Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Adelia said with a shrug that made Ivy’s heart sink despite knowing how the story would end. “Charles did as he was told and courted one of the Whittaker girls until he left for college. He was going to law school to take over his father’s practice, like our son Norman did, so he was gone to Tuscaloosa for years.”

  “You waited all that time for him?”

  “Not exactly. I went on with my life, as a girl with any sense does. I graduated and got a job working at the bank as a secretary. I enjoyed working and I was good at what I did. I earned enough money to rent an apartment over the shoe store and bought my own car. Around here, it was nearly unheard of for a girl to be unmarried and working at my age, but I didn’t care what anyone thought. I was happy.”

  “Did you ever see or hear from him while he was away?”

  “Charles would write me letters from time to time, telling me about school and asking how I was doing. He was busy with his studies, but I knew that because he took the time to write, he still thought of me fondly. Time seemed to fly by and the next thing I knew, Charles showed up in the bank one day, looking as handsome as ever. Blake takes a lot after my Charles. He told me that he’d graduated and moved back to Rosewood to practice. When he noticed I was still single, he asked me out on the spot.”

  Ivy held her teacup steady in midair, too focused on the story to either take a sip or put it down.

  “We were married the next year, and I had Norman the year after that.” Ivy watched her glance down at her wedding ring and smile. “We were very happy together.”

  “That’s a wonderful story. Whatever happened to the Whittaker girl his father wanted him to marry?”

  A wide and decidedly devious smile broke out across the older woman’s face. “Well, you see, working at the bank, I had access to a lot of personal information about the residents of Rosewood. I made a few offhand comments to her about the large bank account of a single architect who was in Rosewood to assist with the design of the new high school. Like a fly to honey, she went right after him. They married, and when he completed his work here, he moved and took her with him. By the time Charles returned to Rosewood, Martha was on her second baby and living in Des Moines.”

  Miss Adelia was a shrewd woman. Ivy liked that. She just didn’t want to be on the woman’s bad side. “It sounds like everyone ended up happy in the end.”

  The older woman smiled and patted Ivy’s hand. “Oh yes, but it very easily could’ve ended differently. Say, if Charles had bent to his father’s wishes and married Martha while he was still in college. Or if I had been impatient and married the first man who looked my way after graduation. Despite the ups and downs, things worked out the way they were meant to.

  “The Chamberlain men . . . are often slow to act,” Adelia continued with a weary sigh. “Even when they have what they want right in front of them, they don’t always reach out and grab it the way they should.”

  Ivy took a bite of a butter cookie, but her mouth was suddenly so dry, she had to chase it with a sip of tea to keep from choking. She realized now that this was no idle chatter over tea. The elder Chamberlain had brought her here for a specific reason.

  “It took forever for Blake’s father, Norman, to settle down. Helen was perfect for him, but he hesitated to pull the trigger. It was the eighties, and he was more interested in living an exciting, glamorous life than in settling down and starting a family. Blake is the same way. Sometimes I wonder if he didn’t go after that cheerleader on purpose.”

  Ivy’s eyes widened as she sat back in her seat and gently placed her teacup on its saucer for fear of dropping it. Was she really discussing Blake’s infidelity with his grandmother? The fact that Miss Adelia even knew the details of their breakup was mortifying enough, but she got the feeling that the woman knew everything that happened in this town. “Wh-what makes you say that?”

  “Blake loved you very much. I could see it in the way he carried himself when he was with you. I think he knew he had a good thing with you, but he was too young and scared by the idea of it. All that fame and attention can cloud your ability to see things clearly. Sabotaging the relationship might not make sense to you or me, but in his twisted male mind, it allowed him to put off taking the next step.”

  That was one way to look at it. Ivy had always blamed it on his being drunk and horny and feeling sorry for himself. “What’s done is done,” she replied, trying not to give away too many of her own thoughts and feelings on the subject. After the past few confusing days in Rosewood, she’d started to question what those feelings even were.

