Souvenirs (13 page)

She tried to tear it, only to lose heart and toss it whole into the trash and then go back for it. It was her only proof she hadn’t imagined the entire trip.

Instead of sleeping, she opened her computer and googled Bennett Oliver.

‘The Beast of Britain.’
Oh, my God.

In the photos, he was always wearing a cap and sunglasses. Most of the time he had his head down. The face-on ones were scowls or impassive stares.

The same woman appeared in every photo.
Hillary Dunham
. Tall, blonde, dressed to the teeth, sparkling with jewelry. If they weren’t dancing or posing with other people, they were screaming at each other. Photos of them leaving various hot spots and high-profile events documented their high drama.

The articles were awful. Screaming arguments in clubs, abandoning Hillary at parties, flirting with co-stars on set, snapping at interviewers. After a few stories, she got bored. They all said the same thing.

Grace sat back in her chair and stared between the computer screen and the photo propped on the kitchen counter.
Who is this man?

She went after her answers like she would any research project. The movie database revealed Ben’s steady stream of jobs, sometimes two at once, beginning with small roles and moving to larger ones. Few of his projects were high profile, but all had been well-received.

She researched every film and looked for interviews. Ignoring the heartbreak over hearing his voice and seeing his animated face, she listened as he promoted films and watched video clips of his performances. Directors and co-stars praised his dedication and his work ethic.

Red-carpet photos with his co-stars showed a relaxed group, but Ben was always at the back. If he was alone, he appeared wary and poised for flight. Having Hillary with him didn’t seem to help. While her smile was blinding and her pose perfect, he looked wooden.

Returning to the club photos, Grace looked past Ben’s angry features. Hillary always faced straight into the camera, smirking.

Grace began a new search. Hillary Dunham, model-turned-actress. Her screen credits were short and abysmal. She’d worked more in the beginning of her career, but the promise had faded as the roles dwindled. Her modeling career had followed the same path.

She’d used him
.
And now, he thinks I’m doing it.

Closing the screen, she picked up her phone and tapped the proper contact. She dropped her head into her hand as she waited for an answer.

“How’s my favorite author?” Nora’s voice rang as she silenced the background noise.

The tears Grace had been damming behind her curiosity leaked free one at a time as she related the events of the last few weeks.

“That
son of a bitch.
The egotistical, narrow-minded
bastard.
” Nora punctuated every curse by banging on something so loudly Grace could hear each strike. “So now what? He’s gone. Good riddance.”

“It’s not so simple. He’s the perfect person for this role. And now I’m worried he’ll think I cast him on purpose.”

“He kinda
is
perfect, given that thing he did a few years back.”

“Wait, you
knew
?” Grace wailed. “How could you not tell me?”

“Because it was his story to tell. How would you have felt if I’d blabbed about you? Let’s think for a second. Did you ever, even once, think about him as Ian?”

“Of course not. Ian’s a fantasy. Ben isn’t.”

Nora snorted. “Yeah well, don’t look him up on Pinterest. Would you cast him if it wasn’t for all this other crap?”

“In a heartbeat, but—”

“Then do your job, Grace,” Nora counseled. “Do the right thing and build your life looking forward, not behind.”

That’s the worst advice ever. Couldn’t she just agree with me?
“Thanks,” Grace grumbled.

She hung up only to have the phone ring in her hand.
Paul.
She took a deep breath and answered.

He didn’t even say hello. “I’ve been watching a movie with this Oliver guy. He rocks. Have you made up your mind?”

“He’s perfect for it. He’ll be a big asset all the way around.”
I can do this.
“Make the call.”

“The guys want you to be an associate producer,” Paul continued. “Your work would be your contribution rather than cash. What do you say?”

She inhaled and closed her eyes. “Before I decide, I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to interrupt me.”

After she started, she couldn’t stop rambling every detail. Where she’d muffled her sniffles on her call to Nora, she blew her nose in Paul’s ear. When she was done, she slouched into her office chair, exhausted by the anxiety.

“Can I talk now?” Paul asked.

“Yep.”

