First Loves: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Stone, Jean

  She looked into his eyes. They weren’t pleading, but they were hopeful. Tim Danahy had given her her start once, her first big break. Now he had done it again. And again his timing was off. But this time Zoe didn’t want to hurt him. This time she was going to be more conscious of other people’s feelings, of other people’s needs. Especially Tim’s. She owed him so much. “It’s too soon, Tim. Too soon after William.”

  He dropped his hand. “Sure, kid. I understand. Another time, right?”

  Zoe reached up and kissed his cheek. “It’s a date,” she said, then quickly asked, “Now, could you leave me alone to make a private phone call?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Of course. I’m sure you want to call home.”

  Zoe nodded without answering.

  Tim lumbered from the office and closed the door behind him. Zoe watched him leave, then picked up the phone and dialed the number of First Pacific. She had the part. Now all she needed was to secure the refinancing of Cedar Bluff.

  While she waited to be connected to John Burns, she sat down at the squeaky swivel wooden chair behind Tim’s desk. The latest issue of Variety was spread out across the desktop. She began thumbing through it, knowing that she’d have to start reading it again, she’d have to get a handle on what was happening in Hollywood. She’d have to become visible once more, aggressive. She’d done it once, she could do it again. With or without Eric.

  Eric. Why the hell had she thought of him?

  “This is John Burns.”

  She quickly regrouped her thoughts. “Yes, Mr. Burns, this is Zoe Hartmann.” She smiled as she heard herself tell him with unwavering confidence that she had landed the part. She could feel his cocky smile through the phone. She wanted to pinch his cheeks and call him Sonny-Boy, then give him a good slap. “I’ll be able to give you a hundred thousand against the five,” she said. “Then we need to talk about refinancing the balance.”

  “That would make the balance four hundred thousand,” John Burns commented, then paused. “I have an idea,” he said. “Would you consider refinancing the entire five hundred thousand?”

  His voice had shifted from cocky to condescending. Zoe didn’t understand.

  “That way you could keep what you’re making. It should help your cash flow. I’m sure Cedar Bluff is costly to maintain.”

  Maintenance. God, Zoe hadn’t even considered that. What with nothing much else to do all day, she and Marisol had kept the house going alone, except for the weekly gardener and pool man. Now that she’d be working …

  But why was John Burns suddenly being so cordial?

  “Yes,” Zoe said hesitantly, “of course, that would be better.” She stared down at the phone and wondered if Tim’s receptionist was listening in on the line. Or Tim.

  “Good. Then I have an idea. I’ll draw up some preliminary paperwork. If you could stop by the bank on Friday, say about three o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Yes. Oh, and by the way, we’re having a small reception then in honor of our Grand Reopening. You wouldn’t mind helping out First Pacific by having a photo or two taken with the bank officers, would you? As a loyal customer?”

  Zoe had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She wondered if they’d have wanted a photo of her if she hadn’t landed the role of Jan Wexler. She wondered if they would have repossessed Cedar Bluff. Hollywood, she thought. It’ll never change.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’d be delighted. I’ll see you on Friday.” As she hung up the phone Zoe realized he hadn’t even mentioned the application he’d given her. Apparently, that would no longer be necessary.

  She went into the outer office. Tim was sitting on the corner of the receptionist’s desk. The two were talking in low whispers.

  “All set,” Zoe said. “Thanks.”

  Tim stood up and straightened his tie. “The contracts should be ready in a couple of days, Zoe. I can run them out to Cedar Bluff if you’d like.”

  She slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, suspecting that beneath Tim’s gesture to be “helpful” was really his intent to be more. “I have to come back into town Friday,” she said. “It would be easier if I stopped by here.” This was all happening quickly, so quickly. She was excited, she was confused, and she was scared. It would be easy to have Tim Danahy move in on her life to sort things out, to take over the finances the way William had done. She wondered if Tim would make such a mess of things. Probably not. But as she stepped into the parking lot and looked back at the crumbling office building that had been crumbling for the twenty years she’d seen it, she wondered if she’d be better off simply to stand tall, buck up, and figure things out for herself.

