Souvenirs

by Mia Kay

  I am with you,

  However far away you may be,

  You are next to me.

  Ben

  She’d cried until their plane took off. Even now, she held the book in her arms as if he’d spring from it like a genie released from a bottle. If only.

  When she saw the blinking message light on her phone, Grace dropped her bags with a disgusted curse. She didn’t want to answer questions. However, it was time to go back to the real world.

  She almost deleted the sole text message. All her contacts showed up as names, and this one was an unrecognizable number. Then she saw her name.

  Opening the message, she read it. Then she read it again. She sank to the arm of her favorite chair and covered her mouth as she read it a third time. Her tears renewed, blurring the words.

  Grace, my hand aches without yours in it. And Fe can’t understand why I won’t let her arrange for my laundry. I can’t bring myself to tell her it’s because everything smells like you. I miss you already, my Idgie. Please.

  She prodded her phone to dial the number. Texting wasn’t enough, and her fingers were shaking too hard to type anyway.

  “Hullo?” His voice was muffled and groggy. Sleepy. Shit. He was asleep. It’s midnight there.

  “Hullo?” he snapped. “Look. I don’t have the energy for a bleeding crank call in the middle of the fu—”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes.” He still sounded pissed. She fought the urge to hang up.

  “It’s me. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about the time difference.”

  “Grace?”

  “I’ll go so you can get some sleep. I got your message and didn’t think too far after that.”

  “If you hang up on me, I will find you and kick your arse.” Even across an ocean, his voice, the laughter she could hear, curled her toes. “You’re home?”

  “Just now. I haven’t even unpacked.” She couldn’t stop the yawn.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Ben yawned in response. “Do you Skype?”

  Chapter 10

  For weeks, Ben pretended Skype sessions and text messages were enough, that some part of Grace was better than none, and he wasn’t a selfish prat for keeping her. Then one night he turned in his sleep and his hand slid across cool sheets. He cracked one eye open, and struggled to hear something other than the Copenhagen hotel room’s air conditioning. The room was silent. Where was she?

  She’s working, remember? She called you to tell you goodnight during her dinner break. While part of him pitied her having to work at all hours, his curiosity fueled the other part. What did she do? While she worked from home, she traveled almost as much as he did. He imagined her on a plane, curled up in her seat scribbling madly in her journal, and wondered if she’d bought a new one. After all, she’d filled the one she’d brought to Europe.

  And she’d been writing again last night when he’d joined her for their designated Tuesday Skype date. He’d been tardy because shooting had run long, and he’d been content to stare at the screen and watch her frown in thought, wondering what held her attention. Then she’d seen him and shifted her attention, making him forget his questions by tempting him with her well-worn tank-top and ponytail and the view of the sunset from the patio of her lakefront home. He’d been in bed with the computer next to him on the mattress. She’d talked to him until he’d fallen asleep.

  And now he was awake wondering why she wasn’t on her side of the bed. He stared at the ceiling, willing his body to forget. Finally giving up, he reached for the phone and typed a quick message. Texts were safe. If she was asleep, he wouldn’t disturb her.

  Are you there?

  His phone buzzed in his fingers and he dropped it to the bed, scrambling to find it before she hung up.

  “Can’t you sleep, sweetheart?” she asked in her soft drawl.

  Three a.m. here, meant nine p.m. there. She was awake, but barely. He imagined her curled against her pillows, or maybe in a lounge chair like that morning in Rome. Her skin would be warm. “I miss you, doll,” he groaned. “Talk to me.”

  Two mornings later, he was staring at the ceiling again. His body hurt from fight scenes, and he had a bruise on his shoulder where his co-star’s blow had gone astray. But it paled compared to the ache in his chest as he replayed every moment from his impromptu Thursday call with Grace. His text alert rang.

  Sweetheart? Are you awake?

  He was dialing before he read the last word.

  “It’s midnight there, Idgie. Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I was working and forgot the time. And . . . I missed you.” She yawned. “Don’t you have an early meeting?”

  “I have time.” He looked at his watch. He’d skip breakfast and eat between scenes. She missed him.

  Another month brought another hotel. In Berlin, Ben sat at the desk in the office chair that was supposed to be ergonomic but only fit people shorter than five foot eight. He practiced his speech in front of a blank computer screen. I’m sorry I’ve lied to you, but you need to know. I’m an actor. I’m on location. I want you to come visit, but the paparazzi will follow us everywhere. Please come anyway. I’ll get it sorted. His reflection gave him a satisfied nod and he entered the video chat.

  She was facing the bookshelf behind her desk clothed in a t-shirt and well-fitting jeans. Her hair was wet. She must have just finished a shower.

  She was on her cell phone. “My research is going slower than I expected. I’m not going to make that deadline. Well, I’m sorry, you’re just going to have to push it back.”

  No matter how much he wanted to solve the riddle of her job, he shouldn’t eavesdrop. “Grace?”

