by Nora Roberts
“There’s no need for tears,” she said quietly as they streamed down Julia’s cheeks. “I got my payment.”
“There is no payment for that.” Her voice was husky with a rage she could only imagine. Her eyes shone with it. “There couldn’t be.”
“Maybe not. But seeing it in print, at least there’ll be revenge. I’ve waited for it long enough.”
“Why?” Julia brushed tears away with the back of her hand. “Why did you wait?”
“The truth?” Eve sighed and finished off her drink. Her head was beginning to throb, and she bitterly resented it. “Shame. I was ashamed that I had been used that way, humiliated that way.”
“You’d been used. You had nothing to be ashamed of.”
The long black lashes fluttered down. It was the first time she had spoken of that night—not the first time she’d relived it, but the only time she hadn’t relived it alone. It hurt still; she hadn’t known it could. Nor had she known how cooling, how healing unconditional compassion could be.
“Julia.” The lashes lifted again, and beneath them her eyes were dry. “Do you really believe there’s no shame in being used?”
Faced with that, Julia could only shake her head. She, too, had been used. Not so hideously, not so horribly, but she understood that shame could nip at the heels like a dog for years. And years. “I don’t know how you stopped yourself from using the knife, or using the story.”
“Survival,” Eve said simply. “At that point of my life I didn’t want the story to come out any more than Tony did. Then there was Travers. I went to see her a few weeks after the divorce, after I’d discovered several reels of film Tony had hidden. Not only of him and me in various sexual stunts, but of him and other men, of him and two very young girls. It made me realize that my entire marriage had been a sickness. I think I went to her to prove to myself that someone else had been fooled, taken in, seduced. She was living alone in a little apartment downtown. The money Tony was ordered to pay her every month barely covered the rent after her other expenses. Those other expenses being the institutional care for her son.”
“Her son?”
“The child Tony insisted that the world believe was dead. His name is Tommy. He’s seriously retarded, an imperfection Tony refused to accept. He prefers to consider the child dead.”
“All these years?” A new kind of rage worked in Julia now, had her pushing up out of the chair, striding to one of the windows where the air might be cleaner. “He turned his back on his son, kept it turned all these years?”
“He isn’t the first or last to do that, is he?”
Julia turned back. She recognized the sympathy, the understanding, and automatically closed off. “That choice was mine as well, and I wasn’t married to Brandon’s father. Travers was married to Tommy’s.”
“Yes, she was—and Tony already had two perfectly healthy and perfectly spoiled children by his first wife. He chose not to acknowledge a child with flaws.”
“You should have sliced his balls off.”
“Ah, well.” Eve smiled again, pleased to see anger rather than unhappiness. “My chance for that is lost, at least literally.”
“Tell me about Travers’s son.”
“Tommy’s nearly forty. He’s incontinent, can’t dress himself or feed himself. He wasn’t expected to live to adulthood, but then, it’s his mind, not his body.”
“How could she have said her own son was dead?”
“Don’t condemn her, Julia.” Eve’s voice had gentled. “She suffered. Travers agreed to Tony’s demands because she was afraid of what he might do to the child. And because she blames herself for Tommy’s condition. She’s convinced the, let’s say, unhealthy sexual practices under which the boy was conceived are to blame for his retardation. Nonsense, of course, but she believes it. Maybe she needs to. In any case, she refused what she considered charity, but agreed to work for me. She’s done so for more than three decades, and I’ve kept her secret.”
No, Julia thought, she didn’t condemn her. She understood too well the choices a woman alone had to make. “You’ve kept it until now.”
“Until now.”
“Why do you want this made public?”
Eve settled back in her chair. “There’s nothing Tony can do to the boy, or to Travers. I’ve seen to that. My marriage to him is part of my life, and I’ve decided to share that life—without lies, Julia.”
“If he becomes aware of what you’ve told me, of the possibility of it being published, he’ll try to stop you.”
