But then again, he imagined Hailey might enjoy a night of quiet, which Leo rarely was.
He stopped at the gate, waited for it to open. A reminder about different worlds, he supposed. He did like visiting this one, felt welcome, but it remained a different world from the one he’d chosen.
Through the gate he paused again at the edge of the peninsula, waited for the second gate. He heard sea lions carrying on, and felt his spirit lift when he spotted a sounding whale out to sea.
Different worlds, maybe, but this was one they shared. He could picture her standing at the glass, looking out at the same wonder as he.
Maybe he’d keep those pictures of her after all. Time rolled, didn’t it? And he had plenty of it.
About the time Dillon drove home, Sparks reported for work in the prison library. Due to his good record, he’d do some clerking at the counter today, probably restock some of the books returned by inmates.
He had a nice view from the window of the bay, the mountains. The freedom still denied to him.
Before Jessica, he’d spent time—as many others did—in the law library. He figured he’d educated himself there as well as any, so it began to piss him off he found nothing, no precedent, no loophole, no nothing, that might lead to overturning or shortening his sentence.
Charlotte had screwed him, and screwed him good.
He had access to computers—limited, of course.
When he had free time, he might sit and read some bullshit book or the San Quentin News or just shoot the shit with other inmates—had to keep things running smooth—with that view of San Francisco Bay mocking him.
Then Jessica, and after the wooing and winning, no need to waste his time on the goddamn law books. She’d handle that.
She’d handle what he needed handled.
He worked steadily through the morning. He’d wanted the library job because it was a popular place, a place to make contacts, make connections, make deals.
Close to the end of shift, one of his regular customers—two packs of reals a week—stepped to the counter to order a book as cover. He knew the illiterate asshole didn’t read. He put in the order for the books, for the smokes.
“Hey, heard your name on the news.”
“My name?”
“Yeah, some lawyer bought it. Was a lawyer for that rich bitch you used to bang, they said. The one who set you up for the kid snatch.”
“Is that so? Scarpetti?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Fucker got her off in a walk when she flipped on me.”
As Sparks finished his shift, prepared to take some time in the exercise yard, he thought: Two down.
Dressed in bold red, right down to the soles of her Louboutins, Charlotte angled herself toward the photographer. She had her hair styled in a loosely braided knot at her neck to show off the teardrop diamonds at her ears.
Her lips—plumped by her latest injection and as red as her dress—curved. But regally, she thought, with a hint of sadness.
Inside, she felt glee. It was about damn time she got solid press for herself, instead of for being the wife of an old man who could buy her a fucking country.
Which he would, had she asked. Conrad remained just that besotted. So anyone, any goddamn critic who claimed she couldn’t act her way into a high school talent show could shove it.
The asshole lawyer had finally paid off. He just had to die to do it.
And not tabloids this time, but real press. She’d done the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times. When cable news came knocking, she opened the door.
Or the servants did.
Now, finally, the cover of People, and a four-page spread.
Sure, a lot of it meant playing the devoted wife, the reformed socialite, but now, at last, sitting in the sweeping parlor, the white marble fireplace simmering, the soaring Christmas tree—done in white and gold and shimmering crystal—dressed (intentionally) like a flame, she got down to the real business.
“Charles’s death—the police say murder—is so shocking. I’m still shaken by it. Anyone who knew him must be. I remember, so clearly, his strength and support at the lowest point of my life.”
She looked away, a hand to her throat as the reporter asked questions.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in the past. No, I’m afraid we didn’t really stay in touch. I had to do my penance, of course, and Charles helped me understand that. I did ask his advice on how to adjust when I’d paid my debt.
“What did he advise?” Charlotte repeated to give herself time to make something up. “To give myself time, to forgive myself. He was so supportive, so wise.”
On a quiet sigh, she touched a fingertip just under the corner of her eye as if to catch a tear.
“When I came back to Los Angeles, I wanted only to try to reconnect with my daughter, to find a way to earn Caitlyn’s forgiveness. I hoped she’d find it in her heart to give me a second chance, to be her mother again.”
Turning her head so the lights caught the diamonds, Charlotte put on that sad, brave smile. “I still hope, especially during the holidays, or on her birthday. I had to turn her rejection into my own strength. Rebuilding my life, my career. Wouldn’t there be a chance she could see that, and consider forgiving?”
Leaning forward just a little, as if sharing a confidence, she added the slightest tremor to her voice. “I worry about her. I was deceived by men, used by them. I allowed myself to become so subservient I made the most terrible decision a woman, a mother, can make. She—my daughter—I’m afraid she’s walking that same path.”
Keeping the sad smile in place, Charlotte nodded at the reporter, used the response as her cue.
“How? Caitlyn’s broken relationship with Justin Harlowe is just the latest, isn’t it? Everything I hear makes it sound as if she’s repeating my mistakes. Wanting too much, demanding too much, expecting—on one hand—a man to fill that void, and on the other allowing herself to be walked over because of that desperate need for love.
