2. Avery
Drip.
Drip.
DRIP.
I wake, groggy and confused in a strange bed, until I realize I’m wrapped snug in a mountain of blankets in Blackberry Cove, listening to the rainstorm drip steadily outside the windows.
I sink back into the pillows and yawn, still exhausted from my water-logged adventures last night. I had to hike another mile towards town, cursing Duke Hendrick’s name in the pouring rain before luckily, I flagged down the local tow truck heading out in the opposite direction. Still, by the time I was finally dropped me at my rental house, I was too tired – and waterlogged – to do anything but hurl myself into a hot shower and fall face-first into bed.
The bed I now see has a massive wooden headboard, hand-carved with birds and animals and?—
I squint, looking closer at the figures dancing together across the wood. Dancing, or… doing other, energetic things.
Is that some kind of orgy?
I sit up, looking around the room in daylight for the first time. All the good rentals in town were booked up months ago, but this place had a last-minute cancellation, so I was able to snap it up for the summer – and for a bargain price, too. I’m watching every dollar in my savings account since I don’t know how long it’ll be until my next paycheck. Still, the leasing agent warned me it wasn’t exactly a luxury listing.
“One-of-a-kind local artist’s cottage. Secluded location, eye-catching décor,” the description said.
Looking around the place, I can see, that was a serious understatement. The bedroom walls are hand painted with some kind of jungle scene, with green twisting vines and bright exotic flowers – and the glowing eyes of various wildlife peeping through the foliage. Overhead, the ceiling is midnight blue, dotted with gold astrology constellations, and all the furniture is mismatched, painted wild bright colors. It’s a long way from the California coastal luxe of my LA apartment, that’s for sure.
It”s… charming, I decide, climbing out of bed. A fun change of scenery. And with the embroidered drapes pulled back and warm sunlight flooding the room?—
Wait a minute. I stop by the window, looking out at the view. The cottage really is secluded, I’m surrounded by lush trees and rolling fields, peaceful and green with the ocean glittering in the distance under a cloudless sky.
Cloudless. Sunny. I realize, it’s not raining anymore.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My head snaps around, following the sound of dripping water all the way over to the corner of the room – where water is seeping through the ceiling and forming a wet puddle on the floor.
The floor where I threw my suitcases, and perfect vintage suede jacket in a heap last night.
A very wet heap.
“Noooo!” I wail, diving to drag my things clear. Luckily, my jacket seems to be out of splash-range, and the hard-shell cases have protected the rest of my stuff. Still, there’s wet patch on the rug, and a steady stream of water sprinkling down from the peeling corner of the ceiling. I shove the wastepaper basket to catch the flow, and make a mental note to call someone in about the leak.
But first, coffee.
I pull on a fluffy bathrobe, and head downstairs. The interior design only gets wilder as I go. Orange walls. Aquamarine shag rug. Shelves of misshapen pottery and sculptures. And the art – it’s everywhere, even balanced precariously above the toilet in the pink-and-green patchwork bathroom. I pause to examine the massive canvases hanging on every wall, splashed with bright abstract shapes and swirls, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what, exactly, I’m looking at. Is that a piece of fruit… or a man’s naked butt cheek?
Both? Neither? Who knows, I’ve never been much of an art critic. Maybe this place belongs to a visionary artiste, and I’m lucky to even step foot in their space; one day I’ll be giving interviews about the inspiring summer I spent getting in touch with my inner muse and soaking in their genius.
Literally soaking, if this place springs another leak.
But wild décor choices aside, I’m relieved to discover the cottage is actually a warm, welcoming space. There’s a cozy little living room with an open fireplace, a dining room crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a tiny kitchen painted in cheerful shades of buttercup yellow. It’s small, sure, and I’m guessing there’s no under-floor heating, spa bathtub, or voice-activated surround sound, but if I couldn’t swing a sprawling mansion like Kate Winslet in The Holiday, then I can definitely live with Cameron Diaz’s charming cottage life.
Especially if it turns out there’s a suave British Jude Law look-a-like ready to stop by and entertain me. He wouldn’t have left me on the side of the road, that’s for sure.
I think of Duke and scowl. So much for small-town hospitality. He’s the kind of guy you’d find armed with a pitchfork, running the poor tourists out of town. And the way he was smirking at me…
Nope! I’m not going to let that asshole ruin another moment of my summer, so I push the infuriating memory aside and go in search of caffeine. I manage to find a jar of instant coffee in a cupboard, and brew myself a mug, then take it outside onto the back patio, which is full of hand-painted flowerpots and old garden furniture, with a view of the rolling fields stretching down to the bay.