  She spun, her eyes wide. “I have to go.” She dropped the phone next to her computer and sat in her desk chair. Everything about her was wary. “Hi. How long have you been there?”

  “Not long. All right?”

  “All right?” Her concern faded to her impish smile as she nodded sharply, and his practiced speech unraveled.

  “I’m well. You look busy.”

  “I’m flying out tomorrow.” She glanced behind him. “Is that your suitcase? Any chance you’re headed to L.A.?”

  “Brussels for a week, then Croatia.”

  “Beats the hell out of California.”

  He watched her loopy grin from across the ocean and told himself, for the millionth time, he was doing the right thing.

  “I’m taking my laptop and my phone,” he reassured her. “As long as I have access, I’ll see you. The schedule may be wonky, though.” Location shoots never went as planned. He’d end up in his trailer watching it rain and playing his guitar while she was asleep in a city halfway across the world.

  “Call me whenever you can. I’ll be here,” she promised before she took a deep breath. “I need to tell—”

  His heart stopped. No, not like this. If you do, I have to, and I want to tell you when I can hold you and convince you it will be all right. “Tell me how you spent your weekend.”

  They kept with their schedule through the fall, eating dinner together in front of their computers, texting when their schedules didn’t connect, talking when insomnia seized them.

  Location shoots ended in November, so at the first of December, Ben was back in London. It had been too long since he’d put his hands on Grace, and his hormones were dissolving his organs. He hated Skype, and text messages had been created by Satan himself. He needed a way to get to the States. Since his best shot was work, he called his agent.

  “Archie? Any word on casting for that book adaptation?”

  “Not yet. They may have another type in mind. Those Yanks are unpredictable. Cam’s invited me for tea today. Want to come with?”

  It had been easy to pick Archie as an agent. He, Ben, and Noah had been in
separable through Uni and then as they’d begun their professional lives. Now they were the cottage industry responsible for creating Bennett Oliver. His mother treated the other men like her sons and loved that they reacted to her as if she were their age, even down to her nickname.

  He checked his watch. He had an hour before he got to talk to Grace. It wasn’t enough time for tea. “Can’t. I have a date.”

  Halfway around the world, Grace checked her watch and slid from her desk chair. After stretching and twisting to relieve the kinks in her muscles, she walked into the kitchen and stuck a pizza in the microwave.

  Outside, the clouds were heavy in the sky, and snow drifted on the porch. Distracted, she opened the door and poked her head outside. The woods were silent under their blanket of snow. There wasn’t even a breath of wind to confuse the flakes as they fell. Beyond her yard, the lake was steel gray. When had it started to snow?

  Her phone rang. If this was Ben, telling her another meeting had run long, she’d hang up on him. She would.

  Sure she would. Because she hadn’t enjoyed hearing his laugh and talking to him in the middle of the night as his words slurred with sleep. She hadn’t, even once, kept the Skype window open to watch him burrow under the blankets and snuggle into his pillow.

  It wasn’t his fault she missed him. All it would take is one invitation, one confession. Come visit, Ben. Come see my life.

  She looked at the caller ID. It was only Paul. “What’s up?”

  “We’re ready to start casting,” said her best friend-slash-producer.

  “I didn’t get any comments on the last edits.”

  “It’s because we liked them, dumbass. The technical crew is coming along thanks to your last suggestions while you were here. We’ve got space rented. We’re ready to put it on film.”

  “I’ll need to spend Christmas with Mom,” Grace negotiated.

  “What am I, Scrooge? We can start right after. You can be here for New Year with me and Meg.”

  New Year. Ben. But he hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

  The alarm on her phone dinged. It was date time.

  Grace pulled her dinner from the microwave. “Text me with the details, and I’ll be there.”

  She hung up on him and sat at the computer with her latest script in her head. It was short and easy to memorize. Ben, I’m headed to California to work on a movie. I’m sorry I’ve hidden my work from you, but I’m a writer. Come see, please. I want to show it to you.

  “Hullo, Idgie.” His crooked grin melted every thought in her brain.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” She dived in. Paul’s revelation would make New Year impossible. “I’m headed back to L.A. after Christmas. It’s a longer stay this time. I’ll be there over the New Year.”

  He stared into the camera, his eyebrows arched in an unspoken question. “I could meet you there.”

  “I’ll be working.”

  “I’m a big boy. I can entertain myself until you’re finished.”

  Her heart was on a roller coaster. He wanted to see her, but seeing her in L.A. meant seeing it all. Though it had sounded so good in the script, it sounded lousy aloud. She focused on the one true thing.

  “I’d love to see you. Please come.”

  Chapter 11

  Fiona Ashe had considered herself Bennett Oliver’s assistant since his first stage appearance in prep school. Just like she knew the man belonged in front of an audience, she knew she was better at operating behind the scenes. Besides, background people had most of the influence anyway. That’s why, while Noah and Ben rubbed elbows with the movers and shakers, Fiona spent her time with the power behind those thrones. Like today, over lunch with Emily Saunders, the assistant to Archie Boxley, Ben’s agent.