“So the wine binge on New Year’s Eve was over
Bennett Oliver
?”

“Yes.” She resented the pitiful squeak in her voice.

“Well, we won’t cast him.”

“Thanks, but I’ll deal with my end of this. I just wanted you to know. It may change the guys’ opinion of me,” she sighed. “I don’t want to let you down or cause a problem before we even get started. I wanted everything to go smoothly.”

“Things never go smoothly, Gracie. You might as well get used to it. And this isn’t a problem, necessarily. You didn’t plagiarize your ideas or run over a pedestrian. You met a guy. And this whole thing isn’t on your shoulders. We’re going to rely on you a lot, yes. But we believe in you. This doesn’t change that.”

Chapter 13

Ben sat in his home office, bone-weary after the immediate turnaround flight to London and the sixteen-hour tag-team match as fear and anger had warred with memory and hope. With no clear winner, and sleep eluding him, he called the only referee he could think of.

The phone rang, then connected. When Bon Jovi blared through the speaker, Ben moved the phone to save his hearing. The guitar solo was cut off in the middle. “Sorry. Hello?”

“Adam?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“It’s Ben.” There wasn’t any further greeting. How many British men called his parish? “From—”

“Ben. Sorry, I’m finishing a sermon. Nora keeps telling me multitasking is bad for my people skills.”

Gentle laughter now seeped through the phone. Ben wished he was calling for a friendlier purpose. He could at least
try
. “How are you?”

“I’m great. It was difficult to get back into a regular routine for a while, though.”

“How’s Nora?”

“She’s good. She has a show coming up, so she’s working like crazy. Apparently all artists procrastinate. I think she heard from Grace.”

Ben closed his eyes. Of course Grace would have called Nora.

“Did you know who she is?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Bollocks. Of all the cack-handed, bloody
stupid
—” He took a deep breath and reigned in his temper. “Sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

“You’re adults, Ben. Why didn’t
you
say something? Why didn’t she?” Adam’s calm, reasonable questions reminded Ben why he’d picked the pastor as his lifeline. “What’s happened?”

Ben told him everything. When he finished, a chair squeaked and papers ruffled but no one spoke. “Adam?”

“Sorry. Had to check something. Did you get home with everything?”

The odd question threw Ben. He stared at his luggage, still next to the door. “From L.A.?”

“From vacation, sorry. Are you missing anything?”

“Yes. No.” Ben spun in his chair and put his back to all the distractions. “There wasn’t anything missing.”

“She didn’t snoop? Pack your bag for you?”

“No.” Ben ran his hand back through his hair. “She never even asked what I was reading.”
Which would have sorted this hashed up mess.

His exhausted brain was fuzzy. He’d called for help, not twenty bloody questions. “Adam—”

“The night in Vienna, when I told you I knew who you were, you looked like I’d trapped you in a corner. Did she ever look like that?”

The memory wasn’t difficult to find. Sitting with her in the pub, cozy in front of the fire and laughing along with the local patrons.

Phillip, the smitten waiter.

Ben spun back to his desk and rested the phone on his shoulder as he did a quick internet search. “Oh, bloody hell. Her book is in the National Library. That git of a waiter must’ve told her.”

He remembered the way she’d glowed in the library.
Think of who else has read these.
Her book on the same shelves as Hapsburg treasures. No wonder she’d been giddy. “She told me he’d asked for her autograph, and I thought she was teasing.”

“I don’t remember Sunny taking pictures, do you?” Adam asked.

Their first night in Salzburg, when they’d separated from their mothers, Sunny had refused to take the camera. She’d said Grace needed it more.

The notebook, the camera. Not memoirs. Research.

Nausea swamped Ben, threatening to drown him. His lungs tightened, and his stomach tilted. How could he have thought, said, what he did . . . what had he done? “Will Nora—”

“Since Grace called she’s been taking out her frustration on a piece of scrap iron in the barn. I don’t think you want to hear what she has to say.”

“How do I recover from this?”

