Chapter 16 Seraphina
SERAPHINA
The journalist Brooke chose for my interview was named Meredith Bartlett.
I did a little research on her and was surprised to see how accomplished she was.
She’d profiled politicians, a Nobel laureate in chemistry, as well as numerous actors and musicians.
She was known for thoughtful, in-depth articles.
She’d agreed to come to Willet Cove for the interview. For privacy reasons, I’d asked to meet with her somewhere other than my house. We’d settled on The Salty Scone, a coffee shop in town.
Thankfully, the place was quiet. A mid-morning on a week day before tourist season usually brought in a few retirees who lingered, but mostly people got their coffee and their scone and headed out the door.
I ordered a cappuccino, and claimed a table in the far corner, out of earshot of the staff.
Meredith arrived a few minutes later. I recognized her from her photo on her bio.
She was tall, with silver-streaked hair cut bluntly at the jaw.
I stood and held up a hand. She spotted me right away and headed my direction.
“I’m Meredith,” she said.
We shook hands. “Seraphina. It’s nice to meet you.”
She was dressed in a blue suit with a white blouse. I glanced at her feet. People’s shoes often told me a lot about a person. They were a no-nonsense pair of loafers, probably comfortable.
She set her leather bag on the table and left me to get a cup of coffee.
While she did so, I observed her from the table.
She was pleasant to the clerk but not friendly like people were in Willet Cove.
After ordering a double latte, she stepped to the side.
Her gaze darted around the coffee shop, seeming to take it all in.
A writer always looked at the details of a place.
And people. What would she see about me?
The photographs of historic Willet Cove displayed on the wall drew her attention.
Her head tilted as she looked at the one of the first schoolhouse, its eleven students posing with their teacher for the camera.
Recently, that same photo had intrigued Robbie.
Esme told me he’d nearly driven our poor librarian to drink with his relentless research into who they were.
When her coffee was ready, she returned to me. “What a beautiful place you live in.”
“Thank you. We love it here.”
She settled across from me. “I can detect a slight southern accent. Alabama?”
“That’s right. I grew up in Mobile.”
She pulled a notebook and pen out of her leather bag, in addition to a small recording device.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Meredith asked. “It’s helpful for me later, when I’m writing, to revisit the interview. That way, I quote you correctly.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Thank you. And thank you for agreeing to talk with me. Brooke tells me you’re surreptitiously private.” She switched on the recorder, then met my gaze. Her eyes were a pale blue, with short, stubby eyelashes. “I’d like to start by talking about your career.”
I drew in a breath. “Sure. Ask me anything.”
“Great. Tell me about your publishing journey. Take me back to the beginning.”
For the next twenty minutes, I told her about the years of rejection and then the happy day when I was offered a three-book deal. How proud my dad had been. How exciting it was to see my books on the shelves of our favorite bookstore in Mobile.
It was actually kind of fun to talk about myself. For her part, she listened carefully, occasionally jotting something down in her notebook.
“And now you have a Netflix adaptation. Tell me about that. I can only imagine how exciting it is.”
I nodded, smiling at the memory of the phone call from my agent telling me the news. “It still feels like a dream. I was surprised they were interested in a series set in a small town in the south about three sisters looking for love.”
“Why did that surprise you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because The Bellflower Girls is about women. And their romances. Not very vogue these days. It seems guns and cops are the only thing on television.”
“And it premieres this week.”
“Friday night. I’m taking my village with me to L.A. for the screening and party.”
“Your village?”
“My four best friends and their kids,” I said. “And of course my son will be with me.”
“Will Hunter Sloan be your date?”
The shift startled me. It was sneaky, the way she just slid right in there. Almost like stealing a base.
“He will, yes,” I said.
“Dana King’s book has been quite the sensation,” Meredith said. “Has it been hard—starting a new relationship while his ex-wife releases a tell-all?”
“All that has nothing to do with who he really is. So, no, it hasn’t been hard.”
“She paints an unflattering picture of him.” Meredith flipped backward in her notebook, glancing down at what she’d written there.
“She calls him emotionally unavailable and withdrawn. Unwilling to connect.” Meredith’s voice was gentle, almost sympathetic.
