Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1)

by Julie N. Ford

  All of a sudden she was tired. Tired of pretending she was a designer, of pretending to revel in her growing fame, sick of pretending to be a constipated dog, or any other such ridiculous role she’d accepted in the past or might in the future. And she certainly didn’t want to pretend to be William Blaine’s lover one day more, much less for the next few months. She’d lived her entire life in pursuit of the spotlight and now she’d finally arrived. Except her overnight rise to fame had had nothing to do with her acting ability and everything to do with the company she’d kept. Would the film industry or her fans ever take her seriously as an actor now? But then, what did any of that matter? After a taste of what it was like to live under the looking glass of public opinion, no amount of money, or unrequited admiration, felt worth the cost.

  Peeling her face from the table, she removed the snapshot from her forehead and blew out a long, self-pitying breath. Around her, the coffeehouse bustled with late breakfast customers. Not one table sat unoccupied. Wait-staff moved from table to table, whizzing past her at top foot-speed. Dressed in all black with a green apron tied at the waist, a college-aged waitress hustled Olivia’s way. In one hand she gripped two steaming mugs, in the other she held some sort of gooey breakfast decadence. Which reminded her. Another thing she was both sick and tired of: pretending like she wasn’t hungry all the time.

  “Excuse me.” The waitress slowed to a hesitant stop. Pointing at the muffin, Olivia said, “I’ll have one of those, please.” The very notion, mixed with the pleasing aroma of coffee, set off a wave of hunger pangs like none she’d ever before experienced. Her stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself. “Actually, I’ll have that one, if it’s not too much trouble.” And since she was in no mood to feign niceties, she added one of those you-do-know-who-I-am looks William used whenever he thought there was the slightest chance he might not get what he wanted.

  The waitress’s harried expression wavered. “Um, I would, but this is for my customer,” she said, her eyes darting from Olivia to somewhere down the row of tables. Olivia hardened her gaze, pouring all her pent-up frustration into one monster of an intimidating stare. The waitress hesitated another instant before setting the muffin down. “Fine, I’ll just go back, get another one,” she said and rushed off.

  Olivia’s mouth opened to capacity. A ferocious growl rolled up from below her ribs as she lifted the muffin and brought it to her lips.

  “Is this seat taken?” an apologetic voice interrupted her mid-bite.

  Her gaze barely skimming the crest of nuts, chocolate and caramel, she glanced toward the intruder. Dressed in a suit perfectly tailored to his athletic body, the man behind the voice was handsome with brown wavy hair and confident, yet sad eyes.

  Their gazes met and held an instant before his face registered a combination of recognition and uncertainty. “Actually, no problem.” He took a step back. “I think I see another open spot.” He pointed over Olivia’s shoulder.

  She wanted to be alone with her breakfast and was relieved he’d agreed to move on without her having to ask. But then there was something in his downtrodden gaze that pulled at her heart, whispered for mercy. Besides, misery required company, did it not?

  “No there’s not,” she contradicted. “This place is fuller than a tick on a coon dog.” She pointed to the other side of her booth. “Sit.”

  “Thanks.” He slid into the seat and held a hand out. “I’m Drew Westfall, by the way.”

  With her free hand, Olivia clasped his and gave it a quick shake. “Olivia Pembroke,” she offered while preparing to finish her bite.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, his eyes rounding on the massive muffin hovering before her waiting lips. “You sure you want to do that?” he asked, his tone serious while his eyes appeared to be smiling.

  Unsure of whether he was messing with her or genuinely concerned for her figure, Olivia couldn’t care less at the moment. “Why shouldn’t I?” She jerked a shoulder.

  He lifted his hands in a show of self-censure. “Hey, it’s really none of my business,” he backpedaled. But then as if unable to help himself, he said, “It’s just that you seem a little… strung-out. And aren’t you Hollywood types pretty hyper-vigilant about calories? I don’t want to sit by and watch you do something you might regret.” His mouth pulled down in concern. “Unless you’re planning to throw it up.”

