Chapter 16
Lana
Griffin shifted under the sheet and kissed Lana’s shoulder blade. They’d dozed off for a while. So very cozy. Here she was, lying naked next to a guy she was so incredibly into, who was also apparently into her. And if there was a world where they could feasibly be together, it wasn’t this world.
“I have thirteen editions.”
“There are different editions?”
“The text doesn’t change, but the retro covers are fantastic.”
He kissed the tattoo, then his lips followed the path of her rose-gold necklace to the heart pendant. He flipped it over and read the inscription. “Always in my heart.”
“Vivien has a matching one. We’ve had them as long as I can remember.”
“Very pretty,” he said, looking at her face. He kissed her and got out of bed, pulling his boxers on. “We should eat. And I’ll grab you some cream for those Taser burns.” He pointed to her upper arm.
“You don’t have any tattoos, then?” The closest he came to ink was the purple and red bruise on his ribs where Hector’s stunt double had landed a hit.
“They’re a pain for makeup artists. For some reason, I end up in films where the plot requires me to be naked, or nearly naked, at some point.”
She rolled onto her side, watching him dress. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Also, I’m not sure anything defines me so much that I’d make it a permanent declaration. My existential issues. An alien hermit might be hard to explain.”
“I got swept up in the moment. Went to a librarian symposium, and a bunch of us got them—different ones.”
“I love that so much. What did the others get?”
“One guy got ‘shh’ tattooed on his pointer finger. My boss got an epic one—an open book with the pages burning. As they float up, they turn into butterflies and fly away. To symbolize that you can burn a book but not an idea.”
“For fierce defenders of truth and enforcers of ‘you should be allowed to read any damn book you please,’ you guys seem obsessed with book burning.”
“You laugh, but we’re basically civil rights campaigners. The unlikely warriors on the front lines of the culture war. Someone once filed a formal complaint against me for wearing rainbow socks.”
“They what?” He started getting plates out.
“It’s not even our patrons. The people who complain live nowhere near.
Sometimes they come from different states—stealth squads who go around libraries stealing specific books they claim are ‘polluting young minds.’ One will distract you with a question while the others grab the books.
The alarm goes off at the door, but by the time you get there, they’ve gone. They have getaway cars and everything.”
“Maybe I will join a library, for solidarity.”
“Honestly, if you came into the library and borrowed a book, it would be interpreted by some as an extreme political act.”
“Then I’m definitely doing it. Better yet, I’m gonna make a movie about a librarian who is fired for rainbow socks and fights back. The caped defender of intellectual freedom—cardiganed defender. We’ll call it Badass Librarian.”
“Oh, I will watch that. When I got my tattoo, I considered getting an entire line from Fahrenheit 451, the one at the beginning where the protagonist is burning the old lady’s books, and she chooses to burn alongside them, and he wonders what unimaginable things could be in a book that would make someone die to protect it.
But I didn’t want to go through that much pain. Your badass librarian totally would.”
“By any chance, do you ever wear a cardigan? Glasses on a chain?”
“Do you know how often men ask me that question? But full disclosure: I wear cardigans. Our A.C. is all over the place, so I’m constantly shifting between too hot and too cold. No glasses, though.”
“Would you wear them just for me? And peer over the top when I return a library book all dog-eared.”
“I’d much rather a book is read and loved and dog-eared. I feel sorry for the books that stay on the shelves, pristine. Sometimes I check them out and take them home so they don’t feel bad.”
He smiled at her with something that could be wonder, which was a gratifying look to see on anyone’s face, but especially his.
“Dinner is served, madam.” He opened the blind and sliding door at the far end, revealing the city.
Dusk had turned the sky into pastel gradients, a single pink and orange brushstroke sweeping across the horizon.
“Oh my,” she said, hauling herself out of bed.
“Right? I’ve looked at this view my whole life and I still catch my breath.”
“My view is ever-changing too. Depends on the graffiti in any given week.”
She picked out an inky blue negligee and kimono from Evangeline’s pile and put them on—pristine vintage silks that felt less like fabric and more like molten midnight.
“It’s like I’ve fallen into some ye olde Hollywood movie of the Golden Age,” she said, tying the kimono, “though we should be in black and white.”
