“You’re changing the subject.”
“You brought up the hood, sister. Seems you think throwin’ lattes at the homies will cover up all the neighborhood’s problems.” He held up a strand of her hair. “Let’s see…this is black over blond over black…but I recall you had penny-colored hair that matched your freckles when you were a little girl. Where’d they go? In my book, people cover up the things they’re ashamed of.”
If he’d stuck a knife into her, it would’ve hurt less than his slicing words. Maybe because what he said resonated deeply within her.
The way he looked right now—his tough-guy body language, the pitch of his shoulder, the way he’d flung out his hand behind his back—brought back memories of the boy from years ago. His back up, watching out for his family. Tougher than the next guy. Not taking it off nobody.
“Doesn’t take a genius,” she said softly, “to figure out that someone who slathers on makeup and clothes might be covering up something, even from themselves. What’s sad is the person who thinks the glitzy job, the big bucks, the fancy title disguises who he really is—a punk kid on a street corner, angry at the world for the burden and hurt it placed on his shoulders.”
She watched him walk away, barely aware she’d dropped her drink, its cold liquid pooling around her feet.
In the distance, Magellan cajoled his audience. “I have no tricks up my sleeves, just the insights of my mind into your lives, and the mysteries I will foretell!”
She’d been conned by the festival and its smoke and mirrors, by the carnies and their tricks, even by the games and their promises.
But most of all, she’d been conned by love. Everything she’d felt and believed and desired had been nothing but an illusion. Had been nothing but a trick of light in her heart.
18
THE NEXT MORNING, after Ellie had helped convince a disheartened Sara not to give up on Drew and helped a mortified Candy recover from yet another of her festival escapades, Ellie lied to both her pals and said she was spending the day being an extra on the set.
Then, after they’d left the beach house, Ellie returned to pack up and leave.
Gus, bless his heart, had dropped off her purse, so she didn’t have to go back to the set to pick it up. After she got her things together, she’d leave a note that there was a crisis at Dark Gothic Roast and leave.
Inside, she headed to her room, started tossing her stuff into her bag. Holding up her burlesque skirt, she smiled at its wet, bedraggled appearance—the result of that lusty night at the beach with Bill—before tossing it into the trash can.
What happened in Malibu could sure as hell stay in Malibu.
Cinderella was finally leaving the ball. A bit worse for wear, but that’s what happened when you overstayed your welcome.
She headed into the bathroom to wash her face. Looking into the mirror, she heard Bill’s words—In my book, people cover up the things they’re ashamed of. Was that it? She was ashamed?
Of what?
She’d certainly put a lot of time and effort into covering up parts of herself. She’d dyed her hair so much, even she couldn’t remember its natural color. Her tan face was part fake, part natural, but give her a few goth minutes and it’d be artificially snow-white again.
She squinted, leaned forward. Well, surprise, surprise. There were a few freckles over the bridge of her nose, just like when she was a kid.
Made her think of her dad…he’d touch her freckles, giving each one a name…silly names, always different…Tina, Teeny, Itty, Bitty….
When he’d left, she’d blamed herself. Didn’t matter if her teacher, her mother, even Matt said no, that’s not the case, she did. If only she’d been better, nicer, sweeter, she’d have been more acceptable and he wouldn’t have left.
She opened the medicine cabinet and collected her pancake makeup, the blood-red lipsticks, the dark pencil sticks…and tossed them into the trash. She could always buy more, but for the time being, she had the urge to let those freckles get some fresh air again.
Heading back to her bedroom, she heard someone knocking at the door. Maybe one of the girls had forgotten their keys. Or Matt had heard about the guy Candy had dragged home last night. Well, Ellie wasn’t going to give him her sisterly matchmaking caretaking advice. No, not this girl. She’d tell him that any guy who agreed to something called sensible sex needed to look up the word oxymoron in the dictionary.
She opened the door, ready to say just that, and froze.
Bill, looking sheepish and too handsome for his own good, leaned against the doorjamb. She wrapped her arms around herself as though that could contain the breathless emotion that clutched at her heart.
“Hi,” he murmured. When he dipped his head, sun glinted off a gold earring.
“Hi.”
He glanced at her nose, smiled. “I see your freckles.”
She shrugged, checked out the smooth planes of his cheeks and jaw. “I see you shaved.”
“Kept the soul patch, though.” He tickled it with his finger.
“Good,” she whispered, remembering it all too well.
“May I come in?”
She hesitated, dreading the inevitable sorry-let’s-be-friends talk. “Shouldn’t you be on the set?” she said oh-so-nonchalantly, stepping back to let him inside.
“I was.”
“You’re on a break?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, glad things are working out.” So cavalier, so together, as though her heart was still in one piece. Really, Ellie should win an Academy Award. “I’m packing, getting ready to go home.”
