“Tell Gabriel I said hi,” she invariably said as a sign-off. Juliette dutifully told Gabriel hi, each and every time Mercy requested it. “Is she still sober?” he just as invariably asked. “Because there are plenty of meetings in Siena, and I’ll be happy to take her to one.” And Juliette could see that her cousin’s defenses were firmly back in place.
That O’Connor didn’t call and didn’t call became a heavy chain she dragged around day after day. She could not imagine that he did not know she was here; Juliette could not imagine Mercy keeping such information to herself, although knowing the actress, she had probably offered suggestive commentary as well. Maybe that’s why he didn’t call. Mortification turned her stomach to acid while scenes from their past filled her head in vivid, breath-shortening detail. Knowing he was less than a half hour away made it too easy to conjure the feel of his breath on her neck, of his mouth on hers. How could he just not call?
Disgusted, she threw herself into physical labor in the hopes of exhausting herself. She had known the dangers of falling for an actor, had steeled herself for the charming dismissal, the unexplained silence, the vaguely enthusiastic greeting should they run into each other back in L.A. But still. He had said he would call when his treatment was done, when he no longer needed her help. He had to know she was a half hour away . . . how big a sonofabitch was he anyway?
“Will you stop?” Gabriel said to her one evening when she was mechanically forking hay into the sheep stalls, ignoring the burning in her shoulders, the blisters on her hands. “Enough,” he said, wresting the pitchfork away from her. “If you want to see him so badly, just go down there. I’m sure he’s staying at the Coronet too. There’s no other really posh hotel around.”
“I don’t want to see him,” Juliette said petulantly. “I flew halfway around the world so I wouldn’t have to see him. And anyway, I’m sure he is very busy. He has a movie to film, you know. That he just signed up for. And he hasn’t been well. And if he wants to see me, he can come here.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes and thrust the pitchfork into the hay with such force it startled a nearby ewe. “See, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he said. “That he’ll just show up here one day, with his entourage and his camera crew, just show up and ruin everything.”
Michael O’Connor did not show up at Cerreta, and when he did finally call it was certainly not for the reason she had expected.
“Juliette, my darling,” he said without greeting or preamble, as if they had just spoken the day before. “I had grandiose plans that involved a white horse and an enormous number of roses, but everyone around me is either an idiot or nineteen years old and a non-English speaker. And now I’m afraid you will have to come to me. Because Mercy Talbot overdosed last night.”
Chapter Four
TO WITHSTAND THE ONSLAUGHT of brigands and armies, the city of Siena was built on a series of hills. At the height of its power, it was a bitter and defiant rival to nearby Florence, bristling with walls and the bell towers that each important Sienese family built to maintain its status and power. Now, as she passed the endless spring-green rows of sunflowers just rising, the fields edged in cherry blossoms, Juliette wondered how the ancient city would fare against more modern invaders. It remained a medieval fortress-town. Winding narrow streets climbed and crested the hills, leading inevitably to wide plazas that vanished the moment you turned a corner; on the hour bells rang out from the neighborhoods’ many churches, invisible amid the complicated pattern of the streets. Even with the Coronet and a few equally high-end hotels and restaurants, she couldn’t imagine how it would accommodate the demands of Hollywood. For one thing, there was almost no parking. And in Juliette’s experience, filmmakers required a lot of parking. No one but residents could drive within Siena’s walls, and even then there were restrictions. As with other major hill towns in the area, a large parking lot had recently been built at the bottom of the hill outside Porta Caterina. From it, tourists rose to the city by a series of escalators; Juliette could not see all the grips and gaffers and electricians hauling the literally tons of equipment they needed up a bunch of escalators.
