by Lisa Jackson
“This isn’t a good time,” she said even before admitting Cassie into the suite. “I’m really tired.” As Cassie hung her dripping jacket over the arm of a modern hall tree, she added, “I just haven’t been feeling all that well.” A lie. One she didn’t bother keeping up herself as she offered Cassie a glass of red wine. Cassie had declined while Allie poured herself a hefty glassful. From the open bottle on the table, Cassie guessed it wasn’t her first drink of the evening.
It was after eight when they started the conversation. Cassie said, “I wanted to talk about the change to the script.”
“What’s done is done. Everyone including Arnette is on board.” Allie had sounded so damned flippant.
“Everyone but you.”
“Yeah, well, who cares what I think? I’m just the lead.” She buried her nose in her drink and took a long swallow.
As Allie glowered from a position near the windows, Cassie had tried to explain why she’d rewritten the scene, how the little change had improved the ending and added to her character’s motive and—
“It’s all bullshit!” Allie cut her off. She stalked to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area and poured herself another glass. “This is not about adding to the movie, it’s about getting the last word. Literally.” She jammed the cork into the bottle and picked up her glass. “So you can feel good about yourself.”
“No, that’s not why—”
“Of course it is!” She took back her position near the floor-to-ceiling windows. One arm wrapped around her slim waist, the other tipping her glass to her lips, she eyed her sister. “It’s always what it’s about.” Rain drizzled down the windows behind her, blurring the lights of the city and distorting the faded reflection of the interior.
“Why do you always make this a competition?” Cassie demanded, growing irritated.
“Because it fucking is. Always.” Another long gulp.
“Only if you make it—”
“No, if you make it one. It’s you, Cassie. Always you who pushes me.” She was getting agitated, her eyes avoiding Cassie’s, her lips twisted down. “Face it. You’re selfish and self-centered and . . . mean.”
Cassie struggled to hold her tongue, glancing meaningfully at the pictures of Allie lining the walls, shelves, and slim wooden mantel mounted over the stones of the fireplace.
“Don’t even go there,” Allie sniped.
But it was too late. Cassie rose to the bait. “Yeah? Well, it sure sounds as if you’re describing yourself.”
Allie’s eyes flashed. “You’re just jealous. I made it big. And that bothers you. That I’m a . . .”
“Star?” Cassie interjected as Allie, in an uncharacteristic bout of humility, couldn’t finish what was obviously on the tip of her tongue.
Allie hesitated. “Well, yeah, I guess I’m a celebrity.”
“You guess?”
“What about you? You’re a . . .” She shrugged dramatically, letting the incomplete sentence hang in the air as she took a long swallow from her glass.
“Say it,” Cassie encouraged as her own temper had flared hotter. “I’m a what?”
Allie remained quiet.
Cassie advanced, stepping around a chair. “A what?” she said again.
“Fill in the blank.” Allie drained her glass and her hand trembled.
“Say it.”
Allie swallowed hard. She looked as if she were fighting a losing battle with emotions she didn’t want revealed. Surprisingly her eyes sheened and for a second Cassie remembered Allie as she had once been, a scared little girl caught up in a monstrous scheme that nearly killed her mother. Cassie’s heart twisted, but she didn’t fall victim to her own raw feelings as she saw some other emotion lurking beneath Allie’s teary facade, something that ran far deeper and darker. Something dangerous.
“Just get out,” Allie ordered.
Cassie closed in on her sister. “Not before you say it. I’m . . . what?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“Say it, damn it.” The air crackled, but when Allie wouldn’t respond, Cassie said, “Loser?” Allie’s glass slipped from her fingers to crack and bounce against the hardwood. “Or maybe just plain old failure?” Cassie pushed.
“That’s a start,” her younger sister finally got out.
“Maybe a bitch?”
Allie’s lips twisted, her facade slipped for a millisecond. But Allie was an uncanny actress, one who could easily turn her emotions on and off and she recovered with, “Definitely a bitch.”
