“What if I spill raspberry sauce on your Pradas?”
Instead of answering, Kelsey rocked a perfect spin on her heels and exited the steam.
Minutes later, with Harper’s curly hair corralled in a scrunchie and khaki scratching her legs, she filled a cart with tableware and a charcuterie board. One wheel clinked its own beat as she and her oversized shoes rolled past the pristine marble counter of Evan’s personal kitchen. Two caterers followed her with the glassware and wine, and she signaled them across the casual living room, out to the lanai.
Harper dealt plates, napkins, and silverware like she was prepping for a game of poker. The night would mirror a casino with all the bluffing, joking, and hedging of bets. In a typical Evan the Great dinner, some guests left as winners, others full-on losers. Sometimes, a guest even hit the jackpot.
The door slid open, and the hired hands parted as Evan’s brown loafers paraded across the room. Harper didn’t dare look up, but she knew he’d be wearing a button-down shirt over a plain tee and dark wash jeans.
When he flipped on the chandelier switch, light snuck into the shadows. “Glad you were able to get something on the tables tonight.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. The shirt of choice tonight was a plaid navy and gray. Short sleeves. His face stubbled salt and pepper like he’d swallowed a porcupine. “Next are the centerpieces.”
“I don’t know what planet you’re on Harper, but—” He shifted her current placement of a fork and knife about a quarter inch, then glanced at his watch. “Guests will start arriving in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be done in fifteen.”
“Your tardiness is unacceptable.”
Harper flinched. The man was known for his snide comments and often belligerent behavior, but he’d never snapped at her. “I know.”
“Set these tables,” he said. “Then you need to disappear.”
“Of course.”
Her main job tonight was to be invisible, all while replenishing goblets, platters, and bowls. Growing up on the Cantor property, she’d almost perfected invisibility. That and the art of the place setting.
“I don’t want you talking to the guests.”
Was he worried that she’d start pitching script ideas to his colleagues? She, like every other writer in Southern California, wanted a producer to read their latest script, but out of respect for her employer and her own dignity’s sake, she had never crossed that line.
“They won’t even know I’m here,” she promised, trying to ignore the doubt in his gaze as she swallowed every ounce of her pride. “I’m sorry for being late.”
Another breeze stole through the lanai after he left, swaying the wrought iron chandelier and ruffling the napkins. Harper straightened those blown askew, then glanced at the expanse of ocean beyond Evan’s property.
The waves seemed to wash over her, sneaking back through the crevices of her mind, into a vault reserved for her stories. Miles emerged in her imagination, invisible yet so real as she waited on the sidelines for his final steps.
Welcome home, Miles.
What if he ended his walk on the edge of the cliff, gazing over the Pacific, in awe of all that happened to him? He could throw something in the air. Or collapse on the sand. Laugh from elation or exhaustion or just relief that he’d made it to the end.
Elated,she decided, after all he’d seen and accomplished as he retraced his family’s story. Ecstatic with a twinge of nostalgia. The director could have a montage at that point to relive the journey. A compilation of still shots from Miles’s adventures. It would be—
“Harper,” Wendi snapped, and she turned swiftly, startled to see the woman. “We need flowers.”
Clearly she’d missed the first cue. “Of course.”
Miles would have to wait for his ending.
The cart rumbled back through the house with her and into the vast laundry room that doubled as a floral cooler. Vases went on the bottom. Bouquets on top. Mundane work as she tried to unravel the tangles in her own story.
What sort of flowers would Miles see when he arrived at the Pacific Coast? Wildflowers, perhaps, the perfect subtext to nod at the wildness in his heart. Golden poppies. Spiky lupine. Seaside daisies. And her personalfavorite—Indian Paintbrush, a whole field of them ablaze. Miles wouldn’t need to say a word about the flowers. Savvy viewers would understand when they saw the shot.
Perhaps that’s how his journey could end. He could pick one of the flowers. Hold it up to the sun. A montage to remember where he’d been.
Harper groaned as she dropped one of the bouquets. Her hero picking flowers was the lamest of lame conclusions. No man thought about wildflowers at the end of a grand adventure.
If only her mom was here to brainstorm with her—she’d loved taking the crumbs of Harper’s ideas and creating something grand—but Harper would have to finish this story, like so many other things now, on her own.
