Hollywood and Vine - 20. Chapter 20

Johnny stepped out of the limousine first, and waited for Sam once he was out he closed the door. He paused at the edge of the walkway, the cool night air brushing against his face. Violet gave a small wave from the passenger seat, her heels dangling from one hand. “You boys take care,” she said, her voice warm with something more than farewell.

Johnny nodded. “Thanks for the ride, Violet.”

Sam joined him, the two of them standing side by side in the quiet. The porch was still, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a passing car. The late‑summer light caught the satin lapels of Johnny’s tuxedo, casting a muted gleam across his chest. Sam’s tux was crisp and tailored, the bow tie slightly askew from the long day. They were overdressed for cardboard boxes and bare walls, but perfectly dressed for the moment—the kind of moment that deserved ceremony.

Johnny reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the key. He walked to the door, entered the house alarm code with practiced ease, and tapped the Night setting. A soft chime confirmed the system was armed, and the house seemed to exhale around them—secure, quiet, theirs.

He turned toward Sam, the weight of the key still warm in his palm, and took him gently into his arms. The fabric of their jackets whispered against each other, a hush of silk and wool. Sam’s breath slowed, his hands resting lightly on Johnny’s shoulders, fingertips grazing the edge of a boutonnière that had begun to wilt.

“I used to think home was something you found,” Johnny said, voice low and reverent. “But maybe it’s something you build—moment by moment.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. He leaned in, forehead to forehead, tuxedo to tuxedo, the formality of their dress contrasting with the intimacy of the gesture. The porch light flicked on behind them, catching the faint shimmer of cufflinks and the soft crease at the corner of Johnny’s eye.

Inside, the hallway was dim, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. Johnny walked to the icebox, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of sparkling water. He handed one to Sam, then took one for himself, the cool glass grounding them in the quiet of their new beginning.

Johnny took another sip, then set the bottle down on the counter with a soft clink. The house was quiet around them, still echoing with the hush of newness. Sam stood nearby, his gaze drifting over the boxes, the bare walls, the faint outline of where a couch might go.

Then he turned back to Johnny, voice low but clear. “Thank you,” he said. “For including me in the next film.”

Johnny looked up, surprised by the sincerity in Sam’s tone. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” Sam said, stepping closer. “It’s not just the work. It’s being part of something that matters—with you.

Johnny’s expression softened. “You’ve always been part of it, Sam. From the first scene to this one.”

Sam smiled, the kind that starts slow and stays. “Still. It means something. To be chosen. To be trusted.”

Johnny reached out, brushing a bit of lint from Sam’s lapel. “You’re not just trusted. You’re essential.”

They stood there for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. Then Johnny gestured toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s sit for a minute.”

They moved together, settling onto the sofa. Johnny stretched his legs out, the tuxedo wrinkling slightly at the knees. Sam leaned into his shoulder, the bottle resting loosely in his hand.

Outside, the porch light glowed. Inside, the two of them sat in the quiet—tuxedos and bare feet, sparkling water and soft laughter. The house was still empty, but the space was full—with promise, with presence, with the kind of beginning that doesn’t need fanfare to feel profound.

Without a word, Johnny reached back and flicked the porch light off. The glow that had framed them moments ago vanished, leaving the entryway bathed in the muted hush of twilight. It was a small gesture, but it felt ceremonial—like closing the curtain on one act and stepping into another.

Inside, the air was cool and still, tinged with the scent of fresh paint and possibility. The walls were bare, the rooms echoing with silence, but the space didn’t feel empty. It felt expectant. Sam loosened his bow tie, the fabric slipping through his fingers with a sigh, while Johnny shrugged off his jacket and draped it carefully over the banister, as if even now, care mattered.

They didn’t speak. The tuxedos, the quiet, the flick of the light—it was all part of the ritual. This was the beginning of something built not just with bricks and beams, but with gestures, glances, and the kind of silence that holds meaning.

Johnny ran a hand along the kitchen counter, fingertips grazing the edge as if testing its readiness. “Feels like it’s waiting for us,” he said softly. “Like it already knows the rhythm we’ll bring.”

