Someday Soon

by Janelle Taylor

  “Do you really?” Susannah silently beseeched her, but Cammie slowly nodded, knowing that another betrayal would push Ty away from her forever. “Then we’ve got to buy some wine to drown our sorrows,” Susannah capitulated on a sigh, taking the exit that led to Cammie’s apartment. “And a lot of it!”

  Half an hour later, while Susannah fussed with the cork on a primo bottle of Chardonnay, Cammie slowly replaced the receiver for what felt like the fiftieth time. She exhaled a pent-up breath. A glance at the clock convinced her she’d been too late: Ty was already on his way to join her in Los Angeles. He’d turned off his answering machine—had probably already packed it—and obviously was no longer at the cabin.

  So, her news would have to wait.

  “No luck?” Susannah inquired, handing Cammie her goblet of the shimmering, clear fluid.

  “No luck.”

  With a sense of foreboding, Cammie swallowed a gulp huge enough to make her choke. She tried to make small talk with Susannah but failed utterly. In the end, her agent and friend gave her a hug good night and the platitude, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out,” before leaving the apartment. Cammie cleaned up the wineglasses, methodically wiping the rims and inner bowls, her mind tiptoeing through the minefield of the future.

  She spent a hellish evening and sleepless night. The burden of Samuel’s latest deception lay heavy on her conscience, and it felt as if a band were ever tightening around her chest.

  When will he arrive? she fretted. Should I check with the Connellys first? Or Samuel?

  Ty had told her he planned to check in at a hotel as soon as he arrived in town, for the home that he still owned—where Cammie had stumbled upon him naked and they had enjoyed their first night of lovemaking—was currently rented by a producer out of New York who used it whenever he was in town. Ty’s first order of business would be to stop at his friend Bruce’s place and check the lay of the “financial” land. Cammie’s shy suggestion that he could move into her apartment for the time being had been met with a leer and a last trip to the cabin’s loft for some “afternoon delight.” But then Ty had told her he thought it would be best to keep their personal relationship low profile for at least a little while. Seeing it from that angle, Cammie had nodded in fervent agreement.

  Now, as she looked around the appointments of her small but cozy kitchen and dining area, she wondered how long she and Ty would have to remain apart. As soon as the media caught the buzz, they would be harassed to the full extent of the ravenous press. Until the pending hoopla died down, there was nothing to do but wait.

  Shuddering, she dreaded what was to come. Poor Ty, she thought with a grimace, recognizing that if she were already shying away, his feelings of aversion would be so much stronger. The whole thing would be as bad, or worse, than even he had envisioned.

  Digging through her purse, she pulled out the business card Ty had given her for Bruce Cramer. Fingering the corner thoughtfully, she wondered if she should call Ty’s stockbroker friend and see if Ty had contacted him in the last couple of hours. Bruce knew about their relationship; Ty had made that clear. But would hewant her to call and question him about Ty’s movements? Maybe she should wait for Ty to call himself.

  As if on command, the telephone shrilled. Cammie snatched up the receiver on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, there, beautiful!” Ty’s voice greeted her. In the background she could hear the roar of traffic.

  “Where are you?”

  “Just off the freeway in Oregon. I think I’ll stop somewhere later tonight. See how it goes. Probably cruise into L.A. sometime tomorrow.”

  “You shipped all your stuff?”

  “Most of it. The Jeep’s stuffed. The furniture’s in storage—I might give it to Corky—and the rest’s on its way to Bruce’s. I might even beat it there.”

  “I can’t wait to see you!”

  “I can hardly hear you,” Ty shouted over the noise. “I’m at this truck stop.”

  “I said, I LOVE YOU!” Cammie shouted, enjoying the freedom of admitting her feelings.

  “WHAT? Oh! Did you say I love you? If you did, I LOVE YOU, TOO!”

  “TY!” Cammie called, sensing he was about to hang up. “THERE’S SOMETHING I’VE GOT TO TELL YOU.”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU. SAVE IT TILL I GET THERE. BYE, MY LOVE.”

  Cammie stood with a dead receiver in hand. She replaced it and swallowed, then rubbed her tired eyes.

