The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  Clara leaned back against the soft cushions of her deck chair, and sighed. The sun soaked into her skin as the silence soaked into her mind, broken only by the sound of the wind, the water lapping against the keel of the boat, and the occasional stray thoughts from Bob, which were easy to block out. Fred was there with them, but as always, his mind was silent.

  Clara was in such a state of clean well-being that she didn’t wonder why she’d never seen into Fred’s mind. It was refreshing to find a mind closed to her. Fred was one of the few people she no longer wanted to manipulate.

  Bob Willoughby waved to a deck hand, and he brought Clara a tall glass of fruit juice mixed with vodka. She took the drink with a smile. The deck hand blinked in the light of her eyes and moved away quickly.

  Clara sipped her drink, savoring the mixture of juice and alcohol on her tongue. As always on Bob’s yacht, the drink was perfect. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so relaxed.

  “Bob, I’ve died and gone to Catalina Island.”

  Willoughby ran his fingers through his still-damp hair. He had just come up from a swim off the side of the yacht, ignoring Clara’s laughing warning about sharks. He was dressed now in tennis whites, and only his hair was wet.

  “Damn near, Clara. We’re just half a mile out, I’d say.”

  She shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked at him. “You haven’t thanked me for coming back to Barnett Studios yet, Bob.”

  Bob grunted and took a swig from his scotch. “If double your salary isn’t thanks enough, I don’t know what would be.”

  Clara laughed at his disgruntled tone. “I expected flowers at least, Bob.”

  He glowered. “What kind?”

  She reflected a long moment, swirling her drink with the little umbrella attached to the side of the glass with a piece of lime.

  “Hmmm… yellow roses with a tinge of pink at their tips. Roses just beginning to bloom.”

  Bob shook his head, smiling at her audacity. “Damn it, Clara, don’t steal a project from me again. I almost lost my head over that damn Desert Drift.”

  Clara shrugged one shoulder, her eyes sparkling beneath the tinted lenses of her sunglasses, which she slid down from the top of her head.

  “Well, Bob, I did warn you.”

  He leaned against the railing of his yacht, lifting his face to smell the salty air. “You did warn me, Clara. I just listened to Fred instead of you.”

  “And made an extra fifty million listening to me.” Fred moved to sit by Clara’s chair on the deck.

  She smiled at him and took another sip from her glass. There was just enough vodka in the juice to make her mind pleasantly fuzzy without making her drunk.

  In the sunny haze on the yacht’s deck, Clara watched Fred from behind her tinted lenses. He leaned back on his palms, letting the sun warm his face. As always, he was completely relaxed. The tanned muscles of his arms were visible under the sleeves of his golf shirt. Clara wondered if he ever actually played golf.

  Fred felt her gaze and turned his head to smile at her. “So Bob’s sending you flowers, Clara?”

  She felt the same quiet elation as she always did when she was with him. The elation went to her head faster than the alcohol. She was used to drinking. She wasn’t used to feeling giddy for no apparent reason. Today she didn’t question it, but took her elation as her due, as part of the sun and the blue sky and the quiet peace of the ocean.

  “Yellow roses, Fred,” she replied. “With pink tips.”

  Willoughby snorted, rattling the ice in his scotch as he sat on the chair opposite Clara’s.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

  She transferred her smile to the studio head, taking another sip of her drink.

  “How I do what, Bob?”

  “How you keep us all jumping.”

  Fred chuckled, and Clara laughed her throaty screen laugh. The deck hand who stood in attendance transferred his gaze to her face, and she laughed harder.

  “You know damn well that you jump only when it suits you,” Clara said.

  She took off her sunglasses and handed her drink to the attendant. She leaned back against the soft cushions of her chair and closed her eyes. She felt the wind on her face and the sun on her hair. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so at peace.

  Bob gestured for another martini for Fred, but Fred held up his hand.

  “No, thanks.”

  Willoughby watched the sunlight bring out the highlights in Clara’s golden hair. Her pink silk dress swayed in the light breeze, her skirt covering her legs to her knees.

  He shook his head ruefully. “Damn it, Clara. I should have slept with you when I had the chance.”

  She laughed at him, opening her eyes reluctantly to meet his gaze. “And ruin a beautiful partnership? Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  Willoughby drank down the rest of his scotch and signaled for another. “As if you don’t know.”

  He must be drunk, she mused, to make such idle comments.

  “Bob, come off it. You’ve never cheated on Brenda, and you never will.”

  Willoughby met her gaze. For a long moment, he was caught in the green of her eyes. Then the deck hand brought his drink and he took it, grateful to have a reason to look away.

  Clara turned her head and found Fred watching her, his gaze intent on her face. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Fred broke the silence, his voice hard, and he kept looking at Clara, and not at Bob. She felt for a moment as if he was trying to tell her something beneath his words, but she couldn’t grasp it.

  “Speaking of men Clara has slept with, what about that new kid you’ve got directing Blast Away, Bob? What’s his name again? Charlie? Chuck?”

  Willoughby nodded. “He’s Clara’s golden-haired boy.”

