by Juniper Hart
Now, however, it appeared as though Arden was not teetering on the edge of insanity. Instead, it seemed he had a clandestine hussy who he wanted to hide.
Shari had made the call to Arden’s personal cell phone on sheer instinct, and she grinned to herself, realizing her journalistic instincts were still intact. No one had sought Arden for a while, and that was often the best time to look again; when everyone had forgotten about a seemingly cold celebrity. Sure, his agent Malik Williams still received calls for the popular actor daily, but Arden’s personal cell had not been scouted since he had left Los Angeles—until Shari had put out the call to locate.
I bet she’s underage… or a prostitute, she wagered with herself, almost rubbing her hands together in evil elation. If there is a God, she might be both! Shari could not wait to find out.
The phone rang again.
“Hi, Ivan,” she answered. She listened, scrawling the tech’s information onto a pad of legal paper with a red pen. “Thanks, honey. You have my cell number, right? Call me if the location changes at all.” With that, she replaced the receiver and ripped the paper, memorizing the address. “87565 Shearer Crescent, Apple Orchard, British Columbia,” Shari murmured aloud, blinking at the obscure address, still trying to put the pieces together.
There was nothing she could do by sitting there, staring at the paper on her desk. If she wanted the story, she would have to go get it.
“Okay,” Shari chuckled, grabbing her purse from the desk. “See you soon, Gena!”
3
“Are you sure you checked the car, Mal?” Arden asked, pulling the sofa cushions out of their place for the third time.
“I’m sure. I checked it as many times as you have checked the couch. It’s not there,” Malik grunted in exasperation, barely hiding his annoyance.
“Well, call it again!” Arden demanded. “I had it this morning, I’m sure, but that was before I went into town.”
“It’s ringing,” Malik told him, holding his own phone to his ear. “But it keeps going to voicemail.”
“Well, that was truly stupid of me,” Arden muttered, flopping back onto the furniture with a sigh. “I liked that phone.”
“You just bought it when we got to this Godforsaken town. How much stuff could you possibly have had in it? Just get everything back from the cloud and be done with it.”
“I know that, and it’s not about the stuff on the phone. You’re right. I hadn’t even had a chance to take pictures yet.”
Malik eyed him and shook his head mockingly. “This may come as a shock to you, Arden, but you can probably afford to buy another one… well, at least for now.”
Arden ignored the implication that he was headed to the poor house. Anyway, that wasn’t the point. He had lived long enough to know that money was fleeting, just like fame and happiness.
Some of it more fleeting than any of us realize. This is just going to get worse, Arden thought grimly, his chiseled jaw clenching. All of it.
“Don’t look so pained,” Malik ordered. “It might still turn up. Someone might pick it up and return it. The one good thing about this hellhole is that people are probably honest.”
Arden cringed at the thought, imaging a flock of reporters overtaking his newly purchased farm. Hopefully it’s in a gutter somewhere, he thought optimistically. The last thing he wanted was a mob of paparazzi invading his personal space. Exposure like that attracted attention of the Council, and they had yet to know anything about this. And I intend to keep it my secret from Theo as long as I can.
“Want a drink?” Malik asked him. Arden shook his head. His agent headed toward the bar and popped open a new bottle of Tanqueray. Arden waited, sensing that he was in for another lecture. Malik poured the clear liquid into a glass and took a sip, smacking his full lips appreciatively before turning his almost black eyes on his client. “Arden, we’ve been here for three weeks. Please tell me that you have a plan of sorts,” he started. Arden nodded with more enthusiasm than he was feeling.
“I’m glad you asked, Mal, because I do!” he agreed, and Malik appeared relieved. He smiled, his brilliant white teeth a stunning contrast to his eggplant colored skin.
“Good, because I was starting to worry about you,” he told Arden. “When are we getting the hell out of here?”
“We’re not,” Arden informed him. “Or at least, I’m not. I’m going into early retirement.”
