The Idea of Love (28 page)

Ella shook her head. “No, that's not true.” She shook dirt off her hands. “So, what's up?”

“I just came to say hello and see why you were ignoring me.”

Ella approached her friend and hugged her, not caring if the dirt was transferred. “I'm not ignoring you. I'm trying to get my feet on the ground again. You know … find my way again.”

“Well, I miss you.”

“What about me?” The three women turned to see Sims standing on the opposite side of the fence. He peered over the top with a grin and then opened the gate and walked in. “You miss me, too?”

“Nope,” Amber said. “I officially hate you for what you've put my best friend and my sister through. I don't miss you one bit.” Her voice did not match her words, though. There was fun in her voice. Laughter.

Now it was Ella's turn to give Amber a look. But she didn't have a chance. Her phone rang. A 212 area code.

She turned away from Sims and Amber and their cute little exchange. “Hello?” she said tentatively.

“May I please speak with Ella Flynn?”

“Speaking,” she said.

“This is
Vogue
. I'm calling about your letter.”

Ella's lungs refused to take in air.

“Are you there?” the voice asked.

“Yes, I'm here,” Ella exhaled

“I have to say, your letter took us by surprise. I have to be honest and say that at first we thought it was a hoax. But we reviewed your claim. We looked at your designs, looked at the lines and patterns. We asked Ms. Sands for her other designs.”

“And—?”

“Well, we've determined that you are telling the truth and this dress is your design, upgraded and redrawn. We are giving you and Ms. Sands two choices. One: you can submit this design as a team, or two, you alone can submit one of your other designs.”

“As a team?”

“She did add to the design, an embellished pattern of sequins at the hemline, pleats along the zipper line, and a larger bustle. So we can't technically put your name on it.”

“But she committed … fraud.”

“You can't prove that, I'm afraid. Besides, she says you knew. If you want to pursue a claim of fraud, well, that's up to you. But for the contest, which will be decided tomorrow, you must decide whether to submit as a team, withdraw the design, or enter on your own.”

Ella closed her eyes and tried to find that calm place inside, the one that would tell her what to do. “Can I call you back in ten minutes?” she asked.

“Of course. But we need to know within the hour.”

“Yes, I understand. And thank you for taking the time to review this. That design is one of my favorites.”

“Listen, Ms. Flynn, what she did—your boss—wasn't right, but she did admit to your contribution. She didn't think it was wrong to submit under the store's name since you worked there. Obviously you should get credit.”

“Here's the thing,” Ella said. “She knew what she was doing. And I don't work there anymore. She stole the design.”

“I understand. But from here, from this end, we only have a couple of options.”

“Thank you.” Ella looked to Sims and then Amber, and then Mimi, but the person she wanted to ask what to do—Hunter—wasn't there.

And then he was.

Ella hung up without saying good-bye, or maybe she didn't even hang up. She didn't know. When she saw Blake standing there, she did something that Sims and Amber and Mimi would bring up later. She rushed to the gate and opened it, ran to the sidewalk where he stood, and threw her arms around him without a word.

They saw all that. What they didn't see, what they didn't hear, were the simple words she whispered in his ear. “Oh, you're here.”

Blake hugged her back, held her tight. “I'm so sorry,” he said. “Ella.” He took her face in his hands.

She felt everyone watching. Listening. The palmetto tree branches rattled in the wind and Ella knew that everyone else would hear what he said, but she didn't want to stop Blake from talking—she needed to know.

“Ella Flynn,” he said, his hands on either cheek, holding her face. “I am so sorry I lied to you about who I am. I'd been doing it for so long that it just came naturally.”

She didn't know what to say. She was mad as hell. She hated him. She wanted to throw something at him. She wanted to hurt him. And she was so glad he was there. “I'm still mad at you,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “But I'm here to tell you this, and even if you hate me, even if you can never forgive me, I want to say these things to you. Without you in L.A.—well, I wanted you near me. I wanted to tell you things. Every time something happened my first thought was ‘I have to tell Ella…'” He trailed off.

