by Drea Stein
I know that I have not always been the best mother or grandmother. To be an artist requires a bit of selfishness, I always felt, especially an actress. You belong to your fans and it’s hard to be everything to someone else, especially a child. I didn’t always do right by your father, but he turned out fine—better than fine. My only regret is that he too was taken from this world too soon.
And he and your mother did just fine by you, giving me the most precious gift. I know you haven’t always enjoyed the life you had to lead with me, and, to be frank, I am not sure it suited you. But you did the best you could with it and that is all anyone asks.
So now, when I can bear to part with it, I give you Ivy House. It was a safe port for me and Leland when times were rough. I hope you may find it to be your own safe haven and a place of happiness and magic. While I was there, I found out who I was…I hope it holds the same promise for you.
Phoebe dropped the letter onto the desk. She was in her room in the Osprey Arms. It was a decent size, with a nice view, and the feeling it was supposed to encourage was one of colonial charm, but the mix of toile and floral fabric was a bit overdone and dated.
She flopped down in the wingback armchair and looked out the window. It was a sunny day. Gulls wheeled in the sky and there were boats leaving the marina heading out for a day on the water.
I give you Ivy House… How very Savannah, Phoebe thought. I hear it needs a little work… Also very Savannah-like, Phoebe thought, to give something that wasn’t quite fit for gifting. Savannah had left her with many obligations.
Phoebe looked at her phone. The story had hit the papers just as she was getting ready to leave Los Angeles. She didn’t want to endure the pity of all her friends. But there it was, in black and white: “Savannah Ryan Dies Broke…” was the most succinct. After Savannah died, Phoebe had faced a mountain of paperwork and bills, which the Los Angeles lawyers had summed up for her nicely: sell everything or come up with a mountain of cash to keep it.
While Phoebe wasn’t broke herself, Savannah, what with her illness and the nursing home costs, had depleted all her savings quickly. She had already moved out of the house in Malibu and had been living in an apartment. It was on a lease, but the landlord had been happy to let Phoebe out of the contract. That had left furniture and clothes, most of which Phoebe had put into storage, and the rest she had arranged with a dealer friend to sell.
At the end of the day, there had been just enough to cover Savannah’s final expenses with a bit left over. So much for the remains of a long career spent entertaining the masses. Savannah had never been interested in anything other than making movies. She had never attached her name to any product or cause. And for the last decade or so, she hadn’t been working.
Phoebe glanced over the story. It had the basic details down right, and it included a notice about the sale of some of Savannah’s furniture at the gallery. But that was just a sentence or two. The author of the piece had decided to fill the story with some salacious details, rehashing all the details of Savannah Ryan’s life: her scandalous child out of wedlock and then her determined wooing of Leland Harper, a married man quite a bit older than her, and their stormy and passionate marriage, which had resulted in his messy divorce and a relationship that kept the media hopping.
She sighed and kept reading. Savannah and Leland’s relationship, always heated, turned almost violent, with Leland drinking and accusing Savannah of hooking up with her costars. Before things could get really ugly, Leland had died in a plane crash. Sympathy swung in Savannah’s favor, as she became a tragic figure, the lover left bereft, and her career had slowly revived.
Savannah had had a fortune, both from Leland’s money and her own work, but she had let it all slip away. Worse, though, was that she had spent Phoebe’s inheritance too. Her parents had died in a car crash on the way home from an awards ceremony. Phoebe had been only eight when it happened and Savannah had been awarded custody, moving from Queensbay back to Hollywood, trying to be a mother, while also trying to revive her career.
Phoebe hated the papers. She’d managed to stay out of them and, after a while, so had Savannah. But she’d known enough people, friends and acquaintances, who were hounded by them; the merest indiscretion fodder for endless days of stories, the loss of privacy unbearable.
Phoebe looked at the other envelope on the small side table. Chase had given it to her the day before. He had said it was an offer for the property. As if that was all Ivy House could be.
