The Ivy House

chapter 10

Phoebe woke up with a throbbing headache, cursing the curtains that had been left open. Sunlight, bright and harsh, streamed into her room. The margaritas. She and Lynn had had more than a few, and then they had walked back to the Osprey Arms, after collecting more than a few phone numbers, all of which they had dumped in the trash can. Lynn had crashed on the couch in Phoebe’s room, and sometime in the morning, while Phoebe was still sleeping, had left to get ready for work.

She’d left a note, scrawled on the pad from the desk: “Take two and call me later. Lynn.” A packet of headache medicine was on top of the note, and Phoebe decided that she must have just been subjected to some sort of doctor humor.

She had dreamed of Ivy House last night. It had been a full, richly layered dream, startlingly vivid to her, fueled no doubt by the alcohol. But it had seemed so real, and in it, Ivy House had been perfect. Gleaming wood floors, comfortable couches, color, and light. And there had been laughter drifting through the house. This time, there had been no Savannah. In fact, everything about the dream had been modern, very present day. It had felt right.

Phoebe looked at herself in the mirror. She felt much better now and she sent a silent shout of thanks to Lynn and her medicine. Time to decide what to wear. She tried to open the windows to see what the temperature was, but the paint was so thick that they were effectively sealed shut. She tried applying some force, but that only made her head hurt, so she flopped down in the little wing chair that looked out over the docks and picked up her phone.

She checked the weather first. Another perfect spring day here on the East Coast. Jean capris, she decided, and her pink-and-white-striped Oxford shirt. A pair of canvas sneakers. She still had some cleaning to do at the house, so she’d pull her hair back in a ponytail. And she had a nice lightweight fleece in case it was cooler up there.

That decided, she glanced through her emails. She’d set an alert to go off whenever her name or Savannah’s came up on the Internet. The phone had been buzzing all morning, as more papers picked up on the sad state of Savannah’s financial affairs. Her phone buzzed with texts and calls, none of which she answered. They were from friends and colleagues asking if she was OK. It would have been nice, except she could sense the avid curiosity. They were all wondering what it felt like to be poor.

Her phone rang at that moment. She almost didn’t answer it, but the temptation was too much, and she glanced down to see who it was.

“Dean,” she said, feeling a smile form on her face. Dean was one of her closest friends, the kind of guy who was always there for her. They had met in college when Phoebe had signed on to design the sets for the theater department’s production of “Anything Goes.” Dean had been in the chorus and they’d formed an instant bond, poking fun at the self-important lead, sharing the same taste for bad action movies, and a love of ice-cream shakes.

After college, Dean had realized he couldn’t handle the amount of rejection and poverty it took to be an actor, so he had started working at a talent agency. His good looks coupled with a killer business sense had him quickly rising up the ranks. He’d been responsible for a lot of Phoebe’s more interesting and lucrative gigs, whether they were set designs or movie posters, and since he was CallieSue’s agent, it was he who had suggested they work together on CallieSue’s own line of country chic placemats, tablecloths, and other things.

Too bad CallieSue couldn’t see the chic through the forest of tackiness she lived in. But even though CallieSue was Dean’s biggest client, he had fought hard for Phoebe, so hard that Phoebe had to quit before Dean could ruin his own career trying to help hers.

“Phoebs, I saw the article, are you OK?” His voice radiated concern even over the phone. It was early on the West Coast, but she knew Dean rarely slept more than a few hours a night. He was seemingly married to his job, always dealing with clients, crises, and other issues. Phoebe knew he was angling for a big promotion.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Phoebe tried to brush his concern off. He’d been a great friend for her the past few months as Savannah’s decline became apparent, checking in on her, sending over takeout, sending flowers, and even his own housekeeper when Phoebe needed help sorting through Savannah’s stuff. Still, she had come all this way so that the news from Los Angeles wouldn’t bother her, so that she could have time to think, to be herself.

“So are you really out there, in the middle of nowhere? Sure I can’t convince you to come back to the Los Angeles? Tinseltown misses you.”

Phoebe tensed. After Savannah’s death, Dean had told her that he would find a way for her to get her job back, that he could smooth things over with CallieSue, but she had resisted, asking for more time to sort things out. He hadn’t thrown a fit, but it seemed like they had come dangerously close to having a moment, to him telling her how he “really felt” that she had panicked and started talking about her need for a strawberry shake. Emotional honesty averted, they had been able to part as friends.

“Dean,” she said carefully since she didn’t want anything to change between them. She looked out at the water because she found the view, the sky blue with only a few wisps of milky white clouds, and the surface of the harbor cobalt, flecked by the tiniest of white caps, calming.

“I know, I know. You’re on a leave of absence from your life. I get it, but let me know if you get bored and want to come back. CallieSue is busy terrorizing someone else and I’m pretty sure she has forgotten about you. I wouldn’t be lying if I told you I already have some other opportunities brewing for you. Maybe another movie set, a big-name director. It can be just like old times.”

Phoebe smiled wanly into the phone. That was the problem. She hadn’t been happy with old times and always working on someone else’s vision, and Savannah’s death had only brought that into focus.

Sensing her hesitation, he hurried on. “Well, whatever it is, I’m here for you, Phoebs. You know that, right?”

Phoebe took a moment to picture Dean’s face. He was fair, blond, with green eyes and high, sculpted cheekbones. He was a good-looking man, gym-fit, with a nervous energy and driven ambition. She had seen him be both charming, with clients, and ruthless, when it came to winning a deal.

“I know that.” Phoebe closed her eyes.

All the time they had known each other, they had never managed to both be single at the same time, so the question of getting together had never come up. But now it was out there. Dean was a great guy and, unlike Garrett and a string of others she had dated, didn’t need anything from her. But she wasn’t sure that was enough.

After a few more words of support from Dean, she clicked off and leaned back again, closing her eyes, trying to soothe her troubles away. Could three-thousand miles really change her life? There was little for her in California. To focus on taking care of Savannah, she had even given up her apartment, putting most of her things in storage, and ever since she’d sold Savannah’s house, she’d been couch surfing. She had no house, no job, and perhaps no future.

Savannah’s words came unbidden to her: We make our own destinies. If anyone could truly believe a saying like that, it would have been Savannah, who’d been sublime at reinventing herself. From the girl next door to an ingénue to a stately matron, Savannah had played every role and then some.

Phoebe took a deep breath. Perhaps she was where she was supposed to be. She was free. For once in her life, she had no ties. She had money in the bank and a roof over her head. Count your blessings, Savannah’s voice whispered to Phoebe and she laughed.

Phoebe checked the email on her phone. There was only one email from a reporter asking for a comment on the state of Savannah’s affairs. She ignored it. It would be better if that story died out.

Right now, she needed to focus on her legacy and her future.