Facing the Music

by Andrea Laurence

  “Thanks for the tip.” Blake focused on his breakfast. He needed to finish and get to the high school. A reporter from the Birmingham newspaper was calling to interview him about the fund-raiser before first period.

  “Hey,” Grant said as their plates were cleared from the counter, “did you figure out whatever happened at the parade?”

  Blake sighed. He’d let that worry slip from his mind with everything else going on. “I did, although I can’t prove it.”

  “Who was it?”

  Looking around again and making sure Ruth was in the kitchen, Blake leaned into his brother. “It was Lydia. I confronted her after you took Ivy home.”

  “She admitted to it?” Grant asked, his eyes large and disbelieving.

  “No. But I saw the guilt on her face. She wants me, and Ivy is in the way.” He shrugged. “I don’t think she intended for anyone to get hurt. Just embarrassed, maybe.”

  “But you can’t prove it?”

  Blake slipped off his stool and threw some money onto the counter. “I don’t think so.”

  “You know, with all those reporters in town, I bet they took a million photos that day.” Grant tugged on his jacket and fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “Maybe one of them caught Lydia in the act.”

  That was a thought. He didn’t relish the idea of working with the camera-toting leeches, but Grant was right. Maybe they could actually prove useful. “And if they did,” Blake asked, “what do I do with the evidence? Turn it over to the police?”

  Grant gave a wry chuckle. “If Lydia were stalking me, I’d use it as blackmail to get her to leave me the hell alone.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Okay, that house is like something straight out of an old Civil War movie.”

  Ivy walked out onto the porch, where Malcolm was standing and looking across the lake at the Chamberlain mansion. “Yes, well, the sets in Civil War movies were based on actual antebellum homes, of which that is one.”

  “The architecture is amazing. Have you ever been inside?”

  “Yes. I was there the other day for a tea party. It’s beautiful inside. They really should give tours, but the family is extremely private. My high school boyfriend’s family still lives there.”

  “It’s Blake’s old house, huh? Amazing. Even from here, I can see the detail work in the columns.” Malcolm turned to her. “Is your parents’ home anything like that?”

  At that, Ivy chuckled. “Not even close. The rest of us live in smaller, respectable but not very exciting homes.”

  “That’s a shame.” He took his first sip of the mint julep he’d begged Ivy to make and winced. “That is awful.” Malcolm set the glass down on the little table and turned back to the Chamberlain mansion. “You should buy that house,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Ivy flopped down into one of the rocking chairs and laughed. “Even if I wanted to buy it, it’s not for sale. The entire Chamberlain family would have to be wiped out in a freak accident for such a travesty to occur.”

  “Then build a replica of it in Malibu.”

  Malcolm had only had one sip of that mint julep, but it must’ve gone straight to his head. Perhaps she should switch him to sweet tea. That idea was too crazy to even respond to. “You should’ve been an architect instead of an actor.”

  “Do you know how hard and expensive architecture school is? People drop out to go to med school because it’s easier.” Malcolm sat down in the other rocking chair. “Anyway, I could only afford it now because of all the movies I’ve done.”

  “Then you should rebuild it in Malibu. You’ve got more money than I do. How many millions did you make for that ridiculous comic book movie?”

  On reflex, Malcolm reached for his glass and took another sip of his drink. “Ugh. Not any better than the first time.” He shook his head. “I made twenty-five. Of course, my agent, my manager, Uncle Sam, and about ten other people on my staff all got their cut of it. But even if I made fifty million, I couldn’t rebuild a house like that in California. I might as well run a rainbow flag up the flagpole in the front yard. I could kiss my career good-bye.”

  “That’s not necessarily true.”

  Malcolm reached out to pat her hand. “Honey, please. While I love playing the role of your gay best friend in real life, it doesn’t pay so well in films. It’s nearly impossible to be openly gay and land the kind of roles I want. Action films? Romantic leads? Comic book heroes? Do you think they’d pay me a fortune for a Red Rhage sequel if they knew I was gay? Do you think I’d win an Academy Award? Hell, the only way to do that is to be a gay man pretending to be straight, playing the role of a gay man. Ironic, huh?”