  Fred’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. She didn’t understand what he was trying to say to her, but she could see that he was angry.

  “He’s one of your men, isn’t he, Clara?” Fred asked.

  She hated to be forced to talk business on what was supposed to be the last day of her vacation. She had to be on the set of Blast Away the next morning at 6:00 a.m., and she didn’t want to think about movies. She turned her head lazily to look at Fred. She studied his face, but it revealed nothing. She wished she could hear the pattern of his thoughts so she could discern what game he was playing, if any. He simply watched her without blinking.

  Clara decided to address the surface of Fred’s question and leave the rest until he revealed his thoughts. She kept her voice light, though she could feel tension creeping into her neck and shoulders, in spite of the alcohol she had consumed.

  “Chuck is a fabulous director who actually makes me look like I can act. When Desert Drift gets released nationwide, you’re going to see some serious money being made.”

  “So I hear.” Bob glowered at her.

  She laughed at him, grateful to be able to take her eyes from Fred.

  “What’s this wunderkind’s real name?” Fred asked.

  “Charles Gratelli,” Clara said. “I’m the only one who calls him Chuck.”

  “You would be.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow at his jibe. No one, not even he, spoke to her in that tone twice.

  “Fred, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

  He held himself still, his face blank. He stood without another word and moved toward the ladder that led to the upper deck. Clara watched the play of his muscles under his shirt as he climbed the ladder and disappeared above their heads.

  She met Willoughby’s gaze. “What?”

  His voice was as calm as if he were discussing a multi-million-dollar film deal. Bob was most serene when he felt the stakes were highest.

  “You should put him out of his misery.”

  “How?” Clara quirked an eyebrow at him.

  She forced a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel. She wouldn’t discuss her personal affairs with anyone, not even
Bob Willoughby.

  “Should I shoot him? That wouldn’t be sporting.”

  Bob shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. “Clara, I wonder sometimes if you have a heart.”

  “I’ve got a heart, Bob. It’s safe in an offshore account.”

  In spite of her joking tone, Clara looked toward the ladder where Fred had disappeared. In that moment, sitting on the deck of that yacht in the summer sun, with the man she trusted most in the world, sadness threatened to dampen the clear light and ruin her day. Fred was different from all the others, but her feelings for him were irrelevant. Love wasn’t a luxury she could afford to indulge in.

  Clara kept her voice even and noticed that it took effort to do so. “Unfortunately, Bob, we don’t live in Disneyland.”

  Willoughby looked at her, all trace of joking gone from his face. “No, Clara. But you hate Disneyland anyway.”

  She fell silent, closing her eyes. The sun was still warm on her face, but the festive atmosphere of the day was gone. She forced her mind away from Fred, away from the love she felt for him, away from problems that offered no opportunities and no solutions.

  She wondered how long it would be before they could turn the yacht around and head back to Marina Del Rey. She had to call Donna about tomorrow’s shoot.

  When Clara walked into her house, the silence surrounded her like a cocoon. Margherita and the rest of the staff had left for the day, and the sun had set behind the bay.

  Clara stepped into her living room, laying her bag down on a leather chair. That was when she saw the flowers on the marble table by the terrace door. A crystal vase filled with yellow roses with just a trace of pink at their tips. Roses that were just beginning to bloom. There was no card, so Clara knew they were from Fred.

  17

  Los Angeles, 2016

  Clara smiled at the man guarding the door. He held a list on a clipboard, and her name wasn’t on it. He waved her through anyway with a wink. He worked the door at every party Bob Willoughby threw, so he knew her by sight and let her pass. For once in her life, she didn’t have to use her telepathic gift to manipulate someone into giving her what she wanted. She found that refreshing.

  Clara scanned the crowd that wandered through the first floor of Stan Hendrickson’s house. They milled around, watching each other like fellow sharks, all the time pretending they were far too casual to watch anyone or need anything. Clara smiled as she listened to their banter and compared it to the thoughts behind their eyes.

  “I love that dress, Sylvia. Is it a Versace?” one woman asked, stopping just short of gushing on a new starlet who’d recently made her first feature film.

  The woman’s smile looked like a grimace to Clara. The woman knew that the young starlet was sleeping with her husband, which was how the starlet had gotten her role.

  Clara moved through the crowd, shutting down her internal radar. Her ability to read others’ thoughts never went away, but she could focus her attention so that the sound of their minds was a low hum, like the white noise of the ocean. After so many years, Clara had gotten to the point where she didn’t always listen to others’ thoughts but was lulled a little by their low murmur. It was almost comforting.

  Clara was nineteen but knew she passed for twenty-one. She watched with amusement as other women eyed her with hostility. They had no way of knowing she was no threat to them. None of them had what she wanted, and even if they had it, she was above stealing someone else’s glory. Clara wanted glory of her own.

  She took a glass of champagne off a passing tray and sipped it as she made her way out onto the terrace. There were candles floating in the heated pool, and she surveyed the crowd outside. Men stared at her, and she smiled. She didn’t need to be a telepath to know what they were thinking.

