by Nora Roberts
But Brandon was already racing through the back door onto the terrace. He wore an orange neon cap backward, baggy jeans, a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and scuffed high-tops. His grin all but split his grubby face.
“I shot two baskets in gym,” he announced.
“My hero.”
She was reaching for him, and Paul watched her change yet again. There was no cool elegance, no frazzled vulnerability, but pure warmth. It was in her eyes, in her smile as she slid an arm around her son’s shoulders. She drew him to her side. The subtle body language said quite clearly: He’s mine.
“Brandon, this is Mr. Winthrop.”
“Lo.” Brandon grinned again, showing two gaps in his teeth.
“What position did you play?”
Brandon’s eyes lit up at the question. “Point guard. I’m not very tall, but I’m fast.”
“I’ve got a hoop at home. You’ll have to come over and show me your moves sometime.”
“Yeah?” Brandon all but danced in place while he looked up to his mother for approval. “Can I?”
“We’ll see.” She tugged on his cap. “Homework?”
“Just some vocabulary and some dumb long division.” Both of which he felt duty bound to put off until the last possible minute. “Can I have a drink?”
“I’ll get it.”
“This is for you.” Brandon dug an envelope out of his pocket, then turned back to Paul. “Do you ever get to go and watch the Lakers and stuff?”
“Now and again.”
Julia left them to their talk of points scored and games lost. She filled a glass with ice the way Brandon liked it, then added juice. Though it annoyed her, she filled a second for Paul and added a plate of cookies. The rudeness she would have preferred to serve wouldn’t set the right example for her son.
After setting the items on a tray, she glanced at the envelope she’d tossed on the counter. Her name was printed on it in big block letters. Frowning, she picked it up again. She’d assumed it was a report from Brandon’s teacher. After tearing it open, she read the short message and felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.
It was stupid. She read the words again, telling herself they were stupid, but the single sheet of paper shook in her hand. Who would send her such a message, and why? Was it some kind of warning, or threat? She stuffed the paper into her pocket. There was no reason such a silly, shopworn phrase should frighten her.
Giving herself a moment to settle, she lifted the tray and went back outside, where Paul was sitting again, regaling Brandon with some play by play of a Lakers game.
“We saw the Knicks once,” Brandon told him. “Mom doesn’t get it though. She’s pretty good with baseball,” he added by way of an apology.
Paul glanced up, and his smile faded the moment he saw Julia’s face. “Problem?”
“No. Two cookies, sport,” she said when Brandon lunged for the plate.
“Mr. Winthrop’s been to lots of games,” he told her as he stuffed the first cookie in his mouth. “He’s met Larry Bird and everything.”
“That’s nice.”
“She doesn’t know who that is,” Brandon said in a half whisper. He grinned, man to man, then washed down the cookie with juice. “She’s more into girl stuff.”
Out of the mouths of babes, Paul thought, he might get some answers. “Such as?”
“Well.” Brandon chose another cookie as he thought it over. “You know, old movies where people look at each other all the time. And flowers. She’s nuts for flowers.”
Julia smiled weakly. “Should I leave you gentlemen to your port and cigars?”
“It’s okay to like flowers if you’re a girl,” Brandon told her.
“My own little chauvinist.” She waited until he’d gulped the last of his juice. “Homework.”
“But couldn’t I—”
“Nope.”
“I hate stupid vocabulary.”
“And I hate math.” She flicked a finger down his nose. “Work on that first, then I’ll help you with the vocab.”
“Okay.” He knew if he talked her into letting it wait until after dinner, he’d lose out on TV. A guy couldn’t win. “See you,” he said to Paul.
“Sure.” Paul waited until the screen door slammed. “Nice kid.”
“Yes, he is. I’m sorry, but I have to go in and supervise.”
“It’ll keep a minute.” He rose. “What happened, Julia?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He put a hand under her chin to hold her still. His fingers were warm, firm, the tips roughened from work or some kind of male play. She had to fight back the urge to bolt. “With some people, everything they feel comes right out the eyes. Yours are scared. What is it?”
