by Nora Roberts
inside. But when he replaced a box, it went neatly into its space.
In a few hours he would begin to beg his mother to let him open one—just one—present tonight, on Christmas Eve. That, too, was tradition. She would refuse. He would cajole. She would pretend reluctance. He would persuade. And this year, she thought, at last, they would celebrate their Christmas in a real home. Not in an apartment in downtown Manhattan, but a house, a home, with a yard made for snowmen, a big kitchen designed for baking cookies. She’d so badly needed to be able to give him all this. She hoped it helped to make up for not being able to give him a father.
Turning from the window, she began to wander around the room. A small, delicate-looking woman in an oversize flannel shirt and baggy jeans, she always dressed comfortably in private to rest from being the scrupulously groomed, coolly professional public woman. Julia Summers prided herself on the image she presented to publishers, television audiences, the celebrities she interviewed. She was pleased by her skill in interviews, finding out what she needed to know about others while they learned very little about her.
Her press kit informed anyone who wanted to know that she had grown up in Philadelphia, an only child of two successful lawyers. It granted the information that she had attended Brown University, and that she was a single parent. It listed her professional accomplishments, her awards. But it didn’t speak of the hell she had lived through in the three years before her parents had divorced, or the fact that she had brought her son into the world alone at age eighteen. There was no mention of the grief she had felt when she had lost her mother, then her father within two years of each other in her mid-twenties.
Though she had never made a secret of it, it was far from common knowledge that she had been adopted when she was six weeks old, and that nearly eighteen years to the day after had given birth to a baby boy whose father was listed on the birth certificate as unknown.
Julia didn’t consider the omissions lies—though, of course, she had known the name of Brandon’s father. The simple fact was, she was too smooth an interviewer to be trapped into revealing anything she didn’t wish to reveal.
And, amused by being able so often to crack façades, she enjoyed being the public Ms. Summers who wore her dark blond hair in a sleek French twist, who chose trim, elegant suits in jewel tones, who could appear on Donahue or Carson or Oprah to tout a new book without showing a trace of the hot, sick nerves that lived inside the public package.
When she came home, she wanted only to be Julia. Brandon’s mother. A woman who liked cooking her son’s dinner, dusting furniture, planning a garden. Making a home was her most vital work and writing made it possible.
Now, as she waited for her son to come bursting in the door to tell her all about sledding with the neighbors, she thought of the offer her agent had just called her about. It had come out of the blue.
Eve Benedict.
Still pacing restlessly, Julia picked up and replaced knickknacks, plumped pillows on the sofa, rearranged magazines. The living room was a lived-in mess that was more her doing than Brandon’s. As she fiddled with the position of a vase of dried flowers or the angle of a china dish, she stepped over kicked-off shoes, ignored a basket of laundry yet to be folded. And considered.
Eve Benedict. The name ran through her head like magic. This was not merely a celebrity, but a woman who had earned the right to be called star. Her talent and her temperament were as well known and as well respected as her face. A face, Julia thought, that had graced movie screens for almost fifty years, in over a hundred films. Two Oscars, a Tony, four husbands— those were only a few of the awards that lined her trophy case. She had known the Hollywood of Bogart and Gable; she had survived, even triumphed, in the days when the studio system gave way to the accountants.
After nearly fifty years in the spotlight, this would be Benedict’s first authorized biography. Certainly it was the first time the star had contacted an author and offered her complete cooperation. With strings, Julia reminded herself, and sunk onto the couch. It was those strings that had forced her to tell her agent to stall.
She heard the kitchen door slam and smiled. No, there was really only one reason she hesitated to grab that golden ring. And he’d just come home.
“Mom!”
“Coming.” She started down the hall, wondering if she should mention the offer right away, or wait until after the holidays. It never occurred to her to make the decision herself, then tell Brandon. She stepped into the kitchen, then stood grinning. A step over the doorsill was a mound of snow with dark, excited eyes. “Did you walk or roll home?”
