"Really? Why?"

"There are a lot of women in Hollywood that will do anything to get a role. Sleep with anyone. Take off their clothes for a few seconds of fame. She admired the fact that your mom has never done that. She requested your mom be the presenter when she was given the Lifetime Achievement Award."

"Had she been sick?"

"No, not at all. She had a massive heart attack and died in her sleep."

I start to get tears in my eyes. I feel really bad for Vincent.

"She's why I wanted to buy a house here." He fills his hand with sand and watches it slowly trickle back onto the beach. "She and my grandfather met on this very beach. They had a whirlwind courtship, and he bought her a beach house as a wedding present. She said it was the happiest time of her life. She's been a widow for more than twenty years, but he's all she ever talked about. The house I'm trying to buy sits where they used to live." He tears up and chokes out, "Her birthday is next month. I wanted to surprise her with the house."

I pull Vincent into a hug. "I'm so sorry. She would have loved it. When is the funeral?"

He takes in a deep breath and composes himself. "She didn't want a funeral. She left very specific instructions for me. He reaches down on the other side of him and pulls an urn I hadn't noticed before out of the sand. "She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread here. Where she was the happiest in her life. That's why I'm here. The lawyer told me it's illegal to spread ashes on the beach now, but what am I supposed to do? It's what she wanted, and I know I need to do it, but I'm not really ready to say goodbye to her yet."

"I know losing her sucks, but she's happy now. She's in heaven with him," I say, mimicking what my mom told me when Dad died. He's in heaven, watching over you.

He rakes his hands through his hair. "Yeah, I know. Still, I just wasn't ready for this. She was only seventy-one. And she seemed so healthy. She could walk further on the treadmill than I can."

"I know I keep saying it, but I'm sorry. I'll help you if you want. Or I can go. Like, if you want to be alone."

He grabs my arm like it's a life raft, and he's drowning. "No. Stay. Please." He smiles. "I think she'd like it. She was always trying to marry me off. She'd love to know that I did this with a girl. Especially you, being Abby's daughter and all."

He gets up off the sand and looks around. "I've never done anything like this before. When my mom died, I didn't really care. Grandmother had a funeral for her, but I refused to go."

"What happened to your mom?"

"She and husband six were killed in a mugging, they think. No one knows for sure what happened."

He smiles a cold little smile. I think he's glad about his mother's fate. And who could blame him? Sounds like she didn't treat him very well.

I stand up next to him. "Should we say something?"

"Would you?"

"Um, sure," I say, but I have no idea what to say, so I think about her classic movie. It was a movie about great love. The kind of love I dream about. The kind of love she wanted Vincent to find.

He opens the urn and slowly shakes the ashes out.

He doesn't look at the ashes falling into the sand; instead he looks into my eyes.

I grab one of his hands, squeeze it tightly, and quietly pray. "Today we bring Viviane back to where she met the love of her life. Where she was the happiest she had ever been. We pray that she has been reunited with her great love in heaven, and they are now on their own version of this perfect stretch of beach. And we pray that her grandson, Vincent, is able to find that same kind of love someday. Amen."

I can't help it. I cry more. For Viviane. For Vincent. For myself.

Selfishly, mostly for myself, because the guy I thought was my great love, who I met on this very same beach, hasn't spoken to me in days.

Vincent throws the urn way out into the ocean, then he turns, wraps his arms around me in a big hug, and lays his head on my shoulder.

He's crying. Like, sobbing.

I'm not sure what to do, so I put my hand on his back and pat it, like I do to the girls when they wake up in the middle of the night and can't go back to sleep. "Shhhh. It'll be okay. I promise."

He pulls his head up, wipes tears from his face, and says, "Thank you. I didn't want to do this alone, but I didn't really have anyone that I wanted to come with me."

"I'm glad I could help. I hope you still buy the house. She would love knowing you live here. Now we just need to find you a woman." I laugh. "For a guy that looks like you that should be easy. Why aren't you married yet, anyway?"

He laughs too. "Geez, now you sound just like her. I'll tell you what I told her: I have high standards." He pauses. "You looked pissed when you were walking down here earlier. Did you have a bad day? Did I just make it worse?"

