Acting on Impulse (Silverweed Falls Book 2)

by Thea Dawson

  And now home, where Joy had so recently been, reminded him of her as well.

  Unable to help himself, he’d checked the gossip blogs and the entertainment channels. He’d seen the look of fear and bewilderment in her eyes when the paps surrounded her. All she’d wanted was discretion, and at the first opportunity, he’d thrown her to the publicity wolves.

  He took another sip of beer and switched the channel without bothering to note what he had been watching.

  There was a knock at the door.

  For a moment it didn’t register. He hadn’t ordered anything and he didn’t know any of his neighbors. Then a bolt of anger shot through him. Reporters? If they’d found Joy, they could find him.

  The knock came again, more insistently.

  He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before answering. The last thing he needed was to come out swinging. He brushed some Cheeto crumbs off his shorts as he stood up, wishing he was more put together. His beard needed trimming and he hadn’t combed his hair all day.

  Again, the knock.

  “Coming, coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist,” he mumbled as he walked over to the door.

  He pulled it open, and froze in surprise.

  “Chris, darling,” said Simon. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “What are you doing in LA?” Chris asked as he handed Simon a glass of iced water.

  Simon was sitting primly in the armchair. The TV had been turned off. Chris sat back down on the couch.

  Simon stared at him over the rims of his stylish glasses. “I had business down here. I’d been putting off anyway, and I thought I’d take advantage of it to come talk to you.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I run an online company, Lockhart Lingerie. Custom-made corsets, mostly. My seamstresses are based down here. I come down and check in with them a couple times a year, take them out to lunch, that sort of thing. They’ve helped out with a number of the costumes.” He took out a business card and handed it to Chris.

  Chris stared at the logo, a heart-shaped padlock with corset-style lacing. “Somehow I wouldn’t have taken you for a purveyor of women’s underwear.”

  Simon gave him a pitying look. “At least 75% of my customers are men, dear. But I didn’t actually fly 800 miles to discuss mail-order lingerie.”

  Chris put the card on the coffee table and stared at the floor. “Simon, I’m really sorry about the fundraiser. I know how much the Players mean to you and Victor—”

  Simon waved a hand and frowned impatiently. “Yes, yes, you’re very sorry, you feel terrible for letting us down. The truth is, dear, that I really don’t care.”

  “Oh.” Chris was silent for a moment, unsure what to say.

  “We knew it was a bit of a risk, of course, asking you to do it. Victor always worried that you’d be the type to choke once you got too close to success.”

  “He did?”

  “Indeed. Look how you dealt with Much Ado. You gave the best performance of your life up until then, and you promptly got drunk and publicly humiliated the woman you claimed to love. That’s how you deal with success. And you’ve had a lot of success recently, haven’t you? Blockbuster movie, the woman of your dreams on your arm, even the reviews are glowing—It’s all just way too good to be true, isn’t it?”

  Chris took a deep breath, eyeing his half-drunk beer regretfully. He was in the mood to drink more, but he didn’t dare under Simon’s scrutiny. “You think I’m bringing myself down on purpose? Self-sabotage or whatever?”

  “I don’t think. I know. I’ve worked around entertainers all my life. I see you people mess things up all the time. Reviews are good, crash your car. Make a million, spend it on drugs. Land the role of a lifetime, cheat on your wife.”

  “I don’t do drugs. And I’d never cheat on anyone.” Chris stared at the beer bottle sullenly.

  “Are you sure about that?” Simon leaned forward, staring at him with piercing eyes. “Because, really, no one wakes up in the morning and says, ‘Today’s the day I ruin my life.’ They just go along, ignoring the signs that things are wrong, until they wake up one day and realize that they have ruined their life and they never even noticed it happening.”

  “Rob called it upper-limiting. He gave me a book about it,” Chris admitted reluctantly, trying to remember what he’d done with the book.

  “Then you should probably read it. And no time like the present, because you’re very successful at the moment.”