“I stopped being afraid of Tony a lifetime ago.”
“Is he capable of violence?”
Eve moved her shoulders. “Everyone’s capable of violence.”
Saying nothing, Julia reached into her briefcase and brought out the pair of notes. She handed them to Eve. On reading them, Eve paled a little. Then her eyes darkened and lifted.
“Where did you get these?”
“One was left on the front stoop of the guest house. The other was slipped into my bag sometime last night.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She pushed them into the pocket of her robe. “If you receive more, give them to me.”
Slowly, Julia shook her head. “Not good enough. They were meant for me, Eve, so I’m entitled to some answers. Am I to consider them threats?”
“I’d consider them more pitiful warnings issued by a coward.”
“Who could have left one on the stoop?”
“That’s something I have every intention of finding out.”
“All right.” Julia had to respect the tone, and the gleam in Eve’s eyes. “Tell me this. Is there anyone besides Anthony Kincade who would be unnerved enough about this biography to write these notes?”
Now Eve smiled. “Oh, my dear Julia. There are indeed.”
Eve didn’t often think of Tony, and that period of her life when she had enslaved herself to the darker side of sex. It had been, after all, only five years out of her sixty-seven. She had certainly made other mistakes, done other deeds, enjoyed other pleasures. It was the book, the project she had instigated, that had her reviewing her life in segments. Like pieces of film in an editing room. But with this drama she wasn’t about to let any clips end up on the cutting-room floor.
All of it, she thought as she downed medication with mineral water. Every scene, every take. Damn the consequences.
She rubbed the center of her forehead where the pain seemed to gather tonight like a bunched fist. She had time, enough time. She would make sure of it. Julia could be trusted to do the job—had to be trusted. Closing her eyes a moment, Eve willed the medication to kick in and gloss over the worst of the pain.
Julia.… Concentrating on the other woman eased her as much as the drugs she took in secret. Julia was competent, quick-witted, packed with integrity. And compassion. Eve still wasn’t certain how she felt about seeing those tears. She hadn’t expected empathy, only shock and perhaps disapproval. She hadn’t expected to have her own heart twisted.
That was her own arrogance, she reflected. She’d been so certain she could direct the writing of the script and have all the characters take up their assigned roles. Julia.… Julia and the boy didn’t quite fit the parts Eve had cast them in. How the hell could she have anticipated she would begin to care where she had expected only to use?
Then there were the notes. Eve spread them out on her dressing table to study them. Two for her, and two for Julia, so far. All four were in the same block letters, all four trite sayings that could be construed as warnings. Or threats.
Hers had amused her, even encouraged her. After all, she was far beyond the point where anyone could hurt her. But the warnings to Julia changed things. Eve had to find out who was writing them, and put a stop to it.
Her hard, coral-colored nails tapped on the rosewood table. So many people didn’t want her to tell her tales. Wouldn’t it be interesting, wouldn’t it be plain good fun to put as many of those people as possible under the same roof a
t the same time?
At a knock on her bedroom door Eve swept all of the notes into a drawer of the dressing table. For now they were her secret. Hers and Julia’s.
“Come in.”
“I’ve brought you some tea,” Nina said as she walked in with a tray. “And a few letters you need to sign.”
“Just set the tea by the bed. I’ve got a couple of scripts to look at yet tonight.”
Nina set the Meissen pot and cup on the nightstand. “I thought you were taking some time off after the miniseries.”
“Depends.” Eve took up the pen Nina had brought and dashed her looping signature on the letters without bothering to read them. “Tomorrow’s schedule?”
“Right here.” Always efficient, Nina opened a leather-bound day book. “You have a nine o’clock appointment at Armando’s for the works, one o’clock lunch at Chasen’s with Gloria DuBarry.”
“Ah, yes, hence the works at Armando’s.” Eve grinned and opened a pot of moisturizer. “Wouldn’t want the old bat to spot any new wrinkles.”
