by Liz Talley
And then ran.
But Summer’s words had followed him to LA. Words about forgiveness, owning mistakes, being accountable for his decisions. She’d been right about what he was trying to do to the Tavares family. He’d allowed his PR team to squash them. His lawyer had called, gleeful because their attorney wanted to talk about a settlement. Their plan had worked.
And now he’d done what the McCroy family had intended for Summer. He’d manipulated the story line so the family looked irresponsible, crooked, looking for a payout. To them, he no doubt seemed a rich, callous man who would stomp on any attempt to take from him.
They couldn’t know what killing their daughter had done to him.
His grandfather’s question came back to him. What meaning did his life have?
Rhett Bryan could be summed up with “host of Late Night in LA” and little else. He wasn’t a father, a husband, a partner, or a good friend. He’d spent so much time chasing his dream of fortune and fame, he’d forgotten there was more to life than his name in glittering lights. He measured himself by how many award shows he hosted, how many cameos he’d done in films, which actress sat with him at exclusive restaurants. His net worth was measured only in dollar signs.
Anyone standing outside looking in would say the meaning of Rhett’s life was his career.
Kicking at the wave, Rhett walked a small piece and then confronted the sun hovering above him. The rays warmed him, but not more so than the softness from the Carolina moon the night he’d held Summer on the boat. He wished he could go back and relive those moments, feel the peace she brought him, taste her soft lips, capture her soft sighs as she tightened around him, finding release. He wished he could take back the hard words, the way he’d pushed her away, content to wallow in his own misery. He needed more than what he now had, but his life still felt knotted tight.
So many thoughts swirled around him, much like the waves pulling at his feet—mistakes, wrongs, consequences, courage, regret, redemption.
How did a man right the wrongs in his life?
Start at the beginning.
The sun sat on his shoulders, bearing down in conviction, as Rhett started back to his car.
Before he could find a new meaning in his life, he had to fix what was broken.
The Tavares family lived in a modest, two-bedroom apartment housed in a brown box building. A tattered awning shielded a glass door that surveyed a scraggly patch of grass out front. Whip-thin palm trees writhed in the background, competing with the surprisingly lush potted plants standing guard outside the entry. A cluster of flowers and crosses sat near the road and took his breath away. But he parked and walked past it, shutting out the images it evoked.
Rhett got lucky—the door hadn’t closed completely. He climbed the flaky, wrought-iron stairs to the upper apartment where the Tavares family lived.
Before he knocked on the door, he wrestled with himself again. Once he knocked, he was committed to his path. Rhett sucked in a deep breath, then lifted his fist.
After several seconds, a small boy opened the door. He regarded Rhett with dark eyes, wearing jeans a bit too short. He said nothing. Just stared at Rhett.
“Uh, hello,” Rhett said, trying to not look so nervous. “Is your mother or father here?”
The little boy didn’t answer.
“Quem é esse?” a woman’s voice sounded from the depths of the house.
“Some man, Mama,” the boy said.
The door jerked wider and Ana Tavares appeared. At first her face was curious, but when she saw Rhett standing there, any politeness disappeared. She tried to close the door.
“Please, Mrs. Tavares, I need a moment of your time,” he said, catching the door with the flat of his hand.
“No. Go away,” she said, pushing against the door. “Socorro!”
Rhett felt someone moving toward the door. Another angry face appeared, wearing a scowl vicious enough to clear a prison yard.
“Please, Mr. Tavares. I just wanted—”
“You have no reason to be here,” Reis Tavares said, jabbing his finger toward Rhett. The child scampered back into the depths of the apartment while Ana clutched her shirt, twisting it into a knot. “You’ve done enough to us. I don’t care who you are. You are shit.”
“No, I’m not. I swear,” Rhett said, taken aback at the violence in the man. Reis looked as if he might murder him on the spot. He remembered the police reports and had a moment of panic. He should have found a different way to do this. “Please, I need to talk to you. I have some things to say. You don’t even have to invite me in.”
Reis’s murderous expression didn’t fade. “So talk. I’ll give you one minute before I pound your ass into a puddle. I don’t care if I go to jail. People already think I’m a thug now anyway.”
A neighbor opened a door and stuck his head out. He looked stoned but very interested in what was playing out before him. Reis glanced at the man, scowled even deeper, and said, “Come inside. I don’t want more nosy-assed reporters knowing my business.”
Rhett swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Thank you.”
The apartment smelled of cooking and was filled with mismatched furniture and huge houseplants. A wizened old woman rocked in the corner, her leathery hands clacking knitting needles together. She glanced up and gave him a polite nod.
“So?” Reis said, crossing his arms. There was no offer to sit down.
“Uh, I wanted to come here to apologize.”
Ana swiped at the sudden tears coursing down her cheeks. “That’s why you came here? To say sorry?”
Rhett sucked in a desperate breath. “For everything.”
“Well, our daughter’s dead. That can’t be fixed.” Ana’s expression grew fierce.
The knife of guilt twisted inside him. “I know, but . . . but I never said those words. I never said anything to either of you. And then—”
“You sic your lawyers on us. Make us look like we wanted nothing but money. We don’t care about the goddamned money. We just wanted you to hurt.” Reis’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched. “But you’re not sorry. You’re white. You’re rich. You’re famous. You don’t have to be sorry.”
