I wanted to slap him. Punch him square in the throat. Or shove the tape so far up his ass, he’d be projecting the film out his eyeballs! He clearly had no remorse, and even worse, he was ready to double down. But instead of allowing my emotions to overtake me, I looked over at him . . . doleful and resigned. Who even was this man seated across from me? I didn’t recognize him at all. We were a million miles and a thousand versions of ourselves apart since our days in freshman chemistry, and there was no going back. Not from this. Though I’d said goodbye to Brian Braunpheiffer years ago, now I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was finally time to say goodbye to Rhys Braun for good.
“You can go to hell,” I spat, tossing my cloth napkin from my lap onto the table in one fluid motion as I stood.
Rhys jumped up and called after me, but there was no looking back. I hurried out of the Ivy, flipping my ticket to the valet and jumping into my car as soon as it was pulled around. I had barely shifted into drive when I began jabbing at buttons on my steering wheel to activate the familiar ding of my car’s automated Bluetooth system.
“Call Nancy on cell,” I shouted, pulling out onto North Robertson without signaling and stepping on the gas. “Nancy, I’m in. Go ahead and set up that meeting with Tributary.”
Chapter Five
I was grateful when Kate Wembley from Tributary agreed to take the hour-and-a-half drive from LA to Ojai to meet with me at one of my family’s most illustrious properties. A little over six years ago, my parents opened the first of what would be many EVERLY Bed-and-Breakfasts, restoring a crumbling ten-thousand-square-foot, fourteen-room Queen Anne Victorian home into a luxurious B and B complete with the eclectic modern touches they were famous for, while also carefully preserving the home’s original features. People came from far and wide to spend a weekend immersed in the Everly lifestyle, enjoying the farm-to-table food, wellness classes, and wine tastings.
I finished helping Mom set up the displays of Lemon’s new EVERLYbody Matcha Green Tea Powder Enemas and hurried over to the dining room to meet Kate, who was already at a table in the back corner. She waved me over to where she was sitting and sprang out of her seat to greet me as soon as I got closer.
Kate could have easily been mistaken for one of my sisters, and it seemed more than a few people in the dining room thought she was, snapping pics of us on their iPhones. Like the rest of the Everly girls, she was sun-glossed with long blonde hair and big doe eyes. She seemed to embrace the effortless California vibe, wearing a crisp white tee and loose army-green trousers, a denim jacket hanging around her narrow shoulders.
“I have so been looking forward to meeting you,” Kate gushed, settling back down into her chair.
A server came by to take our order. “I’ll take a green tea,” Kate said. “What about you? Same?”
I thought back to the mountain of matcha enemas I just unboxed in the boutique. “Water’s great, thank you.”
Kate leaned in to the table. “I cannot tell you how thrilled I was when my assistant told me you agreed to take this meeting. We’ve run through a litany of celebrity names to attach to this project, but I wanted you from the start. Your long-standing relationship with the television audience makes you the perfect lens. At Tributary, we want to elevate the reality TV genre beyond competitions and manufactured wedding proposals. We want to showcase the real you—the you the world hasn’t met yet.” Kate propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. “To put it plainly, we want to give you a voice. Your voice. I mean, who is Plum Everly, anyway? Is she the baby of a wildly successful family? Is she Rhys Braun’s ex-girlfriend? Is she a shallow fame whore? You want to know what I think? I think you are so much more than what this effed-up industry has allowed you to be. Let us help you tell your story the way you want to tell it.”
Who is Plum Everly? Now, that was a question I wasn’t even sure I could answer at the moment. Who the hell was Plum Everly? I certainly didn’t know. But the fact that this was the first time I’d ever heard a show’s production team mention any interest in getting to see the real me versus getting me to play the role they cast me in was already a welcomed breath of fresh air. Maybe this was exactly the opportunity I needed to put Rhys and the past behind me and figure out who I was and what the hell I wanted once and for all.
The server came by and set down our drinks and two menus on the table. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” he asked. “The carrot ginger soup with curried raisin relish is positively divine.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m more of an In-N-Out Burger kind of gal, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I motioned for the server to come a bit closer to the table. “Hey, can you ask Frank if he can whip up two Plum Specials?”
The server winked at me. “You got it.”
“Plum Specials?” Kate asked.
I lowered my voice so no other patrons could hear me. “I’m not really a fan of the organic, whole grain, dairy-free, vegan fare around these parts. Frank, one of the chefs, keeps some real food on hand for me. I ordered us two burgers with crispy bacon and a side of fries.”
“Bless you,” she whispered back. “Oh, can we get a glass or two of your house white?” she called out to the waiter.