  His grandmother was obviously trying to explain Blake’s actions to her, but why? Was she trying to diffuse the tension between them so the fund-raisers were successful? To avoid the scandal of another public fight? Her stomach ached as she considered the last option—was she trying to get them back together again?

  “Yes. It was a huge mistake, of course, and he realized it immediately. Blake was an absolute mess over the holidays. It’s no wonder the Tigers lost the BCS championship. His heart just wasn’t in the game. But as you say, it was too late and he couldn’t change what he’d done. Although sometimes I wonder . . . what if you and Blake are like his grandfather and I? What if you’re just taking the long, winding road to happiness?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ivy replied slowly, looking into her lap to avoid the pointed blue gaze aimed at her. It felt like Miss Adelia could look right into her and see the darkest secrets she kept hidden from everyone. “I think we’ve both hurt each other too much to ever go back to where we were.”

  “Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps not.”

  “Anyway,” Ivy argued with a nervous smile, “from what I’ve heard, I think he’s dating Lydia Whittaker.”

  At that, Miss Adelia frowned into her teacup. “I doubt that’s truly the case. But even if it were, no matter. You and I are a lot alike, Ivy. I didn’t let a Whittaker girl get in between Charles and me. I suggest you don’t, either.”

  “That’s it?” Pepper sounded extremely disappointed.

  “Pretty much.” Ivy pinched her iPhone between her ear and her shoulder so she could steer her shopping cart with both hands through the narrow aisles of the Piggly Wiggly.

  Ivy had relayed the high points of her afternoon tea party to Pepper over the phone, specifically leaving out the conversation about Miss Adelia’s history and how it paralleled Ivy’s relationship with Blake. She had left the Chamberlain mansion with her head spinning. Their discussion had been both enlightening and miserably confusing.

  When she’d returned to her cabin that evening, Ivy found herself stir-crazy. The house was too quiet and there were too many thoughts fighting for her attention. It seemed to her as though Miss Adelia was pushing them to reconcile. The older woman had seemed completely lucid during the conversation, but the idea of getting back together with Blake was crazy.

  Too crazy to share, even with Pepper. As far as her friend and anyone else needed to know, she’d had a nice time. The food was very good and she ate too much. But it was just a polite tea.

  When the cabin had suddenly felt too small, Ivy had gotten into her car and driven into town. She didn’t really need anything, but she found herself at the grocery store. The lights, the sounds, and the wide aisles of products were a happy distraction.

  “People in town talk up these teas so much, I kept expecting her to tell me the secrets of the universe. Or at least to tell me an embarrassing story about Blake as a child. But I got nothing but polite banter. We covered the weather, traveling, a couple of her favorite singers . . . Nothing to write home about. Or call to tell you, which is why I didn’t.”

  Pepper groaned in her ear. Apparently she’d waited all evening to hear from Ivy. Around eight thirty, she’d given up and called herself. “Sounds like a waste of a good hair day.”

  “Eh,” Ivy said noncommittally. “It wasn’t a total waste. I could tell Blake li
ked it. Whenever I can look really hot and make him miserable, it’s a good day.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Pepper complained. “You didn’t mention Blake was there.”

  “He wasn’t. At least not for long. He was there when I arrived and quickly made an exit.” Ivy opened the door to the refrigerated case and pulled out a carton of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. It went into the cart next to her twelve-pack of Diet Coke and a giant bag of jelly beans—fuel for writing more songs.

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing, at first. He just looked at me.”

  “So how do you know he liked your hair?”

  “Because of the way he looked at me. I dated the man for over four years. Trust me, I know.”

  His gaze had raked over her body, sending a shiver of awareness down her spine and tightening her belly. Her reaction had been instant and powerful, which pissed her off when she thought back on the moment. She never reacted to anyone the way she reacted to Blake. Singers, actors, models . . . not even the sexiest men on earth could evoke the same reaction with just a look.

  Why did her body have to respond like that to Blake of all people?

