Vivien had been jet-lagged many times. She’d flown into thirteen cities in twenty-five days, sometimes more, to promote her latest film. She’d answer the same questions thirty times a day, and her brain would just shut down at some point.
This exhaustion was different, it was a mind, body, and soul. She’d love to just collapse and take a long nap, but it wasn’t possible. She had too much to do and if she laid down, she knew she wouldn’t get back up until the next morning.
Some moments after Vivien got home, Sarah arrived and helped her pack several suitcases. This time they made sure she packed enough underwear and bras.
“How was the funeral?” her assistant asked.
“Difficult.” Thank God she’d had Nonnie’s help or she wasn’t sure she would have been able to manage everything on her own. Besides her shocking behavior with Henry, the biggest surprise of the past week was the discovery that Nonnie was actually human with a real, beating heart. As a kid, she’d blamed the woman for most things that had gone wrong in her life. As an adult, she’d joined with her in common grief. Her momma had always called Nonnie family, and while Vivien would not go that far, perhaps they could be friends.
“How’s Patrick?” The man skank.
“Fine.” Sarah looked away, but not before Vivien saw the tension in the corners of her blue eyes. “I think you’ll need the new Balenciaga wedges,” she said as she disappeared into the closet, the subject of Patrick closed.
Vivien folded a red cardigan and put it in the suitcase. Who was she to judge? She’d certainly dated her share of men like Patrick. Men who couldn’t be trusted out of her sight. Men she’d had to worry and wonder about and lose good sleep over. She thought of the last guy she’d trusted, Kyle Martin, aka surfer dude. She’d met him on an audition for a Neil Marshall horror flick. He’d had sun-bleached hair and bronzed skin stretched over hard muscles. He’d been the first to say “I love you,” and by then, she’d fallen for him, too. The relationship had been fun and easy and they both wanted the same things in life. They’d never fought or even argued, and if she’d question him about the days he’d go missing, he’d smile and change the subject and she’d let him because he’d never given her reason not to trust him. When she’d left to begin filming the first Raffle movie, she’d been secure in her ten-month relationship. He’d kissed her good-bye. Told her that he loved her and not to worry about him. He’d known of the lying, cheating men in her past, and he’d promised that he’d never hurt her.
When she’d been given the part of Zahara West, he’d been genuinely supportive. They’d both known how much her life would change but they’d promised each other that it wouldn’t change them. She loved and trusted Kyle—right up until the day a friend texted her while she’d been camped out in a Guatemalan rain forest to inform her that she’d seen Kyle’s profile on Match.com. From the ruins of an ancient city, Vivien plugged into the World Wide Web and discovered her “boyfriend” was seeking women twenty to twenty-five within a hundred-mile radius of Los Angeles. He liked “hiking” and “hanging ten in Half Moon Bay.” He preferred “tall, curvy blondes” and his idea of a “great date” was “taking a special lady on a Sturgis run.”
If Vivien hadn’t looked at the fifteen photos he’d provided (one of which had been taken at a friend’s wedding and he’d conveniently cropped Vivien out), she would not have recognized him by what he’d written. Kyle surfed, but he certainly never surfed the big waves at Mavericks, and he didn’t even have a bicycle, let alone a Harley. She wasn’t tall or blonde or curvy or any of the things he’d written that he wanted. She’d been stunned and numb, as if someone had taken over her body and she was living in an alternate universe. One that was the exact opposite of her life, like Alice in Through the Looking Glass.
Who are you? she’d wondered as she’d stared at his dating-site photos. Have I ever known you? Was everything a lie? The time you taught me to surf and the white daisies you bought because they’re my favorite? When we laughed our heads off at silly movies, was that a lie? Who are you, Kyle Martin?
