“I’d much rather a book is read and loved and dog-eared. I feel sorry for the books that stay on the shelves, pristine. Sometimes I check them out and take them home so they don’t feel bad.”
He smiled at her with something that could be wonder, which was a gratifying look to see on anyone’s face, but especially his. “Dinner is served, madam.” He opened the blind and sliding door at the far end, revealing the city. Dusk had turned the sky into pastel gradients, a single pink and orange brushstroke sweeping across the horizon.
“Oh my,” she said, hauling herself out of bed.
“Right? I’ve looked at this view my whole life and I still catch my breath.”
“My view is ever-changing too. Depends on the graffiti in any given week.”
She picked out an inky blue negligee and kimono from Evangeline’s pile and put them on—pristine vintage silks that felt less like fabric and more like molten midnight. “It’s like I’ve fallen into some ye olde Hollywood movie of the Golden Age,” she said, tying the kimono, “though we should be in black and white.”
“My grandfather was in those kinds of movies. My mom’s dad. I remember when I was little, wondering why my grandmother looked so different in all the photos in the gallery in their house—the one they moved to after selling this one to my folks. Unrecognizable, even. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. They weren’t Granny, of course—they were his co-stars. He and Granny did star in a few together though—that’s how they met.”
“Are they still with us?”
“They died within months of each other, in their eighties,” he said, grabbing silverware from a drawer. “The obituaries called it ‘a love story for the ages,’ but all I remember is the bickering. Wait!” He dropped the silverware onto the counter and snatched up one of the sheets of names. He scanned it, then grabbed another.
“Griffin?”
He pointed to a name. “Grace Marbury!”
“Who’s that?” Lana said, pulling up a bar stool.
Griffin didn’t seem to hear. “Those celebrity memoirs Vivien had checked out from the library—do you remember the names?”
“Not off the top of my head, but I took a screenshot.”
He grabbed the tablet from the coffee table, unlocked it, and found the image. He pointed to a book. “Love Storyby WalterShepherd. Grace Marbury’s husband. I thought I’d seen it on the list.”
“You’re going to have to walk me through this.”
“You are so cute like that. He’s a very famous director, she’s a very famous actress. Atruelove story for the ages, if you can believe the hype. This memoir—he wrote it about their relationship. It’s being made into a movie. They’re trying to speed up the release because she has terminal cancer.”
“Oh, how sad.” Lana straightened. “Wait—cancer? She’s in oncology, where the pocket dial happened?”
“I knew I recognized the voice on the phone—a lot older, and he was whispering, but it had to be him.”
“So this could be the guy Vivien was secretly seeing? How old is he?”
“Mid-seventies, maybe. It was a scandal when he married Grace because she’s much older. She was an established leading lady when he was just starting out.” Griffin found photos on the internet, some in black and white, some recent. An elegant couple. “They’re both from huge, interconnected old Hollywood families. They were never able to have children, so they’ve always been devoted to each other, or so the legend goes.”
“Don’t contact me again until it’s all over? Oh my god, he’s not talking about a divorce, is he?” Lana pressed her hand to her chest. “Vivien told Julian that her secret could ‘blow lives apart.’ It all fits!”
“Not just lives. This movie is being talked up as one of the biggest releases of the year. Oscar material. We’re talking huge investment—time, money, reputation. And the fact that Grace is dying makes it even more poignant. If Vivien is pregnant by Walter Shepherd, I can’t even comprehend how big a scandal that would be. Fortunes would be lost. Lawsuits everywhere. Walter Shepherd would be a pariah. Not to mention poor Grace.”
“Then what would become of Vivien? Maybe sheisin hiding. And this could explain why she hasn’t even told me—he could have warned her to keep quiet.”
Griffin placed his hand on Lana’s shoulder. “We should talk to him. Go to the hospital in the morning and try to get him alone—without Grace knowing. We could pretend we’re visiting this director I know—though I should actually visit him. Little rough to use a dying man as an excuse to get through the door. He’s in palliative care, so we’ll have to figure out where that is in relation to oncology.” He accessed the hospital website on the tablet.
“You could do that without causing a riot?”
“It caters to the L.A. elite. I’ll be like the fiftieth most famous person there.”
From everything she knew about Griffin Hart, she seriously doubted that.
As they drove up to the hospital the next morning, Lana eyed the modern high-rise nervously. Even if she managed to get to Walter Shepherd, what would she say? Outside the main doors, a couple of dozen people were gathered, some with professional cameras.
“Did they know you were coming?” she said to Griffin.