Shocked, Malik dropped the crystal glass from his unusually large hand, and the piece shattered against the Calamander wood. Arden had taken great care to prepare the farmhouse to his standards. The floors had been redone, the walls freshly painted, and any of the antique wood refinished. The house had a Hollywood-meets-Louisiana-plantation feel, and it still belonged in any celebrity magazine.
Hearing the noise, the housekeeper rushed into the room, duster posed for action.
“What happened?” Shawna demanded, staring at the mess on the floor. Malik waved her away.
“Later,” he commanded. “Come back later.”
She looked helplessly at her boss, but Arden shrugged and nodded.
“Give us a few minutes, Shawna,” he said, although Arden could read the naked desire to clean in her brown eyes.
“I promise, the exact same mess will be here in fifteen minutes, Shawna,” Malik told her mockingly. She frowned slightly and left the room. “What is going on with you lately, Arden?” he questioned Arden, flopping onto a suede chair and peering at him suspiciously. “You are the hottest thing in Hollywood right now, and you’re considering throwing it all away because, what, you need a vacation? You know you need to embrace these lucrative opportunities as they arise. Playing Hollywood actor isn’t something you’re going to be able to do again for at least another century or two. Think about your future.”
“I am,” the actor replied, settling back against the cushions. The stench of gin was stinging his eyes, and a wave of nausea floated through him. “And it is not a consideration. I am retiring. There is no better time than the present. People will still remember me as a good actor,” Arden explained. “The time to retire is not when you’re scraping by for jobs.”
Malik laughed with relief, understanding flowing through his raven colored eyes. “Is this about what I said before? I was exaggerating to scare you. It’s an agent trick to motivate you! You’re still the most sought-after actor in LA! You’re not hurting for jobs. I get calls for you all the time, Arden.”
“I have no illusions about where I stand in the Hollywood hierarchy, Mal. It’s not about that.”
“Are you worried because of the last couple movies? Who cares if the critics didn’t like them, brother? The public still goes, and they are always number one at the box office! When was the last time you liked any movie that the critics did?”
“I’ve decided, Mal,” Arden said with finality. “It’s time for you to find another star.”
Malik shook his head in disbelief, the words shaking him at his core. He had not planned for such a stunning blow. He stared at Arden, his inky eyes meeting his client’s green irises, but what he saw was a core of steel.
He’s serious. He is not going to change his mind, Malik realized. I’m going to have to do something to change it for him.
Arden’s words had been devastating only because, for once in his eternal life, the bear was finally doing something worthwhile. Arden had the luxury of picking and choosing his careers, having been at the game a lot longer than Malik, but the tall agent had never known such fortune. And he had no intention of giving up the golden goose. Malik had no idea from where this about-face had come. They had gone to British Columbia on a vacation, or so Malik had thought until it had become evident that was not what was happening at all.
“Arden, you cannot hang out here forever!” Malik had cried in protest, pacing the room. He threw up his perfectly manicured hands as if the world was collapsing around his head and glared at his client. Arden ignored the man’s histrionics and continued to channel surf, like
Malik himself was but an annoying commercial on cable television.
“What are there, like five hundred channels on this thing? And there is not a damn thing worth watching,” Arden commented, ignoring his agent’s dark face turning an unhealthy shade of purple.
“Arden, what are you doing?” Malik implored, dropping to his knees. Arden arched a dark eyebrow and regarded him, a smirk on his face.
“Oh, Malik! I’ve waited so long for you to ask!” he cried, fanning himself quickly, as if he was tearing up like a Southern belle.
“Arden, stop being so flippant!” Malik roared.
“Only if you stop being such a ham! Those are thousand-dollar pants, and the cleaning lady hasn’t washed these floors in weeks,” Arden pointed out, gesturing at the floors.
“Please stop making jokes and talk to me,” Malik tried again. “I am your ally, Arden. I am trying to understand what is going on.”