She didn’t like it at all that she wanted to tell him, wanted to share. For more than a decade she had handled her own problems. “Long division,” she said carelessly. “Scares the hell out of me.”
It surprised him just how keen his disappointment was, but he let his hand drop away. “All right. I don’t suppose you’ve got any reason to trust me at this point. Give me a call, we’ll set up that interview.”
“I will.”
When he walked back toward the main house, she lowered herself into a chair. She didn’t need help—his or anyone’s—because nothing was wrong. With steady fingers she took the crumpled paper out of her pocket, smoothed it, and read it again.
On a long breath she stood and began to load the tray. Depending on people was always a mistake—one she wouldn’t make. But she wished Paul Winthrop had found some other place to spend a lazy hour that afternoon.
While Brandon splashed in the tub upstairs, Julia poured herself a single, indulgent glass of wine from the bottle of Pouilly Fumé Eve had sent over. Since her hostess wanted her to be comfortable, Julia decided to oblige. But even as she drank the pale golden wine from a crystal glass, she worried about the paper in her pocket.
Had Paul left it for her? She stirred the idea around in her mind, then dismissed it. It was much too indirect a move for a man like Paul Winthrop. In any case, she hadn’t a clue how many people had cruised through those big iron gates that day, any one of whom could have dropped the envelope on the stoop.
And she didn’t know enough about the people who made their home inside those same iron gates.
Peering through the kitchen window, she could see the lights in the apartment atop the garage. Lyle, the broad-shouldered, slick-hipped chauffeur. Julia had sized him up immediately as a man who thought of himself as the stud of the West. Had he and Eve—No. Eve might indulge herself with men, but never with someone like Lyle.
Travers. The housekeeper skulked around, disapproval tightening her already-pinched mouth. There was no doubt she’d decided to dislike Julia on sight. And, since Julia doubted the woman objected to the scent of her perfume, it was obviously because of the job she’d come to do. Perhaps Travers had thought one cryptic, anonymous note would send her scurrying back to Connecticut. If so, Julia thought as she sipped her wine, the woman was doomed to disappointment.
Then there was Nina. Efficient and chic. Why would such a woman be content to subjugate her life to another? The background information Julia had collected on Nina was sparse. A fifteen-year veteran of Eve’s world, she was unmarried, childless. At dinner, she’d unobtrusively managed to keep the peace. Was she worried that the publication of Eve’s story would disrupt that peace irrevocably?
Even as Julia thought about her, she spotted Nina coming briskly along the path, carrying a large cardboard box.
Julia pushed the kitchen door open. “Special delivery?”
With a breathless laugh, Nina swung the box through the door. “I told you I was the pack mule.” She grunted a bit when she dropped the box onto the kitchen table. “Eve asked me to put this stuff together for you. Photos, clippings, studio stills. She thought it might be helpful.”
Instantly curious, Julia flipped open the top. “Oh,
yes!” Delighted, she held up an old publicity shot of Eve—sultry, smoldering, wrapped around a spearingly handsome Michael Torrent. She began to root through the box.
To Nina’s credit she winced only slightly as Julia destroyed all of her careful filing.
“This is wonderful.” Julia lifted out an ordinary snapshot, a bit faded, a bit worn around the edges. Her woman’s heart gave a lurch of excitement. “Oh, Christ, it’s Gable.”
“Yes, taken here, by the pool at one of Eve’s parties. That was right before he filmed The Misfits. Right before he died.”
“Tell her it’ll not only help the book, but provide me with enormous entertainment. I feel like a kid in a chocolate factory.”
“Then I’ll leave you to indulge.”
“Wait.” Julia forced herself to turn away from the box of goodies before Nina opened the door. “Do you have a few minutes?”
As a matter of habit, Nina checked her watch. “Of course. Do you want to go over some of the pictures with me?”