  Get over it, girl. This is just the beginning.

  Drawing a breath of courage, she murmured aloud, “It’s the end I’m worried about.”

  * * *

  With a feeling of being “over the rainbow,” Ty drove his Jeep down familiar Los Angeles streets. He debated on staying at the Wyndham Bel Age, just off Sunset, but decided if he were going to reappear, he might as well do it in true Hollywood style. So thinking, he turned the steering wheel in the direction of the famous, pinkstuccoed Beverly Hills Hotel.

  As soon as he yanked on the brake, valets raced to his dusty Jeep. Ty levered himself from the seat, easing tension from his back. Last night, he’d stopped at a motel just outside the California border, slept about three hours, then climbed back in his vehicle and driven the rest of the way straight—about twelve hours. He looked like he felt: weary and rumpled. Still, there was a strange sense of homecoming that threatened to reveal his world-famous smile for all and sundry to see.

  “Here you are, sir,” the obsequious young man said, handing Ty his parking validation. “Don’t worry, it’ll be safe with us,” he added, referring to Ty’s belongings which were crammed to the roof inside the Jeep.

  “Thanks.”

  Ty strode into the foyer. He’d never stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel, having no need since he’d lived in L.A. all his life until his escape to Bayrock. But he’d had drinks in the bar where the famous and infamous comingled. It was in his mind to head straight for a frothy beer when a prickling along his nerves, a premonition, caught his attention, and as he walked toward reception, he realized his days of obscurity were over: a row of eyes and smiling lips greeted him like a long-lost friend, the reception staff recognized his famous face.

  “Mr. Stovall,” one said, an attractive brunette with a drop-dead smile of her own. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  Before Tyler could react to that stunning announcement, the bellman was at his elbow. “Could I take that for you?” he asked, referring to the overnight bag Ty had stuffed with the items he needed most at hand.

  “Uh…”

  It was a dream. A washed-out transparency from which he viewed real life. A key was pressed in his hands. Directions to the room. The bellman took the bag Ty relinquished from slack fingers. An elevator dinged softly somewhere outside the misty tunnel of his vision.

  Then he was at the door of his room. He entered in that same dreamy state to the lush appointments of a suite, complete with wet bar.

  We’ve been expecting you.

  Reality crashed. Heading straight for the phone, he punched out his father’s number, clicking the receiver before it even had time to connect. No, he didn’t want to talk to Samuel. Instead, he called his buddy Bruce who was already at home, awaiting Tyler’s appearance.

  “Bruce,” Ty rasped, when his friend answered the phone, “I was expected at the Beverly Hills Hotel!”

  “I know,” Bruce sighed.

  “How? I didn’t tell anyone I was going there except you!”

  “Word got out at my office,” Bruce confessed. “An eager-beaver office gofer heard ‘Stovall’ and thought I was talking to your father. At the same time, I’d pulled up your account which, of course, reads Mr. Samuel Stovall, Jr.,” he reminded Ty with a wince in his voice. “The gofer still thought it was your father. He told the financial advisor to Samuel’s account who apparently took offense that I was poaching on his client, so he called Samuel, who then learned of your intentions and well…I’m sorry.”

  “My father,” Ty murmured, exhaling a bre
ath. A moment later, he said, “It doesn’t matter. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but I’ll tell you, it was eerie to walk in like I’d never left.”

  “I’ll bet,” Bruce said with feeling. “I didn’t know how to reach you. Your cell was off.”

  “Yeah, I packed it by mistake. Figured it wouldn’t matter. Anyway, never mind. The fact is, I’m here.”

  “How does it feel?” Bruce asked curiously.

  “Strange as hell.”

  “Are you coming over to the house?”

  “I’m going to call Cammie, then take a shower and get things together a bit,” Ty said. “I’ll be over right after.”

  So saying, he pressed a finger to the receiver and released it, all the while pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket with two fingers. Cammie’s number wasn’t committed to memory yet. But as he began punching the buttons, he thought better of it, replacing the receiver. Shower first. Phone call later.

  Ten minutes later, while he toweled his hair dry, he began to dial Cammie’s number again, cradling the receiver to his ear and absentmindedly picking up the TV remote with his free hand. Waiting for her to answer, he checked on the five o’clock news. Traffic problems in the city. Big surprise.

