She pulled the truck to the curb, a few blocks from Sunshine Café, her phone cradled to her ear. After she’d wrecked her Miles pitch last weekend, Harper had a hard time believing that Sissie Sloan wasn’t just pitying her for the fiasco.
“You still there?” Kelsey asked.
“Physically, yes.” Harper blinked herself back into reality. “But I’m pretending that I’m sprawled out on a towel beside you, soaking in the rays.”
“Be glad you’re not beside me right now. I think I got food poisoning on the plane.”
“Oh, no—”
“Just hit me tonight.” Kelsey groaned. “The concierge has me drinking gallons upon gallons of ginger tea.”
Harper glanced at the row of old homes beside her, the blue sky above. Money and fame had a lot of influence, but parasites were no respecters of people. “I sure hope you feel better soon.”
“I’m not leaving my room until I do.”
“Did you give Sissie my number?” Harper asked.
“What do you think?”
“That I would be mortified if she called and I wasn’t prepared.”
“Correct,” Kelsey said. “Do you still have her business card?”
“Of course.”
“Then I demand, as your closest friend and loudest cheerleader, that you take a deep breath and give her a call. Life is too short to wallow.”
Harper cringed, but Kelsey was right. She’d never be able to completely erase her colossal fail in the Cantors’ living room, but wallowing over what happened would get her nowhere.
“How long is a reasonable time to wallow?”
“Another hour, and then you’re done.”
Harper glanced at the dashboard clock. It was a little after two p.m. in Los Angeles. She’d call Sissie this afternoon. “Thank you, Kelsey.”
“It’s my job to keep you on the rails.”
“Get some rest,” Harper said before they disconnected.
Sunshine Café reminded her of a Victorian dollhouse, all neat and properly ordered with a veneer of dust shielding the unused corners. The woman who manned the front swiped a menu from the hostess stand. “I’m Rene, Betsy’s daughter. You must be her new friend.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”
“Mom never sends over a stranger.” Rene eyed the clock as the hour hand crept by five. “But she said you’d be coming for lunch, and I’m afraid we’ve moved on to dinner.”
“I’ll eat whatever you have to offer.”
Rene placed a glossy menu on the round table built for two, the seats both cushioned with blue gingham. “What took you so long to get here?”
Harper leaned back against the wooden spindles. It felt strange to be sitting at a table, preparing to order food instead of serving it. “I had a bit of a detour.”
Rene studied her as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Did you get lost?”
“No.” She glanced down at the menu, a moment to think before she decided to confide in Betsy’s daughter. “I ended up at Via Belle’s old house.”
“Haven House, locals call it.” Rene filled her glass with water. “Did you see the ghost?”
“Not unless he’s a businessman trying to moonlight as a lumberjack.”