  “He looked at me like a five-year-old staring through the window of a candy store. He practically had his nose pressed against the glass. Then he told me I looked lovely and left.”

  Someone at the grocery store came over the loudspeaker requesting a price check at register three.

  “What was that?” Pepper asked. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Piggly Wiggly,” Ivy answered, feeling quite pleased with herself. “I am wearing yoga pants, flip-flops, and no bra. My hair is in a ponytail and I washed off all my makeup.”

  Pepper gasped, the soft noise barely audible over the hum of the freezer section. “Tell me you aren’t serious.”

  “I am. I have to say, it’s the greatest thing I’ve done in a long time. Better than tea at the Chamberlains’.”

  “Did someone slip you acid? Why on earth did you go to the store like that?”

  “Because I can, Pepper. There are six people in the store and three of them work here. Mr. Thompson’s eyesight is getting so bad he greeted me as Becky, whoever that is. The other woman shopping is dressed kind of like me. It’s like a shopping sisterhood. No one has so much as batted an eye at me.”

  “I really don’t get it.”

  Pepper subscribed to the rule most southern women lived by: you should never go out in public without your hair done and your face “on.” It didn’t matter if it was for a PTA meeting, dinner at Ellen’s, or a run to the post office. The pick-up line at the elementary school could be a beauty pageant. The bigger the hair, the closer to God, after all.

  Ivy had lived that way in California and New York, but mostly because she was a celebrity and she had to. Here, she couldn’t care less because it was safe.

  “No one cares, Pepper. It’s the greatest thing ever. There’s no one here from the press to snap my picture and put me in one of those ‘Celebrities without Makeup’ specials. To you, it’s just me going to the grocery store dressed like a slob, but to me, it’s pure freedom.”

  It was awful sometimes. Sure, being a world-famous singer had its perks. But it also came with its downsides. Having cameras shoved in her face almost constantly was one of the negatives. She could never have a bad hair day. She could never just throw something on and run up the street for doughnuts. She always had to be on. She always had to be the Ivy Hudson.

  “Wow. I guess I didn’t really think about that.”

  “You know, I wasn’t excited about coming back to Rosewood. But after a few days, I really am starting to see the perks of the small-town life again. I mean, aside from Lydia and Blake, most folks have been very welcoming. There’s no traffic. No pollution. No crowds. And most importantly, no paparazzi.”

  Pepper laughed. “There’s also no sexy movie stars, no oceans, no Rodeo Drive, and no sushi restaurants.”

  “That’s true.” It was definitely an adjustment. She couldn’t leap into her convertible and go to a club or make a run to the In-N-Out Burger. Out here, things pretty much shut down by nine. It was a different world, but she didn’t mind so much. It was a nice change of pace. “But, if things pan out, there might be a sexy movie star in Rosewood next week.”

  A sharp squeal sounded in Ivy’s ear. “Ohmigod. Who? Would I know him? Is he single? Are you going to tell me who it is or what?”

  “I will once you hush.” Ivy put a couple of liters of Smartwater in her cart with some protein bars while she drew out the suspense. “So . . . Malcolm Holt might be paying me a visit if he gets the break he’s expecting on his latest shooting schedule.”

  “Seriously? Malcolm Holt? Swoon-worthy romantic leading man? Comic book hero? I honestly have never seen another man look that good in a spandex costume.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him that. I think his ego might explode when he hears it.” Malcolm was one of the hottest actors in Hollywood right now. His curly dark hair, bright blue eyes, and dimples made him a compelling mix of charming, adorable, and drop-dead sexy. Most women didn’t stand a chance in his presence.

  While she loved Malcolm, Ivy was immune to his charms. She was one of the few people who knew he was gay. And while she was excited to see him again, she was more excited to see how her partner in crime reacted to the small-town southern life.

  “Wait,” Pepper said. “I thought you two dated a while back?”

  “We did.”