Sam stepped closer, his voice low. “And maybe it’s not the walls or the view. Maybe it’s the way you look at me when we cross the threshold.”

Johnny turned, the corners of his mouth lifting. “That’s what makes it home."

Sam kissed Johnny softly, a quiet affirmation more than a spark. It wasn’t hurried or dramatic—it was grounding, like placing a hand on the earth and knowing it will hold. “I feel it too,” he murmured. “We best get to bed—we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

He took Johnny’s hand, their fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice, and led him up the stairs. The house creaked beneath them, not ominous but alive, as if acknowledging their presence. In the hallway, they moved slowly, unbuttoning jackets, slipping out of tuxedos with deliberate care. Each piece was folded and hung with reverence, not just for the fabric but for the day it had witnessed.

In the bedroom, the light was soft—just the glow from a single lamp on the dresser, casting long shadows across the hardwood. The bed was made, though barely; a folded quilt at the foot, two pillows stacked neatly, waiting. Johnny stepped out of his shoes, lining them up beside Sam’s with quiet precision. Sam peeled off his socks, then reached for the folded blanket, shaking it out with a practiced flick.

They moved around each other in silence, the choreography of long companionship. Johnny dimmed the lamp. Sam pulled back the covers. The room settled with them, as if exhaling.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels like we’ve been heading here for a long time.”

Sam joined him, their shoulders touching. “We have. But tonight… it’s ours. No cameras. No scripts. Just this.”

Johnny turned, his voice barely above a whisper. “And tomorrow, we build.”

Sam nodded, then leaned in, resting his head briefly against Johnny’s shoulder. “Together.”

They lay down side by side, the quilt pulled up over them, the hush of the house wrapping around their breath. Outside, the porch light remained off. Inside, the rhythm of their hearts began to sync with the quiet pulse of home.

The first light of morning slipped through the curtains, pale and quiet, brushing across the rumpled covers. Johnny stirred first, feeling the warmth of Sam’s shoulder under his cheek, the slow rhythm of his breathing steady and grounding. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he let the moment settle around him—the hush of the house, the faint creak of wood, the scent of jasmine still lingering in the sheets.

Outside, the world was beginning to stir. A bird called once, then again. Somewhere down the street, a car door closed, muffled by distance. But inside, time held its breath.

Johnny lifted his head gently, careful not to wake Sam, and looked around the room. The tuxedos still hung neatly on the back of the door, their lines softened by sleep. The sparkling water bottles sat half‑finished on the nightstand, catching the morning light in quiet glints. A single sock lay forgotten near the foot of the bed.

He reached for his phone—not to check messages, but to capture the moment. The way the light fell across Sam’s shoulder, the curve of his back, the quiet of the room. It wasn’t for sharing. It was for remembering.

Sam stirred then, eyes blinking open slowly. “Morning,” he murmured, voice wrapped in sleep.

Johnny smiled. “Morning.”

Sam stretched, the motion lazy and unguarded, then turned toward Johnny, resting a hand on his chest. “Did we really dream all that?”

Johnny nodded. “Every room lit. Every voice familiar. You rinsing glasses beside me like we’d done it a hundred times.”

Sam chuckled softly. “Feels like we already have.”

They lay there a little longer, letting the light grow around them. No rush. No script. Just the quiet unfolding of a day that belonged entirely to them.

Johnnys bare feet meeting cool floorboards. “Coffee?”

Sam grinned. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Johnny padded down the hallway, the house greeting him with soft creaks and golden light. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle, set out two mugs, and opened the cabinet to find the tin of coffee they’d tucked away the night before. The ritual was simple, but it felt like a vow.

He moved slowly, deliberately measuring grounds, pouring water, waiting for the scent to rise. When Sam joined him, hair tousled, shirt loose over his frame, Johnny handed him a mug and leaned against the counter.

“First morning in the new house,” Johnny said.

Sam looked around. “Feels like it’s already lived in.”

Johnny nodded. “Because it is. We dreamed it full.”

They stood there for a while, sipping coffee in silence, watching the light shift across the floor. The boxes waited patiently in the corners, unopened but not forgotten. A stack of scripts sat on the kitchen table, untouched since the move. Johnny reached for one, flipping it open absently, then closed it again.

