Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood by Abby McDonald

Author:Abby McDonald [McDonald, Abby]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-7636-6381-0
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2013-09-03T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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