His instructions are so precise I find myself doing it. I also see Mr. Stanwyck’s reaction. Bingo. “So, he’s already seen the ring. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Now, turn to me and smile as if you like me.” I do; my smile is as fake as his. “I had a chat with him. He’s not happy you’re with Roy.”
“I can imagine what he said. It’s because of his son, Charlie. He blames me for his death.”
“Charlie,” he repeats the name like he’s tasting the vowels and consonants. “Tell me about him.”
“Here? Now?”
“What better place? Alone you’d be”—he looks up to the crystal chandelier—“threatened, I think. With Roy, maybe not so honest. Here, amongst all these strangers you’ll tell me the truth.”
I almost need a drink. I expect Charlie to pipe in with a nasty comment. Maybe even he’s afraid of Proctor. “Hmm. He was spoiled, I think. Rich. Handsome. Kicked out of a lot of schools. Fighting’s what I heard. Liked women.” I shrug. “And they liked him.”
“You have incorrect data.”
“What?”
“Charlie didn’t like women. He had sex with them to prove his manhood to his father. He was gay and hiding it by acting out. His father knew it.”
Proctor’s still talking, but I’m not listening. I’m standing still as the room moves around me. Charlie. Gay. And Roy had said something about Charlie having his own demons.
“Daisy.”
Proctor’s raised voice brings my head up. “Are you sure?”
He doesn’t answer, but, instead says, “There’s a man coming over here to talk with you. I’ll be to the side if you need me.”
And on cue, I hear, “Excuse me.” Even though Proctor had warned me, I still jump slightly.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You looked so lovely standing here.” He looks at me with his head to the side. “A perfect profile.” He’s a small man with a thick head of gray hair, wearing dark-rimmed glasses. “Are you with the studio? I haven’t seen you before.” He takes a sip of champagne. “It’s a large production, not surprising, but I’m sure I would remember you.”
“No.” I cross my arms in front of my chest as he looks me over again.
“Sorry.” He leans back. “You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”
“What?” I make eye contact with Proctor.
“I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?” He extends his hand. “I’m Gerard, casting director for Shamed Blood.”
I quickly shake his hand. “The movie filming in Middleburg.”
He smiles. “The working title. Shit, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ll change it.”
I nod, not sure why he’s talking to me or how to get away.
“We have a small part.” He places his thumb and forefinger together. “Miniscule. I haven’t found the right person with the look I want, but you, my dear”—he runs his eyes over my dress—“are perfect.”
Is he offering me a part in the movie? “I’m not an actress.”
“Oy! Most of them aren’t, though you can’t tell them that.” His smile is warm. “You probably wouldn’t even make it off the cutting room floor, but…” His eyes look up and behind me. “Mr. Blackwood, lovely party.”
“Gerard.” Roy’s hand slips to the small of my back and hands me a wine glass with Coke fizzing inside. “I leave my Daisy alone for two minutes, and you descend on her.”
“Daisy,” Gerard repeats my name. “So perfect for you. Such an old name.” He nods. “You do have a classical look about you. Like Grace Kelly when she was young.” He smiles at me and resumes his conversation with Roy. “I’ve been telling her about a part I’ve had a hell of a time casting. Your Daisy would be perfect.”
“She’s shy,” Roy says, “and not interested.”
“She is standing right here,” I respond, “and she’s interested.”
Roy’s thumb rubs circles on my back. “Does this part entail nudity or a love scene or violence?”
I cut my eyes up to Roy.
Gerald shakes his head. “She’d be so-and-so’s sister, can’t remember the SOB’s name, but she’d be in period dress.” He smiles. “You’d get a SAG card.”
“A what?” I ask.
“Screen Actors Guild card,” Roy explains. “Would Jason King be on the set?”
I’m shocked he would ask such a pointed question, but Gerald laughs.
“You think I’d be stupid enough to put her in his path, knowing who she is now? I like my kneecaps, Roy.”
