Blackberry Beach

by Irene Hannon

The instant he spotted her emerging from the brambles, he planted his fists on his hips and sent her a glare that would shrivel a person with twice her confidence.

  Don’t let him intimidate you, Katherine. You’re an actress. Play this cool.

  Silently repeating the mantra, she closed the space between them, using every step to shore up her flagging composure.

  Once on the deck, she stopped several feet away from her unexpected—and unwanted—visitor. “What are you doing here?”

  Instead of respecting her personal space, he swooped in, bristling with rage. “You know, Katherine—you’re not a big enough star to indulge in this temperamental ‘I want to be alone’ diva act . . . or ignore your agent.”

  “We had an understanding. I wanted to get away. You agreed to give me breathing room. I’m aware of the studio deadline, and I’ll have an answer for you on that date.”

  “The date’s changed.”

  Her stomach dropped to her toes. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you’d answered my calls and read my texts, you’d know.” His nostrils flared as he inhaled. “The studio wants an answer by this weekend.”

  “What?” Her stomach began to churn.

  “You heard me. In four days—five at the latest.”

  An ache began to throb in her temple. “Why? What happened?”

  “The shooting schedule’s been accelerated. They want to begin at the end of September and wrap up location work by year-end to keep travel expenditures in this calendar year. They need to lock down the stars ASAP. I don’t have to remind you there are several actresses waiting in the wings who’d sign on the dotted line tomorrow.”

  No, he didn’t.

  The pain in her head intensified.

  “I’m not ready to give you an answer.”

  “Maybe this will help you decide. They’ve agreed to let you keep your clothes on, and the language you didn’t like in your lines will be removed. Those are huge concessions.”

  Yes, they were.

  Also unexpected.

  Instead of making her decision easier, the director’s willingness to meet her terms complicated the situation. Removed the excuse she’d been keeping in reserve if she decided to turn the role down.

  She massaged the bridge of her nose. Simon wanted her to cave—but despite all he’d done to convince the powers-that-be to address her concerns, she still couldn’t pull the trigger.

  “I have to think about this, Simon.”

  He compressed his lips and tried to stare her down.

  She waited him out.

  At last he stalked over to one of her deck chairs and sat. “Fine. I’ll wait while you do.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Here?”

  “Yes. I’m not going back to LA until this is resolved. It’s too big a deal, and too much hangs in the balance, to give this anything less than total focus. Helping you come to a decision is my top priority.”

  No . . . getting her to sign the contract was his top priority. There were megabucks and a healthy helping of prestige in this for him too.

  “You can’t stay here. I don’t want any more scandal in my life.”

  “No one knows either of us is in town—and you have plenty of space.”

  “If someone finds out, you know how the media will play it.”

  “Nobody cares in this day and age.”

  “I do. And I’ve had enough undeserved scandal to last a lifetime.”

  Smirking, he stood. “I knew you’d say that. I’m already booked at a quaint little inn called the Gull Motel—their description, not mine.” His mouth curled in distaste. “I just hope it’s clean. The B&B that appears to be the only high-end place in town was already booked.”

  “You’ll survive. Or you could go back to LA and I’ll call you this weekend.”

  “Not happening. At least here, I can drive up to see you if you ignore my calls.”

  “I won’t ignore them.”

  “I’m not taking that risk.” He let out a slow breath, and as he continued, his manner became more conciliatory. “Look, Katherine—I know the whole nasty business with Jason and the investigation afterward were traumatic. But you have to keep the prize in sight. This role is what you’ve wanted since the day you came to Hollywood. It’s a dream come true—and it doesn’t happen for everyone.”

  “I know that. And I’m grateful for the offer.”

  “I hear a but in there.” He motioned to the two chairs on the deck. “Let’s sit for a few minutes. Talk to me about what’s on your mind.”

  Her vision misted, and she clenched her hands at her sides until her nails dug into her palms.

  It was much easier to blow off the high-handed, arrogant Simon. This kinder, gentler version was far harder to deal with—even if his empathy was an act.

  He walked over to the chairs. Waited.

  She brushed a few grains of sand off her leggings, mind racing.

  Should she have a frank discussion with him? Share her concerns, as she’d done with Zach? After all, the man was her agent.

  Yeah. She probably ought to be more candid about her career turmoil.

  Forcing her feet to carry her forward, she joined him at the chairs and sank into one.

  As he sat beside her, Charley’s seagull friends swooped down and landed on the deck railing a few yards down. After giving them a wary perusal, Simon redirected his attention to her. “Tell me what’s holding you back.”

  Mustering up her courage, she poured out all her turmoil, sharing her doubts and disillusionment and dissatisfaction as she had with Zach—though not in as much detail.

  Simon listened without interrupting until she finished, then leaned back in his chair, brow knotted. “I didn’t realize how unhappy you were—or that your discontent predates the incident with Jason.”

  That wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

  He hadn’t yelled at her. Or berated her. Or tried to convince her that her feelings weren’t valid.

