Hollywood Scandal

by Louise Bay

  Hollywood Scandal

  Louise Bay

  Published by Louise Bay 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Louise Bay. All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN – 978-1-910747-47-6

  Contents

  Books by Louise Bay

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Louise Bay

  Keep in touch!

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Louise Bay

  Hollywood Scandal

  Duke of Manhattan

  Park Avenue Prince

  King of Wall Street

  Love Unexpected

  Indigo Nights

  Promised Nights

  Parisian Nights

  The Empire State Series

  Hopeful

  Faithful

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  www.louisebay.com/newsletter

  Read more at www.louisebay.com

  One

  Lana

  As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to escape Worthington, Maine, but as I paused to breathe in the last of Mr. Graham’s lilacs, I couldn’t imagine why. I’d been incredibly lucky to have grown up in such a beautiful place.

  My arms were full of groceries, so I half waved to Polly Larch as she crossed Main Street opposite the post office, tugging at her cat’s leash. Even though it looked like Polly was in charge, I was pretty sure she was following wherever the cat wandered.

  I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and climbed the steps to Mrs. Wells’ porch. I knocked and headed straight in. “Mrs. Wells, it’s Lana.” As well as being a self-proclaimed psychic, Mrs. Wells was the oldest resident of Worthington and a number of us took it in turns to drop off her groceries.

  The television fell silent as I shut the door behind me.

  “Hello, dear.” Mrs. Wells turned to wave at me as I smiled before heading to the kitchen.

  “I’m just going to unpack these groceries and I’ll be right over,” I replied. I put the brown paper bag on the counter alongside the canvas tote that bore my newly designed logo for Kelly Jewelry. I grinned as I straightened it out so I could see the raspberry pink set against the duck-egg blue. I’d spent weeks designing it, had commissioned a painted storefront sign and eventually I would recover the seats of the chairs in my shop with the same colors and maybe paint my nails that same shade of pink. Everything was coming together.

  I emptied the tote, rolled it up and snapped it shut in my faux-vintage carpet bag.

  “The Young and the Restless?” I asked, checking to see which soap opera Mrs. Wells was watching.

  “No dear, it’s yesterday’s General Hospital. Thank you for dropping off my groceries, now come and sit here.” She removed a faded patchwork quilt from the chair beside her and patted the cushion. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks. Tell me what’s been going on.”

  I smoothed down the back of my skirt before taking a seat. “I’m sure you know far more than I do.” Mrs. Wells had been born in this town and there was nothing she didn’t know about either before it happened or, at the very latest, the moment after. And it had nothing to do with her psychic ability.

  “Did you hear about the movie they’re making along the coast?” she asked.

  “Is that even true?” More than one person had mentioned the movie being filmed just between here and Portland, but there were plenty of beaches in California. Why would they come to Maine?

  “Bree Kendall stopped by on her way back from Portland yesterday. She said she saw a hundred trucks trailing through the town.” As Mrs. Wells’ house sat right at the end of Main Street, and she spent almost as much time on her porch as she did watching TV, she had a bird’s-eye view of most of the action that took place in Worthington and passersby told her the news from out of town.

  Not that there was much, which was exactly how I liked it.

  “I hear the whole of Portland is full of Hollywood types and all the hotels are booked up,” she told me.

  “Well, that’s good for local business,” I said, staring at the TV, trying to work out if I’d seen the woman on the screen in something else. I had a terrible memory for names and faces. Another reason why staying in the same place I grew up was such a good idea for me. Other than tourists, there were few new people who came to town.

  “It might be good for you, too. Perhaps you should take an ad out in the Portland Press Herald.”

  “Maybe.” I was pretty sure if a film crew was in Portland, they’d have neither the time nor inclination to visit a jewelry store thirty-five minutes north of where they were staying.

  “You should think about it. There are a lot of things happening for you this summer.” I could tell by her sure voice that she wasn’t just making small talk. She had information. Or at least she thought she did. Although Mrs. Wells had long-since retired from giving readings to passing tourists on the beach, apparently the spirits weren’t so keen on her retirement and she still passed on what they told her to any Worthington resident who asked. But I hadn’t asked. And I didn’t want to know.

  She pulled out my yellow silk scarf from where it was lodged beside her. So that was where it had disappeared. I hadn’t seen it in weeks. I should have known. “You must have left it when you were last here, my dear.”

  She was trying to appear nonchalant, but the sparkle in her eyes told me she was busting at the seams to tell me whatever reading she’d got on my scarf.

