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It’s been years since Vivian last saw Henry. She was scrubbing houses for a living, he was the gorgeous son of rich parents, not fit for the likes of her.

She had vowed to get out of Charleston, become a big Hollywood star and stick it to the snooty girls who made her cry. Vivian got what she wanted – and more – but why does her glamorous life seem so trivial?

Henry got out too ... making it all the way to Wall Street, until his life took an unexpected twist and he traded in his cufflinks for carpentry back in Charleston.

But escaping his heritage is nearly impossible. And now he’s come face-to-face again with Vivian, the one who got away. He’s not looking for love. He’s not even looking for sex ... so why is resisting her the hardest thing he’s ever done?

Also by Rachel Gibson

Military Men Series

Chinook Hockey Team Series

Writer Friends Series

Lovett, Texas Series

Gospel, Texas Series

Truly, Idaho Series

Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

First published in the United States of America in 2016 by Avon Books
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Corgi Books
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Rachel Gibson 2016
Cover photograph © plainpicture/Cultura
Design: Kate Jennings/TW

Rachel Gibson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

A huge thanks to the readers who’ve supported me for the past eighteen years. I can’t answer every e-mail, but just know that I appreciate the time you take to write me. You all are awesome.

A special thanks to Lucia Macro and Claudia Cross for flying across the country to come to my aid. Your help and guidance is truly immeasurable.

Chapter 1

The Diary of Vivien Leigh Rochet
Keep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!

Dear Diary,

It’s official!!!! I hate Ms. Eleanor Whitley-Shuler. Everyone calls her Nonnie. Not me. I call her the Mantis because she is long and skinny and has bug eyes. Mr. Shuler died the year after Momma and I moved into the carriage house. His name was Fredrickk, but I don’t remember him or how he died. I was just a baby, but I bet the Mantis bit off his head. I know she wants to bite off mine. Momma says the Whitley-Shulers are our friends, but I said they aren’t. We work for them and live in their carriage house. Momma says I need to be sweet, but I don’t want to be sweet. Momma says I can’t hate anyone, but the Mantis told Momma I’m as plump as a drop dumpling, and I shouldn’t eat so much ice cream. When she wasn’t looking, I knocked over a stupid dog figurine. ON PURPOSE!!

Dear Diary,

I hate school!!! Every year my teachers say my last name wrong. They say, Vivien Ro-chet. I have to tell them it’s pronounced Ro-shay. I’ve been going to Charleston Day School since kindergarten. For eight years, the teachers get my name wrong on the first day every year. (Okay, so maybe I don’t remember the first day of kindergarten.) The kids at school laugh and call me roach-ette. I hate them and they’ll all be sorry someday when I’m a famous movie star. They’ll all want to be my friend, but I won’t let them. I won’t let them see my movies or come to the big house I’m going to buy my momma someday. Except Lottie and Glory. They can come. They’re my friends and we eat lunch together. Glory gets to wear a bra this year. Momma says I don’t need a bra. NO FAIR!!!

Dear Diary,

Death to the Mantis!!! When me and Momma were cleaning the big house today, the Mantis said I have to vacuum because she doesn’t trust me to dust. She says I have too many accidents. She says I’m clumsy and she’s afraid I’ll knock over pictures of her super stupid sons, Henry and Spence, again. I’m twelve—almost thirteen. I’m not clumsy and I don’t have accidents. I have on purpose, and who cares about Henry and Spence? They go away to school and only come home for holidays. They’re buttheads. Especially Henry. He doesn’t laugh or smile or anything. I call him Scary Henry or Butthead Henry. He’s five years older than me but acts a lot older. His black eyeballs glare into mine like he can read my brain. He looks at me as if he knows I knock things over on purpose and lie about it. But he never says anything. Like last summer when someone knocked over the stupid lawn jockey and broke off its stupid arm. The Mantis said it was really old and had been in their family since before the war. She said it was probably my fault. She said I must have messed with it and knocked it over, but I said I didn’t. Henry stared at me with his black eyes like I’m a liar and Spence laughed because … Spence is crazy and laughs at everything. I cried really loud and ran inside the carriage house before the Mantis could bite off my head. Who cares about a stupid lawn jockey? It’s so heavy it could kill a kid. It’s not a kid’s fault that it can fall over if you stand on its shoulders to see a bird’s nest in the tree. In case anyone finds this and reads it, I’m innocent!!!