  Either he’d suddenly developed compassion and understanding—or fear of losing out on a deal to have one of his clients star in a prestigious film was forcing him to put a long-rusty skill set to use.

  Her money was on the latter—but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I think my misgivings have been simmering for quite a while. Jason’s death was . . . it forced me to confront them.”

  “So you’re having a sort of midcareer crisis, questioning your goals. It happens.” He patted her hand, oozing empathy. “But that’s a different challenge than the decision about whether to accept this role. They don’t have to be dealt with together. Why not take the part and defer the question about where to go from there until after the film wraps?”

  He knew why as well as she did.

  “Because if the critics are kind and the film is a success, more offers will come in. The pace will accelerate. I’ll have even less time to think. Walking away now would be cleaner and less complicated than walking away afterward.”

  “Walking away.” He drummed a finger on the arm of the chair. “That’s a very final step, Katherine.”

  “I know.”

  “What would you do if you left Hollywood behind? Acting is all you know.”

  “No, it’s not.” Her defensive hackles rose. “I have other options.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . like making candy.” The suggestion of such a radical career change appeared to surprise him as much as it did her.

  He gaped at her as if she’d said she wanted to travel to Mars. “You can’t be serious.”

  Maybe she hadn’t been when that idea had tripped off her tongue—but the concept wasn’t that bizarre.

  “Why not? I enjoy it, and the truffles I’ve made during my stay here have gotten rave reviews.”

  Simon rose. Walked over to the railing and looked out over the sea. Ran his fingers through his hair, leaving his pricey salon cut in disarray as he pivoted back to her.

  Mr. Empathy wa
s gone. The shrewd, deal-making Hollywood agent was back.

  “I’m beginning to worry about your mental state, Katherine. Why on earth would you give up an acting career poised on the brink of success to spend your days making chocolate?”

  “I like doing it. It’s satisfying. And I wouldn’t always have nosy reporters in my face.”

  “It’s not going to pay like acting.”

  “I’ve saved my money.”

  “I know.” His lips twisted in disgust. “You live like a pauper.”

  “I live like someone who knows the value of a dollar—and who craves financial security. Which I have. That gives me options.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like acting anymore? That you wouldn’t miss it?”

  “No. I do and I would. But I don’t like what comes with it at the Hollywood level.”

  “So you’re going to give up everything you’ve worked for and open a little froufrou chocolate shop.”

  At his belittling tone, she bristled. “I didn’t say that. I said I could if I wanted to. You asked about my skills, and that’s one I do have.”

  He began to pace again. “Listen—if you want to get involved in the chocolate business, take the movie role. Get famous. Then I’ll go find a chocolate company that will sign you as a spokesperson. You’ll have the best of both worlds.”

  The man just didn’t get it.

  “I’m interested in making chocolate, not endorsing it.”

  She could try to explain to him how she enjoyed the physical act of tempering chunks of chocolate until they were transformed into glossy goodness, experimenting with different flavors and ingredients to produce a product that was uniquely hers, inhaling the heady and comforting aroma as she worked. She could tell him how much she cherished having total control over her creative—and personal—life.

  But he wouldn’t understand.

  The façade of sympathy he’d adopted for a few minutes had melted away.

  “Come on, Katherine. Get real. The average chocolatier in this country earns a fraction of your current income. There are actors out there who would kill to be in your position. You already have a level of fame and fortune the average Joe can never hope to attain, and you’re on the brink of becoming a megastar. If you want to be a recluse off-screen after you reach that stage, go for it. It could add to your mystique.”

  That was plausible in theory—but it didn’t always work out in reality. Even if you tried to keep your nose clean and stay under the radar, scandal could find you . . . as she’d learned the hard way. And the paparazzi were relentless under the best of circumstances.

  “I’ll take everything you’ve said under consideration.” She stood too.

  He gave a loud huff. “Can’t you make this easy on both of us and just say yes?”

  “No.”

  He threw up his hands. “Fine. Do your thinking. But hurry it up. I’ll be at the motel—but I’ll be dropping by frequently.”

  As he stormed across the deck, one of the gulls cackled. Then the pair took off, circled above them—and left a calling card with her guest before winging toward the sea.

  “What the . . .” As Simon took in the gooey mess splatted on the sleeve of his shirt, he spat out one of the expletives she’d insisted be removed from the movie script.

  Hard as she tried to restrain it, a chuckle erupted.

  He glowered at her. “You wouldn’t be laughing if a stupid bird had ruined one of your four-hundred-dollar shirts.”

  “I don’t have any four-hundred-dollar shirts.” She tried to curb her mirth.

  “Of course not.”

  “You want to clean that off in the house?”

  “No.” He unbuttoned the shirt and stripped it off, careful not to touch the bird poop. “This is going straight into the trash.” He held it at arm’s length.

  “You could wash it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Leave it on the deck. I’ll take care of it.”

  And once it was washed, she’d donate it to the clothing drive bin in the parking lot at Grace Christian. At least someone would benefit from Simon’s misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He dropped the soiled garment at his feet as if it was radioactive.

