“Does Marissa live nearby?” I ask instead.
He blinks up to me over the rim of his water glass. “What?”
“Marissa,” I repeat. “Does she live near you?”
He takes a sip of water. “Oh. Yeah, she has an apartment near school, but she usually stays at my place.” He winks and I don’t know why, but it’s a little gross. “More space.”
“So things are serious between you two?”
The surprise registers on his face; I’ve never asked about girlfriends like this before. The waitress comes with our salads and the wine, giving him time to either formulate an answer or change the subject when she leaves.
But he doesn’t dodge the conversation like I expected. “I’m not sure I’d say we’re serious,” he says. “She’s finishing her degree and… we’re good friends.”
Something snags in my thoughts, a bite of curiosity I’ve never given space before. “Why do you think you never remarried? You and Mom broke up so long ago.”
If anything, he seems to have expected this follow-up. He answers without hesitation. “I don’t think there’s one specific reason. Relationships are hard in this line of work. The schedule can be hectic, and it’s hard to know what someone’s true intentions are.” He points his fork at me. “Not that I need to explain any of that to you, of course.”
What on earth does that mean? I weigh my next words carefully.
“Most of my relationships have been for PR anyway,” I admit. “Always seemed easier that way.”
“Yes and no.” He takes a bite, chews, and holds my gaze as if he wants me to know he’s not done making this point. “Both have their drawbacks, but it’s probably easier when someone at least understands how the business works.”
“Speaking of… I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Dad picks up the salt and pepper, and looks at me expectantly.
“I’m seeing someone.”
“Really? Do I know him?”
My palms grow sweaty, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Is he being coy? “It’s Sam, Dad.”
Despite his flawlessly administered Botox, his brows disappear into his hair. “The screenwriter?”
Maybe he didn’t hear us last night after all. Maybe it didn’t strike him as odd that we came out of the greenhouse together. Maybe I’ve just confided in Dad unnecessarily.
I nod, bending to take a bite of my salad to avoid his eyes. The more I chew it, the more the crouton in my mouth feels like sand. When I swallow, it turns to glue.
Dad sits back in his seat and stretches an arm over the seat beside him. He really does look surprised. And if I’m not mistaken, completely tickled. “So I did walk in on something last night,” he says with a grin. “Very interesting.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “You’ve never talked to me about boys before.”
This makes me laugh. “I’m thirty-two. He’s thirty-five. He’s hardly a boy.”
He grins, eyes crinkling warmly. “You’re my kid. It’ll always be a boy.”
“And I guess… I mean, we’ve never really talked about this kind of stuff before. Like, life stuff.”
He hums quietly. “Life stuff.” He leans forward, forearms propped on the table, the weight of his attention solely on me. “So tell me, to use your words, is it serious?”
“It might be, yeah. He’s really… ” I feel my cheeks warm and bite back a smile. “He’s amazing, and smart, and I think I fell in love with him the moment I read Milkweed.”
In a hot flush, I think I want to tell him everything—but I don’t. Maybe one day, when things are really solid between us.
It’s crazy, but for the first time I have hope.
* * *
When the waitress stops by to check on us, Dad reaches for the bill before she’s even placed it on the table. He holds up a hand when I protest. “You are not paying for your old man’s lunch.”
He tosses down his card, and I catch Althea’s name on it. Smart, I think. People would be stupid enough to take a picture of Ian Butler’s credit card and post it online.
We’re stopped three times on our way to the door, by people who’ve clearly been patiently waiting for us to pass back through the room.
I knew you were filming something, but I had no idea you were so close!
I have loved you since Cowboy Rising.
How are you even better looking in person?
Dad is eating it up.
I take one last look at the menu, wondering if I should pick up something for my picnic with Sam tonight. I imagine the two of us stretched out on a blanket, looking up at the stars, curled into each other’s arms to stay warm.
A flash of movement catches my eye and I lean to the side to see out the window, immediately wary. A photographer. Not unexpected, since we aren’t exactly trying to stay hidden. I’m sure Dad will be annoyed that I talked him into letting me drive instead of taking a car and driver, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
He finishes signing an autograph, and I place a hand on his arm. “Just a heads-up that there’s a photographer outside.”
“Not a problem,” he says. “Was bound to happen sooner or later, right?”
“Guess that’s what I get for traveling with Ian Butler. It’s like you’re even better looking in person,” I tease.
With my head down, I take Dad’s offered arm and step outside. Voices call out to us, and it’s not just one photographer, it’s two now, calling for us to look up, to give a couple words, a smile. I can feel Dad beside me, standing straight, and a quick glance at him tells me he’s grinning happily.
But the glance at him also shows a group of photographers jogging around the side of the building.
There’s no longer just two of them; there are at least twenty.
Time shifts. I’m eighteen again instead of thirty-two, and we aren’t in front of the quaint farm-to-table restaurant, we’re in the circular courtyard of the London Marriott County Hall. Faces are hidden behind giant cameras and zoom lenses; microphones are hoisted up and shoved toward me. The questions seem to come from everywhere.
Tate, is S. B. Hill Sam Brandis, the author and screenwriter?
