“Beatles?” she asked the others.
Jay shook his head. “Badfinger. Common mistake, because McCartney wrote a big hit of theirs, ‘Come and Get It,’ and George Harrison produced one of their albums.”
“I told you before he’s a font of useless info,” Nikki remarked.
“Useless?” Her fiancé grabbed her around the waist to yank her close. “That’s not what you said last night when I showed you that technique to—”
“Can you guys stop playing around?” Cassandra interrupted, sounding strained. “Can’t you see this is serious?”
Her voice seemed to penetrate Gabe’s drunken fog. He pushed himself straighter on the backseat, cradling a tequila bottle close to his chest as he peered at their assembled group. “Hey, Froot Loop! Look, I found it!”
“Oh, Gabe.” Cassandra’s hand shook a little as she pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Surely this isn’t it.”
“Not it, it,” he said, with an overemphatic shake of his head. “But like it, it. Going to restore this it. Bring it all back.”
“Oh, Gabe,” she responded again, as if her heart was breaking. She turned away from the man.
Juliet stepped nearer to her sister. “What’s the matter? What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing. Maybe what I’ve been worrying about all along,” she said, her words nearly masked as Gabe renewed his loud cover of the Badfinger ballad.
“What’s that?” Nikki said, she and Jay crowding close as well.
“Going completely crazy.” Cassandra glanced back at the man, then wrapped her arms around herself as if there’d been a sudden temperature dive. “He had one of those cars before. A 1963 Thunderbird convertible. It was in an accident as well. A drunk driver T-boned it when his wife was driving. It killed her instantly, along with their five-year-old daughter.”
“God.” Nikki clutched Jay’s arm. “God.”
He cleared his throat. “We didn’t know.”
“Gabe doesn’t talk about it unless he’s drunk. Unless he’s very, very drunk.”
“Froot Loop!” Gabe interrupted his song to give a lusty yell. “Come over here.”
With a sigh, she turned, then walked toward the car, the others trailing behind her. “Gabe . . .”
He frowned. “Whaz the matter?”
“I don’t like this.” She gestured to the convertible. “I don’t like seeing you in there.”
Juliet knew what her sister wasn’t saying. It didn’t take a giant leap of genius to wonder—to worry—that Gabe was placing himself in that same car because he was wishing he’d been with his wife and daughter at the time of their accident. That he was going to restore this Thunderbird so he could re-create the very same scenario.
“Come in wi’ me,” Gabe said to Cassandra, lurching for the door handle so that tequila spilled from the bottle he clutched. “We could fuck—”
“Gabe!”
“ ’Scuse me,” he said, giving up on getting the door open and going back to his sprawl. “We could make love righ’ here. Big backseat.”
Cassandra groaned. “How can you—”
“Wha’?” He slapped the leather with his free hand. “Lynn . . . m’wife and me made Maddie righ’ here.”
“Gabe, I’m not—”
“Wha’?” He took a chug of tequila, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’ want my babies?”
It was hard to tell if Cassandra wanted to cry or crack Gabe on the head with that tequila bottle. “I don’t want you like this.”
He didn’t appear to hear her. “ ’S okay. I don’t want babies either,” he declared, then took another swig of liquor. “Proteshun. We’ll use con . . . con . . . con . . .”
“. . . doms,” Jay put in. “Condoms. So why don’t we get you out of that car, buddy, and I’ll drive you home. We can discuss your favorite brand and preferred size on the way.”
“Triple XL,” Gabe said, getting to his feet so he stood on the back cushions, swaying.
Jay took his tequila and handed it off to Nikki, then he helped maneuver Gabe from the car.
On the asphalt, the drunken man gave the group a serious look and pounded his chest. “Hung like ’n elephant.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Dumbo, that’s what I’m going to call him from now on.”
“Hah.” Gabe staggered to her and slung his arm around her neck. “Funny. Funny Froo’ Loop. Still wanna do you, darlin’.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” She started leading him in the direction of Jay’s Porsche.
