The Girl From Summer Hill

“The shower is at the back of the house, but, yeah, I did.”

  “Full frontal?” Nina was barely suppressing her laughter.

  “Yeah.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “I’m not sure but I think she sat on a stool and drank a cup of tea while she watched.”

  Nina laughed. “People usually have to pay to see you do that.”

  “In all my movies, there’s been only one bathing scene. It was under a waterfall and it was shot from the side.”

  “But then you moved so they got your back and your bare chest, and afterward you walked around in a towel that wouldn’t cover one of Emmie’s dolls.”

  “Okay.” Tate was laughing. “So I have to earn a living. Look, I need transportation and I have to get someone to repair a screen door.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I was sort of…well, unhappy when I saw Miss Pajamas in my house. I thought she was taking photos. I sort of put my fist through the screen. And from the look of the place, I may have accidentally kicked the bottom half out too.”

  Nina’s voice was serious. “Tate, that’s not funny. You’re big, and when you get angry your whole face changes. Onscreen it’s great, but in real life you can be frightening.”

  “I know.” His voice was apologetic. “I’ve already heard this from Jack. And I will apologize to her. I’ll probably see her this afternoon, but right now I need a car so I can get food. You think this town has a taxi service?”

  “I doubt it, but I’ll call the—”

  “Holy crap!” Tate said.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something upstairs in her house. I think it’s a bird. It’s the size of a dog and I think it’s trying to get out. It’s pecking at the window screen.”

  “Oh, no!” Nina said. “It’s probably a peacock or a peahen. I forgot to tell you that Stacy said the caretaker was releasing them today. The birds have to bond with their environment, so they’ve been in cages. Remember Mom telling us about that huge peacock and how she and Ace used to—”

  “Nina!” Tate yelled.

  “Right. Oh, no. Emmie is calling me. She’s home sick in bed today. Why don’t you go chase the pea-critter and let Emmie watch on her iPad? It’ll entertain her while I call the caretaker.”

  —

  Nina didn’t wait for his answer but hung up and quickly left a voicemail for the Tattwell caretaker. He probably wouldn’t get the message before evening, but Nina didn’t mind. One great thing about having an actor for a brother was that he loved to entertain. He could make the most mundane of events seem spectacular. Surely, chasing a peacock in a small house would cheer up Tate—and watching him would occupy her daughter for a while.

  She ran to Emmie’s room and grabbed her tablet.

  It took Nina just minutes to sync phone and iPad between her brother and her daughter, and set it all to record. Sometimes her brother gave his best performances for his family and she liked to see them. She gave Emmie a bag of vegetable chips and some juice, put the tablet on the stand, and headed to the bathroom. If she knew her brother and daughter—kindred spirits if ever there were any—she’d have at least half an hour to herself. She would be within hearing distance, but she was going to soak in a tub of very hot water for as long as she could manage.

  —

  Tate smiled at his pretty little niece, who looked unhappy at being confined to her bed, even if it did have pink and white ruffles. Since she was born, the two of them had had their own little world. They understood each other. Tate said that entertaining Emmie fulfilled his need to be writer/director/producer/actor all in one. And he did indeed work to come up with new ways to make her smile.

  He put his finger to his lips. Today, he was going the way of a silent film. The first thing he did was put on some music, and he knew that for chasing a predatory bird, only Bizet’s Carmen would do.

  Holding his phone at arm’s length, he began tiptoeing toward the house. When he got to the screen door, he showed her the huge bottom hole and pantomimed a monster clawing its way inside. He bit his nails in fear.

  Emmie, in keeping with her uncle’s silence, pantomimed opening a door and shrugged in question.

  Tate gave an exaggerated look of embarrassment and pointed to himself.

  Why? Emmie asked, palms up.

  Acting ashamed, Tate stroked long hair for a girl, then pointed to himself. He wore the scowl that was so famous in his movies, and he mimicked the girl putting her arms up in fear.

  Emmie shook her head. That was bad of him to frighten her.

  Nodding in agreement, Tate wore an I’m-sorry face.