Rhett pushed a hand through his hair. “I am those things. That’s true, but your daughter was someone. What happened took her away from you. I need to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”
“You didn’t try to help her,” Ana said, her voice low. She wrapped her arms around herself in a hug. “You climbed out of your fancy car and stood there. And she died.”
“I should have done something—”
“You should have fucking swerved out of the way. You ran right over her.” Reis’s words rained on him like bullets.
“I didn’t see her. She came from the side, Mr. Tavares. I didn’t see her.” Rhett couldn’t stop pushing his hand through his hair. He’d come this far, intent on owning his role, but he couldn’t find a way to ease the grief these two people felt. He was making everything worse. This wasn’t working. “I wish I had been able to stop, that I could have done something to save her.”
Reis looked like an injured bear, his hulking shoulders tense, his expression anguished. “But you didn’t. After you ran her over, you didn’t even try to help her. Like she was trash.”
“No,” Rhett said, holding up a hand. “No. Never that. I don’t know why I couldn’t move. My body shut down and I couldn’t make myself do anything. It wasn’t because I didn’t care or want to help. I . . . just couldn’t.”
The words were hollow to even his own ears. He should have tried something that day. Drag the car off her, CPR, something.
“Josefina ran out in front of him, meu filho,” the old woman said from the rocker.
“Shut up, old woman,” Reis snapped.
“Do not disrespect me,” the old woman said, setting aside her knitting. “I was there.”
“You were where, Avo?” Ana asked, turning to the old woman.
“I was there. Sitting
in the chair Yogi leaves outside when he smokes. I had my eye on the young ones. Josefina ran after the ball, but she didn’t look. She forgot where she was. He could not have avoided her. She was very fast.”
“Shut up,” Reis said, turning his scowl on the older woman. “Josefina played on this street many times.”
“You cannot blame others for misfortune,” the old woman said, rising from her chair and setting down her knitting. She shuffled from the room, but not before tossing a hateful look at Reis. They all watched her disappear into what looked to be a kitchen.
“Look, I should go. All I wanted was to say how sorry I was. I didn’t come here to upset you,” Rhett said, inching back toward the door. “Recently a friend taught me about the power in owning one’s mistakes. Josefina’s accident was unavoidable, but I was there. I made choices that day, choices I regret. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you lost your daughter, and that no matter the outcome of the lawsuit, I want to do something. Maybe set up a scholarship in your daughter’s name. That is, if you both are okay with that?”
Both Ana and Reis stared at him.
“I’ll go now,” Rhett said, feeling behind his back for the doorknob. Summer had been wrong. He’d done nothing to make the situation better. Ana and Reis felt worse, he felt worse, nothing had changed.
“Does your lawyer know you’re here?” Reis asked.
“God, no. In fact, he’ll probably hand my case over to someone else when he finds out. The first thing he told me was to say nothing, to admit nothing. Standard advice from an attorney.”
Reis nodded. “A lawyer came looking for us. She wasn’t even in the ambulance and they were ringing my doorbell.”
Rhett wasn’t surprised. There was a death, and a celebrity was at the wheel. “Yeah, well, the lawyers can squabble over the money. They are good at that. But I needed to say this to you. So I can sleep. So I can feel like a person again. I don’t care about the money, either. I just want . . . God, I’m a selfish bastard. This isn’t about me. I really wanted it to be about her. To honor your daughter in some way.” As he said the words, something welled inside him. His throat ached as emotion rolled over him.
Ana walked toward him, easing her husband back. “You mean this? This isn’t . . . a stunt?”
“No. I shouldn’t have come.” Rhett blinked back the sudden moisture gathering in his eyes, aware he needed to get out before he crumbled. Something dark within him unknotted, rising to the surface as he saw firsthand their utter grief. “I’ll go now.”
Josefina’s mother set her hand on his forearm. “You didn’t have to tell us that.”
He looked into her dark eyes. In the depths he found something so profound, his body began to tremble. He couldn’t name it—tenderness, understanding, knowledge of who he was. The grief he’d hidden swelled inside him. He should have left seconds before. “I’m sorry . . . I gotta . . .”
But his body once again betrayed him. A sob tore away, unfettered from his soul. He jackknifed forward, pressing his hands to his torso as if he could hold everything back. And then it engulfed him. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Ana’s hands clasped his shoulders as uncontrollable grief flowed out of him. She murmured words that Rhett didn’t register—some were in Portuguese, others English. He was helpless, other than to crumble to the floor and hold on to her. His levee had failed.
After a few seconds of sobbing, he rocked back on his heels, stunned at what had just occurred. He looked up at Ana and Reis, who both had tears sliding down their cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He swiped a hand across cheekbones that GQ had once described as chiseled, then he struggled to his feet. He felt drained. Altogether, it was the strangest damned thing that had ever happened to him.
Ana pulled a tissue from a box sitting near the worn recliner. Reis had sunk into a chair, his expression void of anything. The man looked gobsmacked.
