The Ivy House

chapter 7

Phoebe stared at the envelope. It had been delivered by a courier service from the lawyer’s office in New York. She had opened the package and first read the typed note from Savannah’s lawyer, the one who had informed her about Ivy House.

Dear Ms. Ryan, your grandmother asked that you get this letter after you had a chance to visit Ivy House. As I understand you have done this, I am now releasing the letter to you.

The letter wasn’t dated, but it couldn’t have been too recent because Savannah’s script was firm and legible, before her body had been ravaged by the cancer.

My Dear Phoebe,

If you’re getting this, it means I’m gone. I don’t know how much will be left, but I have ensured that I have one thing to leave you. Ivy House. I found it hard to live there after Leland’s death, and after your parents died, it seemed cruel to move you away from the only home you had ever known. But Ivy House was always special to me. It always seemed to have a touch of magic about it. I am told it needs some repairs. And probably some love and care after all these years. Leland Harper was very special to me, and the time we spent at Ivy House was some of the best, though all too brief, years of my life. How it ended with Leland was a tragedy, a twist of fate.

Ours was a passionate affair and our love burned brightly. I do not know if it would have lasted, but he was the love of my life, even though the press had the world believe otherwise.

I know that I have not always been the best mother or grandmother. To be an artist requires a bit of selfishness, I always felt, especially an actress. You belong to your fans and it’s hard to be everything to someone else, especially a child. I didn’t always do right by your father, but he turned out fine—better than fine. My only regret is that he too was taken from this world too soon.

And he and your mother did just fine by you, giving me the most precious gift. I know you haven’t always enjoyed the life you had to lead with me, and, to be frank, I am not sure it suited you. But you did the best you could with it and that is all anyone asks.

So now, when I can bear to part with it, I give you Ivy House. It was a safe port for me and Leland when times were rough. I hope you may find it to be your own safe haven and a place of happiness and magic. While I was there, I found out who I was…I hope it holds the same promise for you.

Phoebe dropped the letter onto the desk. She was in her room in the Osprey Arms. It was a decent size, with a nice view, and the feeling it was supposed to encourage was one of colonial charm, but the mix of toile and floral fabric was a bit overdone and dated.

She flopped down in the wingback armchair and looked out the window. It was a sunny day. Gulls wheeled in the sky and there were boats leaving the marina heading out for a day on the water.

I give you Ivy House… How very Savannah, Phoebe thought. I hear it needs a little work… Also very Savannah-like, Phoebe thought, to give something that wasn’t quite fit for gifting. Savannah had left her with many obligations.

Phoebe looked at her phone. The story had hit the papers just as she was getting ready to leave Los Angeles. She didn’t want to endure the pity of all her friends. But there it was, in black and white: “Savannah Ryan Dies Broke…” was the most succinct. After Savannah died, Phoebe had faced a mountain of paperwork and bills, which the Los Angeles lawyers had summed up for her nicely: sell everything or come up with a mountain of cash to keep it.

While Phoebe wasn’t broke herself, Savannah, what with her illness and the nursing home costs, had depleted all her savings quickly. She had already moved out of the house in Malibu and had been living in an apartment. It was on a lease, but the landlord had been happy to let Phoebe out of the contract. That had left furniture and clothes, most of which Phoebe had put into storage, and the rest she had arranged with a dealer friend to sell.

At the end of the day, there had been just enough to cover Savannah’s final expenses with a bit left over. So much for the remains of a long career spent entertaining the masses. Savannah had never been interested in anything other than making movies. She had never attached her name to any product or cause. And for the last decade or so, she hadn’t been working.

Phoebe glanced over the story. It had the basic details down right, and it included a notice about the sale of some of Savannah’s furniture at the gallery. But that was just a sentence or two. The author of the piece had decided to fill the story with some salacious details, rehashing all the details of Savannah Ryan’s life: her scandalous child out of wedlock and then her determined wooing of Leland Harper, a married man quite a bit older than her, and their stormy and passionate marriage, which had resulted in his messy divorce and a relationship that kept the media hopping.

She sighed and kept reading. Savannah and Leland’s relationship, always heated, turned almost violent, with Leland drinking and accusing Savannah of hooking up with her costars. Before things could get really ugly, Leland had died in a plane crash. Sympathy swung in Savannah’s favor, as she became a tragic figure, the lover left bereft, and her career had slowly revived.

Savannah had had a fortune, both from Leland’s money and her own work, but she had let it all slip away. Worse, though, was that she had spent Phoebe’s inheritance too. Her parents had died in a car crash on the way home from an awards ceremony. Phoebe had been only eight when it happened and Savannah had been awarded custody, moving from Queensbay back to Hollywood, trying to be a mother, while also trying to revive her career.

Phoebe hated the papers. She’d managed to stay out of them and, after a while, so had Savannah. But she’d known enough people, friends and acquaintances, who were hounded by them; the merest indiscretion fodder for endless days of stories, the loss of privacy unbearable.

Phoebe looked at the other envelope on the small side table. Chase had given it to her the day before. He had said it was an offer for the property. As if that was all Ivy House could be.

Her practical side warred with her outrage. And then she thought about what Savannah had done. She had left her a dilapidated house requiring immeasurable investments of time, money, and energy.

She reached for the envelope. It was a simple white one and she slid open the flap, giving herself a nasty paper cut in the process. Strike two against him, Phoebe thought, as she stuck her finger in her mouth, trying to soothe the pain away.

A single sheet of paper fell out. It was a heavy bond and there was a simple, solid dark blue type on the letterhead. But her eyes glossed over that as they fixed on the number. Sure, there were a bunch of words surrounding it, outlining terms and details, but it was the number that got her attention.

“Holy shit,” she mouthed and looked again to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. Sandy, the real estate agent, had been right. It really was a million-dollar view. More than a million dollars.

She read over the terms and saw they were simple. The offer was for the house and lot, as-is conditions, no questions asked. All cash, possession to be taken as soon as possible. Phoebe knew that if she accepted this offer, she could be on her way back to Los Angeles and her life within a day or two.

Tempting. Yes, very tempting. She had left Los Angeles at loose ends, and while it didn’t mean she needed to get back there right away, she didn’t think her absence would make getting her life back together any easier. With that kind of money, she wouldn’t have to go back to Los Angeles with her hat in hand, wouldn’t have to rely on Dean to sort things out for her. She could be independent, really independent for once, be able to work for herself and not rely on the whims of clients.

She took another look at the letterhead. Chase Sanders. The name niggled at her, like the face of someone you saw in a crowd, but couldn’t place. Perhaps she needed to do a little more research on this guy.