by Davis Bunn
Until now.
Connor did not race to Miramar in order to be there in time for his job.
He was chasing after some small shred of everything he had lost.
The answer was there. In Miramar. He was absolutely certain. The town held his last chance at life.
CHAPTER 29
Sylvie made it easily up the stairs to her apartment. Marcela hovered just behind her, like she expected Sylvie to collapse at any time. The idea was ridiculous. How could anyone possibly think that a man she had only known for four days could impact her in such a way? Even so, her mind felt partially disconnected from her legs, which remained somewhat reluctant to obey her instructions. When she entered her apartment, Sylvie looked around in confusion. Now that she was here, she could not remember what had seemed so important to bring her upstairs.
Marcela asked, “Do you want to lie down?”
“Of course not,” Sylvie replied calmly. Talking seemed like such a bother. She started toward the chaise lounge by the front windows.
Marcela continued to shepherd her. “What can I get you? Another brandy? Something to eat?”
“Tea would be nice,” Sylvie decided.
“Tea it is.”
Sylvie waited as Marcela bustled about and tried to fill the apartment’s empty spaces with her chatter. When Marcela brought the tea, Sylvie said, “Connor is engaged.”
“He was until a few hours ago,” Marcela corrected.
“He was going to be married. What kind of man cheats on his fiancée the week of their wedding?”
“A total louse,” Marcela said sadly.
“I feel like a complete idiot.” Sylvie lifted the cup, set it down. “Did you see how beautiful that woman is? And famous? And—”
“A total airhead. I saw.”
“Connor was toying with me.”
“I liked him,” Marcela said softly. “A lot. So did the others.”
“We liked Bradley, too.”
“No, girl. You liked Bradley. Everybody else watched and worried.”
“Why am I only hearing this now?”
“We told you, like a hundred times. You were too much in love to hear.”
The care and concern in Marcela’s gaze almost undid her. “You are a dear, sweet friend.”
“Is that your way of saying you’d like to be alone?”
“It is indeed.”
Marcela set Sylvie’s phone by the saucer. “You need, you call.”
“Thank you.”
When Sylvie heard the downstairs door click shut, she rose and walked unsteadily to the corner that served as her office. She unplugged her laptop from the charger and brought it back to the chair. Before sitting down, she opened the front windows.
Just in case.
She had no trouble finding the YouTube link. The latest so-called episode, the one that had gone out live on the cable channel, was less than three hours old and already had more than two million hits. She watched the entire tawdry incident; then she found the link to the previous installment. She sat through the engagement party and Connor’s disappearance and Kali Lyndon’s tearful appeal; then she turned off the computer.
She forced herself to drink the tepid tea. There on the blank screen, Sylvie found herself watching a replay of events from nineteen months ago. She overlaid the cable personality’s absurdly cheerful voice and relived the last time a man had pretended to be someone he wasn’t. The last time Sylvie had allowed herself to fall in love.
She had been with Bradley for eight blissful months. He traveled a great deal, he claimed for his work. He kept a small apartment overlooking the northern cliffs. Or so he had claimed. She had since learned that it actually was owned by a former friend. They had met when he had entertained clients at Castaways. Bradley had returned the next night to continue their conversation. He was handsome, intelligent, a good listener, beguiling.
Everything he had told her had been a lie.
Sylvie had only learned the truth when regular customers, a couple from Santa Cruz who spent almost every weekend at Miramar, observed her with this man from their hometown. This man whom she loved and planned to marry. This man, they revealed, who was nothing like the person he claimed to be.
And now it had happened all over again.
Only this time, things had not gone nearly as far with Connor. Instead, her friends had come to her rescue. She turned and looked over to the silent kitchen, and the empty space where Marcela had stood. There was no telling how long it would have taken her to discover the truth, had it not been for those dear friends.
Then, far in the distance, she heard a motorcycle.
The engine made a distinctive racing roar. The noise was exquisitely refined. The driver kept the revs up to a screaming level as he powered through the curves leading into Miramar.
Long before the engine’s bellow rushed down Main Street, before it slowed and burbled to a stop below her window, Sylvie knew it was Connor.
Sylvie rose from her chair and looked out the window just as he pulled off his helmet and unlimbered from the ride.
She stared down at him for a long moment. As he eased himself to a full upright position, a pair of ladies on the opposite sidewalk slowed for an appreciative glance. His hair glinted dark and honeyed in the late-afternoon light. His weary features looked sculpted. He was not merely handsome. He carried the magnetic quality of a star.
Not that it mattered any. Sylvie turned from the window and uttered the same words she had spoken as she’d risen from the car and crossed Bradley’s front lawn, “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 30
Connor was still vibrating from the ride when Sylvie appeared in the doorway. As usual, he only felt the impact of the ride and his tucked-in position now that he was off the bike. His thighs and lower back ached somewhat. His neck and shoulders were stiff. He stretched back, then forward. The adrenaline rush granted the moment a crystal precision.
