" Continues on Page Two!" The headline promised. Taking a long swallow, she turned the page to relive how badly the reporters crucified her. It took three drinks to get through the first magazine. Two more to get through the second. By the time she picked up the fourth magazine, she couldn't see straight enough through the alcohol and tears to read the headlines, let alone the articles. The pictures were blurring so much they made her sick to her stomach. She stopped reading and kept right on drinking.
At some point, she stopped pouring the orange juice and drank the vodka straight. When her hand shook too much to pour it into the glass, she drank it right from the bottle. She forgot about the magazines, but the pictures were burned into her mind as she swam between drunk and unconscious. She thought she heard glass break, but didn't care.
A blurry eternity passed and Simone opened her eyes. Daylight slammed into her eyes, threatening to cleave her head in two. She moaned and covered her face with her hands.
The nausea followed, and she lurched to her feet—how had she ended up on the floor?—and ran for the bathroom. Panic seized her chest as she realized she didn't even know where the bathroom was, but she found it just in time. Just barely in time. When nothing more came up, she stumbled back to the living room and sank onto the couch, cradling her head in her hands. She dug in her purse and pulled a pair of sunglasses free. They did little to take the edge off. Her skull throbbed mercilessly.
"Day one," she muttered. "Not going so well." She looked at the pile of wrinkled tabloids, and memories of the night before came trickling back. She had never before read all of them at once, had never bombarded herself with all of her sins—or at least, all the ones caught by the cameras. Seeing it all at once overwhelmed her. The vodka—most of the bottle, she saw now—
had done little to numb the onslaught of shame and guilt.
The tabloids had documented it well: The affair that ended her marriage. The drunken antics at parties and clubs. The endless string of affairs, flings, and boytoys with whom she'd cheated on an endless string of boyfriends. The dismembered remains of her career and her feeble, flailing attempts to save it.
She ran her hands through her disheveled hair.
Through the haze of her hangover, clarity slowly crept into her mind. It had to stop. All of it. Now.
She glared at the Smirnoff bottle, what remained of the crystal clear liquid shimmering in the morning light. The smeared lipstick marks on the end reminded her of just how stupid she'd gotten the night before, when she decided to forego the glass and simply drink from the bottle.
She stood and walked to the sink, swallowing another wave of nausea that rose when she moved too fast. On the way there, a bright glitter caught her eye, and she turned to see the shattered remains of an empty Smirnoff bottle on the wood floor. Her stomach turned. Had she really killed a bottle and a half last night? Thank God it wasn't tequila.
Staring at the bottle, she swore to herself, "It's all going to stop now." She took a deep breath, turned the bottle over, and watched its contents swirl down the drain. Afterwards, she cleaned up the broken bottle, thankful it had been empty so it didn't ruin Anne-Marie's floor.
She gathered the scattered tabloids. Just before throwing them into the trash, she hesitated and glanced at the wood-burning stove. Her gaze moved from the stove to the tabloids and back to the stove.
She knelt beside the stove with the stack of magazines and struck a match. The intense heat warmed her skin as the fire came to life. One by one, she fed the pages to the stove, watching as each picture faded and curled within the flames. The fire consumed it ravenously and with each page that crinkled down to nothing but black ash, something released within her.
The evidence of her sins burned, Simone rose and dusted herself off. For the first time, she felt strong enough to change, to get her life back on track. No more alcohol.
No more flings.
No more throwing my career away.
I need to focus on my career, my daughter, and myself. And if that means sleeping alone— being alone—for a while, then so be it.
I can do this.
I will do this.
* * * * *
Simone parked her rental car in front of the tiny general store on the narrow twolane road that passed for Main Street in Tofino. As she stepped out of the car, she met eyes with a couple of older women strolling by. Her stomach leaped into her throat and panic tightened her chest, certain they would recognize her, but they only gave her a polite smile and a "hello" before walking on.
She smiled and waved. They have no idea who I am, she thought. Moments later, a middle-aged gentleman passed by, giving her a friendly nod. Again, no recognition. With each resident she passed, her breath came easier. She still kept a nervous eye out for the press, but the only camera she saw hung from the neck of a bearded tourist who seemed more interested in the local architecture than in her.
For the first time in years, no one recognized her.
She shouldn't have been terribly surprised. Tofino was as remote as it was tiny, just a quaint little fishing village on the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. A handful of motels, some touristy gift shops, and a few quaint restaurants dotted the two lane road that ran along the piers, where small fishing boats bobbed in the tide by the marina. If there was anywhere in the world she could go to be anonymous for a few days, Tofino was the place.
A little newsstand in front of a café made her nervous: it was well-stocked with tabloids, but for the time being, her face didn't grace any of the covers. Still, anyone who'd read a recent copy might recognize her.