I take a sip of Coke. It’s cold and perfectly carbonated. So Vincent was right. He was a fixer. And like my thought conjured him up, my friend arrives.
“Ah, my Baby Girl, surrounded by the most attractive males in the room.” He gives me a kiss on my cheek and slips his arm behind my back.
Now I’m flanked by two men with their arms around me. What must Gerald think? I peek up to see his expression is one of amusement.
“So, what’s going on here? Secret spy business?” Vincent asks. “Saving a star’s reputation?”
Sometimes I think Vincent has a death wish. “Gerard, this is Vincent.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Vincent.” Gerard extends his hand.
The two men shake hands, and I’m relieved Vincent doesn’t bow or try to kiss his cheek.
“Gerard’s asked me to play a part in the movie.”
Vincent’s eyes light up. “My Baby Girl, and yesterday she was in diapers.”
“Stop it.” I poke his rib with my elbow.
“I’ve explained that Daisy is shy and won’t be interested.” Roy’s condescending tone grates my nerves, and I give him an icy glare.
“She is shy,” Vincent explains, “but only because I won’t be there. You can have your girl if I get a role too.”
Gerard taps the side of his nose while evaluating Vincent. “I’m sure we could find something. Won’t have a speaking role.”
“It has to be in the same scene on the same day,” I pipe in. I’m surprised by my own enthusiasm, and from Roy’s expression, he’s shocked too.
“Well, you are a rare find. Why not? Now, how should I get in contact with you? We’ll be shooting next week.”
“Here.” Roy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Call my assistant, and she’ll manage the two of them.”
I take a bit of pride from the way his jaw is clenched. Mr. Lethal is not happy.
He continues, “And Gavin will be with them to make sure they’re taken care of.”
“Gavin. Haven’t seen him for a few years. Lovely man. Cuts a wide swath with his dick. No doubt he’ll have plenty of participants on the set.”
Vincent, for once, is silent, staring at the man like he’s turned into Superman.
Roy looks like he could crack a diamond with his jaw.
I’m giggling.
Gerard, unaffected by it all, bows slightly. “Now if you excuse me, I see a ravishing blonde in need of a drink.”
“Well, Gavin sounds like a scoundrel.” Vincent eyes Roy.
Who holds me tight against his side. “He is, and more.”
“Oh Lordy, this is going to be the best week.” Vincent grabs a glass of champagne off a server’s tray.
I’m waiting for the next salvo, but someone catches his eyes.
“Is that…it can’t be...it is. Ta-ta, love.”
“He must have spied Mike Craig.” Roy turns as Vincent makes his way to the unsuspecting actor.
I ignore Vincent and whoever Mike is and focus on Roy’s overbearing insistence on a guard. “Gavin. Tsk. tsk.” I shake my head. “Are you sure I’ll be safe in his care?”
He steers me outside onto the balcony. “He’d not touch a hair on your head, Lass.” His Scottish accent is spot-on.
“Gavin, a womanizer. Like you?” I was going to say like you were, but that seemed like begging the universe to mess with me.
“My womanizing days are over.”
I like his answer.
�
��I had an enlightening conversation with Proctor about Charlie.”
“Let’s not talk about this tonight. Let me dance with you before you become a movie star and forget who I am.” He guides me, the way he does with his hand resting on the small of my back, through the arched doorway.
“It’s a tiny part.” I’m already regretting saying yes.
“You have no idea who Gerard is, do you?”
“The casting director.”
“He’s the head of the studio. The last person he picked out of a crowd and put in a movie was John Cruise.”
Well, knock me silly. “I didn’t ask for the part.” For some reason, I need him to know.
An orchestra is playing “The Second Waltz.” I know this because War and Peace is one of my favorite movies. The older version with Audrey Hepburn.
I shake my head. “I can’t waltz.”
“Come on.” Roy sweeps me into his capable arms. He starts slow, leading us around and back and over, until I don’t even think, only follow his lead. Faster and faster until we’re spinning around the dance floor.
