From the Start (20 page)

Laura spoke as Colton followed her into a living room—worn but comfortable furniture, end tables crammed with framed photos, a slew of dog toys spread on the carpet.

“Is he around? Mind if I talk to him?”

“Sure, down in the basement. Follow me.”

She led the way through a dining room—wall shelves crowded with trophies and more family photos—into the kitchen, then to a doorway at the back. She opened it and ducked her head inside. “Hey, Web, you’ve got a visitor.”

Only silence rose up from the stairway leading down.

Laura turned, sighed.

“I’ll head down, if you don’t mind.”

“Please, have at it.”

His feet padded over the carpet-covered steps as he descended into the basement, air cooling around him. He spotted Webster right away, hunched over a notebook sprawled atop a desk.

He paused at the bottom of the steps. Should he go in further? “Hey, Hawks, it’s me.”

Webster didn’t even glance up.

“I texted you.”

“Got homework.”

Colton nodded slowly and glanced around the room. When Laura Clancy had said
basement
, he’d pictured wood paneling and shag carpet. Maybe a futon for a bed and pipes running overhead. But this was a nice setup. Carpet couldn’t be more than a couple years old, light-colored walls, a high ceiling, and recessed
lighting took away any basementy feel to the room. Flat-screen TV and desk complete with iMac weren’t too shabby either.

And yet . . .

Even as nice as it was, he couldn’t help wondering if Webster might feel isolated down here. Maybe in the Clancys’ effort to provide him a space all his own, they didn’t realize that what kids like Webster really wanted—whether they realized it or not—wasn’t so much independence but inclusion.

Belonging was a tough enough sense to conjure up when all the rest of the world seemed to be divided into family units and you were on your own. It was all the more difficult to grasp onto when feeling like the odd man out in the latest foster home.

Not that he faulted the Clancys. Their hearts were obviously in the right place.

“I just came by to drop this off.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch Webster had left in that puddle of mud on the field. He’d stopped by the jewelry store downtown this morning—had it fixed.

Webster stopped writing, still didn’t look up.

Colton set the watch on the desk next to him.

Webster’s quiet expanded into something thoughtful. He picked up the watch, ran his thumb over its face. “My dad’s. Only thing of his I’ve got.”

Colton had thought it might be something like that. He stayed silent, waited while Webster fit the watch over his wrist. And then, “I heard there’s a joint downtown that has good pizza and old-school Pac-Man.”

Webster finally looked up, an unspoken thank-you written all over his face. “Quarters?”

“We’ll get some on the way.”

Webster stood, grabbed the sweatshirt draped over the back of his chair. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“It’s called an intellectual property transfer agreement.”

“Uh, Beck, you want to explain that minus the legalese?” Kate sat atop the pink bedspread in her bedroom.

Well, Colton’s bedroom for the past almost-two weeks. But hers once more for the moment—because if she was going to face that email from Gil, she needed the familiarity.

Even without Colton home, though, this room tingled with his presence. The hoodie he always wore draped over the corner of the antique vanity’s mirror. A pair of running shoes, laces splayed, abandoned next to the bed. The brace he slipped over his knee when he went running.

She remembered thinking that first night that Colton was way too big for this small room. And this small room way too pink for such a . . . man.

But now, looking around the room, it wasn’t the pink she saw, but all the ways he’d settled in. And it wasn’t just here in this bedroom he’d made himself at home, but here in Maple Valley. In less than two weeks, he’d become a fixture at the house and the depot, Seth’s restaurant and the coffee shop, the hardware store, even church.

Colton Greene, the professional football player from California, had carved out a place for himself in her hometown, of all places.

“I get the feeling you’re not listening, sis.” Her younger brother’s usual patience carried over the phone, and the box springs creaked as she shifted to cross her legs.

“Sorry. You’re right. Start over?”

“Basically, it’s a contract in which both parties agree about the specs of the IP—intellectual property—and about the value. You would, in essence, be saying ‘I no longer claim any owner
ship or right to this story idea, what’s been written so far, or any further development of the story.’”

Intellectual property transfer. It sounded cold and impassive. Empty of emotion.

But if she was going to grant Gil his request, that’s exactly how she wanted it.

Kate reached for the mug of Earl Grey tea she’d carried into the bedroom with her. The teabag string still sagged over the edge of the cup, and the water-warmed glass heated her fingers. As she took a drink, the email she hadn’t meant to memorize replayed itself.

I wanted to talk to you about this in person, Katie. I’ve called you, your agent, even your father. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. Please believe me, I wouldn’t insert myself back into your life if it wasn’t important.

It’s about that script we were writing together when . . . everything went down. With your permission, I’d like to finish it. But it was your script as much as mine. So I’d like to do this the right way.

All this time—the phone calls, the voice mails, the emails. And all he’d wanted to talk about was a writing project. Cruel déjà vu—that’s what this was.

“Assuming both parties agree on the terms, it would be a fairly fast process,” Beck was saying now. “But if you feel the IP is higher in value than the other guy or if you want to add a bunch of conditions to the agreement, I suppose it could become more drawn out.”

With one hand, Kate balanced her mug on her knee. “No, if I do this, there isn’t going to be anything like that. I want quick and easy. Open and shut. Bing, bang, boom. Done and done.” She tapped her fingernails against her mug with each phrase. “Over and out.”

“You done?”

“Yes.”

“So this is a script we’re talking about, right? Screenplay?”

She sighed, replaced her mug on the bedside stand, and flopped backward into the pillows behind her. “Yes, it’s a script.”

A half-written script that Gil had apparently dug up a few weeks ago when he was cleaning out his old office. She’d been so tempted to immediately delete the email. Just like that, make it disappear from her inbox and hopefully her memory.

