“No, thank you. I’m on my way to the airport. If I could just talk to Manny alone for a few minutes …”
She’s on her way to the airport.
Her words sink in as he absently watches his grandmother leave the room, returning to the kitchen, where Manny’s grandfather loudly wants to know what’s going on.
“Where are you going? Back to Hollywood?” Manny asks, turning back to Elizabeth.
She nods.
“I figured you would. There aren’t any other movie stars living in Windmere Cove.”
She smiles faintly.
He notices that her lips are outlined in dark red lipstick; it makes them seem a lot fuller than before. But he’s not sure whether he likes the way she looks. It’s almost too perfect, too … fake.
She asks him in a low voice, “How have your grandparents been since you got back? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”
He shakes his head, wanting to ask her if she’s still going to help him do something about his mother but afraid to open his mouth.
Now that he knows who she is, he can’t believe she had ever offered to help him with his problem. She had so many problems of her own.
“Manny,” she says, suddenly taking off her sunglasses and looking into his eyes. “I want you to know that even though I’m leaving town, I’m not abandoning you.”
How long has he been wondering what her eyes look like behind those dark glasses?
Now he knows. They’re a light brown color, like warm honey, the biggest, prettiest eyes he’s ever seen—and it isn’t just because of the way she’s outlined them in some smudgy dark pencil, or because of the mascara that makes her lashes longer. It’s the expression in them, the way she’s looking at him …
Like she really cares.
“I’ve spoken to several police officers about your case, and they’re going to be coming over to talk to you and your grandparents. I don’t want you to be afraid of them, Manny. They’re going to help you. And so am I.”
“But you’re going away.”
He sees a flicker of sadness in her expression.
“I’ll still help you,” she says. “I’ll be in touch with you, and I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. Okay?”
He nods, wanting to believe her.
“And maybe,” she continues, brushing another piece of hair from his face, “I’ll fly you out to California to see me. Would you like that?”
He nods again.
So part of his dream is actually going to come true.
But what about the rest?
The part about her being his mom?
That’s the impossible part, he reminds himself.
“I have to go now, Manny,” she tells him, straightening up again, checking her watch.
“Thank you for making my costumes,” he says, swallowing hard over a lump in his throat. “Rhonda dropped them off for me yesterday.”
“You’re welcome. I … I wish I could come to your play next week, Manny. I’d love to see you perform.”
“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug.
“As soon as I get to Los Angeles, I’ll call you with my number.”
“Are you going to your house there? The one they showed on TV?”
“No,” she says quickly. “That isn’t my house anymore. I’m going to be staying with a friend of mine. I haven’t been able to reach her to tell her I’m coming, but I’m sure it’ll be fine with her. So I’ll call you from her house as soon as I can.”
“Okay,” he says in a small voice.
“I really will be there for you, Manny,” she says, looking first into his eyes, then over her shoulder at the limousine driver outside, who’s standing at the curb by the car with his legs spread apart and his hands clasped in front of him.
“I know …”
“And I want you to call me if you need me. Just because I’m in Los Angeles doesn’t mean I won’t come if you need me. Okay?”
He nods, staring into her eyes, trying to memorize what they look like.
And then he realizes that they’re all shiny. . .
And she’s crying.
She pulls him into her arms, holding him close against her so that he can feel her heart beating.
He lets his own tears spill over, unable to stop them. He cries so hard that he’s making loud, gasping noises, clutching her tightly around her neck, never wanting to let go.
Then she says in a strangled-sounding voice, “I’ve got a flight to catch. Be good, Manny. I’ll be in touch.”
One last squeeze, and she’s gone—out the door, down the stairs, and into the car.
Still sniffling, Manny steps out onto the lopsided porch. The windows of the limousine are tinted; he can’t even get one last glimpse of her.
He waves anyway, in case she’s watching.
Waves as the limousine and the police cars start up and drive away.
Waves until they have disappeared around the corner.
Only then does he believe that she’s really going—that she’s really gone.
Only then does he wipe at the tears that are still trickling down his face, and softly call, “Good-bye.”
Brawley Johnson steps out of the rented car on Green Garden Way and stares down the street at the small white Cape Cod.
He would have known it’s the right house even if he hadn’t seen it on the news the day before; press vehicles and satellite trucks are parked directly in front of it, and there’s a throng of reporters and other people milling about in the street.
He moves toward them, vaguely disturbed by the notion that they almost appear to be … disbanding.
What’s going on?
Can he possibly be too late?
If only his flight into New York hadn’t been late last night … too late to catch the last connection to T. F. Green.
If only it had been easier to find ground transportation once he’d landed first thing that morning. But there hadn’t been a cab, and the car rental place had been a nightmare. And then, once he’d rented a car and gotten on the road, he’d found himself hopelessly lost. He’d missed the exit off 95 in Providence and was halfway to Boston before he realized what had happened.