“Ben, I knew you for two weeks. We were in a bubble, true, but I don’t think it was that far from your life. Not your job, but your life. Before I ever agreed to keep quiet, I did my research. I had to weed through fifty tons of rehashed photos and stories, but I found the truth.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Wrong question,” Adam said. “It doesn’t matter if Grace knows the truth. Do you?”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck, my friend.” Adam rung off.

The tag team match had a winner, and it wasn’t Ben. He paced a track in the carpet, his conscience now warring with jet lag. After a lengthy battle, jet lag won. The prize? Nightmares.

The next morning, still hollow, he packed his laptop into a rucksack, slammed a cap on his head, and jogged to the tube station. He arrived at the nearest library before it opened and waited on the pavement surrounded by teenagers and mums with prams.

Once they unlocked the doors, he walked in and up to the desk, using his free hand to remove his cap and his sunglasses. “Good morning, I need some help finding a book.”

“Do you have a particular one in mind?” The older woman teased as she looked up from the computer. Recognition lit her eyes and her smile faltered. “You can leave the cap on if you’d like, Mr. Oliver.”

“Ben, please.” He held her gaze. He missed his anonymity, but this was part of the truth he needed. “And thank you, but no. It would be rude, and my mum would have my head, cap and all.”

The librarian smiled, relaxing into the conversation. “Which book do you need?”

“
Partners in Time
.”

“Follow me.”

She walked away and he hurried to catch up. Her steps were so quiet and quick, he wondered if she was floating. Hell, if she rounded a corner he might never find her.

“Here you are,” she said as she stopped at a row of shelves crowded with hardcovers and paperbacks, all cracked and weathered by hundreds of hands, and all blaring the name E.G. Donnelley.

“Eight of them?” he whispered.

“The ninth is due out soon, it’s late considering his schedule up to now. We already have demand for it, so you’d better get your name in the queue.”

His?

“Do you have a library card?”

He shook his head, still staring at the shelf. “I’ve never been in a London library.”

“Well, you do stand out,” she teased. “We have private rooms if you want to be alone.”

He shook his head again. “Maybe just a comfortable chair.”

“Good choice. The rooms remind me of monks’ cells. My favorite spot is around the bend there. I’m Jenny. I’ll be at the desk in case you need something.”

She walked away, and Ben found the inaugural book in its starry jacket. Fe had loaned her copy without it, claiming he’d ruin it while hauling it across Europe.

He read the back flap, hoping to see Grace’s smile. There wasn’t a photo, and the bio was simple.

E.G. Donnelley is a promising new author who grew up reading Lovecraft, Wells, and Tolkien and is now proud to have a book in their section of the library. A former English teacher, E.G. now spends time reading anything within reach, learning more about writing, and spoiling Sunny, a faithful retriever.

The rest of it was praise from the authors filling the shelves on either side of him.

The second book was
Just in Time.
Above the title, gold lettering declared, “
Follow-up to the New York Times Bestseller Partners in Time.
” He skipped the synopsis, now hungry for other details. This time the bio explained that Ian and Zadie had more story to tell and E.G. hoped readers enjoyed learning more about their tangled lives.

The third was similar. The fourth added the phrase, ‘award-winning novelist.’ The seventh added ‘World Fantasy Award winner.’ The eighth contained a quote from a prominent writer/director about Donnelley’s contribution to the urban fantasy literary canon.

Ben searched for Grace in the short paragraphs. His fingers stroked the slick covers as they had her skin.

He’d found the chair Jenny had suggested and connected to Wi-Fi when the librarian peeked around the corner.

“How are you doing back here?” she asked.

“Fine, thanks. What do you know about E.G. Donnelley?”

“Not much. No one knows much. He avoids interviews unless it’s in print, and then it’s mostly for high school students or first year college classes. He keeps the focus on his books. That’s not even changed with the movie news. The studio put an exec on the screen for an internet broadcast about the project. Pretty girl, clearly knowledgeable.”

“Do you remember her name?” He’d wager a tenner he already knew.

“They never said. And I’d point you to it, but they had to take it down. Too many hits. It’s rare in this day to point to a real hermit, but he’s pretty close. After looking at his website, I can see why.”

“Thanks.”

