Just Kiss Me

by Rachel Gibson

  Dedication

  A huge thanks to the readers who’ve supported me for the past eighteen years. I can’t answer every e-mail, but just know that I appreciate the time you take to write me. You all are awesome.

  A special thanks to Lucia Macro and Claudia Cross for flying across the country to come to my aid. Your help and guidance is truly immeasurable.

  And to HHH—you know why.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  About the Author

  By Rachel Gibson

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The Diary of Vivien Leigh Rochet

  Keep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!

  Dear Diary,

  It’s official!!!! I hate Ms. Eleanor Whitley-Shuler. Everyone calls her Nonnie. Not me. I call her the Mantis because she is long and skinny and has bug eyes. Mr. Shuler died the year after Momma and I moved into the carriage house. His name was Fredrickk, but I don’t remember him or how he died. I was just a baby, but I bet the Mantis bit off his head. I know she wants to bit off mine. Momma says the Whitley-Shulers are our friends, but I said they aren’t. We work for them and live in their carriage house. Momma says I need to be sweet, but I don’t want to be sweet. Momma says I can’t hate anyone, but the Mantis told Momma I’m as plump as a drop dumpling, and I shouldn’t eat so much ice cream. When she wasn’t looking, I knocked over a stupid dog figurine. ON PURPOSE!!

  Dear Diary,

  I hate school!!! Every year my teachers say my last name wrong. They say, Vivien Ro-chet. I have to tell them it’s pronounced Ro-shay. I’ve been going to Charleston Day School since kindergarten. For eight years, the teachers get my name wrong on the first day every year. (Okay, so maybe I don’t remember the first day of kindergarten.) The kids at school laugh and call me roach-ette. I hate them and they’ll all be sorry someday when I’m a famous movie star. They’ll all want to be my friend, but I won’t let them. I won’t let them see my movies or come to the big house I’m going to buy my momma someday. Except Lottie and Glory. They can come. They’re my friends and we eat lunch together. Glory gets to wear a bra this year. Momma says I don’t need a bra. NO FAIR!!!

  Dear Diary,

  Death to the Mantis!!! When me and Momma were cleaning the big house today, the Mantis said I have to vacuum because she doesn’t trust me to dust. She says I have too many accidents. She says I’m clumsy and she’s afraid I’ll knock over pictures of her super stupid sons, Henry and Spence, again. I’m twelve—almost thirteen. I’m not clumsy and I don’t have accidents. I have on purpose, and who cares about Henry and Spence? They go away to school and only come home for holidays. They’re buttheads. Especially Henry. He doesn’t laugh or smile or anything. I call him Scary Henry or Butthead Henry. ☺ He’s five years older than me but acts a lot older. His black eyeballs glare into mine like he can read my brain. He looks at me as if he knows I knock things over on purpose and lie about it. But he never says anything. Like last summer when someone knocked over the stupid lawn jockey and broke off its stupid arm. The Mantis said it was really old and had been in their family since before the war. She said it was probably my fault. She said I must have messed with it and knocked it over, but I said I didn’t. Henry stared at me with his black eyes like I’m a liar and Spence laughed because . . . Spence is crazy and laughs at everything. I cried really loud and ran inside the carriage house before the Mantis could bite off my head. Who cares about a stupid lawn jockey? It’s so heavy it could kill a kid. It’s not a kid’s fault that it can fall over if you stand on its shoulders to see a bird’s nest in the tree. In case anyone finds this and reads it, I’m innocent!!!

  Dear Diary,

  I ran all the way home from school because Momma said she was taking me to see the sand castles on Folly Beach. When I walked in the door, I knew we wouldn’t go. Momma was on the couch with the patchwork blanket that Mamaw made her. She was rubbing it with her fingers and staring at the ceiling like she does when she has a sad spell. I’m not calling Mamaw Roz to come and get me this time. I’m almost thirteen (in seven months) and can take care of myself. I can take care of Momma now, too. I hate her sad spells. I hope this one doesn’t last really long. ☹!!!