  At least, that’s what the press reported. The truth was that they were just good friends. He was her best friend, really. When he needed a high-profile relationship for a big movie, Ivy was happy to be seen out and about with him. And, because he made her promise, when they “broke up” she wrote a song about him. It would be suspicious if she didn’t. That song was one of the few in her repertoire that was more about regret and her throwing away the relationship than it was about her boyfriend being a jerk. She just couldn’t write a song about Malcolm being a jerk.

  “But you don’t hate him and he doesn’t hate you?”

  “No, we stayed friends. He’s the only one I stayed friends with over the years.”

  “Darn,” Pepper cursed. “I was hoping the lead singer of Mayhem might drop into town, too.”

  At that, Ivy snorted into the phone. “If he did, Doc Owen’s clinic would be hopping and there’d be a run on antibiotics.” Fortunately, Ivy had a strict zero-tolerance policy of safe sex that served her well and had kept her from picking up more than a few song lyrics from him.

  “Aww. Why do you always have to ruin it for me?”

  “I’m sorry, Pepper. I thought you would’ve figured that out from the songs. Let me just say it’s safe to cross off almost all my exes from your fantasy list, okay? That includes Malcolm. None of them are worth the adoration of a good, strong woman like you.”

  “Then why do you date them, Ivy?”

  That question stopped Ivy in her tracks, halfway between the bread aisle and the checkout stands. She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Pepper, why she really had such bad taste in men. If her fans learned the truth, she could potentially lose the ones she had left. They wouldn’t understand; they’d feel manipulated. “I don’t know. I guess I just like them bad and emotionally unavailable. Don’t ask me why.”

  “You need some therapy.”

  “Don’t hold back, girl.” Ivy chuckled nervously into the phone. “Listen, I’m about to check out, so I’ll let you go. If Malcolm books a flight, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  Pepper said her good-byes and Ivy hung up. Lord, Pepper was a perceptive one. It was probably her work. Being a hairstylist was right up there with bartending when it came to pseudopsychology. For the price of a cut and color, you could get some peace of mind and look great.

  But she didn’t need Pepper digging around in her love life. That was a dark quagmire that no one should tread into. On that note, she put a five-dollar bottle of wine in her cart. Malc
olm would be horrified, but some days a five-dollar bottle of wine was just the ticket.

  By the time Ivy returned to the cabin, she was feeling less restless. The trip had done her some good, clearing her mind and getting her in a better mood. She put her groceries away and opted to do a little work. Her brain worked best in the evening. She poured a glass of blackberry merlot, grabbed her notebook, and headed back out onto her screened porch.

  Ivy tried to end every night with a few quiet moments with her notebook. She wrote her songs in this notebook, but really, it was more like a diary for her. Around the time she was twelve or so, she’d found that her diary was filled more with poetic interpretations of her daily angst than just the usual journal entries. The poems eventually evolved into lyrics.

  Ninety percent of what she wrote was just for her. Not every song was a single, and not every song was intended for anyone’s ears but her own. Lyrics were her way of processing her thoughts and feelings.

  And tonight, she was feeling a little nostalgic for her hometown. She’d come home to find a chicken casserole and an orange gelatin salad on her porch from Miss Francine. A small plate with a scoop of each was sitting beside her on the table. It would make the perfect late dinner after filling up at tea. She’d have to remember to get the thank-you note in the mail first thing tomorrow.

  Not once in all the years she’d lived in California or Manhattan had she ever received a gift from a neighbor. Not even a plate of cookies at Christmas, much less food for no reason. People didn’t even bring food after funerals when they paid their respects to the family. Ivy hadn’t been to a single funeral in Rosewood where she didn’t have to haul in a platter of fried chicken for her mama. How exactly did people grieve their loss while they were starving?

  There was something happy and familiar about being home again. She loved her beach house with the ocean views and the warm breezes. She enjoyed her Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. But being home was different. Comfortable. She hadn’t expected that. Given the way she’d left, she was certain the people here would be cold to her. Who knows, maybe they were smiling to her face and talking about her behind her back. As long as she didn’t know about it, she’d live in contented, ignorant bliss.