by Adele Buck
“To…what?” More nudity?
“I don’t see that there’s any need for the skin, frankly. The guys in the suits like it, but they’re guys in suits.” Laura laughed, but it had a hollow sound. “Emphasis on guys. I’ve already gone ten rounds with a bunch of male executives who talk about how naked women are empowered and strong because they’re not wearing a stitch. But before I go all in on this, I want to make sure that’s in line with your vision of the character. So, what do you think? If you want to do it, we can shoot it as written. Otherwise, I have a final conference call with L.A. later today and I’m going to try one last time to get it taken out.”
Alicia blinked. “This…was not the conversation I thought we were going to have.”
Laura chuckled. “You thought I was going to push for more?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Well, I won’t. What do you want, Alicia?”
“So,” Russell said, lowering himself to a bar stool. “What’s your plan?”
“What plan?” Colin scrubbed his hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. It felt strangely short and bristly at the back.
“Your plan to get Alicia back.” Russell grinned his thanks at the bartender and tipped his head back, taking a long swallow of beer.
Colin looked at his friend for a long moment. “Russ. Have you recently struck your head and suffered memory loss? I already told you I needed to give her space.”
“Yeah, I heard you. How much space have you given her so far?”
Colin counted back. “A little over a week.”
“Now’s when you need to make sure she knows you still want her.”
Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Colin took a sip of beer. “And you know this because…?”
“Because one of my sisters went through this kind of give some space, think about it, sort-of-but-not-really-a-breakup. And it was about a week in that she called me crying.” His voice rose, imitating a woman. “Russell, what if he’s relieved? What if he doesn’t want me?”
Colin grimaced. “I can’t imagine Alicia having a crisis of confidence like that.”
“Maybe she won’t. But would it hurt to reach out and let her know you’re still hoping it can work out? It’s not a lot to do. Based on how jacked up you were in the gym, I'd bet you would do a lot more than that to get her to consider coming back.”
Sighing, Colin nodded. “I’d do practically anything. It’s awful.”
“So…let her know.”
“I can’t do that without contacting her. That’s the opposite of giving her space,” Colin groused.
“Think outside the box. Go old-school,” Russell said, canting his beer bottle slightly and shrugging.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Write the woman an actual letter on paper, with a pen and everything. Mail it to her house. That’s still personal, but it’s also removed. Less pressure. Besides, it’s a romantic gesture. Chicks dig those.”
Colin thought for a moment, fingers running across his mouth. “I’ll think about it.”
Alicia stared at Laura. “What…what do I want?”
Laura shrugged. “Yeah. Do you want to do the nude scene as is? Because if you do, then I’ll keep my powder dry with the suits. If you agree with the whole naked empowerment thing, I won’t argue with you. Each woman has to decide for herself, you know?”
We could have never had that argument. I would still be blissfully ignorant and maybe have woken up next to him this morning.
Alicia’s fingers curled into her palms and her nails dug in. This shouldn’t change anything: he was still practically from a different plane of existence, and she would have come to the same conclusion sooner or later. And yet she yearned for the alternate timeline where she had had more time, more talk, more sex, more of the entire package that was Colin. She shook her head, exhaling. She wasn’t making any sense. That was why she had left when she had. The more time, the more attached she would be, the harder it would be to re-knit herself back together after they inevitably tore apart.
“Well?” Laura was still looking at her, cool intelligence in her gaze.
“I’d rather not do it, to be honest. I agree with you. It seems there to titillate, no matter how much the guys in L.A. might want to dress it up as some sort of reverse empowerment thing.”
Laura leaned back, slapping her thighs with her palms. “Yeah. Let’s put it this way: when a woman feels empowered by showing skin? I buy it. When a man makes that decision for her? I call bullshit.” She rose to her feet. “I can’t guarantee that I’ll win this fight, but I feel better about taking it on knowing that we see things the same way.”
“Thanks for asking, Laura. I appreciate it.” Alicia also stood as the other woman left the trailer. When the door closed and she was alone again, she sank back into her chair and picked up her phone. Oh great. An e-mail from Susan.
To: Alicia Johnson
From: Susan Vernon
Subject: Television, huh?
Congrats, I guess, on the TV gig. If that’s the way you really want to go with your career. It’s one thing to have done the occasional Law & Order guest spot—everybody did those back in the day. But a long-term role? You really think that’s going to polish your résumé?
Leave it to Susan to hit her there. The very thing she had accused Colin of being capable of in the sculpture garden. Something he had not, in fact, done. A sharp blade of longing twisted in her chest, and the hot tears she had been suppressing for so long trickled down her face, her breath heaving in increasingly gusty sobs.
Chapter 20
Back in her apartment that evening, Alicia sat on the sofa and put her throbbing feet up. A half-read library book lay on the table, but she was in no mood.
Instead, she opened her iPad and flipped through an acquaintance’s vacation photos on social media. But the sandy beach, blue sky, and bluer water weren’t distracting enough. Colin’s voice nagged at the back of her mind.
I was with someone who you would have said was ‘from my world.’
Not for the first time, a dull, burning curiosity crept through her.
Fine. What the hell. She was already miserable.
