And he’d liked it that way. Tyler Stovall was dead and buried, as far as he was concerned; he was Jerry Mercer, no one else.
Still, he felt restless, and muttering an oath no one else could hear, he headed up the rough-hewn wooden stairs to the loft where his computer sat. He could chop wood, fish, even farm, with the rest of the locals, but he also wrote screenplays in his spare time. Or, at least, he attempted to. Why, he wasn’t certain. Maybe it was because his mother had once been a screenwriter. Maybe it was because it was something he could do all on his own. He never turned in any of his work. Apart from the obvious problem that surfacing with his real name would blow his cover, he wasn’t that eager to share some of his innermost thoughts with the world.
Which was why it was so incredibly ridiculous that he wrote screenplays. It wasn’t something any sane human being did unless they were planning to turn them into films. And films were one of the most blatant, overt types of art there were. If he was so religious about keeping his whereabouts a secret, why did he choose to write something that was so obvious?
Growling at his own foibles, Ty glanced at the computer screen. A touch of the finger dissipated the screen saver of flying toasters and left him with the scene he’d been fooling around with before he went out to chop wood. It hadn’t changed for the better, of course, and frustration gnawed at him.
Glancing outside, his gaze traced the glittering lights across the bay reflected in the water. Dark shapes of clouds scudded by, obscuring the stars. As Ty watched, they moved lower, rolling in and covering the water with thick fog until the lights he’d seen just moments before were deadened and extinguished.
With a feeling of unreality, he trudged back downstairs to the tiny alcove of a kitchen, tucked beneath the loft. Heating some soup, he gazed at the notes he’d left himself all over the counter. The place smelled of emptiness. Once, it had been a cozy den, a refuge he’d sorely needed. Now, it seemed almost foreign.
For no good reason, he thought again of Cammie. Clothes on, this time, thank you very much! A skinny stick of a girl with thick, reddish curls and a smart little temper to match. He’d watched her grow into a lovely, slightly awkward, completely ingenuous teenager and had been amused by her sisterly adoration.
Still, everything had ended badly. His fault, he realized now, though at the time his own self-involvement and blind belief in his father had kept him from seeing the truth. Time had taken care of that, he thought bitterly. Since Gayle’s death he’d had to face a lot of things about his father. Any last vestige of hero worship had disappeared at that moment, and when he’d surfaced from his drunken binge and taken stock, he hadn’t liked what he’d seen in himself, either.
Cammie…
Ty shook his head and pulled on his beard some more. He wondered what she was doing now. Once in a while he received word of Hollywood doings, but Bruce, his one and only source, wasn’t exactly on the inside track. Which was just as well, Ty could admit, since he really wanted nothing to do with that whole shallow, saccharine scene anyway. The trouble was, he’d really enjoyed acting. It had been his calling, his “magic,” his true talent. Other forces had driven him away, however, and, in truth, he hadn’t been able to handle all the bullshit that went with the job.
So, here he was, ten years older and a little bit wiser. Was he happier? He couldn’t really say.
Staring through the window at the heavens, he thought about life. There was a misery inside his chest: betrayal. But over the years it had lost power. Still, it kept him a recluse. He never, never wanted to go back.
His lips curved ironically. Lucky for me, no one really wants me to come back, either. I’ve been forgotten, just like I wanted.
With that somewhat disturbing thought haunting the corners of his mind, Ty headed upstairs to his computer, pushing memories of his previous life aside. Recollections of Cammie were harder to ignore; they seemed to have infected his soul. And for some strange reason he thought of her, well…sexually! Off and on over the years, he’d been assailed by fragments of memory where he and Cammie made love with wild abandon. Only it wasn’t true memory. Good God, no! It couldn’t be. He’d never touched her. She’d been like a little sister to him, and he’d never even fantasized about her.
Except in his dreams. And those dreams sometimes awakened him with a start.
Like tonight, while he’d been napping. She’d entered silkily into his thoughts and desires, and the next thing he knew he awakened, confused and aroused.
And that ticked him off. At himself. What the hell was the matter with him anyway?
“You need a woman, my friend,” he growled to the empty room.
