. It’s below freezing out there.”
“Thank you.” She looks back down at the photos. “I lost track of time.”
I crouch next to her, picking up a Polaroid of Beverly, no more than fifty, with a younger version of Peggy. They’re standing on a red carpet in shimmery black and blue sequined gowns with their arms around each other, faces wreathed in smiles.
“This is amazing.”
“Look at this one.” She hands me another photo, a larger group one. This one must have been Halloween. There’s a Frankenstein, a mummy, Elvira, Beetlejuice, a Ghostbuster . . . must have been the ’80s.
“This is great.”
“I loved this room as a kid. Beverly would give me the key after my chores every day.” She lifts the gold skeleton key from the floor. “Getting the key felt like a gift, every time, like going through the closet to Narnia.”
Above our heads, fairy lights are strung across the ceiling and woven between exposed beams, casting a golden haze over the room.
It’s a little cooler here than the rest of the theater.
Rows of metal shelving line the walls, each stacked with film canisters in varying sizes, their labels handwritten in fading ink.
Some are neatly organized. Others are scattered and tilted, like someone started a system but only got halfway done.
There isn’t much furniture, just a small couch pushed over to the side.
“There’s a hidden passageway in here. It goes from here to the projection room, and then out to the theater, did you know?”
“I didn’t know.”
I’m not surprised there is also a secret passageway. The whole theater is part archive, part treasure trove, and part magic. Kind of like Beverly.
Vivien follows my gaze upward, her head tilting back.
“Beverly always believed any space where you spent significant time should feel magical. She used to tell me you should only keep things that bring you joy. Decorate your life with them. Surround yourself with them.” A smile tugs at her lips.
“She’d say, ‘What else is there to do with your one big, beautiful life?’ ”
I settle down on the ground next to her. “She was definitely full of life. Loud about it too. The first time I met her, I was maybe ten? My parents brought me by the theater for something, and she decided I looked too serious.”
She considers me. “I bet you dressed like a tiny Mr. Rogers.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been enjoying my sweater vests?”
“Enjoy is a strong word,” she teases.
“Next thing I know, she’s dragging me up onto the stage and making me do improv with her in front of a half-full audience.”
Vivien laughs. “What did you do?”
I grimace. “It was a nightmare. I completely froze. Couldn’t think of a single word.
But she just asked me questions, worked around me, with me, until I found my voice and could play along.
Afterward, she told me I needed to loosen up.
Said life was too short to stand on the sidelines all the time. ”
Vivien’s smile softens. “She was right.”
“She usually was. Then she got me to sign up for a jazz class. After a lot of convincing.”
She chuckles. “She taught me how to tap. It didn’t take much convincing.”
“Really?”
“I loved Calamity Jane so much, I can probably still remember all the words to ‘Just Blew in from the Windy City.’ ”
“She would always brag about how talented you were,” I say. “Even back then. She always said you were her favorite granddaughter.”
Vivien’s smile is sad. “I was her only granddaughter. Well, except for Audrey.”
“Did Audrey ever meet her?”
“Only briefly. She wasn’t technically related to any of us.
She married my grandpa when my mom was already grown and out of the house.
Then he died a few years later.” She picks up one of the photos, her thumb brushing over Beverly’s face.
“She was there when I was born. But we rarely came back here. My mom hated coming here. Still does. Says it’s too small.
Her interpretation of a big, beautiful life is quite different from Beverly’s. More literal.”
For a moment, we sit there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the room and the faint scent of dust and salted popcorn that’s been absorbed into the walls.
She clears her throat. “So, I bought some stuff to make for dinner, if you’re hungry? Have you eaten dinner?”
“I haven’t.” I was too busy stewing in worry. “You want to cook for me?”
“Yes. If that’s okay. You’ve been giving me a place to stay and everything, and I told you I would feed you in return, and I haven’t.
And anyway, it’s not really ‘cooking,’ I picked up one of those precooked rotisserie chickens and a bagged salad.
It’s in the fridge here. It will be quick and easy, considering the time. ” She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
Is she nervous?
“That sounds good to me. You’re sure?”
“Of course. You take care of so many people in this town, including me, but who takes care of you?”
The question catches me off guard. Maybe because it’s coming out of someone’s mouth other than Carter’s.
My parents took care of me when I was younger, but for so long, it was me taking care of them. It was like once they were gone, the caring was still there, needing to come out of me and I had to direct it somewhere.
The thought of dinner is nice though. Surprising. Confusing. Maybe slightly terrifying.
I push myself to my feet and hold out a hand. “Dinner sounds great.”
After a second, she takes it and beams at me, her smile bright enough to illuminate the entire theater.
Something in my chest twinges at the visible proof of her happiness.
I should tell her thanks, but no thanks. My mind calculates the evening’s potential ramifications.
Thirty minutes, minimum, to reheat the chicken in the oven. Then there’s the actual eating and conversing, maybe there will be dessert or walking her to the door. Too much time around each other is a bad idea. Terrible idea.
What have I gotten myself into?