  Was Olivia weight conscious? Who wasn’t? But pathologically obsessed? “Of course not,” she said, offended by the assumption.

  “Good, I—” A waitress approached the table and asked if he wanted anything. He ordered a hot chocolate then turned back to Olivia. “I honestly don’t get society’s preoccupation with being overly thin. Why would anyone want to look like they’re sick or something…” he continued, but then trailed off, a miserable look smothering the spark in his eye.

  Olivia’s mind replayed the image of Nicole in her two-sizes-too-small robe. “Ask William Blaine,” she mumbled. “He might know.”

  Drew raised one eyebrow but didn’t press. “And yet, you’re about to consume upwards of a thousand calories in one bite,” he observed, to which Olivia responded with a murderous glare. “Forgive me. Again, it’s none of my business.” He glanced away then, his confident shoulders falling. “Like I’m not drowning in irony myself.”

  Intrigued, Olivia set the muffin down. “Really, how so?”

  The waitress returned with Drew’s hot chocolate. Thanking her, he handed the woman a twenty and told her to keep the change. “You don’t want to hear about my problems,” he said, lifting the mug, only to lower it back to the table without even a taste.

  If he was half as disillusioned as she felt, then he was mistaken. “You wanna bet?” she strongly disagreed. “Dish or move on.”

  He studied the mountain of cream atop his mug, eroding with each unspoken word. “You know where I’m headed right now?” he asked. “To a funeral for the daughter of a man I fired.” He leaned closer, like he was trying to convince her of something. “If he’d just said something, or told someone what was going on, but he didn’t. So we fired him because when he managed to show up to work, he was distracted, made mistakes, people were complaining. And none of us knew why.” He lifted a heavy shoulder. “My father says in order to be successful, you have to make sacrifices. So, I guess we sacrificed this man’s only way of supporting his family, of paying his daughter’s hospital bills, for our bottom line.” He shook his head, his eyes ablaze with injustice. “Money. It’s the only thing that matters to people like my father.”

  The impulse to reach out and touch his arm swept over Olivia. But she held back. She’d felt an instant kinship for Drew. “Where do you work?”

  “I manage a hotel.”

  Olivia reassessed his expensive suit, took note of the Omega watch circling his wrist, and repeated his name in her head—Drew Westfall. “Of Westfall hotels?” she asked, referring to one of the largest luxury hotel chains in the US.

  Lifting his spoon, he dropped it into his untouched drink. “Heir to the throne, to be exact,” he confirmed then fell quiet, stirring the whipped cream a few turns before speaking again. “Olivia, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What happens when the one thing you’ve been taught your whole life you were born to do… becomes your biggest nightmare?” He stopped stirring and looked up, his blue eyes fighting a river of confusion and pain.

  Olivia had no idea what constituted a nightmare for Drew, but over the last two weeks she’d slowly come to recognize a few of her own demons. Like did she really want to be famous or even act anymore? “You mean like when your heart is pulling you in a direction you’d never considered?” she asked. “Down a path you have no idea how to travel?”

  His eyes flashed with appreciation. “Exactly,” he exclaimed, but his enthusiasm was short lived. “Well, with the exception that I don’t really have another direction in mind. But I know I can’t keep going the way I am.” He sent Olivia a frustrated look
. “So, where does that leave me?”

  Yeah, where? she repeated in her head as she took a moment to think. Once Marty fired her, what would she do next? Go back to Hollywood and hope another director would take pity on her, give her a chance? Or start over? Do something with her art? Design? “This is going to sound cliché, but maybe you need to take some time to figure things out, to search your heart for what comes next,” she said, as if making a life change was as simple as following one’s heart. Like there weren’t a myriad of consequences to consider—disappointing one’s family, topping the list.

  “My heart?” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “What if it’s telling me to walk away, to leave the only life I’ve ever known behind? My job, my family, and the money my grandfather put in trust for me. Just get rid of it all.” He thrust out a hand, pushing the air between them away. “Good riddance.”

