The Real Thing

by Lizzie Shane

  Her eyes glistened brightly, though no tears fell—and the full scope of his assholery hit him.

  She’d lost her aunt. They may not have talked much in the last decade, but for the first time Ian realized that might only have added another layer to the grief. Not only had she lost her aunt, she’d lost any chance to make amends.

  “You just found out a few days ago?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

  She nodded, looking out over the water. The tide was creeping in, but it would take hours to fill in the beach. “The executor sent a letter, but it took a little while to get it to me. When did she…?”

  “Last month.” He cleared his throat. “It was peaceful. She’d been on hospice for a while—”

  His words broke off as Maggie looked at him sharply. “She was on hospice? So, she knew. She knew she was dying.”

  Ian forced himself to meet her eyes, hating the truth but not wanting to lie to her. “Since January,” he admitted.

  Maggie nodded, her gaze going back to the shoreline. She didn’t need to say aloud what both of them were thinking. Lolly could have reached out. She could have told Maggie herself. And she hadn’t. No one had.

  Ian hadn’t thought of it at the time. Sadie had been his priority. She’d loved Lolly, who’d been one of her primary babysitters since she was too small to remember. He’d wanted to get his daughter—and his mother who had become one of Lolly’s best friends in the last couple years—through the loss. It hadn’t even occurred to him that someone needed to be contacting Lolly’s family.

  “I think she called your father,” he said, dredging up a remnant of a memory from those first few days after they’d stopped treatment.

  “We don’t talk.” Maggie said, the words simple and firm.

  “I’m sorry. Someone should have called you.” He didn’t know who would have done it, but she’d had a right to know, hadn’t she?

  “It’s all right.” Maggie shrugged and smiled, gathering herself with a speed that would have startled him if he hadn’t seen her do it before. She’d always been able to put on an act so fast you almost forgot what you’d seen before. “I was filming overseas for most of the beginning of the year. I would have been almost impossible to reach anyway. I didn’t expect anything.”

  It was a good act, smooth and seamless, and maybe he should believe it, but Ian couldn’t escape the feeling that she was hurt—but also not surprised. She genuinely hadn’t expected anything. It was strange to think it might be true of a celebrity, but she really didn’t seem to expect them to consider her.

  She bent and scooped up the dog who’d been panting on the sand. Ian was surprised that she didn’t react to the dirt and sand the animal’s paws were smearing all over her front—and then annoyed with himself for his surprise. He really needed to stop judging her against the caricature of a diva celebrity princess he’d built in his head, an amalgam of stereotypes and memories of his ex, but it was hard to get away from an idea that had lodged itself so firmly in his brain.

  She was still Lori, he reminded himself. Underneath all the Maggie glamour.

  “How are your grandparents?” he asked as they started back up the beach toward their respective houses.

  “They both passed away a few years ago. Poppy first and then Gran had a heart attack right after. Died of a broken heart.”

  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”

  “We were able to keep it pretty quiet. I had a decoy at the time who would run interference for me with the paparazzi while I went to the funerals. Keep them occupied so no one wondered why Maggie Tate had suddenly vanished for a few days.”

  Her tone was blasé. As if a media frenzy around a family funeral was normal. And maybe in Maggie’s world it was. Though the picture he was starting to get of her world was unsettling.

  She wasn’t on speaking terms with her father. The grandparents who had raised her were gone. He’d heard about her tumultuous love life—not because he wanted to, but because it was hard to avoid when she was a punchline on every late night talk show. He’d pictured her surrounded by people who worshiped her, living the good life on a yacht somewhere, but here she was, alone with just a dog, putting on a good face.

  He hadn’t realized how isolated she was. “I’m sorry.”

  She glanced over at him, her expression blankly neutral until she read something on his face and her lips twitched into a wry smile. “You keep saying that. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Ian. I have a great life. I have everything I ever wanted.”

  Did she really believe that?