  Inside the house, he moved his phone around to show the kitchen, with spices and herbs hanging up and drying, tall bottles of oils, and fat jars of jam with their pretty cloth covers. He panned down the skillets hanging from hooks in the wall.

  Emmie’s eyes widened at the sight. Her mother barely knew how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. She pointed up and Tate took a jar off the shelf. The label said PEAR JAM WITH MANDARIN TEA. Smiling, she nodded vigorously. It looked delicious.

  Tate put on a sad face and rubbed his stomach to show how hungry he was. As he filmed, he stopped at the big trash bin and saw two cold fried eggs on top. It took him a moment to come up with a reason for their being there. Was it possible that she’d prepared them for him? If she had tried to deliver them…He didn’t like to think that she’d overheard what he’d said to Jack.

  Emmie waved her hands to ask him what the problem was.

  Tate showed the eggs, pointed at himself, then made tear marks down his cheeks.

  Again, Emmie shook her head at him. He had been very bad.

  On a countertop along a sidewall was a low row of something covered by white cloths. When Tate pulled one of the cloths back, he saw a pie with a crust made of long pieces of perfectly browned dough. The top looked like a flower. Underneath, berries oozed atop a golden custard.

  Tate didn’t have to fake his longing and hunger. He snatched away the other covers. There were six pies, each with a different top. They were works of art! One had meringue on it high enough to make a pillow. There was a tart with six fruits arranged in a pattern, another had peach slices baked in cream, one was topped with lots of little cut-out leaves, all perfectly browned, and on the end was a rolled-up crust filled with apricots and sliced almonds. The divine smell of the pies made him dizzy.

  Tate’s hunger and the beautiful pies were more than he could resist. There was a big spoon nearby and he grabbed it—but Emmie started waving her arms no. He could not steal the lady’s food.

  It wasn’t difficult for Tate to silently show his hunger and his pure, deep lust for them.

  But Emmie didn’t give in. Her pantomime reminded him of what he’d done to the screen door. He did not deserve any of what the lady had cooked.

  Tate sniffed hard and wiped away fake tears, but at last he put his shoulders back. He was going to be brave and strong and resist the food.

  When there was a screech from upstairs, Tate’s eyes widened. He looked terrified and as though he was going to run away.

  But Emmie vigorously shook her head to let him know that it was just a bird. She silently encouraged him to proceed.

  Holding his phone, he slowly went up the stairs, stopping three times to mimic fear. Each time, Emmie had to be firm to make him continue.

  The stairs led to a landing outside the bedroom. Scattered around on the floor were objects that looked to have been on top of the dresser. By the window was a huge iridescent peacock, its long tail elegantly dragging behind it.

  Tate plastered himself against the open door, his arms outstretched in terror. The music was building in pace. Turning, he threw himself back over the doorway, too frightened to stay in the room.

  It was Emmie’s gestures, especially when she slapped her fist into her palm, that made him stay. She told him to go back in the room and close the door. This caused more fear from Tate; he was shivering all over.
r />   The bird, now trapped in the room, leaped onto a chair by the window and tried to tear its way out through the screen.

  Tate stood where he was and shrugged in puzzlement. Now what should he do? he silently asked of his niece.

  Emmie made motions that he was to take off his shirt.

  Tate showed shock and modestly crossed his arms over his chest.

  Giggling, Emmie shook her head. He should take off his shirt and throw it over the bird.

  There was more feigned fear from Tate, but he took off his big shirt, leaving a T-shirt on underneath. Like a matador in the bullring, he held his plaid shirt out, challenging the bird to charge forward. He had his shoulders back, his head cocked at a bullfighter’s angle, and his swagger was a perfect imitation.

  Emmie was laughing and shaking her head no, no, no. Throw the shirt over the bird.

  With reluctance, Tate quit the matador strut and fearfully held out his shirt toward the bird. After some elaborately missed attempts, he dropped the cloth over the bird’s head, threw his arm around it, then looked at Emmie. Now what? he seemed to ask.