"It doesn't really matter anymore. It's just high school drama."

"Yeah, but it's your drama. Tell me about it. It'll distract me, and I went to high school; maybe I can help."

I sigh big and spill my guts. "I recently broke up with the guy I've dated for over a year. We were the perfect couple. Like everyone thought we were perfect, but the truth is we weren't. I don't think he was attracted to me. Or maybe he really does want to wait until he gets married, I'm not sure."

"You're a virgin? Really?"

I hang my head. "Yeah."

He pushes my chin up so I'm forced to look at him. "Keatyn, that's a good thing."

"My friends think it's lame. It's like I'm flawed or not sexy enough."

"Sounds like your friends have some fucked up values. Sex is not what makes you sexy. I'm very serious about you being in my movie. Every guy in America is going to fall in love with you."

"I highly doubt that. I can't even seem to get the one guy I like to fall in love with me. And if that isn't bad enough, my supposed best friend is threatening to tell everyone at school that I've never done it. Everyone thinks I did it all the time with my ex. If they find out, they'll look at me like I'm a fake Prada bag."

"Grandmother said that you shouldn't care what people say about you. The people who say bad things are insecure about themselves. When I was young, kids at school used to tease me about my mom. I learned to fight. Got tough. When I lived with Grandmother, she told me that if I had confidence, everyone else would have confidence in me. So I got good at faking it. Now, I don't even have to fake it anymore. Don't let them get to you."

"Okay, I'll try."

"I better get going."

"I'm sorry again about your grandmother."

"I really appreciate you being here, helping me. Will you give me your phone number, so I can get in touch with you?"

I recite my cell number while he puts it in his phone.

As he walks away, he says, "She'd love the fact that I met the girl I'm going to make into a star on her beach."

Vincent is in a production studio working on a special project, a Lacy montage, when someone comes in with clips of a scene that Abby filmed. It is supposed to be a secret-raw footage that wouldn't all make it into the movie because it was too hot. He shuts his project down and watches the footage.

Vincent had heard that when Abby agreed to do the film, she wouldn't allow the sexually explicit scenes that were originally scripted. He applauded her for her decision. He knew it wasn't easy for actresses to do these days.

But then, he watches and is appalled at what he sees.

There is his beloved Abby. On the screen in front of him. Basically naked. With an actor. In a bed. Doing things his grandmother never would have done.

He reels with shock, and immediately leaves. He goes back to his grandmother's house. On the grounds is an abandoned gardener's shack. When he moved to his grandmother's house, all those years ago, it had become his private space. The first thing he hung on the wall was the autographed photo of Abby. Since then, he has covered the walls with photos and movie posters of her. Of magazine articles. Copies of the fan letters he had sent her. Tickets from every Abby Johnston movie he had seen. Script ideas and diagrams of the film he wanted to someday make with her.

In a fury, he rips everything off the walls, throws it to the floor, and stomps on it.

Then he takes out a piece of paper and writes: Abby- For years, I have idolized and loved you, but not anymore.

You are nothing more than a common whore.

You must pay for what you've done, and I already know the price.

-No longer your greatest fan.

And he will make her pay the price. He's going to take away the things Abby loves most and have them for himself.

Keatyn, as well as her little sisters. A plan starts to take shape in his mind.

Unknown caller: Hey, it's Vincent.

Me: Hey . . . how are you doing today?

Vincent: Better. I want to attempt to repay you for your kindness yesterday. Would you be available for dinner tonight?

I thought about it before I replied. I don't really know Vincent very well, but he seems nice. I felt so bad for him yesterday. Last night, when I wasn't counting up the hours it's been since I've spoken to Brooklyn, I admit that I thought about him a little. About how strong and sexy he seems, but how emotional and deeply sad he was.

I thought about texting him. To check on him. I still have his business card sitting on my desk. I didn't, though. I was afraid he'd think it was weird. But what he said to me when he left-about his grandmother being happy he met me on her beach-made me happy. Made me feel like maybe this project, if it does end up coming to fruition, would be something I should do.

