by Terra Little
The next envelope in the stack gave Pam pause. It was postmarked a week ago from Georgia. She recognized the flowing script and the faintly floral scent clinging to the envelope. There was a dried flower inside, somewhere between the folded pages, she knew. The first letter Moira sent had come along with a handful of pressed rose petals. The second, a daisy. This one would have something different. Maybe a lily, Pam mused as she slid her finger along the fold and opened the envelope.
She had been home two days when the first letter arrived by overnight delivery. In it, Moira had begged and pleaded for Pam to call her and tell her that she was safe. Pam never called and the second letter had come by Federal Express three days later. She sat in the same chair she was sitting in now and read it. This one was more of the same. Wanting her to get in touch, wanting the three of them to get together, so that they could talk, get everything out in the open. A pressed tulip tumbled from the pages into Pam’s lap and she held it to her nose to inhale the fading scent. She had no intention of answering any of the letters.
She flipped the next item up to the light and froze. Jasper’s scratchy, grumpy looking handwriting jumped out at her from the back of a postcard and snatched her breath. Thinking of You, he’d written. Just as she had written to him many times over the years. Short, simple lines to let him know that he meant the world to her and that she could never go far enough away from him to forget that. He had to know that she would get it, the wily old bastard. She cracked a smile despite herself.
After that, the letters and postcards stopped coming and Pam was relieved. Another month passed before a large padded manila envelope appeared. Pam nearly tripped over it as she came through the door. She had just finished in the studio, recording the final version of the song she had titled “Have Mercy On Me,” to be included on an upcoming motion picture soundtrack, and returned home. She cursed her housekeeper as she kicked the envelope out of the doorway with one foot and closed the door with the other. Her hands were full of clothes she’d picked up from the dry cleaners and the mail was hanging from between her lips.
Time to have a serious talk with the help, she thought as she laid the clothes across an armchair and scooped up the envelope. She figured it was a script that had somehow slipped past Gillian’s eagle eye, so she brought it with her to the kitchen. Knowing that she had no real acting talent whatsoever and knowing that whoever sent the script probably knew it too, she didn’t rush to open the package. She was constantly being courted for roles as promiscuous sex goddesses or ones that required her to be at least partially nude, and she wasn’t particularly interested in either.
The envelope sat undisturbed on the kitchen counter for the rest of the day and halfway through the next. Then Pam finally decided to open the flap and peek inside. She took a seat at the breakfast bar and opened the cardstock folder. Miles Dixon’s name caught her eye immediately. He’d given himself credit as the author of the manuscript she held in her hands. There was no title but there was a note paperclipped to the first page. She unfolded it slowly.
Pam,
I’d like you to be my first advance reader. As you know, I was extremely interested in writing the story of your life, the story of your rise to fame, if you will. I still am and this is what I have conjured up so far. Please do me the honor of reading it and letting me know what you think.
Rather than rely on various sources, who may or may not be credible, I collaborated with a most knowledgeable source. I hope that you will find this manuscript to be written with integrity and sensitivity. That was my intent, as it should have always been.
Truly,
Miles
Pam’s first instinct was to toss the manuscript in the trash and then to call her attorney, but curiosity won out over common sense. If she was going to be laid bare for the public to pick the meat off of her bones, then she might as well be prepared. Forewarned is forearmed. She took the manuscript with her to her attic sanctuary and spread out on the chaise to find out just how much damage Miles Dixon was planning to do.
She read straight through the night, only pausing to use the bathroom and to unearth her emergency stash of “I don’t smoke anymore, but just in case I’m going crazy” cigarettes from the butter compartment inside the refrigerator door. She dragged the manuscript all over the house with her as she read. She took it with her to the sun porch to keep her company while she soaked up some rays, to the kitchen to entertain her while she ate, and then to bed with her.
Her bedside clock read 9:20 A.M. when she rolled across the mattress, stifled a yawn, and plucked the cordless phone from the base on the nightstand. Miles answered on the second ring.
“You’ve read it?” he asked by way of greeting.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Caller ID. What do you think?”
She took a deep breath and eyed the papers spread across the bed. “I think I hate you for being so persistent. Why is it so hard for you to leave well enough alone?”
“It’s a great story, Pam.”
“It’s my story, David, I mean Miles. Whatever your damn name is.”
“David is my middle name and Miles is my first name. Sorry about that, by the way.”
“Kiss my ass. It’s good, I’ll give you that. One thing, though. Your source got a few minor details wrong. It has to be absolutely accurate.”
“Tell me what they are and I’ll double-check them with Moira.”
“Moira?”
“Yeah, I thought you would pick up on the fact that she narrated most of the text. She insisted on accuracy, too.”
“You didn’t use the stuff Humpy told you and Clive Parker.” Nate had given her the rundown on the notes he’d found in Miles’s hotel room.
