twenty-six
“WHY COULDN’T I GET THIS PART of the undercover job?”
Vivian stared up at the ceiling of her bathroom, her eyelids fluttering from the second coat of mascara Pecca had applied to her lashes. “Because you have a little boy who needs you.”
“True.” Pecca’s fingers tipped Vivian’s chin from side to side. “Still, it would be nice to get dressed up once in a while and pretend I’m the Hispanic Cinderella.” She reached for the eyeliner. “Prince Charming would come in on a Harley—”
“A Harley?”
“Who wants to ride in a pumpkin?”
“It’s a horse-drawn carriage.”
“Exactly.” Pecca tilted Vivian’s head back and touched up the makeup on her eyes. “Get all dressed up to sit behind horses while they”—she wrinkled her nose—“you know, do their thing.”
“But exhaust fumes from a motorcycle are better?”
Pecca huffed. “Way to destroy the dream, amiga.”
Vivian laughed. “Sorry.”
“How did the meeting go this morning? Or can you not tell me because it’s a top-secret mission?”
“Truthfully, I only know my part.” She had spent two hours that morning with Ryan and Sheriff Huggins as they went over the plans to catch the Watcher at the gala. Vivian would be arriving as a member of the press, and since Pete Robbins had already RSVP’d, all she could do was wait until he made his move—proving he was the Watcher. What the move would be was anyone’s guess, and the uncertainty was creating havoc in her stomach. “Sheriff Huggins said there would be added security tonight.”
“As long as Ryan’s around, you have nothing to worry about. He won’t let anything happen to you.”
Vivian shifted on the stool, recalling the way he had watched her this morning as they went over the plan. She’d gotten really good at reading his expressions and knew when he was about to cross the line from professional to personal, but before he had the chance, Vivian would turn the focus back on the mission. It was getting harder and harder to convince herself that she did the right thing by ending her relationship with him. Staying focused was the only way she could protect herself. “He’s doing his job.”
“I’m doing my job.” Pecca snorted. “He’s preparing to go all Bruce Banner on anyone who hurts you.”
“You mean Hulk.” Vivian snickered. “Bruce Banner was the nuclear physicist good guy.”
“Right.” Pecca angled a gaze at Vivian. “Genius boy scout. That’s Ryan. Except he’ll explode into this massive green monster to protect the one he loves. You’re his Natasha.”
Vivian pushed Pecca’s hand away from applying yet another layer of eye shadow. Trying to keep her mind off of Ryan was already hard enough. She didn’t need Pecca planting thoughts of Ryan gallantly coming to her defense—or ripping his shirt off to do so. “First off, impressive knowledge of Marvel characters. Second, I am not his Natasha.”
“First off,” Pecca said, mimicking, “I’m preparing for the next trivia night. And yes, you are. Natasha brings out the best in Hulk, right? You do that for Ryan.”
Ugh. Why is Pecca making this so difficult? Maybe because it’s the truth? “I don’t know about that.”
“Vivian.” Pecca’s voice took on that mom tone she’d heard her use with Maceo. “I’m going to be real here and you can hate me or whatever, but what in the world is your issue?”
Vivian frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Ryan was scared. His sister was injured and you both could’ve been killed. His behavior at the hospital was dumb, I get that, and I told him he was an idiot if he didn’t go crawling back to you and apologize. He did, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then why are you holding on to it?” Pecca’s expression softened. “It’s like you’re holding on to that single moment as an excuse to push Ryan away.”
Vivian stared back into Pecca’s probing brown eyes and didn’t see an ounce of accusation. She was looking back as a friend trying to understand. “Amiga.” From the very beginning, Pecca called her friend. Although she hadn’t known a single thing about Vivian, it was like she staked a claim on their relationship.
“I’m scared.” Vivian’s voice wavered.
“Girl, don’t you cry.” Pecca gave her a stern look. “That’s two hours of makeup about to stream off your face.”
