by Diana Orgain
“That’s San Francisco for you.”
He shrugged. “Seriously, though, I didn’t notice anything. What would I have noticed?”
“I don’t know. I’m grasping at straws, I guess. What about Pietro?” I asked. “When we were at the studio, did you see anything strange?”
Ty shrugged. “Not anything helpful, I’m sure. Didn’t the cops think he killed himself? Suicide note and everything, right?”
Becca approached us. Ty’s body language changed: He straightened and seemed to puff out his chest. Gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling that he was strutting his stuff in front of Becca. She deserved to have a guy totally into her and trying to impress her.
She gave him a little smile, something akin to “Hi, hot stuff, I’m working now, but catch me later.”
Ty pulled a fistful of grass out of the park lawn and began to flick the blades around one by one, perhaps slightly disappointed that Becca had bigger fish to fry now.
“Okay, Georgia, we got our sound system back up, but I think I have the shots I need with Ty. Why don’t we stop at the Lutheran church on the way back to our vehicles? You can look around the church with Edward and then we’ll wrap this up, so we can get to Carmel before sunset.”
We all rode the bikes out of the park and then Edward and I hopped off to film inside the Bethania Lutheran Church on the corner of Laurel Avenue. We were followed by a lone cameraman.
Becca yelled out to him, “Just go and get a few shots; make it snappy.”
When we opened the church doors, it was like stepping into the past. The church had a Scandinavian seafaring theme and from the ceiling hung an old ship.
“This is awesome,” Edward said.
I had to agree.
I moved closer to him, hoping he felt as enthusiastic about me as he did about the ship, but he remained a little distant.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s hard to watch you flirting with all the other guys.”
He’s jealous?
I suddenly didn’t know how to feel or what to say. Having competing emotions was part of the game. Was Edward really jealous and therefore on the show for love? Or was he simply acting jealous so that I would jump to that conclusion and completely miss the fact that he was on the show for the money?
“Are you the jealous type?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not normally, but this whole situation is awkward. It’s hard to see a girl you think you might be getting really into, flirting with other guys.”
I took a seat in a pew and waited for him to sit next to me. The cameraman lowered the camera and said, “Guys, I’m not getting enough light. Give me a second.”
He popped out of the church, leaving Edward and me alone for a moment.
“You know it’s a game. I’m trying to figure out who’s on the show for the right reasons,” I said.
Edward nodded and looked away. He stuck his hand into his pocket. “There’s something about Ty. I already told you. I don’t think he’s on the show for the right reasons . . .”
Oh. So he was back to being upset about Ty and Becca. It made sense. He had no way of knowing that they had my blessing.
“I know not everyone is on the show to fall in love with me,” I said.
Edward pulled something out of his pocket. The church door opened and the cameraman appeared again, this time with a light strapped to the camera. He then walked around us so that the ship was in our background, practically blinding us with the light.
Edward sat back in the pew, outstretching his arms. I was hoping he might put his arm around me, but instead he drummed the fingers of his left hand on the back of the pew, his right hand balled in a fist.
I didn’t need the bright light on the camera to see what was in front of me. Edward had pulled a pill out of his pocket. He’d probably take it as soon as the camera turned off. What had he called it?
His personal stash.
I sighed and leaned back.
Any student of body language watching this scene on TV would plainly see Edward and I had just missed a love connection.
Twenty-two
Carmel-by-the-Sea is arguably one of the most gorgeous towns in the world. Sure, there are a lot of beautiful places out there—Monte Carlo, Venice, Prague—but none of those have the Clint Eastwood charm.
I was seated in the outdoor patio of the restaurant he’d created, the Hog’s Breath Inn, sipping a glass of chardonnay. There was also a bucket of champagne, tableside. Should I decide to invite my date to toast with me, then he would be safe at the next elimination ceremony.
I was exhausted. The drive from Solvang had been tiring and long, but fortunately we’d gotten to Carmel on schedule and I’d even had a moment to breathe.
Kyle had selected a white and red checkered top for me with loose-fitting white pants along with strappy low sandals, for which I was grateful. When I’d said, “What? Are you taking it easy on me? No kill-me stilettos?” he laughed and told me that in Carmel one needed a permit to wear high heels, for liability reasons.
Well, that was one more reason I loved Carmel!
My one-on-one date was scheduled with Paul. It was probably the only way I’d get to pump him for information. Becca had promised that she’d try to busy up the crew with something so that I could really talk to him and not have to do much inane blathering for the camera.
A cool breeze picked up on the patio and blew my paper napkin off the table. I stood to retrieve it and bumped right into Paul.
“Oh!” I said, as he grabbed my elbows.
“Sorry, honey,” he said, “I didn’t know you were going to jump up like that.”
My heart raced at being in Paul’s arms again and I tried to separate myself from him. “My napkin,” I said lamely.
He didn’t register what I was saying, only leaned in and kissed me.
My breath caught and my knees went weak, there was something so natural about kissing this man. I felt at home. He was familiar. I knew him.