“It was great.” Brandon was struggling manfully with his plaid muffler that was knotted and wet around his neck. “We had the toboggan and Will’s older brother gave it a really big push. Lisa Cohen screamed and screamed the whole way. When we fell off she cried. And her snot froze.”
“Sounds lovely.” Julia crouched to work out the mangled knot.
“I went—pow!—right into a snowbank.” Icy snow flew as he slammed his gloved hands together. “It was great.”
She couldn’t insult him by asking if he was hurt. Obviously he was just dandy. But she didn’t care for the picture of him flying off a toboggan and into a snowbank. Knowing she would have enjoyed the sensation herself kept her from making the maternal noises that tickled her throat. Julia managed to undo the knot, then went to put on a kettle for hot chocolate while Brandon struggled out of his parka.
When she looked back, he had hung up the dripping parka—he was much quicker about such things than she—and was reaching for a cookie from the wicker basket set out on the kitchen counter. His hair was wet, and was dark, deer-hide blond like hers. Again, like his mother, he was small in stature, something she knew bothered him a great deal. He had a lean little face that had shed its baby fat early. A stubborn chin—again his mother’s son. But his eyes, unlike her cool gray, were a rich brandy brown. His only apparent legacy from his father.
“Two,” she said automatically. “Dinner’s in a couple of hours.”
Brandon bit the head off a reindeer and wondered how soon he could talk her into letting him open a present. He could smell the spaghetti sauce that was bubbling on the stove. The rich, tangy scent pleased him, almost as much as it pleased him to lick the colored sugar from his lips. They always had spaghetti on Christmas Eve. Because it was his favorite.
This year they would have Christmas in their new house, but he knew exactly what would happen, and when. They would have dinner—in the dining room because tonight was special—then they would do the dishes. His mother would put music on, and they would play games in front of the fire. Later they would take turns filling the stockings.
He knew there wasn’t a real Santa Claus, and it didn’t bother him very much. It was fun to pretend to be Santa. By the time the stockings were filled, he would have talked his mother into letting him open a present. He knew just the one he wanted tonight. The one that was wrapped in silver and green paper, and rattled. He desperately hoped it was an Erector set.
He began to dream of the morning when he would wake his mother before the sun came out. How they would come downstairs, turn on the tree lights, put on the music, and open presents.
“It’s an awful long time till morning,” he began when she set the mug of chocolate on the counter. “Maybe we could open all our presents tonight. Lots of people do, then you don’t have to get up so early.”
“Oh, I don’t mind getting up early.” Julia leaned her elbows on the counter and smiled at him. It was a sharp, challenging smile. The game, they both knew, was on. “But if you’d rather, you can sleep late, and we’ll open presents at noon.”
“It’s better when it’s dark. It’s getting dark now.”
“So it is.” Reaching over, she brushed the hair away from his eyes. “I love you, Brandon.”
He shifted in his seat. It wasn’t the way the game was played. “Okay.”
She had to laugh. Skirting the
counter, she took the stool beside his, wrapped her stocking feet around the rungs. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. I got a call from Ann a little while ago.”
Brandon knew Ann was his mother’s agent, and that the talk would be about work. “Are you going on tour again?”
“No. Not right now. It’s about a new book. There’s a woman in California, a very big star, who wants me to write her authorized biography.”
Brandon shrugged. His mother had already written two books about movie stars. Old people. Not neat ones like Arnold Schwarzenegger or Harrison Ford. “Okay.”
“But it’s a little complicated. The woman—Eve Benedict— is a big star. I have some of her movies on tape.”
The name meant nothing. He slurped chocolate. It left a frothy brown line above his lip. A young man’s first mustache. “Those dumb black and white ones?”
“Some of them are black and white, not all of them. The thing is, to write the book, we’d have to go to California.”
He looked up then, his eyes wary. “We have to move away?”