“Oh, I’d hoped—Well, I brought good news.”
“Sin on the Beach has a plotline?”
He flashed her an amused look. She’d miss that look.
“No.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “We won a Hot Shot prize. Not one of the top prizes, but a fun one nevertheless—the Dishonorable Mention award.” He handed the envelope to her.
She opened it, read the coupon for a free weekend at a five-star hotel, including meals. “Guess it pays to be dishonorable,” she said a little too lightly, handing it back.
He held up his hands. “No, it’s yours.”
“I’d feel a little silly going alone. Maybe you and Vi?”
“You know,” he said, growing serious, “that Dishonorable Mention award made me think of things in my life that were so intolerable, they’d become dishonorable. So I made a few calls this morning to fix that. First one was to Vi. Told her we’re not going to have that talk.”
Vi the Kama Sutra Wonder with the French accent was no more? Before Ellie gave in to the cheap thrill of success, she reminded herself she and Bill were no more, either.
“Made another call after that,” he continued, his brown eyes solemn. “Remember how Magellan said the bridge between fear and outcome is courage? I called Sullivan, told him I was staying only out of fear and quit. He wanted me to elaborate, so I told him sometimes big isn’t better. I’m sure he’ll be pondering that for days.”
She let the words sink in. “You quit?”
He nodded. “Made another call right after that to Jimmie, asked if he’d still like me as a partner in JimBill Productions.”
“I thought it was—” She smiled. “After what you put him through, he should get top billing.”
“That’s what I thought. He’s already pulling his script from consideration at another studio—I told you he wrote that protagonist based on my life growing up?”
“I recall hearing something about that.”
“Yeah…character’s name is Gonzo.”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Bill stepped closer, a worried look on his face. “Ellie, you okay?”
“Yes, I think…I need to sit down.”
He followed her to the couch, sat next to her. “You’re shaking.”
She waved off his worry. “I’m okay, it’s…Magellan.”
“What about him?”
She dropped her hand back into her lap, realizing she’d finally had her first real supernatural experience. “He’s the real deal,” she whispered.
“You think?”
She nodded. “I know he is. It’s just…I learned something too late.”
Taking a deep breath, she rolled back her shoulders. “I was next on your list of things to fix, so let’s get it over with.”
“Over with?” Bill knew he’d been a jerk yesterday, but he’d hoped this would turn out differently. That’s what he got for being a cocky, temperamental, bullheaded man. He believed his own stories, especially the ones he made up in his mind.
“Speaking of intolerable and dishonorable,” he said solemnly, “I’m sorry for the things I said yesterday. You were right when you said I was ashamed of my roots, and until that changes, I’ll be ashamed of myself.”
This was harder than he thought, but he had to say it. “You know, it wasn’t me who was the golden boy of my family. It was Reggie. He was smarter, kinder, better than all of us put together. I was busy with my studies in New York when Mom called to say he’d fallen in with a gang. She wanted me to come home, talk sense into him, but I was too caught up in myself.” His voice dropped. “Sometimes in life, it’s not what you do, but what you don’t do.”
He suddenly felt as though the facade he’d held together all these years cracked, and the loss, the overwhelming loss rose to the surface, seeped through the breaks, wiping out the years of control, but not the guilt…the horrible guilt….
“Oh, Bill,” Ellie murmured, wrapping her arms around him, holding him tightly against her. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He laid his cheek against hers, giving in to her softness. Neither spoke for a long moment.
“I’ve been thinking about that riddle,” he finally murmured. “What has roots nobody sees, is taller than trees, its virtues it sows, and yet never grows?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know the answer.”
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Yes, Ellie, you do. You always have. The answer is home. Roots. I want to return there, do the right thing in honor of my kid brother. You set up your coffee shop and clothing designs, Jim and I will set up our indie company. And let’s make a place other than the streets for kids like Reggie.”
She nodded, blinked. “Sure.”
He sat up, a funny smile on his face. “Me, a guy who loves details, and I forgot the most important part.” Cradling her face with his hands, he let out a long, slow breath as he looked into her bright, questioning eyes.
“I love you, Ellie Rockwell. I think I’ve loved you ever since that night years ago, when you asked if I was going away. I should have known then no matter where I traveled or what I did, the place I belonged was there, with you.”
“Seventeen.”
“What?”
She looped her arms around his neck and smiled. “That night was seventeen years ago.”
He quirked a smile. “You have a good memory.”
“It’s not just my memory.” She leaned closer, whispering against his lips. “I know because in my heart, I’ve loved you every single day, hour and minute of those seventeen years, Bill Romero.”
And Cinderella, no longer worried about curfews or hair color or even the misunderstood Queen of Evil, kissed her prince.
Swoop, swoop, rock, rock.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0663-6
SHOCK WAVES
Copyright © 2007 by Colleen Collins.
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