That sounded more like Allie. “Then maybe we’re not just sisters, maybe we’re more like twins,” Cassie said tightly.
“Puleeez. We are not alike,” Allie insisted, pointing at Cassie. “You know the difference between us?” She’d paused for effect, her elfin face expectant, her chin tipped upward. Without much makeup a fine dusting of freckles still bridged her perfect little nose.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
Cassie could click off the traits that distinguished Allie from her. Allie had been shyer as a young woman and blessed with a nearly photographic memory, which made it as easy for her to quote Shakespeare as find applications for the Pythagorean theorem or whatever in the third grade. Allie had been a brainiac turned computer nerd who’d hated school as it had bored her. Improbably, she’d blossomed into a beauty and eventually conquered Hollywood and was on her way to captivating the American public. Cassie had been, for the most part, a failure. Though tougher and bolder than her little sister, Cassie didn’t have the drive and the all-consuming ambition that were both integral parts of what made up Allie Kramer.
Allie reminded Cassie, “You were practically a dropout in school and after barely graduating, you left, not because of some big dream you’d had to follow in Mom’s footsteps and become an actress. Uh-huh. You ran away, not to something, but from your shitty life in Oregon.” Bingo. The truth. Ugly as it was. Inwardly Cassie recoiled but tried not to show how much her words hurt. “So, Cassie, how did that work out for you?” Allie’s voice shook a bit and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she stared hotly at her sister.
“I—”
“What?” She turned her palms to the ceiling, silently suggested she had no clue as to what her sister was about to say, but before Cassie could speak, Allie went on. “And don’t bring up the writing, okay? That’s insulting to those of us who can act. Writing’s just an excuse. Every damned actor who can’t make it thinks he or she will write or maybe direct. And you know what?” she asked, her perfect little chin projecting, fury radiating from her. “Most of them fail. Even if they end up writing a book about their own pathetic lives, it’s usually ghosted. Someone else does all the real work, the real composing. So face it. You’re a mess, Cassie. A mental case. A weak woman who can’t even keep her own husband from straying.”
Cassie’s jaw had hardened. That was below the belt.
But Allie wasn’t finished. “Trent and you? You know it’s a joke!”
“He’s my husband.”
“And he wants to fuck me.”
Cassie’s guts clenched. “And that’s what you live for, isn’t it? Making men, any man, want you. Even the married ones. What does that say about you?”
“What does it say about them?” she countered. “Or their wives? So who’s really to blame?”
“Not you, obviously.” Cassie’s voice had been low and menacing. She’d felt her eyes narrow as her temper took over. “Never you, right?”
“Don’t turn this around. Don’t blame me. Okay, finally, we’ve hit what you’re good at: blaming me.”
“Untrue.”
“Ask Mom.”
“Leave her out of it.” So now they were down to the bones of it. Their mother. No, make that their beautiful, successful mother who was at the heart of all their disputes. Not that Jenna hadn’t been fair to each of them, loving both of her daughters equally, if differently. And truth to tell, Cassie had been a lot more difficult
a daughter to raise. She knew that.
“I wish to hell that you weren’t my sister!” Allie suddenly shouted, her voice rising.
Cassie had wanted to strike out, to knock her down, to wipe that superior attitude off her face and grind it into the ground. She would have loved to let loose and get into one of the fights they’d had as children. When she’d been bigger than her younger sister, when she’d always prevailed, when she could make Allie with one look go running to their mother.
“Maybe I’d just better go,” Cassie said woodenly. “I wanted you to understand why I made the suggestions I did to the script, but you’re not interested. It’s just making things worse, so forget it.”
“You made those changes to prove a point. Because you hate me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You’ve always hated me. Been jealous as hell and regretted the day you suggested, no, begged me to come down here. But then I took you up on the dare, started auditioning for parts against you and blew you out of the water! Dad saw it the minute I took my first screen test and he dropped all of his interest in you because of me. I was his chance to revive his own career as a producer.” Her smile was almost evil. “Until I ditched him. Just like he dumped us.”
