"I had thisI want to be blondemoment when the ID photo was taken, but I'm back to my regular brunette locks now. I may get some highlights, though. What do you think?"
"Stay there. I'll be back." He turns around and walks into his little security hut, and I sit there waiting, slightly impatiently, because what if I'm already fired? What if they know I'm here undercover for a job and not just the amazing pay? Also, what if I can't even write this book? I don't know the first thing about ghostwriting.
He heads back to me and hands me my ID. "Okay, you can go on through." His brown eyes crinkle as he grunts. "The Waverlys will be waiting for you inside the house. Just continue down the driveway and park." He steps back. "You'll be given a pass to go through the other entrance, so you won’t have to find your ID every time."
"There's another entrance?" My jaw drops. "What?"
"It's a secret." Finally, he smiles. "And for what it's worth, you don't need the blonde highlights. Your hair is plenty pretty as it is."
"Thank you, Graham." I beam at him, feeling giddy. Maybe my luck is turning around after all. If I could get this man to crack, it may be a sign of good things to come. "I appreciate it."
"No worries." He winks. "Maybe I'll see you later or something."
"You can count on it." I nod and watch as he heads back to his hut. The large wrought-iron gates swing open, and I drive through and make my way down the long, winding driveway towards the house. I feel like I’m on one of those Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous tours. Attention to detail, class, and money beckon to me from every inch of the Waverly property.
The first thing I notice is that the landscaping is immaculate; all green lawns, tall palms, and other topiaries have been trimmed to perfection. I can see the light blue of the ocean in the distance, and excitement fills me. The awe inside of me is real. I can’t believe that I'm going to be living here, in this mansion, for the next three to six months, or however long it takes me to write the Waverlys’ love story and get my newspaper exclusive. I can almost picture myself as a celebrity correspondent onEntertainment Tonight, not that that's the job of my dreams, but I wouldn't mind meeting celebrities. I also wouldn't mind being the newest Mrs. Ben Affleck, at least in my dreams.
"Get it together, Gina." I lecture myself as I pull up outside the main residence. My eyes widen as I take in how vast it is. This house is even more grandiose than I expected. I swallow hard as I park my dinky, slightly dented car behind a Jaguar and just sit there for a few moments. I wish I had chosen to dress a little more upscale. I stare at my loose-fitting khaki pants and then reapply some lipstick to my pale lips. I stare at myself in the rearview mirror and practice the professional smile I will offer the Waverlys when I meet them. I don’t want to come off as too eager and make them regret hiring me.
I run my fingers through my hair and put it up into a ponytail. Then I twist it into a bun. I look like a dowdy librarian—not the sexy, intellectual kind. I sigh as I let my hair back down, and it just hangs there limply, with slightly frizzy waves. Today is not a good hair day. I definitely don’t look like I’ve stepped out of a hair commercial for Revlon.
"Get to it, Gina." I stare at my nails and then get out of the Jeep. “This is not the time to be internally chastising yourself for your lack of a beauty regimen.” I step down and look around before slamming the door shut. I spy two tennis courts to the right and what appears to be a pool house and pool to the left of the house.
“Wow,” I mumble under my breath as I make my way to the house. I decide to leave my suitcase in the car until later so that it will give me an excuse to come back out, just in case I get too overwhelmed. I’m happy that I’m thinking ahead. Emma has instilled in me the importance of knowing oneself and anticipating one's emotions so you have space to process. Since thinking about and honestly analyzing how I may react in certain situations and being prepared for that, I’ve strengthened my mental health tremendously.
My heart is in my throat as I make my way toward the home, and I stop dead about ten yards away from the stone stairs that lead to the massive door. I can't do this. I can't live in this mansion and spy for a story. I don't belong here. I am a Spellman. We are loud, we are excitable, we wear our hearts on our sleeves, and I will out myself faster than I can sayout myself.
My family is as middle-class as they come. Blue collar is our middle name, and I'm proud of that. We work hard. We earn our money, and we spend our money, and we bitch and moan about twenty-dollar rises in electricity bills. We do not live in beachside mansions on estates larger than some of the smaller islands next to us.
I should leave. I'm about to turn around and run back to my car when a small, fluffy golden dog runs down the stairs towards me and then passes me.
"Bear Gryllis, come here." A high-pitched voice squeals, and I watch as an older lady with long white hair comes flying down the stairs behind him. The dog turns back around, runs up tome, and jumps up, its hind legs fully stretched as it buries its nose into the palm of my hand. Its light-brown eyes look into mine eagerly, and I rub the top of its curly golden-brown head. "Bear..." the lady huffs and stops in front of me. "Oh, hello, dear."
"Hi, Mrs. Waverly?" I hold my hand out. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Gina. Gina Spellman."
"Mrs. Waverly?" She looks taken aback, and a light flashes in her eyes as she studies my face. Her eyes are a light blue, and she has a warm smile. She's wearing a long white dress, lots of silver bangles, and a purple top with sparkly pink sequins. She's definitely a beautiful older woman, but much more eccentric-looking than I imagined she would be. Her earrings appear to be mini wooden rolling pins. She’s definitely not the epitome of rich and glamorous, but that almost makes me like her more. She’s not flaunting her wealth at all.
“I’m not sure if your husband told you, but he hired me to write your love story.”
“My husband?”
“Mr. Waverly... Preston." I say his name stiffly. It feels a bit disrespectful to call him Preston when I didn't even know him.
"He hired you to write our love story?" Her lips twist up, and she throws her hands up in laughter. "Well, that would be a fine thing, wouldn't it?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Sorry, deary, let me introduce myself. I'm not Mrs. Waverly. Not at all. Enid is inside the writing room. My name is Amethyst Baxter, and I am a part of the writing group."
"The writing group?" I ask, slightly confused. "What writing group?"
"We're the Whisper Cove Hemingways." She beams, and I watch as she looks me over keenly. "You should join the group,seeing as you're a writer, as well. Your aura tells me that you enjoy dramatic comedies."
"My aura?" I rub my forehead and watch as Bear goes running to the grass and lifts up his leg. I turn back to Amethyst and question her. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, I'm psychic, dear." She taps her forehead and then points at me. "Though I try not to tell too many people. It's a responsibility to have these powers." She lowers her voice, which makes me nervous.
"Powers?" I consider running back to my Jeep and driving off as quickly as I can. I'm not looking to stay in a mansion where a crazy person loiters and hangs out.
