Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood (17 page)

“Hey, guys.”

Grace whirled around. Brandon was sauntering up the path: casual in threadbare jeans and his usual two-day stubble, but to Grace, there could be no sweeter sight. Salvation!

“Brandon!” she exclaimed happily. Harry’s face fell. “Hey! How are you? What’s going on?”

“The usual.” He stood by the pool, hands in his front pockets. “What’s new with you?”

“Nothing!” Grace cried, quickly grabbing her notebook and chem file. “We were actually just finished here, right, Harry?”

He stared at her, clearly crestfallen. “Right. Yeah. OK.”

“Great study session!” Grace could tell her voice was unnaturally high, but she couldn’t help it. Those had been the most awkward thirty seconds in the history of the universe. “See you in school!”

Harry looked from her to Brandon, and packed up his things. “See you.” He sighed, and loped off.

Grace collapsed in a chair with relief.

“Did I interrupt something?” Brandon asked, looking amused.

“Yes,” Grace told him. “And for that, you have my undying gratitude.”

Brandon laughed. “Aww, poor kid. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to try to make a move on someone?”

“Do you have any idea how awkward it is to try and duck that move?” Grace countered. She exhaled. “Anyway, thanks. I owe you.”

“No problem.” Brandon looked around, the hope in his expression unmistakable. Grace felt a twist of pity.

“She’s out,” she told him gently.

“Oh.” Brandon paused. “With him?”

“Yup.” Grace finished packing up the study things. “She should be back later, if you want to come over then.”

Brandon gave a shrug, as if he were trying to seem unconcerned. “No, it’s cool. I’m helping clear out Miss Whitman’s garage,” he explained. “I thought Hallie might want to come see.”

“Is she that old movie star, from all those fifties musicals?” Grace looked over in interest. The Whitman house was at the far end of the block: shadowed with elm trees, the front yard deep with weeds and flowers growing wild. “We drive past it all the time on the tour. One guy was totally obsessed, he took, like, a hundred photos of her mailbox and front gate.”

Brandon nodded. “Yup. The house is like a museum. She has all these vintage clothes, and memorabilia from her movies. I figured, it was Hallie’s kind of thing. . . .”

“It would be,” Grace agreed. Brandon was looking about as downcast as Harry had, only moments before. She took pity on him. “Can I see it?”

“No, I mean, it’s OK. You don’t have to. . . .”

“I want to. It’ll be fun to see inside.”

Brandon finally smiled, and for a moment, his usually somber face was transformed into something youthful, even handsome. “OK,” he agreed. “But I’m warning you, it’s like hoarder heaven in there!”

Brandon wasn’t exaggerating. Behind the overgrown, fairy-tale facade, the legendary Gray Whitman’s mansion was knee-deep in old boxes, books, and mementos of her former life as an on-screen ingenue. The lady herself was taking a nap, Brandon said — apparently her code for a glass of sherry and the afternoon soap operas — so they started in the garage. He yanked up the door, flooding the space with light, Grace feared, it hadn’t seen in years.

“These newspapers are from nineteen sixty-two!” Grace exclaimed, holding up a stack of crumbling yellowed pages. “Who keeps this kind of stuff?”

Brandon laughed. “The kind of person who also has every issue of
Variety
in their original wrappers.” He hauled another box out of the way, sending up clouds of dust.

“How did you get roped into this?” Grace asked, filling the first of what she was sure would be many trash bags.

Brandon shrugged. “I volunteered to help. I don’t have much else to do, and she’s nice, really. Just kind of . . . prickly.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Kind of? She set off the alarms over that tourist I was telling you about — chased him out with the sirens blaring.”

“Can you blame her — people driving by every night?” Brandon argued. “She just wants to be left alone. I understand that.”

Grace paused. She’d seen Brandon around all the time, but they’d never actually been alone together, to talk. “How are you doing?” she ventured, before wondering if that was too intrusive. “Amber said you were taking some classes,” she added quickly. “Photography?”

