Read Online Broken Hearts, Fences and Other Things to Mend by Katie Finn - Free Book Online

He’d lasted
    almost a whole week on that one.
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    “Bruce is eating like a caveman, for reasons that make sense
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    to him,” Rosie said, as she contemplated the burrito, then took a
    bite herself.
    “Paleolithic,” Bruce mumbled.
    “Caveman,” Rosie said with a roll of her eyes. “It means, basi-
    cally, you can’t eat anything our ancestors— who had tiny brains,
    might I add— couldn’t pull from the ground or kill with a stick.
    And they certainly didn’t eat burritos, so . . .” Rosie took another
    bite, and Bruce sighed.
    “I’m going to fi nd Paul,” he said, referring to my dad. “He should
    be on this call too. Glad you’re here, Gem. Help yourself to what-
    ever. And let’s make a plan to go running.”
    “Definitely,” I said with a smile. It was a running joke— so to
    speak— between us. It had started a few years ago, when I was
    visiting my dad in L.A. and Bruce was on an exercise kick. We
    had talked a lot about going running together, but all we had
    ended up doing was going to get donuts while they were still
    hot.
    Bruce gave the burrito one last look, then shuffl ed out of the
    kitchen, yelling for my dad.
    “Okay,” Rosie said, turning to me. “Want the fi ve- cent tour?”
    There was nothing fi ve- cent about the house, I soon realized
    as I trailed Rosie from room to room. It just went on forever, one
    beautiful, clutter- free room stretching into the next one. The
    whole house had clearly been decorated by someone who had taken
    the concept of a beach house very literally— it was mostly done in
    blue and white, with glass jars fi lled with sand or shells on every
    available surface. But when we reached a group of rooms toward
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    the back of the house, things started to seem more like Bruce and
    less like his decorator.
    “Bruce’s domain,” Rosie told me as she pointed to the three
    rooms at the end of a hallway. There was a screening room, which
    Rosie told me had just been installed so that he could watch rough
    cuts at home, his offi ce, and what she called his “brag room”— a
    room that seemed designed just to woo actors and intimidate
    other producers. It was basically just a couch and two chairs, and
    the rest was all Bruce’s memorabilia and posters and the awards
    that he’d collected over the years.
    This included, in the very center of the room, a pedestal for
    Bruce’s pride and joy, the Spotlight award he’d gotten a few years
    ago at the British version of the Oscars. There was even a small
    spotlight that shone directly down onto it, making the glass gleam.
    Ford had confi ded to me that he’d found out at the afterparty
    that the award had actually been meant for Marcus Davidman,
    the acclaimed documentary fi lmmaker, and not Bruce Davidson,
    producer of time- traveling- animal movies. But apparently the
    En glish fi lmmakers who were presenting the award were too po-
    lite to correct the mistake, and Bruce was none the wiser.
    After the tour of Bruce’s domain, Rosie started to show me
    the upstairs bedrooms, but gave up when we both got tired of
    walking so much. So the tour fi nished up in the guest room that
    would be mine for the summer. It was done in blue and white,
    much like the rest of the house— white wicker dresser, blue painted
    headboard, white sheets and pillows. There was a half- fi lled jar
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    of seaglass on the bedside table, next to a small vase of fresh
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    fl owers. But best of all was the view, which looked right out on
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    the water. I could see the waves crashing and the moonlight
    spilling onto the dunes.
    “This is great,” I murmured as I took it all in. It really was—
    certainly better