  “I’ve told you before, Mrs. Wells, I’m not interested in knowing what my future holds. I want to see it for myself.” Unfortunately, Mrs. Wells wasn’t one of those fortune tellers who just told you the good stuff. When I’d been to see her about college choices, desperate for her to tell me that art school in New York would make all my dreams come true, I’d been devastated that she’d told me the move would only bring me pain. I’d ignored her, assuming her negative reading was just reflective of the fact that she was a small-town woman frightened of the big city.

  I hated that she’d been right, and I’d never asked her what the spirits said again. Since I’d been back in Worthington, I’d worked hard to hold things steady, made sure I was in control of my own destiny. I wanted to keep my life just as it was. I was happy.

  “You need to prepare yourself, my dear. This summer there’s a storm coming your way. Lots of change.”

  My stomach flipped over. I didn’t do storms. There was no way my world could be thrown off balance—I’d made sure of it. I shook my head. “Well, I’ve storm-proofed my life.” My jewelry shop was turning a small profit, I’d
set up an online storefront, and had made more from the last three months of internet sales than I had in the whole of last year. I had my cottage on the beach and good friends and neighbors. There was nothing that could alter any of that.

  “It’s impossible to avoid. It’s your destiny. You can withstand what comes but things will change. Storms can be destructive but they can clear the air, ready for a fresh start. A new beginning,” she said, looking at me intently.

  “Please, Mrs. Wells. I really don’t want to hear any more.” I twirled the yellow scarf around my fingers. I’d worked really hard for calm seas these last few years, and I didn’t want to think about anything disturbing that. And I didn’t need a new beginning. I’d thought that about college and where had that gotten me?

  She patted my hand. “Have you rented out your next-door cottage for the summer?”

  I was grateful she’d changed the subject. “Actually, it was booked months ago for six weeks. A family from Boston arrived yesterday. I haven’t met them yet, but their car is in the driveway.” My best friend Ruby and I rented out a house we jointly owned that was a carbon copy of my cottage. When my father died, I couldn’t bring myself to live in my childhood home, so I’d decided to sell that house and reinvest in two clapboard cottages next door to each other on the beach less than a ten-minute walk from where I’d grown up. My father would have approved. He’d always been a big believer in brick-and-mortar-based income.

  “That’s great news, dear. See, there will be lots of good in with the turmoil.”

  I sighed. I wished she’d drop it. My life wasn’t in turmoil, and I’d make sure it never would be. And it was no surprise about the rental cottage. Fact was, the house was popular and rented well year-round, but six weeks was a nice long period of time, especially for the money Ruby had managed to secure. She dealt with bookings from her home in New York, and I handled the things on the ground—welcome basket, weekly maid service and generally organizing any necessary maintenance. Often, I never even met the renters. Most people spent their days out exploring the coast.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to a great summer for all of us,” I said as I stood and straightened out my skirt.

  “With all that’s coming into your life, it’s going to get interesting for you. That’s for sure. It won’t all be bad. But you’re going to have to listen to your heart.”

  “Mrs. Wells!” I scolded, trying not to stamp my foot like a three-year-old. I couldn’t have been clearer that I didn’t want to hear her predictions. And I knew full well that listening to my heart was the last thing I needed to do. That got me nothing but trouble. “I’ve told you before that I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is. I don’t do turmoil. And I don’t want to hear any more.”

  She clearly couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her palm to her chest. “I want you to find someone who will love you just like Mr. Wells loved me. And when I got that message from your scarf about the handsome man in your future, I just couldn’t hold it in.”

  “A man?” Her prediction had gotten worse. The very last thing I wanted was a man. I’d learned that I couldn’t trust men. And I couldn’t trust my judgment of men. It was an easy solution—I just avoided them. Not that there were many single men under thirty-five in Worthington. Which was exactly why this place was so perfect.

  I loved my life here—the lilacs, the thunderstorms and the ocean that I saw every time I looked out of the window. It was home—a harbor of happiness, familiarity and shelter. I might have been a little lonely every now and then on a Saturday night, but Netflix and the sound of the waves crashing against the beach just beyond my cottage plugged most of the gap. I had what I needed. Life was good.

  “Okay, Mrs. Wells, I need to get back to the shop.” I stood up again. I’d put the closed sign up while I delivered Mrs. Wells’ groceries, and I didn’t want to miss people on their way home from work.

  “Very well, but make sure you’ve got an umbrella. It’s going to rain.”

  I frowned. “It’s a beautiful day, Mrs. Wells. I don’t need an umbrella.” I picked up my purse and headed out.

  If she couldn’t even get the weather right, hopefully Mrs. Wells was losing her touch. I needed my life to remain as it was. Handsome men had never worked out well for me.