  Chris grimaced. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? I mean, most actors would kill to be in my shoes.”

  “Is that the problem? You feel guilty that you’re successful when so many other people aren’t?”

  Chris shrugged awkwardly, thinking of his dad. “Maybe. I guess.”

  “Maybe, you guess?” Simon pressed his lips together and crossed his arms. He stared at Chris expectantly.

  “Well, yeah, it does seem unfair that I’m making millions off a backend blockbuster deal while other people who are at least as talented as I am never get anywhere.”

  “And just how is you failing going to help them succeed?” Simon raised a disdainful eyebrow.

  Chris was silent.

  “Back to your drunken stunt with Joy at the cast party for Much Ado,” Simon asked. “You remember it?”

  Chris frowned at the sudden change of subject and scratched his neck. “Most of it,” he admitted after a moment.

  “You knew, of course, that you couldn’t have chosen a less appropriate way to gain the affection of that particular woman?”

  Chris took a deep breath. “Yeah ... yeah, I definitely went about that the wrong way.”

  “Not that I’m condoning you making a pass at a married woman in the first place, mind you.” Simon shook a finger at him. “But even if she hadn’t been married, putting her on the spot like that would have sent her running. As it was, you could have respected the fact that she was married, stayed in touch with her, been a supportive friend for all those years, and who knows what would have happened. Maybe she would have come to her senses and left Scott years ago.”

  Chris raised his eyebrows. “You knew she was unhappy?”

  “We’re talking about you now, not Joy. Although we are talking about Joy in relation to you, because things were going pretty well with the two of you up until recently, weren’t they?” Simon raised his eyebrows questioningly and nodded at the look of confirmation on Chris’s face. “Thought so. So what do you do except the thing most guaranteed to push her away—draw the press down on her while simultaneously ruining something she’s worked on for weeks.”

  Chris leaned back against the couch, heaving a frustrated sigh. “All right, so I’m fucking up my life and everyone else’s because of all this guilt and fear and self-sabotage upper-limiting crap. What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?”

  “You’re supposed to grow a pair and deal with it!” Simon snapped. “Make amends, get the job done, and quit making the same mistakes over and over again.”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  “It is completely that simple. It may not be easy, but it is simple. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Simon got to his feet. “I’ve left my dying lover long enough, and I have a plane to catch.”

  Chris winced.

  “Oh, does that make you feel guilty? Good.” Simon crossed his arms and stared down at Chris. “My mother was half Jewish and half Irish Catholic—I learned guilt at the feet of the master. Don’t mess with me, young man.” He looked around disapprovingly at the couch and the carpet. “Are these Cheeto crumbs? Real men vacuum once in a while, darling.”

  He turned and headed for the door.

  Chris got up and trailed a step behind him. “Thanks for coming all this way, Simon,” he said as they reached the threshold.

  Simon glared impatiently. “I don’t want your thanks.” He turned and glared up at Chris. His expression was implacable, and despite his small frame, Chris felt cowed. “I’m no
t going to say a word to Victor about the fundraiser. But a week from tomorrow, I’m bringing him to Perry Park for the play. In all likelihood, it will be the last time he leaves the house alive. You are going to make sure that play goes off without a hitch, and you are going to make him proud.”

  Chris swallowed and met Simon’s fierce glare. He took a deep breath. “I will.”

  It was well past eleven o’clock when Chris started pounding on the door.

  Joy knew somehow that it was him, even without checking through the window to see if his rental car was in the driveway. This was his MO, wasn’t it? Do something outrageous, then follow it up with something completely beyond the pale—like wrecking her fundraiser then getting drunk and pounding on her door at a quarter to midnight.

  Which wasn’t entirely fair because, truth be told, she was a little buzzed herself. She’d spent the day processing refunds for the tickets, dodging the press, and going to the rehearsal. It hadn’t surprised her that Chris wasn’t there, but his absence had made her angry all over again. She’d put Brice in charge of directing for the evening but still had to field a constant stream of questions from cast members who were worried about the performance, about Chris, and about the future of the Players.