Dear Diary,

I ran all the way home from school because Momma said she was taking me to see the sand castles on Folly Beach. When I walked in the door, I knew we wouldn’t go. Momma was on the couch with the patchwork blanket that Mamaw made her. She was rubbing it with her fingers and staring at the ceiling like she does when she has a sad spell. I’m not calling Mamaw Roz to come and get me this time. I’m almost thirteen (in seven months) and can take care of myself. I can take care of Momma now, too. I hate her sad spells. I hope this one doesn’t last really long. !!!

Dear Diary,

Today me and Momma walked to the store for strawberry Moon Pies and Coca-Cola. Momma was in one of her happy moods today and we walked to Waterfront Park, too. We got our feet wet in the Pineapple Fountain then looked at boats in the harbor. Momma says we’re going to sail away someday. She pointed at a big yacht and named all the places we were going to go. Aruba, Monaco, Zanzibar, she said it was going to happen, but I know it won’t. On the way home, Momma said she was going to buy a house on Rainbow Row someday because they look yummy. Like a row of pastel Candy Buttons they sell at Kroger. She said she could be happy forever in a yummy house. When I’m a rich movie star, I’ll buy her the pink one so she can be happy forever. !!

Things To Buy When I’m Rich List

Chapter 2

BENEATH THE WIDE brim of a black straw hat, Vivien Leigh Rochet put a hand to her forehead and let out a slight moan.

“A few.” Vivien reached for a bottle of water in the console separating her from her assistant of five months, Sarah. The two sat in the back of a black Cadillac Escalade speeding down Interstate 26 toward Charleston and the thunderclouds gathering above the historic city. “Christian told me they matched my eyes.” Christian Forsyth—real name, Don Smith—was Vivien’s latest leading man and, according to the tabloids, her newest Hollywood lover.

Vivien took a long drink and hit the button in the armrest. “Don’t say appletini.” The window slid down and she tilted her face toward the wind spilling over the top of the glass. The heavy air fluttered the brim of her hat and smelled like the tall pine and scrub growing along the interstate. It smelled like magnolia and sunshine. Like rain and sea breezes. Like chaos and comfort. Like home.

Next to her, Sarah’s fingers tapped the screen of her notebook, and in the front, the driver spoke into his cell phone as he changed lanes. If he didn’t stop jerking the wheel like that, Vivien was going to puke all over the black leather seats. The humid air slipped across the sharp edge of Vivien’s bare shoulder and collarbone to play with the ends of the loose ponytail resting against the chiffon top of her Zac Posen bandeau dress. The breeze ruffled the rolled hem of the floral skirt and brushed her thighs.

It had been three years since she’d been home, working in a quick visit on her way to the New York City premier of End Game, her third and final film in the Raffle trilogy. The wildly popular dystopia films, based on the equally popular books, had launched Vivien Rochet from minor-role obscurity to major stardom. At the age of twenty-two, she’d been picked from thousands of hopeful actresses to play Dr. Zahara West, archeologist, assassin, and revolutionary leader in the blockbuster series. By the time that third and final film had come out three years ago Vivien had a resume filled with six major movie roles and multiple television appearances. Her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame was just down from Charlie Sheen. Fitting she supposed since she lived down the street from him in real life.

