Chapter One
January, Present Day
West Adams District, Los Angeles, California
“Thank God I’m finally home!”
Joey Cabot stood at the threshold of the house she’d just taken possession of—a 1910
Craftsman-style home so quintessential to Southern California. It was a defining piece of
architecture in the West Adams District of Los Angeles because some famous architect had
designed the house and it featured all his glorious signature weirdness.
Joey thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
Standing on the concrete porch, she’d used the ancient key to turn the tumblers of a lock that
was original to the door. As the panel swung open, the heady smell of mildew and dirty carpet
came hurling out and she closed her eyes, inhaling the fragrance. To a lover of old houses, there
was nothing like that intoxicating musty smell, and beside her, she could hear someone else
inhaling the scent with possibly more enthusiasm than she was.
“I can’t tell you how much I love this.” Diesel Sheppard, part-time film historian and maker
of indie films that made people motion sick, looked at Joey with glee. “This is it, my girl. The
dream is finally yours.”
“Thanks to my brother,” Joey said, turning to the handsome man in a dark suit standing
behind her. “Thank you, Jess. None of this would have happened without you.”
Jesse Cabot-Cooper gave his sister a hug, but he was more concerned with this horror of a
house he had let her buy. As her real estate agent, this monstrosity was on him.
“You’re welcome, I think,” he said. “Seriously, if you’re happy, I’m happy, but this place…
Wow, Joey. Are you sure about this?”
Joey was nodding before he finished his question. She stepped in through the front door,
looking up at the beamed ceiling with the dusty brass and crystal fixtures.
“God, yes,” she said. “This is exactly what I wanted. It’s perfect.”
As she stood in the foyer, upon faded red carpet that had to be at least sixty years old, another
man entered behind her, crowding into the entry but unwilling to go any further.
“Jesus,” the man muttered. “I thought this place was a nightmare from the outside. It looks
even worse on the inside.”
Joey looked at her boyfriend of ten years. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she
insisted. “You of all people should appreciate the craftsmanship, Reid. Your dad owns a
construction company, so you know about stuff like this. It’s priceless.”
Reid Nicholas cocked an eyebrow at his enthusiastic girlfriend. She was gorgeous, brilliant,
and crazy. Crazy enough to sink most of her money into this old dump near the University of
Southern California campus in an area that wasn’t so great.
He wasn’t thrilled about it.
“I know it’s going to take a lot of work,” he said, propping his sunglasses on his head and
looking around. “This is going to take a shitload of money, baby, and this neighborhood isn’t the
best.”
Joey glanced at her handsome, complaining man, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he
was talking about. Reid came from a large black family that had roots in South Central Los
Angeles. His great-great-grandfather had been a pioneer in the early days of Southern California.
She knew how unhappy he was about this purchase, but she refused to let him dampen the
moment.
“Think of the money we can make from it,” she said. “This is so damn perfect I literally
could not have planned this better.”
Reid looked at her, grunted, and turned away. They’d been arguing about this for the past two
months, ever since she took nearly every penny she’d ever earned and purchased the old
dinosaur. He thought it was stupid; she thought it was an investment.
She also had a deeper reason for wanting it.
“Whatever,” he said quietly. “Just know it’s going to cost you a lot.”
Joey was trying hard not to let him spoil her enthusiasm. “We’ll make money,” she insisted.
“Diesel, tell him again.”
Diesel had been looking at a built-in bench next to the elaborate staircase, but he turned to
Reid and held out his hands in an imploring gesture.
“Bro,” he said seriously. “Before Jean Harlow, there was Lola Grayson.”
“So what?”
Diesel was prepared to lecture on something he knew a good deal about. “Grayson was the
original Hollywood bombshell who suffered a tragic demise,” he said. “This house is important
because it was the secret love nest of Lola Grayson and Robert Taggart, something that not even
their studio knew about. Two of the biggest stars in Hollywood between 1931 and 1935, they
were controlled by the studios, forbidden to marry, yet they still found a way to be together. It’s
pretty romantic.”