And now he’s here at last, at the house where Mallory has been living for five years …
Five years of him thinking she was dead …
And something tells him it’s too late.
He approaches a man who’s loading camera equipment into the back of an open van.
“Is this where Mallory Eden is?” he asks the guy, a scruffy type in ripped jeans and a goatee.
“Not anymore” is the terse reply.
Brawley’s stomach turns over. “What do you mean?”
“You just missed her, man. Left in a big stretch limo, police escort and everything. She’s out of this burg.”
“What? Where did she go?”
The guy flashes a sarcastic expression. “Hmm, let’s see. Big movie star. Now, where would she go?”
“Are you telling me that she’s on her way back to L.A.?”
“That’s my guess. She didn’t stop to consult me. I spent the whole night driving down here from upstate New York just to get a look at her.”
Brawley narrows his eyes. “You a fan?”
Again the sarcasm. “Yeah, right. That’s why I have all this camera equipment. I’m a reporter, man. Like everyone else hanging around here.”
“Newspaper?”
“Uh-uh. Eyewitness News. How about you?”
Brawley shifts his gaze away from the now-deserted house, glancing absently at the man beside him.
“Actually, I’m an old friend of hers,” he tells him.
“Of whose?”
“Cin—Mallory Eden’s.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Come off it.”
“Look, I don’t care whether or not you believe me. My name is Brawley Johnson. I was engaged to her a long time ago.”
The guy
frowns. Adjusts the visor of his baseball cap so that it faces forward, shading his face from the sun. He peers at Brawley, then nods. “You know, that name is familiar. Brawley Johnson. Weren’t you on some TV show last week, talking about Mallory Eden?”
“I was on a couple of them,” Brawley informs him, straightening his shoulders.
“Yeah? Would you mind talking to me for a few minutes? I’d like to get some tape … and my producer’s over there … hey, Bob? Can you come here for a minute?”
Brawley hesitates, thinking about it.
Eyewitness News from upstate New York?
It’s really no decision.
“Hey, where are you going?” asks the reporter as Brawley strides away toward his rental car. “Just let me ask you a few questions, man.”
“Who is he?”
“Why do you want to talk to him?”
Brawley hears the buzz among the press.
He breaks into a run.
So does the Eyewitness News reporter.
So do the rest of them, scrambling pell-mell to interview him despite the fact that they have no clue who he is.
Brawley, who spends five hours a week with a personal trainer, is into the rental with the engine started before the out-of-shape East Coast tribe reaches him.
He speeds down Green Garden Way, heading back in the direction he came: the airport.
Mallory breathes a sigh of relief once the airport security guard has deposited her inside the private airline club, the heavy door closed firmly behind her, blocking out the trickle of reporters who managed to catch up with her at the airport.
The place is Sunday-morning deserted; she glances around and sees that there’s a man reading a newspaper in one corner and a well-dressed couple chatting quietly in another.
Nobody seems to notice or care that she’s Mallory Eden.
Or maybe they don’t recognize her, with her hair still dark and the extra pounds padding her once-skinny figure.
What had she been thinking when she got ready to leave that morning? Why had she worn all this makeup and hairspray; why hadn’t she put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt?
Because if you’re going to go back, you might as well do it right, she reminds herself.
You can’t hide anymore.
You don’t want to, remember?
She thinks of Harper Smith and lifts her chin defiantly.
If he wanted to stop her from leaving, he could have. He could have called, or come over to her house, and told her …
What?
What could he—a virtual stranger, or so she’s trying to convince herself—have said that would make her change her mind about going?
One word, actually.
Stay.
If he had said it, she would have done it. At least, for a little while. Long enough to collect her thoughts, to make rational decisions about the future …
Long enough to get to know him better.
But Harper Smith hadn’t said anything but “Good-bye.”
And “Good luck.”
A perfectly appropriate farewell, coming from a man she’d known for only a few days.
Even if he did save her life.
Even if he did make her wonder what would have happened between them if she didn’t have all this …
“Baggage, ma’am?”
She looks up, startled, to see a pleasant-faced female airline employee looking down at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have any baggage that needs to be checked?”
“Oh … no. No, just this.” She holds up the small carry-on bag at her feet, the one that holds her money and some toiletries, a change of clothes.
The same bag she’d brought with her from her old life.
The bag had cost more than most people in Windmere Cove made in a month.
If the airline employee recognizes her, or if she thinks it’s strange that someone would fly across the country without luggage, she doesn’t let on.
Once she’s alone again, Mallory turns her attention to the telephone sitting on the table beside her.
She has to call Rae.
Collect, she realizes …
Because she doesn’t have a credit card.
She doesn’t have a lot of things she’ll need now that she’s going back to the real world.
She reaches into her pocket for the sheet of paper the cop had handed her yesterday, the one with all the names and phone numbers on it.