“No, actually, I’d like an interview. I’ll make it short,” she added hastily when she saw an evasive expression flicker on Nina’s face. “I know how busy you are, and I hate to take any of your time during working hours.” Julia smiled, congratulating herself. It was an inspiration to turn the situation around so that she was the one being inconvenienced. “I’ll go get my recorder. Please, pour yourself a glass of wine.” She hurried out, knowing she’d given Nina no time to agree or refuse.
When she came back, Nina had poured a glass, topped off Julia’s, and taken a seat. She smiled, a handsome woman used to juggling her time to suit someone else. “Eve asked me to cooperate, but to tell you the truth, Julia, I can’t think of a thing that would be of interest.”
“Leave that to me.” Julia opened her notebook, switched on the recorder. She recognized a reluctant subject. It only meant she would have to dig with a gentler hand. Keeping the tone light, she asked, “Nina, you must realize how fascinated people would be just to hear Eve Benedict’s daily routine. What she has for breakfast, the kind of music she prefers, if she snacks in front of the television at night. But I can find out a lot of that for myself and don’t want to take up your time with trivialities.”
Nina’s polite smile remained in place. “As I said, Eve asked me to cooperate.”
“I appreciate it. What I’d like from you are your thoughts about her as a person. As someone who’s worked closely with her for fifteen years, you probably know her better than almost anyone.”
“I’d like to think that we share a friendship as well as a working relationship.”
“Is it difficult to live and work in the same house with someone who, by her own definition, is demanding?”
“I’ve never found it difficult.” Nina cocked her head as she sipped her wine. “Challenging, certainly. Over the years Eve’s provided me with many challenges.”
“What would you say is the most memorable?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Nina laughed. “About five years ago, while she was filming Heat Wave, she decided she wanted to throw a party. That doesn’t sound unusual. Eve loves a party. But she’d been so enchanted by the location work in Nassau that she insisted the party be set on an island—and she wanted it to come off in two weeks.” The memory had her dropping the polite smile for a genuine one. “Have you ever tried to rent an entire island in the Caribbean, Julia?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“It has its complications—particularly if you want it to have any sort of modern conveniences such as shelter, electricity, plumbing. I managed to find one, a charming little spot about thirty-five miles off the coast of St. Thomas. We flew in generators, in case of tropical storms. Then, of course, there was the logistics of getting the food there, the drink, the china, silver, entertainment. Tables, chairs. Ice.” She closed her eyes. “Incredible amounts of ice.”
“How did you manage it.”
Nina’s eyes fluttered open. “By air and by sea. And by the skin of my teeth. I spent three days on the place myself, with carpenters—Eve wanted a couple of cabanas thrown up—with gardeners—she wanted a lusher, more tropical look—and with some very cranky caterers. It was … well, one of her most interesting ideas.”
Fascinated, letting the whole picture develop in her mind, Julia rested a hand on her chin. “So, how was the party?”
“A roaring success. Enough rum to float a battleship, native music—and Eve, looking like the island queen in a blue silk sarong.”
“Tell me something, how does one learn how to rent an island?”
“Trial and error. With Eve, you never know what to expect, so you prepare for everything. I’ve taken courses in law, accounting, decorating, real estate, and ballroom dancing—among others.”
“In all those courses, was there ever any that tempted you to go further, pursue another career?”
“No.” There wasn’t a hint of hesitation. “I’d never leave Eve.”
“How did you come to work for her?”
Nina looked down into her wine. Slowly, she circled her finger around the rim of the glass. “I know it may sound melodramatic, but Eve saved my life.”
“Literally?”
“Quite literally.” She moved her shoulders as if she were shrugging off any doubts about going on. “There aren’t many people who know about my background. I prefer to keep it quiet, but I know Eve’s determined to tell the full story. I guess it’s best if I tell you myself.”
“It usually is.”
“My mother was a weak woman, drifted from man to man. We had very little money, lived in rented rooms.”