God she didn’t recognize the man on Match.com. Didn’t know him, but she found out what kind of man he was after she broke up with him and he sold a story to the tabloids. An untrue story of a supposed eating disorder that made her crazy and bitchy and impossible. The whole thing had been hurtful and humiliating and the beginning of the anorexia rumors that still plagued her. Vivien knew she was thin. She had to watch everything she ate. It was part of her job. One of the unwritten rules in Hollywood. When a costume designer made clothes in a size zero, an actress didn’t have to be told to lose weight. Vivien had given up French fries, pizza, and ice cream, but she wasn’t anorexic. She wasn’t crazy or bitchy or impossible, like Kyle had said. He’d sold her out for a few bucks and his name in a headline. She’d thought he’d cared about her. He’d told her he loved her. Obviously that had been a lie. Their whole relationship had been one big fat lie, and she’d never had a clue.
“What about the newest Loubs?” Sarah asked from the closet. “Cheetah is hot this season and so versatile.”
She really didn’t think she’d find herself anywhere in Charleston that required Louboutins with 120-millimeter heels. If she did, she had the Manolos she’d picked up at Berlins. “I don’t think so.” One of the perks of being Vivien Rochet was the designer shoes and clothes and handbags and beauty products that arrived at her door in hopes that she’d be photographed or mentioned wearing them. She thought of the suede T-straps that made her look like she had legs for days. The image of her legs wrapped around Henry’s waist while wearing her do-me Louboutins popped into her head. “But I might need the red open-toes.” Her cheeks heated and she changed her mind. “No.” But maybe . . . “Yes.” She’d been thinking a lot about Henry, and she wondered if he’d been thinking of her.
Sarah stuck her head out of the closet. “What is it?”
“Yes,” she answered before she changed her mind again. She grabbed her cell phone and thumbed through her texts. Nothing from Henry and she knew he had her number. Not even a “Hope you made it okay,” or “How was your flight?” She tossed the phone on her bed next to her suitcase. She didn’t know what made her think he might contact her today, other than they’d had sex the night before.
She’d stripped naked in front of him, but how well did she know Henry? Really? It had been years since she’d seen him. Not since the day he’d threatened to kill her when she’d found the letters in his puzzle box and the condoms in his sock drawer. He’d just turned eighteen.
“The car service should be here at four tomorrow morning,” Sarah said as she moved from the closet with an armload of shoes and handful of dresses.
Vivien groaned. It hardly seemed worth it to return to Charleston, but she could get a lot settled in three days. She could make headway packing her mother’s things and decide whether to store, donate, or toss. She could take another look at the row house and decide what needed to be done before she could put it on the market. There was no reason to keep it now. She’d ask Henry how much longer before he had the place restored.
She thought of Henry and the day he’d made her tea and given her his smelly coat to wear, and the weird little glow she’d felt in Henry’s bed stirred in her chest again. It scared and confused her as much as it had last night, but it made her smile, too. Like Kyle and all the other men in Vivien’s past, Henry was probably a cheating man skank. Like previous boyfriends, he probably couldn’t be trusted.
A frown pulled her brows together. Why was she even thinking about Henry and trust and boyfriends? He was never going to be her boyfriend. He was scary Henry Whitley-Shuler. Growing up, she’d never trusted him for a second.
Yet, being with him last night had felt different. They were adults now. They were no longer kids butting heads. She was a grown woman. He was a mature man she thought she could trust, but what did she know? She’d fallen in love with a surfer who’d had a secret life on Match.com and then sold a bogus story
to the tabloids that was still affecting her life. Clearly, her judgment couldn’t be trusted.
“It’s hotter than a four-balled tomcat.”
The steady creak of an old rocking chair settled in a comfortable, familiar, place in Henry’s soul. As boys, he and Spence had spent hours on the veranda, looking out at Charleston Harbor. Nothing more on their minds but identifying various boats sailing the waves as they swatted at mosquitoes. As men, their minds were occupied with weightier issues.
“More like four and three quarter balls.” Henry rolled his head to the left and looked at his brother in the chair beside him. Through the humid sludge of a Charleston night, the weak porch light slid across Spence’s profile.
“Let’s live dangerously. It’s hotter than a four-balled tomcat and two naked ladies wrestling in a pepper patch.” The ice in Spence’s glass rattled as he raised it to his lips.