  Once home, she’d poured herself a glass of wine, then another one, forgetting that all she’d had for dinner was a selection of abandoned hors d’oeuvres. Now she sat on the couch in the living room staring at the flat screen TV as Bringing up Baby played.

  For the first time since she’d watched it thirteen years ago, it had failed to make her laugh.

  The pounding continued, and Joy took another grim sip of Chardonnay.

  Charlotte, dressed in her pajamas, walked into the living room.

  “Are you going to get that?” she asked.

  “No.” Joy kept her face toward the screen and took another sip of wine.

  “Fine,” said Charlotte wearily. “I will.”

  It took a moment for Joy’s brain to catch up to Charlotte’s words, and by that time, Charlotte was at the door.

  “No!”

  She got up and rushed to the entranceway, getting there just as Charlotte opened the door.

  “Bit late for a booty call, isn’t it, Chris?” Charlotte asked laconically.

  Joy pushed past her daughter. “I don’t know what—”

  “Have you refunded the tickets yet?” Chris interrupted.

  “What does that matter to you?”

  “I need to know if you’ve refunded the tickets yet,” he insisted.

  Charlotte cut off Joy’s response. “Yes, we did that this morning.”

  “Charlotte, you’re not helping,” Joy snapped

  “No, actually, Charlotte, you are helping. We need your help.” Chris pushed past Joy into the house.

  “We?” Joy folded her arms across her chest. “You can’t come in. I didn’t invite you in!”

  “I’m not a vampire, Joy. And I need to talk to you.” He took another look at her furious expression. “No. You’re too angry.” He turned to Charlotte. “I need to talk to you.”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “This ought to be good.”

  “It will be. It’ll be great, in fact. I’m going to turn this around, but I need names and phone numbers for everyone who was supposed to come to the fundraiser.”

  Charlotte now stepped back and appraised Chris.

  Joy stepped between them. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but let’s just drop it. You’ve made enough of a mess as it is.”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Charlotte.

  “Charlotte, where are you going?” Joy snapped, but Charlotte had disappeared into the study.

  Chris caught her by the shoulders. “Joy, listen, I know you’re angry at me and you have every right to be, but please put that aside for now and let me help. Let me make it up to you and to Victor and Simon. I can do this, but I need help, or at the very least, I need you to not try to stop me.”

  Joy glared at him. Tears of anger threatened to fall, but she was determined not to let him see her cry. Once again, a magical summer lay in ruins—because of Chris.

  “Everything was going so well,” she finally choked out. “I thought we were a team.”

  “We are,” he assured her. “We will be again. I promise you.”

  Charlotte came back and handed Chris a sheaf of papers stapled together.

  “We crossed off everyone as we went, but you can still read all the names. I can print out a fresh copy for you or email it, if you’d like.”

  Chris shook his head. “This’ll be fine. Thank you, Charlotte. I’m going to call every one of these people and invite them to a new fundraiser.”

  Joy turned her glare from her traitorous daughter back to Chris. “What new fundraiser? We don’t have a place and we have no money left for a deposit. And I know you’ll offer to pay for it,” she added quickly, “but there just aren’t any places for that number of people. I looked all over town.”

  “I’ve got this, Joy. Leave it up to me.”

  He held his hands up placatingly and stepped backward into the night. “I promise.”

  Joy whirled around and marched upstairs.

  Charlotte looked from her retreating back to Chris and shook her head.

  “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” she said, and closed the door.

  29

  On Wednesday, Joy went back to work.

  She needed something to fill her days. A small, logical part of her realized that even if the auction had gone off perfectly, she still would have been at a loss for what to do with herself, but she repressed it. It was easier to blame Chris for … everything.

