Wildest Dreams

1. Kendall

KENDALL

“T he rumors are true.”

I look around the monitor of my computer to see my best-friend-since-high-school/secretary, Patsy, standing in my office door. She’s bursting with excitement, bobbing up and down on her toes and making her long bleached-blonde ponytail swing like she’s a teenager instead of a thirty-year-old mother of five.

“What rumors?” I ask. “This town is so full of them it’s hard to keep up.”

“Duh. The rumors about the big movie filming here.”

I roll my eyes. “Why would Hollywood come to Magnolia Row?” It seems like a fair question. This town is about as dead as a rose in winter.

Patsy looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Um, because this town is beautiful, Kendall. Go outside. Take a look around every now and then.”

She has a point. Growing up here, it’s easy to forget the streets lined with magnolia trees, the riverside dotted by oaks draped with Spanish moss, and dozens upon dozens of historic mansions make for a picture-perfect Alabama postcard. To top it off, all that Southern charm is compounded by the fact that the town sits on the picturesque Florablanca River at a point where the water widens into a lake large enough for ski competitions and competitive bass fishing.

Honestly, though, it’s hard to see the beauty when I’ve been a bit of a cynical recluse since my divorce three years ago. I pretty much spend all my days either behind my computer at work, where I serve as one of the town’s only accountants, or in the apartment above my office, streaming true crime shows. Most days, it’s hard to imagine anything exciting happening here, much less a movie production.

“How do you know for sure?” I ask Patsy, who still has the energy of a kid at Christmas. “Did you see Chris Pine walking down the street or something?”

She rolls her eyes and smiles, showing off the charming little gap between her two front teeth. “No, a girl at my church works at city hall. A major production company came in and got all kinds of permits. They even have permission to shut down Main Street for a whole week.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Interesting. I guess I’ll be stuck here then.”

“That’s it? You’re not excited? Your office may be in an f-ing movie! We can be extras!” In high school, Patsy had the mouth of a sailor. Since giving birth to her first son ten years ago, she’s replaced curse words with their abbreviations.

I shake my head. “You can be an extra. I have work to do.”

“It’s not even tax season!” She waves her arms with exasperation. She means well, and I know she wants to see me get out more, but I don’t have the energy. Besides, this has to be another crazy rumor completely fabricated by a bored housewife with nothing else to talk about on the playground, like the rumor that Chick-Fil-A is opening a restaurant here or that Taylor Swift bought a vacation home on the river. These stories are never true. Nothing exciting happens here. Never has, never will.

“Look, when I walk outside and there’s a camera crew, I’ll believe it. Until then?—”

“Whatever. You don’t go outside! You won’t even see them! You’ll be hiding in your office or upstairs watching serial killer shows.”

“That’s not true!” I argue. “Sometimes I go to the grocery store.”

Patsy shakes her head. “You’re impossible, Kendall Abbey.”

* * *

T wo weeks of Patsy’s non-stop speculation about the movie go by before I finally believe her.

It’s Friday morning, which means Patsy is late. Granted, she’s always late, but as the week progresses, she gets later and later. On Fridays, I’m lucky to see her by lunchtime. She gets a pass because she’s my best friend and, with five young boys at home, she gets tired. As a childless woman, I can only imagine.

The phone rings and I answer in my perky, not-depressed-and-alone, happy-to-help voice.

“Hi. I’m calling about a rental property in Magnolia Row?”

“Yes! The house on the lake?” This takes me by surprise. I had listed the house for rent online after my divorce, but for three years there’s been little to no interest in it. Maybe I set the price too high, but it was my dream house. I can’t get rid of it, but I also can’t bring myself to walk in the door. My heart would break all over again.

“That’s right. Is it still available? I’m with Sister Star Productions. We’re shooting a film nearby and would like to rent it for one of our actors. It would only be for a few weeks.”

“Oh my God.” I drop my professional tone and the words spill out of my mouth before I can regain my composure. “Is this a joke?” Patsy will never let me live it down if this is true.

“Excuse me?” The lady on the end of the line clearly thinks I’m an idiot or, at the very least, extremely rude.

“Yes, sorry.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “It is available.”

“Great! Send over your prices and contract and we’ll have a look at it.”

“Of course.” I get her email address and phone number. The next thing I know, I have an executed short-term lease and $5,000 transferred into my bank account.

Patsy finally drags in, carrying coffee and two turkey sandwiches from Bread Crumbs. I stand in the entryway of my office, leaning on the frame with arms crossed and a huge smile as she sets everything down on the front desk.

