Chapter 11: Maison Rose

Harper zipped the suitcase and sat on the lid to force it shut. It was barely eleven, and she'd already done more this morning than in the last three months. The suitcase waited by the bedroom door. Two garbage bags sat in the hall, one bound for the curb, the other for Melrose. The house was so quiet she could hear the fridge humming downstairs.

She'd expected to feel sad. Mostly, she wanted coffee.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Valentina. "Lunch. Noon. Maison Rose. We're talking Keaton, Myles, and Austin, in that order, and you're not allowed to say no."

Harper thumbed back, "Do I get a say in anything?"

The reply came in seconds. "You get a say in dessert."

Harper laughed out loud in the empty bedroom. She didn't change out of her jeans and white tee, and she didn't check the mirror twice. She grabbed her keys and drove out through the gates.

Maison Rose hid behind an ivy-covered wall off Canon Drive, a little French bistro that lived up to its name. Roses were everywhere. Climbing roses, pale pink and apricot, crawled up the brick and spilled over the trellises. Deep red hybrid teas lined the garden path in tidy beds. Lavender and cream blooms crowded silver vases on every marble table, and one corner held a whole wall of tiny white climbers, so thick they looked like snow. The air smelled like petals, espresso, and warm bread. It was the kind of place where Beverly Hills wives closed million-dollar deals over twelve-dollar croissants.

Valentina had the best table, of course, in sunglasses the size of saucers and a red silk blouse with one button too few done up. She lowered the glasses and grinned.

"There she is. The runaway bride."

"I was never a bride."

"Even better. Sit. I already ordered for you." She slid a Cobb salad across the marble. "Now. Keaton. Has he texted?"

"Last night."

"And?"

"He wants to set up the doctors in Austin. He asked when I'd get in so he could arrange everything."

"And?" Valentina leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Don't make me pull this out of you one word at a time, Harper. I will. I've done it to grown actors."

Harper stabbed a piece of chicken. "He sent a thumbs-up."

Valentina sat back slowly. "A thumbs-up."

"And 'see you there.'"

"The man owns half the hotels in America. He flies surgeons across oceans before breakfast. And he sent you a thumbs-up." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I've never been prouder of anyone in my life. That's a man trying very hard not to scare you off."

"Or a man who's bad at texting."

"Babe. Those are the same man."

Harper grinned and filled her in on the rest: Myles stumbling in at 10:45, the canned soup, the locked guest room, the two garbage bags, the old USA jacket folded at the bottom of her suitcase. Valentina listened with her chin in her hand, her eyes getting brighter with every detail. When Harper got to "same as you'd do for a toddler," she nearly choked on her water.

"So how do you feel?" she asked when Harper finished.

"Light."

"Good light or scary light?"

Harper turned her glass in slow circles on the marble. "Both. Like I just left the platform and haven't hit the water yet."

"That's the right answer." Valentina lifted her glass. "One more night in LA, then Austin. Then what?"

"Then I learn to dive again."

"To the phoenix."

"Val. That's so cheesy."

"Clink the glass, Harper."

She did. For one perfect moment, the sun was warm, the roses smelled sweet, and everything felt possible.

Then she heard the laughter.