  “Well, there’s that,” Olivia said, now worried he’d taken her advice at bit too literally. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “Millions.”

  Olivia gulped. “Um, wow. That much?” He shrugged like the amount meant nothing. “Well, I suppose if you’re absolutely positive you don’t want anything to do with… any of it, you could always donate it?” she suggested while emphasizing the quizzical tone in her voice.

  “Sure, but to whom?’ he said as if he’d already considered the idea. “Believe it or not, most of the directors who run those ‘charities,’”—he curled his fingertips into quotes—“or so people like to call them, are no less corrupt than for-profit CEOs like my father. Many not-for-profits are all about keeping up appearances, making middle class people think they’re helping someone less fortunate, while behind the scenes, the directors are lining their own pockets. Living like kings.”

  Olivia didn’t really know much about nonprofits, but she’d seen the extravagant offices that housed some of the major ones, saw the expensive clothes the leaders wore, the estates they called home. Then she thought about Pete and how he’d gone broke, struggling to make the homes of regular folks accessible to disabled family members. Pete might be delusional, thinking Olivia was his fiancée reincarnated, but he was not a crook. And, he didn’t know it yet, but he was about to find himself on the wrong end of a nasty scandal. The hunger squeezing Olivia’s stomach tightened its grip. For the first time since leaving William’s room this morning, she realized that his depraved plan had the potential to adversely affect someone other than herself. And what effect might this scandal have on Pete’s fundraising efforts? She couldn’t, or didn’t, want to imagine.

  And then, somewhere through the haze of her current conundrum, she knew one thing for sure; Pete was an honest man. He would never take advantage of a contributor’s generosity. Next, she thought about how her Big Break turned misadventure had begun with Ms. Hightower’s desire to appease the karma gods, her need to put a positive spin on her bad luck. If there was ever a time Olivia found herself in need of some divine intervention, it was right this instant. Like Ms. Hightower, did Olivia’s only hope for that miracle lie in doing a good turn for one of the people she believed didn’t deserve her kindness? Turn the other cheek like Jesus would have her do? And in the process, help families in their hour of need? It was worth a try.

  “What if I knew of a nonprofit, one whose goals were legitimate?” she asked, cautious. “One you could be sure would use your trust fund for the betterment of others?”

  Drew leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

  Olivia fished Pete’s business card from her purse and slid it across the table.

  He lifted the card for a closer look. “Hearts and Hammers: Renovation for Families Who Care for Disabled Loved Ones at Home,” he read then raised his eyebrows over the top edge of the card with a curious look. She nodded her affirmation. “All right then, I’ll check ’em out.” He tucked the card into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Thanks.”

  A tiny ember of hope warmed Olivia’s heart. She’d gone against every vindictive bone in her body, exposed her other cheek, and shown mercy to someone who’d done her wrong. It sounded silly, even in her own head, but this minuscule offering of help felt like the first leg-up to her escaping the deepening pit she’d somehow tripped and landed in. “You won’t regret it—” she was saying when a sudden rapping on the window had her practically jumping from her seat.

  Gripping the table for stability, she looked toward the source of the knocking.

  From the other side of the window, Tristi gestured with her arms, her lips mouthing the words, “Where have you been?”

  Stunned by her assistant’s unexpected appearance, not to mention apparent state of panic, Olivia could only shrug.

  Pressing her lips together, Tristi turned on her heel and headed for the door.

  Drew looked to Olivia with concern. “Are you in some sort of trouble?” he asked.

  With no time to explain, she grimaced. “More or less.”

  Upon reaching the table, Tristi smacked Olivia with an exasperated look. “OMG!” she shrieked over the sound of clanking dishes and the boisterous hum of conversation. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Unable to imagine why, much less identify the source of Tristi’s apparent testiness, but feeling responsible all the same, Olivia compelled a contrite smile.

  “You have?” she asked. “Why?”

  “Because, you… I mean, we have work to do,” Tristi said. “Do we not?”