“You know you’re very fond of Miss DuBarry.”
“Naturally. And since she’ll be eyeing me over her scrawny salad, I have to look good. When two women of a certain age dine together, Nina, it’s not only for comparisons, but for reassurance. The better I look, the more relieved Gloria will be. The rest?”
“Drinks with Maggie at four. Polo Lounge. Then you’re entertaining Mr. Flannigan here for dinner, at eight.”
“See that the cook prepares manicotti.”
“Already done.” She closed the book. “And she’s making zabaglione for dessert.”
“You’re a treasure, Nina.” Eve studied her own face as she swooped the cream up over her throat, her cheeks, her brow. “Tell me, how soon can we put together a party?”
“Party?” Frowning, Nina opened the book again. “What sort?”
“A large sort. An extravagant sort. Say, two hundred people. Black tie. An orchestra on the lawn, dinner and dancing under the stars. Gushers of champagne—oh, and a few well-heeled members of the press.”
Even as she did mental calculations, Nina flipped through the book. “I suppose if I had a couple of months—”
“Sooner.”
Nina let out a long breath as she thought of frantic calls to caterers, florists, musicians. Well, if she could rent an island, she could do a black tie in under two months. “Six weeks.” She noted Eve’s expression and sighed. “All right, three. We’ll slide it in right before you leave for location.”
“Good. We’ll go over the guest list Sunday.”
“What’s the occasion?” Nina asked, still scribbling in the book.
“The occasion.” Eve smiled as she sat back. In the lighted mirror of the dressing table her face was strong, stunning, and smug. “We’ll call it an opportunity to relive and revive memories. An Eve Benedict retrospective. Old friends, old secrets, old lies.”
Out of habit Nina walked over to pour the tea Eve had forgotten. It wasn’t done in the manner of an employee, but as a longtime relation used to caring for others. “Eve, why are you determined to stir up trouble this way?”
With the deft skill of an artist, Eve dabbed lotion around her eyes. “Life’s so deadly dull without it.”
“I’m serious.” Nina set the cup on the dressing table, among Eve’s lotions and creams. The scent of the room was pure female, not floral or fussy, but mysterious and erotic. “You know—well, I’ve already told you how I feel. And now … Anthony Kincade’s reaction the other night really worried me.”
“Tony’s not worth a moment’s worry.” She patted Nina’s hand before picking up her tea. “He’s slime,” she said mildly, drawing in the subtle scent and taste of jasmine. “And it’s more than past time someone told what perversions he’s tucked in that monstrous body of his.”
“But there are other people.”
“Oh, yes, there are.” She laughed, thinking of several with pleasure. “My life’s been a crazy quilt of events and personalities. All those clever half truths, genuine lies, threading through a fascinating cover, intersecting, linking. The interesting thing is, when you pull one thread, the whole pattern changes. Even the good you do has consequences, Nina. I’m more than ready to face them.”
“Not everyone is as ready as you.”
Eve sipped her tea, watching Nina over the rim of the cup. When she spoke again, her voice was kinder. “The truth isn’t nearly as destructive when it hits the light as a lie that’s hidden in the dark.” She squeezed Nina’s hand. “You shouldn’t worry.”
“Some things are better left alone,” Nina insisted. Eve sighed and set the tea aside. “Trust me. I have reasons for doing what I’m doing.”
Nina managed a nod and a thin smile. “I hope so.” She picked up her day book again and started out. “Don’t read too late. You need your rest.”
After the door shut, Eve looked at her reflection again. “I’ll have plenty of rest, soon enough.”
Julia spent most of Saturday huddled over her work. Brandon was entertained by CeeCee and her young brother, Dustin, referred to by his sister as “mondo brat.” He was the perfect compliment for Brandon’s more internal nature. He said whatever he thought the instant it struck his brain. Without a shy bone in his body, he had no trouble asking, demanding, questioning. Where Brandon could play for hours in absolute and often intense silence, Dustin believed it wasn’t fun unless it was loud.
