Reunion

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  Sam was getting dressed for work when he stopped and grinned at Erin. “We forgot one thing.” He hopped a bit closer, his pants not quite on. “What do we call her?”

  A feeling of sadness and far-off possibility wrapped itself around Erin’s heart, and she tilted her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “What about Amy Elizabeth?” Sam’s voice was tender, aware that the name they had planned for Candy’s daughter might strike a nerve.

  Erin smiled and shook her head. “No, Sam. Anything but Amy Elizabeth.” She crossed the room and kissed his forehead as he finished getting dressed. “That name will always belong to a different little girl. Even if we never meet her this side of heaven.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dayne Matthews was trying to concentrate.

  “Okay, Matthews, let’s have you in the stairwell. The scene starts with you running up and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Got it.” Dayne entered the building, sidestepped around three cameramen, and stood on the second stair.

  “Places everyone,” someone yelled. “We need it quiet.”

  Dayne went over his lines one more time. The movie was a thriller, and he was the lead. The scene they were filming involved his breaking into an apartment and rescuing his girlfriend from two criminals who had taken her hostage.

  He was supposed to knock out the kidnappers, grab her, struggle with the handcuffs on her wrists, and then lead her through a hallway, out a fire escape, and down into an alleyway. There he was supposed to pick the lock on the handcuffs and then—with the bad guys firing guns in the distance—kiss her, fast and passionate, before they ran for their lives. He’d already messed it up three times. Twice he tripped on the stairs and once he ran to the wrong apartment door.

  The scene was one of the most intense in the movie, and though they had another week left of shooting in Manhattan, the expectancy on the set made it feel like the movie might make it or break it depending on how they pulled off this scene.

  But all Dayne could think about was the photograph on Luke Baxter’s desk.

  “Ready Matthews?” the director shouted at him from the street.

  “Ready.” He bent his knees and locked his arms in a running motion. Next he worked on his expression. Intense and frightened and bent on revenge all at once, that’s what the scene called for.

  “And . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . action!”

  Dayne sprang up the stairs, breathing hard, his footsteps quiet and stealthlike. Cameras followed his actions both from in front of and behind him as he tore down the hallway and stopped at the first door on the left. He put his ear to it, his hands shaky from the tension of the moment.

  The subtle sound of voices came from inside, but Dayne pursed his lips and worked his face into a mask of determination. Then he grabbed the doorknob and shoved his shoulder hard into the door.

  “Bill!” Sarah Whitley, his leading lady, shouted her line exactly on cue.

  At the same time, two buff men wearing dark sunglasses came at him, but Dayne ignored them. He went straight to Sarah and grabbed her handcuffs, shaking them, looking for a way to release her hands.

  “Cut!” The director shouted the word through the bullhorn. “Wait there, Matthews. I’m coming up.”

  Everyone in the room went quiet, and Dayne looked from Sarah to the actors playing the kidnappers. “What?” His eyes found Sarah again just as he remembered.

  “The kidnappers,” she whispered at him and made an apologetic face. “You’re supposed to fight them off, remember?”

  The director stormed into the room, his face beet red. “You’re dead, Matthews. These are some of the toughest criminals in New York City and they’re guarding your girl. You can’t walk right past them and start fiddling with Sarah’s handcuffs; get that?”

  Dayne huffed quietly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah,” the director barked at him and shot a look at the others. “It better not happen again. We’re spending tens of thousands of dollars a day here, Matthews. You’re a professional; now come on. Let’s make it work.”

  “It won’t happen again.” Dayne lifted his eyes to the director. “Where do we take it from?”

  “The top.” The director spun around and marched into the hallway and down the stairs. He used his bullhorn to say, “Places everyone. Let’s try it again.”

  Sarah squeezed Dayne’s arm and gave him a nervous smile. “Where are you today?”

  “Not here.” He lifted his shoulders once, turned, and headed back down the hallway.

  Cameramen followed, one of them finding his place at the far end of the hallway facing the stairs, the other at the opposite end in the corner, ready to capture Dayne’s back as he sped past and headed for the apartment door.

  Dayne headed down the stairs and took his spot again.

  “Places, people!” The director’s tone was still sharp, tense.

  The sounds around Dayne faded.

  Why had the photograph looked so familiar? And what was it about Luke Baxter that had caught his attention? Why was he still thinking about the kid a month after their meeting? Things like this didn’t happen to him. He was a busy man, a person who avoided conversations like the one he’d had with Luke the last time he was in Manhattan.

  But the memory of that time had stayed with him every day since. Even now, in the midst of the most important scene of a movie he was being paid millions to film, Dayne couldn’t think of anything else. All he wanted to do was forget the shoot and find the law offices of Morris and McKenzie. Maybe he’d look at the picture again and the feeling would go away. Maybe those people in the photo would look like any other couple from the sixties. Dayne clenched his teeth and forced himself into position.

  Or maybe not.

  “Ready, Matthews?”

  The question snapped him to attention. “Ready,” he shouted loud enough for the street crew to hear him.

  “Okay, quiet on the set. Three . . . two . . . one . . . action!”