  Clara found that there was no one at the party who could do more for her than Bob Willoughby, so she decided to relax. She would just entertain herself tonight. Some of the most beautiful men in the world were wandering around that pool. She might as well sample one or two of them while she was there.

  She sat on a lounge chair, and leaned back against it, sipping her drink. Her skirt rode up her thighs, showing a smooth expanse of tanned skin. She knew that tanning equaled cancer, but hosiery was inconvenient. Maybe she should switch to a garter belt, she mused, rather than risk her skin in the sun.

  Clara was pondering this question, when a boy sat down beside her. His hair was dark, and his eyes were a deep cerulean blue. He could not have been more than five years older than she was, she guessed. She looked into his eyes and smiled. She could not read his thoughts. The champagne must have been beginning to cloud her vision.

  Sometimes in a crowd, especially when she’d been drinking, an individual’s thoughts would be swamped by the collective weight of all the other minds nearby. There had to be at least three hundred people in Stan’s house that night. Clara dismissed her speculations with a shrug of one shoulder and watched the boy as he watched her.

  “Hello.” The boy’s voice was deep and sent a shiver down her spine.

  Clara felt almost young as she looked at him, watching the way his hand wrapped around his wine glass. A quiet sense of elation filled her and added flavor to her desire. She savored it. The taste of elation was new to her.

  “Hello.” She lowered her voice to match his.

  He smiled at her but didn’t seem ill at ease, a distinction that separated him from ninety-eight percent of the people at the party.

  Clara let her eyes rove over his body. He was slender and wore faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips, and a t-shirt with the name of a film on it. She had never seen the film it mentioned but had heard that it was eminently forgettable. Clara wondered if he was an actor.

  His gaze rested on her legs for a moment as he took another sip of his champagne. She knew the jade green of her dress matched her eyes, and that the silk flattered her figure where it clung.

  The boy’s eyes lingered on her hips and breasts before stopping at her face. In that moment, she changed her mind about him being an actor. He was too self-assured. It could have been bravado, of course, but Clara was fairly certain it wasn’t. She wished for a moment that she could look into his thoughts, but then he spoke to her.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here.” His gaze never left her face.

  Clara laughed her throaty laugh. “You have excellent taste.”

  The boy leaned forward for a moment, placing his empty glass on the concrete by his chair.

  “I know it sounds like a standard pickup line, but I really mean it.”

  Clara smiled at him again, finishing her champagne. He took her glass and set it next to his own. She raised an eyebrow at his presumption but said nothing.

  “Are you an actress?” His gaze began to stray down her body again.

  She laughed, and the sound brought his gaze back to her face.

  “Not yet,” she replied, “but I will be.”

  He watched her for a long moment, as if he could see past her eyes.

  “You know, I think you will.”

  Clara rose, letting the silk of her skirt slide down her legs. She stretched, giving him an unobstructed view of her body. He stood, and she felt her breath catch at his nearness. He wore light cologne that carried a faint trace of sandalwood.

  She extended her hand to him, and he took it. She moved to lead him away from the crowd but found him leading her. Clara found that she enjoyed the novelty of being led. She did so much leading herself, sexually and otherwise, and she realized that she was tired of it.

  She followed him up the large staircase. She thought he was taking her to a bedroom on the second floor and was surprised when he led her higher. On the third floor, there were a few unoccupied bedrooms, but he didn’t lead her into any of those. He drew her into a bathroom the size of a closet and closed the door.

  Clara laughed, and the sound reverberated off the oak paneled walls.

  “This is novel, I must say.”


  He smiled at her, brushing his fingers against her cheek before sliding his hand up into her hair.

  “It’s private. Most of the bedrooms in this house aren’t.”

  “Hidden cameras?” Clara joked, enjoying the feel of her pulse quickening as he touched her.

  “You could say that.”

  His lips trailed from her cheekbone to her throat, and she leaned against him.

  “I wouldn’t want to wind up on You Tube,” she said.

  She felt his laugh against her skin, and she shivered.

  “No,” he said, “we wouldn’t want that.”

  He was silent then, running his fingers over her thighs as he drew her skirt up to her waist. He pushed her back against the door. It was a sturdy door made of oak, and the lock was sound, so he leaned their combined weight against it.

  They made love quickly, moving together as if they were made for it. They lost their breath together, and when it was over, they stared into each other’s eyes. Clara had the odd sense that she would find it hard to look away.

  “I’ve never done this before,” he said.

  She laughed. “You’d never know it.”

  He smiled at that, kissing her. “I mean, I’ve never done this in a bathroom.”

  “That makes two of us. Walk me to my car?

  He kissed her temple, and she thought for a moment he might say something more. Then the moment was gone, and he simply took her hand.

  He walked downstairs with her. People smirked to see them leave together, thinking he had made a conquest. Clara figured she had done the conquering, but she’d known all her life that what people thought about her rarely resembled the truth.

  The boy walked with her to her tiny Japanese car. He took the key from her, unlocked the door and held it for her. Clara was strangely touched by the gesture, and hesitated before she got in.