There. I take a deep breath of salty sea air, relaxing. It’s so peaceful out here, all I can hear is the chirp of birdsong, and the distant crash of the ocean waves. The sun filters through the trees, dappling the paving stones and warming my bare feet.
Everything’s going to be OK.
I repeat it again in my mind, and for the first time since running out on my wedding, I believe it. So what if my life has been a disaster for the past few months, and my career is hanging on by the tips of my French-polished fingernails?
I can turn it all around. I always do.
Nobody in my old neighborhood expected anything of me, not with a drunk for a father, and an underwhelming B- grade average in school. I always knew, algebra and social science stats wouldn’t get me out of that place, but my pretty face? My body? They were my real golden ticket out. I started landing teen modeling gigs when I was thirteen, and I hoarded every dollar, saving for the day I turned eighteen and could head for Hollywood. I waited tables, scraped up the cash for acting workshops, had my ass grabbed by a hundred drunken dudes, and fought my way past every other doe-eyed wannabe starlet to grab my chance at fame – and I’m not letting go now. Not a chance. If I lay low for the summer, this whole thing will blow over, and I’ll be back on the red carpet again. Glittering, polished.
Untouchable.
My phone lights up with a call, as if on cue. It’s my agent, Max.
My heart leaps. Finally! Maybe he’s calling to say the female lead of Annihilation 3 broke both her legs and they want me for the role, after all!
“Hello?” I click to connect the call. “Max, what’s up?”
“Nothing much,” he replies, sounding busy. There are voices in the background, and I can hear him talk to them, muffled, before his voice turns clear again. “Was there something you needed? You left me a bunch of messages.”
My heart sinks. “Well, you haven’t been answering my calls.”
“Yeah, sorry, things are crazy right now. you know how it is, we’ve got Cannes, and Venice…”
His voice fades out from bad cell reception, and I grip my coffee mug tighter, waiting for him to find a precious moment to, you know, speak to me.
“Max? Max!”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies, sounding anywhere but.
“Are there any projects I should know about?” I ask hopefully. “Big auditions? I heard Madeline Marrone is putting together her next movie,” I add, mentioning an amazing female director who just broke out with her debut indie movie. “Even if I only tried for a small role, it could be the right move for me. Get me in more prestigious films.”
Max snorts with laughter – and then tries to hide it with a cough. “Yeah, I don’t think she’s looking for your type,” he says dismissively. “Look, we’re all still rooting for you, things are just quiet right now. We did get that offer for Motel Nightmare 6?—”
“No.” I cut him off immediately. “I told you, no gruesome horror movies where I get stalked and dismembered by an axe murderer. Real acting gigs only.”
“But Avery?—”
“The Last Time I Left You was a box office smash,” I remind him, naming the romantic drama I shot here on Cape Cod. “I had equal billing with Jackson Kane in that movie, I got great reviews, but now he’s off booking superhero movies and Oscar biopics, and the best you can offer me is ‘dead hooker’, or the cookie-baking lead in a TV holiday movie?”
“That’s different, Avery. He’s a star.”
“And I should be, too.” I snap back – and then immediately regret it. I sound like an entitled bitch, and Lord knows, I’m in no position to make demands right now. “Sorry,” I apologize quickly, “I just mean?—”
“Listen, I’ve got to run,” Max interrupts me. “But I’ve got my ear to the ground for you. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”
He hangs up before I can reply.
I exhale, trying to keep my Zen vibes. What’s that my old yoga instructor used to tell us?
What’s meant for you cannot pass you by.
Well, I’m meant for A-list projects and leading roles. I just wish they would hurry the hell up and get here already.
I dressin a pair of casual denim cut-offs and a tank top, then grab a tote bag and head into town to see about my car. It’s an easy walk along winding country lanes, and it feels good to stretch my legs after all that travel, cooped up in one spot. I’m surprised to find I even recognize some of the landmarks from the last time I was in town, filming the movie last summer.
The dive bar… the Main Street drag of cute boutiques and cafes… the grassy town square… it’s all quaint and beachy, exactly the way I remember – but I’m guessing not much ever changes in Blackberry Cove.
I keep my head down, hiding behind my sunglasses as I cut down a side street, away from everyone. It’s early, but there are still people out: tourists and locals strolling the wide sidewalks, enjoying their morning coffee before a day at the shore. I shoot a longing look at the mocha whip-type drink some woman is slurping as I pass. Dammit. That instant coffee nonsense didn’t put a dent in my morning craving, and I know the local coffee shop serves a mean vanilla latte, but I can’t risk the crowds. I’m trying to stay incognito here, and firing up the town gossip pages is the last thing I need.
