“If Beale Street Could Talk,” he goes on. “His Girl Friday.”

I soften involuntarily. “That’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?” He looks at me intently. Leans in an inch, and rumbles in a deep voice that would give Cary Grant a run for his money, “What did I treat you like, a water buffalo?”

A slow smile creeps across my face. “You’ve seen it.”

“I’ve seen them all. I love movies very, very much.”

“Me, too.”

He smiles back, and inexplicable goose bumps begin to rise on the back of my neck. But the moment snaps when I hear the screen door to the Watson house creak open.

“One last thing.” I stare deeply into his eyes, words firm. “No. Autographs. Don’t ask for autographs from anyone. If somebody offers an autograph, it’s a trap. Don’t touch any memorabilia. Show zero interest in anything rare or expensive. If Grandma offers to let you touch her Golden Globe, it’s a trap. It’s become a game to spot a user. Everyone in there is going to be watching you like an eagle.”

Hall looks unnerved. “Erm. Okay.”

We reach the porch, where my parents are lingering in the doorway, watching us curiously. Mom’s looking prettier than ever, corn silk hair in a French braid, teardrop pearls in her ears, wide-set blue eyes giving her the appearance of one who’s viewing her surroundings for the very first time and is quite taken by it all. Dad’s hair has gone fully silver but is still impressively thick, hairline young, the color rather dashing against his tan and his arctic-blue eyes. He’s wearing something between a smirk and a smile, a pained expression he defaults to whenever he doesn’t like what’s happening. I didn’t tell them I’d be bringing a guest. I get so nervous that I forget to help Hall with the bags, and Hall’s so nervous that he forgets them, too, so they’re scattered all over the walkway now.

“Honey! I’m so glad you made it. How was your flight?” Mom peers over my shoulder, scanning the driveway. “Your rental car okay? No speeding tickets? Where’d you park?”

I look behind me, too, as though a car might appear that I could claim. A car has in fact appeared: instead of the pickup, Hall’s conjured a bright red limousine, its front right wheel close to hitting a coffin (Grandma took it from the set of her campy ’70s movie Tango with Nosferatu).

Dad stares. “Don’t tell me that’s yours.”

“Is that yours?” Mom adds, smiling meaningfully at Hall.

“Um, yes. That’s . . . this guy’s with me!” I manage a high laugh.

“How exciting! How long have you two been together? Bettie, you never mentioned you had a boyfriend.” She tries to hide it, but I can tell she’s hurt by this.

“He’s . . . shy.”

Hall sweeps my mother off her feet in a strong bear hug, and she gasps. “I am so happy to be meeting you.” Then he does the same to my dad, whose eyes bulge. “This is wonderful! You’re both so good-looking.” Dad isn’t the touchy-feely sort. A gentleman suppresses his emotions.