Wildest Dreams

3. Kendall

KENDALL

P ierre.

Pierre Chatham.

Pierre Chatham is living in my house. Standing in my yard. It might as well be Brad Pitt. Never in my wildest dreams did I image someone like this would be renting my house.

I’m here, in front of Pierre Chatham, with no makeup, wearing mismatched pajamas and flip-flops. Not to mention that my hands are covered in rotisserie chicken grime.

What. A. Nightmare.

He’s…well…he’s exactly what you would expect a movie star to look like. Tall, lean, broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and messy, dirty blond hair. He’s older than me, but not by much. He has fine lines around his eyes and his skin is slightly weathered, but he wears it well. I could go on, but the more I think about how perfect he looks, the more I realize how imperfect I look.

Humiliation? Mortification? No. The English language lacks the word for how completely stupid, surprised, and horrified I feel. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. This apology is not for Bertha, but for myself. For the stupefied look on my face. For blurting out his name like he’s a thing instead of a person. For clearly making him uncomfortable.

He shakes his head. “No, you’re fine. I’m just happy the alligator is gone.”

We stare at each other for a moment, not saying anything. What do you say to a movie star? I want to act normal, but I’m too awkward and can’t think of anything to talk about, so I simply stand with my mouth hanging open and wiping my hands on my pants like a toddler.

“Did you want to come in and wash your hands?”

My stomach drops. I haven’t been in the house since the divorce and I have no plans to go back inside anytime soon.

“No,” I say, looking down at my feet. My toenails aren’t even painted. Ugh. I’m a mess. “I’m good.”

“So,” he says with a sly grin that cuts the tension, “can I expect Bertha to visit often or…?”

I laugh and he looks down at me with an amused expression. When our eyes meet, I melt like butter on a biscuit.

“Well,” I say, “now that she knows you’re here, you may want to keep the fridge stocked with chicken.”

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe that happened. My heart is still racing.”

“Welcome to Alabama!” I say, trying to lighten the mood. He chuckles, that million-dollar Hollywood smile sending butterflies straight to my gut. “I really can’t apologize enough.”

“It’s fine. Just do me a favor and warn the next guy who rents your house.”

“I will.”

Again we stand there, looking at each other for what seems like an age.

“Do you want some water or something? My assistant stocked the pantry for me. I’m not sure what all is in there, but you’re welcome to anything.”

“No, I should get back home. I have, um, laundry and stuff.”

Laundry and stuff? Really? I am so lame.

“Okay.”

But I don’t leave. I just stand here. I think I’m in shock. He raises his eyebrows but I still don’t move.

“Is the house okay?” I ask.

He grins and looks out over the property. “It’s perfect. Better than I’d even imagined.”

“Great! I’m glad you like it.”

He nods. Again with the awkward silence.

“Alright, well, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. Are you able to get back in? I have the spare key if you need it.”

“No, the front door is still unlocked. I need to remember about the back door next time.”

“Great! Well, you have my number, so if you need anything else, call me.”

“Thank you. I will.”

I turn to walk back to my car. I want to run, but that seems a little dramatic.

“Kendall!” he calls from behind. The sound of my name coming from his mouth makes my heart stop. I turn and he’s jogging towards me.

“Yes?” I say in a voice more high-pitched than I’d intended. When he approaches, I’m struck again by the fact that he’s Pierre Chatham, of all people. I haven’t been to the grocery store in ten years without seeing his face on some magazine cover at the register.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share what happened,” he says. “I’m a little embarrassed, to be honest.”

“Oh! Of course. I won’t tell a soul.” Except Patsy. I’m definitely telling Patsy.

“Please don’t share my phone number either. I’ve had to change it so many times—it gets old.”

“I totally get it. You can trust me.”

“Thank you.”

“If I don’t see you again, good luck with your movie!”

He smiles and nods. I turn and walk to my car, knees shaking. When I get in to pull away, I look up to see him standing in the same spot. I wave, back out of the driveway, and leave. In my rearview mirror, he’s standing by the road, watching my taillights.

* * *

P atsy will kill me if she finds out I kept this from her for more than five minutes, but I don’t want to tell her over the phone. The first thing I do is go home and make myself look halfway decent with a shower, makeup, and real clothes.

Then I head to the baseball fields. I don’t even have to ask where she is. With five boys, she always has at least one playing ball on a Saturday in early summer.