  “Marcus Ingram was in the other day,” Emily said. “He asked after Ben. Said it had been ages since they’d talked. Didn’t he go to Uni with you lot?”

  Fe nodded. “He did. Don’t have Archie mention him to Ben, would you?”

  “He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is,” Fe assured her. “But Marc told the press a story about having his nose broken by the Beast of Britain.”

  “Ben broke Marc’s nose?” Emily asked, her eyes wide.

  “It was a football accident,” Fe explained. “But that part was left out, and Ben won’t even consider that Marc was misquoted. And even if he did, Marc talked. You know how irrational Ben gets about the press.”

  Emily nodded, and they fell silent for a few minutes.

  “What’s the story on the movie casting in L.A.?” Fiona asked around a mouthful of chips. “Did they reject Ben out of hand?”

  “Which?” Emily blinked at her, clueless, and Fe’s stomach dropped. She’d always suspected Archie was dodgy.

  “The action fantasy thing.”

  “He said something about another project.” Emily paled as her eyes widened. “He said Ben was on board with it.”

  “He’s not,” Fe sighed.

  “Archie’s an arse,” Emily growled. “Those books are bloody brill. Ben’s perfect for it.”

  “I think so too,” Fiona said. “Can you get me his audition package?”

  “Archie will be narked if he finds I’ve nicked it.” Emily chewed on her straw, making Fe worry until she smirked. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

  Fiona nodded, picked up the tab, and left for the office. She’d keep this her secret. Otherwise Noah would howl, and Ben would get his hopes up. And if she failed, they’d be hell to live with. But if she succeeded, and then told them, neither of them could complain. Right?

  The next day, Ben was halfway between the tube station and home. He’d spent Christmas with Grace by phone, he and his mother switching conversations between Grace and Sunny. Enough was enough.

  I’ll tell her while I’m in L.A. I’ll close my eyes to minimize the distraction and blurt it out before she can talk.

  Between after-Christmas sales ads, The Sun’s blaring headline had him sliding to a stop.

  Does the Beast Have a New Bird??

  The air left his lungs. The photo showed him on the train with Grace stretched out next to him, using his shoulder as a backrest as they laughed with Adam and Nora. He hadn’t even seen the camera.

  The article went into great detail about his career, his abandonment of Hillary, and speculation about his new companion.

  They were wrong, of course. Everything was a rehash of things they’d already printed, what Hillary had fed them. Recycled photos were in a box on the corner of the page. Yelling, sulking, and stalking through crowds. He hated those. Hillary had always picked a fight with him when a camera was around, and she always made sure a camera was around. Those pictures were like the wallpaper in his mother’s dining room—there, yet easily ignored after years of viewing.

  But the picture capturing the private moment with Grace made him ill. Who the hell had done this? No one had said anything about knowing him on vacation, no one had approached him first. Except Grace.

  The writing, the research, and the deadline. The camera and the mother all the way at the front of the bus, with the perfect angle for a photo of them together.

  His mind seized on the first opportunity and the puzzle snapped together. It sickened him to think he’d been fooled so roundly. But the longer he marched toward home with the offensive and, he realized, stolen rag clenched in his fingers, the more convinced he became.

  Come to L.A., I’d love to see you.

  He wagered she would. She probably had a camera crew scheduled for the airport.

  The exposé would follow. “My Vacation with the Beast of Britain.” Could Skype calls be downloaded for later? Text messages could be printed and saved, couldn’t they?

  God. He should
have read her damn notebook. He’d have to get Noah to file restraining orders to prevent publication of anything else. Nothing in his life could be private. Nothing could be simple.

  He charged into his apartment and yanked the plane ticket from his desk. Like a bloody moron, he’d bought a one-way trip, determined to stay with her until they’d worked things out. He’d been played . . . again. She was just like Hillary, just like everyone else.

  He grabbed his electronics and raced to the repair shop two blocks over.

  “Did you spill beer in it again?” Jeremy, the tech, asked.

  Ben ignored the small talk. “I need you to scrub the email, clean out everything, disable the web cam, delete the Skype account, and sell me a new phone, with a new number.” His hand shook as he scrawled detailed instructions and shoved the sheet across the counter.

  Jeremy pulled the equipment toward him. “Ooh-kay. Do you need this back by tomorrow, or will Wednesday do it?”

  Tomorrow was Tuesday. He and Grace were supposed to finalize their plans for New Year. There wouldn’t be a phone call. He’d never hear her again. Well, she’d not be hearing him either. He wasn’t giving her any more exclusives, no more ammunition.

  “Disable the phone today,” he clipped. “Disconnect the number and close the Skype and email accounts. The rest of it doesn’t matter.”

  Hours later, Ben drained another glass of whiskey without tasting it and watched the flame die in the dustbin. That was the last of it. If only his brain could be so easily cleaned.