Three years ago, when she’d rolled into town, she’d been a little cocky, riding a wave of success and money. She’d just been nominated for a People’s Choice award, and learned that her seven-inch Zahara action figure—metal bikini edition—had sold more than all the other Raffle figures combined. Back then, she’d returned to Charleston to help her momma host a housewarming party, and she’d felt like she was hot shit. This time, she just felt like shit. This time she was home to plan her momma’s funeral.

“You’re on the cover of the Enquirer again. Apparently you were caught in a sex romp.”

Who cares? Vivien’s perfect brows scrunched together and reminded her of her headache. Sarah was just doing her job. Or perhaps her assistant was trying to take Vivien’s mind off the awful details of the past twelve hours when her life had been sliced to pieces like celluloid on the cutting-room floor.

Twelve hours ago, she’d been drinking appletinis at a lavish party on Mulholland Drive and pretending interest in the latest Hollywood news and gossip. Scoring an invitation and getting seen at parties of the rich and swanky was part of the business. Flashing a smile for photographers and having her picture taken on the arm of men like Christian Forsyth was good for Vivien’s career, no matter that he was the most boring man to walk upright and she had no romantic interest in him at all.

Twelve hours ago, her life had been about the right film roles and spending time with the right people. Twelve hours ago, she’d been playing the part of glamorous Vivien Leigh Rochet. Actress. Movie star. Hot shit.

Roll camera. Sarah’s sudden appearance at the party should have tipped Vivien off that something was wrong, but she’d had a few too many cocktails on an empty stomach to give it a thought. If she hadn’t been intoxicated, she might have noticed the worry in her assistant’s blue eyes. She might have had a little forewarning before Sarah stepped close and whispered the impossible in her ear.

Her momma was dead. Twelve hours later, Vivien didn’t know any real details. She’d been told that paramedics had tried to revive her at home but that she’d died on her way to the emergency room. Her death appeared to be natural. Natural? Nothing that had happened in the past twelve hours felt natural, and Vivien could hardly breathe past the pain and guilt slashing her heart.

Macy Jane Rochet was dead and fake stories in gossip papers seemed so trivial. So stupid. There had been a time when no one had cared enough about Vivien Rochet to print her name, let alone make up entire stories about her. A time when she would have killed to get a mention in the tabloids and to see photos of herself splattered across magazine covers. Her mother was dead and Vivien’s life suddenly seemed stupid and trivial.

Before Sarah’s sudden appearance last night, everything in Vivien’s life had been so clear. So charted. She was a bright star blazing a trail toward mega stardom. Now it was blurred and her head was congested with pain and caffeine and booze. She could hardly think past her raw emotions, and so much had happened in the past twelve hours, she wasn’t even sure if it was Sunday or Monday.

Vivien reached into her red Kelly bag and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. She slid the black frames on her face and leaned her head back. That didn’t really answer her question, but it had to be Sunday. She’d been at the party on Saturday night. Had that been just last night? It seemed like more time had passed since when she’d learned about her momma.

Her mother had been kind and loving, delicate and beautiful. She’d also been difficult and exhausting, and if truth be told, sometimes crazy as a bessie bug. She’d certainly embarrassed Vivien more times than she could count. With her erratic highs and lows. Her overblown elation one day and her utter despair the next. Her huge dreams of a happily ever after and difficulty with men. The earth beneath her feet ebbed like the tides, changeable, predictable, and leaving those around her restless and worn out at the same time. But even when she’d been at her most difficult, she hadn’t been difficult to love. Not for Vivien, because no matter the highs and lows and instability, she’d always known that her mother loved her as no one else on the planet loved her. No judgments. No expectations. Just warm and generous love from her wide-open heart.

Macy Jane hadn’t been perfect, but she’d done her best to take care of Vivien. When she’d fallen short, Vivien’s mamaw Roz stepped in. After Mamaw Roz died, Vivien took care of herself. She took care of her momma, too. It had been the two of them against the world. Together.