  “Hello, there,” he said with a smile in his voice as Cammie’s voice came on the line. “I’ve got a picture in my mind of you right now. And you know what? You’re not wearing anything.”

  “Untrue.” Her own voice was full of mirth. “I am wearing one thing: Passion Flower Red polish on my toes.”

  “Woman,” he growled as her laughter broke free, “you’re going to drive me crazy!”

  “Where are you?”

  He told her, then said, “Meet me at Bruce’s in about an hour. You know where he lives?”

  “I’ve got the directions. But Ty, there’s something I’ve got to tell you about your father.”

  Ty groaned. “Save it till I see you at Bruce’s. I want to get moving.”

  “Really, Ty, it can’t wait. And—you’re not going to like it.”

  “I wouldn’t expect to, if it concerns dear old Dad. Cammie, I—” Ty broke off on a sharp inhalation of breath at the image suddenly filling the TV screen. His face. From ten years earlier. Swearing pungently, he snapped up the volume. “Turn on your TV!” he ordered. “The you-know-what has definitely hit the fan!”

  The drive to Bruce’s house, situated on the edge of Beverly Hills, was a nightmare. The burden of telling Ty about Samuel’s hidden agenda constricted her chest. If only she’d been able to come clean, but Ty’s discovery of his own mini-biography being played on the news had superceded all else. Which was understandable, as Cammie herself had been knocked sideways by the story.

  The press wasn’t only ferocious—it was fast!

  Cammie’s hands tensed and relaxed on the steering wheel. Ty’s return to Hollywood was treated with joy, disbelief, and speculation. The worst of that broadcast was the innuendo. Somehow, the bright, all-knowing woman reporter had unearthed a bit of the scandal surrounding Gayle’s death. Conjecture was that her suicide prompted Ty’s flight.

  There was enough truth in her words to make Cammie wince; she could just imagine how Ty felt.

  We needed more time, she thought futilely. More time together. More time to plan. More time to think things through before facing the lion.

  Too late now.

  Cammie gasped as she turned up the street to Bruce’s home. The road was nearly blocked by TV news vans and crews. A policeman impatiently waved her on by. She had to park blocks away and then she sat in cold fear inside her BMW, heart pounding erratically as she recognized that the second volley in the match between Tyler Stovall and the fourth estate had been shot.

  Samuel Stovall, she thought, sending the blame to its most likely source. He’s the one who’s blabbed to the media.

  Infuriated beyond all reason, she slammed her car door and stalked in the direction of Bruce’s house. The home was small compared to some of the massive Beverly Hills structures nearby, and somewhat unimposing, but a beautiful rolling lawn curved down to the street, bisected by a manicured drive that led to the front door. But that drive was currently stuffed with vehicles of all descriptions, and to Cammie’s annoyance she was halted from stepping a foot onto its concrete surface by one of Beverly Hills’ finest.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is not a tourist attraction. Everyone is being asked to keep moving,” he told her, his eyes already shifting past her to survey the sea of cars, trucks and camera people positioned about the area.

  “I’m expected,” she said flatly.

  His gaze swiveled to her face. “Ma’am?”

  “Mr. Cramer and his guest are expecting me.”

  “Your name, please?”

  Cammie told him, then followed slowly behind as he headed up the driveway to check her story. Newsmen and women, tucked into tight bunches, swiveled their heads in Cammie’s direction, then descended upon her in a horde. A battery of microphones were thrust in her face.

  “Is Tyler Stovall inside?” one thin-faced woman demanded.

  “Are you a friend of Mr. Cramer’s? Has he been hiding Tyler Stovall all these years?” someone else yelled above the din.

  “Are you in on the plot?” still another asked.

  “What’s your name…”

  “Would you care to make a statement…”

  “Is this another publicity stunt…”

  “Quick, get her picture before she turns away!” someone screeched as Cammie ducked behind her blue-suited guide.

  At the front door, the policeman turned to the crowd, one hand motioning Cammie to ring the bell. “Stand back!” he boomed out. The hungry news people ignored him completely.

