I interjected sweetly, “More real than nonfiction?”
Peter cleared his throat.
Walter said, “I mean, sure it’s women’s interest and all, but what I’m trying to do is give it the feel of a thriller and less of a fem-jep, which really limits our target audience.”
“Fem-jep?” I asked.
“Female in jeopardy.”
“Isn’t it already sold to one of the women’s networks?”
“Well, yes, but…” When Walter stuck his lower lip out he reminded me of my little nieces when things weren’t going their way—which, when you’re five, is a lot. He began to talk about the importance of purity of vision, of the profundity of imagery versus realism. He was just warming to his theme when our meals arrived.
I took advantage of the lull. “May I ask how many screen credits you have, Walter?”
Walter’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve co-written some things. Alien Dogs, that’s one of mine. Fire is for Burning.”
It wasn’t easy, but I think I managed to control my instinctive reaction. “I can see that this screenplay is important to you, and I’m glad about that. But…this movie is based on my life. Not just something I made up, my actual life, so it’s hard for me not to take it seriously, too. It’s bad enough that a blond bim—that the person selected to play me in the film isn’t remotely like me.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with hiring Tracy Burke.” He gave me a hostile look. “She’s a wonderful actress, though. You’re lucky they could get her. She’s going to be big.”
“I realize that, and I hope that you can realize that it’s important to me that everything else not go too far into alternate reality.”
His face took on that sulky look again. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I looked over the screenplay at the request of Roberta and Miles, and some of the scenes…well, for example, the high-speed car chase that takes place in London: not only did nothing like that happen, even I know that would be extremely expensive to film.”
“There are ways around that.”
“And the fact that you have me and Peter—I mean, the film’s Faith and David—falling into bed together every couple of pages —”
Peter interjected. “Might I have a look at this screenplay?” He was ignored.
“Look,” Walter gave me a patronizing smile. “I understand where you’re coming from. You had your professional reputation to think of, and you probably worried your parents or your grandparents or the headmistress of the orphanage you worked at were going to read the book, but no one is going to believe that two normal, physically healthy, single people didn’t have sex for a week.”
“For a week? We didn’t have sex for nearly two years!” That drew some interested glances from our fellow diners—those not currently engaged on their iPhones and BlackBerries. Uncomfortably, I met Peter’s blue gaze.
He remarked, “Anything I might say at this point would be a serious mistake.”
I swung my sights back on Walter who was wiping hastily at the strings of cheese attached to his goatee.
“And turning my friend Monica into a gay man—and an interior decorator —”
He glared at me. “The character dynamic works really well.”
“— and her husband into a gay Reggae musician. Calum Bell is an Oxford don. Monica and I are teachers.”
“Nobody wants to see a movie about Oxford dons or teachers,” Walter informed me, tossing his napkin aside. “Unless the movie was made in the sixties, or is about an ex-Special Forces guy kicking some serious teen butt—or stars Michelle Pfeiffer.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do you have any clue how unsexy poetry is?” Walter asked almost pityingly. “I don’t think so.”
“Speak for yourself!”
“I am speaking for myself. And every other person in the viewing audience. Someone has to. Poetry? Not even modern poetry. Not even…Maya Angelou. No, it’s all about dead white guys with you.”
More so than he might think.
I said, “I believe it was Audre Lorde who said, ‘For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change.’”
If I’d thought quoting a black, lesbian feminist was going to shut Walter up, I thought wrong. He said flatly, “Did you notice none of the major characters in your book are people of color? Did you notice there were no persons of alternate sexuality? Everybody in your book is white bread. Sexually, racially, politically —”
“It’s nonfiction,” I said.
“Boy, that’s convenient!”
Disbelieving, I turned to Peter, and realized he was struggling not to laugh.
Was it funny? Somehow it didn’t feel very funny. Maybe I was losing my sense of humor. I was turning this over in my mind when our waitress, apparently in a hurry to get to her next audition, appeared at our table, asked if everything was all right, and before getting an answer, dropped off the check and vanished.
I said, “You know, this lunch was not my idea. Miles and Roberta seem to feel there are some problems with the script as well.”
Walter’s face twisted into a sneer. “Miles and Roberta? This is Roberta’s first film, and Miles hasn’t had a hit since Virtual Ninja. Miles and Roberta better take another look at their contracts if they think they have the final say on anything.” He drained his wineglass once more, reached for his napkin, and mopped his face.
“Well, this has certainly been instructive,” I said, reaching for my purse and pulling out a handful of bills. “I’ll let Roberta and Miles know we met.”
“Cool. Thanks for lunch,” Walter said, rising.
I opened my mouth to protest being stuck paying for Walter’s lunch, then let it go. It really wasn’t worth it.
Peter murmured, “I’ve got it. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
I started to argue, but Walter, who was appraising Peter closely, interrupted. “Is it true about your being a former jewel thief?”
“To my shame, yes,” Peter said, not sounding ashamed at all.
“You probably have some stories that would be worth adapting for the big screen. Did you ever think about that?”