Arden sighed heavily and reluctantly faced the tall, African American man. “I already told you, Mal, I am taking a break. I’m tired.”
“So am I!” he snapped back, jumping to his feet. “But you don’t see me hibernating in the middle of nowhere like a tryptophan induced bear, do you?” Malik scowled as he realized there were marks against the knees of his black pants.
“I warned you,” Arden told him, shaking his head knowingly. “Even if you can’t see the dust bunny, you can’t escape the dust bunny.”
Malik ignored his jest and frowned. “Arden, you could not have picked a worse time to ‘take a break.’ You’re losing your exclusivity. The offers are not coming in like they used to. This is the time to hustle, not hide!”
“I resent the fact that you just used air quotes, Mal,” Arden said, turning his attention back to the television. “You’re showing your age.”
Malik grunted, aware that his tactics were not getting him anywhere with his client. He switched maneuvers. “Okay, fine, I get it. You’re getting burnt out. It happens to all of us. You need a little break. I can arrange for that, but here, Arden? You can’t stay here.”
“What’s wrong with here? It’s quaint and quiet. No one here has recognized me yet. I can go to the store without being hounded by paparazzi like horse carcass among buzzards. I like this small-town atmosphere.”
“Be realistic, Arden. Let’s at least go back to LA. You can check into a spa for a couple of weeks, and I can put out a press release saying that you’re—”
“No. I am not going anywhere,” Arden interjected. “Get that out of your head.”
Howling like a feral coyote, Malik pounded his fists against his thighs. He had forgotten his new plan to maintain his composure.
“How long are you going to be here?” he finally asked after a moment of deep, meditative breathing. Arden shrugged.
“As long as it takes,” he answered enigmatically.
“As long as what takes?” Malik’s yoga breaths were short lived, his frustration mounting once more. Arden turned his dark head slightly to the side so his agent was unable to see the expression on his face.
“Malik, you are welcome to return to the hellhole of Los Angeles without me. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
Malik sighed, his full lips parting in resignation. “Yep. In Apple Orchard, British Columbia—where old people come to die.”
Malik’s mind replayed that afternoon over and over, trying to make sense of what was causing Arden’s sudden changes. True, he hadn’t known the bear as long as some, but Malik couldn’t help feeling there was something Arden wasn’t telling him, something important.
He is just confused right now. Having a crisis of faith. It happens to all the big shots at some point, especially the ones who come from nowhere. Give him a few days to breathe, and then you can talk to him again. Meanwhile, you better go back to LA and clean up the mess he left behind. Maybe it’s a blessing that he’s ducking out. After that stunt he pulled, he may already be a pariah.
In retrospect, Malik acknowledged that his only client had been acting strangely for the past few months. He had chalked it up to stress, but when he had walked out on his contract for the new Terrible Two movie, Malik recognized a more serious matter was at hand.
He's having the bear equivalent of a midlife crisis, Malik realized as he packed his bag. He would head back to Los Angeles in a few days and give Arden some time to himself. He hasn’t been alone in years, he thought, smiling smugly. Once he gets a taste of too much solitude, he’ll change his mind. Or maybe the quiet will do him good, and he’ll have a clear head. He just needs some time to think and breathe.
As he closed the suitcase, he tried to ignore the voice in his head asking him if he truly believed that.
That went really well, Gena told herself as she walked away from the hospital. Or I think that went really well, at least. She had managed to get to the nurse’s station and speak to the head of intensive care before noon, as she intended. The woman had been impressed with her resume and qualifications, leaving Gena with a good feeling as she strolled the two miles back home.
She optimistically thought about the excellent benefits and the better pay. Perhaps she could even buy a car so she wouldn’t fall flat on her face after her twelve-hour shifts.
Her fatalistic side kicked in, silencing the moment of elation she was feeling. She shouldn’t count her chickens before they hatched. Surely there are others vying for that job, too, others with way more experience than a hospice nurse. She should have applied at the funeral home as backup.
