The Starlet

by Mary McNamara

  Gabe met her eye, but she thought she detected a reddening in the part of his cheeks not covered by beard.

  “Okay,” she said, and began to walk again.

  “Okay?” He fell into step with her. “That’s it? ‘Okay’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Miraculously, Gabe seemed without words. “Well . . . then . . . okay.”

  In silence they walked through the trees and down the dirt road to the wall that surrounded the castello.

  “That’s a helluva lot of money,” Juliette said, squinting at the broken bits of machinery beside the wall, the sagging fattoria roof. Gabriel glanced at her sharply, but she shook her head. “I’m just saying.”

  Juliette headed back to Casa Padua to call Devlin and see what he thought about Usher’s offer, which frankly made no sense to her. That was too much money for a property that would take millions more to renovate. What was Usher’s story, anyway? Dev would know that for sure. If nothing else, it gave her an excuse to talk to him, which she felt like she needed ever since Gabe’s crack about her making Dev sound like the Buddha. She didn’t think Dev was some sort of god. She just knew that the sound of his voice made her feel better. And right now she needed to feel better.

  Casting her gaze around the various surfaces in the living room for her BlackBerry, she was suddenly aware that someone else was in the house. Something was unsettled in the atmosphere, and from upstairs there was the distinct creaking that the floor in Mercy’s room made when even the lightest step was taken in the space in front of the bureau.

  “Mercy?” she called out. Then, feeling the air grow suddenly still, as if whoever was there had frozen in place, she picked up a poker from beside the enormous stone fireplace and quietly made her way up the stairs toward Mercy’s room.

  “Juliette,” said Steve, poking his head out the doorway. “Hullo, hullo. Come in and see if you think I’ve missed anything.” He gestured into Mercy’s room. Juliette frowned at him, remained where she was, and although she lowered the poker, she didn’t put it aside.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I’m doing what is, unfortunately, my job,” he said with a wry smile. “Perhaps not exactly what I had in mind when I stood before the screaming thousands at Madison Square Garden, but rewarding in its own way. I’m searching Mercy’s room, at her mother’s request, and Carson’s. For drugs,” he added as Juliette’s expression did not change. “The drugs Mercy is clearly taking, though for the life of me I cannot think where she is keeping them. I wonder if perhaps you could help me . . . give any hints of secret hiding places? This is an old house, with many secrets, I am sure, and while I can’t go through it brick by brick, perhaps there are places you know of where a rather ingenious junkie might keep her stash?” He smiled at her appealingly.

  “I already searched her room,” Juliette said shortly. “I even took samples of all those herbal medicines she gulps by the handful and sent them back to L.A. to be analyzed. Just in case.” She looked at Usher narrowly.

  His eyebrows shot up. “In case what? Someone is secretly doping her? Someone like . . . me, perhaps?” He rocked back on his heels and surveyed her admiringly. “Now, why would I do such a thing, Ms. Greyson? In the hope of creating a need for my services?” He stroked his chin. “Not the worst business plan I’ve ever heard, but a bit risky, don’t you think? Maybe she’ll head to Promises next. Or Betty Ford. Or maybe she’ll overdose like poor Lloyd, which is not, I’ll be frank with you, a ringing endorsement. Well!” He clapped his hands together. “Give us the worst, then. What did you discover? Are Mercy’s St. John’s wort tablets really compressed heroin? Will the very worthy Mr. Delfino be arriving with shackles in hand? Shall I call my lawyer?”

  “I haven’t gotten the results back,” Juliette said, feeling more than a little ridiculous but strangely relieved. “But I couldn’t find anything. And I already searched everywhere I could think of. I checked the kitchen, the fridge, the fireplace, all the loose floor tiles, my room. I even went through all the toilet paper in the closet, to see if she had stuck anything in the tubes. That was one of my favorite spots.”

  Usher’s laughter rang against the thick, stuccoed walls. “Marvelous,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He clapped Juliette on her shoulder and the two made their way back to the living room. “I was actually wondering if you knew who the local dealers were. I know my way around L.A., or at least the parts of L.A. my clients are familiar with, but I am a babe in the woods here. Sometimes it actually helps to have a word with the dealer, you know, or make it worth their while to be a bit short-supplied . . . I notice a lot of rather grubby young people around; is it possible they could help me out?” He looked at her with gentle inquiry.