Her practical side warred with her outrage. And then she thought about what Savannah had done. She had left her a dilapidated house requiring immeasurable investments of time, money, and energy.
She reached for the envelope. It was a simple white one and she slid open the flap, giving herself a nasty paper cut in the process. Strike two against him, Phoebe thought, as she stuck her finger in her mouth, trying to soothe the pain away.
A single sheet of paper fell out. It was a heavy bond and there was a simple, solid dark blue type on the letterhead. But her eyes glossed over that as they fixed on the number. Sure, there were a bunch of words surrounding it, outlining terms and details, but it was the number that got her attention.
“Holy shit,” she mouthed and looked again to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. Sandy, the real estate agent, had been right. It really was a million-dollar view. More than a million dollars.
She read over the terms and saw they were simple. The offer was for the house and lot, as-is conditions, no questions asked. All cash, possession to be taken as soon as possible. Phoebe knew that if she accepted this offer, she could be on her way back to Los Angeles and her life within a day or two.
Tempting. Yes, very tempting. She had left Los Angeles at loose ends, and while it didn’t mean she needed to get back there right away, she didn’t think her absence would make getting her life back together any easier. With that kind of money, she wouldn’t have to go back to Los Angeles with her hat in hand, wouldn’t have to rely on Dean to sort things out for her. She could be independent, really independent for once, be able to work for herself and not rely on the whims of clients.
She took another look at the letterhead. Chase Sanders. The name niggled at her, like the face of someone you saw in a crowd, but couldn’t place. Perhaps she needed to do a little more research on this guy.
Chapter 8
Phoebe made her way through the lobby of the Osprey Arms. Like her room, it was elegant in a bland sort of way, with reproduction antiques and a rug that that did nothing for the place except hide the dirt. The effect was a sort of cheap imitation of what elegance should be. It could be so much more.
She was more intent on checking her bag, making sure she had remembered her pencils, her sketchbook, and her laptop, than in noticing her surroundings, which is why she was so startled when she connected with a wall.
“Ouch,” she said and then looked up. It wasn’t a wall at all, which made sense, since she had been quite sure she’d been walking in the middle of the lobby. Now the contents of her bag, including her sketchbook, were scattered across the floor.
“You,” she said. It was Chase. “Chase Sanders,” she corrected herself. He was standing there, looming above her.
“You weren’t looking where you were going,” he said, but she could see that he was more amused than angry. No, she decided quickly. He wasn’t just amused. He was openly laughing at her. Not surprising, since she was so startled that she had popped back about three feet upon coming in contact with him. He was a lot more solid than he looked and a definite lurker.
“Do you always stand in the middle of hotel lobbies?” Phoebe snapped back, knowing that it wasn’t much of a comeback. She had to look up at him and wished she were wearing higher heels. The Chase of jeans and a windbreaker were gone. This Chase had on tailored slacks, a white button-down, and a dark blue sweater. The expensive sunglasses hung in the v of his sweater and she wondered if he ever went anywhere without them.
He shrugged, the l
aughter gone, but the amusement still in his eyes. The preppy outfit couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and well-developed biceps, even more apparent because he was standing with his arms crossed.
“Here, let me help you with that.” And before she could tell him to leave her alone, he was on the floor, casually gathering her things up.
It was too much. She had told herself that she would be calm about the whole thing, but, really, this was too much.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” she said, finally, as he stood with her sketchpad and some pencils in his hand.
“And what sort of scheme you’re trying to run.” She felt emboldened and crossed the distance between them. Her finger found his chest and she jabbed it into him, hoping to make her point perfectly clear. “You must be up to something. And just to make it clear, Ivy House is not for sale.”
A puzzled look crossed his face. “Is that what you think the offer was? Some sort of scheme?” He stepped back a little from her poking finger. Phoebe noticed that the guy behind the desk—blond, with a stubby little ponytail and one small gold earring—was paying close attention to them, while pretending to do anything but.