Cassie’s heart was pounding in her ears. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered, all the while knowing Allie wasn’t completely off the mark as far as her original intentions of getting Allie to come to California. Cassie had begged her to come, then regretted it when Allie’s celebrity had skyrocketed. But over time Cassie had mellowed, accepted that Allie was the better actress, the true star in the family. She didn’t want the argument to escalate, so she tried to back down. As rain pummeled the windows, Cassie used every device she’d learned from years in therapy to walk away before things got worse. She backed up a step, mentally counted to ten, then said, “I’m outta here,” and headed for the entry hall and her jacket.
“Sure,” Allie mocked. “Run away. That’s what you’re good at.”
Cassie fought the urge to bite back. This was childish. Stupid. Like all their dumb sibling stuff. She jammed her arms into the jacket’s sleeves.
“You’re absolutely pathetic,” Allie charged.
“I guess we’re even,” she stated flatly. “Because I wish you weren’t my sister, either.”
At that last salvo, Allie hurried after her, standing only inches from her as Cassie cinched the jacket’s belt tightly around her waist. “Get out and don’t come back.”
“You’ve been a pain in the ass forever, Allie.” Reaching for the door handle, she made the colossal mistake of adding, “I wish you’d never been born!”
Slap! Allie’s palm struck.
Pain exploded in Cassie’s head as it spun.
She stumbled back a step, recoiling in shock.
“Bitch!” Allie cried, her features twisted.
Anger pulsed red inside Cassie’s head. Every muscle in her body bunched. Without thinking she struck back, pushing her sister so hard Allie stumbled backward into the living room, her calves colliding with the edge of the coffee table, her feet coming out from under her. She’d landed on the floor, her head glancing off the arm of the sofa, her legs sprawled.
“Shit!” Allie cried. “You’re a freak. A fucking freak!” Frantically she scooted into a sitting position and rubbed the knot that was forming on the side of her head. “Something’s seriously wrong with you!”
The words rang far too true and they’d stung.
That instant Cassie’s rage ebbed.
Allie caught the change and realized she’d hit her mark, deep into the soft center of Cassie’s insecurities. “You need help. Serious help,” Allie charged. “I mean it. You should see a shrink. I mean a real psychiatrist, not Dr. Feel Good or whatever her name is. She’s not helping. In fact, I think you’re worse from seeing her!”
Pulling herself to her feet, Allie held on to the back of the couch for support, keeping the piece of furniture between them. “Do yourself and Mom and Trent and the whole damned world a favor, Cassie. Commit yourself! Or have the state do it! You’ve never been right since that creep nearly killed you!”
Allie’s anger had dissipated and she was shaking. Pleading. She’d wounded Cassie, yes, intended to hurt her, but she’d also made a painfully true point.
Cassie had backed away and wondered at her sister’s deep-seated hatred of her. Somehow she’d left. Cassie didn’t remember much about the drive home. Had she gone straight back to her hotel room? Or had she driven aimlessly around the rain-washed streets of Portland before returning to her suite and flinging herself onto her bed? Had she returned to Allie’s apartment? Lost track of time? Done something unthinkable, something she’d regret for the rest of her life? No! She couldn’t have. Yet, she shuddered. All she really recalled was that she’d woken up hours later with a serious migraine that had nearly kept her from the shoot.
She’d arrived on set to find out that Allie’s assistant, Cherise, had called Little Bea and claimed illness. Lucinda Rinaldi had stepped into Allie’s costume for the reshooting of that final, fateful scene. It appeared that Cassie had been the last person to see her sister before Allie had fallen off the face of the earth.
“Where are you?” Cassie whispered now, leaning against the slick tiles of the tiny shower stall. Not for the first time she wondered if she were somehow at fault, at least partially. The fight. Allie hitting her head. Emotional and physical trauma that she, Cassie, had inflicted. The black hole of missing hours.