You’ve got a woman. Missy. If you care to see her again.
Ty muttered a sound of disgust. One of his local girlfriends, his last, was probably still available, even though he hadn’t seen her in months. But he’d only used her to salve his loneliness, and in the end, he couldn’t keep up the charade. Missy deserved more. And though it generally didn’t bother him to have everyone believe he was Jerry Mercer, hearing that name whispered in his ear at the height of passion was the sincerest, biggest, turn-off he’d ever encountered.
He just couldn’t do it anymore. So, female companionship was out.
Barring a woman, he needed a stiff drink, and Tyler, sensing in some restless part of himself that somehow he needed something more, snatched up a long-necked beer from the fridge and headed back to his computer to lose himself for a little while longer in work.
CHAPTER TWO
“I know you’re carrying Cole’s child,” Cammie choked out, her gaze on the glamorous blonde with limpid blue eyes who stood haughtily in the center of the crowded cocktail party, her full-length white gown hugging every sensuous curve. “And I know he thinks he loves you. But he loves me. He’ll figure it out in the end.”
The other woman clutched her flute of champagne, fingers tightening around the stem until it snapped in two. Cammie gazed at the remnants of the glass in horror as she felt camera one zoom in on her face.
“You’re a pathetic loser, Donna,” was the blonde’s throaty reply. Out of camera range, she squeezed a packet of “blood.” Red fluid oozed over her fingers. Cammie’s gaze riveted to the woman’s bloodstained hands, and the camera swiveled to catch the gory mess as it dripped onto the beautiful white evening dress. “One take only” had been the order from the director, although there were two more copies of the Bob Mackie rip-off waiting in the wings, just in case. “You’ll never have Cole. You’ll never have a child. You don’t even have a life.”
Cammie gazed helplessly at the other woman’s triumphant face.
“Cut. That’s a print!” Gary, this episode’s director, called.
Cammie stood still on her mark for another moment, feeling slightly disoriented. Fridays were film days. No more rehearsals. And though she’d practiced all week for this scene it held more power today than she’d expected.
You’ll never have a child. You don’t even have a life.
“Cammie?” Gary looked at her inquiringly. He’d always been friendly to her, and like the rest of the cast and crew, had been especially kind since the news had broken that she was to be “let go.”
“I’m fine. I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” she murmured, hurrying to the dressing room she shared with the glamorous blonde, Jenny, who was new to the show and already making a huge splash. Cammie might have expected twinges of jealousy, but Jenny had turned out to be as sweet and caring in real life as her character was mean and manipulative on the show.
“You okay?” Jenny asked, her eyes filled with concern.
In the mirror, Cammie caught sight of Jenny’s reflection next to her own. Two women, so unlike, yet not so apart in age. Cammie was auburn-haired with serious blue-green eyes which seemed almost too large for her face; Jenny was a streaked blonde with smaller eyes and a sensuous demeanor that played well opposite Cammie’s understated elegance. Cammie had hoped that she and Jenny might become fast frien
ds, but her subsequent dismissal had turned that hope into an impossibility.
“I’ve got an appointment with my doctor after this,” Cammie revealed.
“Your doctor?”
“My gynecologist.” Cammie made a face.
“Don’t you just hate it?” Jenny commented, and Cammie smiled an agreement. “See you Monday?”
“I’ll be here.” She had a few more episodes to film before her stint on Cherry Blossom Lane was officially over. Then she would be jobless, unless Paul’s bizarre plans for her to co-star in Rock Bottom actually materialized. She couldn’t imagine that happening, and she couldn’t imagine herself actually searching for Tyler Stovall! More pressing, she hadn’t even agreed to go with Paul to the Connellys tonight.
Sighing, Cammie changed from her costume into street clothes, collected her purse and headed to her BMW. Ten minutes later, she was off the studio lot and on her way to Dr. Crawley’s office. It was still early afternoon; her scenes had been run first. Punching out Susannah’s number on her cell phone, she was surprised and delighted when she was put straight through.
“Why aren’t you busy on a Friday afternoon?” Cammie asked her agent, a smile in her voice. “Losing clients?”
