Although he was no writer, and the fading light made it difficult to see the device’s keys, the urge to document his thoughts was too strong to ignore. Suppose this waiting was all just a mind game the insurgents were playing with them, a little torturous cat-and-mouse where the mouse was already trapped beneath the cat’s paws, exhausted? If that was the case and he didn’t take this opportunity to lay down some last words, he’d be gone, and she’d never know.
Maybe it was better that she never know.
Except, if he couldn’t live honestly now, what hope was there for him if they got out safely? How would he face himself every day, knowing that even when hanging headfirst off a precipice he was inclined to be a coward? It was a matter of principle.
He needed her to know.
Or, would the knowledge burden her?
He set the device in his lap. His palms were stained, despite having been scrubbed against his pant legs.
Pulling his shirt away from his face, he said, “When do you think our guys will get here?” He asked Sims, because Parker wasn’t talking.
“Soon.” Sims avoided looking Julian in the eye. “Can I … um, can I use that when you’re done?”
“Sure.”
Julian read over what he’d just written. He added,
If I get out of here, I’m going straight to Daniel and Lynn’s. I’d like to see you when you’re in town. I owe you an apology. We need to talk.
Or maybe they didn’t. Christ, he didn’t know. He backspaced, deleting the line. What he knew was that he needed safety and comfort, the salty breeze and the blue-green water and the feel of frangipani blooms, thick and silken, between his thumb and fingers while he sipped his famous lemonade. Fresh lemons, sugar, bourbon, ice … She’d like the lemonade too, as much as he did, as much as she’d loved discovering the birds that entranced him. Not a doubt in his mind about that.
Plenty of doubt, however, about the wisdom of his feelings, and why he felt the way he did.
It wasn’t star worship, certainly, because his regard for celebrity in general could not be much lower. He didn’t want anything from her, in material terms. And God knew his attraction wasn’t based on any kind of common sense. Chemistry, then? Yes, definitely. More than that, though, or he would not have spent the last hour sitting here weighed down by anger and dread and the certainty of being in love with the woman who was his father’s girlfriend. As different as he and Blue seemed to be on the surface, he recognized that underneath they had a lot in common. He really thought they might make a good pair. This truth was preposterous, and yet somehow because it was, it felt all the more true.
Sims’s voice cracked when he said, “There’s a light.”
A bobbing, weaving light, up past the destroyed bridge.
Julian wiped his sweating palms on his shirt, then typed,
I love my father and wouldn’t try to interfere with you two even if it was possible.
Glancing up, he saw the small light was closer. He swallowed hard.
I’ll trust you to keep this just between us.
On the edge of his awareness was a low, rhythmic noise that seemed to be growing louder.
“That’s them,” Sims said. “I think.”
Parker agreed. “Gotta be. Man, do I need a shower.”
The sound became identifiably a helicopter. Julian looked again at the email. When in another minute the small light had disappeared and the helicopter, its searchlight like a path to heaven, hovered above them and rescue appeared imminent, he pressed a button and selected DISCARD.
“Don’t.”
Julian glanced up and saw that Sims was close to him, reading over his shoulder.
“Look at him.” Sims gestured toward Barredo’s body. “This might not be over. Ain’t nothin’ guaranteed.”
Julian finished the message with a simple J. and sent it.
29
eavy gray clouds hung from massive thunderheads when Blue arrived at the studio on Thursday morning. The line of waiting audience members snaked over the sidewalk; she signed autographs with forced cheerfulness, and when a white-haired woman asked if she was feeling all right, Blue said she just really missed her dog. What else could she say? I’m hung up on my old flame’s son? That was a topic for Jerry Springer if ever there was one.
The day felt wrong in every sense, from her dread of this morning’s meeting where they would talk, ad infinitum, about how to make next season better than this one, to the way her hair insisted on frizzing up, to the sight of pregnant women seemingly everywhere—along the streets, in the audience line, working in the office … To her eyes, they all appeared beatific, a joke at her expense.
Unlike those women with their rounded bellies and secret smiles of optimism and contentment, her future contained an unending string of days that would be more or less exactly like the last several had been, not to mention most that had come before. Yes, she had the new house now, and she would use it as much as possible. At best, though, it would be an infrequent exclamation point in a long, long series of dull words, white space, and commas.
Branford’s call came in just as she was returning to her office after the Season Eleven planning meeting. As always, he called her cell phone. As it rang she told her secretary, “I’m not available,” then shut her office door.
She answered the phone. “Massachusetts.”
“I hate to call with so little to report,” he began.
“But?”
“It’s the daughter,” he sighed. “She took the ten grand and now when I call she won’t answer, and she doesn’t call me back. I sent an associate over to both her house and the mother’s, and there’s nobody around. The neighbors don’t know anything. One says she’s gone to visit a sister, one says she’s on a church retreat. Hell, one says she saw her getting her mail yesterday afternoon. Nothing checks out.”
“She can’t just disappear.”
“Not permanently, maybe.”