  Ivy listened to her best friend’s tirade as though it were the first time she’d heard it. “I just want you to be happy, Malcolm. You don’t seem very happy fake-dating half the women in Hollywood.”

  “But that’s how I met you. I wouldn’t trade that even for a greased-up fireman calendar model with washboard abs. You’re my favoritest beard ever.”

  “Thanks,” Ivy said. “I think.”

  Malcolm smiled at her, showcasing the charming good looks that had landed him the title of Sexiest Man Alive. It really was a shame that the women of the world would only get to look and not touch. He had dark hair that begged a woman to run her fingers through it. Tall and hard bodied, he smelled better than any man had a right to. His piercing blue eyes, tanned skin, and flawless smile turned every woman, whether a toddler or a senior citizen, into a puddle at his feet.

  Being his girlfriend, even for a few weeks and in name only, hadn’t been so bad. He was always a gentleman and always fun to be around.

  “Maybe when you get home, we should date again. I have that Christmas romantic comedy coming out Thanksgiving weekend. I’d rather you go with me to those premieres and parties than that sitcom actress they had me contracted with this summer. She’s boring as hell.”

  “I don’t think Kevin will go for that. I’m still coming off that Sterling Marshall thing. The charity work I’m doing is helping, but I think he still wants me to lie low on the relationship front for a while.”

  Malcolm snickered and reached for his iPhone. A few seconds later, he held out a picture of her and Blake kissing on the dance floor at the retro prom. “You’re not doing a very good job of lying low, Ivy.”

  “Where the hell did you find that?” she asked, snatching the phone from his hand.

  “TMZ. There’s a couple more, too. I thought you knew about it. I don’t know if I’m more scandalized by the kiss or that lamé dress. Did you and your ex really make out at the dance where everyone could see you?”

  Ivy flipped through the photos and cursed. “There wasn’t supposed to be any press there. They were banned.” She scrolled through the page until she found the photo credits at the end.

  Nash Russell. Big surprise.

  “That man, I swear,” she said through gritted teeth. “Listen to this crap: ‘Local tongues were wagging,’ a source close to the couple said. ‘The sexual tension was off the charts the moment they walked into the dance.’ The couple left early, leaving no doubt in the minds of partygoers that Ivy and Blake Chamberlain were off to do a dance of the more private variety. Are you kidding me? It’s so juvenile.”

  Malcolm snatched back the phone. “Easy on the gadgets, my dear. That’s my third phone this year. I keep breaking them.” He glanced at the picture for a moment. “So are you upset that they got a picture or that the whole town knows you and Blake slept together?”

  “I doubt anyone has even seen these pictures. Not many folks around here are interested in celebrity blogs. The gossip network in Rosewood is powered by little old ladies.”

  Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he asked, “So, do you think Nash bought the pictures off someone at the dance? Or did he sneak in somehow?”

  Ivy sh
ook her head. “No, all the doors had guards, and even if he snuck into the school, he couldn’t get into the cafeteria without going past the check-in desk. Unless,” she said with a sigh, “he got a date and bought a ticket like everyone else. If he came with a local, I doubt anyone would question it.”

  “Is there anyone desperate enough to date Nash?”

  It was hard to believe, but she found there was always someone that Nash could manipulate to get his way. “There has to be. Actually, let’s go ask Pepper. If we leave now, we should get to the salon right as it closes. I promised her I’d take you to meet her, anyway.”

  They loaded into her rental car and drove back into town, parking in front of the salon. Pepper was locking the door, on her way home, when they arrived.

  Ivy put down the window and shouted. “Hey, Pepper. I’ve got a surprise in my car for you.”

  Pepper’s eyes got so big they nearly bugged out of her head as she recognized Ivy’s passenger. She couldn’t say anything at first—a rarity for Pepper.

  “Hop in and we’ll drive over to Woody’s for a drink. I need to talk to you about something.”