  She pointed at the window in her own bedroom. He should let the bird out.

  Tate nodded as though that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard. With one hand, he slid up a screenless window, lifted the bird, and tried to pull his shirt off its head. But to Tate’s shock, the terrified creature leaped back inside. As Tate attempted to wrestle it into going in the right direction, its long tail slapped him in the face. His very genuine coughing fit made Emmie fall over in laughter.

  When the chaos finally settled, Tate was sitting on the floor, the bird was on the roof of the front porch, and Tate’s shirt was hanging by a button from the gutter.

  Emmie howled in laughter.

  Tate tried to get up, pretended to stumble, but when he reached the level of the window, there was the bird, its beak about three inches from his nose. The creature gave its loud, hideous scream right into Tate’s face.

  Genuinely startled, Tate fell backward onto the floor, and the bird ran to the edge of the roof and fluttered down.

  A bit dazed, Tate got off the floor, closed the window, and dramatically wiped the sweat off his brow. A survey of the room showed that it was a mess. Emmie motioned for him to clean it up.

  Tate gave an exaggerated, silent groan. He lifted his hands in a way to indicate that he was a man. He did not clean rooms.

  Emmie shook her finger at him. He had to!

  With a sigh, Tate straightened the bed, used tissues to wipe bird droppings away, and put things back on the dresser. The pajamas he remembered so well were on the floor.

  He stepped back as though they were poison.

  Emmie motioned for him to pick them up.

  Tate, his face serious, shook his head no. He pointed to them, then made a motion of cutting his own throat. If he touched those PJs, the woman who owned them would murder him.

  Emmie tried to get her uncle to put the pajamas away, but no matter what she suggested, he wouldn’t do it.

  As Tate went downstairs, he made motions that he was a hero—but then his stomach growled so loudly that Emmie heard it over the music. He rolled his eyes, showing that he was dizzy with hunger. In the kitchen, he looked at the pies on the side counter with true longing, then back at his niece, his eyes pleading.

  She gave in and nodded. Yes, he had earned a slice of pie.

  But Tate didn’t get a plate and a knife and cut himself a piece. He propped the phone up on the counter, then picked up a big cooking spoon. Grabbing the pie with the flower-like crust, he scooped out the entire center with the spoon. He ate with such gusto that he got dark-red juice all over the lower half of his face, pieces of berry lodging in his stubble.

  As he chewed, he showed his ecstasy over the flavor with his eyes and smiles. He dropped down onto a stool and ate, enjoying every bite. Juice ran down his chin; berries fell onto his T-shirt. As he scratched his ear, he got pie filling in his hair. When there was only a shell left, he used both hands to break it apart and eat it, all while using his eyes to show how delicious it was.

  Emmie was laughing very hard.

  “What the hell are you doing?” came a woman’s angry voice. The damaged screen door slammed behind her.

  Nina sat straight up in the tub, and Emmie yelled, “No!” Tate slipped his phone into the pocket of his T-shirt, camera pointed out, as he stood to face the woman in whose house he’d just trespassed. Miss Pajamas Lady. The woman who hated him. And right now she looked so angry he was almost afraid of her.

  “Look what you did!” Casey said. “You ate an entire pie! The whole thing. Or did you just tear it up for the sport of it?”

  Tate stepped away from her. “Ate it,” he said.

  “Oh, really? From the look of you, you took a bath in it.”

  Tate put his hand to his hair and pulled out a couple of blackberries. Sometimes he felt silly having such long hair, but his contracts called for it. No wig, no extensions, just lots of real hair.

  “I guess you did all this because you think you can. You own the place, plus you’re a movie star, so you can walk into someone’s home and steal her food. Is that what was in your mind?”

  When Tate backed into a stool, he sat down.

  Casey glared at the ruffle-edged pie plate. It was an Emile Henri, and her mother had given it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Last night she’d put her favorite pie in it, but now it was nearly empty. Just a piece of crust clung to the bottom. “I promised Josh and Kit some of that pie, but now it’s gone.” She looked back at him as he sat there in silence, watching her. “This morning I felt really bad about what happened. I should have told you I was there as soon as I saw you strip naked. But I didn’t.”