“If I hadn’t found Conrad, learned to trust his kindness and his loving heart, I don’t know what would have become of me. I can only hope that my daughter finds someone as loving to help her find her true self, her inner strength. Someone who might help her find that forgiveness.”
As a flourish, Charlotte gestured up. “Do you see the angel on top of the tree? That’s Caitlyn, my angel. One day I hope she’ll wing her way back to me.”
And scene, Charlotte thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rather than push through it, Cate simply blocked out the noise. She kept the news, especially entertainment news, turned off. If she sat down with her tablet or computer to research, she restricted her use to the research or personal interests. No deviation, no giving in to the tug to check—just for a minute—on what someone said, wrote, blogged about.
She had her work and, through the holidays, a lot of family to keep her busy.
Before she knew it, the holidays slid toward February.
February always ushered in a period of bad dreams. Maybe, she could admit, they carried more intensity because she’d come back to where they’d started.
When she woke up, shuddering, breathless, for the third night running, she got up, went down to make herself tea.
The falling dream again, she thought. A popular favorite in her nightmare repertoire. Her hands, a child’s hands, sliding, sliding helplessly on the rope of sheets. And all the fiercely tied knots breaking away.
Falling, falling, without even the breath to scream, with the second-story window changing into a cliff, the ground turned into the thrashing sea.
They’d pass, she told herself, standing with the tea, looking out at the sea. They always did.
But at three in the morning, they exhausted.
No pills, she thought, though February often tempted her. But no pills. Her mother had used them, and often as an excuse.
I’m too tired, Caitlyn. I took a pill to help me sleep. Go tell Nina to take y
ou shopping. I need a nap.
Why, she wondered, did a child crave the attention and affection of the very person who routinely withheld both? Like cats who wanted the lap of someone averse to them.
That craving had certainly passed.
But since she needed to sleep, as Lily left the next day for New York—which meant she had to at least look rested for the morning goodbyes—she’d take her tea upstairs. She’d find a movie again, and hope she could drift off.
Since drifting off came in fits and starts, the wonder of makeup and a skilled hand did the trick.
“You two keep an eye on each other. I’ll know if you don’t.” Lily gave Cate and Hugh a wagging finger warning. “I have my spies.”
“I’m taking him to a strip club tonight.”
“See that you have plenty of singles.” Lily checked her purse, again. “Those girls work hard.”
After shutting her enormous travel purse again, Lily put her hands on Cate’s cheeks. “I’ll miss that face.” Then turned to Hugh, did the same. “And this one.”
“I expect a call when you’re settled.”
“You’ll get one. All right, here I go.” She kissed Hugh. Kissed him again before enfolding Cate in a hug and subtle clouds of J’adore.
“Knock ’em dead, Mame,” Cate murmured.
Lily touched a hand to her heart, to her lips, then slid into the limo.
With Hugh, Cate stood watching the car wind down to the gate. “Alone at last,” she said to make him laugh.
“She is a presence, isn’t she? How long is the list she gave you about keeping an eye on me?”
“It’s lengthy. How about yours for me?”
“Same. So I’ll cross an item off, ask you what you’re up to today.”
February had opted for balmy. It wouldn’t last, but for this day, this moment, the air held the teasing promise of spring. Spears of bulbs, nubs of wildflowers poked up to bask in the sun. Out at sea, a ship, white as winter, glided toward the horizon.
There were times you really should seize the day.
“I worked a couple hours, and need a couple more. Audiobook, and it’s going well. Then I think it’ll be a really good afternoon for a walk on the beach. You could help me cross two items off my list. How about sitting in on the recording, then taking some sandwiches or whatever and walking with me.”
“Oddly, that would also cross some off my list.”
He took her hand, the way he had when she’d been a little girl. And she shortened her gait for him—as he’d once done for her.
“Have you heard from your dad?”
“I did, just yesterday. It’s cold and rainy in London.”
“Aren’t we the lucky ones? Are you happy here, Catey?”
“Of course I am. Don’t I look happy?”
“You look content, which isn’t quite there. One of the items on my long list is to convince you to get out, find some people your own age. Lily suggests Dillon for that.”
“Does she?”
“He’s lived here all his life, he has friends. Work, for us, it’s essential, but it can’t be all.”
“Right now, it’s enough for me.” At the cottage, she opened the door. “I’m enjoying the quiet, the same way I enjoyed the fast pace in New York.”
“Has it been quiet?”
“Grandpa, I promised I’d tell you if I get another call, and I will. Nothing since before Christmas. Now, do you want some tea to take in?”
“Is Lily far enough away for you to let me have one of your Cokes?”
“Barely.” But she went to the kitchen, got one for him. “Our secret. I’m using the booth, so you can be comfortable in the main studio, and won’t have to worry about noise. And you can go in and out, no problem.”
“I’ve never heard you work—just enjoyed the results. Expect me to stick.”
“Then get comfortable.” She handed him headphones, plugged them in. “I’m already set up from earlier. I’m going to voice a chapter. If there are any hiccups, I’ll retake. If you need something, just signal.”
He angled the chair toward the booth, sat. “I’m fine. Entertain me.”
She’d do her best.
