Free Enchanted August by Brenda Bowen

the first movie that stars were cast as much on their schedules as on their talent.
    But still. She was something else. The sex scene in that Judd Apatow film wasn’t even his favorite. He liked her best in her most recent movie. And after that mess-up at the Oscars she’d dropped out of sight. Maybe a mindless thriller was exactly what she needed next. He could still revise the manuscript some more before it had to go to Random House. He checked the word count at the bottom of the draft he was working on: 93,467. Could any more of those words be about her?
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Caroline Dester came to Hopewell Cottage to be alone in the company of no one she knew, yet even here she was unquiet. Tall Rose and the big-eyed Lottie had been put out about the room, of course, as she’d known they would be. She’d heard them pointedly leaving the cottage after they’d made their discoveries. Now she’d been left with Beverly Fisher. At least he wouldn’t bother her.
    Caroline made the most of it. She took a shower before she’d heard any signs of Mr. Fisher’s being up and about. There was nothing quite like an outdoor shower, and this one was new and had been thoughtfully installed. Then she changed into a scrap of a bikini, since she was fairly sure there were no paparazzi within shooting distance: she had paid the money-grubbing photographers more not to take photos than the papers could pay to take them.
    She lay in the sun, which was still low in the sky, and contemplated her life, something she rarely took time to do. She needed to take stock. So far, everything she had done had sprung from the luck of her face. She had made no decisions herself about her destiny. It was not vain to say she was too beautiful to do anything but be a movie star; it was simply the truth. Now that she had been pilloried online she was a different kind of star, the kind who was a pariah. She couldn’t ride it out like Jennifer Lawrence would have done. Even the follow-up on the late-night shows fell flat.
    Now she’d give up on Oscar-bait roles and just bring in money. She’d take the role in that dumb thriller opposite whoever played the hero role this time. She’d be huge in China.
    This old wicker chaise was surprisingly comfortable. She stretched her arms overhead. She wanted so much to think about something other than herself. What was going on in the world these days, anyway? Nothing much came. She was a blank. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out with the waves.
    The hard crack of a hammer—
bang bang
, pause,
bang
—woke her. Where was it coming from? The roof? Was there someone up above her? She felt sick to her stomach: if it was a ploy of the press, she’d swim off this island.
Bang
, pause,
bang-a bang bang
.
    It was really infuriating. The irregular crack of the hammer was bad enough, but the echo of its impact through the trees and off the rocks was really too much. She wanted to get up and yell at the hammerer to stop but steadied herself by clenching every muscle.
    Bang-a bang bang
, pause. Was it over?
Bang.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she yelled over the porch railing. She cursed her voice for never having the edge she wanted it to have. Why did everything she said sound as if it were said with an invitation?
    â€œHammerin’,” said a voice from below.
    Caroline looked down. Standing there in baggy cargo shorts, a Rotary club T-shirt, and impressively large work boots was the young man who had taken Beverly and her over in the ferry the other day. Not such a teenager, in fact. He scowled at her. She smiled the smile that her directors adored but could so seldom coax out of her. On a twenty-two-year-old—from Maine, yet—it would have its ineluctable effect. It did not.
    â€œCould I possibly ask you to stop hammering?” she said.
    â€œYou could ask,” he replied.
    Very funny. Caroline was a little chagrined at his