  Tate raised his eyebrows.

  “I sat there and watched you and later I was prepared to lie about it. I was so afraid that you’d throw me out of my house that I planned to deny being where I was and seeing what I did.” Her motion included his entire body.

  “But I can’t take this,” she said. “I have to have privacy.” She went to a far cabinet and opened an overhead door, but the two big plastic pie carriers were at the top. She stretched but couldn’t reach them.

  Tate’s arm went over her head, pulled the containers out, and set them on the counter.

  “Thanks,” she said, then corrected herself. “I mean, no thanks. I don’t need your help. Look at these things. They were made to hold six pies. Six! But now I have only five of them.”

  Tate went back to sit on the stool.

  Casey began putting the pies in the carriers and loudly snapping the clasps. “Okay, I will leave. Since you believe that ownership and your…what? Celebrityship—if that’s a word. No! Entitlement. That’s what it is. Your sense of entitlement allows you to shower on my back porch and wander in and eat what I’ve cooked for other people. Since I cannot live with that, I must leave. Where I’m going to find a house with a decent kitchen so I can cook for Jack, I don’t know.”

  “Jack?” Tate asked.

  “Yes.” She glared at him. “While you were wandering about the grounds in your birthday suit, Jack and I became friends.” She gave him a look of triumph.

  Tate seemed surprised—and very interested.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. Friends! That’s what Jack and I are. Not that it’s any of your business, but Jack is falling for Gisele Nolan. But then, that’s understandable considering that she’s so beautiful.” Casey waved her hand. “Not that anything in Summer Hill interests a big movie star like you, but anyway, your friend is going to spend the summer here so he can play Bingley. And Gizzy will be Jane. Jack is going to live in your big, unused house, and I’m going to cook for him. It would have been perfect since I live close by, but now you’ve ruined everything. Can you drive?”

  Tate’s eyebrows were high on his forehead as he gave a single nod.

  She took the truck keys off the counter and tossed them to him. “Good. Get what’s left o
f the pies and put them in the truck, then drive us to the auditions. I don’t know why he’d want you, but Kit expects you to be there.”

  Casey, still so angry she could hardly see, got into the passenger seat and slammed the door. When Tate got in beside her, she said, “I’d ride in the back but it’s illegal.” She looked out the windshield. “Please tell me that isn’t your shirt hanging from my roof!”

  Tate bent forward to look up. His blue plaid shirt was still caught in the gutter, waving in the breeze. He got out, grabbed the tip of it, pulled it down, and got back into the truck.

  Casey’s teeth were clamped together. “Were you in my bedroom?”

  Tate was looking at his shirt. There was a big hole in the front. “Do you know how to sew on a button?”

  That made Casey so angry her hands went into fists. She started to go after his throat, but what sounded like a child’s laughter stopped her. “What was that?”

  “Emmie. She’s my six-year-old niece.” Tate put his arm across the seat, backed the truck up, and headed toward the big gate. “Emmie truly loves it when someone yells at me. Her mother—my sister—does it all the time.” He gave Casey the smile he used onscreen to make the heroine say she loved him. It was the one the fan mags said made women start removing their clothes.

  But it did nothing for Casey. She glared at him. “You’re an egotistical jerk, and turn off your phone.”

  She didn’t say another word all the way to the auditions.

  When they got to the warehouse, Casey started to get out of the truck, but Tate pushed the button to lock her in. She didn’t look at him, just crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the front window.

  “I want to say I’m sorry,” Tate said. “I never meant to invade your privacy. I was wrong to get angry at you this morning, and you are right. Even though I own the place, I should not run around in my birthday suit.”

  Casey didn’t meet his eyes. His apology didn’t sound real. It was as though it had been scripted and rehearsed—and he was saying it all with a touch of humor. But worse was that his tone seemed smugly certain that she would immediately forgive him for whatever he’d done.