She closed herself in the booth, adjusted the mic, brought up her computer monitor, and below that the text on her tablet.
Room-temperature water to hydrate the throat, the tongue, the lips. Tongue twisters to loosen up.
“Susie works in a shoeshine shop. Where she shines she sits. Where she sits she shines. Eleven benevolent elephants.”
Over and over, mixed with others until she felt smooth.
She took a moment, two, to put herself back into the characters, the story, the tones, the pace.
Standing close to the mic, she hit record.
Now she played multiple roles. Not just the characters she voiced, each one demanding a distinct vocal style, not just the role of narrator outside the dialogue. But she stood as engineer, as director, keeping herself in the story she read while scanning ahead to prepare for narration, dialogue coming next, while watching the monitor to be sure she didn’t lose pitch or pop or slur.
Dissatisfied, she paused, backtracked, began the paragraph of description again.
Outside the booth, Hugh listened to her voice—voices—in his head. A born performer, he thought. Just look at her facial expressions, her body language as she became each character or shifted back to that smooth, clear narration.
Part of him might hope—an admittedly selfish hope—she’d step in front of the camera again. But his girl had found her place.
Talent would out, he thought, and sipped his Coke, let his girl tell him a story.
He lost track of time, found himself surprised when she shut down. He tipped one earpiece back as she came out of the booth.
“You don’t need to stop for me. I’m enjoying it.”
“For this kind of work, I need to take breaks. I’ll start muffing it otherwise. What did you think?”
“What I heard of it’s a damn good story. I’d say I want to read it, but I think I’d like to listen to the full audio. You’ve got a way, Cate.” He set the headphones aside. “Did you use your cousin Ethan for Chuck, the obnoxious, noisy neighbor?”
“Caught.” She pulled the tie out of her hair. “Ethan’s got that—I think of it as a kind of pinch in his voice.”
“It works.”
“So, how about I make us some sandwiches? Consuela snuck some of her ham from last night’s farewell dinner into my fridge, and I baked some brown bread this morning.”
Since she’d been awake before dawn.
“Sold. I don’t suppose I could get another Coke?”
He knew just how to put that charming innocence on. But Cate was no fool.
“No. I’m not willing to risk Lily’s wrath. If she says she has spies, she has spies.”
She put together a walking picnic of thick sandwiches, the baked sweet potato chips Lily—barely—approved of for Hugh’s diet, a couple of Cuties, and water bottles.
She really wanted a Coke herself, but it didn’t seem fair.
As they walked down the path, then the steps toward the beach, she relaxed. The man who walked with her still moved like a dancer. Slower maybe, she thought, but still with that same easy grace.
When they reached the beach, she aimed for the old stone bench so they could sit and eat and enjoy.
No bite to the wind today to stir up white horses on the water, but air that felt more of May than of February.
“I have this memory of sitting here with Grandda. It would’ve been summer, and he gave me a bag of M&M’s. My mother wouldn’t allow candy, so he’d sneak it to me when he could. It was the best candy in the world, sitting here that bright, bright day eating M&M’s with him. We had sunglasses on—I still remember mine. I was in a pink-is-everything stage, so they were pink, heart-shaped, with little sparkles in the frame.”
She smiled as she bit into her sandwich. “He said we were just a couple of movie stars.”
/>
“It’s a good memory.”
“It really is. Now I’ll have this one, with you, on a cloudless, miraculous day in February.”
The towering trees of the kelp forest waved, green and gold, in the shallows, and the strip of sand sparkled—like her long-ago sunglasses—with mica.
On a huddle of rocks at the far curve of the beach, sea lions lazed. Occasionally one slid silkily into the water. To swim and feed, Cate thought, in the forest of kelp.
One sat up, big chest rising, lifted his head to let out a series of barks. It made her think of Dillon and his dogs.
“Are you really thinking of getting a dog?”
“They do sound like them, don’t they?” Hugh sampled a chip. He’d rather have fried, with a lot of salt. But a man had to take what he could get. “We always worked and traveled so much, it didn’t seem fair. And now Dillon brings his to visit, so we have that. Still, I’ve been thinking about it. It might be time to think about getting a companion for our retirement.”
“Retirement.” She could only roll her eyes. “Lily’s on a plane to New York to do Broadway. And I know you’re going to sign on to that project you mention—every day. Crazy Grandpa road trip.”
Grinning, he ate another chip. “It’s a comedy jewel of a part, a good supporting role. Speaking of projects, do you know if anyone’s bought the rights to the book you’re voicing?”
She rolled her eyes again. “Retirement.”
She stretched out her legs, began to peel one of the oranges to share with him. The sharp, sweet smell hit the air like joy.
“I’ll find out,” she told him.
The balm didn’t last, but that made the memory all the sweeter. She worked through a day of slashing rain and wild wind, took her breaks just standing and looking out at the drama.
Hugh joined her for two more sessions, and she joined him for his Lily-assigned thirty minutes of cardio in the gym.
“The leg’s fine,” he insisted as he worked through a brisk walk on the treadmill.
“Ten more minutes.”
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