This meant that the instant Connor saw Sylvie’s face, he knew it was over.
There was little to her outer appearance to suggest anything wrong. She wore a lovely pearl-gray jacket and slacks, clearly ready to greet the weekend crowds. But there was no welcome for Connor. No greeting.
“Sylvie, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t be silly. What on earth do you have to apologize for?”
He felt as though the ground continued to move beneath him. Thankfully, the bike’s handlebars were there for him to grip for stability. “All this has been such a terrible mistake.”
Her smile was merely a professional reflex. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Connor could see that discovering who he was had erased something very fragile inside her. Something very precious was no more. “If I could go back and stop—”
“Oh, please.” Her voice was almost cheerful. “There’s no need for such drama.”
Connor breathed in and out. He tasted the salt in the air. He heard the gulls cry. His clarity was sweet agony. This, he knew, was how it felt to break a heart.
Two of them.
Sylvie seemed to find exactly what she wanted in his silence. “There was nothing real between us. So there is nothing for you to apologize for. Not really.”
Connor did not speak because he had nothing to say. His body hummed to the realization that he loved her, and that she would never be his.
“Please don’t come back here anymore.”
Connor saw Marcela and Rick both watching from the restaurant’s front window. Sandy and Bruno stepped up behind them. It was only fitting that they be there to watch him crash and burn.
Sylvie scalded him with another cool smile. “Have a good trip back to LA.”
She turned and walked back into her restaurant.
CHAPTER 31
There was no reason why Connor should choose to push his bike the three and a half blocks uphill from Castaways to the guesthouse. But something about the fragile quality of his heart seemed to require this labor. By the tim
e he rolled into the parking lot, he was puffing hard. He set it onto the kickstand; then he just stood there. His hands rested on the controls. His limbs still vibrated, but he suspected it was more from the impact of Sylvie’s words than the road. He could feel the aftereffects from his toes to fingertips.
Connor had no idea what to do next. Stay in Miramar or return to LA? The question had no meaning.
Then Connor spotted the light framing Estelle’s window.
He walked over and stood by the door, long enough for the night to gather strength. He had no logical reason to involve himself further, but this was the only act that felt the least bit right.
He knocked softly and waited.
When Estelle opened the door, he knew the answer before he asked, “Have you spoken with her?”
“I tried. I told you I would.” Estelle’s voice was scarcely a murmur. “I failed. Again.”
Connor had no idea what to say.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. Would you . . .” Estelle breathed hard. “Tell me about my daughter. Please.”
Connor nodded slowly. Coming here made sense now. “I’ll meet you in the coffee shop around the corner. Fifteen minutes?”
Connor crossed the lot and took the satchel off the back of his bike. He showered and changed into his only remaining clean shirt, the white knit pullover he had bought for the job. He put on the second pair of new black gabardine trousers; then he settled on the edge of his bed to put on socks and shoes. The leaden weight of his heart threatened to plant him there. Connor tried to tell himself that it was ridiculous to hurt this badly. He had only known the woman for four days. What was going on?
The only answer he came up with, no matter how little sense it made, was to walk down to the café and settle into the seat across from Estelle.
She asked, “What will you have?”
“Americano, black.” When she returned and set the cup before him, he cradled it in both hands. He saw Sylvie in the steaming liquid. He tried to describe Estelle’s daughter, and failed. So he started at the beginning. Not of his own journey, but from the moment he had heard the music and let himself be drawn into Castaways.
Connor described his own feelings, along with the events. He left nothing out. He named every song he had played for Sylvie, and did so in proper order. He related what Sylvie had told him about her past. The only thing he left out was the cold manner in which Sylvie had spoken about her mother. Connor did not once feel that he was breaking confidences. This was her mother. But as he reached the point where they had kissed, he finally realized the true purpose behind the talk, at least for him. Connor was trying to determine the precise moment he had fallen in love.
As he related that horrible confrontation this afternoon, as he described being gutted on the street, Connor reached the answer to at least one mystery.
His heart had been captured from the very first moment he had laid eyes on the lady.
Estelle drew him from his painful reverie. She reached across the table and took hold of his hand. When he looked up, he found himself met by a truly sympathetic gaze.
Estelle said softly, “You poor kid.”
Connor clenched his jaw against the sudden upwelling. The power of his emotional upheaval was shocking. He was a man known for feeling nothing. Yet, he was on the verge of sobbing here in public.
Estelle went on, “I suppose you’ll be heading back to Los Angeles. I’d like to give back my rental car and catch a lift to the airport.”
Connor swallowed hard. “I’m on my bike.”
“It’s been a while, but I used to enjoy the occasional ride.”
As he started to agree, he found himself struck by a realization.
He needed to stay in Miramar.
Connor had no idea why he felt so certain, but to have clarity of any sort was far more important than logic. Nothing about his entire sojourn in this place was sensible. He said, “Don’t go.”