  Cammie pressed the buzzer, hearing chimes ring inside the two-story stucco house. She wasn’t certain exactly what to do, but then the door cracked open and she was practically yanked inside. The crowd surged forward, but she was hustled to the back of the house where curtains were drawn across a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, making the place seem like night had already fallen.

  She didn’t recognize her savior. Blinking at the dark-haired stranger, she said shakily, “Bruce Cramer?”

  “Cammie Merrill?”

  They shook hands on faint laughs. At that moment, a pair of double doors slid open to reveal a study, and Ty hesitantly stuck his head through. He motioned Cammie forward and she hurried to collapse inside the warmth of his welcoming arms.

  “God, I missed you,” he murmured into the softness of her neck.

  She breathed deeply of his uniquely male scent. “I’m so glad to see you. What happened here? How did they know?”

  “I barely got through the door when they descended like a pack of hounds!”

  “Scum,” Bruce muttered, his expression dark. “Word leaked out at work. They staked out my house.”

  “I was sure it was Samuel’s doing,” Cammie muttered.

  “I wouldn’t count him out.” Ty tightened his grip, as if she were his sole support. “My Jeep’s outside with all my stuff. I can’t get to it. Bruce called the police and they’re just starting to push people off the property.”

  He sounded angry and discouraged. “Well, we knew it was going to be bad,” Cammie murmured. “I just thought we’d have a little bit more time.”

  Bruce stepped toward a smaller window which flanked a stone fireplace and opened onto a side yard. He peeked through vertical blinds, and said, “They’re everywhere.”

  “Ty, about your dad…”

  “Oh, yeah. What?” He was distracted.

  “I think there was more to his wanting you to come back now. It may be that he’s been angling for a part in Rock Bottom—Norm Franklin’s father.”

  Ty swore pungently. Cammie held her breath, but she felt better just having unburdened herself.

  “Figures,” Bruce said, eyeing Ty carefully. Like Cammie, he knew how much each extra betrayal hurt.

  But Ty, after raking hands through h
is hair and closing his eyes in momentary meditation, shook his head and stated firmly, “I don’t care. I’m back now. It doesn’t matter.”

  She knew it did matter, but she was glad Ty was willing to set the matter aside, at least for the moment. And it didn’t appear that he blamed her. Her own confession helped keep his trust.

  “I could call Susannah, my agent,” Cammie suggested. “She could help contain this.” She swept an arm to indicate the mob outside.

  Since there didn’t seem to be anything better in mind, Ty and Bruce agreed. Cammie put through the call, and when Teri, Susannah’s assistant, heard what the trouble was, she eagerly took down Bruce’s number and promised that Susannah would call back ASAP.

  It took twenty minutes, however, for that miracle to happen as Susannah was in a meeting at that very moment with the Connellys and Samuel Stovall.

  “It was a command performance,” Susannah declared breathlessly, from the hallway outside the Connellys’ private production offices. “I tried to call you, but you weren’t home.”

  “I came to see Ty,” she said simply, “but his friend Bruce Cramer’s house is surrounded by—”

  “Jackals,” Bruce interrupted.

  “—news people. And did you catch the news earlier? We’re in the hurricane.”

  “And we’ll all weather it,” Susannah assured her.

  “What’s going on with Samuel and the Connellys?” Cammie asked, to which question Ty’s lips tightened but he didn’t make further comment.

  “They’re discussing Rock. Bottom, of course. Everyone’s on pins and needles waiting to meet with the infamous Tyler Stovall. Does he, um, have an agent?” she asked diffidently.

  Cammie grinned. “An agent? I don’t think so.”

  “Tell her she’s hired if she can get this riffraff off Bruce’s yard,” Ty drawled. Cammie relayed the comment and Susannah promised to send a barrage of publicity people to contain the impromptu press conference.

  “Your lovely ex has been hovering around like a bad smell,” Susannah went on, after she’d taken down all the pertinent information. “I’m sure he’s afraid he’ll be cut out somehow, and I think the Connellys would love to get rid of him. He might have put the deal together with you and therefore Tyler, but man, oh, man, he’s a pain in the butt!”