“Never.” Peter offered one of those lazy, charming smiles, and glanced my way. “All set?”
“Yes,” I said tersely.
Walter, however, didn’t take the hint. His concerns about having to pick up the lunch tab assuaged, he waited while I attempted to out-argue a pained-looking Peter over the check, continuing to hover while Peter paid the bill, and then accompanying us outside still trying to inveigle Peter to share his life story for the entertainment of viewing audiences everywhere. He was still chattering as they walked to where I had parked—or rather, wedged—my car on the crowded street.
Peter took my keys as Walter followed us out into the road. “Just think about it,” he was saying as Peter unlocked my door and pulled it open. “It could make an incredible feature film. I’ve seen Midnight Express like eleven times at least.”
The car seemed to come out of nowhere: a battered Datsun 280ZX hurtled down Highland Avenue straight at us—and for a moment it seemed that all the world fell silent, moving in excruciatingly slow motion as the car bore down.
Then Peter shoved me inside the Honda and sprang onto the hood—quick as a cat—and the Datsun shot past, catching my car door—and Walter Christie—on its right bumper. Christie flew up in the air like a broken doll, landing face down a few feet in front of the Honda.
I screamed. The Datsun’s engine gunned as it sped around another car, just missing oncoming traffic. Cars were honking, brakes squealing, people on the street shouting as the Datsun screeched away and disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Five
“And you can’t tell us anything more than that?” asked the plainclothes police officer for the third time.
I shook
my head. I had stopped shaking, but it was still an effort to control my voice. “The car seemed to come out of nowhere. It bore straight down on us—I don’t see how he could have helped but see the three of us standing here —”
“You said ‘he,’ but you didn’t actually see the driver?”
“I didn’t see much of anything. Peter—Mr. Fox—pushed me inside the car just a second before—before the accident.” My eyes went to the sheet-covered form in the avenue. Walter Christie had died instantly. My gaze moved to the uniformed officers cordoning off the street from traffic and bystanders—and then on to where Peter was being questioned by another detective.
It was Peter who had checked Walter’s bloodied and crumpled body, and then shook his head, meeting my horrified gaze as I crawled slowly out of my damaged auto.
Knowing Peter’s antipathy toward law enforcement, I would have been disappointed but not entirely surprised had he disappeared following the accident, but he had waited with me for the police and paramedics to arrive.
“But you recognized the make and model of the vehicle?” the officer asked.
“My brother had the same car in college. A Datsun 280ZX.”
“Anything else you can think of? Anything at all?”
I shook my head.
He took my contact information, thanked me, and moved away. Despite the plainclothes detectives, LAPD was treating Walter Christie’s death as a traffic accident. And maybe it was an accident; certainly I would have loved to believe it was just an accident. After all, the three of us had been standing in a very busy street during a time of high traffic, and Los Angeles drivers were not famed for their courtesy or care.
If it just hadn’t been for the fact that someone had tried to kill Peter forty-eight hours earlier…
I looked over at Peter, and apparently his interview was over as well. He walked around the police tow truck where two attendants were busy hitching up my poor mangled Honda, which was being impounded as evidence.
“All right?”
I nodded, and he put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned against him, glad of the support. That was one of the perks of having someone—although if the car had been aimed at Peter, it was also one of the downsides of having someone.
“We can go,” he said, and he nodded at a waiting taxi.
Once we were on our way to Peter’s hotel he said, “You’ve had a shock. Did you want to cancel dinner with your parents?”
“Nothing less than your death or mine would be sufficient excuse,” I answered. I wasn’t really sure why I was on my way back to Peter’s hotel. I should have been heading home, bearding the lioness in her kitchen, preparing for battle with the arsenal of cosmetics in my makeup drawer—and my own full-size hairdryer. But instead I was acting on the almost superstitious dread that if I let Peter out of my sight, I’d never see him again.
“She can’t be that bad,” Peter said in the tone of one thinking aloud. And it was clear who he meant.
“She doesn’t like charming men,” I said. I met Peter’s gaze. “Well, excepting my father.”
“Right. I’ll try and remember to spit on the floor at regular intervals.”
Against my will, I laughed.
“And remember to call her Dr. Benson-Hollister,” I said.
He gave me a long, level look.
*****
I’m not the kind of woman who typically fortifies herself with alcohol, but I had a drink while Peter shaved—as Peter remarked upon when he wandered out of the bathroom, razor in hand.
“You really are nervous.”
“I don’t know if I’m nervous,” I objected. “I’d just prefer to be as relaxed as possible tonight.”
His brows rose. “This sounds promising.”
“Not that relaxed,” I amended, smiling. I was thinking that even a few weeks ago it would have been hard to picture this scene of comfortable—well, mostly comfortable, intimacy. Peter seemed comfortable enough, anyway, but he was probably used to women littering his hotel rooms. I was not uncomfortable, which was promising, considering how little we knew about each other. Oh, we knew the important things, granted—but I meant the getting along together day-after-day things. Things like who preferred which side of the bed, whether alarm clocks and/or wake up calls were really necessary, whether it was still permissible to make love after the alarm clock or wake-up call had rung—those little details had yet to be worked out. Admittedly, the working out was part of the fun.