I park in the full lot and immediately see Patsy’s middle son, Buck, running between the fences, his pants covered in red dirt. He sees me, stops what he’s doing, and comes to give me a hug. I ask him where his mom is and he points me in the right direction.

The ball park is a diamond of four baseball fields with a concession stand in the middle. It’s always crowded in the late spring and early summer. There’s not much else going on in Magnolia Row on a Saturday afternoon.

I walk to the bleachers where Patsy is sitting on the top row. She’s with her mother and has her youngest son, Hunter, on her lap. She waves when she sees me, but looks confused. I motion for her to come down, so she gives Hunter to her mom, then makes her way to where I’m waiting. In the background, a loud crack from a baseball bat startles me and the crowd begins to cheer.

“Kendall, what are you doing here?” Patsy asks. Today’s look is what she calls “casual Patsy”: Magnolia Row High t-shirt, cut-off shorts that show off her tone, tanned legs, and floral flip-flops.

“We need to go somewhere quiet.” I grab her and pull her towards a picnic table at the edge of the park.

Her face drops. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I promise. But I’m about to tell you something that you absolutely cannot tell anyone.”

“Please tell me you finally killed F-er,” she says with a too-big smile.

“No, I did not kill Tucker.”

“Burned his house down?”

“No.”

“Keyed his truck?”

“Patsy,” I say, my tone curt.

She sighs. “Fine. A girl can dream.”

“Of violence?”

“Only to those who deserve it.”

We reach the table farthest from other people and sit down.

“You’re not going to believe what happened this morning.”

“Oh my god. Please tell me this is about the mystery man renting your house!”

I open my mouth, then pause. The words stick in my mouth as she raises her eyebrows in anticipation. It’s like I don’t even believe what happened a mere hour ago.

She grabs my hand. “Out with it! The suspense is killing me!”

“Okay. So, I met the person renting my house.”

Her face lit up. “Is it someone famous?”

“Oh yeah. This must be a huge movie.”

“Who is it?”

“You cannot tell a soul. Not even your mother.”

“I promise, I promise!”

I look around to make sure we’re still alone. “It’s Pierre Chatham.”

I swear she stops breathing for a solid thirty seconds.

“Pierre f-ing Chatham,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“THE Pierre f-ing Chatham.” This time she’s a bit louder, so I gesture for her to lower her volume.

“Yes.”

Then she squeals the loudest, highest pitch a human can make, eliciting stares from people walking nearby and a kid in the adjacent outfield.

“Ssssshhh! I told you to keep it quiet. You seriously cannot tell anyone. I can’t have people showing up at the house and stalking him.”

“I knew I should’ve put a camera in that house.”

I simply shake my head at that comment. She’s not joking.

“But I love him! He’s hilarious in those movies he did with Sandra Bullock, where she’s the mob boss and he’s her oblivious boy toy.”

“Didn’t see them.”

“And he was the soldier in that movie where he dies and the girl waiting for him back home thinks he’d forgotten about her, but then she gets the letters he’d been writing her like a year after the war’s over. Oh my god, I bawled my eyes out. I think he was nominated for something for that movie.”

“Didn’t see it either.”

“Go home and watch them! All of them! Everything he’s in is good.”

“That seems a little creepy now that I know him.”

“You talked to him?”

“Oh yeah. We met.”

Her mouth drops and it looks like her head is going to explode.

“In person?”

I nod, then proceed to tell her the whole story.

“Well, God bless Bertha!” she exclaims when I finish.

“No! I felt terrible. Half of our conversation was me apologizing.” I shake my head.

“But if it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t know he’s living there!”

“I wish I didn’t know. It was so awkward. I was so awkward. Now he’s going to go back to Hollywood and tell everyone about the strange little person he rented a house from in Alabama and her pet alligator.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, he’s not.”

“I just hope if I see him again, I’ve at least brushed my hair.”

Behind us, the loud crack of a baseball bat is followed by cheers and parents yelling. Patsy turns to look, checking on her free-range children.

“I hope you do see him again.” she says, turning her attention back to me. “We can be friends with him!”

“He’s not here to make friends. He’s here to shoot a movie.”

She crosses her arms and sighs. “Pierre f-ing Chatham.”

I nod at her beaming face, then we mutually burst out laughing.

“Pierre f-ing Chatham,” I say.