She herself refused to ride an escalator into Siena on principle. She had been coming here since she was a child and couldn’t treat the ancient city of artists and saints as if it were some medieval-themed mall. Instead she crammed her rented Mini Cooper into a space along the side of the road leading to the Porta San Marco, which, with a small lot and scenic overlook, served as a drop-off point for tour buses. And indeed, there stood a large bus, huffing and hooting like a sounding whale, disgorging an American tour group just as Juliette entered the city. The visitors adjusted their matching red fanny packs and gathered around an overly made-up woman bearing a yellow banner. Juliette murmured a silent prayer to the Madonna, who, crowned with gold stars, smiled wistfully down from the corner of a nearby building. As a hotelier, Juliette had nothing against tourists; she even understood the economic and emotional need to travel in packs. She just wished, fervently, for a world without fanny packs.
After entering the city, she made two quick turns onto a series of ever-narrowing streets that led her silently past several more watchful Virgins as well as a string of fruit markets, cafés, patisseries, wine bars, and churches, until finally she saw the small maroon awning of the hotel. From the doorway she could hear the hum of tourists as they made their multilingual way down the Via di Città, the curve of Siena’s central thoroughfare, in search of gelato and leather goods, pottery and shots of the cathedral and campanile. For a moment she remembered coming to Siena on a long-ago winter’s day during a year when her parents decided to spend Christmas at Cerreta. The streets had been filled then only with shadows and moonlight and a few Sienese shopping for the holiday. For a moment Juliette could taste marzipan and feel the warmth of her father’s hand. She could not remember anything else about that Christmas, but there had been that one lovely evening anyway.
Closing her eyes against the memory, she stepped into the hotel. The past slid away into the air-conditioned, velvet-and-wood-paneled hush of the present, and she was ashamed to feel her heart babble quickly in her chest. Her conversation with Michael the previous night had been limited and odd. He seemed concerned about Mercy, but agitated as well. He spoke as if she, Juliette, were somehow responsible for not only Mercy’s well-being but the future of this film. Just as she began to set him straight about this, he had sighed. “You would think, after all these years, I could handle a difficult costar and a psychotic director all by my lonesome, but it seems that I cannot. Oh, Juliette,” he said, filling her name with the clipped consonants that fell on her ear like small kisses, “just please come.”
Now, squaring her shoulders and clenching her jaw to prevent any shy or joyful smile from betraying her, she stepped through the door and scanned the small lobby. But Michael was not there.
At the front desk, she was told that Mr. O’Connor had left a message that she was to meet him on the Campo, which was currently being used as a movie set. For a moment she was distracted from her mission, even from the thought of seeing Michael again; the Campo was Siena’s main plaza, the sight of the Palio, the city’s famous biannual horse race, the heart of its tourist draw. On any given day, the many overpriced cafés and bistros that ringed it were full of non-Italian speakers; the more hearty, and less wealthy, tourists sat and lay on its cobbled stones, watching the clouds and the pigeons, the bell tower and the gorgeous border of palazzos stretching against the sky. “The Campo,” she said. “The entire Campo has been shut down?”
“Si,” said Silvio, the chief concierge, a tall thin man with a dark head of Pre-Raphaelite hair. “For two days.”
“Unbelievable,” Juliette said.
“They did the same for that James Bond movie,” he countered with a shrug. “Our wise officials think the economy has kept Americans away, this will bring them back. Like The Da Vinci Code did for Paris.”
“Unbelievable,” Juliette said again.
Bill Becker really could do anything. Except, it would seem, control Mercy Talbot. For a moment, Juliette felt a thrill of pride in that—at least someone refused to issue the proper permits. “Would you ring Mercy Talbot’s room?” she asked. “Tell her Juliette is here.”
“Yes, Signora Greyson,” the concierge said. “We know who you are. But Signora Talbot is also on the set. I will draw you a map.”
“On set?” Juliette was shocked. “I thought she . . . I mean I heard she was . . . ill,” she finished lamely, realizing she had been gone from the Pinnacle just long enough to forget momentarily its cardinal rule: Never offer information about anyone.
“If you call being brought back from the dead ‘ill,’” said one concierge in Italian, her voice low, her eyebrow raised. “If you call being a drug addict ‘ill.’”
