Brandon nodded. “Yup. The house is like a museum. She has all these vintage clothes, and memorabilia from her movies. I figured, it was Hallie’s kind of thing. . . .”
“It would be,” Grace agreed. Brandon was looking about as downcast as Harry had, only moments before. She took pity on him. “Can I see it?”
“No, I mean, it’s OK. You don’t have to. . . .”
“I want to. It’ll be fun to see inside.”
Brandon finally smiled, and for a moment, his usually somber face was transformed into something youthful, even handsome. “OK,” he agreed. “But I’m warning you, it’s like hoarder heaven in there!”
Brandon wasn’t exaggerating. Behind the overgrown, fairy-tale facade, the legendary Gray Whitman’s mansion was knee-deep in old boxes, books, and mementos of her former life as an on-screen ingenue. The lady herself was taking a nap, Brandon said — apparently her code for a glass of sherry and the afternoon soap operas — so they started in the garage. He yanked up the door, flooding the space with light, Grace feared, it hadn’t seen in years.
“These newspapers are from nineteen sixty-two!” Grace exclaimed, holding up a stack of crumbling yellowed pages. “Who keeps this kind of stuff?”
Brandon laughed. “The kind of person who also has every issue of Variety in their original wrappers.” He hauled another box out of the way, sending up clouds of dust.
“How did you get roped into this?” Grace asked, filling the first of what she was sure would be many trash bags.
Brandon shrugged. “I volunteered to help. I don’t have much else to do, and she’s nice, really. Just kind of . . . prickly.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Kind of? She set off the alarms over that tourist I was telling you about — chased him out with the sirens blaring.”
“Can you blame her — people driving by every night?” Brandon argued. “She just wants to be left alone. I understand that.”
Grace paused. She’d seen Brandon around all the time, but they’d never actually been alone together, to talk. “How are you doing?” she ventured, before wondering if that was too intrusive. “Amber said you were taking some classes,” she added quickly. “Photography?”
Brandon nodded, slowly slicing his X-Acto knife down the side of another box. His shirtsleeve rode up, revealing the dark ink of a tattoo on the curve of his bicep. “My parents were on me to do . . . something,” he explained. “Anything, really, to get me out the house.”
“Do you like it?” Grace asked. “I tried it for an art elective once, it was pretty fun.”
He thought for a moment. “I like the darkroom part: mixing the chemicals, and going through the different processes, but the actual taking pictures . . .” He gave her a rueful look. “This fancy psychologist they make me see suggested it. It’s supposed to help me reengage with the world, pay attention to things. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Grace answered, after a moment. “Maybe it’s enough that you’re looking.”
Brandon shrugged. “I guess.” He methodically bagged another stack of old newspapers. “The thing is, they still believe everything’s going to go back to normal. Like I’m going to wake up one day, and be the guy I used to be. All parties and beach volleyball, and trips down to Tijuana, like I used to. Before . . .” A shadow drifted across his face, and he turned away. “We need more trash bags,” he said, voice changing. “You want anything from the house?”
“No, I’m good,” Grace said quickly. “Thanks.”
Brandon exited, and Grace unpacked in silence for a while. She could never imagine the horrors he’d experienced, but Grace felt a strange affinity with him all the same. Sometimes there was no going back to the life you’d once known. She could barely picture herself a couple of years ago: thinking that home would always be there; that her family was the constant in life, not a variable. It had been hard enough for Grace to try and rebuild some sense of normalcy after everything that had happened; she could see how Brandon would struggle to even pretend everything was OK now.
He came back in, bearing two bottles of fancy sparkling water, a package of Swiss chocolate cookies, and — to Grace’s relief — no sign of that dark, shadowed look. “She insisted,” he said, setting down the bounty on a dusty old dresser.
Grace laughed. “I guess one doesn’t feed the help regular old Oreos.” She grabbed a cookie and opened another box. “Ooh, costumes!” Grace lifted out a glittering bodice and a matching cape; holding them up to the light to examine the stiff seams and hand-stitched sequins. “You’re right,” she said, folding them carefully back into place and marking the box. “Hallie would love this stuff.”
Brandon let out a wistful sigh that said just about everything on the topic of Hallie, and her nonpresence. He caught Grace looking at him, and changed the subject abruptly. “So what was wrong with your study buddy? He seemed nice enough. Why did you need rescuing?”
Grace cringed, reminded of the agonizing awkwardness she so narrowly escaped. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s a decent guy, and I guess we have fun. It’s just . . .” Now it was her turn for the wistful sigh. “I don’t feel it.”
“It?” Brandon raised an eyebrow.
Grace blushed. “Like I want to do more than study with him.”
Brandon laughed. “You sure made that clear, the way you kicked him out.”
“Good!” Grace exclaimed. “I don’t want to give the wrong idea. We’re friends. End of sentence.”
“Don’t be too hard on the guy,” Brandon said, his voice quiet. “It can be pretty tough, knowing someone you care about doesn’t feel the same.”
He didn’t have to explain. It had been clear he had feelings for Hallie since the moment they’d met, but Grace knew that Hallie barely gave him a second thought — except to giggle about his scruffy wardrobe, or hark back to the day of the serial killer / knife breakdown. Maybe if they spent more time together, she would get to know him . . . but no; her sister was too wrapped up in Dakota to ever look Brandon’s way, and Grace had to admit, she could understand why. The dashing musician, or the introverted army vet? It was no choice, and Grace suspected Brandon knew that all too well.