“Do you think she scammed you? Maybe there was never any file box at all. Or maybe … maybe she’s taken it hostage! I bet that’s it. She’ll let us sweat and then demand more money.”
“No offense, but that sounds like a bad TV show. My theory is, she got cold feet and now she’s avoiding me. Good Christian that she is, her conscience said not to give out the information after all.”
“While she keeps the money you already paid her?”
“That would surprise you? Hey, for all I know, the plan is still on and she just doesn’t share our sense of urgency. Could be she’s in Vegas right now playing slots.”
Yes, and it could be that all of this stress, all the wondering and hoping and believing that if she could find her son, she’d right every wrong in her life, was bullshit. She’d had her chance to be a parent. It was folly—or worse, hubris—to be trying to buy it back now. Even buying only the answers to who he was, and where, was an exercise in self-gratification.
She could call it off right now. She thought of it: no more anticipation, no more fear, no more waking up in the morning and wondering if this was the day she’d hear something. It was tempting … But no, no, not when they were as close to the answers as they might be right now. She’d see this through. Get the information, if it could be gotten, and then be satisfied with that.
She said, “Okay, so what do you suggest?”
“We wait.”
Blue closed her eyes and nodded, waiting for the pressure in her chest to decrease. “Fine. Call me when you know something.”
The rumble of thunder drew her to the window. She unlocked it and pushed it open, then climbed out. If anyone on the street below noticed her standing on the fire escape, face turned to the sky, she was not aware. If they did see her, and wondered what would happen if she decided to jump, well, she was wondering the same thing.
She sat down on the step and called Marcy
“If I jumped off the fire escape, would I, you know, splatter?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s nine
stories. That’s just break-all-your-bones-and-kill-you height, right?”
“I know Peter was boorish this morning, but I don’t think it’s worth killing yourself over. Where are you?”
“Out here on the fire escape.”
“Don’t jump. I’ll be right there.”
Less than thirty seconds later, Marcy climbed out. She looked annoyed. “You’re sitting here.”
“Yeah, now. I was standing.”
Marcy sat down next to her. “It’s starting to rain.” Fat drops, spattering the steel and making small ting noises.
A drop hit Blue’s forearm and she watched the water split and slide off. “It’s only noon, and already I’ve had a hell of a day. All I want to do right now is twitch my nose and be in one of those zero-gravity chairs on my Key West patio—would you call the decorator and have her add a couple of those to my list? I’m thinking teak, or maybe bamboo.”
“Sure thing,” Marcy said. “Wait: Do they come in bamboo?”
“A weekend in Key West is going to help a lot, but let me tell you, in my vocabulary, hiatus is a synonym for heaven.”
“So what’s the deal?” Marcy said. “What do you hear from our favorite PI?”
“Nothing of substance.”
“Well… maybe you should take a page from old Marcy’s book and distract yourself with your man.”
“I wish I could, but it’s not going to work.” Right tactic, wrong man.
“What, not at all? What happened?”
“More like, what didn’t happen.”
“Well… there’s always Viagra.”
Blue gave a half-hearted laugh. “Not for this kind of dysfunction.”
“Oh,” Marcy said. “I get it. Sort of. Want me to handle it for you?”
Yes. “No, I think this needs to come from me.”
A half-hour before showtime, as Blue tried to decide exactly how to break off a relationship that had never really gotten off the ground (again), her phone rang, with good news for Mitch: Her production team was prepared to make an option offer.
Perfect; now she could call on an upbeat, one of few in her day so far. She offered to deliver the news, hung up, then dialed Mitch immediately. Momentum was everything.
“Hi, Mitch, it’s Blue. You won’t guess why I’m calling.”
“You’ve had second thoughts,” he said.
This stopped her. “Wow. Talk about taking the wind out of someone’s sails …”
“You haven’t had second thoughts?”
She laughed. “Actually, yes, I’ve had some, but I wasn’t going to start the conversation with them! What I wanted to tell you first is that we’re ready to make you an offer on Lions. You should hear from my producers shortly with all the details. I just volunteered to ring the bell.”
“I’m—this is terrific news, Blue. I’m ecstatic, truly.” He paused and she waited while he processed everything. Then he said, “However … I’m not so clear on whether or not you’re also dumping me.”
“You don’t sound especially crushed by the prospect.”
“And you don’t sound especially worried that I might be crushed …”
“Which pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”
He said, “It does. And I’m sorry about that—but to tell you the truth, I’m not cut out for life in the spotlight anyway.”
“Few are,” she said. “So no hard feelings, then?”
“Not a one. I’d say I wish you all the best, but I guess for you that’s redundant.”
Not so much as you’d think.
his afternoon’s audience was a difficult group, peevish and damp after waiting outside in bad weather. The front sidewalk was covered but the wind had blown the rain in on them. They grumbled during commercial breaks and had to be coaxed to laugh at the young comedienne who Blue hoped had gotten a better response from the audience watching at home. The Blue Reynolds Show. What a thrill.