“That’s a happy face!” said Patsy. “Did F-er get hit by a truck or something?” Tucker is my ex, but she refuses to call him by his name. Suffice it to say, she’s not a fan.

“No, but you’re about to give me the biggest I-told-you-so of your life.”

She gives me a curious look and waits for my explanation.

“Not only were you right about the movie,” I start as her face lights up, “but the production company is also renting my lake house for one of the actors.”

She squeals so loud I think my eardrum may burst. “F me. This is so f-ing exciting! I can’t wait to tell Garion!” I know Garion, her husband, couldn’t care less about movie stars in Magnolia Row, but I guess she has enough excitement for them both. “Who is it? Is it someone we know?”

I chuckle. “We don’t actually know any movie stars.”

“You know what I mean. Is it someone huge? Is this like a movie-movie or a TV movie? Or a Netflix movie? Maybe HBO? I have so many questions!”

“I have no answers. They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. All I know is that this mystery person will be here in two weeks and will stay for six to eight weeks after that.”

She squeals and claps like a little kid.

I simply shake my head. “Since we’re not busy right now, I’ll need your help getting the house ready. Can you go dust, vacuum, and make sure the linens are clean?”

“Absolutely. I may install a camera or two while I’m there.”

“Patsy!”

She’s joking.

I hope.

* * *

I t’s the morning the keys are supposed to be picked up and Patsy is in my apartment before I even go down to the office. My apartment, which had served as a storage room when my dad owned the accounting firm I now run, is about as basic as living spaces come. It’s an efficiency loft with a tiny bathroom, kitchenette, high ceilings, and tall, thin windows overlooking Main Street. I’ve done very little in the way of decorating, so the walls are flat white with only a few random trinkets here and there.

I’m still getting ready when Patsy lets herself in. I’m surprised she’s actually wearing make-up and her hair is not in a ponytail.

“My mom is taking the kids to school this morning,” she says, watching me brush my teeth. “She’s as excited as I am! What if Reese Witherspoon walks in the door today?”

I spit out my toothpaste. “Then we can say we’ve met Reese Witherspoon. My life will go on the same.”

“The suspense is killing me!”

After vetoing five of my “boring” outfits, she makes me wear a sundress I’d forgotten I owned and sandals that blister my feet. It’s definitely a change from my normal bland office clothes, but I go with it because I don’t have the energy to argue this early in the morning.

We walk down the narrow stairs to the office and wait.

And wait.

Finally, two hours after lunch, a petite blonde with bobbed wavy hair comes in the front door. My workspace is essentially three rooms: the front lobby where Patsy sits, my office behind her, and a bathroom under the stairs leading up to my apartment. Because it’s tiny, I can hear everything that happens even if I’m hiding behind my computer, so when she walks in, I get up and meet her in the lobby.

This has to be the person picking up the keys, as she’s definitely not from here. For one, I don’t recognize her. Second, she’s wearing a hoodie with tight jeans and Skechers, which is way too much clothing for such a warm May afternoon in the South. Patsy does a poor job hiding her disappointment. This is not a celebrity.

“May I help you?” I ask.

“My name is Harriett. I’m here to pick up the keys to the rental house,” she says.

“Of course.” I retrieve the envelope from my desk drawer and Patsy wastes no time quizzing her.

“Are you the one staying in the house?” she asks, her voice a few notches higher than normal as she tries to stay calm.

“No, I’m a personal assistant. My boss asked me to pick up the keys for him.”

“Who is your boss?” asks Patsy, completely losing all sense of propriety.

“Patsy!” I say, embarrassed as I emerge from my office with the keys. “I apologize,” I say to the stranger in my lobby.

“It’s fine,” Harriett responded, eyeing Patsy. “He’s very private. We would appreciate it if that privacy is respected.”

“Absolutely,” I respond. Patsy nods her head.

I clear my throat. “The key opens both the front and back door. Be sure to tell your boss the back door locks automatically, so he’ll have to have the key to get in from the deck.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Nope! My business card is in there with the keys in case he needs anything.”

“Thank you. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

With that, she turns and walks out the door.

Patsy looks at me with raised eyebrows. “She was a b.”

“She was doing her job.”

“All she told us is that it’s a man!”

I roll my eyes and go back to my office, ignoring Patsy’s phone calls to everyone she knows, telling them about our brief encounter with the assistant to a mystery celebrity.