Brandon nodded, slowly slicing his X-Acto knife down the side of another box. His shirtsleeve rode up, revealing the dark ink of a tattoo on the curve of his bicep. “My parents were on me to do . . . something,” he explained. “Anything, really, to get me out the house.”

“Do you like it?” Grace asked. “I tried it for an art elective once, it was pretty fun.”

He thought for a moment. “I like the darkroom part: mixing the chemicals, and going through the different processes, but the actual taking pictures . . .” He gave her a rueful look. “This fancy psychologist they make me see suggested it. It’s supposed to help me reengage with the world, pay attention to things. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Grace answered, after a moment. “Maybe it’s enough that you’re looking.”

Brandon shrugged. “I guess.” He methodically bagged another stack of old newspapers. “The thing is, they still believe everything’s going to go back to normal. Like I’m going to wake up one day, and be the guy I used to be. All parties and beach volleyball, and trips down to Tijuana, like I used to. Before . . .” A shadow drifted across his face, and he turned away. “We need more trash bags,” he said, voice changing. “You want anything from the house?”

“No, I’m good,” Grace said quickly. “Thanks.”

Brandon exited, and Grace unpacked in silence for a while. She could never imagine the horrors he’d experienced, but Grace felt a strange affinity with him all the same. Sometimes there was no going back to the life you’d once known. She could barely picture herself a couple of years ago: thinking that home would always be there; that her family was the constant in life, not a variable. It had been hard enough for Grace to try and rebuild some sense of normalcy after everything that had happened; she could see how Brandon would struggle to even pretend everything was OK now.

He came back in, bearing two bottles of fancy sparkling water, a package of Swiss chocolate cookies, and — to Grace’s relief — no sign of that dark, shadowed look. “She insisted,” he said, setting down the bounty on a dusty old dresser.

Grace laughed. “I guess one doesn’t feed the help regular old Oreos.” She grabbed a cookie and opened another box. “Ooh, costumes!” Grace lifted out a glittering bodice and a matching cape; holding them up to the light to examine the stiff seams and hand-stitched sequins. “You’re right,” she said, folding them carefully back into place and marking the box. “Hallie would love this stuff.”

Brandon let out a wistful sigh that said just about everything on the topic of Hallie, and her nonpresence. He caught Grace looking at him, and changed the subject abruptly. “So what was wrong with your study buddy? He seemed nice enough. Why did you need rescuing?”

Grace cringed, reminded of the agonizing awkwardness she so narrowly escaped. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s a decent guy, and I guess we have fun. It’s just . . .” Now it was her turn for the wistful sigh. “I don’t feel it.”

“It?” Brandon raised an eyebrow.

Grace blushed. “Like I want to do more than study with him.”

Brandon laughed. “You sure made that clear, the way you kicked him out.”

“Good!” Grace exclaimed. “I don’t want to give the wrong idea. We’re friends. End of sentence.”

“Don’t be too hard on the guy,” Brandon said, his voice quiet. “It can be pretty tough, knowing someone you care about doesn’t feel the same.”

He didn’t have to explain. It had been clear he had feelings for Hallie since the moment they’d met, but Grace knew that Hallie barely gave him a second thought — except to giggle about his scruffy wardrobe, or hark back to the day of the serial killer / knife breakdown. Maybe if they spent more time together, she would get to know him . . . but no; her sister was too wrapped up in Dakota to ever look Brandon’s way, and Grace had to admit, she could understand why. The dashing musician, or the introverted army vet? It was no choice, and Grace suspected Brandon knew that all too well.

“Come on.” Grace put down her water, and reached for the next box. “If we keep at it, we can get to at least nineteen sixty-four!”

It was past five by the time Brandon called time on the sorting. He insisted on walking Grace to her door, despite her protests. “You never know who’s lurking around here,” he warned her. “And my mom would kill me if I let you go home alone.”

“Well, thanks,” Grace told him, reaching for her keys. “I guess chivalry lives on.”

She moved to open the door, but it swung open; Hallie breathless on the other side. “Finally!” she cried. “Where have you been?”

