Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Spencer
“Is there another letter for me?” Vivien asks.
Her words are distant. My focus is still on the first paragraph of Beverly’s note.
I knew what was happening around me, even without Vivien discussing the specifics of her letters, but I don’t think I wanted to accept it.
Now it’s staring at me in black and white.
“Spencer?”
I look up.
Vivien has a crease forming between her brows. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, it’s fine. The letter confirmed the ticket is the correct item.”
“Is there another letter for me?” she asks again.
My eyes scan over the words again. “No.” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “No. Not until after the show this weekend. I have to verify one more task first, it seems. This one won’t have a physical object; I just have to act as witness.” I hold up the ticket.
“Oh, right. That makes sense.”
There is at least ten feet of space between us, plus a desk and my chair, and yet all I can think about is swallowing that distance and then kissing her again.
And again.
With no interruptions this time.
I could brush the papers off my desk and lay her down on it, remove all her clothes and then—
She pushes to her feet. “I have to go check on Audrey, she was . . . upset earlier.”
I nod.
She pauses in the doorway, turning back to meet my eyes over her shoulder. “Hey, don’t work too late. Sleep is important too.” Then she disappears.
A few seconds later, the stairs creak. I wait another minute, focusing on breathing in and out.
Like the force of my exhale will somehow expel her from my mind.
It doesn’t work. She might be the only person in this town, other than Carter, who is constantly reminding me to take care of myself.
I sit down and read the letter again.
Spencer,
Vivien should have given you a ticket to a showing this weekend at The Palace. In order to ensure the next task has been completed, your job is to observe her at the theater and ensure that she sits next to Graham Deadwyler for the entire length of the movie.
Of course, we can allow time for bathroom breaks, or if they sneak off together, I suppose that’s fine—fits the spirit of what we are trying to accomplish, which I am sure you have guessed at this point if Vivien hasn’t divulged all the details.
If she has, I hope they are juicy.
I hope it’s been exciting. I hope people are talking and gossiping.
If only she knew. It’s literally all anyone can talk about.
You can give Vivien the next letter once you have confirmed completion of the next task.
Take care of my girl.
Beverly
Guilt grips me by the throat. Can I be trusted to take care of her girl? If only Beverly knew what I was thinking when I was around her.
Who am I kidding? She would find all of this exciting. Like one of her movies. She lived for drama and romance, real or imagined.
I’m the caricature of a small-town attorney, constantly running myself ragged taking care of everyone.
Vivien comes to town, a movie star, beautiful and brilliant, unable to find the place she belongs.
All we’re missing is a Christmas tree farm, maybe an apple orchard, and a broody lumberjack to complete the love triangle.
Oh, wait, we do have a broody writer character for that.
Beverly really is a mastermind.
But Vivien isn’t the cliché jaded businesswoman who needs to find the meaning of Christmas.
I can’t like her. Not this much. It’s not possible. We’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. She’s my client. I can’t pursue anything that could be even remotely construed as unethical. I could be disbarred.
I am beyond fucked.
Saturday. The best day of the week to get work done.
Quinn is off, Vivien and Audrey are at the theater, everyone in town is busy gossiping about movie night, or getting ready for movie night, or shopping for movie night, which means they won’t be bothering me.
I’ve got a solid to-do list: finish work on updating Mr. Peterson’s will since his daughter is getting a divorce and he needs to “cut that cheating bastard out”; review a lease agreement for Jerry’s cousin; and come up with an idea to settle a land dispute over where exactly the boundary lies between Peggy and George’s property because he wants to build a fence.
I turn on my computer and spot a cheese Danish from Brewed Awakening sitting on my desk with a note.
Thought you might need some sustenance. Hope you have a good day. —V
My heart does a flip in my chest.
She’s been doing this lately. Leaving me little treats or snacks, muffins, sometimes dessert or fresh coffee. I take a bite of Danish.
It’s perfect.
My computer hasn’t even finished loading to the home screen when the front door opens, and Quinn’s unmistakable stomping fills the house.
I glance at the clock. It’s barely nine. I lean back in my chair, already bracing. “Aren’t you supposed to be off on Saturdays?”
She drops into the chair across from me, shrugging out of her coat. “I got Mrs. Donnelly to sit with my mom for a couple of hours.”
I straighten a little. Quinn doesn’t leave her mom on the weekends unless she has to. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I wanted your advice on something. I got an email from the facility. The one in Haven. They moved her up on the waitlist.”
“That’s good,” I say.
She nods once. “They want updated paperwork. Financial disclosures, medical forms, all that. And there’s an application for state assistance, but since it’s a government form, I want to make sure I don’t screw anything up and accidentally delay it another six months.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to apply first or wait until they officially offer a spot, or if doing it now helps or hurts.
” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “The website looks like it’s from the last century. ”
Before I can respond, the front door opens, and a few seconds later, Carter appears in the doorway. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a sec?” His gaze drops to Quinn. “Oh. Hey, Quinn.”
“Hey.”
He looks between us. “Am I interrupting something? Should I come back?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Quinn says at the same time.
I sigh. “Just give us a minute.”
“Yeah, okay.” He lingers in the doorway anyway, clearly not going far.
I turn back to Quinn. “We’ll start with the financials. I’ll need—”
The door opens again.