“Me, too,” she said.

“And then I got your text. I was devastated that you had found out who I really was. But underneath it I was relieved. It was as if—”

“Stop there. I have to tell you something…”

“Wait. Please.” Blake kept on, his words coming out quickly, tumbling over hers. “I want to live a love story. I don't want to just write one; I want to live one. With you.”

“Me?”

“I don't know when it happened or how, but I'm falling in love with you, Ella Flynn, and I want to see where this could go. I know you're still grieving your husband, and I'll give you time if you need it, but I wanted to tell you…” He leaned in for the kiss, the one she wanted.

“Who the hell is this?” Sims's voice interrupted.

Ella turned. The moment was surreal, like worlds colliding in a half sleep.

Sims was at their side. “Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Blake took Ella's hand. “I'm Blake Hunter. I'm here to see Ella.”

“Hunter,” Mimi's voice called from the bench. “So good to see you again.”

Blake focused across the yard and went to Mimi, bent over to hug her. “Well, hello there. How's Bruiser? Still barking?”

Mimi pointed to the fresh mound of flowers and the stone.

“Oh, no.” Blake took her hands and clasped them between his own. “I'm so sorry.”

“Me, too.” Mimi glanced furtively between Blake, Amber, Sims, and Ella.

“Can someone tell me what's going on?” Amber asked.

Ella walked to Mimi and Blake. “That was
Vogue
on the phone. They believe me. And my design is a finalist in the contest.” She didn't know what else to do or say.

“Oh, honey, that's amazing,” Mimi said.

Amber threw her hands in the air. “What is going on? I feel like I fell down some rabbit hole. What's
Vogue
got to do with anything?” she asked, and then turned to Blake, “Are you from
Vogue
?”

“
Vogue?
Me?”

“I don't understand anything right now.” Amber held her hands up in surrender.

“Who believes what?” Sims asked. “And again, who are you?” He pointed to Blake.

“Blake Hunter…”

“I know your name, I mean, who are you to Ella? Why are you here?”

“
Vogue
,” Ella said. “They believe that the design is mine. I have to decide whether to submit it as a team with Margo.”

“That's it,” Amber said. “You've gone crazy. I have no idea what you're talking about and who is this Blake?”

“Okay, I've obviously walked into a situation here,” Blake said. “Ella?”

“Yes?” she said, a hive of bees beneath her chest.

“Wait!” Amber hollered out. “Blake Hunter. I know that name. You're the guy who does all the romance comedies. The one about messy love, and that one with the hurricane … and the one with the cop who falls in love with his prisoner. God, I loved that one. Drew Barrymore was in it.” Amber rushed toward him. “You're him, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes on Ella.

“And you're here to profess your love to Ella? I'm so confused. Are you sure you didn't get her mixed up with someone else?”

“No,” he said. “It's Ella.”

“Are you sleeping with this guy?” Sims stepped between Blake and Ella.

“You do not get to ask me that,” Ella said, and the garden silenced with her proclamation.

*   *   *

Blake had let his fantasies run away with him. He should have thought this through before jumping on a plane and proclaiming his love to a woman he hardly knew. He was prepared for her anger. But this? He should have waited until she was alone. Her garden, her friend Mimi. And the other couple, who were they?

“I'm Sims Flynn,” the man said. “What the hell are you doing here with my wife?”

“Your wife?”

“My wife. My. Wife. Ella.”

Blake looked to Ella. “You remarried already?”

“No,” she said, and covered her face with her hands.

“Wait a minute.
Sims?
”

The man, Blake had seen him before. In the restaurant with the girl who'd proclaimed true love with the married man. He understood with a slow creep of embarrassment. This was the dead man. Sims Flynn, drowned in the bay, the husband who sacrificed his life for his wife. Seems the screenplay wasn't the only place where he rose from the dead.

“Oh, wow,” Mimi said. “This might be the most entertaining afternoon I've had in ages.”