  Dear Diary,

  Today me and Momma walked to the store for strawberry Moon Pies and Coca-Cola. Momma was in one of her happy moods today and we walked to Waterfront Park, too. We got our feet wet in the Pineapple Fountain then looked at boats in the harbor. Momma says we’re going to sail away someday. She pointed at a big yacht and named all the places we were going to go. Aruba, Monaco, Zanzibar, she said it was going to happen, but I know it won’t. On the way home, Momma said she was going to buy a house on Rainbow Row someday because they look yummy. Like a row of pastel Candy Buttons they sell at Kroger. She said she could be happy forever in a yummy house. When I’m a rich movie star, I’ll buy her the pink one so she can be happy forever. ☺!!

  Things To Buy When I’m Rich List

  1. Pink candy house

  2. My own ice cream store

  3. Beeper—Momma says only drug dealers have beepers—as if!

  4. A pool

  5. A rabid monkey to bite Henry

  Chapter 2

  Beneath the wide brim of a black straw hat, Vivien Leigh Rochet put a hand to her forehead and let out a slight moan.

  “A few too many appletinis last night?”

  “A few.” Vivien reached for a bottle of water in the console separating her from her assistant of five months, Sarah. The two sat in the back of a black Cadillac Escalade speeding down Interstate 26 toward Charleston and the thunderclouds gathering above the historic city. “Christian told me they matched my eyes.” Christian Forsyth—real name, Don Smith—was Vivien’s latest leading man and, according to the tabloids, her newest Hollywood lover.

  “Today your face is a nice shade of appletini.”

  Vivien took a long drink and hit the button in the armrest. “Don’t say appletini.” The window slid down and she tilted her face toward the wind spilling over the top of the glass. The heavy air fluttered the brim of her hat and smelled like the tall pine and scrub growing along the interstate. It smelled like magnolia and sunshine. Like rain and sea breezes. Like chaos and comfort. Like home.

  Next to her, Sarah’s fingers tapped the screen of her notebook, and in the front, the driver spoke into his cell phone as he changed lanes. If he didn’t stop jerking the wheel like that, Vivien was going to puke all over the black leather seats. The humid air slipped across the sharp edge of Vivien’s bare shoulder and collarbone to play with the ends of the loose ponytail resting against the chiffon top of her Zac Posen bandeau dress. The breeze ruffled the rolled hem of the floral skirt and brushed her thighs.

  It had been three years since she’d been home, working in a quick visit on her way to the New York City premier of End Game, her third and final film in the Raffle trilogy. The wildly popular dystopia films, based on the equally popular books, had launched Vivien Rochet from minor-role obscurity to major stardom. At the age of twenty-two, she’d been picked from t
housands of hopeful actresses to play Dr. Zahara West, archeologist, assassin, and revolutionary leader in the blockbuster series. By the time that third and final film had come out three years ago Vivien had a resume filled with six major movie roles and multiple television appearances. Her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame was just down from Charlie Sheen. Fitting she supposed since she lived down the street from him in real life.

  Three years ago, when she’d rolled into town, she’d been a little cocky, riding a wave of success and money. She’d just been nominated for a People’s Choice award, and learned that her seven-inch Zahara action figure—metal bikini edition—had sold more than all the other Raffle figures combined. Back then, she’d returned to Charleston to help her momma host a housewarming party, and she’d felt like she was hot shit. This time, she just felt like shit. This time she was home to plan her momma’s funeral.

  “You’re on the cover of the Enquirer again. Apparently you were caught in a sex romp.”

  Who cares? Vivien’s perfect brows scrunched together and reminded her of her headache. Sarah was just doing her job. Or perhaps her assistant was trying to take Vivien’s mind off the awful details of the past twelve hours when her life had been sliced to pieces like celluloid on the cutting-room floor.

