“She goes by del Castillo,” Bryn said before looking down at the phone buzzing in her hand. “And I can’t believe there hasn’t been a new picture of her in, like, seven years.”
“You think she’ll let you get a selfie?” Her mom propped her elbows on the desk, chin resting in her hands.
“Crap,” Bryn muttered when she opened a text from one of her housemates.
His question, “did you know about this,” preceded a photo of their house covered in a fumigation tent. In a blur of stressed texts conveyed in all caps, Bryn learned that after two years of complaining, their landlord had finally tented for their outrageous termite infestation. Because he was a complete and total dick, he’d passive-aggressively informed them by a letter no one opened. Now, they were all locked out of their house for a week.
“You’ll stay with us,” her mother said when Bryn finished recounting the disaster.
“It’s too far,” Bryn protested. “Vivian’s house is over an hour from here without traffic?—”
“You’re going to her house?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “I figured it was a studio?—”
“Mom, focus.”
“Yep, sorry.”
“Maybe I can get a pet-sitting job closer to?—”
“Honey.” She stood and put her hand on Bryn’s shoulder. “Should you add the complication of one of your side gigs to something this important?”
Bryn closed her eyes to fight the crushing tide of anxiety that was looming over her. It took every drop of energy to keep from screaming about the universe hating her. To ask what she’d done to deserve this kind of luck.
“You’ve worked so hard for this. I would hate to see it jeopardized by distractions,” her mother continued, voice gentle. “Stay with us. I never got around to dropping your old clothes at Goodwill.”
Bryn groaned and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist. It made the most sense to stay with her parents, but that didn’t make her any less nauseated. Any less horrified at the prospect of showing up to Vivian’s house in decade-old leggings and UGGs.
Yep, this was exactly Bryn’s luck. Nothing good ever arrived without complications.
ChapterTwo
There wereperks to being an actress in exile. Loose linen, bare feet, and a pool nobody swam in.
Vivian del Castillo sipped her martini and watched the automatic pool cleaner make its rounds, hypnotic and aimless. Miami’s summer humidity made everything slower, suspended, like time itself refused to move forward.
The downside to exile was never noticing silence until it was a living thing wrapped around her skeleton and pushing in from all sides. Welp. No free lunches.
“Vivian,” Iris called, sliding open the glass door. She stepped onto the covered patio, cell phone in hand. “Harvey is on the line.”
In response, Vivian took another unhurried sip of her martini. Iris, who’d been with her since she fled Hollywood nearly twenty years earlier, stood there with the patience of a saint. Having moved far beyond an employer-employee relationship years ago, Iris had added telepathy to her many skills.
Iris knew, before Vivian opened her mouth, that she didn’t want to speak to her longtime producer. At six o’clock on a Friday, she’d finished with her work week. It was a truth universally acknowledged that Vivian wasn’t risking burnout for anyone.
“He said it’s important.” Iris picked up the small remote on the long teak table in front of the outdoor kitchen. With a button, she turned on the palm-frond-shaped overhead fans positioned every few feet, as if moving hot air around was the same as cooling.
Sitting cross-legged on the white canvas sectional, Vivian made no move to take the phone. “He can call at 8 a.m. on Monday.”
Because Harvey also knew Vivian well enough for predictions, Iris didn’t have to unmute the phone and relay the message. He’d anticipated her refusal.
“It’s aboutMagpies,” she replied.
Vivian paused mid-sip. She’d finished recording her portion of that audiobook weeks earlier. “Since when does Harvey call to tell me there are pickups to record?”
Iris pushed a gray strand of curly hair away from her sweaty face. Even after all these years, she’d never grown accustomed to the humidity. “I think you’d better talk to him.”
It wasn’t the advice that made Vivian set her glass on the coffee table; it was the way Iris delivered it. The way she rocked back on her heels ever so slightly when she was worried.
Without another word, Vivian held out her hand, palm up.