  His house came into view and she looked up at it like it was the most gorgeous thing in the world and not some wind-worn beach house she could have bought and sold fifty times over. “How are your folks doing?” she asked. “They were always so nice to me.”

  “Mom’s doing well. Adjusting. My dad passed away a couple years ago—”

  “Oh, Ian. I’m sorry. I loved your dad.” Her voice broke with sincerity.

  “He was a great guy. And it was a rough time there for a while, but we’re coming out the other side of it.” He cleared his throat. “My mom heard you were in town, asked after you.”

  “Sadie said she comes down here on the weekends.”

  “She told you quite a lot, didn’t she?”

  “Not so much. I don’t know what you do.”

  He shrugged, his face heating as it always did when the topic came up. “This and that. I’m pretty much the town handyman. Frees me up to spend more time with Sadie. Her school’s an hour away and they don’t have buses, so having a job where I can make my own hours makes a difference.”

  “I may need to hire you. Fix a few things at Lolly’s place.” She said the words without looking at him as they paused at the foot of the path that led back to her house. The dog in her arms squirmed to be let down, taking off through the tall dune grass as soon as his paws hit the ground.

  “It’s all right to change things,” he assured her, sensing the return of her discomfort. “Lolly left you the house for a reason.” Though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Lolly would leave Maggie the house and not tell her she was dying.

  Lolly’d always had her own way of doing things—and woe betide anyone who tried to change her mind—but he just couldn’t see the logic in it.

  Maggie nodded, though she didn’t meet his eyes, her gaze still following the moving grass where her dog was exploring the dunes. “I should probably get back. Lots to do.”

  “Let me know if you need any help. Free of charge. Lolly was a good friend.”

  She nodded again, still not meeting his eyes. “Thanks, Ian.”

  Ian stood on the dune and watched the movie star move through the tall grass toward the trees. He remembered going to see her first film—a nothing little indie movie before anyone had known who Maggie Tate was, but he’d known as soon as he saw it that she was going to be famous. The same thing that had made him fall for her like a ton of bricks when they were sixteen had captivated audiences. She was so real. So vulnerable. There was just something magical about her. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. Somehow she could be so sexy and unbearably sad at the same time. That aching, Marilyn Monroe appeal.

  He’d only known her for a handful of summers, but she’d carved her name across his soul in that time. She did that. She left a mark. He hadn’t known it that first summer when they were eight, or even when she was thirteen, but by that last summer, when they were both sixteen and he’d been so head-over-heels in love with her it had been all he could do to play it cool, by then he’d known that Lori was already becoming Maggie and hanging onto her would be like trying to hold a supernova in his hand.

  He’d do well to remember that now. Mere mortals couldn’t hold onto stars. Even looking at her for too long could blind him. He might want to hold Lori and tell her that he would be there for her, that he would always help her, but Lori was Maggie now. And she was beyond his reach. />
  * * * * *

  Maggie stood in the back yard with her arms folded across her chest, staring at Lolly’s house.

  Lolly, who was a good friend, according to Ian. Lolly, who had been a good aunt, once upon a time. Lolly, who had left her a house.

  So why hadn’t she told Maggie she was dying? Had she been that angry about the way they’d left things? If so, why leave Maggie the house at all? If she’d known she was dying, she’d had ample chance to change her will. So…why?

  Maggie couldn’t understand it and she was stubbornly refusing to go back into the house until she did. Which was, quite frankly, one of the more pointless hills to die on, but she felt like Lolly was playing some kind of game with her—refusing a relationship while she was alive but insisting on one in death.

  And wasn’t that just like her? Contrary. Opinionated. So freaking sure she was right.

  Maggie could have just sent someone to empty the house and sell it. She didn’t have to come herself. Maybe she should have done that. Maybe that was all Lolly deserved. Maggie wasn’t the one who had cut off all contact, after all. That had been Lolly’s choice. Lolly’s stubbornness.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” she demanded of the house, enjoying the vulgarity as she growled at Lolly by proxy. She didn’t often swear outside of her movies—her grandmother hadn’t liked cursing and she still heard that disapproving voice in her head when she swore, but today it felt good.