  Two

  Matt

  It had been twenty-seven hours, ten minutes and roughly forty-five seconds since I’d arrived in Worthington, Maine, from LA. Which meant it had been twenty-seven hours, ten minutes and roughly fifty-five seconds since I’d last been recognized.

  My heart rate was 132 and the muscles in my thighs had begun to burn but I kept running, taking in the fresh sea air. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run outside. Most of the time it was just too goddamn hot in Los Angeles, though the freaking heat was the least of my problems. Being chased by fans, or worse, the paparazzi, was the bigger issue. But, apparently nobody in Maine went to the movies.

  I should have been grateful. After all, fame was simply a byproduct of being a successful Hollywood actor, although some stars loved the attention. They kept the paparazzi on speed dial and let them know whenever they were stepping out for a hike. For me, the fame came with the territory and I put up with it because the upside outweighed the down. I liked that I could run here, but anonymity wasn’t worth giving up on success. Fame was a price I was willing to pay.

  I shivered as a huge gray cloud slid across the sky like the alien aircraft straight out of Independence Day. Fuck. That seemed ominous.

  I’d marked out a route before I left, so I crossed the street and headed toward the park I knew was a shortcut back to my rental. As I passed the entrance gate, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Shit, my agent. I slowed to a walk and answered.

  “Hey, Brian,” I said, the crack of thunder from above nearly drowning me out.

  “Where the fuck are you?” Brian asked.

  Big, fat drops of rain began to splatter the path leading through the park. I was about to get drenched. “In a thunderstorm. What’s up?”

  I scanned the park and spotted a small white gazebo. I headed toward it, hoping I’d be able to finish the conversation without my cell getting waterlogged.

  “So, I got a call from Anthony Scott. He loved you in Vanity Fair. Wanted to know what your schedule looked like eighteen months from now.”

  Wow. Anthony Scott had a way of turning things into box office gold. I couldn’t say I loved his movies, but an Anthony Scott film would be the next step up—a well-respected director, a sure-fire hit. “What project is he thinking about?”

  “Who the fuck cares? If Anthony Scott wants you, that’s all you need to know. This is proof that your reputation is beginning to bounce back from your past indiscretions and that you’re on track.”

  Indiscretions. Right. Nice of Brian to put it so delicately, when we both knew I’d lost sight of my goal when I wrapped my third leading role and cashed the corresponding huge paycheck. I’d partied way too hard. Drunk too much, known far too many women. It was almost as if I’d forgotten who I was and where I’d come from.

  My dad and Brian had pulled me back just before I’d managed to ruin a bright career and future. The last eighteen months I’d rediscovered my focus and worked non-stop. I’d had two hit movies and a cover of Vanity Fair. Everything was coming together. My indiscretions, as Brian discreetly called that dark period, had been a bump in the road that I knew I was over, though I was still having to convince everyone else that I wasn’t about to go back there again.

  “This might be your shot at a franchise,” Brian said. “You never know how these things are going to go.”

  Franchise—the two syllables sent a shiver down my spine. The Hollywood Holy Grail. Bagging one would show that I hadn’t fucked up completely and that I’d arrived. Finally. I could practically feel my hands sinking into the wet cement outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. A series of hit, big budget, studio movies would mean multiple contracts, which spelled job securit
y and, most importantly, a big payday. I would never have to worry about money again. And neither would my family. I would have achieved all I wanted to when I left Gary, Indiana, ten years ago, determined to make it. My parents and my brothers would be able to have the lives they’d always dreamed of, rather than the ones that had been dished out at birth. Money bought freedom for me and my family.

  “Did you hear me, Matt?”

  “I heard you.” Climbing the steps of the bandstand, I glanced out over the ocean. The sky covered in clouds, the water looked darker than I’d seen it before. More dangerous. “That’s great news.”

  “Are you sure everything’s alright? What are you doing out so early in the morning?”

  “I’m out for a run.”

  Brian was still suspicious that I was about to go off the rails again at any moment. It wasn’t going to happen. I’d learned my lesson. He’d been in talks with a big producer on my behalf who ended up pulling their offer once they heard about my arriving on set drunk. I’d lost out on a potential blockbuster as well as nearly being fired from the film I was shooting. But what was worse was my dad turning up to visit in the middle of it all. The shame had been unbearable. Catching the look of disappointment in my dad’s eyes was all it took. I’d cleaned up my act. And I’d never go back. Ever. “I’m just heading back. Stop worrying. There’s no temptation in this town.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  I put my finger in my ear to tune out the sound of someone shouting in the distance.

  “I do. So, is Anthony going to send over a script or a treatment or something?”

  “I don’t know. It’s opening discussions only. But I told him you’d free up your schedule to work with him.”