“Don’t do the white,” I instructed and turned to him. “We’ll take the house red.” He nodded and shuffled off. As soon as he was out of earshot, I leaned in to Kate and admitted, “Even though it seems like anything with the EVERLY logo slapped on it is an instant bestseller, the white wine’s still a bit of a work in progress. Dad’s been interviewing for a new vintner.”
Kate and I talked for the next three hours. She told me about how she dreamed of a career in the entertainment industry since she was a little girl in Appleton, Wisconsin. She confessed to watching EVERLYday religiously as a kid, even telling her parents she wanted to change her name to Clementine and join our family.
Kate was a few years older than me, closer to Pear’s age. After studying filmmaking at the University of Southern California and working her way up the ladder, she started out as Sofia Coppola’s personal assistant and eventually stepped out on her own in the cutthroat world of TV and film development. She admitted that joining a no-name network like Tributary was a risky career move but that she was positively determined to make a go of it, knowing that if she did, the opportunities in the entertainment industry would be boundless.
I don’t know what it was exactly, maybe her candor, the fact it felt like we had so much more than our similar looks in common, or the two bottles of EVERLY Cabernet we’d polished off, but I found myself opening up to her more than I planned.
“You’ve got to be shitting me! He leaked it?! So it wasn’t a hacker after all . . .” Kate shook her head while tsking in disgust, poured the last of our bottle of Cabernet into my glass, and then nudged the glass closer supportively.
“He claims he did it for us. For both of us. To help ignite our careers and break us out of the perfect Everly mold.”
“Well, if that isn’t the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. Certainly didn’t hurt his career, that’s for damn sure.”
I was surprised when hot tears flooded the corners of my eyes, and I sniffed them back before they could fall. “I . . . I just can’t be another joke. This time it has to be different.”
Kate reached across the table and covered my hands with her own. “I absolutely understand. Go to Maubec. Do Heart Restoration Project. Get away from the noise and the paparazzi flashes and let us capture who you truly are. And the best part of all, you get to write your own ending.”
“Heart Restoration Project? Is that the name of the show?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
Kate reached into her tote and placed a copy of the contract on the table. “It’s a working title. We’re still focus-grouping it. I’m sure it will change. Let me know if you have any ideas?”
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was being hired just for my notoriety or the Everly name. Kate seemed to see something in me beyond the spotlight and family expectations. She believed in my potential, and while there was something new and exciting about that belief, there was also something utterly terrifying about it. What if the “real me” wasn’t enough?
I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the contract. “Kate, I appreciate your offer more than I can express,” I began, my voice filled with gratitude. “But I need some time to think about it. It’s a big decision, and I need to be sure.”
Kate smiled warmly. “Of course, take all the time you need. This is about your journey, and I want you to feel completely comfortable. But why don’t you hold on to this copy of the contract, have your people look it over. I sent it through DocuSign just before I got here,” she said, sliding the documents toward me. “Take as long as you need, we’ll wait.”
After Kate headed back to LA, I set out through the orchard for the whitewashed barn my father converted into a small winery about three years ago. While all my sisters had their own talent, brand, and passion, this little gem was his. Dad had always had an insatiable interest in wine and started to dabble in winemaking before really deciding to launch his little pet project.
He figured the property in Ojai, with its Mediterranean climate offering mild, wet winters and warm, dry summers, was conducive to growing a wide variety of grapes that could remain on the vines to ripen for the perfect amount of time because of the temperate seasons. The predictability of the weather and the overall seasonality of the region provided the necessary warmth and sunlight during the growing season and cooler temperatures in the evening, which, according to Dad, helped the grapes develop more complex flavors.
He was most proud of his EVERLY Cabernet, which was bold and complex, offering a rich blend of dark fruit flavors, like blackberry and cassis, combined with layers of complexity, including oak, earthy tones, and spices. The white wines, however, were still a bit of a work in progress, as Dad would say (and my taste buds agreed). Almost four years and many vintages later, sadly, the winery had yet to produce a white wine worth labeling.
Dad rounded the corner, and when he saw me, he called out, “Hey, Plumkin, wanna help me crate this Merlot shipment? I could really use the extra hand.”
I had always loved the nickname my dad had for me, a perfectly charming term of affection. That was until the media took to calling me “Plumpkin” during a particularly rough time I had managing my weight during my teen years. My dad’s version was sweet, but I couldn’t help but internally cringe a little at the reminder of its harsher, less endearing denotation from my past.
I grabbed a few wooden boxes from the pile and carried them over to him. “I already had lunch, but feel free to put me to work.”