Literally.
I couldn’t believe it, but apparently there’s a website, The Squall, where people post all the local news and scandal. From what I could tell, the biggest furor is usually about the town Gardening Club, or someone leaving their dog off-leash, so I can only imagine the kind of attention a disgraced movie star would draw.
It’ll be good for me, I decide, walking faster. A detox! Clean living, no sugar… By the time Max calls back with my dream role, my skin will be glowing like I just spent a month at la Spa Roche-Posay in Switzerland!
“Hello?” I venture, arriving at the garage. My rental car is parked out front… but the tire looks just as flat as it was last night. I look around the grease-stained place, filled with parts and boxes... and no sign of actual humans. “Is anyone here?”
“Larry’s on a break.” A gawky teenage boy materializes, rubbing his hands on a rag. “What do you want?”
“I’m here about the flat tire?” I ask, pointing to my car. “He said it would be done today.”
“Yeah, turns out we need to special order—” the kid looks at me properly, and then his jaw drops and he almost walks right into the wall. “Holy shit. You’re… you’re her!”
“No idea what you mean,” I reply brightly. “So, the tire?”
“Whatshername. Avery, from that movie.” He stares, wide-eyed. “I was visiting my dad last summer, so I wasn’t here, but I’ve watched it like a hundred times. You are so fucking hot.”
I keep my smile fixed in place. “Sorry, that’s not me,” I insist. “I wish. I get mistaken for her all the time though. You said, you had to order the tire?—”
“No, but it’s you,” he insists. “Look,” the kid waves behind him, to where there’s a row of magazine centerfolds pinned up on the wall. Megan Fox hosing herself down in a wet T-shirt. Sydney Sweeney busting out of a bustier.
And yours truly, draped over the hood of a classic Corvette wearing nothing but a pair of tiny ass-cutting hot pants and an American flag bikini top.
“It’ll be a vintage throwback,” the publicist reassured me. “Very classy. Classic Hollywood bombshell.”
It was a major Vanity Fair shoot, and I thought the final photos came out beautifully, but hanging here on the grease-stained garage wall, curling at the edges, “classy” isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind.
“Are you filming something here again?” the kid asks me eagerly. “Could I get, like, a selfie? My friends are going to be so jealous. My buddy, Mike, has you as his wallpaper. He’s going to die.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to run!” I exclaim, already backing away. “Have Larry call me about the tire, OK?”
I walk fast away from the kid’s adoring gaze, but when I look back, he’s already texting frantically on his phone.
So much for incognito.
I groan. Still, I guess if my cover’s blown, there’s no point in keeping a low profile anymore.
Dirty chai latte, come to me now.
I make beeline for the local coffee shop to place my order, and go loiter in the back of the store to wait. Everybody seems to be taking their time this morning: hanging out, and chatting with newcomers as they arrive. I can’t help but eavesdrop, picking up snatches of conversation.
“…we need six extra floats for the parade…”
“…they left glitter all over the floor…”
“…he nearly got me with the blade. I swore, I’d call the cops on him.”
What?
I lean closer to listen to two older women nearby, chatting over their tea. They don’t look like the typical targets for violence and intrigue, but you never know.
“I’m telling you, he cut the branches hanging over my side of the fence,” the woman continues. “Just so I couldn’t gather the fruit. Tree law says that’s a felony.”
I stifle a burst of laughter. I’m a long way from Hollywood, that’s for sure!
“Order up for Georgia!” the barista calls, and it takes me a second to remember, that’s the fake name I gave. But just as I’m about to make my way to the front counter to claim it, the door swings open, and a familiar face walks in.
“Tessa, love,” one of the gossiping ladies calls, waving her over.
Crap!
I instinctively duck back behind a potted plant as Tessa approaches them. Jackson Kane’s fiancée: she runs a BB here in Blackberry Cove. I haven’t seen her since the premiere of our movie, and she’s looking relaxed and happy now in a loose linen dress with a big wicker basket over her arm.
“Ladies, what’s the hot gossip today?” she asks, smiling, before they set about catching her up on the fruit tree scandal of the century.
I stay hidden, crouching like an idiot behind the plastic ficus. A guy comes out of the restroom, and gives me a weird look, so I pretend I’m searching for something I dropped on the ground.
“Gee, where is that contact lens?” I mutter to myself, putting in an awards-worthy performance of reaching blindly around until he passes me by.
I peek another look, but Tessa’s still chatting happily away about tree law. Dammit. I was hoping she was out of town. Tessa’s always been nice enough to me, but that’s exactly the problem now: if she sees me, she’ll want to catch up, and offer her sincere regrets about my ruined wedding, and ask well-meaning questions about my life, and hopes, and dreams.