  Twelve hours ago, she’d been drinking appletinis at a lavish party on Mulholland Drive and pretending interest in the latest Hollywood news and gossip. Scoring an invitation and getting seen at parties of the rich and swanky was part of the business. Flashing a smile for photographers and having her picture taken on the arm of men like Christian Forsyth was good for Vivien’s career, no matter that he was the most boring man to walk upright and she had no romantic interest in him at all.

  Twelve hours ago, her life had been about the right film roles and spending time with the right people. Twelve hours ago, she’d been playing the part of glamorous Vivien Leigh Rochet. Actress. Movie star. Hot shit.

  Roll camera. Sarah’s sudden appearance at the party should have tipped Vivien off that something was wrong, but she’d had a few too many cocktails on an empty stomach to give it a thought. If she hadn’t been intoxicated, she might have noticed the worry in her assistant’s blue eyes. She might have had a little forewarning before Sarah stepped close and whispered the impossible in her ear.

  Her momma was dead. Twelve hours later, Vivien didn’t know any real details. She’d been told that paramedics had tried to revive her at home but that she’d died on her way to the emergency room. Her death appeared to be natural. Natural? Nothing that had happened in the past twelve hours felt natural, and Vivien could hardly breathe past the pain and guilt slashing her heart.

  “I guess it sells more than the usual anorexic stories,” said Vivien.

  Macy Jane Rochet was dead and fake stories in gossip papers seemed so trivial. So stupid. There had been a time when no one had cared enough about Vivien Rochet to print her name, let alone make up entire stories about her. A time when she would have killed to get a mention in the tabloids and to see photos of herself splattered across magazine covers. Her mother was dead and Vivien’s life suddenly seemed stupid and trivial.

  And completely empty now.

  Before Sarah’s sudden appearance last night, everything in Vivien’s life had been so clear. So charted. She was a bright star blazing a trail toward mega stardom. Now it was blurred and her head was congested with pain and caffeine and booze. She could hardly think past her raw emotions, and so much had happened in the past twelve hours, she wasn’t even sure if it was Sunday or Monday.

  It had to be Sunday. Maybe. “What day is it?”

  Without looking up, Sarah answered, “June sixth.”

  Vivien reached into her red Kelly bag and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. She slid the black frames on her face and leaned her head back. That didn’t really answer her question, but it had to be Sunday. She’d been at the party on Saturday night. Had that been just last night? It seemed like more time had passed since when she’d learned about her momma.

  Her mother had been kind and loving, delicate and beautiful. She’d also been difficult and exhausting, and if truth be told, sometimes crazy as a bessie bug. She’d certainly embarrassed Vivien more times than she could count. With her erratic highs and lows. Her overblown elation one day and her utter despair the next. Her huge dreams of a happily ever after and difficulty with men. The earth beneath her feet ebbed like the tides, changeable, predictable, and leaving those around her restless and worn out at the same time. But even when she’d been at her most difficult, she hadn’t been difficult to love. Not for Vivien, because no matter the highs and lows and instability, she’d always known that her mother loved her as no one else on the planet loved her. No judgments. No expectations. Just warm and generous love from her wide-open heart.

  Macy Jane hadn’t been perfect, but she’d done her best to take care of Vivien. When she’d fallen short, Vivien’s mamaw Roz stepped in. After Mamaw Roz died, Vivien took care of herself. She took care of her momma, too. It had been the two of them against the world. Together.

  Always.

  The Escalade took one of the last exits and headed into the heart of the Holy City, church spires and steeples pointed toward heaven, heavy with thunderclouds typical of July. The SUV continued down Meeting Street and moved toward the harbor, toward cobblestone streets lined with palmetto and plumeria. Toward the genteel opulence and polished grandeur south of Broad Street. Vivien had grown up in the middle of the elite class. Smack-dab in the middle of old families with old family names. Names that could be traced back to the founding of the St. Cecilia Society and beyond to the original thirteen colonies. She’d grown up surrounded by “good families,” but she’d never belonged. Her “people” didn’t have towns or bridges or golf courses named after them. Her “people” worked hard to scrape by and her family tree looked more like a spindly shrub than a stately live oak.