Susannah snorted. “I wish. How do I get these no-talent losers all the time? Someone’s sending them my way, and believe me, it’s a nightmare.”
“Hah.” Since the irrepressible Susannah Coburn’s client list was growing into a Who’s Who of up-and-comers, Cammie couldn’t feel too sorry for her. “I’m on my way to Dr. Crawley’s.”
“I hate going to the gynecologist,” Susannah echoed Jenny’s sentiments.
“Don’t we all,” Cammie sighed.
“You sound exhausted, hon. Don’t tell me you’re still on the fence about tonight. I’ll be there, too, remember.”
“Why can’t I go with you? You know how I feel about Paul.”
“You can go with me,” Susannah said, repeating the same plan she and Cammie had discussed since the moment Cammie had revealed Paul’s plan. “But this is Paul’s show, for the time being, so I think we should be nice.”
“I don’t feel like being nice.”
Susannah clucked her tongue. “I’m stopping by your apartment first and bringing a bottle of champagne.”
“Susannah…”
“Shhh. No protests. Remember, this is all good news. Fabulous. The ultra-best.”
“Sure,” Cammie said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
“Oh, stop that. I promise I’ll be there lickety-split, as soon as I get off work. This is a celebration, my dear! You’re embarking on a new career!”
Hanging up the receiver, Cammie eased off the freeway in the direction of Dr. Crawley’s offices. She wasn’t certain she was mentally ready for Susannah’s bubbling excitement over the news that Cammie might be slated for a Summer Solstice film. As for the party later this evening, she couldn’t picture herself there at all.
Still, she would be a fool if she didn’t at least show up at the Connellys. Nothing was set in stone.
Dr. Crawley’s office building was of the red-tiled roof, stucco-finish, Spanish-style variety, so popular in southern California. Purple bougainvillea filled the flower beds, and Cammie’s shoulder brushed against a full blossom as she passed. The receptionist gazed at her wordlessly, brows lifted in inquiry, as Cammie closed the wrought-iron hinged entry door behind her.
“I’m here to see Dr. Crawley,” she said.
“Fill out this form and take a seat.”
Cammie obediently accepted the clipboard she was presented with each time she visited the doctor. She filled out the blanks in the same order, marking a “3” in the spot for the amount of miscarriages. Bothered, she reminded herself that this was why she’d asked for the tissue scraping last time she’d seen her gynecologist.
A few minutes later, Cammie was escorted to Dr. Crawley’s inner office, a tiny, bookshelf-lined affair which smelled more like a library than a clinic. Taking a seat in a wingback chair, Cammie inhaled a deep breath, her thoughts drifting from the present. For better or worse, she was still focused on Tyler Stovall; she had been ever since Paul had introduced him into their conversation. And though Cammie told herself she was a fool, her brain kept spinning rapidly ahead, making plans even while she vowed she would never—never ever!—consider seeking him out. Susannah had kept fairly silent on that particular subject—unusually silent, Cammie felt—and that was a blessing. Cammie didn’t need any coercion. She didn’t need to even contemplate the possibility, but there was no denying the seed of the idea germinating inside her imagination.
Don’t be an idiot, she told herself for about the billionth time. You won’t be able to find him, and it would be disaster even if you could. If Summer Solstice wants you, they’ll take you regardless of Tyler Stovall.
“Don’t be naive,” she whispered aloud, shaking her head, her own thoughts putting her on edge.
When Dr. Crawley entered, she was dressed in a black pantsuit, briefcase in hand. Cammie had caught her on her way home.
“Am I late?” Cammie asked, aghast. She hadn’t rechecked her appointment time.
“No, no, it’s just Friday afternoon.” Dr. Crawley smiled. “I’m just planning to leave early, but not until after seeing you.”
“We could have rescheduled for a more convenient time.”
“I wanted to see you, Cammie.”
Behind their wire-rimmed glasses, Dr. Crawley’s eyes assessed Cammie with solemn seriousness and what could only be described as compassion. Alarmed, Cammie sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Why? Is something wrong? The tissue scraping, it’s not—cancerous, is it?” she choked out, a dagger of fear shooting straight to her heart.