“My grandfather was in those kinds of movies. My mom’s dad.
I remember when I was little, wondering why my grandmother looked so different in all the photos in the gallery in their house—the one they moved to after selling this one to my folks.
Unrecognizable, even. Redheads, blondes, brunettes.
They weren’t Granny, of course—they were his co-stars.
He and Granny did star in a few together though—that’s how they met. ”
“Are they still with us?”
“They died within months of each other, in their eighties,” he said, grabbing silverware from a drawer.
“The obituaries called it ‘a love story for the ages,’ but all I remember is the bickering. Wait!” He dropped the silverware onto the counter and snatched up one of the sheets of names. He scanned it, then grabbed another.
“Griffin?”
He pointed to a name. “Grace Marbury!”
“Who’s that?” Lana said, pulling up a bar stool.
Griffin didn’t seem to hear. “Those celebrity memoirs Vivien had checked out from the library—do you remember the names?”
“Not off the top of my head, but I took a screenshot.”
He grabbed the tablet from the coffee table, unlocked it, and found the image. He pointed to a book. “Love Story by Walter Shepherd. Grace Marbury’s husband. I thought I’d seen it on the list.”
“You’re going to have to walk me through this.”
“You are so cute like that. He’s a very famous director, she’s a very famous actress. A true love story for the ages, if you can believe the hype. This memoir—he wrote it about their relationship. It’s being made into a movie. They’re trying to speed up the release because she has terminal cancer.”
“Oh, how sad.” Lana straightened. “Wait—cancer? She’s in oncology, where the pocket dial happened?”
“I knew I recognized the voice on the phone—a lot older, and he was whispering, but it had to be him.”
“So this could be the guy Vivien was secretly seeing? How old is he?”
“Mid-seventies, maybe. It was a scandal when he married Grace because she’s much older.
She was an established leading lady when he was just starting out.
” Griffin found photos on the internet, some in black and white, some recent.
An elegant couple. “They’re both from huge, interconnected old Hollywood families.
They were never able to have children, so they’ve always been devoted to each other, or so the legend goes. ”
“Don’t contact me again until it’s all over? Oh my god, he’s not talking about a divorce, is he?” Lana pressed her hand to her chest. “Vivien told Julian that her secret could ‘blow lives apart.’ It all fits!”
“Not just lives. This movie is being talked up as one of the biggest releases of the year. Oscar material. We’re talking huge investment—time, money, reputation.
And the fact that Grace is dying makes it even more poignant.
If Vivien is pregnant by Walter Shepherd, I can’t even comprehend how big a scandal that would be.
Fortunes would be lost. Lawsuits everywhere.
Walter Shepherd would be a pariah. Not to mention poor Grace. ”
“Then what would become of Vivien? Maybe she is in hiding. And this could explain why she hasn’t even told me—he could have warned her to keep quiet.”
Griffin placed his hand on Lana’s shoulder.
“We should talk to him. Go to the hospital in the morning and try to get him alone—without Grace knowing. We could pretend we’re visiting this director I know—though I should actually visit him.
Little rough to use a dying man as an excuse to get through the door.
He’s in palliative care, so we’ll have to figure out where that is in relation to oncology.
” He accessed the hospital website on the tablet.
“You could do that without causing a riot?”
“It caters to the L.A. elite. I’ll be like the fiftieth most famous person there.”
From everything she knew about Griffin Hart, she seriously doubted that.
As they drove up to the hospital the next morning, Lana eyed the modern high-rise nervously. Even if she managed to get to Walter Shepherd, what would she say? Outside the main doors, a couple of dozen people were gathered, some with professional cameras.
“Did they know you were coming?” she said to Griffin.
“They won’t be here for me. It’s a celebrity hangout. A dozen names on that list could land a pap a solid payday. A shot of Grace Marbury in a headscarf, looking ill, for instance.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Or maybe there’s a pop star who’s nine-and-a-half months pregnant and could be turning up anytime. We’ll use the Brando entrance.”
“The what?”
“For ambulances and people who might cause a riot.”
They drove to a security booth. Griffin took off his hat and sunglasses. The guard took one look at him and raised the barrier, directing him to valet parking.
“Valet parking?” Lana said as they got out of the car at the back of the building.