“You look great for a dead man,” Blake said.

“What?”

Ella stepped between them. “I can explain,” she said to Blake.

“You can?” Blake said.

“Really?” Sims asked.

They spoke at the same time.

“Yes, I can.” She touched Blake's arm and he took two steps back, not because he didn't want Ella to touch him, but because he saw Sims's fist ball up at his side.

“I'm going to leave now,” Blake said. “This was a really bad idea.”

“A bad idea,” Ella said. “Don't say that.”

Blake knew what she meant, the bad idea being the idea of love. He wanted to laugh. Her lies … God, it was all too much. It was all a fantasy, an acting job done without a script. An improvisation.

Blake opened the gate and walked out to his rental car. They'd given him the same damn one—the turquoise one—as if they'd saved it for him.

Ella ran to his side. “Please, let me explain.”

“It's okay, Ella.” God, she was so beautiful. She was flushed, her cheeks burning like she had a fever, dirt smeared across her forehead, her hands covered in those gloves. And that dress. She was wearing the little flowered dress he liked so much.

“Really, I understand,” he said. “It wasn't really us. Make-believe people became make-believe friends.”

“Yes, it was. It was really me,” she said.

“Ella!” Sims's voice hollered from the garden gate.

“This all of a sudden seems really complicated,” he said. “You better go.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry I said Sims was dead. I didn't mean to keep lying. It was a single moment that just got bigger. I kept thinking I'd stop but I didn't and—”

“I know,” he said. “Me, too.”

Sims moved toward them, quickly, taking large steps. Blake looked over Ella's shoulder. “You better go.”

She walked toward her husband, her hands held out to keep him from advancing.
Her husband
. Blake shook his head as he started the car. Did he think he was the only one full of shit? The only one who told a lie to get what he wanted?

fifteen

He needed to go home, back to L.A. At least there he expected people to lie to him. So why was he driving in circles listening to a radio station stuck to static like the sound of the waves? By the fifth time he'd passed the Sunset, he stopped and went in. It was the middle of the day and the rooftop bar was empty. He ordered what else but a JD, and settled into a chair overlooking the water. Two sips in and he realized that it wasn't a good idea getting sloshed in the middle of the day. He needed to think straight.

Ella loved her husband. They'd reconciled.

What a fool he was. He'd gotten so sappy during the writing of the screenplay that he'd believed he was falling in love with a woman who didn't even exist, a woman he wrote into being.

The JD sloshed at the bottom of his glass and he tossed it over the side of the railing.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Back in his turquoise car, Blake drove through the town. He recalled each conversation with Ella. Every spoken word. Every single laugh. He saw her hair in the wind and the way it caught in the corner of her mouth. It was making sense now—the “hubby” on her phone; the way she ran out of the restaurant; the delivery guy asking if she'd moved back in; the stereo with the loud music. If he'd been paying attention to anything but his own desire to steal her story, he would have noticed something was off. But he was a self-absorbed ass; he'd only seen what he wanted to see, what was useful to him.

The sky was wiped clean as if all clouds had been erased. The endless blue was cheerful, and it irritated the hell out of him. He parked in front of the movie theater. They never had gone inside. He pulled on the doors just as he had before. Locked. He peered through the glass and saw the remnants of the theater. A long linoleum counter for candy and popcorn. Large metal frames, empty now, where movie posters would have hung. The green carpet was torn in places, obviously stained. He knew what the place would smell like: the slightly sticky aroma of Coke and sugar. There would also be that scent of expectation, that feeling of living another life, if only for ninety or a hundred and twenty minutes. Of entering a world beyond ordinary. He couldn't get enough of that.

That thrill, that escape, was why he'd started writing in the first place, wanting to create stories of what it was like to be a human being trying to live in a world with meaning. He'd never wanted to lose himself or his family. He hadn't meant to become this man he was now, the one who felt he would die without the success, who had almost sold his soul to find another hit.