The Escalade took one of the last exits and headed into the heart of the Holy City, church spires and steeples pointed toward heaven, heavy with thunderclouds typical of July. The SUV continued down Meeting Street and moved toward the harbor, toward cobblestone streets lined with palmetto and plumeria. Toward the genteel opulence and polished grandeur south of Broad Street. Vivien had grown up in the middle of the elite class. Smack-dab in the middle of old families with old family names. Names that could be traced back to the founding of the St. Cecilia Society and beyond to the original thirteen colonies. She’d grown up surrounded by “good families,” but she’d never belonged. Her “people” didn’t have towns or bridges or golf courses named after them. Her “people” worked hard to scrape by and her family tree looked more like a spindly shrub than a stately live oak.

“Take a left on Tradd,” she told the driver. “Then another left on East Bay.” Instead of returning to the only home she’d known for the first eighteen years of her life, the SUV headed for a set of row houses, each painted in a different bright color. Her mother had once said the row resembled a strip of Candy Buttons and that she could be happy in a yummy house. Three years ago, Vivien bought her momma the pink button so she could be happy and so she never had to live in anyone’s backyard again.

“In the front is fine,” she said and the Cadillac pulled to a stop next to the curb. She put her bottled water into her purse, and waited for the driver to open the back door before she slid from the vehicle. From beneath the brim of her wide hat, she looked up at the pink stucco, and the three stories of white window frames and gray shutters. A drop of rain hit her bare shoulder and dotted the stones around her black, four-inch heels. The one and only time she’d been at the row house, her mother had been excited and animated, directing florists and caterers all at the same time. Her mother had indeed seemed happy, and Macy Jane in a happy mood was always infectious—if you didn’t let yourself worry about the subsequent sadness.

Several pieces of furniture had been delivered the day before, and Vivien and her mother had run around, pulling plastic off of the sofa and chairs in the grand drawing room and a small dining set in the kitchen. Movers unloaded an Elizabethan four-poster bed and an antique Aubusson rug that Macy Jane had discovered at an estate sale. Vivien wasn’t shocked that her mother had done very little to furnish the 4,200-square-foot townhouse before the housewarming party. She was a bit annoyed, but not in the least surprised by Macy Jane’s indecision.

“I don’t need to have every room furnished with stuff to host my party.” Macy Jane had defended her laissez-faire approach to home ownership and to life in general.

Which Vivien supposed was true and hadn’t bothered to argue that the point of having the party was to show off to her friends and impress them with her home and “stuff.” It wasn’t to show off an empty house.

Not that it had mattered. The party had taken place in the private courtyard and caterers had provided everything from tables and chairs to the fine pink linens.

“Is it always this muggy?” Sarah asked as she and the driver unloaded their bags.

“Yes ma’am,” the driver answered, appearing not in the least bothered in his black suit and tie. “After it rains, it won’t be so bad.”

Vivien pulled a house key from her purse and stepped inside the small alcove. Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door and pushed it open, half expecting to see her mother, arms open wide. “Let me hug my sweet girl’s neck,” she would always say in her smooth drawl. Instead the foyer was dark and empty. Her mother had died here. Somewhere.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she pulled off her glasses and hat. The coroner hadn’t determined the cause of her mother’s death yet. Only that it appeared to be natural. She moved into the drawing room, and her feet came to an abrupt halt as she took in the room within her watery gaze. White sheets covered the furniture and a thick layer of dust covered everything else. The Aubusson rug was rolled up in front of the fireplace and someone had pulled down the mahogany mantel. Vivien blinked as if she didn’t trust her eyes. When she’d spoken to her mother just last week, she hadn’t mentioned that the floors were being sanded and the mantel was torn out. She hadn’t mentioned any sort of renovations at all. Then again, she hadn’t mentioned feeling the slightest bit ill, either. She hadn’t mentioned much of anything beyond signing up for the seniors’ Zumba class in hopes that they didn’t “work up a glow.” Which Vivien had argued was the whole point of Zumba.