From her office on the first floor, Julia could hear them bashing and banging in the upstairs bedroom. Whenever it came too close to destructive, CeeCee would shout out from whatever space she was dusting and tidying.
It wasn’t easy to balance the everyday sounds of children playing, the hum of a vacuum cleaner, the bright beat of the music on the radio with the vileness of the story Julia transcribed from tape.
She hadn’t expected ugliness. How to handle it? Eve wanted the unvarnished truth published. Her own insistence on it was the hallmark of her work. Still, was it necessary, or even wise, to dredge up things so painful and so damaging?
It would sell books, she thought with a sigh. But at what cost? She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her job to censor, but to tell the story of this woman’s life, good and bad, tragedy and triumph.
Her own hesitation annoyed her. Whom was she protecting? Certainly not Anthony Kincade. As far as Julia was concerned, he deserved much, much more than the embarrassment and disgrace the written story would bring to him.
Eve. Why did she feel this need to protect a woman she barely knew and didn’t yet understand? If the story was written as Eve had retold it, she wouldn’t emerge undamaged. Hadn’t she admitted to being attracted to that darker, graceless aspect of sex? To being a willing, even eager participant up until that last terrible night. Would people forgive the queen of the screen for that, or for dabbling in drugs?
Perhaps they would. More to the point, Julia mused, Eve didn’t seem to care. There had been no apology in the retelling, nor any bid for sympathy. As a biographer, it was Julia’s responsibility to tell the story, and to add insights, opinions, feelings. Her instincts told her that Eve’s marriage to Kincade had been one of the experiences that had forged her into the woman she was today.
The book would not be complete or truthful without it.
She forced herself to listen to the tape one more time, making notes on tone of voice, pauses, hesitations. She added her own recollections on how often Eve had sipped from her glass, lifted her cigarette. How the light had come in through the windows, how the smell of sweat had lingered.
This part had to be told in Eve’s voice, Julia decided. Straight dialogue, so that the matter-of-fact tone would add poignancy. She spent almost three hours on this chapter, then went into the kitchen. She wanted to divorce herself from the scene, the memory that was so vivid it seemed too much her own. Since the kitchen was spotless, she couldn’t lose herself in the mindless task of cleaning, so she opted to cook.
Dome
stic chores never failed to soothe her. During the first few weeks after she’d discovered she was pregnant, Julia had spent endless hours with a cloth and lemon oil patiently, persistently, polishing furniture and woodwork. Of course, clothes had been scattered around her room, shoes lost in the closet. But the furniture had gleamed. Later, she had realized that the monotony of the simple chore had saved her from more than one bout of hysteria.
It was then she had decided, quite calmly, against abortion or adoption, both of which she had seriously, painfully considered. More than ten years later, she knew the choice, for her, had been the right one.
Now she put together one of Brandon’s favorite dishes. Homemade pizza that he had come to take for granted. The extra time and trouble helped her deal with the guilt she often felt during those weeks she was away on tour, and more, for all the times when a book was so involving and immediate that she could do no better than a quick combination of soup and sandwich.
She set the dough aside to rise and began to make the sauce. While she worked she thought of her home in the East. Would her neighbor remember to knock the snow off the yews and junipers? Would she be back in time to start sweet peas and larkspur from seed? Could she manage this spring to get that puppy Brandon so desperately wanted?
Would the nights be as lonely when she returned as they were beginning to be here?
“Something smells good.”
Startled, she glanced toward the kitchen doorway. There was Paul, leaning comfortably against the jamb, his hands in the pockets of snug, faded jeans, a friendly smile on his face. Instantly she was as tense as he was relaxed. Perhaps he had already forgotten the fevered embrace enjoyed at their last meeting. But it had left a mark on Julia.
“CeeCee let me in,” he said when Julia remained silent. “I see you’ve met Dustin, the crown prince of chaos.”