Chapter Nineteen
JAYCE
Jayce stood on the curb, staring at a tall lemon tree separating two distinct houses.
The tree’s trunk rooted firmly in the front yard of the home on the right, his mother’s home, a pretty French provincial style with a flower-lined walkway.
But the bulk of the branches arched into his father’s yard on the left, a sturdy craftsman with a stone facade.
The lemon tree served as the focal point of their feud as well as their neighboring yards.
His mom constantly accused his dad of covertly pruning the tree to his advantage, an absurd claim his father adamantly denied.
More than once, Jayce offered to cut it down, curtailing the exhausting argument once and for all.
But whenever he introduced the topic, his mother got all teary-eyed at the suggestion and changed the subject.
Ugh . Why had he agreed to come tonight? He usually avoided their petty conflicts at all costs. Regret mounted with each step he took up his mother’s slate pathway, culminating in an intense urge to flee the moment his father leaned out his open window.
“Jayce!” His dad waved. “Stop by after dinner for some coffee and coconut cake I picked up from CeCe’s place.”
“Uh, sure, Dad.” He gritted his teeth. And thus began the battle for his attention. Too bad CeCe couldn’t join him as a buffer. He thought of the flowers he’d left for her, using his key, and hoped her night turned out better than his.
He reached for the doorknob, but his hand met dead air as the door swung open.
“Go back inside, Raymond,” his mother barked. “Jayce is having dinner with me tonight.”
“I know that, Karen. I invited him over for dessert.”
“And what makes you think I didn’t make a dessert to go with dinner? As a matter of fact, I made a lovely German chocolate cake.”
Oof. Jayce winced. German chocolate cake. His father’s favorite. Had she forgotten? Or was the dessert menu supposed to be another dig at his dad?
“Nothing wrong with having two desserts,” his father countered. “He can come over afterward. Unless you plan on holding our son hostage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rolling her eyes, she grabbed Jayce’s arm. “Let’s go, honey. Dinner is getting cold.” Without another word, she yanked him inside and slammed the door.
Jayce spent the next ten minutes perched at the kitchen counter while she assembled a salad, shredding the lettuce with all the ferocity of a lion dismantling its prey.
The roast, which wasn’t in any danger of growing cold, crisped in the oven, filling the once-cheerful kitchen with the savory aroma of caramelized brown sugar, rosemary, and sage.
The ample space, with its tall cream cabinets, large maple island, and French cottage decor, used to be their happy place.
Family dinners around the rustic farmhouse table.
Enormous Saturday breakfasts when they’d all cook together, flipping flapjacks, baking homemade buttermilk biscuits, and slicing fresh fruit.
They’d listen to classics from the sixties, and his parents would sing along or dance together, becoming especially mushy whenever “their song” came on.
“Stand By Me” by Ben E. King. Talk about irony.
Now, the once bright and sunny room looked sad, somehow. Too large. Too empty. He couldn’t wait to leave.
Seemingly oblivious to his somber mood, his mother slid the roast from the oven. “How’s your grand plan working out?”
“So far so good.” He stole a cherry tomato from the cutting board and popped it in his mouth.
“I talked to Stacey this afternoon. She’s attending the award ceremony on Friday, then she and Rob are eloping in Italy.
” Jayce smiled, recalling how excited she sounded.
They wouldn’t be able to avoid the paparazzi forever, but Stacey thought Rob would handle Hollywood life better once they were married. Jayce hoped she was right.
“No, not that. How’s your real plan going?” His mother met his gaze, her eyes twinkling as she tugged off her oven mitts.
“What d’you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Jayce Harrison,” she teased, evoking his middle name for emphasis. “I’m your mother. I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?” he asked cautiously, stealing another tomato.
“You’re hoping that by faking an engagement, CeCe will realize she’s madly in love with you.”
Jayce coughed as the cherry tomato caught in his throat. What did she say? He slammed a fist against his chest to dislodge the choking hazard, then reconsidered. Maybe losing his air supply would be preferable to wherever this conversation was headed.
His mother handed him a glass of water. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’ll be our little secret.”
Jayce guzzled the cool liquid, then swallowed, finally able to breathe again. “Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She offered a patient smile. “Sweetheart, I’ve known how you feel about CeCe for years. I can see it in the way you look at her. It’s the same way your—” She stopped short, her features strained as she glanced at the floor. Was she about to say the same way your father used to look at me ?
Straightening, she wiped her hands on her apron, her calm countenance restored.
“I think it’s sweet you’re going to such great lengths to woo her, but honey, real life isn’t like one of your romantic comedies.
Love doesn’t require some elaborate ruse.
You could’ve just asked her to dinner and told her how you feel. ”
“Mom, that’s not— I don’t—” He stumbled over his words, heat creeping up his neck.
“That’s not why I’m doing this.” He noticed he hadn’t denied being in love with CeCe, only that she hadn’t been his motive for the fake engagement.
“I’m just trying to help a friend.” He tried to sound confident in his claim, but was it true?
He’d thought so. But now, faced with his mother’s wild theories, he wasn’t so sure.
Thankfully, before she could press further, his phone rang.
He checked the caller ID, and his pulse quickened.
“Sorry, Mom. Gotta take this.” He slipped off the stool and stepped into the next room.
“Mr. Delance, hi. Thanks for calling.” Jayce wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans.
“Call me Victor.” The man’s rich, deep voice carried above the cacophony of a fancy dinner party in the background. “I gotta admit, kid. I almost didn’t call. But Steve’s a good friend of mine.”
“I understand, sir. And I appreciate your time.” Jayce’s heart hammered in his throat.
“Steve’s the best director in the biz,” Victor Delance continued. “When he sends a project my way, I tend to trust his judgment.”
Jayce nodded, even though the producer couldn’t see him.
“He says you have a script I should take a look at. Why don’t you—” Muffled voices cut off his sentence, momentarily drawing Victor away from their conversation.
With the phone pressed tightly to his ear like a permanent appendage, Jayce paced the carpet in the sitting room—a paisley wool pattern he didn’t recognize.
Another item his mother had replaced after the divorce.
Good grief. Focus, man . Jayce forced himself to stand still, waiting in agonizing silence.
“Sorry about that,” Victor said after the longest pause in human history. “Listen, kid. I won’t make any promises, but bring the script and a synopsis to the award ceremony this Friday, buy me a drink at the after-party, and I’ll take a look.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“By the way,” Victor added. “What’s it called?”
“What’s it called?” Jayce asked dumbly.
“The script, son. I assume your movie has a title.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Smooth. You’re a regular Aaron Sorkin. After gathering a breath, he slowly released it. “ The Uncomplicated Café .”
A weighty lull followed, during which Jayce reevaluated all his life choices. Why hadn’t he titled his film something else? Something less obtuse. Less artsy. Who did he think he was? Woody Allen?
After a beat, Victor said, “Interesting. I like it. We’ll see how it holds up.”
And with that, the producer who cradled the fate of Jayce’s fledgling screenwriting career in his hands ended the call.
Jayce didn’t move.
This was the moment he’d fantasized about for most of his life.
The moment he’d been working toward ever since October 15 last year, when CeCe unknowingly pushed him to take the plunge—to finally face all the fears that had kept his dream on permanent pause.
Part of him couldn’t wait to tell her the news. The other more vulnerable part didn’t know how. Especially since she’d served as inspiration.
Plus, he needed to face one crucial but debilitating detail about his script: It didn’t have an ending yet.