Is Sam Brandis the same boy you met in London?
What does it feel like to be reunited with the man who sold you out all those years ago?
“Tate! Tate! Over here!”
Ian, what is your relationship with Sam? Are you aware of their past?
Tate!
We’ve only been here for an hour—how did they get here so fast?
Their voices call out, sharp and bright, and the single question is bulleted at me again and again from a dozen places: “Tate, who is Sam Brandis?”
I’m frozen, staring at the mob in complete shock.
Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders. “She doesn’t have any comment, but you all enjoy the rest of your day. Stay safe.”
Cameras flash in a manic staccato and Dad ushers me toward his car, helping me in the passenger side. He strolls around, waving amiably, shaking his head to indicate he’s not answering either. “You know how this works, guys,” Dad says, opening the driver’s-side door. “We know you’re just doing your job, but this isn’t how you get answers.”
He gets in beside me, behind the wheel.
“Tate!” someone shouts. “Is S. B. Hill the same person who sold your story when you were eighteen? Is it true that you were lovers and he betrayed you?”
It takes everything I have to stare straight ahead, not give a single reaction that can be used on the cover of a tabloid.
Dad pushes the button to start the car and then looks over at me. “You okay, cupcake?”
I am not okay. I am stunned to the point of numbness.
None of this makes sense. “How in the world did they know about Sam?”
“You know how these guys are,” he says, pulling away from the curb slowly, careful to not hit any of the reporters still leaning in, hammering questions through the windshield. “Th
ey know everything.”
“I know but—” Once we are half a block away, I bend, putting my head in my hands. My mind races, inundated with the static of voices, the clicking of cameras and bodies chasing after the car, angling for the perfect shot or sound bite that will get the highest price, the most clicks.
Did Nick do this?
Nick.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I trusted him.
When am I going to learn?
I groan, leaning my head back against the seat. “This is such a fucking mess.”
“It’ll be okay.”
I glance over at him. “I’m so sorry. I… I should have told you. I just don’t know how they found out. I think it was Nick who—”
My words dissolve away. Dad hasn’t asked me what this is about. He hasn’t registered a bit of surprise.
“Tate, it’s going to be fine.” He reaches across the seat to squeeze my leg, before returning his hand to the wheel. “You’ve been doing this a long time. You know how the press is.”
A mile or so flies by and he sings quietly along with the radio. My mind spins, trying to piece this together, to figure out what is happening. I can’t imagine Nick calling the press and sharing this. He has nothing to gain and so much to lose by betraying me.
I look at my father again; he’s so calm.
“Did you hear me last night?” I ask, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
“You know I saw you, we already talked about that at the restaurant.”
“Yes, but did you hear me? Me and Sam. Were you listening to us talk about London?”
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Kiddo, I told you, it’s fine. No press is bad press. This will bring Sam more attention and will be great exposure, not only for the film, but for all of us.” When I don’t immediately reply, he glances quickly at me, then back at the road. “Imagine the headlines. People are going to be fighting in the streets to hear this story.” Another glance. “Can you imagine the buzz when they see the three of us together?”
There’s a hint of glee to his voice that actually makes me nauseous. Everything he said, every bit of progress I thought we were making, it was all a lie.
“Dad, that’s all anyone is going to be able to talk about,” I say quietly. “With me and Sam, forever.”
He laughs, and it’s a genuine burst of sound; true amusement. “Honey, seriously? Forever? Please don’t tell me you’re that naive. What you should be thinking about is how to make it last as long as it can.” He holds a finger in the air, emphasizing his point. “Listen to me on this. The only sure thing in this business is that you’ll have to fight harder every goddamn year and you can only count on yourself. If you want to stay relevant, you have to make opportunities wherever you can, and this is a gold mine, Tate.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “A gold mine.”
In a way he’s right: Tonight, Ian Butler’s name will be on every gossip show and probably trending on Twitter.
I finally did something right in his eyes, and he only had to sell me out to get it.
twenty-six
WE SLOW AND ARC around the final curve leading to the farm, and my throat constricts. For the last quarter mile of the narrow two-lane highway leading to the humble gates of Ruby Farm there is a cluster of vans, cars, and photographers parked along the side of the road.
Dad sits up straighter in the driver’s seat, eyes focused. “Ready?”
I gape at him. This is déjà vu all over again. Only this time we’re not pulling up to Nana’s house on the river with reporters and paparazzi cluttering the tiny pothole-strewn street. And it’s not Marco beside me, it’s Dad.
Dad’s car is mobbed as he slows to make the left turn into the farm. Cameras are swiveled and aimed, mics extended. Putting on a pleasant smile, Dad turns up the radio as we pass, trying to block out the shouts, but it just makes everything feel more chaotic: the shouting of photographers mixes with the blasted, raspy voice of Lucinda Williams fittingly telling all these people she’s changed the locks on her front door.
Photographers press up against the car. Dad can only go about two miles an hour because the one thing that could make this scandal worse is hitting a photographer. I put my head down against the flash of cameras, breathing deeply between my knees and trying to anticipate what will face us inside the gates. Is it possible that Sam hasn’t even heard yet? Could I be so lucky to walk into a sweetly oblivious scene on the farm, with everyone still blissfully cut off from Wi-Fi?