But something stopped her as her finger hovered over the key. Why this script? Why now? And why was he going to such great lengths to get her permission to finish it?

“So why are you transferring the rights of something you’ve written? Why hand it all over to the co-writer? Wouldn’t the writing credit be good for your career?”

The subtle, spicy scent of Colton’s aftershave lingered in the sheets and comforter beneath her. “Beckett, I’ll be honest with you if you promise not to flip out.”

“Why does it matter if I flip out? I’m in Boston. I can’t do too much damage.”

She pictured him, probably sitting at the antique desk in his apartment, catching up on work. Except for his glasses and the slight curl to his hair, Beckett looked so much like Dad did in photos at that age.

“The other writer is Gil.”

His pause was a wordless lecture. “You’re serious. Gil. That slimeball?”

“Slimeball might be a little over the top.” But she smiled all the same.

“He led you on, his student, almost ten years younger than him, for almost a year.”

“I wasn’t his student by the time we actually started dating.”

“He wined and dined you. Convinced you not to take that internship in DC and move to Chicago. And then, pow, one day he surprised you with the news that he was already married.”

Her muscles tightened and a lump in the mattress underneath poked at her side. “I don’t need a history recap, Beck. I was there.”

Besides, Beck didn’t know everything. He didn’t know, for instance, how much Gil had helped her on her book. She’d worked so hard on it throughout her senior year of college, an almost frenetic desperation to finish it before Mom died. Gil had revised scenes and proofread and gotten it into the hands of that editor he knew.

For all the ways he’d hurt her, it hadn’t all been wining and dining.

She reached under the comforter to pull out whatever it was bunched up underneath her. Another hoodie. How many did Colton own?

“Yeah, well, now that I know this piece of info, I say you make Gil buy you out of your part in it. I’ll rep you. If he really wants the script, he can have it. But we’ll make him pay. We’ll make him pay good.”

“Lawyer Beckett, you frighten me.” She tossed the hoodie to the end of the bed and sat up. “Look, this was just an initial info-gathering phone call. Gil wants to talk. Figured I’d like to go into the conversation prepared.”

“Why talk to him at all? Let your agent handle it.”

“Thanks for the help, Beck.” She closed her eyes. The long day had sapped her energy . . . and her desire to argue this out.

“Is that your way of telling me to butt out?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “I know I’m just your
younger
brother. It’s Logan’s job to give the advice.”

“And yet, you’re the one I called.”

“Right. So just be careful, okay? Be smart.”

They hung up minutes later and she lay back on the bed. Maybe Beck had a point. Maybe contact with Gil was a bad idea. It’d taken so long—
sooo
long—to let him go after finding out their relationship was nothing but a sham.

She closed her eyes again. It felt so good to be in her own bed. She could fall asleep here . . . felt herself drifting . . .

The sound of the front door closing rang through the house. Kate jerked. Darkness dimmed the room, and warmth from her bed’s comforter, her pillow, enveloped her. She’d fallen asleep. What time was it?

Dad had said he was working late at the depot. Had Raegan come home?

Footsteps sounded down the hallway, longer strides than they would be if it was Raegan.

Colton . . .
She jerked up in the bed. She couldn’t let him find her in here, waking up from a nap . . . in his bed. But the footsteps were nearly to the door.

She jumped from the bed and slipped into the bathroom connected to the room.

Whyyyy? Why are you hiding?

Because she didn’t think well two seconds after waking up—that’s why.

Colton’s steps sounded in the bedroom.

Just explain to him you had a silly yearning to visit your bedroom.

Right. That didn’t sound ridiculous at all.

She heard Colton walking toward the bathroom.
Shoot. Shoot, shoot,
shoot.
She jumped into the tub and pulled the shower curtain over the opening.

Hiding in the bathtub in her own bathroom. This was one for the family vault of mock-worthy memories.

Colton walked into the bathroom. Paused. Maybe he was just grabbing a Kleenex or something. He’d be leaving soon . . .

Except no, because suddenly his arm snaked into the shower and reached for the faucet. Water rushed over her feet, and then—
oh no—
he twisted the knob to start the shower.

Water squirted at her face and over her clothes, and it was all she could do not to scream or sputter. And panic welled in her. She couldn’t stay here. Not with Colton on the other side of the shower curtain, probably getting undressed.
Undressed.

But where could she go?

Bad idea, Walker. Bad, bad idea.

But before she could figure out what to do, the shower curtain flung aside and she immediately closed her eyes. “Don’t do it, Colton.” Her voice pitched to a squeal. “Don’t get in.”

“Chill, Walker. I’m dressed.”

She opened one eye, gaze traveling from the floor up. Bare feet. Jeans. Shirt. Smirk. “Y-you . . . you knew I was in here.” Water streamed over her face and slicked down her arms.

Colton bent over to turn off the water, then pointed above her. “Light does this crazy thing, Rosie. It’s called forming shadows.”

“You knew I was in here and you still turned on the water.” She shook her head in slow motion, eyes pressed to slits. “You’re mean.”

“But at least I’m not wet.”

“Why, you—” She lunged for the bottle of shampoo on the shelf inside the shower and in one smooth motion had it open and pointed at him, soapy liquid blasting him in the chest.

“Miss. Walker. How could you?”

While he was still looking at the soapy mess she’d made on his shirt, she reached for the faucet and turned the shower on, then angled the nozzle at him.

“You’re getting the whole bathroom wet.”

“I’m saving you a load of laundry.”

He climbed over the tub edge, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls, and fought her for the nozzle, both of them now completely soaked and bubbles floating in the air.