I close my eyes briefly.
Jerry strides in, aimed straight at me. “Hey, Spence, you had a chance to look over that lease agreement for me?”
Carter lets out a quiet huff of laughter behind him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh.” Jerry glances around. “Is there a line?”
“Yes,” three of us say in unison.
Jerry puts his hands on his hips. “You’ve been distracted since Vivien moved in here. You know she’s not your only client.”
I grimace. This is exactly what I’ve been worried about. It would be just my luck for Jerry to mention something like this while complaining to the court clerk, and then I’d be pulled in front of a judge.
“Has your professional judgment become compromised?”
“No, your honor, it has been questionable the entire time.”
Before I can defend myself, the door opens again. I press my fingers to my head.
George and Dorothea stop in the doorway next to Carter.
“Oh, good. Everyone’s here,” George says. “Are you discussing movie night? When are you all showing up tonight? What do you know?”
“What are you all wearing? We’re dressing up, right?” Dorothea asks. “Who’s bringing the flask?”
I drag a hand down my face.
It’s not even nine thirty.
I haven’t seen The Palace this packed in years.
There’s a line at the concession stand that wraps halfway across the lobby. Someone’s laughing too loudly near the photo booth, which also has a line, and a corkboard along the wall is almost filled with Polaroids.
People are mingling throughout the cavernous space, some standing together in clumps while others weave through the throng.
Everyone is dressed up, suits and ties, sequined dresses catching the light, fur coats, glittering jewelry, and cuff links.
I’m almost shabby by comparison in my best slacks and sports coat.
I move deeper into the lobby, smiling and nodding at familiar faces and doing my best to avoid the questions and speculation by not stopping for too long.
No, I don’t know what is happening tonight.
No, I don’t know if Graham Deadwyler is actually coming.
No, I cannot share any information, even if I had it.
Peggy slips her arm into mine. “I haven’t worn this dress since 1972.” It’s a bright pink halter dress with fringe. She’s wearing silver knee-high boots with it.
“You look great.”
“I knew you’d say that.” She beams at me. “So, what’s really going on here?”
I point at a nearby flyer about the Graham Deadwyler tribute. “Movie night.”
She squints at me. “Mm-hmm. Oh, look Vivien’s sister is by herself. Go be a gentleman.” She shoos me toward Audrey, who is standing alone in a black dress, fiddling with a gold clutch purse.
“Hey, Audrey.” I stop next to her, both our backs to the wall.
“Hi.” She gives me a half-hearted wave.
We stand there in silence for a minute, facing the crowd.
“This town is . . . a lot,” she says. There’s something tight in her tone, but I can’t tell if it’s judgment or nerves.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll introduce you around, so you don’t feel like you walked into a cult meeting.”
“Too late,” she mutters, but she follows.
I spot Jerry near the concession stand in a tux. “Hey, Jerry. You look great.” I eyeball the outfit, attempting to ascertain if it’s another stripper costume. If it is, the Velcro is well hidden.
He turns, brightening immediately. “Spence. You were right about going with the suit instead of the cop outfit.”
I gesture to Audrey. “This is Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jerry says, offering a hand. “I’m the one who arrested your sister.”
Audrey blinks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He means—”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Jerry adds. “Mostly.”
A sharp clanging has all heads in the room turning toward the noise. Daphne stands on a stool by the concession stand, holding a cowbell in one hand. “Friends and neighbors,” she calls out.
The crowd grows quiet.
“As you may have guessed,” Daphne continues, “We are not here to watch a heartwarming coming-of-age story inspired by the work of Graham Deadwyler.”
Chuckles fill the air.
“However, we are going to watch the Alfred Hitchcock classic Rear Window, which, ironically, did inspire The House That Ate Tuesday, Graham’s third book to hit the bestseller lists. Also, I’ve just been informed that Graham is on his way.”
The room erupts in cheers.
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out despite myself. Does she have spies reporting in?
This whole thing is ridiculous.
“The movie will begin shortly after he arrives, so get your drinks and snacks now and enjoy the show!”
More clapping, not as enthusiastic as the Graham announcement, scatters around the room, which goes back to being a noisy, shifting buzz as people head for the concessions and to the bathrooms.
I scan over the crowd. Totally not looking for Vivien.
My gaze lands on an older woman across the room with white hair in a blue pantsuit. Wait. What is my high school English teacher doing here? She retired forever ago. Haven’t seen her in years.
She’s talking to Vivien.
The rest of the room blurs, the noises fade, bringing Vivien into stark relief.
Her dress is strapless, long, purple, and flowy. Her hair is partially up and pulled back from her face, blond strands flowing down her back, enhancing the line of her collarbone and delicate skin of her neck.
She looks incredible. But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and her shoulders are tight.
Is she okay?
I start toward her because apparently my self-preservation instincts have completely left the building, and my feet have a mind of their own.
Her eyes lift to mine as I approach, and she relaxes a smidge, the tension leaving her face and shoulders.
“Hi,” I manage. But before I can open my mouth and say anything else, the air in the room shifts, the pressure suddenly dropping.
Nearly every head in the room turns toward the door, the laughter and chatter dimming.
I drag my focus away from Vivien and follow the gaze of the crowd.
Standing in the doorway to The Palace is Graham Deadwyler.