“No.” Eyes sober, she put her hands on his shoulders. She understood how much home meant to him. He’d been uprooted enough in his ten years, and she would never do it to him again. “No, we wouldn’t move, but we’d have to go there and stay for a few months.” “Like a visit?”
“A long one. That’s why we have to think about it. You’d have to go to school there for a while, and I know you’re just getting used to being here. So it’s something we both have to think about.”
“Why can’t she come here?”
Julia smiled. “Because she’s the star and I’m not, kiddo. One of her stipulations is that I come to her and stay until the first draft is finished. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” She looked away, out the kitchen window. The snow had stopped, and night was falling. “California’s a long way from here.”
“But we’d come back?”
How like him to cut to the bottom line. “Yeah, we’d come back. This is home now. For keeps.” “Could we go to Disneyland?”
Surprised and amused, she looked back at her son. “Sure.”
“Can I meet Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
With a laugh, Julia lowered her brow to him. “I don’t know. We could ask.”
“Okay.” Satisfied, Brandon finished off his hot chocolate.
It was okay, Julia told herself as the plane made its final approach into LAX. The house had been closed up, the arrangements had been made. Her agent and Eve Benedict’s had phoned and faxed each other continually over the last three weeks. Right now Brandon was bouncing in his seat, impatient for the plane to land.
There was nothing to worry about. But, of course, she knew that she made a science out of worrying. She was biting her nails again, and she was annoyed to have ruined her manicure—especially since she hated the whole process of manicures, the soaking and filing, the agony of indecision over the right shade of polish. Lucious Lilac or Fuchsia Delight. As usual, she’d settled on two coats of clear. Boring but noncommittal.
She caught herself gnawing what was left of her thumbnail and linked her fingers tightly in her lap. Christ, now she was thinking of nail polish like wine. A flirty but substantial shade.
Were they ever going to land?
She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, then pulled them down again while Brandon stared wide-eyed through the window. At least she’d managed not to pass on her terror of flying.
She let out a long, quiet breath, and her fingers relaxed fractionally as the plane touched down. You lived through another one, Jules, she told herself before she let her head fall back against the seat. Now all she had to do was survive the initial interview with Eve the Great, make a temporary home in the star’s guest house, see that Brandon adjusted to his new school, and earn a living.
Not such a big deal, she thought, clipping open her compact to see if she had any color left in her cheeks. She touched up her lipstick, dusted her nose with powder. If there was one thing she was skilled at, it was disguising nerves. Eve Benedict would see nothing but confidence.
As the plane glided to a stop at the gate, Julia took a Tums out of her jacket pocket. “Here we go, kid,” she said to Brandon with a wink. “Ready or not.”
He hefted his gym bag, she her briefcase. Hands linked, they deplaned, and even before they stepped through the gate, a man in a dark uniform and cap approached. “Ms. Summers?”
Julia drew Brandon a fraction closer. “Yes?”
“I’m Lyle, Miss Benedict’s driver. I’ll take you directly to the estate. Your luggage will be delivered.”
He was no more than thirty, Julia judged as she nodded. And built like a linebacker. There was enough swagger in his hips to make the discreet uniform a joke. He led them through the terminal while Brandon dragged his heels and tried to see everything at once.
The car was waiting at the curb. Car, Julia thought, was a poor term for the mile-long, gleaming white stretch limo.
“Wow,” Brandon said under his breath. Mother and son rolled their eyes at each other and giggled as they settled in. The interior smelled of roses, leather, lingering perfume. “It has a TV and everything,” Brandon whispered. “Wait till I tell the guys.”
“Welcome to Hollywood,” Julia said and, ignoring the chilling champagne, poured them both a celebratory Pepsi. She toasted Brandon gravely, then grinned. “Here’s mud in your eye, sport.”