Reid had known Diesel since high school. He was a pain in the ass, but loyal to the bone. He
was also quite savvy when it came to anything that had to do with the golden years of
Hollywood.
“I’ve heard the story too many times,” Reid said impatiently. “Lola Grayson came from poor
white sharecroppers in Alabama or Mississippi, or somewhere like that, and Taggart’s
grandmother was black.”
Diesel jabbed a finger at him. “Exactly,” he said. “The studios could cover up Grayson’s
background by telling everybody that her father was some rich plantation owner, but Taggart had
African blood in him—and if that ever got out in Old Hollywood, he would have been
blackballed for the rest of his career. But he had that dark Latin look that they wanted to compete
with Rudolph Valentino, so they covered it all up. They said he came from Mexican aristocracy.”
Reid shrugged to information he already knew, the massive secret of covering Robert
Taggart’s race and Lola Grayson’s poor origins. They were two of the biggest moneymakers the
studio system produced and no one wanted to burst that bubble. But the two stars, in love, had
restrictions. This house was the one place they could escape those restrictions.
That was where Joey came in.
As a bestselling author who had made a name writing World War II romantic suspense, Joey
Catherine Cabot had hit the New York Times bestseller list eleven times with her “grandma sex
books,” as Reid called them. But the truth was that she was very good at what she did. She was
educated and well read, and this house was the next step in her evolution.
Joey was about to take on a whole new dimension of historical fiction, but the sad reality was
that her evolution had taken an unexpected turn. This wasn’t the happy event they had hoped for.
The house had become an iceberg that Joey was clinging to for survival because she was sinking
and they all knew it.
It was the elephant in the room.
“I know it’s a great investment and all that, historically speaking,” Reid finally said. “That’s
all the two of you have talked about for the last forty-three days. But what I don’t like is this
whole area. It’s not the safest, and I know that from experience. We’re going to sink a bunch of
money into it only to have something happen to it?”
Joey frowned. “You act like the entire criminal universe is waiting for us to do something
with this place just so they can break in and destroy it,” she said. “That’s not going to happen.
This is going to be something so amazing that the neighborhood will appreciate it. It’s going to
be a showplace.”
Reid looked at Jesse for support, but he simply lifted his shoulders. “Honey, you got a great
deal on a beast of a house.” Jesse addressed his sister. “I know it’s worth it to you, but you have
to be realistic about this.”
As excited as Joey was, she knew what the realities were. It wasn’t as if she’d made any
secret of the fact that her past two books had been mediocre at best. Sales had slumped because
she’d included a Nazi sympathizer as a redeemed secondary love interest. She’d taken a gamble
and she’d lost, and some of the big review sites had vilified her for it. That had translated into
mediocre sales and a lackluster release for the subsequent book. For the Golden Girl of WWII
romance, it had been a harsh dose of reality, and Joey felt as if her career was slipping away
before her very eyes.
Until the house in Los Angeles came around.
In it, she saw her salvation.
“Look,” she said quietly. “I know this place is a heap. I know I’m taking a chance on it, but I
feel like it’s an important chance. For the historic value alone, it’s priceless. I’m going to write a
book about Lola Grayson in Lola Grayson’s house, and when I’m done, we’re going to let her
fans walk her floors and sleep in her room. This house may look neglected and unloved now, but
it won’t be when I’m finished with it. Doesn’t everything deserve a chance to shine again?”
It was clear that her hope that the house was going to bail her out of her slump was
outweighing the truth of the situation. Still, there was one person on her side. Diesel seemed to
share her opinion. He began running hands all over the bench and banister.
“I’m going to film something here,” he said. “It’s perfect for a hatchet murder movie, you
know? Look at this carpet—it’s blood red. And the walls are all cracked and the wallpaper is
peeling. It’s perfect for a Manson-type murder story where people get hacked up in the old
bathtub.”