“I love you, Daisy Aldridge.”
“What?” I stumble, and he elegantly lifts me up and plants me back on the ground to continue dancing.
“I love you. I know it’s too soon, and you aren’t ready, but we are where we are. I won’t leave you without saying it.”
“I…I…”
“You don’t have to say what you don’t mean.”
“I’ve never cared for anyone like I do you.”
“I know.” His smile is sad as he moves us off the dance floor. “It’s time.”
“What will I do without you?”
“It won’t be bad. You’ll have the part in the movie. And your aunts. Work. Vincent will keep you occupied.”
“And you’ll call me.”
He shakes his head. “Not likely.” He tugs my hand. “Come on.”
“I can’t do this.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
Finally, my feet follow as we leave the party behind and go through the lobby and out a side door.
“Gavin will see you home tonight, or you and Vincent can stay in the suite and enjoy the city. He’ll drive you both back tomorrow. Whatever you like.” He kisses my neck. “Gavin has a credit card for you.”
“I don’t need money,” I whisper.
“Take it, in case. I need to know you’re provided for while I’m gone. Otherwise, I’ll lose my mind.” He cups my face in his hand. “I don’t want to put you in a cage. I want you to fly free of fear. Do you believe me?”
I nod.
“I did the right thing? Not…”
Here he is going off to war, and he’s worried about my emotional state. It makes me want to fix this even more. “I’m better than I have been in a long while. Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t leave you unless it was life and death.”
“I know.” I lift up on my tiptoes, and he bends down until our lips meet in a soft kiss. “When you get back, you’ll make love to me.”
“Anything you want, baby.” He holds me to his chest. “Leaving you is breaking me.” His chest expands on an inhale, and he releases me. “Come on. It’s time you meet Gavin.”
If only I could draw out time and make this last forever. I try to keep from crying, hold my head up, and walk beside him down a long hallway that ends by an alleyway. A black Suburban waits, with a man wearing a tuxedo standing off to the side. He’s not as large as Roy. He looks older. Maybe it’s the beard.
“Roy,” he says, meeting us halfway.
“Gavin, this is Daisy. I’ve told her you’ll be taking her and Vincent home when they’re ready. And there has been a new development. Daisy and Vincent will be on the movie set one day, maybe two, next week. They’ll need your services for that.”
“Miss.” Gavin dips his head.
I watch a silent communication between the two men only accomplished by people who’ve known each other a long time.
“How was fashion week?” Roy asks.
“Too short.” He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Miss, I’ll be right by the door when you’re ready.”
I have to ask. “Fashion week?”
“Paris fashion week, to be precise. He protects a model. It’s his favorite assignment of the year.”
“I can imagine.”
Another Suburban pulls up behind the first, and a man in military uniform steps out, waiting by the open door.
He brushes a curl behind my ear. “I need you to promise me something,”
“Anything.”
“If anything happens to upset you…” I place my finger over his lips, and he kisses it and continues, “You’ll ask Gavin for help.”
I hesitate.
“He knows how to handle a panic attack. He’s seen men in the field… Look.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “I have to know you’re cared for. I can’t bear to think of you”—he kisses my shoulder—“in pain.”
It’s not the time to ask the particulars, so I don’t. “I promise.”
He heaves out a weary sigh. “I can’t put this off any longer. I’ll be back in a week.”
“Roy.” I grab his lapel. “Promise you’ll come back to me.”
“You hold my heart.” His kiss is hard and deep, imparting his love and care, sending shockwaves through my body. “I will always come back to you.”
Chapter Thirteen
When I was in elementary school, the summers dragged on like decades. Time stretched out forever until I thought it was standing still. Until my aunts would take me shopping for notebooks and pencils and binders and new clothes and I’d be going to the first day of class. Only then would time resume its normal pace.
With Roy gone, all the things I used to fill my time with now seem empty, minutes are like hours, and like when I was little, it seems my time of waiting will never end.