“Certainly.”

The woman vanished again, and Ben googled E.G. Donnelley. The site was huge. Q&A blogs, news about upcoming projects including a video game in development, bibliographic links, suggestions for other authors and movies.

The movie had its own tab, and it was full of information on the studio, the crew, the casting process. He read the credits for the female lead and the director.

For the first time in his life, Facebook made him happy. Grace’s avatar was a golden retriever in a field of yellow flowers. Her banner photo was a stern warning to “Be kind to each other.” Her fans obeyed.

Tweets were answered early every morning. She promoted other authors and thanked her readers. Her sarcastic wit made him snort more than once. He heard her laughter in his head.

Pinterest was full of fan art, book recommendations, movie clips, and writing resources.

And the more information she gave them, the more they wanted.
When are you . . . why don’t you . . . would you come . . . can I ask . . .

No wonder she’d hidden in plain sight.

Ben closed the computer and thought back to his audition. The pages had left room for his interpretation but had provided the details necessary for him get into character. The book had done the same thing. Her imagination, her talent, left him gobsmacked.

Staring at the opposite wall, Ben considered the project. If he’d never met her, would he want to do it? New studio, first movie, and a low budget. They had a talented female lead and an excellent director known for his sci-fi work. It was a complex character. It could turn into a franchise. He’d learn new skills and expand his craft. He’d be gambling, but it was a calculated risk.

If he hadn’t blown it already.

He found a book Grace had recommended in one of her last blog posts and stopped at Jenny’s desk to get a library card. Then he went in search of the truth he’d stubbornly ignored.

He stopped at Noah and Fe’s flat first. She opened the door and hid behind it as he entered. One look at her pinched face and the tissue clinging to life around her fingers, and Ben knew his answers started here.

“Tell me what happened,” he murmured. “I won’t be angry.”

Noah stood in the kitchen door with a dishtowel over his shoulder. “Fiona? What did you do?”

Fe looked between them, her gaze landing on Ben. “Archie wasn’t going to send you out on this, so I did.”

“The hell you say.” Ben didn’t know whether to be cheesed-off over the secret or chuffed she’d taken care of him.

Given Fe’s tears, she thought she’d made a hash of it. “I’m sorry, Nobby. I would have told you straight away, but you weren’t yourself when we went, and then you were right narked when we flew back.”

“It was just seeing
Grace
after everything.”

“Grace?” Fiona asked, her eyes wide. “Where?”

“Bloody well over there.” Ben pointed out the window as if she were next door. “The writer. At the studio.”

“
Your
Grace is E.G. Donnelley?”

The phone rang and Noah left to answer it. It was just as well. This was bad enough to say to Fe.

“She isn’t mine. Not anymore. I’ve made a complete hash of it.”

“Well, mate,” Noah said as he rang off, “it couldn’t have been that much of a dog’s dinner. They’ve offered you the part.”

Ben dropped back into a chair, grinning like a wally even as his stomach plummeted. No more hiding.

Now in control of herself, Fe took charge of the conversation. “Let’s start at the beginning and have the whole story.”

Ben told his tale. When he got to Paris, he pulled the clipping from his wallet. The newsprint was fading at the creases and it was beginning to fall apart. He was wearing it out, but it was the only photo he had.

“I’ve not seen you that happy since school,” Fe said as she ran her finger across the ragged scrap of newsprint.

“I was.” His sigh telegraphed every regret. Then he confessed the rest.

Fiona was open-mouthed in shock by the end of the story. “I love you like a brother, but you are the biggest knob I know.”

“
Oi
!”

“Bennett Oliver, only you would see a picture of yourself and assume it was a plot to profit from your success. Only you wouldn’t stop to consider anyone else in the matter. And only you would eliminate all remnants of someone from your life in a fit of pique.”

She was right, and he’d tell her later, but he had another agenda today. “So, you put me up for the audition?”

“I did,” Fiona confessed. “Archie’s all mouth and no trousers, and he’s got poor taste in projects. You’re becoming the biggest stallion in his stable, and he’s going to stud you out until you’re spent.”