But as she explored the tiny village, no one gave her a second look. Eventually, she stopped glancing around in search of a camera lens pointed in her direction, stopped listening for that telltale click of a shutter, and focused on enjoying the scenery. The landscape in and around Tofino was dramatically different than that of Los Angeles. Towering evergreens dominated the mountainous terrain, a thick blanket of green velvet extending almost to the edge of the ocean. Simone strolled out of town along the shore, which alternated between vast expanses of sandy beach and rocky shoreline. The wind tugged at her skirt and toyed with her hair. She breathed the cool sea air, inhaling the crisp saltiness without a trace of smog.
Tofino was tucked into a small inlet, sheltered from the open ocean, so the water was relatively calm, its surface as smooth as glass in places. Every once in a while, a salmon burst through the surface and splashed back into the water again. The first couple of times, the fish startled her, but eventually she caught herself scanning the water's surface, trying to figure out where the next one would leap through. She drank in the silence. This place was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Anne-Marie was right. I needed this. It had been years since she'd spent any time alone, and most of that time had been spent deep in a bottle. The solitude here calmed and refreshed the soul, and the quiet little village eased the knots of worry out of her bunched shoulders. It even soothed the lingering pain of her hangover, quieting the fierce pounding into a dull ache.
Already, Simone felt ready to face the world again. Part of her was ready to go charging back into Hollywood to claim the reputation she knew she deserved. But Hollywood was hardly forgiving; it would probably be years before she could shake the stigma of her affairs and the dismal movies she never should have starred in. SNAP.
The all-too-familiar sound stopped Simone in her tracks. Her blood froze. Was it? No, it couldn't be. She was alone. Wasn't she?
She heard the sound again, and she knew: a camera shutter. Her heart pounded. No, no they couldn't have followed her. Not here. No one knew she was here. Did they?
A sick feeling rose in her gut.
She looked around.
The camera and its owner were behind her, maybe ten yards away. To her surprise, the lens was not pointed at her. In fact, it was pointed at the ground. The photographer knelt behind it, oblivious to her. For a moment, she just stared, dumbstruck that he wasn't trying to photograph her
. She couldn't remember the last time she had looked at a camera and not stared down the lens. She looked from the camera to the long fingers that held it, and up the chiseled forearm to the well-defined, tattooed bicep that peeked out from beneath a ragged Tshirt sleeve. Her gaze kept moving, taking in the broad shoulders. Between his collar and the black and yellow camera strap, a tantalizing sliver of another tattoo showed. His fingers turned the lens slowly, carefully, and a subtle ripple worked its way up his arm, making Simone's mouth water.
He must have felt her stare, because he looked up just then. Seeing his face without the camera in front of it took Simone's breath away.
His face was full of perfect contradictions: Prominent and graceful cheekbones sat above coarse stubble, suggesting he hadn't shaved in a few days. His hair—brown and spiky—was tousled and wild, but gave the impression of deliberate unruliness. His eyebrows arched with perfection that would bring a makeup artist to tears, and below their perfect curve, his vivid brown eyes looked out at the world with both intensity
and innocence. Boyish, but rugged. A tattooed bad boy who still called his mother and helped old ladies across the street.
Amidst the stubble, a thin goatee framed his mouth. The corners of his lip curled up into a smile that suggested both shyness and confidence. "Can I help you?" She realized she was staring. Her cheeks burned. "I'm . . . I'm sorry." He laughed, flashing perfect teeth and a dimpled smile. His cheekbones were suddenly even more pronounced above the shadowy stubble. "Nothing to be sorry about." He cocked his head. "I don't think I've ever seen you around here." With any luck, you've never seen me at all. "No, no I've never been to Tofino." He stood and extended his hand. "Jason Connor."
"Allyson Bishop," she lied, giving him her middle and maiden names. She shook his hand. She swore his thumb deliberately brushed between her thumb and forefinger, sending a shiver through her. " No one there but crusty old fishermen and retired tourists," Anne-Marie had said. Evidently Anne-Marie was unaware of one Jason Connor, whose presence seriously upped the Sexiness Quota of Tofino.
He scratched his neck under the camera strap, briefly revealing a little more of his tattoo. "So what brings you to Tofino?"
I'm supposed to be getting my act together and not getting into bed with anyone, but I might be willing to make an exception for you, especially if you lick your lips like that again.
"Just a vacation." She shifted her weight, not wanting to pursue that topic any further. She looked down by his feet. "What were you shooting?" He glanced down and gave a dismissive shrug. "Oh, just a flower. Nothing out of the ordinary."
She craned her neck and saw what he referred to: a tiny yellow flower nestled amidst the rocks and driftwood. "I probably would've walked right past it." Jason laughed. "I notice a lot of the things people walk past. I make my living that way."
She gestured toward the camera. "You're a professional, then?" He nodded.
Simone's chest tightened. A photographer, not a paparazzo, she assured herself. "So, weddings, that sort of thing?"
"God no." He wrinkled his nose. "I shot weddings for two years and swore I'd never do it again."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
"I thought most photographers did weddings."
He nodded. "A lot do. But I can't stand them."
"Really?"
"They're stressful as hell," he said. "A friend of mine once said shooting a wedding is like combat photography, but marginally safer." Simone laughed. "So what do you shoot? Besides little yellow flowers on the beach?"