“Yes, that’s what I think it is exactly.” Phoebe felt herself beginning to get worked up. Why else would he have offered so much money for a decrepit house? He was trying to bribe her. That had to be it. Get her to sell and move out and leave Ivy House to the fate of the wrecking ball.
“I don’t think when one is set out to scheme against someone, they make such a generous offer,” Chase said, his voice mild even as he stopped her pointing finger from stabbing him in the chest again. He held her hand for what seemed like a minute too long, and Phoebe was distracted by the thought of how nice and big it felt wrapped around her own. And then she realized she was close enough to smell him and that he smelled good. Fresh soap and some sort of spicy aftershave.
She swallowed. There had been a point somewhere in there. Ah, yes, Chase Sanders was a conniving bastard with a too-sexy-for-words smile. Phoebe drew herself up to her full height. She had fallen for the sexy smile once too often, but this time she was forewarned. If he thought he could try and sneak Ivy House away from her, then he was surely mistaken.
“I don’t know if you think you can steal Ivy House away from me, or what you’re planning on doing with it, but I’m no fool. I’ve done my research. I know what it’s worth and trying to sneak in and steal it from under me is a dirty, underhanded trick.”
“I take it then that you didn’t look at the offer. Because if you had, you would be aware that I offered more than what it was worth.”
Chase released her hand and gave her back her pencils. She took them and shoved them in her bag. He still had her sketchpad, and it was with alarm that she watched him start to flip through the pages.
“What are you doing?” Phoebe knew her voice had risen and also knew that the guy at the reception desk was no longer pretending not to notice what was going on in the middle of his lobby. No, he was avidly staring at the both of them.
Chase looked up at her face and then back down at the pad. He had stopped at one of her latest designs, something she had come up with on the plane. Phoebe held out her hand, feeling her face start to grow red. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he handed the sketchbook back to her. She dropped it into her shoulder bag, relief flooding through her now that it was safely back in her possession.
“I assure you, Ms. Ryan, I wasn’t trying to steal or sneak anything from you.” Chase was smiling again, easy and confident as his blue eyes roamed over her face. Phoebe was aware that her foot was starting to tap impatiently. This encounter wasn’t going quite as she had imagined it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I was simply making a fair offer for the house,” he said smoothly, and Phoebe took a deep breath.
“I meant what I said; I am interested. It’s a great piece of property and ones like those don’t come on the market very often.”
“Well, I think you might be surprised to find out that you can’t just charm your way into everything.” Phoebe had done a little more research. Chase’s offer had been good, but there was always room to negotiate. That wasn’t what Phoebe intended, but she needed to know where she stood.
Chase smiled a slow, lazy smile, and Phoebe felt her stomach do a little flip-flop. Chase was not handsome, at least not in the pretty-boy Hollywood way she was used to. But he had as much presence as any movie star, and it was hard to keep her mind focused when he turned his dark blue eyes on her.
“Oh, you’re right. I don’t expect charm to work in this case. I figured it was going to take some cold, hard cash to get what I wanted. What do you say? I know I’m breaking one of the first rules of deal making, but that was just my first offer. Care to hear my second?”
There was something almost casually obscene about the way he made the remark, and Phoebe felt herself taking a step away.
“Really, I…” She spun on her heel and walked over to where the guy with the blond ponytail was sitting behind the reception counter. Jim, his nametag read, all of a sudden seemed to be very busy with his computer.
“Excuse me.” Phoebe thumped her hand on the scratched wooden surface of the desk. Jim looked up, an embarrassed smile on his face.
“Can I help you miss?” He asked, sounding like he was anything but eager to do so.
“This man,” Phoebe did a half-turn and pointed to where Chase was standing, arms folded, rocking slightly on his heels, a very amused expression on his face, “is bothering me. I am a guest at this hotel and I demand…”
Before she could continue, Chase spoke up. “It’s quite alright. Sorry to bother you, Ms. Ryan. I’ll be going now. But please, think about what I said.”