She opened a web browser and typed out a search. A series of thumbnail photographs lined the top of the results page. Even in the tiny images, Colin’s strong features and broad shoulders made her breath catch in her throat.
I shouldn’t do this.
Her finger came up and tapped the first image as if she were a marionette controlled by some all-powerful puppeteer. The link took her to a Washington society magazine’s website. The full-size image made her stomach twist. Next to Colin was a petite woman with a heart-shaped face and long, dark hair. Alicia could see something of Mrs. Lloyd-Hudson in her delicate cheekbones. A deep purple silk evening gown hugged her curvy figure. Colin’s tuxedo fit smoothly across his shoulders, not a hair too tight as it had been the night of the gala. They looked polished and cultured. The text underneath made Alicia’s stomach wrench even harder. Tressa Lloyd-Hudson and Colin St. Cyr at the Pediatric Cancer Society Ball.
She should stop here. Knowing more was only going to hurt more.
Alicia opened a new tab and ran another search.
Colin was putting some final touches on the marketing pitch to the potential new client when an incoming Skype alert popped and purred on his computer screen. Sighing when he saw who it was, he clicked to answer it, and his sister’s face filled the screen.
“Evening, Gemma. Why are you up so late?”
“Why are you still at work?” she said.
“It’s only six here. Which makes it midnight for you.”
“As if that’s late for me. It’s Friday. Simon tells me you have a lady friend. Why aren’t you getting ready to take her out?”
He was going to tear his older brother a new one. “Had. Past tense. She broke up with me over a week ago.”
Gemma’s large, dark eyes narrowed. “So not the same
trouble as the last one, then?”
“It’s good to know you haven’t learned tact. Never change, Gem.”
His sister waved a hand, bracelets chiming as they slid down her wrist. “Tact is for strangers, not family.”
“Speaking of strangers, why are you calling me now?”
“Dad says he hasn’t been able to get you on the phone. I wanted to check in…and because, unlike him, I use modern technology, I can see when you’re online.”
“Sneaky. What a very good daughter you are.”
“I’m serious. He gets lonely. He wants you to come home—and I know, you’re not moving back.” Her hand flew up again, obscuring most of her face as she held it in front of her computer’s camera. She peeked around her fingers. “But it’s been a long time since you’ve been home. I think it’s past time for a visit. Besides. This came in the post.” She waggled a wrapped parcel at the camera. “Turns out you’re a good brother after all.”
Colin suppressed a smile. “As if I would forget your birthday, Gem.”
Gemma had the package unwrapped in an instant, and her face went slack with shock. “A first edition?”
Heat crawled up Colin’s neck. “I saw it in the window of a shop. I thought you would appreciate it.”
His sister’s eyes, large and liquid, swiveled to meet his, an ocean away. She petted the cover of the book. “You’re officially the best brother ever.”
“I know I am. Simon doesn’t have a chance.”
“I wasn’t finished. You’re the best if you come home for a visit.”
Colin leaned back, the leather of his office chair squeaking. Gemma was on her sofa. He could see the corner of an unfamiliar painting on the wall behind her. “Did you get some new art?”
She scowled, her chin-length hair swinging forward as she ducked her face at the screen. “Don’t change the subject. Are you this obvious when you’re trying to get those American parliamentarians to do the things you want them to do?”
Rubbing his face, Colin shook his head. “No, I have a far easier time with them. You know me too well.”
Gemma inhaled sharply. “Anyway. A visit. Think about it. Dad might put it badly, but he misses you. He’s not getting any younger.”
“Feel free to bring out the heavy guilt artillery.” He considered the congressional calendar. Maybe he could get away for a week or so. It would be nice to get out of the heat for once.
“I’ll do whatever I please.”
He suppressed the desire to stick his tongue out at her. “Still the same sister who sat on my head.”
“You were a pill.”
“I was five.”
“So, by definition, a pill. A visit. Think about it.”
Colin rubbed his face, his resistance crumbling at the edges. “I will.”
It wasn’t like there was anything—or anyone—keeping him from doing exactly what he wanted to do. If he really wanted to visit home. And now that he was thinking about it, the idea of going home—for a visit only—sounded oddly comforting.
The thought sat like lead in his brain.
Enough. Alicia put her iPad on the coffee table and lay back on the couch. Society photographs had led to Facebook posts and Tressa Lloyd-Hudson’s LinkedIn page and other media mentions of her.
She was a high-end professional party planner. Her father was Colin’s boss. She was a Southern belle who had attended finishing schools and gone to cotillions and had been in a sorority at an Ivy League college.
Of course she had.
With each new bit of information, a slow, throbbing ache grew in Alicia’s head. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Her phone buzzed with a text message. Alicia groaned and picked it up.
When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? The text from Kathleen was accompanied by a selfie of her and Wendy, apparently in a bar. They snarled, lips curled and eyes distorted, pointing to the space between them as if to indicate that Alicia should be there, the absent third of Macbeth’s witches.