Sighing, her morose mood swept back in, and she found herself dragging her feet as she walked up Shearer Crescent. She felt inexplicably heavy all of a sudden. Pausing in front of the rickety wooden steps of her house, she reached into her purse to pull out her keys.
But what if you do get it? a hopeful voice chirped in her ear. That would be perfect. After you get a bit of experience working in a hospital under your belt, you can save up some money and finally skip out of this town, maybe see the world like you’ve always wanted. You could take a vacation, maybe even out of British Columbia. Imagine that! Going somewhere where you aren’t recognized the second you walk out the front door.
As if on cue, someone called her name. “Gena Averson?”
She raised her head and was immediately shocked as a camera took aim at her face. “What—?”
“Miss Averson, is he here now?” A too thin woman with scarlet red hair appeared from behind the camera lens, causing Gena to step back. Her lips were painted crimson, and her face was a pale, pinched mask of wax.
“Who?” Gena demanded, blinking in confusion. The redhead smiled mirthlessly, revealing a set of porcelain veneers.
“Oh, no need to play coy, Miss Averson. We spoke on the phone earlier today. My name is Shari Jespers, and I write for the Los Angeles Physique. May I come in?” She was already shuffling toward the entrance, but Gena put herself directly in the center to stop her from treading further.
“No, you may not. I have no idea who you are or who you think I am, but you have the wrong person,” Gena told her sharply. The reporter blinked and then laughed.
“I have to say, you are much more innocent looking than I expected, but I didn’t think you would be dumb. I guess my instinct was off.”
Gena bristled and narrowed her eyes at the woman. “Lady, get the hell off my property,” she snapped. “Before I call the cops.”
Shari’s fake smile did not falter, though she shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself. I do have one question for you; what are you doing with Arden Morrow’s cell phone?”
Gena did not answer, instead whirling around to enter her house. Slamming the door in Shari Jespers’ smug face, she locked the deadbolt behind her and leaned against the solid frame, her heart racing as she tried to make sense of what she had just been told.
Did she just say I have Arden Morrow’s cell phone?
4
“Hello?” Gena barely opened her eyes to answer the ringing telephone on the nightstand.
She could inherently tell that it was too early for human contact, even without looking at the time.
“Gena Averson?” came a nasally voice on the other end of the phone.
“Yes,” she replied slowly, her lids parting slightly. Her golden-green pupils began to constrict as she recognized it was still dark outside her window, dawn trying to break through the black night. The alarm clock read the time to be five-twenty in the morning. She immediately thought of the plastic surgery-laden redhead who had accosted her at the front door the previous evening and tensed.
Oh, someone better be dead, she thought angrily. Because if someone isn’t dead and this is that woman again, she is going to be. Consternation settled in as Gena suddenly realized that someone might be dead. Oh, God, is it Chad? she wondered. Does he have me listed as his emergency contact somewhere? It could be!
“Who is this?” she demanded, her heart racing. She no longer knew what to think.
“This is Susan Barkley at Hodgeson Memorial Hospital. I am sorry to call you so early, but I was hoping you could come in this morning at ten o’clock. We have decided to hire you on a probationary basis, if you are still interested in accepting the position in the intensive care unit.”
All remnants of sleep dissipated from Gena’s foggy brain, and she bolted up in bed.
“Yes! Of course I will be there,” she babbled. “Thank you so much!”
“Ten o’clock then,” Nurse Barkley reiterated. “Intensive care nurse’s station.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you!” Gena disconnected the call and jumped out of the bed to splash cold water on her face. Inside the bathroom, she grinned at her reflection.
Okay, so maybe things aren’t so bad, she told herself. I may actually be able to pay rent this month. That’s a start. She waited for the cynical voice to bring her down a notch, but it did not speak to her this time. Her solemn eyes peered back at her, and Gena examined her reflection for a moment.