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“Because a thank-you is all that is necessary.” I lift the bag. “I can’t accept something like this when I barely know the guy.”
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know what it is.”
“You’d accept a gift like this and wear it without any qualms?”
“Hell yeah, I’d accept it. Then I’d sell it. Look, princess, before you strain yourself figuring out how to return the Hope Diamond, open the damn box. They do carry stuff besides fancy jewelry. Maybe it’s a pen, or a key chain, or a sterling silver corkscrew to help you pull your head out of your ass.”
Rude as she is, she could be right. It’s probably just a token. A nice one, because he’s obviously got the means, but the kind of thing a person gives as a gesture of appreciation for an associate or a helpful neighbor. A key chain makes perfect sense. I bet that’s what’s inside and I’m freaking out over nothing. It’s still too generous a gift, but possibly one there’s no harm in keeping. Vaughn did go to the trouble of picking it out for me.
“I should open it.”
“About time.” Dixie puts her elbows on the counter and cups her face in her hands to watch me.
I’ve never gotten a gift from Tiffany’s before, so I have no idea if everything comes in a dark blue velvet box, but that’s what I pull out of the bag. My heart pounds a little harder as I open the box. Nestled inside isn’t a key chain but a sterling silver daisy key pendant necklace with a diamond in the center of the flower. My hands shake. It’s delicate. Beautiful.
“Huh,” Dixie says. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer. Word of advice?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately without looking at her. Instead, I tuck the necklace back into place and put the box in the bag. It’s too much. I’m returning it no matter what she recommends.
“A guy like Vaughn gives a gift like that? He wants to fuck you, plain and simple, so if you’re not down for that, princess, you should follow your Hannah Montana instincts and give the thank-you back.”
I don’t bother responding. I’m not sure what the gift implies, only that it adds a layer of confusion to my bad mood. He barely knows me! I stand up and walk out the kitchen door with the bag in my hand.
Out of view from the kitchen window, I sit on the iron bench next to the gardenias Aunt Sally planted and tends to like children. Lying in the dirt beside the bench are the three large garden rocks Amber, Dixie, and I painted when we were young. Each is different in color and design but painted in similar childlike strokes. I decorated mine with calm blue swirls. Flashy purple lightning bolts zigzag across Dixie’s, and Amber’s glows with a round yellow sun. Aunt Sally tends to our rocks as well, because they’re still shiny.
Now that I have privacy, I pull the small blue envelope out of the Tiffany’s bag. I purposely didn’t tell Dixie there was a card. It was hard enough sharing the gift with her. I slip a white notecard from the envelope and read what Vaughn wrote.
Thank you for being my guardian angel. And for the sofa. I’ll trade you keys. Sincerely, Vaughn.
I slide the note back inside the envelope and return it to the bag.
I’m no one’s guardian angel. If that were true, Mason would be okay. We’d be planning our future, maybe even getting married this summer. Instead, I’m alone and desperate to find a job or career path that doesn’t include law school.
I get to my feet and walk to Vaughn’s front door. He may have meant well, but right now his thoughtfulness is too much for me to bear.
I put the bag behind the potted plant and turn and walk away. For the next couple of hours I search online for local jobs, sending my résumé to a few entry level positions that sound interesting.
That’s a lie. They don’t sound interesting. I close my eyes and wish for time to stop until I figure things out. Impossible, of course. Just like Mason’s recovery.
Chapter Six
Vaughn
When your agent summons you to lunch at The Ivy to meet with an America Rocks producer, you arrive promptly no matter how drastically you have to bend time, space, and traffic laws to do it. I’m antsy by the time I pull to a stop at the curbside valet in front of the iconic white picket fence surrounding the patio of the famed West Hollywood eatery. The dash clock reads 2:07 p.m. Not perfect, but respectable. I surrender my car to the attendant and try to steady my pulse. There’s no need to look eager. Best case scenario is I’ve raced from a shoot in Culver City to jump through another hoop. Worst case? This is their way of letting me down gently and offering me a consolation prize, like man-on-the-street interviewer for the open audition crowds. Hours of tape for maybe ten minutes of screen time per season. And fuck it, after I recovered from the catastrophic disappointment, I’d probably take the offer. I love the show that much.
Instead of steadying, my pulse stalls like a rusty clutch because I spy Nigel Cowie holding court under the shade of a generous white umbrella. Nigel’s not
just a producer for America Rocks, he’s the producer, and he’s sharing the small linen-draped table with John Brenner—one of the associate producers I met during my first audition and subsequent callback—my agent, Nina Felder, and my father. I’ve never met Nigel before, but the tall, tanned Englishman is instantly recognizable thanks to his habitual five o’clock shadow and signature tight black T-shirt. I stand stock-still for a half second to take it in, savor the moment, and yes, to give my heart a chance to fall back into a normal rhythm.
I get only the half second, though, because Nigel spots me, stands, and extends an arm my way. “Vaughn Shaughnessy. We meet at last.”
The patio’s not full for a Sunday afternoon, but every head swings from the prominent Brit to me, and every Hollywood insider and waiter-slash-actor in the place starts doing the math on two America Rocks producers, one agent, one manager, and the guy from the Armani ads. I plaster a confident smile on my face and stride over like I expected this meeting. “Mr. Cowie,” I say, and shake his hand. His grip is firm, his smile surprisingly genuine.
“Nigel,” he corrects. “I believe you know this lovely lady and these other gents?”
“Of course.” I shake hands with John, who looks like Tony Romo’s twin brother, kiss Nina’s flawless cheek, and give my dad a quick one-armed hug. “Glad you could make it,” he mutters in my ear, letting me know I’m tardy. Nigel gestures me to the single empty seat at the table.
I sit, and conversation pauses while a waiter approaches with a tray of drinks—Ivy gimlets all around. My back is to most of the patio, but I can practically hear texts being tapped out on every phone in the vicinity. When the waiter retreats, Nigel leans in and raises his glass. “Cheers. Apologies for mucking up everyone’s schedule with a last-minute meeting,” he says in a voice modulated for our table alone. “I’m off to London tonight and I wanted to meet all the talent on our short list in person before I left.” He touches his glass to mine and adds, “Old-fashioned of me, I know, but I like a sit-down and a chat. I appreciate you indulging me.”