The way he seemed to idolize his grandmother, and her old Hollywood-style ways, make me trust him. Make me want to do whatever I can to make him happy again.

Me: You don't have to repay me. I was doing what anyone would do.

Vincent: I disagree. So dinner? And if you're nervous about it because you don't know me that well, why don't you choose the restaurant and meet me there?

Me: I'm not nervous, Vincent. I trust you. As far as dinner goes, how about Moon Beams? We can sit on the patio and enjoy what's left of this beautiful day.

Vincent: I'm glad you trust me. If we're going to have a relationship, trust is important. Six o'clock?

Me: Sounds good. See you then.

Now, I'm sitting at our lunch table, thinking about him.

Not really him specifically. I know he's too old for me, but I was thinking it might be nice to date a guy that didn't act like such a boy.

Especially the kind of boy that would hook up with you and not call you.

Maybe I should start looking for a man. The kind of man who would tell you that you don't have to have sex to be sexy. Who would say you have an expressive face. Who would want to risk his dream project on an unknown like you.

I think about what it would be like to kiss a man. A man who looks like Vincent. A man who has more experience than a boy could even imagine. A man who would treat you with respect. A man you could trust to call you.

I imagine being in a scene like the one at the end of his grandmother's movie. Jumping into a man's strong arms. Getting twirled around as he confesses his love for me. Then laying me back in the sand and kissing me as the waves curl up around our feet.

Of course, they didn't show anything beyond that in the movie. Movies from the sixties were quite clean, sexually. But we all know what happened next.

They totally did it right there in the sand.

Unfortunately, when I picture doing that, I see Brooklyn's face instead of a man like Vincent.

Vincent was thrilled to learn yesterday that she is, in fact, a virgin. His fantasies about her run wild. When she shows up at the restaurant looking sweet and innocent, if he wasn't completely smitten with her already, he is now. Her bangs are pulled back into a barrette and the rest of her hair is down long and straight. She's wearing a sheer, lace dress and when she walks onto the deck in the sunlight, he can see the outline of her sexy underwear. He's going to seduce her, get her to go for a walk on the beach (and away from the valet's watchful eyes), then-forcefully, if necessary-take her back to his grandmother's place.

There is no doubt in his mind, though, that she will go willingly, because they are going to be the world's greatest love story.

I drop my car off with the valet and walk out onto the deck. The deck overlooks the ocean and has great lounge furniture and gorgeous views. I immediately spot Vincent. He's leaned back on one of the platform lounges that is almost bed-like. There's a silver wine bucket next to him that's wrapped in a white napkin so it doesn't sweat all over. He's been staring out at the ocean, but he turns, looks at me, and gives me a little wave. Like in case I didn't see him.

I smile and slowly walk toward him. He looks very handsome in a white cotton shirt, pale yellow shorts, dark yellow driving loafers, and black wayfarers.

He stands up to greet me, gives me a couple air kisses, and then takes my hand and sits down.

I perch daintily on the edge of the lounge, letting my feet dangle off the side.

"I'm really glad you agreed to meet me," he says.

"I'm glad you asked."

He holds his index finger up in the air, and the attentive waiter brings us two glasses that he fills with Chardonnay.

When the waiter walks away, Vincent leans close to me, clinks his glass softly against mine, and says, "To the beach." He takes a drink then puts his head down slightly. Like maybe he's saying a silent prayer.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" I ask.

"Yes. Thinking about work helps."

"Oh, so this is about work?"

He grins, takes a sip of wine, then says, "Now that I've found the perfect lead, work is about all I can think about."

"What are you going to call the movie? Hopefully not something bad like Another Day at the Lake or A Day at the Lake: Part Deux."

He laughs. "Those do sound bad. How about A Bad Day at the Lake?"

"Or Just Another Day at the Lake."

"I actually like that one," he says.

"So I don't really get what my character will be doing besides screaming in a bikini."

"She'll kick ass in a bikini."

"You mean I won't get a cape and some tights? That's it. I'm out."

He laughs again and says, "You're funny."