  The drive home to Cedar Bluff was the nicest Zoe remembered in a long time. Years, maybe. She stopped at her favorite Thai restaurant and picked up chicken-fried rice, spring rolls, and steamed dumplings: a special dinner treat for Scott and Marisol, a fun celebration to tell them the news, a great way for Scott to start off his summer vacation. She hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed when he learned she’d soon be leaving for location in New York.

  As she wove her car up the canyon road, Zoe looked up into the clear mid-June sky. Even the weather is perfect today, she thought. Life, after all, may be good. Then she laughed, confident in the knowledge that even if it had been raining, even if the smog had been so thick it blanketed the area, it wouldn’t have mattered. Today was turning into a perfect day, and nothing could ruin it. She didn’t need to worry about Cedar Bluff or First Pacific or Tim Danahy. For Zoe was back. And Zoe was going to make it.

  She wheeled into the long driveway, then quickly braked when she saw an unfamiliar car parked there. She pulled to the left of it, wondering whose it was. Perhaps a workman Marisol had called. Perhaps the parent of one of Scott’s school friends, dropping off the boy for the afternoon. It would be nice if Scott felt he could now have his friends come to visit. Zoe’s years of self-exile had virtually sequestered him as much as it had herself. She hadn’t wanted Scott to bring his friends home to run through the house, blast stereos, or ogle Zoe. Now she’d welcome the commotion. She turned off the engine and grabbed the bags of food. She hoped there’d be enough for company.

  As Zoe crossed the back lawn toward the house, she heard the distinct sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement. It reminded her how long it had been since William had taken the time to play basketball with Scott. He’d been too busy working, too busy, Zoe now knew, trying to hold everything together. But things would be different now. They would begin to lead a normal life. Finally.

  She sighed and turned the corner toward the basketball court. Scott was aiming for a long shot; a man moved quickly, blocking him, his back to Zoe. A slow, sick feeling rose in her stomach. Scott threw the ball. The man raced down the court. When he turned, Zoe saw his face clearly.

  Eric.

  She dropped the bags of food. White cardboard containers split open, and fried rice spilled out onto the ground.

  He looked at her. He stopped running.

  Zoe was frozen in place.

  “Hey, Mom!” Scott called, running toward her, wiping sweat from his neck. “We’ve got a visitor! He’s an old friend of yours.…”

  “I know who he is,” Zoe said, without taking her eyes from Eric. “Where’s Marisol?”

  Scott shrugged. “Shopping I guess. Hey, is that dinner? Or should I say, was it?”

  “Scott,” she said firmly, “get in the house.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said get in the house. Now.”

  “Geez, Mom …” He looked from Zoe to Eric, then back to Zoe. Then he stooped to the mess on the ground.

  “Leave it alone,” Zoe said. “I’ll get it later.”

  “Well, I could clean it up.…”

  “Scott. In the house.”

  “Geez,” he muttered as he headed toward the house.

  “You still hang around with Marisol?” Eric asked, scuffing his feet on the ground, his eyes averted f
rom Zoe.

  Zoe clenched her fists at her sides. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Come on, Zoe, I was nicer to you than that when you barged into my life unexpectedly.”

  She took a deep breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He picked up the ball, bounced it twice, then pretended to aim at the basket. “Just stopped by to play a little hoop with my son.”

  Pain gripped Zoe’s stomach. She clutched it, pressed against it. It didn’t subside.

  Eric kept his eyes on the basket. “He is my son, isn’t he, Zoe?”

  She stared at him.

  He released the ball. It missed the backboard by a foot. “I can’t believe you never told me. Christ. He looks just like me. More than my own kids. But, then, he is my own, isn’t he?”

  She tried to take in a breath of the cool, clear air. But it seemed too thick now, too heavy. The pain in her stomach increased. “Eric …” was all she could say.