  “You want to borrow one of my baggy T-shirts?” She motioned toward his bare chest.

  “My luggage is in the car. I’ll put on a different shirt before I leave.” He continued to the steps but paused at the top. “From now on, answer my calls. Otherwise, I’m moving in here—even if I have to camp on this deck.”

  Without waiting for a response, he stomped down the steps, circled the deck, and disappeared from view.

  Four minutes later, a car engine revved, gravel crunched—and he was gone.

  Quiet descended—in the natural world around her, if not in her mind.

  What a mess.

  She massaged her temples.

  In five days, max, she owed Simon an answer.

  Yet she was no closer to a decision than she’d been the day he’d told her about the offer.

  Replaying their conversation in her mind, she wandered over to the railing and rested her palms on the flat surface.

  Some of what he’d said had made sense.

  It was true she was facing two decisions, not one . . . as Zach had also pointed out. The movie and her future career path didn’t have to be linked. Yes, it would be difficult to keep a successful big-screen role—and Simon’s goading—from dictating her plans going forward, but it was possible if she mustered up her moxie. She wasn’t the same desperate young woman who’d signed with him five years ago, driven to prove to the world she was somebody, hungry for the media attention she’d come to loathe.

  The question was, who was she?

  Or, more important, who did she want to be?

  Those questions deserved thorough analysis—and required more than a few days of thought.

  She also needed guidance.

  Too bad Zach wasn’t here so she could pick his brain.

  But he had enough problems of his own in Atlanta.

  More prayer could help—though her diligent pleas for guidance had yet to produce answers.

  So how was she supposed to figure out what to do before her time ran out and Simon showed up on her doorstep again, brandishing a contract that could change her life forever if she signed on the dotted line?

  22

  He was as nervous as he’d been back in tenth grade on his very first date, with Mary Lou Wheeler.

  And the feeling wasn’t fun.

  Too jittery to sit still while the gas station attendant filled his tank, Frank slid out from behind the wheel as a silver Thunderbird with a white top pulled in on the opposite side of the pumps.

  “Afternoon.” Charley called out the greeting through the open window as he set his brake and killed the engine.

  “Afternoon to you too. You aren’t cooking today?”

  “Lunch crowd’s thinned.” Charley opened the door, got out, and strolled over while he waited his turn for service. “I think I’ll paint on this beautiful afternoon—although an outdoor pursuit would be a delightful alternative. What’s your plan for the rest of the day?”

  Frank transferred his weight from one foot to the other and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m driving up to Shore Acres State Park.”

  “Ah. A perfect day for a walk through the gardens.” Charley leaned down and peered into the empty passenger seat. “Are you going alone?”

  “No.” He could leave it at that—but the response seemed too abrupt in light of Charley’s affable manner. “I, uh, thought I’d give Zach’s aunt a tour of the place. Her being new in town and all.”

  “A gracious gesture. I expect she’ll appreciate the company, especially with Zach gone for a few days.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Charley leaned back against the hood of the car. “Pleasant woman, Stephanie.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I imagine she has
fascinating stories from her travels.”

  “Yeah.” With an effort, Frank called up a smile. “Quite a contrast to a lowly mail carrier like me. My most exciting moments involved dogs nipping at my heels.”

  “A different kind of excitement, no question about it.” Charley flashed him a grin. “Were you ever bitten?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Most dogs are more bark than bite—though they can be intimidating. People can be too—for a host of reasons that don’t involve barking.”

  Frank squinted at him.

  Could that be a veiled message about Stephanie’s jet-setting past and executive position?

  Maybe.

  News could have traveled around town that he and Zach’s aunt had spent last Wednesday painting together—and chatting up a storm while sparks pinged around the room. There’d been a ton of volunteers at Hope House that day.

  Or was that remark just one of those random philosophical comments Charley liked to throw out?

  “I suppose that’s true.” Best to play this nonchalant.

  “Count on it. In the end, most of us want to be liked—and defined—by who we are inside rather than by external trappings and stereotypes.” As two seagulls fluttered in and landed at Charley’s feet, he motioned to them. “Have you met Floyd and Gladys?”

  Frank regarded the gulls. “You name the birds?”

  “Not all of them. These two are old friends. Actually, I’ve known Floyd the longest. I met him a number of years ago, after he lost his wife. Did you know seagulls mate for life?”

  “I don’t recall ever hearing that.”

  “It’s a fact. And Floyd was in sad straits, let me tell you. Started moping around the stand. Took to pecking at Tracy’s door—that would be Tracy Hunter, from the cranberry farm—looking for company. He was one lonely bird. Then one day, he showed up at my stand with Gladys, happy as a clam.”

  Frank inspected the birds, which were cuddled up next to each other—close to Charley but watching him.

  “Nice story.” If only it was that easy for humans to move on.

  “It’s more than that.” Charley studied the birds. “Instead of letting fear hold them back, Floyd and Gladys took a leap into the unknown—and now neither is lonesome anymore. I’d call them role models.”