“Not yet,” he said.

Sam smiled. “No rush.”

Instead, they moved through the house slowly, barefoot and quiet, touching walls, opening windows, letting the morning air drift in. Johnny paused in the living room, running a hand along the mantle. Sam opened a box labeled Books, pulling out a worn copy of The Collected Poems of Rilke and setting it gently on the shelf.

Each act was small, but it mattered. A mug placed just so. A photo leaned against the wall. A blanket folded and draped over the arm of the couch. The house was beginning to remember them.

By noon, the sun had warmed the porch. Johnny stepped outside, coffee in hand, and sat on the top step. Sam joined him, their shoulders brushing, the quiet stretching between them like a shared breath.

“We’re really here,” Johnny said.

Sam nodded. “And it’s ours.”

They didn’t need to say more. The house, the morning, the rhythm of unpacking—it was all part of the story now. Not just the one they’d tell on screen, but the one they were living, moment by moment.

They headed back upstairs the bath await them.

Steam curled around them in the bathroom, softening the edges of the morning. Under the steady warmth of the water, they moved with quiet care—hands lingering not out of urgency, but out of the simple pleasure of tending to one another. A kiss here, a shared smile there, the kind that deepens without words. The sound of the shower was a cocoon, shutting out the rest of the world.

When they stepped out, the mirror was fogged, their hair damp, their movements unhurried. They dressed side by side, the rustle of fabric and the faint scent of soap following them as they made their way downstairs.

In the kitchen, the light was brighter now, spilling across the counter in wide, golden bands. Johnny reached for the kettle while Sam opened the same First Morning box from the day before, pulling out the mugs with a satisfied hum.

“Feels different today,” Sam said, setting the mugs down.

Johnny glanced at him, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Feels like ours.”

Sam nodded, leaning against the counter as the water began to boil. “Moment by moment,” he said softly.

Johnny groaned softly but reached for his hand. “Always coffee.”

They dressed slowly, pulling on shirts and padding barefoot down the stairs. The tuxedos hung neatly where they’d left them, silent witnesses to the night before.

In the kitchen, sunlight pooled across the counter. Johnny filled the kettle while Sam opened a box marked Kitchen – First Morning, pulling out two mismatched mugs.

“Found ’em,” Sam said, holding them up like a small victory.

Johnny grinned. “Perfect. They look like they’ve been waiting for us.”

The scent of coffee soon curled into the air. They leaned against the counter, sipping in companionable silence until Sam spoke again.

“You know,” he said, glancing toward the window, “this place already feels like ours.”

Johnny nodded, eyes soft. “That’s because it is. Moment by moment, remember?”

Sam’s smile deepened. “Yeah. Moment by moment.”

On the counter, beside the two mugs they’d just set down, lay a neatly folded newspaper. The maid must have placed it there earlier, knowing exactly where they’d see it. The ink still smelled faintly fresh.

Sam reached for it, sliding it closer. The headline stretched across the front page: Grand Opening Draws Crowds — A Night to Remember. Beneath it, a photograph caught them mid‑laugh, tuxedos sharp under the glow of string lights, champagne flutes in hand.

Johnny leaned over his shoulder, smiling. “They made it sound like we were hosting the Oscars.”

Sam chuckled, tracing the edge of the photo. “Felt like it, didn’t it? All those people, all that energy… and then just us, here.”

Johnny’s gaze drifted lower on the page. “Look—reviews.”

Sam scanned the column, his smile widening. Fragments of Fire was being hailed as “a masterclass in emotional storytelling” by Christopher Llewellyn Reed of Film Festival Today, “a rare blend of spectacle and soul” according to Sam Wigley in Sight & Sound, and “a blazing debut that will be remembered for years” from the Los Angeles Times. One critic from The New York Times called it “a triumph of craft and heart,” while Variety praised it as “the kind of film that lingers long after the credits roll.”

Johnny exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief. “They really loved it.”

Sam folded the paper neatly, setting it aside. “I told you they would. But it’s nice to see it in print.”

