“Your head was always caught up in one when we were kids. I thought you’d write a novel when you grew up.”
Inside the handbag resting beside her feet was Sissie Sloan’s glossy blue business card. Part of her wanted to pull it out again, like she’d done about a dozen times on the plane, to make sure she hadn’t lost it. The letters were a golden foil like Willie Wonka’s famous ticket except instead of entrance to a candy factory, she’d been given access to one of Hollywood’s top movie producers.
Write from your heart.
Sissie was right. The Miles story had piqued her curiosity, intrigued her like the other stories she’d written, but all the material had come straight from her head.
How was she supposed to find a story in her heart?
She fingered the edge of her jeans. Brett had his entire life figured out, all neat and tidy and bundled up while she hadn’t quite grown up. “I’m still working on the writer possibility.”
“Then I hope you’ll get some writing done here.”
“Me too.” She glanced out the window at a steepled church. “Do you know if Via Belle lived near here?”
A flash of curiosity when he glanced her way. “I haven’t heard Via Belle’s name in a while.”
“My mom loved her books.”
“You’ll have to ask my mother about Mrs. Belle or—” He turned right at what appeared to be the only stoplight in Catawba, onto Cedar Street. “Let me show you someplace else I think you’ll like even more than the public library.”
They passed by a row of turn-of-the-century homes, some standing proud and quite elegant, their faces freshly painted. Others looked as if they could double for a haunted mansion with crooked shutters, broken windows, and knee-high weeds on formerly manicured lawns.
Each house, Harper was quite certain, had its own story.
“I wasn’t able to do much reading in film school,” she said.
“Too busy watching movies?”
“That’s pretty much all that I did for four years. We had to critique hundreds of them.” Dystopian. Film noir. Thriller. Drama. Musicals. Horror, a genre she hated along with the scars they left behind. The romantic comedies, she watched to escape from the weightier films.
“My twins are all about movies,” Brett said. “Monsters, Inc.is their favorite.”
It was strange to think of Brett as a father instead of a kid, ready to explore the hills and trees. The two of them, so like cousins, had transformed into musketeers in their earlier years, ready to battle an unseen enemy with makeshift swords.
“May the best monster win,” she quoted solemnly.
He grinned. “We’ll have you over for a barbecue soon, if you don’t mind the drive.”
“I’d love to come, after I buy a car.” A detail she hadn’t considered until now. Hopefully, she could walk or bicycle into town.
“You can use Dad’s Tacoma,” he said.
“I appreciate it.”
“Mom was supposed to tell you.”
“She probably did. Our conversation was a bit of a blur.”
“Of course it was. Mom talks faster than the genie in Aladdin.”
Harper laughed. “I adore her.” Even if she missed half her words.
“She loves you too. And she regrets not being there more for you and your mom in that last month.”
“Mom enjoyed every moment of their visits. Marcia always made her laugh, even in those final weeks.” When the pain had clenched her mom’s chest, stolen her breath. The weeks when the hospice nurse traveled up from Santa Barbara to care for her. Harper had felt so ashamed, notknowing how to help except to do her mom’s job so they could stay on the Cantor estate.
“Laughter is my mom’s greatest gift,” Brett said.