  “No” she said. “Not here. Cerreta is utterly drug-free, if you don’t count the wine and the limoncello. Guest, intern, farmworker—Gabe would toss them out on their ear if he even suspected anything beyond, maybe, a loose joint or two. And he’d know. Believe me.”

  Usher considered this for a moment. “Where does he think Mercy is getting whatever it is she’s on?”

  Juliette stopped for a minute and thought hard. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “And it’s funny that he’s never voiced an opinion. He’s all about voicing an opinion. As you probably know.”

  “He certainly doesn’t like me much,” Usher said matter-of-factly. “He made that fairly clear when we discussed . . . well, I assume you know what we discussed.” He looked at her sharply, with a question in his eyes.

  “Yes,” said Juliette. “And you need to know that I back Gabe fully. In his choice of music, and whatever decision he makes regarding Cerreta. It is his home.”

  “Yes, but it is also your birthright.” His tone was businesslike, but then he grinned and drew closer, his face an elfin study of cheerful coercion. “Come on, Juliette, it’d be fun. You know it would. Don’t tell me you haven’t envisioned this place as something more than what it is. It’s got ‘luxury getaway’ written on it in letters a mile high. Good Lord, the view alone is worth a million pounds. What I don’t understand is why you’ve been sitting on it all these years, slaving away for Eamonn Devlin and whatever bastards currently own Pinnacle International, when you could be running your own show. I understand they’re building a new airport in Siena,” he added nonchalantly.

  She had to smile at his tone, at the outrageous, almost irresistible nakedness of his plea, and she did. But: “It is Gabe’s home,” she said firmly. “Yes, of course, I’ve had many thoughts about the future of this place, but he’s the one who’s done the work, he’s the one who gets to decide. And I have to say, I don’t think you have a chance in hell, Mr. Usher. It’s not so much you he doesn’t like, it’s your methods. He doesn’t think much of high-priced rehab for the rich and famous.”

  “Or, you regret to add, my wretched Little Book,” he added for her. “I know, I know, Mr. Delfino made it only too clear when I tried to give him a few copies for your library. All right, all right, I know when I’m licked. I don’t suppose,” he added, looking around the room as if he had misplaced something, “you’ve seen Lloyd Watson’s Little Book anywhere, have you? Mercy mentioned he had given it to her, that he had marked some passages for her, and I was hoping to at least have a look . . .”

  Juliette shook her head. “I haven’t seen Mercy with any copies of your book, except the one Angie carries around and forces on her from time to time.”

  Usher smote his forehead.

  “So much for my influence. And Mercy seemed to be doing so well before this ridiculous film came up. I told Angie it was a bad idea to take her out early, just when she was settling in. But Angie, well, you know.” He winked, but then his eyes grew serious. “I had hoped that Lloyd would help her a bit. I had no idea he had slipped. He always sounded fantastic when I spoke with him. And I spoke with him regularly. I honestly thought we had turned a corner.”

  “Life is full of corners, Mr. Usher,” Juliett
e said. “That’s the whole problem.”

  Usher’s mouth twitched with mock solemnity. “I may have to use that in the next edition of my book, you know.” Then he sighed. “I suppose I’ll go search Mercy’s trailer now. Have you had a squint at the inhaler she’s always sucking on?”

  Juliette laughed. “I took a few puffs myself the other day. Nothing.”

  He nodded. “Well, I always did love a mystery. Oh,” he said, turning around one more time, “if you see that book, or learn of the local drug lord—”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  • • •

  When Juliette returned to the villa, there was a note taped to the main door. Come see what they’ve done to your castle, Mercy had written, adding three x’s and two o’s. Finding Gabe hunched over his computer, she shoved it at him. “Oh, look,” she said, “it’s for you.”

  “Right, that’s just what I need,” he said with an awkward laugh, “to fall in love with some crazy, needy, addict movie star.” He balled up the note and shoved it in his pocket while Juliette watched with mild shock. She didn’t think she had ever heard Gabe use the term “in love” in reference to himself.