Vivien wiped her cheeks and set her purse on the covered couch. She had so many questions, and the more she looked around, the more came to mind. She walked past the winding staircase and through the light pouring in from the cupola above. The dining room and library were as empty as the last time she’d been in the townhouse. No towels hung in the bathroom, and the small table and four chairs sat exactly where they’d been placed several years ago in the brick kitchen.

A baggie of apples sat on the granite counter and a thermos and a drinking glass had been placed on a towel, upside down as if they’d been recently washed and left there to dry.

“It looks like your mother was remodeling,” Sarah said as she walked into the kitchen.

“This is so strange.” Vivien opened the refrigerator. Empty but for one can of Coca-Cola and a bag of carrots. Old shriveled carrots.

“Yuck. Do you want something to eat?” Sarah asked as she opened and closed cabinets and drawers. “I’m starving to death.”

The thought of food made Vivien’s stomach roll, either from grief or hangover, she wasn’t certain which. Maybe both. “Find anything in there?”

Sarah shook her head and moved through the open pantry door. “Just a box of teas and some cups in here.” She returned and pulled out her phone. “I can call around and have something delivered. After that, I need a bath and a nap.”

At the moment, Sarah’s stomach and bath and nap seemed too much for Vivien to take on. The responsibility too daunting. She had so much to do and think about. She wanted to scream and hit something. She wanted to curl up on her momma’s bed and catch the smell of her momma’s hair on a pillowcase. She wanted to cry big sloppy tears until her mind was as empty as her soul.

“I have a better idea. Pick a hotel somewhere nearby and stay in it.” She wanted to cry until she succumbed to exhaustion. She wanted to be alone, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when her assistant didn’t bother to even put up a token resistance. Sarah loved nothing as much as room service and a pool bar. She handed Sarah an American Express, and twenty minutes later, waved good-bye as her assistant wheeled her suitcase to a waiting cab.

Once alone in her mother’s Candy-Button house, Vivien moved to the French doors and looked out onto the stone courtyard spotted with splashes of rain. The last time she’d stood beneath the shade of flowering maple, breathing in the sweet scent of camellias, her mother had been alive with the kind of energy that lit up her eyes and made her buzz around like a hummingbird.

“Momma, you’re going to wear yourself out before anyone arrives,” Vivien had warned as she’d stepped into the courtyard after she’d showered and changed into the appropriate floral dress, yellow heels, and yellow hat.

Her mother looked up from a bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne, rose of course. “If everyone who RSVP’d makes it today, we’ll be quite the fancy group.” Macy Jane wore pink from hat to heels to match her house.

“It’s hot as hades. Some of the ladies might just want to stay cool with their bought air.” The cork popped and flew across the bricks to land in a bed of red impatiens. “Did you see that? Your mamaw always said popping corks brought luck. The bigger the pop, the bigger the luck.”

To Vivien, the bigger the pop, the more likely it was you got hit in the head with a flying cork. “How many people did you invite?”

Vivien reached for a crab puff from a three-tier serving stand. “Why would you invite the Whitley-Shulers?” She carefully bit into the little hors d’oeuvre.

Macy Jane looked up from two champagne glasses. “They’re some of our oldest friends.” She set the bottle next to a silver urn filled with a gorgeous mix of lilies and hydrangea and roses.

“Of course they are, sugar.” She shook her head as she poured. “Don’t be silly.”

Sometimes Macy Jane stretched the truth until it fit her reality, but she never told a flat-out lie. Lies made baby Jesus cry, and her momma had always been very concerned about landing in a fiery hell for upsetting baby Jesus. Vivien took the flute her mother offered. The smooth crystal cooled her palm. “We worked for them.”

“Oh that.” Macy Jane waved away that tiresome bit of truth with her hand. “We just did a little light house cleaning for pin money. You practically grew up with Henry and Spence.”

