“She doesn’t specify, only says it’s filled withtreasures you will want.” Mr. Crawley sounds like he regrets having to do this to me.
I sigh. “And you can’t read me the letter with the stipulations? I have to come get it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I sigh. “Alright. I’ll think about it. If I decide to come, I’ll have my assistant get in touch with your office.” I end the call and set my phone down, looking out the window at the ocean, the Malibu sand down below. What kind of rubbish is this? I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not. My aunt was always seventy percent eccentric, thirty percent insane. She tried to physically attack me once. While she gave a valiant effort, I’m six foot two and had been training for a role where I played a boxer at the time. Still, I learned not to offer any differing opinions of the monarchy in her presence.
I’m the only one left in my family now; Aunt Agnes never had any children. My parents are gone and I don’t have siblings. It makes sense that if she had anything to leave behind, she would leave it to me, but this? It would be just like her to leave me a box of wadded-up sandwich wrappers and lead me on a wild goose chase to get it.
I decide against going, instead choosing to make this lunacy wait until I’m next in England. Or more likely, I won’t deal with it at all. I push it from my mind and hop into my Bentley Bentayga.
I drive half an hour to Thousand Oaks to eat at my favorite restaurant—a little diner that serves breakfast all day—before their dinner rush. I love going there. It’s owned by Mr. and Mrs. Parker, a lovely couple in their mid-fifties. I’ve known them for almost five years now, and they’ve become special to me. I didn’t realize what I was missing in Hollywood until I got to know them. At first, I liked that they didn't watch TV or movies, so they didn't recognize me. I still love that, but it’s become more.
It’s not that I mind being famous. I don’t necessarily like it, but I know it comes with the territory, so I deal with it. I enjoy acting. And I love being a part of such a huge creation. Ultimately, I’d like to be a screenwriter.
But it’s nice to be somewhere and just be me. To avoid people fawning over me, asking me for autographs and photos. I generally oblige the fans because I understand the urge, but it’s so nice simply to be Alexander.
“Alexander! It’s been too long. I almost texted.” Mrs. Parker greets me at the register.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been working a lot. It really has been too long.” I smile, filled with fondness for this kind woman, along with her husband. “I’m glad to be back.”
She reaches up and pats me on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re back too, sweet boy. Now, tell me how you want to fill your belly today.”
I can still feel the warmth of her hand on my cheek, like she infuses her touch with love and leaves her mark everywhere she means to. I still remember being shocked the first time she did it to me. It’s like a hug she can give while staying behind the counter.
“You know what? Surprise me.”
Mrs. Parker grins. “I know just the thing.” She rings up my order. “It’s on the house.”
“No. No. That’s very kind, but—”
“Ah, ah. No arguing. I will spoil you if I want to.”
I’ve learned it’s fruitless to argue with Mrs. Parker, so I do as I always do and slip a fifty into the tip jar as soon as she turns her back. I always end up spending more when she gives it to me on the house, and I’m always glad.
I slide onto the worn black vinyl of my usual booth in the corner, and she meets me there with a cup of hot tea and water. She knows I always end up asking for water too. They had begun stocking English breakfast tea, since my second visit, when I told her I fancied a cup of tea. I hadn’t the heart to tell them the tea they had chosen was dreadful. I simply add plenty of cream and sugar, and smile. Then refuse refills.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon with your food. And you let me know if you need more tea.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I will not.
I pull out my phone as I wait, hoping to see reviews ofThe Mark of Everlore, but instead the headlines are about me and Crescent—our chemistry, and how Grey Blankenship might feel about it. It takes a surprising amount of scrolling before I find what I’m looking for.
“Here you go!” Mrs. Parker says, startling me and causing me to hide my phone like I’d been up to something. She laughs at me fondly. “Okay. I brought you two eggs—over easy—my homemade sausage, I know you like that. And strawberry French toast with extra whipped cream.”
“It looks amazing. I couldn’t have ordered better myself.” It truly does look delicious, but I’m suddenly struck with a thought that leaves me with an odd sadness, and it can only be because I’ve been asked to go back home.
I can’t remember the last time I had baked beans for breakfast.
I’m lost in my thoughts as I robotically make my way inside my house. Why was that solicitor just now calling me? Aunt Agnes died months ago. I’d gone home for her funeral, but it was during filming. I stepped off the plane, attended the funeral, and stepped back on. Otherwise, Ihadn’t been home in probably two years.
I grew up in England, splitting time between our countryside estate, which I sold after my parents' fatal collision, and the home in the Knightsbridge neighborhood of London. My aunt was angry with me when I sold the country estate. She said I was forgetting about England and the things that are truly important. I maintain that this is not accurate, but I regret selling the estate. It seemed like a waste for it to sit there, and at the time it served as a reminder of my father’s disappointment. Instead of stepping into the life he planned for me, I moved and became an actor. Now that more time has passed, I feel nostalgic for the time spent there in my youth. I can’t dwell on that; there’s no getting it back now.
The home in Knightsbridge is currently occupied by the staff. I told them I trust them and as long as the house stays in great condition, I don’t care what they do. They have it ready for me anytime I let them know I’m coming, welcoming me like a long-lost son.