“She also says he was in love with Ivy James the entire time they were married. That he saved the best of himself for Ivy.”
A hot iron rod flared in my chest. “Totally false. He and Ivy are dear friends and collaborators. There was cheating in that marriage but it sure the heck wasn’t by Hunter.”
Meredith’s pen stopped moving. “What are you saying?”
“Dana had an affair. That’s why the marriage ended.
Not because Hunter was in love with Ivy.
Dana King was in someone else’s bed, and most of the music industry knew it.
” My voice grew sharper, but I couldn’t stop, anger urging me to continue.
“So it’s rich that she’s accusing him of cheating when it was she who imploded their marriage. ”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s what happened.”
Meredith wrote something down. My heart beat too fast. I should slow down. I should stop talking. But all I could think about was how unfair it was that Hunter’s name was the one being dragged through the mud when it was all lies. My instinct to protect him had taken over rational thought.
“He gave her everything he had of himself, and she threw it away for some music executive who went back to his wife the minute Dana left Hunter. Do you want to know what Dana’s book is really about?”
“Please.”
“It’s about jealousy. Dana King is bitter and chronically envious of Ivy James.
Ivy’s career surpassed hers. She blames Hunter for giving Ivy his best songs, when it was actually not even up to him.
The label saw the star potential in Ivy James and they did whatever it took to make sure she broke out.
And it worked. Ivy’s playing arenas and Dana’s lucky to book a county fair. ”
Oh, God, I was really on a rant. I folded my trembling hands on my lap and drew in a deep breath.
“You’re saying Dana King’s book is full of lies?”
“Let’s just say Dana’s made herself seem the victim, blaming everyone around her for her failures when she should look in the mirror.”
“If this is true, why hasn’t Ivy James or Hunter Sloan said so?”
“Because they’re too classy,” I said. “They won’t stoop to her level. That’s not their way.”
She looked back at her notes. “He said the truth about his life is in his songs. Should we take that to mean Ivy’s new single, written by Hunter Sloan, is about Dana’s betrayal?”
“That’s right. And his mother’s.”
“His mother’s?”
“She left her little boy when he was only ten years old. The two women he loved more than anyone both left him. You tell me—does that give him the right to be a little guarded? His heart’s been broken every which way. That he’s still open to love should be the headline. Not her lies.”
Meredith didn’t say anything, simply nodded. But I could see it in her eyes. That sparkle that writers get when they know they have a great story.
My anger subsided, replaced by horror. What had I just done? Talking about his mother? That was sacred. It was his story to tell, not mine.
“That’s very insightful,” Meredith said. “It explains a lot about the song.”
“I shouldn’t have talked about his mother. That’s not something he would want shared. I need that off the record. Please.”
Meredith set down her pen. “Of course.”
I exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get back to talking about you. Tell me about your latest book.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Talking about my books felt a heck of a lot safer than my personal life.
Over the next few days, the article weighed heavily on my mind. I thought about telling Hunter what I’d said but, every time I tried, the words stuck in the back of my throat. On Friday, we headed to L.A. for the premier. I’d convinced myself by then that Meredith would keep her promise.
I’d managed to get tickets for our whole gang, so we headed en masse to the Hollywood Roosevelt, arriving on a warm afternoon.
We filled up three black Suburbans, sent by the studio.
Hunter, Tyler and I were sharing a car with Esme, Grady, Madison and Robbie.
Madison let out a scream at the sight of the ROOSEVELT HOTEL sign that crowned the rooftop in tall capital letters.
“There it is. I see it,” Madison shouted, bouncing on the seat. “It’s so tall.”
She was right. The Hollywood Roosevelt rose twelve stories above Hollywood Boulevard, its cream-colored stucco bright against the blue California sky. A green awning stretched over the entrance at street level, and palm trees decorated the corners.
How many stories you probably hold, I thought, as I craned my neck to look at the sign. Tell them to me.
“This is where the first Academy Awards were held,” Robbie announced as we tumbled out of the car. “May 16, 1929. The ceremony lasted fifteen minutes. Janet Gaynor won Best Actress. She was only twenty-two.”
“No one cares about that,” Madison said, as only a sister could.
“I care,” Robbie said. “Did you know the Hollywood sign originally said Hollywoodland?”