“It’s all hearsay anyway and not really relevant to the story. Who’s Humpy?”
“James Humphries,” she clarified for him. “Where’s the shit he said about me?”
“It’s not included in the manuscript.”
“Duh. Why not? I thought you wanted a bestseller, a titillator?”
“That manuscript is not a titillator, Pam. It has strong literary merit, and titillator is not a word,” Miles said, sounding offended.
“That’s why you get paid to write trash about people and I don’t. You don’t need my permission to publish this manuscript, so why send it to me?”
“You’re right, I don’t need your permission, but I’d like to have it anyway. I thought maybe you could write the foreword.”
“I’m not a writer.”
“You could be. What do you say? Give the manuscript your stamp of approval, and I’ll share the advance and the royalties with you, fifty-fifty. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
She ignored his question in favor of one of her own. “It goes to the press just like it’s written?”
“Except for the changes you mentioned and anything else you might want to add.”
“I don’t have anything to add.” The rape hadn’t been included in the manuscript, and neither had any mention of her connection to Chad and Nikki. If it had to be published, it was perfect the way it was.
“Does that mean I can send you a contract?”
“The money,” Pam hedged. “I don’t want it.”
“Neither does Moira, and I wouldn’t feel right keeping all of it. You know this book is going to be a national bestseller, don’t you? The profits will be significant, too much money to just ignore.”
She had a thought. “The home.”
“What?”
“I’m donating my portion to the Angels of Mercy Children’s Home.”
“Include that in the foreword and the profits just doubled.”
“It’s not about the money, Miles.”
“I never thought it was. I’m just stating facts. So can I send the contract?”
“Send it to my agent slash publicist,” Pam decided and gave him Gillian’s contact information. “She’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb and make sure I’m not getting screwed. I d
on’t trust you, David, or Miles or whoever the hell you are.”
He chuckled into the phone. “I guess I deserved that.”
“Damn right you did. I need sleep now. Goodbye.” She hung up and rolled over, pulled a pillow under her head and fell asleep.
She opened her eyes seven hours later and settled them on Nate. He was sitting on the side of the bed, flipping through the pages of the manuscript rapidly. She remembered that he was a speed-reader and sat up to rake her nails down his back. “He wrote it anyway,” she said unnecessarily.
“It’s good. Clean and fair.” He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. Then he leaned sideways and met her halfway for a kiss. “You ready to come into the world again, P?”
“It might be time.”
“It is. You planning on putting Chad out of his misery while you’re at it?”
“Is he still angry with me?” Nate would tell her the truth.
“For not telling him about what happened to you?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. More hurt that you didn’t feel you could come to him for what you needed.”
“Instead of going to you.”
“Something like that.” Nate dropped the manuscript on the floor, crawled across the bed, and lay down next to Pam. He bent an elbow under his head and looked at her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way though.”
Pam slid down on the mattress and scooted close to him so that her back was pressed into his chest and the length of their bodies were touching. Nate moved closer and fit his knee into the space she made between her legs. They spooned, as they had done so many times before, for so many years.
“What am I going to do with you, P?”
“You could marry me and put me out of my misery,” she suggested, playfully.
“And live with having to share you with my best friend? I don’t think so. I like it better this way. I had first dibs so he’s sharing with me. You couldn’t choose between us if your life depended on it anyway and you know it.”
“You couldn’t either and you’d probably cheat on me anyway.”
“Probably so,” he admitted with an uneasy chuckle. “Too many women, too little time. But you never can tell about these things and I always come back though. Chad won’t cheat.”
“He had other women when he was married to Paris.”
“I knew that. But alas, Paris wasn’t you. They’ll erect a monument when you go, P. You’re a dangerous woman. You make a man forget all kinds of shit he should be remembering.”
“Moira told me that once.”
“Moira was right.” Nate’s hand slid around her waist and untied her caftan. He eased the material off her shoulder and replaced it with his open mouth. “You had Jose Marillo so mixed up in the head he forgot he had a wife and kids. Then you had that old Greek dude trying to buy you an island and shit.” He flicked his tongue over her shoulder, up the side of her neck and bit in. “And you had me. Quiet as it’s kept, you still do.”
Pam laughed. “What do I have you doing, you fool?”
“Whatever you need me to do. Whenever, wherever. It goes both ways. You do the same for me.”
She took his hand from her breast and lifted it into the air with her own, watched their fingers thread together and clasp tightly. “You won’t ever go away, will you, Nate?”
“Where the hell would I go and why? I share with the people I love, too.”
Pam shifted her head on the pillow and locked eyes with him. “I thought you went back to Seattle?”
He grinned sneakily and dipped his head to catch her lips between his. He eased his tongue between her lips and took his hand back to her breasts. She moaned and kissed him back and he pushed deeper. “I heard you calling me. You need me right now, P?”