Every morning and evening I check the news sites to make sure nothing horrible has happened. I suspect he’s in the Middle East, specifically in the regions where every day’s a page out of Dante’s Inferno. Gavin keeps reassuring me he’ll come home in one piece, but I’m not fooled; he’s concerned and probably wishes he was with Roy instead of babysitting me.
So I’m stuck in this horrible limbo-land waiting for Roy to return while I go over the receipts from yesterday and line up the straggler pickups remaining for today. I wave as Mae and Stella, with their pocketbooks in hand, stroll out the door.
In two hours, I can lock up and hop in the Buick and head to Safeway for movie snacks and Coke. I’m down to my last six-pack, and that always makes me nervous. It’s like gas in the tank; I’m never comfortable when the needle is on the left side of the half mark. Vincent’s meeting me at the house with the first two Thin Man movies. Nick and Nora Charles never get old. And when we’re stuffed with junk food and can’t stay awake a minute longer it’s off to bed. Not a bad way to spend an evening.
Thirty minutes till closing, when I’m in the back getting organized for tomorrow morning, the bell rings. “Be right there,” I call out. Who would show up this late in the day? Mary, my last customer, had left twenty minutes ago.
Yanking my ponytail free—it’s giving me a headache—I pop out of the back room. A man stands at the counter looking around. It’s not uncommon for a tourist to wander into the shop.
“May I help you?”
He turns to face me. His languid smile is followed by a flash of his blue eyes. “I hope so.”
I’ve seen him before. If only I could place where.
“I’m looking for the Lost Hound.”
“Oh,” I smile, relieved. “The art studio.” He nods. “I’ll show you.” And go out the door and onto the sidewalk. “After you pass the church”—its bell tower makes it a natural starting point for directions—“it will be the second street, Jay Street. Take a right and go down the hill; you’ll see it at the corner.�
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“Ah.” He steps in close, and I’m forced to look up. The afternoon sun shines through his hair, causing reddish highlights to gleam.
I’m good with faces. Why can’t I place him? “Good luck.” I step quickly toward the door.
“Maybe I’ll stop by again.” He dips his head. “For directions.”
“Sure.” I’m tempted to lock the door, but we’re still open so, instead, I get on with straightening up the back room. A few minutes later, the bell rings again, and that’s when it hits me where I’ve seen him before. At the Hay Adams, the night of Roy’s party, when I was trying to fix the strap on my shoe. He was the Robert Redford lookalike who stopped to help. Is he here working on the film? Or was it random chance?
“You didn’t find…”
When I turn the corner, it’s not him. Instead, it’s Bobby standing in the middle of the floor like a farmer who’s lost his plot of land. In his oversized overalls and work boots and John Deere hat—it’s his favorite—I know he’s slipped away from Mr. Stanwyck, or Travis, his caregiver, and gone on walkabout. It’s what we call it when he takes to the road and ambles into Middleburg. I don’t think he sneaks away; I believe they realize he needs the freedom.
“What’s doing?” I ask, guilty I don’t want to deal with him right now.
Head lowered, shoulders slumped, he doesn’t respond. It’s hard to imagine him other than he is now. Mae and Stella said he was one of the most attractive men either of them had ever seen, in real life, the movies, or TV. As they put it, he was a cross between Paul Newman and William Holden. Without the charisma and animation, it’s hard to picture him thus. Bobby is tall and broad-shouldered, but gone soft around the middle. His mannerisms are childlike, as is his mind. I’m almost sorry for Mr. Stanwyck, Bobby’s brother, given everything he’s been through. Wife dead. Son dead. Brother, once a partner in the family business, mentally disabled. It’s only Mr. Stanwyck now.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I lightly touch his shoulder to get his attention.
He’s like this sometimes, sad and nonverbal. When he lifts his head, it’s uncanny how healthy he looks right now. Like he’s truly seeing me. “Bobby,” I whisper.
Secrets In Our Scars Page 19