“Out —” Grace yelped as Hallie dragged her inside. “Bye, Brandon. . . .” The door slammed in his face. “Oww.” Grace pulled away, rubbing her arm. “Did you have to be so rude? You didn’t even say hi to him.”

Hallie rolled her eyes. “Never mind Brandon!” She began pushing Grace through the entrance hall, back toward the kitchen. “You have to come see!”

“What?”

“Wait.” Hallie stopped dead, not answering Grace. “Let me do something with your hair first.” She fussed at Grace’s braid. “Why couldn’t you get it relaxed last week, when I did? And your outfit! Maybe you should go change . . . ? No, there’s no time, you’ll have to do.”

“Do for what?” Grace exclaimed, equal parts frustrated and confused. She batted away Hallie’s hands, now trying to smear lip gloss on her face. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

Hallie beamed at her, and resumed the dragging until Grace stumbled out onto the back patio. Her mom, Amber, and Uncle Auggie were taking their seats at the dinner table, with . . .

Grace froze.

“Look who’s come to visit!” Hallie cried, throwing out her arms like a game show hostess. “It’s Theo!”

“Hey.” Theo grinned at her. “Surprise.”

Grace stared at him in shock. His hair was shorter, she noticed, and he had new glasses with black frames; wearing a crimson college sweatshirt and khaki pants. But for all the changes, he was still so unmistakably
Theo
— vivid and real in front of her for the first time in so long — that it made Grace’s heart leap.

“Theo!” She flew toward him, arms outstretched, but Theo’s answering hug was weak, and he stepped back almost right away. Grace stopped, confused, and dropped her hands to her sides. There was a pause.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked, recovering. “I thought you were slammed with classes all semester.”

“Some of Theo’s friends were driving down for the UCLA game,” Hallie answered for him, “so he thought he’d drop by and say hi. Isn’t that great?”

“You should have come down sooner,” their mom added. “You’re always welcome. After all, you’re still part of the family!”

“Thanks, Mrs. W.” Theo turned to Amber and Uncle Auggie. “And thank you both again for inviting me to dinner.”

“Oh, look at you, so polite.” Amber giggled. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? We have the room!”

“No thank you, I have to meet the guys after the game, and head back up to campus,” Theo explained. “But I couldn’t come to town and not see you . . . all. See you all.” He caught Grace’s eye for a second, then looked away, almost bashful.

Grace paused. Why was he acting like they’d barely even met, when just yesterday they’d spent a half hour arguing over word scores on an Internet Scrabble game? Was something the matter? Had she done something wrong? Grace grabbed a nearby seat, her happiness fading.

“No, silly, you go sit over there.” Hallie shoved her around the table to a chair beside Theo. “I bet you’ve got tons of catching up to do!”

Grace dutifully slid into the chair. Theo reached for his water glass and began gulping steadily. “Easy there,” she teased. “You know there’s a global shortage, right?”

Theo put his glass down so abruptly it splashed.

“Well, isn’t this great?” Amber cooed, beaming from the head of the table. “Theo here’s been telling us all about Stanford, and your baby brother.”

Theo nodded. “Dash is doing well,” he told them. “He’s getting really big now, you wouldn’t believe. And Portia . . .”

Grace laughed. “We know Portia. What is it this week, baby Pilates classes? Early-years algebra?” She shot him a conspiratorial look, the kind they used to share all the time, but Theo just stared down, his gaze fixed firmly on the plate of lemon chicken Rosa had just deposited in front of him.

Grace felt her heart slip.

“Theo, Theo . . .” Uncle Auggie mused, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “That’s with a
T,
right?”

Grace froze.

“Uh, yes.” Theo frowned.

“Yum, this chicken is great!” Grace said quickly, trying to derail the subject. “Do you know where Rosita got the recipe?”

They ignored her. “Theo with a
T,
” Auggie told Amber meaningfully. She looked blank for a moment, and then brightened.

“A
T
!” Amber looked from Theo to Grace and back again. “Of course! Welcome!”