“Many people do,” Juliette answered, also in Italian. “And surely you are not referring to any guest of this hotel . . .” she glanced at the woman’s small gold name tag. “Isabella. Because that would not be . . . policy.”
The young woman flushed and hurried away; Silvio, deciding the best way to avoid conflict was to ignore it, began giving Juliette directions as if nothing had happened. “I know how to find the Campo,” she said, cutting him off. “Is there someone in particular I need to find to be allowed past security?”
A few minutes later, she was introducing herself to a man who, after consulting with his walkie-talkie, graciously moved aside a wooden barrier and pointed down one of the side streets to a café. Even across the gentle slant of the sloping plaza, her eyes dazzled for a moment by the sun and the palazzos that rose in gracious angles of russet and cream and golden ocher above the awnings, she could see the familiar silhouette of Michael O’Connor’s head and shoulders as he talked and laughed with a woman in an apron who was applying his makeup. Juliette approached slowly, suddenly reluctant and conscious of each careful step, of the gentle swing of her hair down her back, the tug of her jeans on her hips, the shallow breath in her throat. He caught sight of her and smiled, that wide, mischievous, irresistible smile that had carried him through four marriages and three decades of stardom. Something heavy lifted from her shoulders and all thoughts of Mercy Talbot vanished.
But not for long.
“Juliette,” Michael exclaimed, not rising, “Look at you. I would crush you to my manly bosom except it has taken six very disagreeable makeup artists three hours to render me presentable as ‘a brilliant but troubled detective in his late thirties.’” The two young women who hovered around him laughed softly and murmured obliging disagreement. “Personally, I don’t see what’s wrong with early or even mid-forties, but when you have a leading lady who can so easily appear to be twelve, concessions must be made. Concessions being highly preferable to confessions, which I tend to avoid. Just ask Juliette,” he said, taking one of her hands. “A woman who rarely concedes anything and has nothing to confess. You look wonderful, my Juliette, even in this fine but unforgiving light, so far from your natural habitat. But then, you always look wonderful.”
He paused, his head tilted to one side, and offered her the full effect of those endlessly blue eyes, wide under their hitched-high brows. He did look years younger than when she had seen him last, though whether this was the makeup or the fact that he was not currently wracked with chemo, she couldn’t say. He exuded health and the faint tang of lemons and was undeniably, almost regrettably, handsome, with his short dark hair perfectly mussed, his shoulders thrown back and broad. But to save her soul, Juliette could only smile a little and shake her head. Is this really how he is going to do it? she thought with surprising disappointment. After everything that had happened, and almost happened, he was going to greet her in High Movie Star-speak and expect her to, what? Giggle like the stylists and fall onto his lap?
“Mr. O’Connor,” she said gravely, answering with the formality of her own profession. “You’re looking well. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always. I understand there is a situation you would like to discuss with me. I can give you”—she looked at her watch—“twenty minutes. Are you comfortable here, or shall we walk?”
His laughter rang down the street, bouncing along the buildings, their windows tall and wide above flower boxes and balconies like the surprised eyes of watchful doyennes. “How is Devlin surviving without you? I can hear the Pinnacle collapsing from here. But by all means, let’s walk,” he said, springing to his feet. “Can I offer you anything from the craft services? A Fiji Water? A granola bar? Mr. Becker has provided us with our own version of Americana right here in Siena. I seem to remember you liking cashews.”
“I’m allergic to cashews,” she lied.
“You are not,” he said, steering her into a small side street, and gripping her on either shoulder. “Juliette,” he said, his voice losing some of its professional pitch. “Don’t be angry. Why are you angry? Aren’t you a little happy to see me? Don’t lie, because I’ve been lied to by the best and I’ll know.”