  Olivia studied her assistant’s flustered expression. “You’re here to help… me?”

  “Good grief. Did you fall and hit your head or something? Yes.” She picked up the plate in front of Olivia. “Now let’s get this to go,” she said, then gave the muffin a quick gander. Her haste flipped to puzzlement. “You were going to eat this?”

  Olivia smiled for the first time today. Tristi’s unexpected appearance meant Olivia wasn’t alone after all. She’d never been happier to see another person in her life. But she couldn’t be selfish. The powers that be would not take kindly to that.

  “Tristi, I appreciate your loyalty, but wouldn’t it be better if you distanced yourself from me at this point?” she said. “You still have a chance to save your job.”

  “It’s not only my job I’m worried about.” She pointed toward the window. “They have a stake in this too.”

  Olivia turned to the window. On the other side, Sean, Brandon and Tom stood huddled in the drizzling rain. “What is Pete’s crew doing here?” Olivia couldn’t imagine.

  Tristi huffed out a groan. “They’re here to help us,” she said, impatient.

  Confused once again, Olivia questioned, “They… are? Why?”

  Tristi’s eyes swung to the ceiling. “Look, I know this is hard for you diva-types to understand, but other people have problems too,” she scolded. “These guys have families to feed and mortgages to pay. They can’t afford to lose their jobs. And sure, they’ll claim they were simply following Pete’s orders, but Marty can still fire them if he decides to.” She pointed to Olivia’s sketchpad. “But they—well, we—believe these designs are inspired.”

  Leaning both hands on the table, she looked deep into Olivia’s eyes. “And before you disagree, let me just say, I’ve been on this show a lot longer than you, and maybe I’m just a glorified coffee girl, but I know a good design when I see one. And I’ve never seen anything that matches what the homeowners wanted more than what you’ve done here.”

  Olivia started to protest again, but Tristi pantomimed a mouth closing with her fingers. “Zip it sister, I’m not done yet.”

  Olivia snapped her lips shut.

  Straightening, Tristi balled her hands at her waist. “Now, the guys and I are prepared to go the distance. There’s a moving truck parked around the corner, ready to pick up furniture and whatever. I’ve got an expense-account credit card in my pocket, and my sewing machine is in Tom’s jeep, all oiled up, and raring to make pillow covers and drapes. It might take us all night, most of tomorrow,
and a miracle from the Almighty, but we can do this.” She gave Olivia a determined look. “We have to do this.”

  Olivia’s gaze ran a lap over the designs and pictures scattered across the table, the gravity of the task before her—before them—growing as the possibility became more real. Then she glanced at Drew. A nod from this near stranger, coupled with a half-smile, was all she needed for the courage to believe.

  She looked back to Tristi. “You really think we can pull this off?”

  “I really do.” Tristi’s smile was one part confidence, three parts hopeful. “So? What do you say?”

  The powdery sweet scent of lavender hung in the air, bringing her back to a time when a young girl with dreams of romance and fame had called this room home. Dreams that had felt real, attainable, as long as she never crossed the threshold. For on the other side of these pink-striped walls, the journey she’d travel could no longer be of her own making. But that of fate. And as she’d come to learn, fate made for unpredictable, if not cruel, company.

  Wish-boning her arms behind her head, Olivia gazed up at the lace fabric veiling her childhood bed and thought again about Pete. During the two weeks since the final taping, she’d had a little time to recover from the fallout caused by his substituting her design for Eleanor’s, and she’d arrived at two very dichotomous conclusions. First: He’d risked his future and that of Hearts and Hammers in order to show her she had potential beyond the narrow scope of the goals she’d set for herself. That a real life, one with true substance was out there waiting for her. Possibly even one with him? Second: Whenever she considered that Pete’s motives had been driven by a true affection for her, the newspaper picture of Teresa would drop before her mind’s eye again. Then a voice in her head would whisper that this ghost from Pete’s past was the love his heart truly sought and not that of some cut-rate replica—not Olivia.