Flynn Soderland.
Brawley Johnson.
Rae Hamilton.
Gretchen Dodd.
Becky O’Neal.
Of them, Rae is the only one she’s tried to reach. Last night, and this morning. After getting constant busy signals, she had concluded that her friend’s phone was off the hook.
Was it because Rae doesn’t want to talk to her?
No, of course Rae wants to talk to her. Rae had called, had left a number.
Mallory figures that under the circumstances, there’s only one other reason that Rae’s phone would be off the hook.
She must be getting barraged by the press.
She supposes she could have tried to reach Flynn. He would be glad to let her stay at his place.
But with Flynn, things were touchy before she left. Because of his drinking. She had actually threatened to fire him over that.
It seems like it had happened in another lifetime…
And it had
But with Flynn, you never knew. He might be carrying a grudge. And if not, he might want to talk business right away. Try to convince her to audition again.
She isn’t ready for that.
She isn’t ready for any of this.
But she’d told Harper Smith she was going back to L.A., and so she will.
She just isn’t ready to face … everyone.
Not Flynn.
Certainly not Brawley.
And not Gretchen …
Poor Gretchen.
Mallory notices for the first time that the telephone number she’d left had had a Connecticut area code.
She vaguely remembers now that Gretchen had grown up in New England.
Funny, after living in Rhode Island for all these years, it had never occurred to her that her former assistant might be close by.
She should call Gretchen.
And she will.
But not yet.
Her eyes flit over the last name on the list.
Becky O’Neal.
She will never call the mother who beat her, who abandoned her, who came back only when she needed money.
I will never, ever call you. Never.
Swallowing hard, Mallory forces thoughts away from her mother, her gaze back to Rae’s name and number, which she hasn’t tried in over an hour.
And then, taking a deep breath to steel her nerve, she begins to dial.
“Is it true that you’re Mallory Eden’s mother?”
“Have you spoken to your daughter in the past twenty-four hours?”
“Were you aware that she hadn’t really committed suicide?”
Becky O’Neal Baxter puts her hands up in front of her eyes, trying to shield them from the glare of the camera lights gathered at the foot of the steps in front of the old rooming house.
She clutches the railing for support, wishing she had stopped to comb her hair before coming out to see what all the fuss was about, wishing she were wearing something other than these holey jeans and the size small T-shirt that hangs like a sack on her bony frame.
“I … can you ask one question at a time?” she asks timidly, glancing around at the clamoring reporters.
They pay no attention to her request, continuing to shout questions at her.
Confused, disturbed, she turns away, wanting only to escape back to her room, to wait by the phone …
The phone that hasn’t rung.
Somebody grabs her arm and says in a low voice that’s somehow easier to hear than all the shouting, “Mrs. Baxter, I’d like to talk
to you privately.”
She turns to see a very pretty female reporter standing there.
“If you’ll talk to me,” the reporter says, “I’ll see that you’re reimbursed for your time.”
“Reimbursed … how?”
“Why don’t you let me come inside with you, and we’ll talk about it?”
Becky O’Neal thinks it over.
And as she does, she notices the woman’s big diamond ring and her fancy shoes and expensive-looking suit.
“Okay,” she says, and holds the door open to let the reporter inside.
Harper blinks as he steps out of the white clapboard congregational church and into the bright morning sunshine on Pine Street.
All around him, people of all ages, dressed in their Sunday best, are chatting and calling greetings with the easy familiarity of small-town folks who have known one another forever.
He’s an outsider here, the only outsider, it seems, in this tiny New England town …
Now that Mallory is gone.
Maybe that’s what had drawn him to her, he thinks as he walks down the wide wooden steps and turns right, heading down the sidewalk toward Center Street.
Maybe he sensed that she, like he, didn’t belong here, that she wasn’t a part of the Yankee network of families that stretches back generations. That she had come from a far-off place, forced to forget her past, to start over …
Just as he had been forced to do, after—
Out of habit, his thoughts skitter away, some built-in defense mechanism keeping him from remembering the details of what had happened back in Los Angeles.
Instead, he thinks of how drawn he’d been to Mallory, of how certain he’d been that he’d seen her someplace before.
Now, of course, he knows where it was—he had realized the moment he discovered her true identity.
Not that he’s told her why she looked so familiar.
Telling her would force him to reveal too many details of his past in L.A.
The shade-dappled, tree-lined street is quiet now that he’s left behind the social hubbub of the church. He walks past the big, old white houses with their white-spindled porches and gables and fluttering flags. In the distance he can hear lawn mowers and children playing and, as always, the lapping waves of the bay.
The ocean, of course, is what drew him to this coastal town. He has always loved to watch the churning sea, to contemplate its vast expanse, to breathe its briny scent, to feel its salt spray and brisk wind on his face.
Fade to Black Page 26