“That’s how you respond to my confession?” Vivian shook her head, unable to keep a smile from her lips. “I pour out my heart—”
“Pour? Amiga, that was like the sprinkling the Pope flicks around.” She laughed. “I know you’re scared. Knew it the first day I met you. That’s why I didn’t pressure you to come over or hang out.”
Vivian eyed her. “Coming to my house every other day wasn’t pressure?”
“No, it was a sprinkling”—she opened her fingers wide—“like the Pope.”
“I’d hate to know what a baptism feels like.”
Pecca rolled her eyes. “Anyway. I wasn’t going to give up on you. And eventually you saw your way to the light, and now look at us. Chatting about boys, doing our makeup—okay, your makeup. We’re practically BFFs.”
Pecca hadn’t given up on her. Neither had Harold. It was because he had believed she was the right one for the job even when she fought it—he never gave up. Emotion bubbled up and Vivian had to work to keep the tears back.
“If I have only one friend in the world,” Vivian said as she reached for Pecca’s hand, “you’re the one I would want.”
“Girl.” Pecca’s thick lashes batted furiously. “Now you’re going to make me cry, and I ugly cry.”
Vivian’s sappy emotion transformed into giggles even as tears slipped down her cheeks. How had she let so much time go by without Pecca’s friendship? Or the others? Vivian’s life in Walton flashed in her mind, bringing Ms. Byrdie, Lane, and Frannie to her thoughts. Somehow all these people had slipped by her defenses and claimed a piece of her.
“Did I ruin your work?”
“No.” Pecca pulled a tissue from the box and started dabbing the skin beneath Vivian’s eyes. “I’ll just touch it up.”
That touch-up took another thirty minutes before Pecca allowed her to start getting dressed. Vivian slipped on the emerald-green gown. She was afraid the beaded bodice would be too heavy, but thanks to the layers of gauzy fabric in the skirt, it wasn’t too bad. Vivian stepped out of the bedroom and Pecca’s jaw dropped.
“You. Look. Hot.”
Vivian grinned, lifting the edge of her dress, and turned. “I know it’s not very Southern.”
“Who cares? You’re going to put every Southern belle in her place, I do declare.”
“Was that supposed to be a Southern accent?”
“Meh.” Pecca shrugged. “You ready?”
Vivian toyed with her clutch. “I’m not sure.”
Pecca adjusted a strand of Vivian’s hair back into place. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” Vivian placed her palm against her stomach. “Something just doesn’t feel right.”
“Do you want to call it off? I can call Ryan right now.”
“No.” Gathering her dress, Vivian moved to the couch and sat on the edge. “I think I’m just nervous. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen Russell. What if . . . what if he sees me and it only reaffirms why he left us in the first place?”
“First of all”—Pecca sat next to Vivian—“that’s not going to happen. You said he’s been reaching out to you, right?” Vivian nodded. “So that must mean he wants to see you—”
“And then what, Pecca?” Vivian ran her fingers over the beading on her dress. “I came to Walton to land a job at the Tribune, and when I got it I thought I’d be happy or fulfilled, but instead . . . I feel lost.”
“You didn’t take the job?”
“No.” Vivian shook her head. “My whole life I’ve set myself goals. Graduate top of my class—check. Get into journalism program at UVA—check. Get job as investigative journalist at top paper—check and double check. It’s like it’s never enough. Tonight I’m going to face Russell Bradley—my father—a moment I’ve been waiting for, but now I can’t remember why. If he acknowledges me and apologizes, then what? Will he expect me to forgive him? Even if that was possible, where do we go from there?”
“Forgiving someone is not saying what they did to you is okay. Forgiving is saying you will no longer allow what they did to you to control your life.” Pecca spoke the words like she knew a thing or two about what she was saying. “Have you considered that maybe you’re second-guessing this confrontation because you don’t need his approval anymore?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sounds like every goal you’ve set for yourself stems from this desire to prove yourself to your father.”