  “Is this why you came to find me, Zoe? Were you planning to tell me?”

  “I … no …”

  He started pacing in front of her. “Who else knows? Marisol? What about your husband? Did he know?”

  Zoe couldn’t speak.

  He stopped and turned sharply toward her again. “And what about him? Scott? Does he know?”

  She started trembling. “No,” she whispered.

  He pushed his face close to hers. “When were you planning to tell him? Next year? The year after? Never?”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Get out of my house,” she said, but her voice cracked, her words sounded broken, syllables snapped by the whip of pain.

  He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “It is quite a house, isn’t it? At least you’ve raised my kid in style.” He paced again and shook his head. “More than I could have given him,” he muttered. “But I guess you knew that all along.”

  Zoe still couldn’t move, as though there were lead in her legs and quicksand sucking at her feet.

  He turned to her suddenly. Tears covered his eyes. Angry tears. Hurting tears. “Why didn’t you tell me, Zoe? Were you afraid for your fucking career? Were you afraid of a scandal? Well, you seem to have forgotten one thing. He is my boy. And I want him to know it. I want you to tell him.” He turned away again and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You tell him, or I’ll show you a scandal like you’ve never seen before.”

  Scott stepped from the side of the house. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Mom. I heard the whole thing.”

  Zoe bent over and retched, heaving foul bile onto the ground, all over the spilled Chinese food.

  Eric didn’t move.

  Zoe looked up. Scott stared at her. Then he turned and fled down the wooded path toward the cliffs, toward the pool, where he always went to be alone, his safe place, his haven.

  She staggered, then stood. “You bastard,” she seethed. “You rotten bastard.”

  She started to take off after Scott, but Eric put out his arm and stopped her.

  “You wanted me to know, didn’t you, Zoe?”

  “Let go of me, you bastard.”

  He gripped her arm more firmly. “You wanted me to know. That’s why you didn’t lie about his age. You could have said he was ten. Or twelve. But fourteen, Zoe? Why did you want me to know now? Why? After all this time?”

  Zoe looked into his watery eyes. Eric was right. She had wanted him to know about Scott. She had wanted him to suffer, she had wanted him to feel remorse, hurt, pain. Had she really wanted just to see her first love? And once she found him, had she really wanted to thank him? No, Zoe knew now. Never. She had wanted to find him because she really had wanted revenge. She had wanted to watch him squirm. She had wanted to see him hurt.

  “Why did you want me to know?” he asked again, his voice lower, his pain exposed.

  She spit in his face. “Because I hate you, you bastard,” she screamed. “All the years I suffered—it was your fault, all your fault. You left me. I almost died when your son was born. For two years I couldn’t even hold him—my own baby. I was too sick. I couldn’t hold him or feed him or love him. And where were you? You were nowhere. You left me, you bastard. You left me.”

  She broke free from his grasp and ran down the wooded path, tripping, stumbling, crying. She climbed down the jagged rocks, praying Scott was all right, praying he wouldn’t hate her. Sharp edges tore at her legs, blood stained her flesh. At the base of the cliff was Scott. He sat by the edge of the pool, his face buried in his hands.

  She went up behind him and put her arms around him. “Scottie,” she whispered. “Oh, God, will you ever forgive me?”

  He wrenched himself free. “Then it’s true, Mom? That man … that man is …?”

  “That man is not your father,” she said. “He could never be your father. William was.” She tried to reach out, tried to touch him. But her hand fell short as though she didn’t have the right. “It was William who raised you and took care of you and played ball with you, not that man. William was your father.”

  “But—?”

  “Genetics means nothing. It’s love that matters. William loved you.”

  “Mother, that man—Eric—he said he didn’t even know about me!”

  Zoe encircled her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth. Her tears would not stop. “No,” she said quietly. “No, he didn’t.”

  Scott dived into the pool.