"Nature. Seascapes." His tongue absently touched his upper lip, and, before she realized she was doing it, Simone ran her tongue across her own lip. She cleared her throat. "No people?"
He dropped his gaze for a moment, hesitated. "Not . . . often." She didn't press. He wasn't part of the paparazzi. That was good enough for her. Looking around the beach, she said, "I'm here for a few days. Maybe you can tell me where some of the best views are."
Jason smiled. "Sure." He paused. "Though some of the best require a boat." Another pause. "There's a great place to catch a sunset down the beach." He gestured over his shoulder. "The sun will be going down soon, but you can still make it. I'd be happy to take you there; it's not far."
She returned his smile. "Lead the way."
Chapter Three
Jason's mind raced as he walked down the beach with Allyson. He wasn't sure what to make of her.
She looked simultaneously exhausted and lively. In spite of the warm radiance in her smile, her eyes looked heavy with fatigue, her shoulders tight in a way that suggested a tremendous weight on her mind. He wondered what went on behind those deep blue eyes, but didn't pry.
Above all, and to his great surprise, he felt completely at ease with her. They chatted like old friends, casual and unhindered. Their conversation wasn't stilted with pretense and façades the way it often went when two people met, when each answer or comment was carefully considered before spoken in a concerted effort to give a good impression. No, there was an honesty between them.
He stopped from time to time to photograph this or that—a bald eagle on a branch, some scattered rocks that formed an interesting abstract pattern—and couldn't help but notice the way she eyed his camera. When they walked and it just hung loosely around his neck with the lens cap on, she was fine. As soon as he picked it up and took off the lens cap, her spine visibly stiffened.
What he wouldn't have given to take a shot of her. Her face was gorgeous, but her body made his pulse race every time he looked at her. Her waist formed an alluring curve that led his eyes back and forth between the gentle swell of her hips and her breasts. Given half the chance, he couldn't decide if he'd touch her hips or breasts first; both looked like they would fit perfectly in his hands.
He stopped and knelt, pretending to be focused on something on the ground, hoping she couldn't see he was really just pausing to give himself a chance to calm himself down. He prided himself on at least trying to be a gentleman, but his physical response to her wouldn't do much for his credibility.
After a moment, he stood and they kept walking. Up ahead, the old dock came into view. He gestured toward it and said, "There."
She turned in the direction he pointed, and his breath caught as the late afternoon sun highlighted her dark hair with flecks of copper. The wind played with
her hair, rippling through it as if taunting his almost irresistible desire to run his fingers through it.
Jason, Jason, come back to earth. He took a breath, forcing himself to look away from her.
The dock, a sturdy but weathered holdout from a bygone day, creaked and groaned in time with the waves that lazily lapped at its ancient pylons. Jason rested his forearms on the railing and cradled his camera in his hands to take the weight off his neck. As she joined him, he tried not to pay attention to the lithe "S" curve her body made as she leaned her hip against the railing. It took everything he had not to stare at her, but he forced himself to be a gentleman. He looked out at the water. From the end of the pier, they would have a nearly unobscured view of the sunset.
"You do know where the best views are, don't you?" she said, her voice soft as she looked out at the breathtaking scenery.
Yes, and I'm trying my damnedest not to look at the best view I've seen in a long, long time. He swallowed hard. "Walk around this place with a camera long enough, you start to find all the best seats in the house," he said with a laugh that he hoped masked his nervousness.
She cast an odd glance at the camera, and then looked back out at the water. "I suppose you do. So have you lived in Tofino all your life?" He shook his head. "I came here from Victoria a few years ago and never looked back. After the business took off and I didn't need to be at the gallery all the time."
"You don't have to run the business yourself?"
"Not anymore. My brother handles it."
"He runs the whole thing for you?"
"Well, he's a photographer too." He scratched the ba
ck of his neck where his camera strap annoyed him. "But he runs the gallery, does the advertising. He loves that sort of thing." He glanced at her, rolling his eyes. "I think he's nuts, but if that's what floats his boat . . . ."
She laughed.
Jesus, that's a beautiful sound. I wonder what she sounds like when she—no, no, stop it. She shifted her weight a little, looked at him. "Do you at least have a say in what goes on with the business?"
"Oh of course," he said. "It's just more his forte' than mine. He's more of a businessman than I am. We both take the pictures, but he deals with the nitty gritty crap."
"And sends you a check?" She laughed.
Jason chuckled. "Yeah, pretty much."
She paused for a second. "Are you and your brother close?" He nodded. "Have been since we were kids." He looked at her. "Do you have any siblings?"
A nearly imperceptible flinch flickered across her face, but she shrugged it away.
"A brother and a sister."
"You're not close to them?"
"My brother and I are close." She bit her lip and looked down at waves rolling between the pylons below them. "But my sister and I . . . ." She trailed off. For the first time, the air between them tightened with an uncomfortable silence.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
She shook her head and shrugged. "It's okay. It's a long story, really."
"You don't have to tell it."
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