  “Take a left on Tradd,” she told the driver. “Then another left on East Bay.” Instead of returning to the only home she’d known for the first eighteen years of her life, the SUV headed for a set of row houses, each painted in a different bright color. Her mother had once said the row resembled a strip of Candy Buttons and that she could be happy in a yummy house. Three years ago, Vivien bought her momma the pink button so she could be happy and so she never had to live in anyone’s backyard again.

  “In the front is fine,” she said and the Cadillac pulled to a stop next to the curb. She put her bottled water into her purse, and waited for the driver to open the back door before she slid from the vehicle. From beneath the brim of her wide hat, she looked up at the pink stucco, and the three stories of white window frames and gray shutters. A drop of rain hit her bare shoulder and dotted the stones around her black, four-inch heels. The one and only time she’d been at the row house, her mother had been excited and animated, directing florists and caterers all at the same time. Her mother had indeed seemed happy, and Macy Jane in a happy mood was always infectious—if you didn’t let yourself worry about the subsequent sadness.

  Several pieces of furniture had been delivered the day before, and Vivien and her mother had run around, pulling plastic off of the sofa and chairs in the grand drawing room and a small dining set in the kitchen. Movers unloaded an Elizabethan four-poster bed and an antique Aubusson rug that Macy Jane had discovered at an estate sale. Vivien wasn’t shocked that her mother had done very little to furnish the 4,200-square-foot townhouse before the housewarming party. She was a bit annoyed, but not in the least surprised by Macy Jane’s indecision.

  “I don’t need to have every room furnished with stuff to host my party.” Macy Jane had defended her laissez-faire approach to home ownership and to life in general.

  Which Vivien supposed was true and hadn’t bothered to argue that the point of having the party was to show off to her friends and impress them with her home and “stuff.” It wasn’t to show off an empty house.

  Not that it had mattered. The party
had taken place in the private courtyard and caterers had provided everything from tables and chairs to the fine pink linens.

  “Is it always this muggy?” Sarah asked as she and the driver unloaded their bags.

  “Yes ma’am,” the driver answered, appearing not in the least bothered in his black suit and tie. “After it rains, it won’t be so bad.”

  Vivien pulled a house key from her purse and stepped inside the small alcove. Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door and pushed it open, half expecting to see her mother, arms open wide. “Let me hug my sweet girl’s neck,” she would always say in her smooth drawl. Instead the foyer was dark and empty. Her mother had died here. Somewhere.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and she pulled off her glasses and hat. The coroner hadn’t determined the cause of her mother’s death yet. Only that it appeared to be natural. She moved into the drawing room, and her feet came to an abrupt halt as she took in the room within her watery gaze. White sheets covered the furniture and a thick layer of dust covered everything else. The Aubusson rug was rolled up in front of the fireplace and someone had pulled down the mahogany mantel. Vivien blinked as if she didn’t trust her eyes. When she’d spoken to her mother just last week, she hadn’t mentioned that the floors were being sanded and the mantel was torn out. She hadn’t mentioned any sort of renovations at all. Then again, she hadn’t mentioned feeling the slightest bit ill, either. She hadn’t mentioned much of anything beyond signing up for the seniors’ Zumba class in hopes that they didn’t “work up a glow.” Which Vivien had argued was the whole point of Zumba.

  Vivien wiped her cheeks and set her purse on the covered couch. She had so many questions, and the more she looked around, the more came to mind. She walked past the winding staircase and through the light pouring in from the cupola above. The dining room and library were as empty as the last time she’d been in the townhouse. No towels hung in the bathroom, and the small table and four chairs sat exactly where they’d been placed several years ago in the brick kitchen.