And now this. The not knowing.
She started to cry, tears mingling with the drizzle running from the showerhead over her body. Just like the guilt. Always the guilt. The truth was that she loved her sister and yes, there was envy and pain involved, even jealousy and anger, but she still remembered the scared little girl Allie had once been, the nerdy kid who’d been so shy. The girl Cassie had felt an intense need to protect. Before everything had gone so far downhill. God, what had happened to them? Angrily she swiped the salty drops away and pulled herself together. She was no use to herself or Allie or anyone by falling into a billion pieces.
Drawing a breath, she washed her hair and lathered and rinsed her body, scrubbing hard as if the very act could scour away any remaining bits of self-loathing and doubts. Once she was finished, she stepped out of the tile and glass enclosure and realized she hadn’t brought a towel with her.
Dripping, she padded to the hall closet, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. She found a bath sheet and wrapped herself in the thick terry cloth before returning to the bathroom and swiping at the fogged-over mirror.
Her phone rang as she was staring at her reflection, and she quickly made her way to the kitchen, where her cell lay charging on the counter. She’d missed the call and saw that no number registered on the screen. All that was listed was: Private call. She felt a moment’s fear, the old worries returning, but told herself it was no big deal. Probably just a wrong number. Or a telemarketer. Whoever it was, if they wanted something, they would call back.
She checked the screen again. Another call had come in, a number she recognized as belonging to Trent. This time he didn’t leave a message and she was surprised that she felt a prick of disappointment, but there it was, a tiny new rip in her already fragile heart. “Fool,” she whispered, and then noticed the face-down picture on a side table in the living room. She and Trent noticed. So much in love. She picked it up. The glass was cracked, a scar from a fight she’d had with Trent when she’d hurled the wedding photo across the living room they’d shared. Her temper had always run white-hot and the fact that she’d caught him having drinks with her sister had sent her over the edge. When he’d tried to explain, she hadn’t listened. Instead she’d thrown the wedding photo across the room, aiming for his face. After he left she’d tossed the picture into the trash only to retrieve it the next day.
She looked at it now. In the photograph, she was wearing a short white dress. Trent was in jeans a
nd an open-throated shirt. It was night, they stood near the street, the lights of Las Vegas blurring behind them. They were so happy, Trent’s crooked, irreverent grin in place, her smile as bright as the future stretching before them. She’d been certain at that moment their life together would be worry-free and guaranteed to have a happy ending. She’d been so naive. Such an idiot to start dating him again after their breakup in Oregon. Granted, they’d separated mainly because of distance and family pressures: She was leaving for LA, and he was staying in Oregon. Her mother had been worried, Cassie had endured so much, she was concerned about the relationship. And though Trent hadn’t given a rip about Jenna’s feelings at the time, Cassie had been confused.
Well, wasn’t she always?
Nothing had changed much there. Maybe her fury at Trent on the night of the fight had been misdirected. She knew now that Allie had targeted her husband, not the other way around. How sick was that, her own sister actually wanting to sleep with him? It was really messed up, but, of course, Cassie’s relationship with Allie had always been difficult and weird.
She hefted the only photograph of Trent she’d kept and considered throwing it away. Permanently. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. She wasn’t as rash as she once had been, at least she hoped that was the case. She set the picture face down on the table. He was just another bastard who’d crossed her path. One of a handful. Her taste in men had always been less than stellar, probably due to “daddy issues.” After all, Robert was always leaving his current wife for the next best thing. Not exactly a candidate for Father of the Year.
“Get over it,” she told herself.
Allie, as it turned out, had been right: Cassie was a screw up and a mental case.
Still, she wasn’t going to let paranoia stop her. Nor would she allow Allie’s questionable morals where Trent was concerned veer Cassie from her course.
Maybe she should start looking now. She wasn’t tired. In fact she was antsy, needed to do something to calm herself down and think clearly. Maybe she needed a drink? Or a walk? Even a drive? Risky, but then what in life wasn’t?