Joey looked at him in horror before breaking down into laughter. “You are so sick.”
“I mean it,” Diesel said, stepping out into the living room that was exquisitely dilapidated.
“This is a perfect room for a pile of bodies, but I’ll use a filter that makes the carpet appear
super-red. It’ll really pop on film.”
Joey looked at Reid, who simply shook his head in resignation. Diesel had been known to
make some weird movies, like using mannequins as romantic partners for live actors. He was
enormously creative but strange at times, and the old house was feeding that oddness.
“Whatever you do, you need to do it immediately,” Joey told him. “I’ve got contractors
coming next week for estimates, so you need to move fast. I don’t care if you film, but I’m not
keeping this place in its current state just for you.”
As Diesel acknowledged her and moved back into the living room to inspect the Batchelder
tile fireplace, Joey turned to her brother.
“Was there anything else about the house’s history that you could get for me?” she asked. “I
have the stuff you initially gave me, but did the listing agent have anything more to add from the
seller’s side?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Everything the former tenants have left
behind is in the kitchen. You were in New York when I did the walk-through, and there’s a bunch
of stuff on the counter. Paperwork, old newspaper articles, and such. I didn’t go through it,
though. I thought you would want to.”
“That would be perfect,” she said. “Diesel and I have already done the research on this
house. It was purchased in 1935 by a man named Horatio Warren, which was Robert Taggart’s
father’s name. Taggart always used the name when he wanted to be incognito.”
“That still doesn’t mean he bought the house for him and Grayson,” Reid said.
“There’s more to it,” Jesse said. “It was built in 1910 by the Stimson family, who were major
players in this area. The West Adams District used to be the place to live back at the turn of the
last century and Charles Stimson built this home for his daughter as a wedding present and
named it Dulces Sueños—meaning Sweet Dreams in Spanish. Daughter Sadie moved into the
house and lived here until the crash of 1929, when her husband killed himself because he lost all
of his money. She moved home with her parents after that, so the house sat empty until Taggart
bought it.”
“Rumor in Hollywood at the time was that Taggart and Grayson were going to secretly marry
even though their contracts specifically forbade them,” Diesel said, making sure Reid understood
the background. “The studios controlled everything back then—even marriage—but Taggart
bought this house on the sly so the studio wouldn’t know about it. He was laying that foundation
for their happily ever after.”
Reid knew the story, but honestly, he’d tuned most of it out. Sometimes Joey and Diesel
started talking about things that just didn’t interest him. Now, there was no avoiding the history
they were discussing.
“I seem to remember you telling me that Lola Grayson lived in a lot of houses after she
moved to Los Angeles,” he said. “So this is another one of those houses.”
Joey smiled at him. “This house is different,” she said. “It’s probably the only house where
she ever really felt free. Lola lived with her mother and stepfather, but they just used her as a
cash cow. Who knows if they really loved her as a person or if they just loved her ability to be
famous? But here, she was loved for who she was and not what she was. She was free here to be
herself.”
Reid could see the passion in her eyes when she spoke. He also knew she was speaking of
her own mother when mentioning Grayson’s mother using her daughter as a cash cow. That was
exactly what Joey’s mother did until the woman died suddenly of a heart attack last year. August
the third, to be exact, which turned out to be the same day Lola Grayson had died more than
eighty years earlier.
Who knows if they loved her as a person or just her ability to be famous?
That had been Joey’s question to her own mother for years.
But he didn’t mention the similarities. There wasn’t any point. With a heavy sigh, Reid
looked around the entry of the house that was going to take a chunk of his life he’d never get
back. He told Joey that he’d help her restore it, and he would, but he just didn’t get the romance
of the broken-down old pile of wood, stones, and long-gone dreams.
“Okay,” he said in resignation. “Where do we start?”
Relieved he’d stopped arguing about it, Joey took his hand. “Let’s start with a tour,” she said.
“You’ve only seen the front of the house, so let’s wander around.”
Joey led. As usual, Reid followed. ...
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