We continued to kiss, at first tentatively then deeper, my arms wrapping around his neck and my fingers weaving into his hair, forgetting the cameras, forgetting the heartache he’d caused me, forgetting—
“Cut,” Becca said. “The angle’s all wrong for us.”
Paul pulled away from me, but continued to stare into my eyes. “You still love me,” he said, his voice husky and breathless.
“Cut, cut!” Becca yelled. “Take a seat, Paul, sip some wine. Give me a few shots I can use.”
I stumbled away from him, feeling a little light-headed and a little love drunk.
Could it work between us again?
I took a seat across from him and stared at his handsome face.
Is it possible that we could make a go of our relationship after all?
He reached out across the table and took my hand. “It’s so good to be with you, Georgia.”
“Likewise,” I said and suddenly I meant it.
“I’ve had time to think,” he said. “Being on the show . . .” His eyes clouded over.
I could tell he was getting ready to say something in code to me.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve had time to think. I want you to know that I am looking for love. I know a lot of the men on the show have said the same thing to you. But I mean it this time. I really do.”
The fact that he’d said this time stung. Obviously, it was clear he hadn’t meant it before; and if he hadn’t meant it before, why in world would he mean it now?
I felt myself grow cold and confused at the same time. How could I feel so close to this man and so distant at the same time?
I said, “It’s a tough decision for me, you know. I’ve been thinking a lot, too. About so many things . . .”
“What have you been thinking?” he asked. “I want to know.”
I took a deep breath. “Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.”
A look of hurt flashed across his face. “No, that’s not true; somet
imes things—”
“Paul—”
“Wait!” He held up a hand. “I want to say that sometimes things happen, unfortunate things, awful things, but those events can make people realize they’ve made a mistake.”
I grabbed my wine nervously and took a clumsy sip.
“A guy can realize that he’s made a grave mistake.” He took a moment to look around the patio. A waiter appeared and filled his glass with chardonnay. Paul glanced from the waiter to the champagne bottle between us, a calculating expression on his face.
He wanted the champagne, not the chardonnay, that much was clear.
The waiter took our order and I harbored the hope that I’d actually get to eat the sautéed sand dabs I’d just ordered. Maybe, if I was lucky, even sample one of Paul’s Angus beef sliders.
“It’s pretty here,” he said. “I’ve always dreamed that I would come to a place like this on my honeymoon.”
We hadn’t planned a honeymoon. We’d spent too much money on our wedding and had thought perhaps we could go on a cruise over the Christmas holidays, but we’d never even figured out where we would go.
“Your honeymoon. Ha-ha,” I said, feeling nervous again and trying to ignore the growing pit in my stomach.
“Cut!” Becca said.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” she said. “I can’t film you like that. You’re supposed to be looking happy and in love and trying to evaluate this guy.”
“I am trying to evaluate this guy,” I said.
“Well, you’ve got to look more happy about it,” she said.
“Yeah, I really wish you would look more happy about it, too,” Paul said.
I bit back my tears and finished our phony date. I sipped the chardonnay and made a stupid comment about the ocean. The waiter appeared with my sand dabs and Paul’s sliders and placed the plates in front of us.
Paul sniffed my plate. “Looks yummy.”
“Yours, too,” I said.
“I think these Angus sliders would be killer with a little champagne,” he said.
So he’d just come out and said it.
Well, I would, too.
“And a wedding works best when the groom shows up.”
He dropped his fork.
Becca made a motion for the crew to keep filming. I supposed they’d edit out my comments; after all, they probably wouldn’t make any sense to the audience.
Paul picked up his fork and gave me a tight smile. “I’m sure you’re right. In fact, if memory serves, you’re always right.”
“Cut,” Becca said. “I’m calling it a wrap before you two stab each other’s eyes out with the forks.”
The crew began to tear down the equipment. I reached around and took off my microphone and handed it to the sound guy, who nodded at me.
Paul looked miserable, but I ignored his pouty, sulky attitude and leaned into him, grabbing his arm and whispering in his ear, “Hey, did you know that Aaron died yesterday?”
He sat up straighter and pushed the glass of chardonnay out of his way. “Yeah, I know. I’m on it.” He was all business now, his demeanor returning to the cold and stoic Paul that I knew. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with this. We’re looking into it.”
“Well, I am concerned,” I said. “Have you looked into Teresa?”
“What about her?” Paul asked.
“Is she still behind bars or do you think she’s the makeup artist Florencia? She was in San Francisco the day Aaron died. Isn’t that strange? Why would she be there?”
“What are you suggesting?” Paul asked.
“For starters, I want to know what she was doing in San Francisco,” I said.
“I’ll check into it,” he said. “As far as I know Aaron died of natural causes from the fall.”
• • • • • • • • •
In Carmel, I was staying in my Prevost coach, while the men got to stay at the famous La Playa Carmel Hotel. It was a renovated luxury hotel that was built in the early 1900s by an artist for his wife, a member of the Ghirardelli family. The grounds of the hotel were meticulously tended gardens with soaring cypress trees, a terraced swimming pool, and breaktaking views of the Pacific.