“I’ll never understand why I wasn’t good enough for him.”
“Your father?” Pecca pivoted on the couch. “Or Ryan?”
The doorbell interrupted the moment, causing Pecca to roll her eyes.
“Figures, right?”
“Right.” Vivian stood and gave herself a final glance in the mirror, half grateful for the timely disruption.
Before Vivian answered the door, Pecca caught her by the arm. “You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone, including yourself.”
The Savannah Yacht Club was lit up like it was the venue for the Oscars. Ryan scanned the long docks decorated in strands of twinkling white lights that matched the ones stretched over the long, wide branches of the live oaks. He was positioned on the south side of the white manor, giving him a view of guests arriving by car and by boat.
“I’m never going to get used to these sand gnats,” Charlie said, slapping his palm against his neck. “How are you not getting eaten alive?”
“Native.” Ryan shrugged. “They prefer Yankee blood.”
“I’m not sure Virginia is considered Yankee territory.”
“You wouldn’t be getting bit if we were in there instead of out here.”
“Sheriff Huggins tried,” Charlie said, swatting at his arm. “The president of the club and the board of directors had already hired a private security firm but agreed that with Russell Bradley’s fame, they could use a little extra security outside the gala.”
Ryan eyed the area near the front of the club, where a crowd continued to grow. Reporters and photographers not part of the gala’s staff were roped off to one section where they could take pictures and ask questions of arriving guests. On the other side was a screen where attendees paused for a photo before entering the gala, though some lingered, and he had to guess it was for the same reason the media had made tonight’s event a priority. Russell Bradley’s fame.
Two men in black uniforms with big, shiny silver badges pinned to their chests directed traffic. Of the two, Ryan wasn’t sure which one he’d wager could actually use the company-issued gun strapped to his waist.
“I guess they’re not really worried about security if they’re relying on those rent-a-cops.”
“Maybe they wanted to save money for the twinkling lights,” Charlie said. “They should’ve used it to spray for bugs.”
Ryan looked at his watch. “She’s supposed to be here by now. Why isn’t she here?”
“Relax, brother. She’s right there.”
Turning in the direction Charlie was looking, Ryan watched one of the rent-a-cops help Vivian out of a sedan. Her long, dark hair was swept away from her neck, pinned with a sparkling clip that enhanced the way her green dress glimmered beneath the lights. She was radiant. No, stunning. Breathtaking. Vivian was all those things, and a deep urge pulsed within him to rush over and tell her so.
“You okay? Breathing alright?”
“She’s . . . I just . . . I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.” Charlie nudged Ryan with his elbow. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do to win her back?”
“Not yet.” Ryan grumbled as he watched Vivian slip her arm into the crook of George Shepherd Kennedy’s arm. “Why did we bring him into this again?”
“Because Sheriff Huggins needed someone on the inside who could keep an eye on her.”
“What’s he going to do, protect her with his nine iron?” Ryan mocked. “The only thing threatening about Shep is his golf swing.”
Charlie looked at Ryan with a smirk on his lips. “You just used up all your golf knowledge on that, didn’t you?”
Ryan adjusted his vest as beads of sweat trickled down his chest. “Can we just focus?”
“Sure thing, Tiger.”
Ignoring Charlie’s joke, Ryan turned his attention on a large red pickup that had just pulled up. The valet went around to open the door, but it swung open before he could get there. Coach Pete Robbins hopped out and handed the keys over to the valet.
A couple of reporters called out his name and the coach went over, shook some hands, and posed for photos like he was the honoree. But his moment was cut short when a stretch limousine pulled up, drawing everyone’s attention. Coach Robbins stepped aside, but his eyes were glued to the passenger inside the car.
Charlie nudged Ryan. “That’s Russell.”