“No, it’s not cancer.”
“Oh, good!” Her shoulders slumped in relief.
But when the doctor hesitated, Cammie’s anxiety thermometer started heading for the red again. “You have a condition called endometriosis,” Dr. Crawley informed her after a long moment. “Have you ever heard of it?”
Endometriosis? Fragments of information tugged at her memory. “Umm…no, well…maybe…” Cammie struggled to pull herself together. “Is it some kind of problem with the uterus?”
The doctor nodded, leaned a hip on her desk, then folded her hands together, much like a professor in a classroom about to embark on a long lecture. A no-nonsense woman of thirty-five who had four children of her own—ages six, eight, ten, and twelve respectively—Dr. Crawley was the most sympathetic gynecologist Cammie had ever encountered, and one of the best as well. Cammie inadvertently braced herself for what was to come.
“Last time we met, you were worrying about your chances of ever bearing children, based upon your three miscarriages,” Dr. Crawley reminded her. “In endometriosis, there’s a tightening of the uterus, some scarring perhaps, and it makes the whole process more difficult.”
Cammie silently digested this information. Slowly, she asked, “Are you saying I’ll never have children?”
“I’m saying that’s a possibility. Often, the problems increase over time.”
“I—see.” Cammie didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“There can be a lot of pain associated with endometriosis, but it appears you haven’t experienced too much discomfort at this point.”
Cammie shook her head. She felt fine most of the time. This appointment was supposed to have been a routine follow-up. She’d never seriously believed something might show up in her tissue sample.
“There’s likely to be progression of the disease, however, and sooner or later, you may need surgery.”
“Surgery?” Cammie repeated faintly. “A—a hysterectomy?” Cammie’s voice was so soft, it was as if she’d mouthed the terrible word.
“Not always. Endometriosis is very individual specific. We’ll wait and watch.”
Cammie nodded. Dr. Crawley talked on, but the lecture became a long buzz inside Cammie’s brain. Words floated to the
surface: “…endometrial tissue from the wall of the uterus…sloughed off…created blockage…scarring…pain and bleeding…the suspected culprit in twenty-five to fifty percent of all infertile women…”
Into this discourse, Cammie blurted out, “But what if I wanted to have a child right now, before it worsens? Could I?”
“It’s not impossible. Just because you haven’t had a full-term birth yet doesn’t mean it can’t happen. We could remove some of that scarring and see if that helps. It may or may not affect your chances.” Dr. Crawley cleared her throat. “Your most crucial enemy is time. As the disease progresses, your chances of conception and full-term birth are reduced.”
Cammie rubbed her face with her hands. Family. So simple for most of the world; so impossible for her.
“There is some scarring around your right fallopian tube. Surgery could help. It wouldn’t be any more serious than a tube-tying, as far as I can tell. Outpatient surgery.”
“Will it make a difference?”
“It sometimes can,” was the unsatisfactory reply. Doctors hated to be pinned down when a patient’s hopes and dreams depended on the answer.
A long silence ensued where Cammie had nothing to say. She needed to think over this information in solitude. “I’ll get back to you on it,” she told the doctor as she stumbled to her feet. She couldn’t stay here any longer. She just wanted to be alone, and with that urgent thought in mind, she hurried from Dr. Crawley’s offices to her car and then home, to her apartment.
The only other car in her lot was a nondescript cream-colored sedan with a man seated behind the wheel. It was parked at the far end of the building, away from the stairs. Cammie scarcely glanced in its direction, then hurried upstairs to the sanctity of her one-bedroom unit, locking the door behind her.
Susannah was coming with champagne.
Having no wish to celebrate, Cammie nevertheless felt the urge for something to do, some measure of comfort. Pouring herself a half a glass of white wine, Cammie stared at the chilled Chardonnay glistening in the goblet. Picking up the glass, she walked to her small balcony with its rather ugly view of Los Angeles buildings that blocked the skyline. Instead of drinking the wine, she merely held the glass between her palms, lost in her own thoughts, thoughts which kept circling back to the realization that she might never have a child.
Someday Soon Page 3