  “Let’s go see,” she said, suddenly very much wanting to see her cousin in the immediate vicinity of Mercy Talbot.

  “I’m busy.”

  “You’re not. Come on. Just for a little while. Don’t you want to see what it looks like as an abbey, or whatever they’ve turned it into?”

  “If they wanted an abbey, why didn’t they just shoot at the abbey?” he asked, gesturing away from the villa, where, a mile or so down in the valley, the ruins of a twelfth century abbey stood, burned and half buried in morning glories and ivy.

  “Because they’re going to use that for something else. Come on,” Juliette said, tugging at him like she had when she was a child. “Maybe they found the Giotto.”

  Gabe grinned at her.

  “Maybe that’s why ol’ Steve Usher is so eager to buy this place,” he said, relenting. “Maybe he found a secret map or something.”

  Together they got in his beat-up Peugeot. “That was a crazy summer,” he said, pulling out of the courtyard. “That was the craziest summer.”

  He glanced over at Juliette. She knew he wanted her to continue, but she kept her gaze firmly in front of her.

  “Do you think your dad really believed in the Giotto?” he asked. “My folks didn’t, not really, but your dad . . . What happened to that old letter he had, the one he always quoted, the one from the contessa? Did you find it, in his stuff, after he died? We should get that back here, put it in the library in a glass case or something.”

  Juliette shrugged and continued to stare out the window.

  Gabriel sighed, a long, painful, pent-up sigh. “You know, Jules,” he began, “my parents were—”

  “I’m sure it’s where it always was,” she said, interrupting him. “In that trunk he kept. Which is in storage, back in Waterbury with all the rest of their things.” She turned toward him and on her face was a smile she hoped was not too pleading. “I will give you the key whenever you want and you can go through it all, take whatever you want. Really. Whatever you want, whenever you want.”

  “In Waterbury. In storage,” Gabe said, abruptly stopping the car in the last pull-out before the trail to the castle. “You know, it’s been fifteen years, Juliette . . .”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been, Gabriel,” she said, pulling herself out of the car and slamming the door. She started walking swiftly away and then stopped. Gabe was still standing by the car. With his hands shoved in his pockets and his shirttails flapping, she could see him as he had been, at ten and twelve and fourteen, before he began refusing to come to Italy, before it became impossible for any of them to come. As she thought of all the things that had happened to that boy, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Please don’t, Gabe,” she said. “It’s just too hard for me to think about.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, coming up beside her. “You make it harder than it is. If you’d just talk about it, things would get clearer.”

  For a moment she let her forehead rest against the fine strong span of his collarbone. He smelled like rosemary and sweat and that spicy Italian laundry detergent Juliette could never find in the States. He smelled like all the summers of her youth. Juliette knew what Gabe wanted to do. He wanted to comb through the charred remnants of their past, he wanted to take the memories they each had, of their parents, of Cerreta, of Connecticut, of the time they had all spent together, what they knew had happened and what they thought had happened, and examine them through the lens of adulthood and sobriety. He thought that by pulling each tangled, gritty thread out of the pile, cleaning it up and smoothing it down, things would take on an order, things would make sense. And Juliette would do it if she thought such a thing were possible, because she loved her cousin and she wanted him to be happy. But she knew it was not.

  “They’re clear enough already,” she said, and began walking into the woods.

  The Castle That Only God Knows was nestled deep in the forest and was impossible to find unless you knew where to look. It dated to the fourteenth century, though it was unclear who had begun building it and why they had never finished. It was small, meant to be a private home; an extended family, and all the necessary servants, could have fit comfortably. When Juliette and Gabe were children, they could climb the outside stairs, or scramble up to them from the ramparts, but the wood floors were either missing or rotten with age. Although they had each made dangerous double-dare excursions from window frame to window frame, the trees and the ground alarmingly far below, the two had mostly confined their play to the ground floors, lighting fires and staging battles, trying to imagine who would have lived in each room and why the castle had been abandoned, wondering if a witch had been involved, or possibly a sorcerer.

  When they got older, they attempted some repairs, had grand plans of finding that fresco, using the money to restore the castle so they could live there. Just the two of them, alone in the woods. But since it was just the two of them, they did not get very far.