And all I want is my coffee.
“Dirty chai!” the barista calls again, looking around. “Order up for Georgia!”
I give my drink one last longing look, but there’s no way I can make it to the counter to claim it without Tessa seeing me.
So long, my love.
Reluctantly, I turn and bolt out the back door instead, barreling into the bright sunlight of the street, and?—
“Ooof.”
I careen headlong into a wall.
No, not a wall, I realize, as I press my palms against it, trying to keep my balance. Walls aren’t broad and warm, clad in soft flannel–
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, realizing the ‘it’ is a him.
I reel back, looking up past the broad chest and plaid shirt to…
“You again.”
“Me again,” Duke echoes, folding his arms. He’s still wearing a jaw full of stubble, and he’s gone without the baseball cap today, so his tawny brown hair is curling too long over his collar as he looks at me with clear disdain.
Just perfect.
“Are you stalking me or something?” I demand, immediately on the defensive. How is this man everywhere I go, when he’s the last person I want to see?
“Good mornin’ to you, too,” Duke drawls, looking smug at my outburst.
I take a deep breath, determined not to let him know he’s getting under my skin. “It is,” I reply sunnily, “No thanks to you. You know, you’re lucky I didn’t wind up dead in a ditch on the side of the highway. Aren’t there Good Samaritan laws that hold you liable for leaving someone in danger?”
“Because Blackberry Cove is famous for our high crime rates and highwaymen,” Duke replies with a snort. “What happened out there, you break a nail?”
“My manicures are made of stronger stuff,” I reply, airily examining my polish. “And so am I. So, if you think this grumpy asshole routine is going to intimidate me into leaving town, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think anything about you, princess,” Duke replies, looking me up and down. But mostly down, since he’s towering at least a whole foot above me. “Believe me, you’re the last thing on my mind.”
I narrow my eyes, annoyed. Here I am, keeping a running list of painful revenge to inflict on the man from A (fire ants) to Z (zoonotic disease) and he couldn’t care less. I open my mouth, about to unleash my temper all over again, when the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts me.
I turn.
“Hi.” A woman is standing there beside us, dressed in a cute print wrap skirt and vintage Fleetwood Mac T-shirt. I’ve been so distracted by Duke, I didn’t even notice her. Now, she gives me an amused smile, her dark hair cropped in a cute kicky bob. “Ignore him,” she says cheerfully, elbowing Duke in the ribs. “He’s a real Grinch first thing in the mornings. And in the afternoon. And most of the day, to be honest.”
“Gee, thanks,” Duke mutters, while I look back and forth between them.
I know he’s not married, but don’t tell me the man has a girlfriend willing to put up with his attitude.
As if reading my mind, the woman snorts with laughter. “Oh, we’re not… God no!”
“Again, thanks,” Duke says dryly.
“I’m Suze,” she continues, ignoring him. “Long-suffering childhood friend,” she explains. “Welcome to Blackberry Cove. Or rather, welcome back. Are you here to film a sequel?” she asks, looking hopeful.
“No, sorry. I’m just here for fun, this time,” I explain, liking her immediately. “I had such a great time, I decided to come back and relax for the summer. Enjoy all the small-town hospitality,” I add, giving Duke a pointed glare.
“Did you expect us to roll out the red carpet for you?” he shoots back. “Throw a parade?”
“Sure, that sounds like fun,” I agree. “You can lead the marching band down Main Street. You seem like that kind of guy. Someone who likes to pitch in, lend a hand. Help a neighbor in need,” I add cheerfully.
“You really don’t quit, do you?” Duke scowls.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I give him an innocent look. “But now that I think about it, my mom did tell me you can always judge a man’s true character by his actions. Or lack of them.”
With that parting barb, I give Suze a big smile. “It was great to meet you. I hope I see you around.”
I give Duke a withering glare, and turn to leave. Then I hear him chuckle.
“Uh, princess?”
“What?” I turn back. “Not done with insulting me just yet?”
Duke smirks. “You have a little something…” he says, gesturing at my ass.
I look down, glimpsing the edge of a black grease-stain spread across the back of my cut-offs.
Crap, I must have leaned against something in the garage. I feel a flush of hot embarrassment, but I refuse to let Duke get the last word. I give him a careless shrug, and toss my hair back. “How about you spend a little more time working on your can-do attitude, and a little less time staring at my derriere?” I coo.
And then I sashay away, with as much dignity as I can manage for a girl with a massive black blob on my ass.