  Dayne darted up the stairs, fully intent on the scene now. He burst into the apartment and fought with the kidnappers. When they were on the ground, knocked out, he wrestled with Sarah’s handcuffs for a few seconds. One of the men on the floor made a moaning sound.

  Dayne grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Come on.” He pulled her behind him into the hallway.

  “They’ll come after us!” Sarah was perfect—her facial expression, her timing, all of it.

  Dayne fed off her strength and doubled his effort at having the right expression, the right speed as they headed down the hall. At the fire escape, Dayne did as he was supposed to and shimmied down ahead of her, careful to help her since she was still handcuffed.

  “You can do it; hurry.” His timing was on. They would get it done this time around; he was sure.

  They were almost at the bottom of the fire escape when the sound of bullets pierced the air. Dayne cast an intense look up toward the hallway. “We have to hurry!”

  Just then in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a familiar building. The building that housed Morris and McKenzie’s law offices. No, Matthews, not now. He jumped to the ground and helped Sarah. Then he ducked her into an alcove and worked a bent paper clip into her handcuffs.

  The scene was a mixture of passion and danger, and Sarah was playing her part perfectly. Her chest heaved as Dayne worked on her hands, and the whole time her eyes never left his face. He was her hero, her rescuer.

  The moment the handcuffs were off, Dayne dropped them, grabbed Sarah’s hand, and started running.

  “Cut!” The director was closer this time, just fifteen yards away. “Am I seeing things or did Dayne Matthews just forget to kiss the girl?”

  The kiss! Dayne wanted to slip into the nearest manhole. How could he have forgotten the kiss? He and Sarah had run lines the night before in his trailer and practiced the kiss for half an hour. She was gorgeous and he could feel her falling for him. Without a doubt the kiss figured to b
e the best part of the scene. How could he have forgotten it?

  “Maybe we need more practice.” Sarah elbowed him and bit her lip.

  He could tell she wanted to laugh, but the director didn’t appreciate laughter in light of mistakes. Especially during serious scenes. It broke the mood and robbed the shoot of the intensity that had to carry over into the film.

  The two of them stepped into the alley and waited. Dayne could feel the sympathy from just about everyone else on the set.

  The director took long strides in their direction. He looked at Sarah and clapped his hands. “You were perfect, Sarah. Right on.” He nodded toward the catered food wagon. “Go get something to eat.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sarah gave Dayne one more worried look, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and did as she was told.

  “Matthews, what is it? What’s eating at you today?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Dayne hated this, hated the way the director talked down to him. Everyone had an off day, didn’t they? He looked at his watch and stifled a sigh.

  “Right, go ahead and look at your watch. If you want to call it a day, you’ve got another thing coming.” The director paused and his body relaxed some. “Look, Matthews, I don’t know what’s going on, but I know this. I’ve worked with you before and something’s off.” His voice came down a few notches. “Take two hours and meet back at the set. It’ll be four o’clock then, and I plan to get this scene on the first run-through, okay?”

  “Yes.” Dayne breathed in long and slow through his nose. He found the corner of the familiar building and stared at it. “Can I leave the set?”

  “Leave the city for all I care.” The director brushed his hand through the air, still frustrated. “Just be back here at four o’clock, ready to shoot.”

  Dayne thought about finding Sarah and apologizing, but he changed his mind. He could do that later. He went to his trailer and pulled open a drawer of old clothes and hats—the things he wore when he didn’t want anyone to know he was Dayne Matthews.

  In spite of the early May sunshine, he slipped on a worn-looking gray hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap. He slid the hood up over the cap, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, and stepped out of the trailer. Onlookers were gathered around the far edge of the roped-off area; he couldn’t go that way. Instead he opened the door of the building they were using for the shoot, walked through it, and exited on the other side.

  People milled about, wondering what was happening inside, why the streets were roped off. But no one recognized him as he made a sharp right turn and headed down the sidewalk.

  This Luke Baxter thing had gone far enough.

  If he didn’t get his head back in the game, the tabloids would catch wind of the situation. He could just see it: “‘Dayne Matthews Falling Apart.’ Sources say America’s hottest actor may be on the ropes. . . .”

  He worked his jaw one way and then the other. His career was everything to him. After his parents died, he’d gone to an audition scheduled through the UCLA drama department, and that afternoon he’d taken a call from Jerry Lituzza, one of the top talent agents in Hollywood.

  Jerry had been at the audition, scouting talent for bigger projects. At their first meeting Jerry promised Dayne the moon: an ever-increasing presence in the industry, a fan base that would grow with each movie, bigger and bigger parts, and one day the top draw for a Hollywood actor.

  Jerry hadn’t been wrong about any of it.

  Yes, there were times when Dayne ran a little wild. Hollywood was a playground and he was a kid who never wanted to leave. But he remembered his parents’ values, the principles they died for, and he never let his life get too out of control.

  No matter how many young actresses came into his life, not one of them was as important as his career. Without his acting, he was nothing. A lonely man with no parents, no siblings, no family.

  He would find Luke Baxter, prove to himself that the picture didn’t look familiar in the least, and be on his way. He simply couldn’t afford the distraction, whatever was causing it.