“Sometimes we need to let things out so we can get better.” Ana handed him the tissue. “Like an infection, you know.”
Rhett had never been so embarrassed. His resolve to say his piece and slip unobtrusively back into his regular life had disintegrated at Ana’s compassion and he’d broken apart. “Maybe so. I have to admit I’m pretty embarrassed.”
Reis looked up, tears still swimming in his eyes. “We’re good with the scholarship fund. Josefina loved to read. That would have pleased her.”
Rhett nodded, swiping again at eyes that felt raw. His head ached, but his soul felt oddly unencumbered. “I’ll start the process by the end of the week.”
He opened the door, turned to them, and nodded.
Ana stood beside her husband, her hand on his shoulder. They nodded back and Rhett felt something in the universe expand and snap into place.
He’d done what he needed to do.
In more than one way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
California, two months later
Summer took the keys to the compact car and pushed out into the lot where the rentals were housed. The thought of driving in LA gave her the willies, but she wasn’t getting back on the plane to Charleston without doing what she’d come to do. So she brushed her nerves under her doormat of confidence and looked for parking spot 134.
The car was a bright-blue clown car but fuel efficient, a.k.a. cheap. She’d blown her savings on a ticket to LA, so she didn’t have any choice. Cheapest rental it was. She clicked open the doors and set her overnight bag in the back seat. Then she programmed her phone for the studio where Rhett filmed Late Night in LA. Pete had nabbed her the ticket and sworn whoever he’d hoodwinked into secrecy. Pete had claimed she was an old friend who Rhett would love to see.
That was questionable and possibly only half-true.
Summer had spent the holidays faking good cheer, vacillating between anger at the way Rhett had sneaked out of her life and grief over losing the only man she’d ever loved. Or at least thought she loved.
Then she’d gotten a call from Payne Reynolds. The Payne Reynolds with Strata Records. She’d been stunned.
“Wait a sec, Mr. Reynolds. I mean, you’re the Mr. Reynolds, right?” she’d asked when he’d greeted her like an old friend.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with his trademark country twang. “Seems we got a mutual friend, and now you have a new admirer, Ms. Valentine. And really, you can’t dream up a better name for an artist than Summer Valentine. It screams country music.”
Summer had been standing in the middle of Publix when he called. She picked up an apple absent-mindedly and put it in a plastic bag. “Uh, yes, sir.”
“Is this a good time to talk?”
A woman beside her huffed, impatient to get to her Jonagolds, no doubt. But Summer couldn’t hang up on Payne Reynolds. What if he didn’t call back? She gave the woman a dirty look. “It’s perfect.”
“Great. Well, Rhett said you might be a little miffed at him for doing what he did, but he sent me a copy of your song ‘Carolina Boy.’ Now I’m not one to usually take stuff like that. Favors and all. I learned early on how favors can bite you in the ass. But I told the boy to send it on over, and I gave it to Lynette. She tooled around with it, and she sang it for me. Shit, I nearly bawled like a baby listening to it. That’s good stuff, Ms. Valentine. Real good stuff.”
Summer bumped into the tomato display, sending two boxes of grape tomatoes crashing to her feet. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Call me Payne,” he said. “Next, I looked you up on the YouTube, and damned if you can’t sing, too. Ol’ Rhett knew a good thing when he saw it.”
But not good enough. Summer shoved the little tomatoes into the plastic containers, hands shaking, stomach rolling. She couldn’t believe what was happening. At Publix. “Thank you. Rhett’s an old friend. He saw me play when he was home. I sang that song.”
“Yep, I like that boy. He’s a southerner. Tries to help out people who need a leg up. You seem like an artist who ha
s the right boots but no horse. Rhett’s latched them hands for ya. You wanna ride, Ms. Valentine?”
“I do, Mr. . . . uh, Payne. I’ve been ready to ride all my life.”
He laughed and then proceeded to schedule a meeting in LA with her. He was out working on the country version of American Idol and wanted to get her in a studio. The same one Carole King used to record Tapestry. He said he had a hunch. Summer hung up and sat down hard in the middle of the produce section.
People stopped their shopping carts and stared.
Rhett had somehow gotten his hands on her sheet music. “That bastard.”
Someone gasped.
And then Summer started laughing, probably sitting on a few tomatoes, surrounded by bins of fruit and veggies. Her big break had just come . . . in the produce section.
Summer had reeled over what happened, but kept it close to her vest. Then a week later, David had flopped onto the couch. “What about you and Rhett?”
Summer flinched. “What do you mean? Rhett lives in LA.”
“I know. But you’re all sad since he left. Like you were into him. He was into you, too.”
“He’s a celebrity. He lives in LA. Doesn’t matter who is into who. That can’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“You always get mad at me when I say that,” he said, opening a bag of chips and chomping on a few. Crumbs fell onto his T-shirt.
“You’re making a mess.”
“So? I can clean it up. I know where the vacuum is.”
“Do you?” she asked, allowing the sarcasm to drip.
“Pete told me Rhett talked to the family of the girl he killed. He told them he was sorry, like my dad told you he was sorry. Pete says Rhett’s turned a corner. That he’s ready to find meaning in his life. He said he thought that might be you.”