  Dear God, Zoe thought, what have I done? If I had never tried to be an actress again, if I had never gone to that damned spa …

  But Zoe knew that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to blame Alissa and Meg for what she had done. Sooner or later Zoe knew she would have gone to find Eric. He was too much an unfinished piece of her life, a piece of which she was painfully reminded with every day that passed, with every bit that Scott grew to look more and more like him. She had needed the closure. Alissa and Meg had merely given her the strength.

  As she watched her son slice through the water, Zoe wondered if things between them could ever be the same again.

  The next ten days dragged by. Scott barely spoke to Zoe; he spent most of the days by the pool alone. Each time she tried to approach him, he pulled away, into his cavern of pain.

  “Give it time,” Marisol said. “He’ll come around.”

  Zoe conceded and hoped that by the time she returned from filming in New York, Scott would have forgiven her. But something deep inside her warned Zoe that might not be possible.

  She sat in her Manhattan hotel room now, waiting for Meg Cooper to arrive. They had been shooting for three days, and it had taken Zoe that long to feel as though she wanted to call Meg, as though she could handle the news of Meg’s happy reunion with her first and, according to Meg, only love.

  She stared at the muted litho of a Parisian café that hung on the otherwise barren ocher wall and pondered her future. The filming was not going well. What should have been an exhilarating experience, a rebirth of confidence, had turned into a chore. Zoe knew she was preoccupied, with too much time between takes to think about Scott, think about Eric. She tried not to let it show; she tried to get into character, to develop Jan Wexler into a sympathetic, heartwrenching woman. But staying focused until the end of each scene had become painful, and relief flooded through her every time Zoe heard Cal Baker shout “Cut!”

  Room service had delivered a bottle of wine and two chef salads. Fortunately, the steamy heat in the city combined with her misery had kept Zoe’s appetite in check, for she knew the last thing she needed was to succumb to a Twinkie. In her current dark mood one Twinkie could quickly lead to a dozen.

  She gazed out her window at the gray buildings, at the murky sky. She wondered if Meg did, indeed, have happy news to deliver … she wondered if Meg knew if Alissa had found Jay Stockwell.

  There was a knock on the door. Zoe brushed a single tear from her eye: it wasn’t until then that she realized she’d been crying. She pressed her hands to her temples
and breathed in deeply. Then she smoothed her long robe, padded across the carpet in her bare feet, and opened the door.

  Meg was dressed in a straight beige dress that hung loosely from her too-thin frame. Her auburn hair was pulled back from her face; her cheeks were pale and sunken. Zoe was startled. This did not look like a woman who was blissfully in love. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Zoe quickly smiled.

  “Meg!” she exclaimed as she hugged her. “It’s so good to see you.” She felt, but did not comment on, the bones that jutted from Meg’s spine.

  Meg pulled back. “My God, Zoe, let me look at you. You look positively fantastic.”

  Zoe laughed. “That’s right. You haven’t seen the ‘new me,’ have you? Well, come on in. I ordered salads for dinner. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to stay thin for this damn movie.”

  “And you love every minute of it,” Meg said as she followed Zoe into the room.

  Zoe didn’t reply.

  They sat in the chairs by the window and talked about nothing important through the first glass of wine. The spa. Alissa. The relentless hot weather. Finally it seemed there was only one subject left to cover.

  “Well,” she began slowly, “do you feel like talking about your reunion?”

  Meg ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “For one night it was wonderful,” she said. “I guess that was all I deserved. Maybe it was more than I deserved.”

  Zoe carefully set down her glass. Clearly, Meg’s pain was as deep as her own. Clearly, her regret was as great. “What happened?”

  Meg shook her head. “Nothing, really. I guess he changed his mind.”

  Zoe could almost feel her heart break for her friend. Was there any worse pain than that of unrequited love? Unrequited love. She had played that role many times, in many movies. She remembered when Eric had “changed his mind.” It was a pain you never forgot, not after you denied the hurt, not after you passed through the anger, not even, she knew now, after you learned to hate. It remained with you always, smoldering beneath the surface, aching at will, a mind all its own. “Do you think he still loves you?” she asked quietly.