  Pepper climbed in for the short ride, still speechless. It wasn’t until they climbed out of the car outside the bar and Malcolm held out his hand in greeting that she finally spoke. And then, it was like a rush of verbal diarrhea.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m actually getting to meet you. This is so crazy. You know, a part of me didn’t entirely believe Ivy when she said that you were friends and you were coming to visit. I mean, you’re the Sexiest Man Alive, why would you be in Rosewood? And really, it was an excellent choice. You are even more handsome in person and wow . . . you smell good.” Her hands flew to cover her mouth as her face turned redder than her hair. “Did I say that out loud?”

  Ivy smirked. “Let’s go inside.”

  Malcolm smiled. He was used to women reacting to him this way. Happy to fulfill their fantasies by being the charming, smooth dreamboat they wanted, he said it was the least he could do for a fan. “I’ll buy you a drink, Pepper,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder to escort her inside and sending her into near hysterics. They gave a wave to Emmett behind the bar before finding a booth in the corner.

  Malcolm slid in beside Pepper. “I’m going to sit with you, doll.” His voice was like a soothing lullaby, rhythmic and sultry. Most women were putty in his hands, and Pepper was no exception. “I love redheads and I’m getting a little tired of Ivy here. She’s all wrapped up in some football player instead of me. Can you believe it?”

  Pepper slowly shook her head, her entire focus on him. Ivy might as well not even be there.

  Emmett came by and took their drink orders, putting a bowl of pretzels on the table. Ivy waited until after he brought the drinks to talk to Pepper about why they were here.

  “Pepper,” she asked, “did you see a reporter at the dance Saturday night?”

  Pepper furrowed her brow and thoughtfully munched on a pretzel. “I didn’t notice a reporter. What does he look like?”

  “He’s in his forties, average height, dark blond hair on the longer side. A goatee.” Ivy pulled out her phone and searched for a picture of Nash. “This is him.”

  “Yeah, I did see that guy,” Pepper said with a nod. “He was dancing with Cheryl Buckman.”

  Ivy was rusty on some of the people in town. That woman’s name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t put a face or context to it. “Who’s that?”

  “You know Cheryl,” Pepper insisted. “She’s run her father’s ice cream parlor on the square ever since high school.”

  A picture of the woman started forming in Ivy’s mind. The woman gave Ivy two cherries on top every time she went in for a sundae. She was sweet, older, exactly the kind that Nash would go after. “Is she single?”

  “Chronically,” Pepper said. “She’s in her forties and never married. She spends all her time taking care of her elderly parents and running that shop.”

  “So didn’t you think it was weird that you didn’t recognize the man she was dancing with?”

  “Yes, which is why I remembered, but there were quite a few people at the dance who came from out of town. Brian said his cousins from Anniston got tickets, so I didn’t expect to know everyone. I didn’t give it a lot of thought. He didn’t seem suspicious, and I was more interested in my date. So, what exactly did this guy do? You said he was a reporter?”

  Ivy took a sip of her rum and Diet Coke and nodded. “He snuck into the dance to get pictures of Blake and me together. There’s one of us kissing that’s all over the Internet.”

  “Oh no. Poor Cheryl. She may not even know this guy just used her to get close to you. He’d better hope Mr. Buckman doesn’t find out about this.”

  “Why’s that?” Ivy asked.

  A devious smile crossed Pepper’s face. “Because . . . Mr. Buckman was a decorated sniper in Korea and Vietnam. He still teaches marksmanship at the Scout camp during the summer. I saw him at the fair this weekend playing that shooting game. He might be old, but he’s still a damn fine shot. And a protective daddy,” she added ominously.

  Nash waited impatiently in the alley behind Whittaker’s. Paparazzi weren’t exactly welcome anywhere, and the people who were willing to wheel and deal with reporters never wanted to be seen with them. As such, his line of work had led him to a lot of unsavory locations over the years. The alleys in Rosewood were pretty nice, nowhere near his worst rendezvous spot.