“Really.” He looked over his shoulder, straight at Juliet. “Not like she said before. Any warm body won’ do.”
From what she could see of Juliet’s expression through her car windshield, Marlys figured that finding her waiting in her Miata outside the Malibu house was the capper on an already crappy day. Instead of pulling into the garage, Juliet turned off her car in the driveway. Poised for a quick getaway?
As she exited her seat, Marlys’s dog leaped out and ran for the driver’s side of Juliet’s where he hopped around like a pogo stick. When she emerged, Blackie threw himself against her.
Juliet shook her head as she made her way up the path to her front porch with seventy pounds of canine doing his unintentional best to trip her up. “Marlys, you need to put Blackie on a leash.”
“He was hoping you were someone else.”
Juliet’s progress hitched a little, and Marlys cursed herself for the slip. She didn’t want to think of Dean. She really didn’t want Juliet thinking she was thinking of Dean.
Marlys wasn’t weak like that. And she didn’t pine after something she’d deliberately sabotaged. Marlys wasn’t stupid like that either.
Tucking the box she carried under her arm, she followed the dog and Juliet into the house, then watched while the other woman turned on lights as she made her way through the shadowy interior. A routine she, too, was familiar with. Woman alone returns home to dark emptiness.
“Where’s Noah?” she asked.
Juliet tossed her purse onto the kitchen counter then glanced over with her freaky, two-colored eyes. “He lives elsewhere. Why are you here?”
Ouch. Marlys’s eyebrows rose. “Gloves are off?”
“What do you think? Dean told us what you’ve done. Seeding the scandal sheets—good God. And of course you’ve read the latest on the websites about the book party and the ugly accusation you made there.”
“Dean . . .” She wished she hadn’t said the name. It lingered on her tongue, sweet, like a Lifesaver, though she didn’t think its taste would ever melt away.
Juliet sighed. “Okay, I’m earning my heaven points by asking this, Marlys. Do you want to know how he’s doing? Maybe Jay—”
Marlys snatched at the name. “Jay Buchanan?”
The other woman’s face went watchful. Damn.
She tried her best to look innocent. “You know Jay Buchanan?”
“Yes.” Juliet leaned back against a countertop and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I hear he’s engaged now.”
“Mmm.”
“We went on a date once.”
A smile crossed her evil stepmother’s lips. “From what I hear, you and just about every woman in L.A. went on a date with Jay once.”
Marlys grinned. “From what I hear, too. How’d you meet him?”
Juliet shrugged. “Malibu’s a small place.”
“So they say. Population thirteen thousand, feels more like three-hundred. But hey, none of L.A. is all that big. For example, I ran into Oomfaa at that yarn place the other night. I know her from the boutique.”
And knew that though she was a notorious gossip, she wasn’t always entirely reliable. Last month when she’d been trying on a selection of layered tees, she’d dished a bit about Katherine Heigl that had turned out to be totally untrue. Which meant Marlys had new questions. Donor siblings? Fathered by a celebrity plastic surgeon? If she was going to do something with the data, she
needed more confirmation than Oomfaa’s say-so.
Juliet wasn’t taking the bait and it looked as if her brief moment of sympathy was gone, too. “Marlys, what do you want?”
The end of this pain. She’d been raw for a year, her father’s death having reopened wounds she’d thought had healed over. And then Dean had come and then gone from her life and it was like acid everywhere.
Burn, burn, burn.
That Q & A at the book party hadn’t changed a thing. The resulting talk of it so far had been, frankly, tepid. On a more personal note, sure, Noah had said that her father loved her, but that didn’t alter the fact that Juliet had ruined his reputation. And Marlys still wanted payback.
Daddy issues much? Hell, yeah. But an awareness of them didn’t blunt her resentment or her pain. So she produced her excuse, the cardboard box. “More mail from the Palisades house.”
Grimacing, Juliet took the small box and dumped the contents onto the counter. A dozen or so envelopes dropped out. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble.” Not when she was after information. She watched the other woman reach for a knife to serve as a letter opener.