Henry laughed and turned his gaze to the inky harbor and faint lights of passing boats. As kids, he and Spence had spent a lot of their summers with their grandfather in Hilton Head and been in awe of his bottomless well of Southern expressions and euphemisms. They’d soaked them up like sponges and squeezed them out as needed to make each other laugh. “And it’s only June. Next month it’s bound to be hotter than a four-balled cat watching half a dozen naked ladies wrestle in a pepper patch.”
“That surely would be something to watch.”
Grandfather Shuler had attempted to teach them the important things in life. Things like hunting and fishing and women. He referred to the four seasons not as summer, spring, winter, and fall, but turkey, fish, deer, and duck. Women were never fat—they “weighed heavy like cream,” and a woman’s “special parts” were “gumdrops” and “sugar cookies.” As a result, Henry and Spence had snickered when offered either.
Henry wiped moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. They’d just finished a supper of leftover funeral food that Nonnie insisted they come over and help “clean up” with her and the Episcopalian ladies. Neither he nor Spence were great cooks, and eating day-after-funeral ham seemed preferable to a can of soup or a table at a local restaurant. But when it came to “cleaning up” day-old tomato aspic and Gouda cheese grits, he and Spence had escaped to the wraparound veranda and their favorite old rocking chairs. “It’s going to be weird not seeing Macy Jane around here anymore.” Again the rattle of ice. “I wonder if Vivien plans to move into the carriage house.”
“I imagine she’ll sell it. Her life is in Hollywood.” Just this morning, he’d dropped Vivien off at Charleston International with an airport escort. “She’s high maintenance.” She was too famous to stand in a ticket line or go through security like regular people. Her fans popping up at Macy Jane’s funeral had proven she needed security and handlers and someone to attend to a myriad of important details.
“Sure grew up pretty, though.”
“Uh-huh.” Last night he’d attended to her important details, to her hard little nipples in his mouth, and his hand in her panties. If she were any other woman he wouldn’t mind touching her again. Hell, if she were any other woman, he wouldn’t mind taking a close look at her “sugar cookie.”
“Where did you take her yesterday?”
“What?” He turned and looked at Spence.
“Where did you take Vivien yesterday after you stole her from me?”
“I didn’t steal her.”
“I was getting somewhere with her when you moved in.”
Henry couldn’t tell if Spence was kidding or not. “We just got some fresh air.” He raised his glass and changed the subject. “What are your plans for employment?” he said before his favorite aged bourbon passed his lips and filled his mouth with smooth, oaky liquor. Until a few months ago, Spence had worked in the regional office of his former father-in-law, Senator Coleman. “I don’t think you’ll have any problem getting a job in local government.”
“I’m not cut out to be a public servant.”
That was news to Henry. He turned his attention to his brother once again. “Since when?”
“Since I graduated from Columbia with a poly sci degree.” Spencer took another drink and sucked scotch from his bottom lip. “I hate politicians.”
Henry laughed. “Mother has her heart set on calling you Governor.”
“Yeah. I know she does, but she also had her heart set on calling you a Wall Street Titan.” The sounds of cicadas and crickets and the creak of Spence’s rocking chair filled his pause. “I guess she’s doomed to disappointments.”
“You haven’t told her?”
“Not yet.”
“Do me a favor and make sure I’m out of town.” Practically from birth, Spence’s life had been plotted out for him, just as Henry’s had. Their mother was going to pitch a fit. “If you’re not planning on being Governor Whitley-Shuler, what are your plans?”
“I have few things in mind.” He rocked his chair a couple of time then said, “I think I’d like to write a novel.”
“A novel?” Henry wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d said he wanted to drive a dog sled. “When did you decide this?”
“Aboard the One and a Tuna.”
“The what?”
“The majestic fishing vessel where I battled mighty tarpon in Key West.”