Studying him now: a white towel around his lean waist, electric shaver—which I had already learned he detested—in hand, I said, “If you don’t mind, I don’t think we should mention Walter Christie’s accident to my family.”
Peter arched one winged brow. “That’s quite an oversight.”
“I know. It’s just that my family might think that this accident…wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t an accident?”
“Right.”
I didn’t trust that smile of his. I said carefully—there was really no diplomatic way to put it, “They—well, my parents—actually, my mother feels that you’re —”
“A bad influence?”
“Dangerous to know.”
He was still smiling. “She has a point, doesn’t she? Three murder investigations aren’t likely to endear me to the maternal bosom.”
“No.”
“How does the paternal bosom feel?”
“Dad tends to take the long view.”
“How long a view would he prefer? Me on the other side of the Atlantic?”
I laughed. “He hasn’t said. He’s not as quick to judge people.”
“Ah.”
“Remember to call her Doctor Benson-Hollister. Don’t call her Mrs. Hollister. And don’t call her Nora.”
“Got it,” he said quite mildly. “Both times.”
“I know.” I added uncomfortably, “It’s not like it sounds. I love my mother. I admire my mother. I enjoy my mother. We usually get along beautifully. It’s just hard for her to understand some of the choices I’ve made in the last two years.”
“But then it’s hard for you to understand some of the choices you’ve made,” Peter said gently, and I stared after him as he sauntered back to the bathroom, relaxed as ever.
*****
It was raining by the time we reached my parents’ house. “I think it’s a good omen,” I said to Peter as we got out of the taxi.
“Remind me not to have you tell my fortune,” he replied, and maybe he had a point. It was one of those California cloudbursts; hard, driving rain that the streets and gutters weren’t built to handle. Despite my protests, Peter was already shrugging out of his mac, and holding it over me as we splashed up the sidewalk past Colin’s Jeep, and then past Clark and Laurel’s minivan parked in the driveway.
Lights shone brightly behind drawn curtains in the trim 1940s-style cottage. I could hear voices from behind the door. When my family gets together it’s a bit of a crowd.
Rather than using my key and walking in on a conversation I might not want to hear, I rang the doorbell.
“This is the house you grew up in?” Peter asked, glancing out from the shelter of the brick portico.
I nodded.
“Has the neighborhood changed a lot?”
Compared to a small English village at the back of beyond: radically. For Los Angeles County? Minutely. “Not a lot. New neighbors on the left and across the street. That’s about it,” I said slowly. “You never talk about your childhood or your family.”
A little muscle tightened in his jaw. “I don’t, do I?” He flicked me a quick look from under his lashes. “Mine aren’t happy memories.” His gaze turned to the door although I hadn’t heard anything. “I’ll tell you one day.”
The door opened and my father stood there. He hugged me, and then turned, offering Peter his hand.
“Peter. Good to meet you.”
“Sir,” said Peter, sounding about as formal as I had ever heard. My father was smiling, though
—his usual wide, warm grin—and as I met his eyes, he winked.
That was the first of a succession of fleeting images that made up my memories of that evening: Peter meeting my brothers; Callie and Laurel’s faces; Peter studying the photo gallery of me and my brothers growing up; Peter meeting my giggling nieces, Amelia and Charlotte—proving that women under the age of ten were just as susceptible to his charms; Peter meeting my mother—proving that she really had managed to immunize herself against those same charms.
Not that Peter had turned on the charm. Not to full blast, anyway. He was probably the most reserved I’d ever known him to be. Pleasant, yes, but a little…distant. For the first time I realized how very far from his home turf he was. He was on defense. A restrained and understated defense, but defense all the same.
“What will you have to drink, Peter?” Dad asked. “I’ve got a very nice pure malt scotch.”
“Are you interested in the study of Romantic literature, Mr. Fox?” Mother inquired.
“Scotch. Neat, thanks.” And to my mother, “Interested, yes. But I’m not an academic.”
“Did you attend university in England?”
“Briefly.” Peter’s eyes met mine and returned to my mother.
“Where did you —?”
“Liverpool.”
“Liverpool!” I said, before I could stop myself. I had to hand it to my mother: she’d elicited as much information from Peter in two minutes as I’d managed in two years.
My father handed Peter his drink. “What drew you to the antiques trade, Peter?”
“I like beautiful things,” Peter said, and just for a moment my parents’ eyes met.
No, he did not fit in. Not like Brian had fit in. And yet —
“Oh. My. God,” Calliope whispered behind the kitchen door as she and Laurel dragged me away from the battlefield. “He’s beautiful.”
Laurel breathed, “Wow.”
“I don’t want to leave him too long —”
“It’s all right; the boys will look after him.”
And when I was at last able to escape back to the living room, Peter was sipping scotch and making polite conversation with my brothers about his recent buying trip to France.
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