The kettle clicked softly as it cooled, the house settling around them. Outside, the day was waiting, but for now, they lingered—two mugs, a headline, glowing praise, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing they’d begun something worth remembering.

They were halfway through their coffee when the phone rang, its sharp trill cutting through the quiet kitchen. Johnny set his mug down and reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

Violet’s voice burst through, bright and breathless. “Hi, Johnny—have you seen the reviews in the paper?”

Johnny blinked, still holding the morning’s images in his mind. “I have,” he said, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “It’s… it’s a huge success, Violet. We’re going to be rich.”

Sam looked up from his mug, eyebrows lifting at the words. Johnny met his gaze, a slow smile spreading as if the reality was only just beginning to sink in.

On the other end of the line, Violet laughed, the sound fizzing with triumph. “I told you, didn’t I? This is just the beginning. And don’t forget—you’re coming to dinner here tomorrow at five p.m. It’s going to be a BBQ by the swimming pool.”

Johnny’s smile widened. “Wouldn’t miss it." She said.

"What’s your favorite drink, Violet?”

“Gin and tonic,” she replied without hesitation. “Plenty of lime. And make it the good gin, Johnny.”

He chuckled, glancing at Sam as he cradled the phone. “Consider it done. And I’ll bring your appetite too.”

The house came with a state‑of‑the‑art stereo system, its sleek controls tucked neatly into the wall and wired to speakers both inside and out. Johnny ran a hand over the polished panel, pressing a button just to hear the soft chime as the system came to life.

“Guess we won’t be needing mine anymore,” Sam said with a small smile, glancing toward the stack of boxes in the hallway.

Johnny nodded. “She’s beautiful, Sam—but this one’s built into the bones of the place.”

Together, they carried Sam’s old system out to the garage, setting it carefully in a corner where it would be safe until they decided what to do with it. The air in the garage was cooler, smelling faintly of cardboard and fresh lumber.

The garage stretched wide enough to swallow three cars with room to spare, its polished concrete floor gleaming faintly under the strip of daylight spilling in from the open door. Each bay had its own smooth, whisper‑quiet automatic door, the kind that rose in a single, fluid motion. The walls were finished in a clean eggshell white, broken only by sturdy shelving units and a pegboard neatly hung with tools—everything in its place, as if the space had been waiting for them.

Along one side, a built‑in workbench ran the length of the wall, its surface a warm, honey‑toned wood that contrasted with the cool gray of the floor. Overhead, recessed LED lighting cast an even glow, banishing shadows and making the space feel almost like an extension of the house rather than a separate utility area.

The phone rang Johnny answer it was the realtor and told him that the prior owners were sending a flatbed to pick up the car from the garage Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost it was the 1906 model. Johnny told them it was ok with him. He told Mary they would be coming to get the car.

At the far end, a tall storage cabinet stood beside a row of labeled bins, and in the corner, Sam’s old stereo system now rested—boxed, wrapped, and tucked away with care. The faint scent of fresh lumber and motor oil lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of new paint.

Outside, the driveway sloped gently toward the street, but from inside, the view framed the world like a wide, cinematic shot—ready for the next arrival, the next departure, the next chapter.

When they stepped back inside, Johnny tapped the stereo’s touchscreen again, and music drifted through the house—warm, rich, and effortless. A moment later, the same melody floated out to the patio, carried on the morning air.

Sam grinned. “Perfect for Violet’s poolside BBQ.”

Johnny raised his coffee mug in agreement. “And for every morning after this one.”

The late‑morning sun was already bright enough to make the asphalt shimmer as they stepped out of the house. The air carried that faint tang of warm concrete and distant cut grass. Sam locked the front door behind them, the soft click echoing in the quiet street, and they made their way down the drive toward his car.

Johnny had dressed with a kind of deliberate mischief—ball cap pulled low over his brow, dark glasses hiding his eyes, and a loud Hawaiian shirt that seemed to shout in every direction at once. The fabric was a riot of hibiscus blooms and palm fronds in reds, yellows, and greens, the sort of thing that could make him vanish into a beach crowd but stand out anywhere else.

Sam glanced at him as they walked. “You look like you’re going incognito… at a luau.”