“I told you. I’ve been here eight days and the closest I’ve gotten to my daughter is across the street.” She smiled sadly. “At least that was true until tonight.”
The passing moments only intensified the awareness that he was not going anywhere. Not yet. And neither should she. “Stay one more day.”
“What for, Connor?”
“I have no idea,” he replied. “But I think it’s important.”
CHAPTER 32
The one thing Connor could say for certain about Miramar, it was not a place made for easy nights. The best sleep he’d had all week had been in the limo riding south. Despite his hard days and broken nights, he spent most of those dark hours pacing. Sylvie’s act of final closure was only partly to blame for his restlessness. There was a hunger to understand what was happening—a need to see himself moving beyond the confusion. He had no reason to stay in Miramar and every reason to leave. Down in LA, he was freed from the shackles of a PR-driven marriage. His star was on the rise. His agent had laid down a challenge for growing his abilities as an actor. And yet . . .
Every time he opened his door and glanced at his bike, he grew increasingly certain that his time here was far from over.
Around midnight, he lay down and slept a few hours, repeatedly jerking awake from images strewn like leaves blown by a careless wind. A little after four in the morning, he rose and put on a pot of coffee. He took his mug out to the bench where Estelle often sat. The night was utterly still, the stars a great silver sea. An owl greeted him. A car passed. Otherwise, the hour was his.
It seemed as though the idea grew with the dawn. Connor remained where he was, long after the chill worked into his bones. The concept was so fragile he was not certain he could shape it into words. He feared if he rose he might allow the doubts and sorrow to seep in and wreck it. So he waited until the tremors shook him; then he went inside and took a long, hot shower. He lay back down and must have dozed off, because daylight greeted him when he opened his eyes.
Connor rose and stretched and made a fresh pot. He stood by the kitchenette and studied his room. Today was to have been his wedding day.
Their honeymoon was to have been a three-week extravaganza. Week one was to have been spent in a mahogany palace built on stilts above its own private atoll in the Maldives. For week two, they were booked into a seven-hundred-square-foot tree house in the virgin forests of New Zealand. Week three was in the royal suite of the Paris Ritz.
Connor looked around his little studio. The recent redecorations had not removed its basic flaws. Beneath their coats of fresh paint, the concrete walls dimpled and cratered. He could easily have reached up and shifted the popcorn ceiling tiles. The air conditioner rattled. His view through the old slatted window was over the central parking area. The soundproofing between rooms was almost nil.
There was no place Connor would rather be.
What was more, he knew what he needed to do next.
He still could not make sense of it all. And the heartache from yesterday’s confrontation with Sylvie rendered him hollow. This new direction felt right, though. He clung to that simple fact. It had been a long while since he could say that about any of his moves.
Connor poured a fresh mug and went through his clothes from the previous day. He found the police chief’s card in the back pocket of his ride-stained jeans.
Porter Wright answered, “Do you know what time it is?”
“A quarter past nine.”
“A quarter past nine, on my Sunday off,” Porter corrected.
“I need to ask you something, and I don’t think it should wait.”
Porter sighed. “Hang on a second.” There was a rustling sound, a pause, then, “All right. What is it?”
“That problem you told me about—Sylvie and the drugs. Is that still an issue?”
Both Porter’s sleepiness and his ire completely vanished. “Why are you asking?”
“I want to help.”
“Connor . . . you need to understand, whatever you do won’t repair the damage.”
He
had already reached this conclusion, but having Porter slam the door shut on his last shred of hope was tough. “You heard about yesterday?”
“The town’s favorite lady discovers her mystery waiter is a Hollywood star on the lam from his own wedding. She strips him bare on Main Street. He pushes his two-wheeled red rocket up to the guesthouse and disappears inside. Yeah, I heard. I expect most of the town spiced their Saturday dinner with speculation over why you’re still here.”
“I told you. I want to help Sylvie.”
“You mind if I ask why?”
It was the first time Connor had spoken the thought aloud. “I can’t make things right. I accept that. But I want to try and make things better.”
Porter went quiet. Then, “Can you come up with twenty thousand dollars?”
The simple answer was no. Connor was as deep down in the debt hole as he had ever been. Just then, it seemed as though his attitude toward money was basically one more splinter from a broken life. Connor saw no need to tell the cop what he was thinking, so he merely asked, “This is for Sylvie’s lawyer?”
“She needs one, and I know for a fact she’s dragging her heels because of the money issue. Sylvie is afraid she’ll wind up owing Phil Hammond more than she already does. Rick and Marcela are trying to raise the money in town. A lot of folks will probably want to help out, but there’s not much time to go find them.”
“Give me a couple of hours,” Connor said. “I have an idea.”
“Son . . . I don’t think she’ll accept any help coming from you.”
Connor opened his door and looked over to where Estelle sat, isolated and lonely in the sunlight. “As far as Sylvie is concerned, I won’t be doing a thing.”