They watched as Vivian’s father stepped out of the car to the roar of his admirers. Russell Bradley made his claim to fame as the doting father and loyal husband on an ’80s sitcom, winning the hearts of housewives everywhere and becoming husband goals for younger generations. Since then, his collection of film and movie credits had ranged from action hero to love-torn widower, giving him a long and successful career in an unpredictable industry.
He was also a moron for what he did to Vivian.
Over their radio, Sheriff Huggins confirmed Coach Robbins was inside and Deputy Wilson had eyes on him.
“Now, how does a six-foot-five, refrigerator-sized man like Wilson get invited to this?”
“You forget his skills on the football field led to UGA winning four bowl games,” Charlie said. “Georgians don’t forget success like that. I’ve heard they’re trying to get him to coach.”
Ryan turned to Charlie. “Really?”
“Yep, but according to him the only ball he wants to play is catch with his son.”
“He’s really like one of those oversized teddy bears from Costco, isn’t he?”
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to say that to his face.”
“No deal.” Ryan shook his head. “It looks like the last of the guests are arriving. I’m going to head to the van.”
Charlie gave him a look. “Remember the plan. We don’t interfere unless she’s in danger. We have to let the Watcher play this out or we got nothing.”
Ryan didn’t need Charlie to remind him how high the stakes were. There was a beautiful woman in a heart attack–inducing dress somewhere inside the club to tell him that. Never mind that she also happened to be with Shep.
The back of the club ran parallel to the Ogeechee River, with large floor-to-ceiling windows to give guests a panoramic view worthy of the five-figure dues. A large patio dripping in twinkling lights would beckon guests after their meal for a night of dancing beneath the stars. What Ryan wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to lead Vivian out there. He was serious when he told Charlie he didn’t want to do life without her. Sure, Holly Newman was the safe bet, and maybe he would’ve chosen her before, but he was different now. Things had shifted since Vivian came into his life. There was no going back.
Before locking himself inside the surveillance van Agent Hannigan had loaned them, Ryan took in the festivities. The gala was underway as men in tuxedos helped their dates navigate the tight seating arrangements. Waiters walked through, offering glasses of champagne to all. Ryan searched the room, careful to keep to the hedges so as not to interfere with the guests’ experience—another reason the board gave as to why they wanted the uniformed officers to remain outside—until he found Vivian.
She was seated at a round table close to the front of the room but not directly center. According to Shep, the reporters would be seated together at one table, which meant the empty seat on Vivian’s left was where he should be sitting.
Ryan ground his molars. Shep was supposed to be keeping an eye on Vivian, so where was he? His gaze traveled around the room, but Shep was nowhere to be seen. Ryan started to walk to the other side of the building when he spotted Shep at the bar. He was talking with a blonde woman who had her arm draped around his shoulder in a way that suggested maybe she should’ve been his date. Was he seriously flirting?
“Vivian is by herself while Romeo is at the bar,” Ryan spoke into the radio through gritted teeth.
“Frost.” Charlie’s voice came over the radio. “He probably just went to get her a drink. Did you see Vivian?”
“She’s at her table.”
“Then she’s fine.”
Charlie’s calming and reasonable voice should’ve been enough to uncoil the anger tightening in Ryan’s chest, but it wasn’t helping. Ryan watched Shep buy the blonde a drink, then whisper something in her ear before getting up. Good, he was going back to the table. Only he wasn’t. Shep turned in the opposite direction and down a hall.
Ryan moved in the same direction when a door swung open and Shep stepped out, a cigar halfway to his mouth.
“What are you doing?”
Shep jumped, clearly not expecting Ryan to be there. “What? I wanted a smoke.”
“You’re not here for a smoke.” Ryan snatched the cigar and threw it to the ground.
“You realize you just tossed a Montecristo cigar to the ground?”
“I don’t care.” Ryan seethed. He stepped in close to Shep and appreciated that he was an inch taller so the guy had to look up. “Get in there and keep an eye on Vivian or it’ll be more than a cigar that I throw to the ground.”