Johnny smirked, adjusting the brim of his cap. “Exactly the point. No one’s looking for me in this get‑up.”

They reached the car—a sleek, well‑kept sedan that still smelled faintly of leather and Sam’s cologne when the doors opened. Johnny slid into the passenger seat, scanning the street out of habit before pulling the door shut. Sam started the engine, the low hum filling the cabin, and eased them out of the driveway.

The neighborhood rolled past in slow frames—neatly trimmed lawns, kids on bikes, a dog barking somewhere behind a fence. Johnny leaned back, one arm draped casually over the door, the Hawaiian shirt catching the light in bursts of color as they headed toward the long stretch of road that would take them into town.

Their first stop was the insurance company on Wood Street, just a short drive from home. The building was a modest brick structure with wide glass doors that reflected the late‑morning sun. Inside, the air was cool and faintly scented with paper and polished wood.

Mr. Jones, a neatly dressed man with silver‑rimmed glasses, met them at the front desk. “Mr. Day, Mr. Smith—welcome. Please, come into my office.”

They followed him down a short hallway into a tidy room lined with filing cabinets and framed certificates. Johnny removed his sunglasses, settling into the chair opposite the desk.

“We’d like to insure our house for a million dollars, please,” Johnny said.

Mr. Jones nodded, pulling a form from a drawer and setting it on the blotter. “Of course. I’ll just need your full names… Mr. Day and Mr. Smith.” He began to write, his pen moving in neat, deliberate strokes. Then he paused, looking up with a spark of recognition.

“Mr. Day—you’re the actor from the movie Fragments of Fire. I read about it in the paper this morning.”

Johnny laughed, shaking his head. “There’s no hiding it from you, is there?”

Mr. Jones smiled. “Not when you’re on the front page.”

Once the paperwork was complete, Johnny reached into his jacket, pulled out his checkbook, and carefully wrote the amount. He tore the check from the pad with a practiced motion and handed it across the desk. Mr. Jones slid a printed receipt toward him in return. Johnny tucked it neatly into his wallet, giving a small nod of satisfaction.

They headed toward the market, the kind of place that smelled faintly of fresh bread and ripe fruit even before you stepped inside. The automatic doors slid open to a rush of cool air, and Johnny tugged the brim of his cap a little lower.

“Ribeye first,” Sam said, steering the cart toward the butcher’s counter. Behind the glass, thick, marbled cuts of beef rested on beds of crushed ice, each one neatly labeled. The butcher, a broad‑shouldered man in a white apron, looked up with a smile.

“Morning, gentlemen. What can I get you?”

“Three of your best ribeye,” Sam replied. “Thick cut. We’ve got a BBQ tomorrow.”

The butcher wrapped the steaks in brown paper with practiced hands, sliding them across the counter. “These’ll do you proud.”

They moved on, picking up a few other essentials—fresh herbs, a loaf of crusty bread, a basket of late‑summer peaches. At the liquor aisle, Johnny scanned the shelves until he spotted the gin Violet had mentioned. He took down a bottle of the good stuff, the glass cool in his hand.

“Plenty of lime at home?” Sam asked.

Johnny grinned. “We’ll make sure of it.”

At the checkout, the cashier glanced at Johnny, then at the folded newspaper tucked under his arm. “You’re in that movie, aren’t you? Fragments of Fire?”

Johnny laughed softly. “Seems like everyone’s read that paper today.”

Bags in hand, they stepped back into the sunlight, the ribeye's, gin, and the rest of their haul promising a dinner worth remembering. Mary had helped them carry the groceries into the house. "They came for that car while you were out." she smiled. Johnny "Thanks Mary for letting them in."

When the last of the groceries were put away—the ribeye's chilling in the icebox, the gin tucked neatly into the cabinet—Johnny wiped his hands on a dish towel and reached for the phone.

“I’m thinking we celebrate tonight,” he said over his shoulder to Sam, who was arranging the peaches in a bowl on the counter.

“Celebrate how?” Sam asked, though the faint smile on his face suggested he already knew.

By the end of the day, they had ether had empty the boxes or put them in the garage.