Peter caught up with Blue backstage. “It’ll be better tomorrow. The forecast is good, and the lineup may be our most crowd-pleasing of the season.”
“Remind me,” Blue said.
He frowned at her. “Do the remaining American Idol finalists ring a bell?”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I have a lot on my mind.”
He raised his hands in supplication. “I was trying for levity, geez. I think I’ll go find our comedienne and knock back a couple empathy drinks.”
In her office, Blue cancelled her gym session and got ready to head home. A hot bath, two glasses of wine, and a review of her Idol file was her plan—there were worse ways to spend an evening. Tired as she was, before she left she spent a few minutes watching the contestants’ recent performances online and tried to commit faces, names, and songs to memory.
Finally, she checked her email and saw the odd numbers and letters that she now knew identified Julian, standing out amidst the dozen other sender names. There was nothing in the subject line, no attachment—no more bird photos, too bad.
She clicked open the message. There was no salutation, either, which she thought odd—and then she read,
Nothing like being trapped in an armored personnel carrier with a dead soldier, all adrenalin leached out of your pores, darkness falling, bulletproof glass and door locks the only defense you’ve got, hoping what THEY’VE got isn’t a grenade or rocket launcher, to make you see what matters most to you in your life.
If I get out of here, I’m going straight to Daniel and Lynn’s. I’d like to see you when you’re in town. I owe you an apology. I love my father and wouldn’t try to interfere with you two even if it was possible.
I’ll trust you to keep this just between us.
J.
No salutation was the least of it.
She read it again, then clicked REPLY, hands poised on keys as she watched the cursor blinking, blinking, on the white screen. But she could not write back when her heart was in her throat and her hands were shaking, when the things she yearned to say would be as confusing and upsetting to him as they were to her.
She printed the email, folded it and put it in her bag, and then when she was in the car a few minutes later, she took it out to read again.
If I get out of here, he’d written. If. If was not possible. If she could not bear.
Please, God.
On first read, she’d interpreted what matters most as referring to his relationship with his father. And he didn’t want his negative attitude about her to be a wedge between her and Mitch. He wanted to apologize, wouldn’t interfere with them even if it was possible—in essence, he saw her and Mitch as a fated pair.
On this read, that meaning wasn’t so definite.
I’d like to see you …
Suppose … suppose what matters most meant her?
But how could it? His disdain was no secret.
Still, she read the printout again, the paper trembling in her hands.
No. No, she had it right the first time—much as she wished otherwise. Such wishful thinking was foolishness, a rapid and direct path to humiliation both private and public; she could not afford to be a fool again.
She folded the paper and pressed it between her palms, a prayer for his well-being, and hers.
lue paced her apartment Thursday night feeling powerless, unsettled, unable to distract herself with a book or the TV. She couldn’t call Mitch to find out Julian’s status without raising unanswerable questions and abusing Julian’s trust. And she had no other legitimate reason to call.
There was nothing more she could do, so she went to bed—but her mind refused to rest. Surely Julian was fine. Surely the danger was less than it seemed. She might have misinterpreted everything. Maybe the danger was already past when he sent the email. Maybe If I get out of here meant, if the Army sent him home sooner than planned.
There were so many possibilities.
And so few.
She sat up and rearranged the pillows, straightened the blanket, straightened her nightshirt. Laid down agai
n. Examined how the dim light from the nighttime city made a long line across the ceiling. Counted sirens wailing. Counted buttons on her shirt. Counted her breaths, in, out… She did not want to think of him; she could not drive him from her mind.
When she finally closed her eyes, tears leaked from them. Whether they were for Julian or for herself, she would not have been able to say.
At three am she gave up on sleep. At three twenty she gave up on pacing. At three forty she searched all the drawers in her kitchen and then the ones in her den until she located the Yellow Pages. She couldn’t recall which charter company they’d used for the trip to Key West and so she chose the one with the largest ad; in ten minutes she had a confirmed departure time of five thirty AM.
At nine o’clock eastern time, she was on the phone with Lynn Forrester, asking for landscaper recommendations. “I’ll be down over the weekend to start making plans,” she said, which if not the full truth—she was there already, taxiing to the terminal—was not exactly a lie. “And listen, I want to apologize for having brought such chaos into Mitch’s life, especially now that we aren’t, you know—”
“Yes, he told us. No need for apologies,” Lynn said. “He’s fine—and as I told him, I’m sure a little more name recognition will only be a good thing later on when the series is made.”
“That’s magnanimous, thank you.” This all seemed good. Lynn wouldn’t be chatty if Julian had been harmed. Still, she needed to be sure. “Incidentally … what do you hear from Julian?”
“Seems he ran into a little trouble while out on a patrol—we don’t have too many details. He gave us a scare, but apparently he’s all right. He says he is.” Her tone said she wasn’t convinced. “It’s been quite the week for the Forresters.”
Blue closed her eyes, cool relief filling her. “I’ll say.”
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