He chattered all the way, about the palm trees, the skateboarders, the proposed trip to Disneyland. It helped soothe her. She let him switch on the television, but nixed the idea of using the phone. By the time they cruised into Beverly Hills, he’d decided that being a chauffeur was a pretty good job.
“Some people would say that having one’s even better.”
“Nah, cause then you never get to drive.”
And it was as simple as that, she thought. Her work with celebrities had already shown her that fame exacted a heavy price. One of them, she decided while she slipped off a shoe and let her foot sink into the deep carpet, was having a chauffeur who was built like a bodyguard.
The next price became apparent as they drove along a high stone wall to an ornate, and very thick iron gate, where a guard, again in uniform, peered out of the window of a small stone hut. After a long buzz, the gate opened slowly, even majestically. And the locks clicked tight behind them. Locked in and locked out, Julia thought.
The grounds were exquisite, graced with lovely old trees and trimmed shrubs that would flower early in the mild climate. A peacock strutted on the lawn, and his hen sent up a scream like a woman. Julia chuckled when Brandon’s mouth fell open.
There was a pond dotted with lily pads. Over it arched a fanciful walking bridge. They had left behind, only hours before, the snow and frigid winds of the Northeast and come to paradise. Eve’s Eden. She had stepped out of a Currier and Ives print into a Dali painting.
Then the house rose into view, and she was as speechless as her son. Like the car, it was glistening white, three graceful stories in an “E” shape, with lovely shaded courtyards between the bars. The house was as feminine, timeless, elaborate as the woman who owned it. Curved windows and archways softened its lines without detracting from its aura of strength. Balconies, their iron work as delicate as white lace, draped the upper stories. In vivid contrast, trellised flowers in bold colors of scarlet, sapphire, purple, and saffron sliced arrogantly up the white, white walls.
When Lyle opened the door, Julia was struck by the silence. No sound from the world outside the high walls penetrated here. No car engines, belching buses, or squealing tires would have dared to intrude. There was only birdsong, and the seductive whisper of the breeze through fragrant leaves, the tinkle of water from a fountain in the courtyard. Above, the sky was a dreamy blue trimmed with a few powder-puff clouds.
Again she had the dislocated feeling of walking into a painting.
“Your luggage will be delivered to the guest house, Ms. Summe
rs,” Lyle told her. He had examined her in the rearview mirror during the long drive, speculating about the best ways to interest her in a quick tussle in his room over the garage. “Miss Benedict asked that I bring you here, first.”
She didn’t encourage or discourage the gleam in his eye. “Thank you.” Julia looked at the curving apron of white marble steps, then tucked her son’s hand in hers.
Inside, Eve stepped away from the window. She had wanted to see them first. Had needed to. Julia was more delicate-looking in person than she’d been led to expect from the photographs she’d seen. The young woman had excellent taste in clothes. The trim strawberry-colored suit and subtle jewelry she wore met with Eve’s approval. As did the posture.
And the boy … the boy had had a sweet face and an air of suppressed energy. He would do, she told herself, and closed her eyes. They would both do very well.
Opening her eyes again, she moved to her nightstand. In the drawer were the pills only she and her doctor knew she needed. There was also a crudely printed note on cheap paper.
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.
As a threat, Eve found it laughable. And encouraging. She hadn’t yet begun the book, and already people were sweating. The fact that it could have come from several sources only made the game more interesting. Her rules, she thought. The power was in her hands. It was long past time she used it.
She poured water from the Baccarat carafe—swallowed the medication, hated the weakness. After replacing the pills, she walked to a long silver-framed mirror. She had to stop wondering if she was making a mistake. She didn’t care to second-guess herself once a decision had been made. Not now. Not ever.
With careful, brutally honest eyes, she checked her own reflection. The emerald-toned silk jump suit was flattering. She had done her own makeup and hair only an hour before. Gold glinted at her ears, her throat, her fingers. Assured she looked every bit the star, she started downstairs. She would, as always, make an entrance.