  He kept his head low, his feet moving at a good pace. Dressed like this, even the paparazzi wouldn’t recognize him. He looked up, but only long enough to make sure he was headed in the right direction. Yes, he’d take care of this strange distraction and then get back to the set, where he’d show the director and the cameramen and Sarah Whitley exactly what type of professional he really was.

  He kept moving.

  After several minutes, he saw he was at the right place. Then he ducked inside and slouched to the bank of elevators.

  A heavyset woman was standing there, waiting. She looked at him and then took a step closer. “Hey, aren’t you Dayne Matthews?”

  A quick glance around the lobby told Dayne he had nothing to worry about. She was the only other person in sight, and she didn’t have a camera. She looked nothing like a photo hound. “Yes.” He gave her a quick smile, but kept his face down, the hood still up over his cap. “That’s me.”

  The woman gasped out loud and did a little scream. She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh . . . my goodness . . . the girls at the office aren’t going to believe this.” She began rooting through her purse. She found a piece of paper and pulled it out just as the elevator opened up. “Can I get your autograph, please Mr. Matthews?” She rolled her eyes, shaking as they boarded the elevator. “The girls won’t believe this.”

  She handed him the paper and dug around in her purse again for a pen. As they rode up he gave her his autograph, grateful no one had heard her. “There you go.” He handed the items back to her.

  Before the door opened she cocked her head. “You know what always surprises me?” She studied his sweatshirt and hat, his worn jeans. “How raggedy you stars always look.” She reached out and took hold of his chin. Her accent was heavy New York. “With a face like that? The last thing I’d do is hide it.”

  The woman was still talking at him, still giving her opinion of his wardrobe, when he stepped off the elevator. The entire floor was taken up by Morris and McKenzie. Dayne was relieved when the elevator doors shut and he could no longer hear the woman’s chatter. The woman didn’t get it. He wore the old hats and clothes to avoid people like her.

  He removed his hood and hat and smiled at the receptionist. “I need to see Luke Baxter. Is he working today?”

  The young man behind the desk was flustered but professional. He checked a board and shook his head. “He’s already gone home for the day.”

  Disappointment rocked Dayne, and he glanced around the office until an idea hit him. “I need to leave him a note.” Dayne took a few steps around the reception desk and pointed down the hallway. “I know where his office is. I’ll just go on down there myself and leave the message on his desk, okay?”

  “By all means, Mr. Matthews.” The receptionist looked proud of himself. He had granted access to the great Dayne Matthews. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Dayne stopped and thought. “Yes. Could you get me a bottle of water? I’ll pick it up on the way out.”

  For reasons Dayne couldn’t fathom, as he headed to Luke Baxter’s office his heart beat hard against the inside of his chest. What was he doing, anyway? His director had called a two-hour break because he couldn’t concentrate through a single action scene, and now he was strolling through his lawyers’ offices looking for a clerk he’d met just one time.

  Dayne pushed the thoughts from his head. The mission was perfectly sane. He needed to see the picture, needed to know if it was his imagination or if he’d seen something strangely familiar there.

  Eyes were on him; eyes were always on him. Dayne didn’t care. He kept a steady pace as he found Luke’s office and stepped inside. He shut the door behind him and turned to the photographs. His eyes found it immediately: the old picture of a young couple, Luke Baxter’s parents, taken the year they’d first met. Wasn’t that what Luke had said?

  Dayne moved to the edge of the desk, picked up the five-by-seven photogr
aph and studied it. The feelings that made their way through him were the same as last time. A familiarity with the woman, especially. Something that defied both logic and explanation. Had he seen her picture somewhere? met her sometime back when he was a kid? He stared at the woman, her dark hair and delicate features. Had she been a missionary with his parents?

  A memory came to him, distant and fuzzy. Somewhere in his past he had, indeed, seen a picture of the woman. The very same woman. But where . . . and why?

  He lowered the photo just enough to see the other pictures on Luke’s desk, pictures he hadn’t noticed the first time. There was the shot of Luke and his wife and baby, of course, but there was something else. A picture of Luke and what must’ve been his siblings back when Luke was a teenager. His parents were at the center of the photo. Dayne couldn’t decide which face was more haunting. Luke’s mother’s . . .

  Or Luke’s.

  It hit him all at once why the photos had caught his attention, why the images had stayed with him since the last time he was in Manhattan. Luke Baxter was the mirror image of Dayne, a younger version whose teenage photograph looked exactly the way he himself had looked as a boy at boarding school in the mission field.

  No wonder the woman looked familiar. Her face was Luke’s face.

  And Luke’s face was his own.

  The resemblance was strange, really. Far beyond the general way that people might look alike. Dayne lowered himself into the chair, the same one he’d sat in the last time he was in this office. Where had he put the box of pictures his parents left him? That whole awful summer was still a blur, even seventeen years later.

  One day he’d been in algebra class, watching the minutes tick by at his boarding school in Southeast Asia, and the next he’d been in the headmaster’s office, hearing the news about his parents: Bad weather over the jungle, engine failure, no sign of the plane. Wreckage found, but no survivors.