  “What do you want from me? I’m not going to reconcile with him just because you’re trying to manipulate me from the grave.” Lolly had always taken her father’s side, always pushing Maggie to forgive him, but it wasn’t her job to forgive a man who refused to acknowledge he’d ever done anything wrong—even when he’d dumped her off on her grandparents’ doorstep and gone off to start a shiny new family with his shiny new wife.

  “It’s too late for that. And it’s too late for me to forgive you for taking his side—you made sure of that.” But here she was, long after it was too late, trying to earn Lolly’s love again, just like she always did. So freaking hungry for any scrap of affection from the people who always seemed to want her the least.

  Her cell rang, jolting her out of her staring contest with the house. It had been habit to tuck the phone into her pocket, more than conscious impulse. She fished it out and something tight in her chest unknotted when she saw the name on the screen. She tapped to connect the call.

  “Bree. Hi.”

  “Maggie!” a bright voice exclaimed. “Sorry I missed your call. Cross says he needs to get me an air-raid siren ring tone. I think the only reason he hasn’t is because he knows it wouldn’t work. Are you okay? Cross and I were just talking about that dick Alec’s book—”

  “I didn’t call about that,” Maggie jumped in. She’d already talked about her ex’s vaguely fictionalized tell-all more than enough to last a lifetime.

  “No? Because the new guy at Elite Protection used to be some kind of military sniper, so if you need someone taken out I can now officially say I know a guy.”

  The wild energy that was Bree was strangely comforting and Maggie smiled, sinking down onto the Adirondack chair next to the fire pit. “I’ll keep that in mind, but hopefully it won’t be necessary.” She took a deep breath, blurting out the words like a confession. “I’m in Oregon.”

  “Oregon,” Bree repeated. “For a movie?”

  “Actually, my aunt left me a house.” She stared at the house in question, from the mismatched siding to the torn screened-in porch.

  “Left you…Oh hon, I’m sorry.” Sympathy filled Bree’s voice as she worked it out. “I didn’t even know you had an aunt in Oregon. Were you close?”

  “She was a great-aunt actually. My dad’s aunt. And we hadn’t talked in years, but I used to spend summers here sometimes when I was kid.”

  She hadn’t told Bree much about her childhood. She hadn’t told anyone much about her childhood. The public story was that she was raised by her loving maternal grandparents after her mother’s tragic death—and that was definitely true, but they could make half a dozen Lifetime channel movies out of everything that sentence left out.

  “Do you need me to decoy? I cut my hair, but I bet Mel can find me a wig—”

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t need anything. I just…” She scuffed a foot in the sandy dirt around the fire pit, disturbing a few dozen ants. “I guess I just called to talk.”

  “Right. Of course,” Bree said, pivoting quickly. “What’s the house like?”

  “Honestly, it’s a mess. It needs a ton of work if I’m gonna sell it. I’m pretty sure it’s not even up to code. And all of my aunt’s stuff is still inside, but I don’t know what to do with any of it. I wanted to do this myself—I came up here alone, not even Mel is with me, and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll get it all done in five seconds, but I just, I wanted to do something useful, you know?”

  “I get it. Sometimes you have to do a thing yourself.”

  “Yeah, except I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “So find someone who does,” Bree said, the words simple and light. “It doesn’t have to be Mel. Hire a realtor to tell you what needs to be done to the house and a contractor to do the work. Take the stuff you want and give the rest to Goodwill. You don’t have to do it all at once, just break it into pieces and take one piece at time. Like if I tried to do my entire collection for my show in one day, I’d drive myself crazy and never be able to do it, but if I focus on one task leading to one goal, which is a piece of a bigger goal, then I can accomplish way more than I ever thought I could. You just need to break it down. And don’t be afraid to get some help—that doesn’t mean you aren’t doing it yourself, it just means you’re acknowledging your limits. No one expects you to know the Oregon real estate market.”