Now that was certainly stretching the truth to its snapping point. She’d grown up across the formal lawn of the Shuler mansion. She’d grown up in the converted carriage house, but more than sculpted hedges, fountains, and rose arbors separated the two families. More than money or manners, her last name alone separated her from Henry and Spence. The brick courtyard between them might as well have been an insurmountable brick wall. The boys attended an exclusive boarding school in Georgia. Vivien walked to school fifteen minutes from her front door. Henry and Spence passed the lazy days of summer in the big house in Charleston, or at their granddaddy’s beach home in Hilton Head. They vacationed in Paris, France. Vivien spent her summers at public beaches and vacationed at Uncle Richie’s split-level in Paris, Texas.

Vivien raised the glass and took a sip. They weren’t friends, yet they weren’t just neighbors, either. They all resided in a weird space that was neither. She’d spoken to the Whitley-Shuler boys a few dozen times. She’d played basketball with Spence once while Henry walked around like he had a stick up his ass.

The bubbly champagne tickled her throat and she lowered her glass. For people who had lived in such close proximity, she couldn’t say they knew each other. Although, she certainly knew a lot more about the Whitley-Shuler boys than they did her. She had the kind of knowledge that had come from years of dusting their bedrooms and snooping through their lives. Playing with Henry’s switchblade comb and Spence’s fake barf. She’d touched their pocketknives, read their private letters, and looked at their appalling porn.

“I still can’t believe we’re here.” Macy Jane raised the glass to her smiling lips. At fifty, strands of silver streaked the glossy curls of her brunette hair. Today her green eyes were bright and alive, reflecting happiness in her beautiful face. Vivien hoped like hell everyone who’d RSVP’d showed up today so her mother didn’t tailspin. “Remember all the times we dreamed about moving to Rainbow Row, Vivie?”

That dream had been more Macy Jane’s than hers. “I remember.” Her dreams of moving had usually started with buying the Whitley-Shuler house and had ended with her tossing Nonnie out on her skinny ass—Tom-and-Jerry style.

“She said she had a Preservation Society meeting, but she’ll try her best to make it.”

“Hmm.” Vivien took another sip from her fluted glass. That meant Nonnie wasn’t planning to step foot in the row house.

“Not yet, but I know that look. You’re fixin’ to make an ugly comment about Nonnie.” Macy Jane shook her head. “Jesus doesn’t like ugly.”

There were a lot of things in Macy Jane’s world that Jesus didn’t like. However, Vivien had a suspicion that Jesus liked nasty bitches even less than he liked ugly comments. She reached for a little weeny on a toothpick and said, before she popped it into her mouth, “I sure can’t wait to see our good friends again.” She smiled as she chewed.

If Macy Jane noticed the sarcasm in Vivien’s tone, she chose to ignore it. “Of course the boys can’t make it. Spence is in Italy with his new wife. He married one of Senator Coleman’s girls, you know, and Henry works in some fancy office in New York. He’s a real big shot but took the time to send his regrets. Henry always did have beautiful manners.”

Vivien had been vaguely aware of Spence’s recent wedding, and she wasn’t a bit surprised he’d bagged a Coleman. It would have been more shocking if he hadn’t married into a family with an old name and political ties. She didn’t recall Henry having beautiful manners at all. In fact, she was fairly certain she recalled his appalling manners and she really didn’t care if she ever laid eyes on him again. Not after the horrible condom incident, when she thought Henry might choke her to death.

The horrible incident had taken place when she’d been thirteen, but she still recalled the fire in his black eyes as if it had happened yesterday.

That summer, Henry had just graduated from his fancy prep school, and he and Spence had spent the summer like always, lazing the days away at Hilton Head. As usual, Vivien spent her summer in Charleston, working in the big house, dusting tables and shelves and massive bedroom furniture.