Juliette had heard that line before; hearing it again made her feel both tender and impatient. She chose impatient. “Where’s Mercy?” she said abruptly. All the anticipation, the giddy thought of seeing Michael again, all those days spent imagining their reunion, then denying the images, had vanished, leaving behind a solid headache and the desire to be done with this errand. What had happened all those months ago had been a fling. This was real life. “Last night you made it seem like life and death, but here she is, on set, working, so I’m not sure why we’re here. What is it you expect me to do anyway? I don’t quite understand. I’m not a starlet whisperer.”
“Talk to her,” Michael said seriously, ignoring the sarcasm and everything behind it. “I have never seen a set wound up this tight and she’s just a bender away from bringing it all down. I don’t know what exactly happened with Lloyd. Everyone’s talking about it but no one’s saying anything. But I do know the director, Ben Golonski—”
“I know who the director is,” Juliette interrupted, trying not to snap.
“Okay, then you know he is a spoiled brat and at this point he’d strangle Mercy in her sleep if he thought he could get away with it. Not that she ever sleeps; she’s up all night with the crew, which Ben is ready to fire, only it would take too long to replace them here. All of which would be fine, none of my affair as the geezer costar, except she’s late, she’s unprepared, she and her mother are at each other night and day . . .” He made a motion to pass his hand across his forehead, then stopped himself, unwilling to smear his makeup. “We’ve got to finish ten pages by midnight tonight because the city fathers are throwing us out then. Ten pages! In two time periods! It’s logistically impossible to begin with, and I . . . well, I feel like Clark Gable on The Misfits. And that movie killed him.”
He paused and, glancing at Juliette, his face softened. “Look, I realize I’m an asshole for asking you to do this, I know this is not how or why you wanted to hear from me. If you ever wanted to hear from me.” He looked at her expectantly, but she was not about to answer this bit of verbal fishing, so he went on. “I’d certainly rather not be asking you for help, once again. But from the way she talks about you, Mercy seems to admire the hell out of you. Which”—his voice dropped to more intimate levels—“means we have at least one thing in common.”
Juliette made a soft mocking noise of disbelief, and O’Connor caught her by her shoulders. “Come on, Juliette. Why do you think I took this crazy movie? About a thousand people sent me the footage of you hauling her out of that fountain; three seconds later, Becker’s got my agent on the phone making plane reservations. Tell me that’s not the universe sending clear direction. Tell me”—he put his hand on his heart and threw back his head—“that’s not fate.”
Against her will, Juliette smiled. Here was the O’Connor she recognized. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his body, hear the quiet sound of his breathing, and—as if her very muscles remembered the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands, the beat
of his heart against her cheek—she felt the muscles in her jaw release, her shoulders relax.
“Mr. O’Connor. You always did say the nicest things.”
But before the moment could go anywhere interesting, a young man appeared, yelping, “Found him,” into a cell phone. “Mr. O’Connor,” he said with a gulp, “Mr. Golonski needs you on set? Like five minutes ago? Someone was supposed to come get you? I’m so sorry, but we have to go”—he took a deep breath and swallowed the upswing—“like now.”
“Juliette,” Michael said in appeal, holding up his palms.
She shook her head ruefully but smiled. “Where is she?”
“Anthony, take Ms. Greyson to Ms. Talbot’s trailer,” Michael said. “I can find my way to the set.”
All the trailers were parked in and around a small paved and sheltered marketplace near the easternmost entrance to the city. Walking down the steeply inclined street that led to it, Juliette marveled at how strange it was to see the long white Star Waggons snuggled against each other like larvae, with the high peaked roofs and street-corner Madonnas gazing serenely over it all. A beige golf cart zipped by, a woman in what seemed to be fourteenth century costume clinging to its open backseat while a young man with a violet mullet drove with one hand, texting with the other. Juliette idly wondered where they had found such a thing. Italians were not big on golf. Becker must have had them shipped over. How much did something like that cost? she wondered.
Anthony’s discreet knock brought Angie to the door. “Ms. Greyson is here to see Ms. Talbot?”
The Starlet Page 7