“Your father?”
“He’d left us. I was quite young when she married again. A truck driver who was away as much as he was home. That turned out to be a blessing.” The pain in her voice ran deep. Nina began to clench and unclench her fingers on the stem of the glass, still watching the wine as if it might hold a secret. “Things were a little better financially, and it was all right … for a while … until I wasn’t so young anymore.” With an effort she raised her eyes. “I was thirteen when he raped me.”
“Oh, Nina.” Julia felt that icy pain, the kind a woman feels hearing the mention of rape. “I’m sorry.” Instinctively she reached out to take Nina’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I ran away a lot after that,” Nina continued, apparently finding comfort in the firm grip of Julia’s fingers. “The first couple of times I came back on my own.” She gave a wan smile. “No place to go. Other times, they brought me back.”
“Your mother?”
“Didn’t believe me. Didn’t care to believe me. It wouldn’t have suited her to think that her daughter was in competition with her.”
“That’s monstrous.”
“Reality often is. Details aren’t important,” she went on. “I finally ran away for good. Lied about my age, got a job as a cocktail waitress, worked my way up to manager.” She began to speak more quickly, not as if the worst was over, but as if she had to get a running start at the rest. “My previous experience had helped me keep myself focused on the job. No dating, no distractions. Then I made a mistake. I fell in love. I was nearly thirty, and it hit me hard.”
Something glittered in her eyes—tears or old memories—quickly obscured by her lashes as she lifted the glass to her lips. “He was wonderful to me, generous, considerate, gentle. He wanted to get married, but I let my past ruin that for both of us. One night, angry that I wouldn’t give him a commitment, he left my apartment. And he was killed in a car accident.”
She drew her hand from Julia’s. “I fell apart. Tried to commit suicide. That’s when I met Eve. She was researching her role of the suicidal wife in Darkest at Dawn. I’d botched the job, hadn’t swallowed enough pills, and was in the hospital under observation. She talked to me, listened to me. It may have started as an actress’s interest in a character type, but she came back. I’ve often wondered what she saw in me that made her come back. She asked me if
I wanted to waste my life on regrets, or if I wanted to make then work for me. I screamed at her, swore at her. She left me her number and told me to call if I decided to make something of myself. Then she walked out, in that go-to-hell way of hers. In the end I called her. She gave me a home, a job, and my life.” Nina drained the rest of the wine. “And that’s why I’ll rent islands for her, or do anything else she asks me to do.”
• • •
Hours later, Julia was wide awake. The story Nina told her crowded her mind. The private Eve Benedict was so much more complex than the public one. How many people would take a stranger’s tragedy and find a way to offer hope? Not just by writing a check. Easy to do when the money was there. Not by making speeches. Words cost nothing. But by opening that most intimate chamber, the heart.
Julia’s ambition for the book began to creep along a new path. It was no longer a story she wanted to tell, but one she needed to tell.
As longer-range plans began to form, she thought of the paper still in her pocket. It concerned her more now after Brandon had responded to her casual question by telling her he’d found the envelope lying on the front stoop. She ran her fingers over the page, then withdrew them before she could give in to the urge to take the paper out and read it again. Better to forget it, she told herself.
The night was growing cool. A breeze fragrant with roses ruffled the leaves. In the distance, the peahen screamed. Even though she recognized the sound, still she shuddered. She had to remind herself that the only danger she faced was becoming too used to luxury.
There was little chance of that, she thought, bending to pick up one of her discarded sandals. Julia didn’t consider herself the kind of woman who could fit comfortably into minks or diamonds. Some were born for it—she tossed the scuffed leather toward the closet—some weren’t.
When she thought of how often she misplaced earrings, or left a jacket crumpled in the trunk of her car, she admitted she was definitely better off with cloth and rhinestones.
Beyond that, she missed her home. The simplicity of it, the basic routine of tidying her own things, shoveling her own walk. Writing about the famous, the glamorous was one thing. Living like them another.