  “A realtor’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.” Frankly she hadn’t thought of much of anything since she’d arrived, but Bree made it sound so manageable.

  “Do you want Cross and me to come up there? Maybe drag a few extra hands with us? I’ve been in manic crunch mode getting ready for my show, but I could use the trip as a break—”

  “No, stay in LA. Make gorgeous art. I appreciate the offer, but no. I’ve got this.”

  “You do,” Bree assured her. “The Maggie Tate I know can do anything.”

  Maggie smiled. “Thanks for saying that.” Now all she had to do was believe it.

  Chapter Nine

  The realtor’s name was Kimmie Johnson—Kimmie, not Kim or Kimberly—and she arrived fifteen minutes early. Initially Maggie assumed her enthusiasm on the phone meant word had spread in town that the Great Maggie Tate was in residence, but when she met the realtor she adjusted her opinion—blind enthusiasm was simply Kimmie’s way.

  Her bleached blonde hair was teased to heights Maggie hadn’t seen since she left Texas and her make-up was so thick it looked like it could be removed as a single unbroken mask.

  She gushed over Maggie’s car. She gushed over Cecil. And she gushed over Maggie’s acting ability—though she stopped short of actually begging for a selfie, doubtless hoping she would score one if she landed the listing.

  One thing she did not gush over was the house.

  “It’s a teardown,” Kimmie declared with brutal honesty that was only somewhat alleviated by her relentlessly cheerful tone. “The land is worth something, not as much as if it were beachfront, but what it lacks in view it makes up in sheer acreage. But the house…”

  Kimmie shook her head direly, her cheerful face contorted into something that was probably meant to be sympathy, but looked more like the winner of a pageant trying to console the runner-up, her sad little moue reeking of insincerity. They were standing in the front yard, having completed the walk-through with Kimmie tsking more in every room.

  “Foundation problems. Drainage problems. Leaking roof. Ancient heating system.” She ticked off the problems on her finger
s as she talked. “Even in perfect condition a house of this size, layout and age wouldn’t bring in much, but with all the repairs that need to be done, you’d spend more money getting it up to code than you would ever get out of it. The best thing you can do is sell it as is and expect that the new owners will knock it down.”

  Maggie flinched. She’d been prepared to hear it needed a lot of work. That much was obvious. But to just tear it down? Updates were one thing, but ripping down the one thing Lolly had left her felt wrong on a level she hadn’t expected. “Surely it has some historic merit…”

  “Nope. It’s just old,” Kimmie informed her with that same brutal cheer. “I know it’s tempting to see things through the lens of sentimental value, but a buyer is only looking at the value value and that means a slanting porch isn’t charming, it’s a symptom of rot. The good news,” Kimmie rolled on like a chirpy steamroller, “is that we can get it on the market right away. You don’t have to do a thing to sell it as is—in fact, you don’t want to waste the time or money with staging or any of the usual window dressing. We might spruce up the yard a bit, make the lot as appealing as possible, but all you need to do is remove any items you want to keep and we can list this baby tomorrow. Just say the word.”

  Maggie knew the word was yes. She could just say yes and return to her regularly scheduled life. Mel would be delighted. Ian would probably be delighted too, to have her out of his hair. On the surface, there was no reason not to. She didn’t owe Lolly anything. Maggie didn’t need the money, but maybe she could donate the money from the sale to the town. Get it done and get out.

  But even as she opened her mouth to say yes, something else came out instead. “I need to think about it.”

  “Of course you do,” Kimmie gushed. “Very smart. You have my card. I’ll go ahead and research the comps so we’re ready to jump as soon as you give me the word. I can’t wait to work with you, Ms. Tate. It’s a real honor.”

  Maggie shook her hand, holding her smile in place until the realtor had climbed back into her Beemer and retreated down the gravel driveway with one last cheerful wave out the window.