Someone bangs on the window, startling me enough that I look up. The flash lingers in my eyes long after they’ve taken the photo, but I know it’s the money shot: Me, eyes wide, mouth agape, looking directly into the camera and appearing as frazzled by all this as they want me to be. In general, I’m used to this: the mania of photographers at premieres, catching me running errands, at any publicized event. But I’m not used to this. This is a true invasion of my life, not the coordinated response to a bit of intel dropped by Marco or his contacts. This bloodthirst is completely beyond my control; my heart jackhammers inside my rib cage.
Next to me Dad offers the occasional awkward wave, but his friendly smile has slipped into more of a grimace. Maybe he’s worried they’ll scratch his paint. Maybe it’s that here in the car he can’t charm the photographers into getting his good side—an angle that makes him look younger and taller. I’d like to think that he’s having second thoughts about whatever it is that he’s done, but know that’s not the case.
We manage to get through the gate, it swings shut behind us, and I barely get a deep breath in before my stomach sinks along with the fantasy of an oblivious crew: Marco is already here, waiting in front of the Community House. He jogs down the front steps as soon as he sees us and hovers beside my door before we’ve even come to a full stop.
“Would it kill you to take your phone?” He helps me up, already in rescue mode, and begins leading me toward a black SUV parked a few yards ahead, the engine idling quietly. “Charlie is packing your things. I’ve—”
“Slow down. Marco, what is happening?”
He glances over my shoulder at Dad. “You tell me.”
Dad squints against the bright gray sky. A tense moment of silence passes between the two men and I look away, trying not to freak out too much. A few members of the crew loiter on the steps, watching us without trying to look like they’re watching us. I don’t see any sign of Sam.
“We were having lunch in town,” Dad explains, “and when we came out, the parking lot was full of photographers. They were asking us about Sam, and Tate, and her trip to London when she was a teenager. No idea how they found us.”
Marco nods slowly. “A mystery.”
I quickly jump in, nodding at Dad as if we’re telling the same story. “They came out of nowhere.”
Marco’s gaze swings to me, and I blink over to him, hoping he catches on that we need to just play it cool here. Marco doesn’t have to get along with Dad, but I do. The press loves my father. I mean, shit, he weathered the scandal of cheating on his wife and abandoning his only child with barely a scratch. And now he’s slipped this story to the press, deciding when and how it’s going to break. He has all the information; he has every single one of the cards in his hands.
Regardless of what he’s done to me, I can’t alienate him.
I need him on my side, at least until I can come up with a plan.
“We’re going to need to brainstorm some damage control in the car,” I say. I look back at my father. “It sounds like we’ll all be heading out soon, so I’ll reach out to Althea about Christmas.”
Dad’s confident smile returns. “Sounds good, cupcake.” He leans in to kiss my cheek and then offers his hand to Marco.
Out of nowhere, hot, betrayed tears prick at my eyes, but I quickly blink them away.
“Marco,” Dad says, “it was nice seeing you, as always.”
“Likewise.” Marco and I watch as Dad makes his way back to his Tesla, s
mall puffs of dust kicked up by his feet. I assume he’ll just send someone to the farm to pack up his things; he has more important things to do than take care of a suitcase full of clothes. With a final wave and his trademark smile, he pulls the car around and drives back down toward the gate.
The subsequent silence is heavy.
“I’m sorry, Tate,” Marco says finally.
“It’s just business,” I tell him. “I should be used to it.”
“No, you shouldn’t be.”
Shoulders sagging, I feel the enormous weight of everything happening. “I know you want to jet, but I need to talk to Sam.”
He stops me with a hand around my arm when I’ve only taken one step down the path. “Tate… ”
The swell of dread rises higher and higher in my throat. Not again. Please. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
Marco looks ten years older. “Gwen put him on a plane.”
“Did he leave a note or say anything?”
Sensing my impending panic, Marco takes a step forward. “He didn’t, Tate, but honey, I need you to listen to me.”
“I don’t,” I say, beginning to feel light-headed. “I don’t understand what’s happening. He just left?”
Marco places a hand on each of my shoulders, and bends to meet my eyes. “We’ll go over everything once we’re on the road, but here’s what I know right now. I got a call from one of my guys this morning saying he’d received an anonymous tip, and a few others were already headed here. They’re also staked outside your place, Nana’s house… ” He pauses, swallowing. “And Sam’s farm.”
My eyes snap up to his. “In Vermont?”
“I’m sure they’re already talking to his neighbors, his ex-wife—”
“Her baby just got out of the hospital,” I tell him.
Marco nods. “Tate, I had to call Gwen. This is a multimillion-dollar film, and one of the biggest scandals in Hollywood has just been dropped in the middle of it. This shit is like candy to these guys”—he lifts his chin toward the front gate where the photographers are undoubtedly still waiting—“and the studio needs to be ahead of it. I’m sure you have at least a dozen messages by now—something you’d know if you had your damn phone with you.” Frowning, he tells me, “Sam was gone before I got here.”
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