The Ivy House - By Drea Stein Page 0,13
of the day, there had been just enough to cover Savannah’s final expenses with a bit left over. So much for the remains of a long career spent entertaining the masses. Savannah had never been interested in anything other than making movies. She had never attached her name to any product or cause. And for the last decade or so, she hadn’t been working.
Phoebe glanced over the story. It had the basic details down right, and it included a notice about the sale of some of Savannah’s furniture at the gallery. But that was just a sentence or two. The author of the piece had decided to fill the story with some salacious details, rehashing all the details of Savannah Ryan’s life: her scandalous child out of wedlock and then her determined wooing of Leland Harper, a married man quite a bit older than her, and their stormy and passionate marriage, which had resulted in his messy divorce and a relationship that kept the media hopping.
She sighed and kept reading. Savannah and Leland’s relationship, always heated, turned almost violent, with Leland drinking and accusing Savannah of hooking up with her costars. Before things could get really ugly, Leland had died in a plane crash. Sympathy swung in Savannah’s favor, as she became a tragic figure, the lover left bereft, and her career had slowly revived.
Savannah had had a fortune, both from Leland’s money and her own work, but she had let it all slip away. Worse, though, was that she had spent Phoebe’s inheritance too. Her parents had died in a car crash on the way home from an awards ceremony. Phoebe had been only eight when it happened and Savannah had been awarded custody, moving from Queensbay back to Hollywood, trying to be a mother, while also trying to revive her career.
Phoebe hated the papers. She’d managed to stay out of them and, after a while, so had Savannah. But she’d known enough people, friends and acquaintances, who were hounded by them; the merest indiscretion fodder for endless days of stories, the loss of privacy unbearable.
Phoebe looked at the other envelope on the small side table. Chase had given it to her the day before. He had said it was an offer for the property. As if that was all Ivy House could be.
Her practical side warred with her outrage. And then she thought about what Savannah had done. She had left her a dilapidated house requiring immeasurable investments of time, money, and energy.
She reached for the envelope. It was a simple white one and she slid open the flap, giving herself a nasty paper cut in the process. Strike two against him, Phoebe thought, as she stuck her finger in her mouth, trying to soothe the pain away.
A single sheet of paper fell out. It was a heavy bond and there was a simple, solid dark blue type on the letterhead. But her eyes glossed over that as they fixed on the number. Sure, there were a bunch of words surrounding it, outlining terms and details, but it was the number that got her attention.
“Holy shit,” she mouthed and looked again to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. Sandy, the real estate agent, had been right. It really was a million-dollar view. More than a million dollars.
She read over the terms and saw they were simple. The offer was for the house and lot, as-is conditions, no questions asked. All cash, possession to be taken as soon as possible. Phoebe knew that if she accepted this offer, she could be on her way back to Los Angeles and her life within a day or two.
Tempting. Yes, very tempting. She had left Los Angeles at loose ends, and while it didn’t mean she needed to get back there right away, she didn’t think her absence would make getting her life back together any easier. With that kind of money, she wouldn’t have to go back to Los Angeles with her hat in hand, wouldn’t have to rely on Dean to sort things out for her. She could be independent, really independent for once, be able to work for herself and not rely on the whims of clients.
She took another look at the letterhead. Chase Sanders. The name niggled at her, like the face of someone you saw in a crowd, but couldn’t place. Perhaps she needed to do a little more research on this guy.
Chapter 8
Phoebe made her way through the lobby of the Osprey Arms. Like her room, it