While Alicia tried to think of a response, another message popped up. Girl. We miss you. Celebrating my new gig. How’s the glamorous life? There was another selfie attached—Kathleen was typically, well, Kathleen. Her eyes were fixed on the camera, but her tongue was sticking sideways as if she was about to put it in Wendy’s ear. Wendy’s eyes were closed tight, grimacing as if she knew what Kathleen was up to and couldn’t bear to look.
Alicia’s thumbs tapped the screen. Glamorous? The shoes are hell. Do you know a nice foot doctor? One who makes house calls?
A pause, then three dots pulsing. What happened to Mr. Sexy Lobbyist? Doesn’t he make house calls to give you foot rubs?
The headache tightened its grip, a band of pain around her forehead.
That’s over. She laid the phone on her belly and stared up at the ceiling of her apartment. The phone buzzed again, startling her. Kathleen was calling this time.
“Are you okay?” Kathleen’s voice was almost unintelligible against the background hubbub of the bar. Then the noise cut out, replaced by the softer sound of vehicle traffic. She must have stepped outside.
“I’m…coping. How’s your new gig?”
“Shut the front door with that. What happened?”
Alicia covered her eyes with one hand. “It’s complicated.”
“You want to come out? Meet us? We’re at a new place at the Navy Yard.”
“That’s sweet. But no, I don’t think I can cope with that many people.”
“How about we bring the party to you?” Kathleen’s voice was soft, concerned.
Alicia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m no fun right now.”
“You don’t have to be fun. We can have a pity party.”
Wendy’s voice said something in the background and then she came on the phone. “Alicia, do we have to kick that guy’s ass?” If Alicia hadn’t been so miserable, she would have laughed out loud at the normally quiet, calm Wendy threatening to go all Captain Marvel and fight on her behalf.
“No. I broke up with him. Do you need to kick my ass now?”
“What did he do to you?” There was a pause, then a muffled sound. “Never mind, Kathleen says we’re on our way over.”
Alicia examined her automatic reflex to say no, to be on her own. But she missed Wendy and Kathleen in a way she didn’t know how to resist. “Okay. I don’t have any food in the house, though. If you haven’t eaten, you’re going to starve.”
“Leave all that to us. We’ll be over in less than an hour. And Alicia?”
“Yeah?”
“Hang in there.”
Colin set his takeout container on the countertop and fetched a fork from a drawer. Sitting on a stool, he opened the container and started to shovel lasagna into his mouth.
Too low even to cook. That’s new.
He glanced around the kitchen. A glass was on the counter, unsorted mail beside it. Finishing the lasagna, he threw away the container and dropped the fork in the sink. So many things he couldn’t be bothered with just now. He would tidy up later.
With dragging steps, he went up to his bedroom and changed out of his suit into shorts and a tee shirt. He didn’t want to go running. He didn’t want to do anything.
Enough. Stop wallowing, you miserable berk.
Coming to a decision, he moved to the tiny bedroom he had repurposed as an office at the front of the house. Digging through his desk, he found an old box of stationery, opened it, and pulled out a sheet. He looked at the blank page for a few moments before uncapping his fountain pen.
Dear Alicia,
He stared out the window, tapping the heavy pen against his lips.
“You’ve brought an entire grocery store to my house,” Alicia said, looking at Kathleen and Wendy on her doorstep. Each of them had two plastic grocery bags. The neck of a bottle was sticking out of the tote bag hanging from Kathleen’s shoulder.
Kathleen shrugged, brushing a kiss on Alicia’s cheek as she walked past her in
to the apartment. “We didn’t know what kind of girl you are when it comes to misery. So, we brought all the things.”
“All the things?” Alicia said as she closed the door after Wendy.
“Cute place,” Kathleen said, heading straight for the little kitchen. “Yes. All the things.” She placed the bags on the counter and reached into her tote, pulling out the bottle. “Whiskey.” She put it on the counter and delved into the grocery bags. “Ice cream, several flavors. Potato chips. Chocolate.”
Wendy followed suit. “Red wine. Popcorn, Oreo cookies, pudding, and boxed macaroni and cheese.”
Alicia blinked. “That’s…quite the recipe. Straight out of a bad Nancy Meyers movie.”
“It’s a fucking cliché, but comfort food brings comfort for a reason,” Kathleen said. “So, what’s your poison?”
Alicia considered the array of high-calorie items spread across her countertop and thought about the nude scene that she still might have to shoot.
Fuck it.
“I guess…red wine and chocolate chocolate-chunk ice cream.”
“The lady has excellent taste,” Kathleen said. “Where’s your corkscrew?”
Colin pushed back from his desk with a frustrated snort and paced around the little room. “‘Write her a letter,’ he said. ‘It’ll be easy,’ he said. I’m not Mr. bloody Darcy, Russell.” He glanced back at the desk. He had, at least, gotten marginally more intelligent and stopped using the good stationery after his first attempt. The subsequent drafts on pages from a yellow legal pad nearly covered the wooden surface.
Striking the right balance was impossible. He wanted her to know how bereft he was without her, how much he missed her. At the same time, he didn’t want her to feel he was pressuring her. He had to make sure she knew he hadn’t decided in the intervening time that her conclusions about their respective backgrounds were correct. That he still had hope. That they still had a connection.