Henry laughed. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m dead serious. I figure all I need to write like Hemingway is a wooden yacht and a steady supply of mojitos.” Spencer sounded a little wistful when he sang, “Wasting away in Margaritaville.”
He’d lost it. Mixing up Hemmingway and Buffet. “You gonna blow out your flip-flops and raise six-toed cats?”
“No cats.” He rocked the chair for several creaks. “I’m thinking I’ll win a Pulitzer for my insightful portrayal of the human condition and sell the film rights to Hollywood.”
“Sounds like you have it all planned out.” No doubt about it, his brother had lost his fucking mind.
“I’m pulling your leg about portraying the human condition. I’m too big a sinner to preach morality and too superficial to examine the meaning of life.” Spencer laughed like he was real funny. “Maybe I’ll ask Vivien about writing for Hollywood.”
Vivien. Henry was spending too much time thinking about her without his brother bringing up her name.
“When’s she due back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Don’t know,” Henry answered, and he had no intention of finding out. None. Nada. Zippo.
He was back to frowning at her like she’d stolen his basketball and lost it. The first thing Vivien noticed as she walked out of Charleston International the next day, was the downward curve of Henry’s mouth. He stood at the curb next to his truck, his emotions hidden behind sunglasses and his unreadable face. “How are you doing?” he asked, as if she were a stranger. As if she hadn’t had sex with him. As if she couldn’t distinguish the scent of his skin from the smell of hot concrete and car fumes.
“Good.” He tossed her Louis Vuitton suitcases into the back of his truck like they were gym bags. He was as indifferent to her expensive luggage as much as he appeared to be indifferent to her. Clearly he was back to being the Henry she’d known as a child.
No matter how hard she attempted to engage him in conversation, he hardly spoke on the drive from the airport. He dropped her off at the carriage house and set her luggage just inside the door, then he practically burned rubber and squealed his tires in his haste to leave. She might have thought he’d forgotten all about the other night if he hadn’t glanced back at her one last time, his gaze clear and unguarded. For several heartbeats, he’d paused by the driver’s side door of his truck. His dark eyes locked with hers, and for several hot and intense heartbeats, his gaze had been anything but indifferent.
Henry’s moods were too confusing to think about and analyze, and why should she spend her time trying to make sense of him anyway? He wanted to ignore her like he had when
they’d been kids. Fine. He probably had a string of women he confused besides her. He probably had a revolving door for a love life, and she needed to focus on the important reasons she was back in Charleston. None of which had anything to do with Butthead Henry.
The inside of the carriage house seemed so empty without her momma. Too quiet and dull. Vivien kicked off her pumps and walked barefoot up the stairs to her old bedroom. She turned on the palmetto ceiling fan and took a step inside. The slight breeze from the fan disturbed the yellow sheers in her old bedroom, and the plantation shutters locked out the afternoon sun.
Her old twin bed sat in the middle of the room, arranged on the yellow polka-dot area rug she and her mother had found at Rug Masters when Vivien was fifteen. That was the year she’d been into polka dots, and the quilt on her bed matched the canopy and the yellow-and-white paper on the far wall.
Vivien moved into the room that still had all her acting awards pinned to a corkboard. She’d spent a lot of time in this room. Lonely days filled with grand dreams and staring into an old cheval mirror, practicing lines and her smile for when she was famous.
The hardwood floor creaked under her feet as she moved to the closet and opened the door. Her organza prom dress was still there, taking up most of the space inside. The huge skirt had made her look like one of those cakes with a Barbie doll stuck in the top. She’d gone to the prom with Levi Morgan, and he’d ended up drinking too many juleps and passing out in his car. She hadn’t minded all that much. She’d been into the dress and the glamour more than she’d been into Levi.
On the shelf above the dress sat boxes and totes filled with her childhood. Everything in the room and the rest of the house had to be looked at and gone through and decisions had to be made. Decisions that only Vivien could make. Looking around, she realized that she’d grossly underestimated the time it would take her to go through everything. There was no way she could settle her momma’s affairs before she needed to leave again.
Just Kiss Me Page 13