The day of the condom incident, she’d popped her latest *NSYNC CD into her Discman, stuffed in her earbuds, and rocked out as she cleaned. She sang along to “Tearin’ Up My Heart,” practiced her dance moves, and brushed the top of Henry’s empire dresser with her feather duster. She’d glanced behind her for good measure, then she slid open the first drawer. Behind a row of socks, she just happened to discover a box of Trojans. The words of her favorite song died on her lips as she took a closer look and read, “Extended pleasure, climax control lubricant.” Whatever that meant, she hadn’t a clue. Vivien had pathetically little experience with boys. At least she thought it was pathetic. While *NSYNC sang about the pain tearing up their hearts and souls, Vivien counted six condoms in the box that originally had held a dozen.

A squeaky scream escaped her lips as she spun around. The box of Trojans fell from her hand and her heart pounded boom-boom-boom in her chest. Butt Head Henry stood several feet away, his dark brows lowered over his scary, dark eyes.

She pulled out the earbuds with her free hand and turned off her Discman. “What are you doing home?” He was supposed to be in Hilton Head.

“I live here.” He looked bigger than usual. Taller. His shoulders wider, and he was better-looking than before too. Like her mamaw Roz always said, “He’s as handsome as wet paint.” Vivien didn’t know what that meant, but if she liked him at all, even a little, she might think of changing his name from Butt Head to Handsome Henry. Only she didn’t like him and he was mad. Real mad. So mad he looked scary. So scary his squinty eyes shined like wet onyx. His cheeks turned a deep red with it, but no matter his anger, Henry was a Southern boy. He’d been raised with manners and morals that would never allow him to hit a girl. Just because he wouldn’t hit her, didn’t mean he wasn’t scary as all get-out.

“My underwear?” He developed a worrying little tic at one corner of his mouth.

No, she didn’t fear him physically, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in trouble. If he ratted her out, she was in deep, deep do-do with her momma. “Your sock drawer, actually,” she corrected him.

He pointed to the box at her feet. “Those were in the back of my sock drawer.”

In the middle, but she thought it best not to quibble. Instead, she looked behind his back to the empty doorway and wondered if she could get around him and make a run for it.

The best defense was always a good offence. “Does your momma know you have condoms in your sock drawer?” She slid a bit to her right and figured her best hope for an exit was to distract him until she could get between him and the door. “What does climax control mean?”

The little tic got a little scarier. “Ask Macy Jane when you tell her what you do up here when no one is watching you.”

She shook her head, more scared than she thought possible or wanted to let him know. No way could she tell her momma. She’d get mad then sad and might stay in bed for a week. She might even “take a switch” to Vivien like she always threatened. This time she might actually get around to it. “If you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you.”

“No one cares about condoms at my age.” As if to prove he was eighteen, he lifted a hand to scratch the dark stubble on his jaw.

That was probably true. Vivien crossed her arms over her chest and brought out the big guns. “Your momma will care when I tell her about Tracy Lynn Fortner.”

He took a step closer and grabbed her shoulders in his big hands. “You whisper a word about that,” he said through clinched teeth, “and I’ll choke you to death.”

She believed him. His black eyeballs bored holes in her and she tried to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. She guessed she’d been wrong about him and his manners and could practically feel his hands on her throat.

“If I hear one word about that, I’ll know it came from your mouth.” He shook her one last time and dropped his hands. “I’ll hunt you down like Ole Yeller. Got it?”

“Yes.” The second his grip had eased, she’d run like hell and hadn’t stopped until she was in the carriage house, locked inside her bedroom.

Fifteen years had passed since the horrible condom incident and Vivien saw little of Henry after that day. She’d steered real clear of him. Not that it had been necessary. Once Henry went off to college, he hadn’t returned very often to Charleston.

Vivien pushed open the French doors to the courtyard and kicked off her shoes. Strong winds blew the tops of the trees and scattered leaves about the old brick. She hadn’t ever breathed a word about Tracy Lynn Fortner. Not because she feared Henry’s wrath, but even at thirteen, she knew that Tracy Lynn would suffer much more than Henry. Vivien might have been a little bratty, and a lot nosey, but she’d never been intentionally mean and hurtful.