  He’d done a little digging at the Rosewood Library and found Lydia’s phone number. He’d called her last night, and as expected, she’d agreed to meet him today, cash in hand. She didn’t want those photos leaking to the press, or worse, to Blake Chamberlain.

  As usual, the broad was making him wait. She was ten minutes late.

  Finally, the back door of the restaurant opened and she slipped outside. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her petite curves hidden beneath the buttoned white tunic of an executive chef.

  She looked up and down the alley, scanning for anyone nearby, and when she was satisfied finally spoke to him. “So, where are the pictures?”

  At that, Nash chuckled. This wasn’t his first rodeo. “Where’s the money?”

  Lydia pulled a thick envelope out of her pocket and held it up. Nash nodded and pulled out the manila envelope with the photos.

  “Shall we trade?” he asked.

  “All the copies of the photos are in the envelope? The negatives? Everything.”

  “Yep,” he nodded, although he wasn’t stupid. He still had the digital file. He considered it his insurance policy. He held out the pictures and they exchanged packages.

  Quickly thumbing through the cash, he realized she’d shorted him. “Hey!” he snapped. “Where’s the rest?”

  Lydia bit at her lip and shook her head. “That’s all I could get on short notice. I’ll get you the rest tomorrow, I swear.”

  Dammit. He knew better than to hand over the photos before he was certain he had the full payment. He should’ve just blackmailed her, but he’d wanted to tie all this up and get paid. He would leave Rosewood as soon as that concert was done, and gladly. Sleeping in his car sucked. He had a crick in his neck and the bad attitude to go with it.

  It was crap like this that forced him to keep copies of everything he had. It was pretty bad to run into someone shadier than he was, but it happened a lot. That snotty little rich girl thought she could just screw him and get away with it. She must be used to getting everything she wanted.

  Well, she’d crossed the wrong guy. Nash always got what he wanted, too. And right now, he was thinking he wanted to see her writhe on a hook more than he wanted the rest of his money. It was a bullshit story anyway. She wouldn’t come up with another dime; he could tell by the dismissive way she wouldn’t even make eye contact with him.

  He wasn�
�t worried, though. He’d find someone else who wanted the pictures and screw her over. With a sigh, he slipped the envelope of cash into his inner coat pocket.

  “You’ll regret this.”

  There were few things Blake liked more than being out on his boat. He loved skimming along the surface at high speed, the wind in his hair and the spray misting his face. There was a peacefulness about being out on the water. Even the sound of the trolling motor was a soothing hum.

  Well into September, the heat and humidity had given way to temperatures in the high seventies with a light breeze. Blake slowed the boat and circled around to his favorite fishing spot. Willow Lake was large, but only maybe fifteen feet deep. The area he preferred was in a shallower section. About twenty years ago, Jasper Daniels had drunk a little too much beer and accidentally driven his 1974 Ford F-150 into the lake. He got out fine, but the truck made the lake its final resting place. Over the years, it had developed into an artificial reef that was a favorite with the bass that swam in these waters.

  He killed the outboard motor, moving to the front of the boat to put down the trolling motor that would keep them slowly moving through the area where they wanted to fish.

  Ivy was sitting two seats over from where he’d been, a giant red life vest strapped to her like the Titanic was about to go down. She was wearing an Alabama ball cap with her ponytail looped through the back and a large pair of dark sunglasses. A concerned frown pulled down the corners of her lips, disrupted only by the occasional frantic slapping at an imaginary bug.

  Blake couldn’t help smiling. It was mean of him to make her do this, but Ivy could use a little time getting back to her roots. California was fine, with its organic wines, raw bars, and vegan cupcakes, but that wasn’t how she grew up. She grew up on fried catfish with hush puppies, banana pudding, and fresh venison stew.

  He didn’t know exactly why he had this urge to reexpose her to her past. Fishing probably wasn’t the best way to make her fall in love with her home again, but it was a start. If she could focus more on the nature and enjoy the slower pace of living, she might want to come home more often. Or for good.