  In recent years, Gabe had applied for aid from the Italian government, which sent out workers and supplies whenever the idea of having a castle tucked into a natural reserve appealed to an incoming bureaucrat for a moment or two. Which is to say sporadically. As a result, most of the castle could be viewed safely. Occasionally, Gabe found traces of visiting campers or locals—wine bottles, fire pits, condoms. For a while, he told her now, he considered a locked fence, but then he decided that since it was the Castle That Only God Knows, he had no business fencing it off.

  “You should worry more about that gray-water swamp,” Juliette said as they scuttled to the side of the fire road to avoid being run over by a golf cart. “Or that quarry in back of Padua. You should fence that.”

  “I did fence that,” Gabe said.

  “Yeah, well, the weeds are higher than the fence, then. You should fence it better. Or one of your precious pigs will wind up at the bottom.”

  “Feel free to talk to your construction crew,” he said, refusing to acknowledge her mood. “Feel free to make whatever improvements your little heart desires.”

  “I’ll remember you said that, because I was thinking of putting a spa under the carriage house.”

  “Fine,” he said placidly. “If that means you’ll be sticking around to run it. Oh, my God.”

  The path had made an abrupt left turn and it was as if they had entered an enchanted forest. Where a few days before there had stood the half-finished shell of a castle surrounded by scrub oak and pine reached by a narrow and winding trail, now there rose from behind flowering trees and carefully clipped hedges the stately and formidable grace of what could certainly be considered a medieval abbey. Statues of the Blessed Mother and her infant son, of Saint Joseph and the paschal lamb, glimmered from the courtyard, which was now miraculously paved and behind gorgeous wrought-iron g
ates.

  “It’s like Disney World,” Gabe said. “I mean, if there was, like, a Renaissanceland in Disney World. Unbelievable. Seriously,” he said, walking up the carefully groomed path, “I would have never believed they could do this. We should definitely get them to fence the quarry,” he added, turning around and around. “We should get these people to do any- and everything they can. They’re fucking magicians.”

  His wonder was infectious; Juliette felt the last scratchy bit of her temper smooth itself away as she wandered around the set, lost in admiration. It really was astonishing, although as she looked more closely she could see that so much of the magic was just very precise stage dressing. Where one wall or even a corner had been made up to look like part of a working abbey, another was still whiskered with the grass and wildflowers that grew from between its stones and mortar. But still, she couldn’t help smiling, remembering all the hours they had spent here, the weeks spent looking for hidden rooms and trapdoors. And here it was, all these years later, truly come to life. There were even, among the milling crowd of crew in their requisite cargo shorts and baseball caps, a handful of white-robed and wimpled sisters, some smoking, others texting, but still, nuns in the middle of the forest.

  But even as she was wallowing in the satisfaction of seeing her cousin finally impressed by something, Juliette heard the unmistakable hallmarks of on-set strife.

  “No way,” said a male voice, clearly strained beyond all endurance and reaching upper registers it was not intended to reach. “I don’t care what she says, I am not rewriting that scene again. No, I will not shut up.” From out of one of the lower rooms dressed to look like a chapel, Joseph Andrews strode, with Golonski angrily following him. “No. If you want that change, then you make it. It’s a Ben Golonski film, right? Then, great. Ben Golonski can fix it. What the fuck are you looking at?” he snapped as he passed Juliette. Golonski stopped abruptly and stomped back to the chapel, immediately growling into his cell phone.

  From another side of the quadrangle, she could hear Angie’s voice raised, then Carson’s, then finally Mercy’s. “You heard me, Mother,” Mercy said as she appeared from a second-floor doorway, unsteadily heading for the stairs, her white shift falling from her shoulders, exposing the pronounced ridges of her clavicles and breastbones. “You’re fired. Go home, all the way home, back to Malibu and take your rock star, recovery-addict boyfriend with you. I just can’t bear it,” she said, throwing herself at Gabe, who had come to stand beside Juliette. “Some things are just past bearing. No discussion, Mother,” she said as Angie appeared in white capris and many bracelets, and carefully picked her way down the stone steps, with Steve Usher making placating gestures close behind. Looking up, Juliette saw Carson watching from the shadows of a high arched window, an expression of satisfaction clear on her face.