Barefoot, she stepped outside and into the courtyard. Patches of sand and dead azaleas covered the brick, and she walked past a concrete angel partially covered in ivy. She moved to the bed of impatiens and knelt down beside the brick border. Her mother had loved impatiens, and Vivien picked one of the little red flowers.

The clouds above her head boomed and she felt the vibration in the air and beneath her knees. She brought the little flower to her nose as the skies opened and showered her with big fat drops.

Tears filled her eyes as she picked flowers and made a delicate posy like her momma had taught her. She set it by her knee then bent forward and parted plants. She searched the ground beneath the thick leaves. With each drop of rain, each tear that rolled down her cheek, her search got more frantic. The champagne cork from her mother’s party had been so insignificant. She’d ignored it at the time and forgotten it until now. Now it took on an importance beyond a mere stopper. It was a tangible trace, a link to that special day filled with pink champagne and her mother’s bubbly laughter. The rain soaked her hair and dress. Her hands got muddy and sand dug into her knees. She didn’t care. She leaned farther into the bed of wet flowers, her deep sobs rushing from her lips and pulling at her chest. As if she was just inches away from discovering a lost horde of gold, her search got more frantic.

She looked over her shoulder, and through the rain and tears blurring her vision, she stared at a pair of dark jeans and work boots. A single raindrop fell from her lashes as her gaze moved up his long legs, over the bulge of his button fly to the gray Henley splattered with rain. She looked up past his tan jaw and lips and into his dark eyes. Dark eyes that had once threatened to hunt her down like a coonhound and choke her to death.

“Hello, Ms. Vivien,” Henry Whitley-Shuler drawled, pulling the vowels like warm taffy. “It’s been a long time.”

Chapter 3

THE WHISTLE OF a chicken-shaped kettle pierced the musty air and drowned out the sound of raindrops splattering old glass windows and the ornate cupola. Inside the historic row house on East Bay Street, Henry Whitley-Shuler removed the kettle from a back burner on the gas stove. Clouds of steam rose from a chipped celadon pot as he poured scalding water over the stainless strainer he’d packed with loose tea. The irony of pouring tea for the girl who’d snooped in his drawers while pretending to clean was not lost on him.

He’d been just five years old when Macy Jane and Vivien had moved into the carriage house. His memory of that day was like an old jigsaw puzzle in the bottom of an equally old trunk. The picture was faded and half the pieces were missing, but he did remember standing beside his mother on the back porch shaded by the old magnolia tree, and the scent of sweet lemon heavy in the air. He remembered looking up at his mother’s blank face and at Spence balanced on her hip. The recollection of a dark-haired woman had faded to a gossamer outline in his memory, but he knew the woman was Macy Jane.

His memory of Vivien in subsequent years was much clearer. He remembered her and her mother dusting furniture and mopping floors. He could recall a Christmas or two when he’d walked into the kitchen and seen her standing on a stool next to her mother, polishing his mother’s silver. God knew his mother had a lot of silver, and he could clearly recall the flash of temper in her green eyes and the rebellion pursing her lips whenever his mother had corrected her grammar or suggested that she not eat an entire bag of Oreos.

About the Book

Also by Rachel Gibson

Military Men Series

Chinook Hockey Team Series

Writer Friends Series

Lovett, Texas Series

Gospel, Texas Series

Truly, Idaho Series

Chapter 1

The Diary of Vivien Leigh Rochet
Keep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!

Things To Buy When I’m Rich List

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

About the Book

Also by Rachel Gibson

Military Men Series

Chinook Hockey Team Series

Writer Friends Series

Lovett, Texas Series

Gospel, Texas Series

Truly, Idaho Series

Chapter 1

The Diary of Vivien Leigh RochetKeep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!

Things To Buy When I’m Rich List

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Diary of Vivien Leigh Rochet
Keep out! Do NOT read under Penalty of Death!!