TWENTY-ONE
Chad was just settling into bed when he heard the first ping. He thought nothing of it and leaned back against the headboard with a pillow at his back. The television was on, more for the constant noise and light it provided than anything else, and he glanced at it every few minutes, in between reading pages of the high school’s faculty handbook revision proposals. He had put the chore off until the last possible minute, and he was expected to give feedback on the proposed changes first thing in the morning. It was after one now.
The second ping caught him off guard. In the brief seconds between commercials, the noise crackled in the silence and drew his eyes to the window. He set the stack of papers aside, lifted the remote from the bed, and lowered the volume of the television, counting now and tracking the seconds between pings. He estimated that thirty seconds had passed between the first and second pings, and when the third one finally came, he realized that yet another thirty had gone by.
The next three pings came one right behind the other, separated only by the length of time it took to select a pebble of appropriate size and then swing back to aim precisely. He waited, frozen in his reclined position on the bed, to see if, thirty seconds later, the second round of pings would begin, if the pattern was still the one they had decided on decades ago as being their signal.
He went to the window and pulled the curtain back just as a pebble struck the glass somewhere in the vicinity of his naked chest. She was in the midst of swinging back to launch another one and everything about her froze when he appeared in the window. From the safety of his room he spread his hands wide and shrugged. What do you want me to do? She stamped her foot and pointed a finger to the ground. Come outside. He backed away from the window and let the curtain fall back in place. He lay back on his bed, folded his hands under his head, and looked at the ceiling. There was a time when he would’ve heard the pings on his window and damn near broken his neck creeping out of the house to meet her. But not tonight. The pings kept coming and he ignored them.
Though the lights were off and she was snuggled under the covers in bed, Nikki was far from asleep. She heard the doorbell and sat up to listen. She was certain that her dad would be treading down the hallway and then down the stairs to see who was at the door in just a few seconds. All she had to do was wait. If it was nobody, she’d give up on trying to stay awake and get some sleep, but if it was somebody important she was ready.
Seconds turned into minutes and the doorbell kept ringing. Nikki climbed out of bed and went to stand in the hallway, looking toward her dad’s open doorway curiously. His lamp was on and she could hear papers shuffling around, but his feet never hit the floor. She hesitated, then tipped down to his room.
“Dad, did you hear the door?” Her eyes darted around his room before coming to rest on him. He looked relaxed and at ease, like it was any other night and someone wasn’t ringing the doorbell at after one in the morning. He was wearing striped pajama pants and his long bare feet were crossed at the ankles.
Chad’s eyes slowly rose from the page he was pretending to read and locked on Nikki’s.
“Did you hear it?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Then why don’t you go and see who it is?”
Heart pounding and eyes wide, she glanced down the hallway as if she expected whoever was at the door to suddenly be inside the house, bearing down on her. “I don’t know if I want to.”
“Why not?”
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly. “What if she doesn’t want to see me or talk to me? What if she’s just here because she forgot something?”
“You won’t know that until you answer the door, Nikki. Are you going to stand there playing what if the rest of the night?”
“Why don’t you go and answer the door?”
“Because I think she might’ve forgotten something too, but you’ll have to be okay with her claiming it. You should decide if you want to let her in or not. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” His gaze was intent on hers and he knew the exact moment that she really did understand what he was saying.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“What happens if I don’t let her in?”
“You really love her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do, Nikki.”
“You want to be with her, like together together?”
He nodded seriously. “I do. How do you feel about that?”
Nikki slumped against the doorjamb and hugged herself tightly. A multitude of expressions raced across her face, revealing her thoughts. She was angry about what she’d learned, sad about what happened to Pam, hurt that she was lied to, and afraid of her dad’s feelings for Pam. The thought of Pam being close enough to touch made her happy, but still sad because she didn’t know if Pam wanted to be touched or even if she wanted her.
“I’m still a little angry with her,” she finally said.
“Why aren’t you angry with me or Nate or with Paris? We all knew that Paris wasn’t your biological mother, too.” He felt that was an important point to make. He had expected to be on the receiving end of some of Nikki’s anger, but it had never come. She seemed to be focusing the whole of it on Pam and he wondered about that.
“I don’t know . . . it’s like, you and Uncle Nate were always here, you know? She wasn’t and I remember always wanting her to be, but she never was.”
“You saw her a lot, when you and Paris visited her in California.”
“I know, Dad,” her tone was slightly irritated. “I know all that, but I still wanted more of her. I’m angry because now I know I could’ve had more of her and I didn’t.”
“That’s a lot like I’ve felt all these years. Angry because I wanted her and I couldn’t have her. Here lately, I’ve been angry because none of what happened had to happen.”