The smirk was back on his face and so were his sunglasses, and if Phoebe wasn’t mistaken, she was almost certain his shoulders were shaking ever so slightly as he walked out the swinging double doors and onto the wide porch.
Phoebe turned back to look at Jim, who seemed to be having some sort of choking fit. His face was bright red and when she asked if he was OK, he waved his hand and managed to cough out, “Fine, just fine.”
She left after that, satisfied that she had made her point to the lurking and looming Chase Sanders. Ivy House would not be for sale to him. Savannah did not want her to sell it, at least not to someone who probably only wanted it for the view.
Phoebe started out across the village, taking Hill Road, aptly named because it snaked up the high bluffs that circled the harbor. A mix of colonial and late Victorian houses lined the road, and as she got to the top, it flattened out and little lanes jutted off, leading to the water’s edge. Ivy Lane was just a half mile up from Queensbay, but it was a steep hike, and she was just a little bit winded when she made it to the front gate.
Ivy House stood there, starkly white against a bluer-than-blue spring sky. It had beckoned to her since yesterday. All of last night she had dreamt of it, strange dreams that had played out like one of Savannah’s black-and-white movies. Looking at the house now, the images came back to her. Savannah had appeared, dressed in a simple flowing dress, an elegant blonde. Stepping into the frame had been an older, distinguished man, Leland Harper, dark haired, white suited.
Savannah and Leland’s affair and marriage had been so passionate that books had been written and even a miniseries had been based on it. Phoebe’s grandmother hardly ever talked about Leland, so Phoebe had done what any kid would do. She’d gone to the internet, watched the miniseries—filled with B-list actors—read the books, and tried to imagine what it had been like.
Savannah and Leland had decided that the best way to quell the uproar was to appear normal. So, they had stayed in Queensbay, Leland’s hometown, and had tried to live like normal people for a while, as normal as a movie star and millionaire could be. The happily-ever-after hadn’t lasted, of course. They were too close to Leland’s ex-wife, who wouldn’t leave them alone, and Savannah couldn’t be kept f
rom acting.
No one knew if it would have lasted since Leland had died in an airplane crash, making the story tragic and epic. Still, from the dreamy look Savannah got on her face whenever she talked about Leland and Queensbay, Phoebe knew that Ivy House had been a special place.
Now looking at the house, Phoebe tried to sense the magic Savannah had written about in her letter. The house was beautiful, at least if you looked past the cosmetic blemishes. The white tower that shot up lent the house a quirky sense of possibility. Magic, though? Phoebe looked around at the overgrown garden, the rusted fence, and the broken flagstones. She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of the water, and let the movie play again in her mind.
Ivy House was gleaming white, the sky blue, the water bluer. Seagulls wheeled in the sky and a light wind rustled the oaks. Foxgloves and lupine bloomed, and the fence was a gleaming black. There was the sound of laughter and the porch invited you to sit. The door was painted Phoebe’s favorite color, a slate blue, and the brass knocker shone.
Smiling, Phoebe opened her eyes. Perhaps this was it, what she needed. Maybe Savannah had truly meant to give her something that needed to be put back together again. She could restore Ivy House, whether for herself or to sell it; maybe that didn’t matter. But it would be a project, real, honest work while she sorted out her life. It was the perfect reason to disappear from her old life for a while. And if she decided to sell it, she could be choosy, sell it to someone who didn’t want to tear it down, someone who would respect it.
Chapter 9
She tried to push away the thought of Chase Sanders laughing at her as she spent the day at Ivy House, starting to make a plan of what needed to be done. She looked down at one point at her to-do lists and saw that she had drawn his face. And not just once, but several times. She had drawn him once with his eyebrow quirked up, another one with the beginnings of a smirk, and finally one that focused on his shoulders. She sighed and drew bad-guy, villain-type mustaches on all of them, hoping it would get the thought of him out of her mind.