“You have Thanksgiving plans?” she asked.
Juliet paused, then drew out a sheet and started to unfold it. “I think so.” Her hands slowed again.
Marlys hid her smirk, but she could see the goody-goody’s good-mannered wheels turning. Did she think she was obligated to extend an invitation? Did she think Marlys was so hard up that she’d accept?
God, maybe she was getting soft because she couldn’t stand the stupid tension emanating from the woman. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to ask to bring my famous brussels sprouts in cream sauce to your holiday table.”
Weird, how bitter she sounded. Juliet must have noticed it, too, because she looked up and sighed again. “Marlys, if you want—”
“Of course I don’t want! I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t need anything from you. You’re not my family.”
Something in her voice brought Blackie to her at a run. Sliding to a stop at her feet, he whined. She warmed her hand on the top of her head. “I’m going over to Helen’s. Lots of dad’s friends will be there.”
Lie, lie, lie, but then, what did it matter? She hated turkey and she had a store-bought pumpkin pie in the freezer that she planned on baking and then nibbling on all day. Thanksgiving with Mrs. Smith.
Juliet moved on to the next piece of mail. “All right.”
All was so not right. And Marlys didn’t know how to cope except for in her usual way. It’s other people that you use to take out your pain. You hurt other people so you don’t have to feel a goddamned thing.
She hoped the man was right.
Juliet had opened another piece of correspondence. She unfolded a card, and then her eyes widened as she read. Her hand darted to the envelope and she turned it address-side up. “Speaking of Helen,” she muttered.
Marlys perked up. “Problem?”
“No.” Juliet stuffed the card back in the envelope. “Just that I’ve got an invitation to her party tomorrow night after all.”
“You wouldn’t dare go,” Marlys said, bristling. That damn Helen.
Juliet narrowed her eyes. “Good-bye, Marlys.”
Hell, she’d got the boot before she’d gotten her confirmation. Fingers drumming against her thigh, she was forced to follow her father’s wife toward the front door.
She only needed a teeny, tiny sign. “I’m thinking of having some Botox injections,” she mused aloud.
“You don’t say.” Clearly not caring, Juliet pulled open the front door.
“I’m thinking of seeing Dr. Frank Tucker.”
Juliet jerked around to stare at Marlys. “What?”
Hah. This time Oomfaa had it right.
“I’ll probably chicken out, though,” Marlys continued, breezing by the other woman so that she and Blackie were over the threshold. “I’ve never liked needles.”
Or pain.
Hand on Blackie’s collar, she jogged to her car and tried to remember if she had Pharmaceutical Phil’s brother’s number in her cell phone’s address book. For a moment she saw Dean in her mind’s eye, and then heard his voice in her head. Self-destructive, he’d called her. Fine.
Bad Marlys.
But Blackie and being bad was all that she had left.
Twenty
In war, there is no prize for the runner-up.
—GENERAL OMAR BRADLEY
Second thoughts? A heavy dose of guilt? Or just an oversight? Juliet couldn’t know which had prompted the invitation she’d received to Helen Novack’s private book party. Maybe Helen had sent it to the old house assuming Juliet would receive it too late.
But instead, Marlys had done her a favor in bringing it so promptly, and done her another favor by sending out a challenge she probably didn’t even realize she’d voiced. You wouldn’t dare go.
The Juliet Weston who had hidden behind her shell for eleven months wouldn’t. But the Juliet Weston who had found a family, a job, a lover—the Juliet Weston who knew she was powerful and passionate—didn’t dare not go. Not and still continue believing she wasn’t the retiring rose that some still considered her.
Despite all that, her stomach played host to a standoff between fight or flight as she stood at the front door of Helen Novack’s 1920s-era L.A. mansion. Her palms smoothed her dress, which was much more Malibu than Bel Air. At a flirty, above-the-knee length and constructed of slinky layers of blue and green knit, this dress didn’t have a single beige thread.
