Olivia held out the letter to her aunt.
Women’s groups often asked her to speak and sometimes she did readings at a local bookstore, but she’d never received an invitation from a prestigious school like Winfield. Her stories were much too common for academics or literary magazines.
Hattie glanced up from the letter. “That’s a gracious invitation.”
“Another author must have canceled.” Why else would they wait until the last moment to invite her? The panel was in less than two weeks, and they already had four writers confirmed.
“Dr. Farrow is right. Your experience would be a great benefit to their students.” Hattie folded the letter and handed it back. “And it would be good for you to spend time among your peers. Perhaps make a friend.”
“These aren’t my peers.” Most academics she’d met were the snobbish, respectable sort who stared down their noses at novelists like her. “But the speaking fee would help our finances.”
Just until they received her next royalty check.
“If I accept their invitation, would you join me?” Olivia asked. “We’ll take the train.”
“Of course.” Her aunt patted her hand. “It would be an honor.”
“I won’t be able to offer much as the author who’s lost her voice.”
Hattie picked up her crocheting hook. “The words will come again.”
She prayed they’d return before her deadline.
2:Harper
AUGUST 2006
Home is where the stories are.
Harper Rayne circled her mom’s favorite phrase twice on the lined pages of her Delve leather notebook, a gift from her mother before she passed away.
While Harper didn’t have much in the way of a home, she had a whirlpool of ideas swirling in her head, ready to spill themselves onto paper. Words, she’d discovered, needed to soak in the richness of ink before being transferred onto a computer and ultimately a movie screen.
Below her bench, the Pacific curled and thrashed against a cliff, every wave scrubbing sand along the California coast, sweeping away debris. The pounding roar and salty breeze kept rhythm for her pen, each empty line in her notebook begging to be filled.
Miles. That was her hero’s name. And the bit about home and stories seemed like the right thing for him to say as he neared the end of his walk across the United States. It would be a nostalgic film, she’d tell anyproducer willing to listen. Quirky and raw, heartwarming and funny as Miles traced his roots and reconnected with family.
At least, that’s how she saw the storyline in her mind. The working out of this script had proven more difficult than the imagining, particularly in trying to figure out how to finish Miles’s long journey. She simply didn’t have a conclusion, and the ending of a movie mattered even more than the beginning. Those final moments had to surprise and satisfy everyone in the audience. Impress and inspire them.
If done right, a spectacular ending could linger in one’s mind for a lifetime.
She chewed on the end of her pen, waiting for the elusive ending to make itself known.
“Harper!”
Turning, she saw Kelsey Cantor teetering down the sandy cliffside in strappy, red heels. Both gorgeous and talented, the woman was a magnet for fans and paparazzi alike. She couldn’t even step out of her home in L.A.’s Sierra Towers without someone snapping a photo or begging for an autograph. It’s why Kelsey spent so much time at her mom’s ranch in Idaho or here at her dad’s estate just north of Santa Barbara, the hundred-acre property protected by a fence, locked gate, and round-the-clock security.
Kelsey had starred in a movie with her mother—actress Clella Vinton— when she was fourteen. Won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress, then she swore off acting for the rest of her life. Harper should probably hate her, but the only daughter of Clella Vinton and Evan Cantor, the famed director of more than twenty feature films, was her very best friend.
Harper pointed at the red spikes on Kelsey’s sandals. “You’re going to break those.”
“Probably.” Kelsey wrapped her arms across her lacy, cropped top. Cute, casual, and completely irresistible. “If I do, it’s going to be all your fault.”
“How could that possibly be my fault?” Harper tapped her pen, still waiting for Miles to say something witty. “I’m minding my own business down here, hoping your dad will actually like this story. Maybe it will become his next blockbuster.”
“I’m all for blockbusters, Harper, but right now my dad doesn’t need another screenplay. He needs a caterer.”
“A caterer...” She dropped her pen. “But dinner doesn’t start until seven.”