Cheryl had made arrangements to film our elimination scene in a salon of the hotel that overlooked the ocean; it was exactly the kind of view Hollywood would feature when someone was getting dumped.
I had a few minutes to change in between scenes. Kyle had come on the road with us and had assisted me into a lacy, lilac-colored gown. He pinned my hair up and added extensions that gave the impression my hair had been meticulously curled and coiffed. In reality, I needed a hot shower and shampoo.
Dad and I were scheduled to have a brief meeting before the elimination ceremony and I was anxious to see him.
In one corner of the salon were two leather chairs set with the beach view behind them. We had precious little time before night fell, but as it was, the sunset on the beach cast a beautiful orange and blue hue on the set. I sat in one of the chairs and waited for Dad.
When he walked in, I leapt out of the chair and into his arms.
“Daddy,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, peaches,” he said. “How have your dates been going?”
I quickly recapped for him the date in Solvang and the one-on-one date with Paul in Carmel. I remembered to smile and hopefully seemed to our audience as if I were excited about the whole process. At least, Cheryl hadn’t stopped me a bunch of times to tell me to look happy, so that was progress.
“Sounds like you got a lot of nice young men interested in you,” Dad said.
Cheryl signaled us that it was a wrap and both Dad and I stood up. She leaned into my father and said something.
A big smile crossed Dad’s face and then he let out a belly laugh.
Something inside me buzzed.
Why was Cheryl being so friendly to my dad?
Why was he laughing at her jokes?
Dad said something and Cheryl laughed as if he were the funniest man in the world.
I got that now familiar sinking feeling in my stomach.
They were standing so close together . . .
Suddenly the penny dropped. Dad hadn’t been around a lot the past two days . . . Cheryl had been on some hot dates . . .
Oh, God . . .
Could Cheryl’s “hot date” possibly be . . . my dad?
An image of her as my stepmother formulated in my mind and a sour taste clawed at the back of my throat.
I tried to focus myself and put the thoughts of my dad and Cheryl out of my head.
After all, what did I really know? They’d been laughing together. Lots of people laughed together.
And, hey, Dad was a funny and charming man.
But how on earth could he possibly be attracted to the queen barracuda?
Harris Carlson entered and introduced the scene for the audience. There were three glasses of champagne left and one man would be eliminated.
My hands were shaking. I had no idea who I would eliminate. I was developing real feelings for Scott and Edward, despite some doubts, and I wanted to keep them around. Paul had confused me more than ever and I knew I couldn’t let him go right now.
I tried to ignore my mixed-up emotions about him and rationalized that even though Paul hadn’t exactly been forthcoming regarding the Aaron and Pietro investigations at least if I had him around then I might be privy to insider information on Teresa/Florencia.
I knew Becca would understand if I let Ty go, but I felt badly that I should be the one to ruin her fun.
“Scott, will you toast with me?” I asked.
A smile warmed up his face as he stepped toward me and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Next I called, “Edward.”
He stepped forward and hugged me. Finally, here was the connection I’d been hoping for in the church. A warmth spread through my body as Edward accepted th
e glass of champagne. He returned to his place next to the other men.
“Gentlemen,” Harris said, “only one glass remains.”
I looked between Paul and Ty.
Paul stared at me, his eyes dark. He was too proud to show any expression on his face.
Ty glanced down at his cowboy boots.
“Paul,” I said.
He stepped forward and rushed to me, his face next to mine. “What, honey? What do you want to say?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Will you toast with me?”
Relief washed over Paul’s face. “Yes, yes. Of course I will.”
He took a glass of champagne and then stepped back.
Ty shrugged. “I guess this is it.”
“I’m so sorry, Ty.” I said. “It’s just not a match. Can you tell me, were you on the show looking for love or money?”
Ty smiled. “Well, I guess you made a good choice, darlin’. I was looking for money.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
At least I was still in the game.
Of my remaining three men, only one was looking for love, but at least I had a fighting chance.
Ty walked off the set and I saw Becca smile. Maybe he’d found love after all.
Paul, Scott, and Edward held up their champagne glasses and Harris Carlson handed me a glass. We came together and toasted.
“Cut,” Cheryl said.
Twenty-three
Night had fallen and a sea breeze was picking up and I fought to keep my hair out of my eyes as I made my way toward my Prevost coach.
A dark figure stood outside my door and a jolt of fear flashed through my body. My senses were on high alert.
“Hey, there, Thorn,” Martinez said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least there wasn’t a stalker outside my bus. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“How about, ‘Hey! Nice to see you, Martinez’?”
“It’s always nice to see you,” I lied. “How’s the wife?”
Martinez smiled. “Ah, thanks for asking. Brandi’s fine. I’ll let her know you care.”
I wanted to snort, but figured Martinez wouldn’t appreciate that and right now I didn’t want to step on any more toes than I already had. Also, he was clutching a manila folder and I figured there might be some information in it I was itching for.