And thank God Nikki hadn’t delivered on her promise of enchiladas—the dress was that clingy. But Juliet was going to demand the dish, if she made it through tonight—not if, when.
Helen’s houseman seemed pleased to see her. “Mrs. Weston!” If he was surprised, it didn’t show.
Juliet waved her invitation anyway, then tucked it into her bag. “Miguel, it’s good to see you.”
He made a little bow. “Everyone is this way.”
And everyone was. The crowd of a hundred-plus of Wayne’s friends created clusters and knots throughout the living room and also spilled onto the courtyard with its bubbling fountain and strategic floodlights. Waiters in black and white moved about with trays of drinks and edibles. Here and there Juliet noticed attractive displays of old photos and medals—Marlys’s distinctive touch.
But Juliet didn’t see the younger woman anywhere. Instead, at the far end of the room, where stacks of books were being given away at a table, she found Helen Novack—who stood staring straight at Juliet.
Taking what she hoped was an invisible breath, she made her way toward her hostess. Whether the room went quiet or she just couldn’t hear the chatter over the heartbeat in her ears, Juliet couldn’t say. She didn’t let the lack of sound stop her, though, even as along her path she caught the eye of people she’d known for eight years . . . and hadn’t spoken to during the last twelve months.
With a nod, with a smile, she continued moving.
Until she felt another, different gaze on her. Her head jerked left, and there, coming through the doors to the courtyard, was Noah. In pale gray slacks, and a darker dress shirt and jacket, he looked more attorney than ex-soldier.
Had Helen’s social secretary made a second screwup?
Whatever the answer, her feet halted as her traitorous heart tried climbing from her chest to her throat. Yet the traitor was him, damn it.
Turning her head away, she moved forward again, nodding at other acquaintances, murmuring greetings, but not hesitating until she was face-to-face with Helen. I’m sorry, she remembered saying the last time the two of them had met. Tonight, she would not be apologizing.
Stretching out her hand, she smiled at the other woman. “Helen.” Now she knew the room had gone silent, and she raised her voice to carry to every corner. “Thank you so much for all the trouble you’ve gone to tonight. The party looks beautiful. Wayne would be so pleased. I’m pleased.�
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Helen’s fingers were cool in hers, but Juliet didn’t let that stop her from covering them with her second hand. “You’ve always been such a very good friend,” she added.
Okay, to Wayne and not to Juliet, but that didn’t matter anymore. They’d both lost a man who’d been important in their lives. As a photographer’s flash went off, she moved even closer to the older woman and brushed her cheek with her own. “Let’s give Wayne a little chuckle,” she murmured for Helen’s ears only. “And make the press look like idiots for reporting any ill will between us.”
And it was Helen who chuckled, but that was good enough for Juliet. She pulled back to find herself surrounded by people. Whether they were well-wishers or illwillers, she didn’t bother deciphering. More smiles, more chat, more deep breaths later, she realized that like everything else in life, there was a balance of both in this crowd.
She made a lunch date, she overheard a catty remark, she stole away to a quiet corner with a glass of champagne. A man she’d never met trapped her there before she could make an escape. There was a platinum-and-steel watch on his left wrist and a heavy gold ring on his right pinky.
He introduced himself like she should know his name.
At a loss, she tossed out a guess. “You played golf with Wayne?”
He shook his head, his Einsteinian mass of hair waving. “No golf. Never had the pleasure of meeting the man. I make movies. Writer-director-producer. Last year’s Voyeur? Pop Art three years before that?”
Juliet shrugged. “Sorry. I haven’t been to the movies in a while.”
“I have two Best Picture Oscars.”
“Congratulations.” What else could she say?
He nodded, as if coming to terms with his inability to impress her. “I came here tonight hoping to get a chance to talk with you. I was going to get Helen to introduce us, but I took it upon myself instead.”
Apparently he was more informed about movies than society gossip, which upped his ante in Juliet’s eyes.
“I wasn’t sure if your bodyguard would let me get close, though,” the writer-director-producer continued.
Unravel Me Page 26