  She blamed Chris when Simon called to ask how the rehearsals were going and she couldn’t tell him. She blamed him when she cried herself to sleep at night. She blamed him when Peter and Taylor bickered, and when Charlotte got a speeding ticket. It was simply easier to fall into the old routine of blaming someone—Scott or Chris, it didn’t matter—and falling back into the old pattern of being stuck.

  Abandoning her worries about the theater keys, she gave them to Charlotte and put her in charge of letting the cast in and locking up after them. She had spent the summer organizing the play; coordinating everything from costumes to parade floats to auction donations, and she was done.

  She’d committed to selling the house, but at least she hadn’t quit her job. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—deliver Chris McPherson on a silver platter to the development department, but she still stood a shot at Linda’s job. She’d knock herself out to get it, and if she did, great. And if she didn’t … well, it didn’t really seem to matter either way.

  The following Wednesday, Charlotte insisted that she get dressed up and come to the fundraiser. “I’m driving and we’re picking up Simon on the way,” she said, brooking no argument.

  Joy didn’t have the energy to argue … and truth be told, she was curious, and she missed being involved with the play. She put on her make up and high heels, along with a dress she’d worn to several University events, and joined Charlotte in the car.

  After picking Simon up, Charlotte drove them to the theater. At first Joy assumed they were picking someone else up there, but when Charlotte parked and got out, she realized that the fundraiser was being held there.

  “How did you get the Events department to agree to this?” she asked.

  Charlotte bit her lip. “I don’t know that the Events department knows about it,” she said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Joy muttered. “I hope you’re not serving alcohol.”

  “Hm,” was Charlotte’s only reply.

  Joy let out an irritated breath, wondering what fresh scandal Chris would draw down on them all, but her exasperation faded as soon as she stepped into the lobby.

  “What’s going on?”

  The careworn, old-fashioned lobby had been transformed. Garlands of green vines hung around the entrance to the theater, entwined with fairy lights. In front of the
entrance to the theater, Tracie stood in costume behind a narrow podium that had been wrapped in artificial vines and flowers, a phone, credit card scanner, and clipboard in front of her. To her left, Rob, dressed in black pants and a white button-down shirt, stood behind a table laden with glasses and bottles of wine.

  “Welcome to the first annual Silverweed Scene Players Silent Auction!” Tracie chirped. She winked broadly. “You guys don’t need tickets, but you are welcome to a glass of wine.” She gestured cheerfully toward Rob.

  Rob bobbed his head. “White or red, Miss Albright?”

  “Charlotte, what’s going on?”

  “White or red, Mom?”

  “White. Thank you, Rob.”

  Simon, with an expression of cautious optimism, accepted a glass of red, and Charlotte led them to the entrance of the theater.

  “Welcome to the forest on the outskirts of Athens,” she said, drawing back the curtain.

  Joy walked past her and stepped into another world.

  The aisle that led past the seats to the stage had been transformed into a forest path, with vines and branches that arched overhead, lit with tiny, twinkling lights and glow-in-the-dark flowers. The effect was so convincing that Joy might have thought she was somewhere else altogether except for the feel of the worn carpet beneath her feet.

  From somewhere ahead of them came the sound of a lute.

  “Charlotte, what have you done?” Joy said, her voice hushed.

  “It wasn’t me, I just helped a bit.”

  “I mean, what have all of you—”

  The forest-y tunnel they’d walked through opened up into the space in front of the stage. A young man Joy didn’t know strolled in front of the stage, playing what was indeed a lute. The stage itself had been transformed. Vines climbed up the sides of the walls, while the floor had been covered with the same fake grass material that they’d used on the float. Tables covered with green cloth were set up on either side of the stage and had been laid out with all the silent auction items. Another table with wine was set up at the back of the stage. Actors in costume moved around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. The stage was lit with softly dappled light that illuminated the auction tables and the wine bar while obscuring the shabby stage curtains in the background and the worn theater seats.