by Force, Marie
“I do, sweetheart. I trust you. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here.”
“You trust me with your home, and I’m honored by that. But that’s just real estate. If you don’t trust me with what’s in here,” I say as I rest my hand over his heart, “the rest doesn’t mean very much.”
He stares at me in that intense, all-consuming way of his. “You know how there’re some things you said you won’t talk about—ever?”
“Yes.”
“I have a few things that fall into that category, too.”
“Fair enough.”
“Maybe someday we can have a ‘share our secrets’ conversation.”
“Maybe.”
“Until then, I’m kind of starving.”
“Me, too.”
He tends to my cut finger with antibacterial ointment and a bandage before we enjoy the omelets and toast as well as the fresh fruit he tells me he eats every day at breakfast. We discover we like our coffee exactly the same way—with cream and a quarter teaspoon of sugar. Real sugar. None of the fake stuff for us. After breakfast, I get dressed in shorts and a tank top.
Flynn hands me a tube of sunscreen. “You’re going to need this. And this.” He puts a ball cap on my head.
“How come?”
“We’re taking a convertible and going sightseeing.”
Yet another car awaits us in front of the house. This one, he tells me, is a Porsche Boxster. It’s a beautiful bright red.
“Is it new?”
“Nope. It’s a ’96. First-generation Boxster. A bit of a collector’s item.”
“So this car thing goes back a while, huh?”
He opens the passenger door for me. “Um, yeah.”
“Your sisters might be right about that twelve-step program.”
“Again I remind you there are worse addictions I could have. There’s heroin and cocaine and meth and booze and pills and women and—”
“All right. I get it.”
He starts the car and hits the gas, launching us into motion. “I don’t like to think of it as an addiction so much as a collection.”
“And how many cars make up this collection?”
“You want like a number?”
“Yes,” I say, laughing at his obvious discomfort, “a number would be good.”
“I don’t know. Like sixty, maybe?”
“You own sixty cars?”
“It’s a collection. Often, when you collect things, you have a lot of them.”
“You have sixty cars.”
“That’s an estimate.”
“So it could be more?”
“Or less.”
I start to laugh, and I can’t stop. He’s so cute and funny and embarrassed.
“I give a lot of money to charities of all kinds, especially the starving-children kind, so don’t tell me there’re a lot of starving kids out there who could benefit from the money I spend on cars. I take care of them first.”
I wipe laughter tears from my eyes. “It seems you may have mounted that ready defense in the past.”
“All the time with my sisters, who think my collection is ‘obscene.’ They also like to remind me that he who dies with the most toys is still dead.”
“I think I’m going to like them.”
“They do help to keep things real for their little brother,” he says with a chuckle. “I don’t get away with much around them. And, seriously, starving kids are a thing for me.”
“I already knew that about you.”
“That’s one thing they write about me that you can actually believe. I hate that there are kids going hungry in this land of plenty. It astounds me that a country with our resources can still have hunger problems. So I do what I can to shed some light on that issue.”
“I have kids who come to school hungry in the morning. I keep breakfast bars and juice boxes in my desk drawer. They all know they’re welcome to them and they don’t have to ask first. It breaks my heart every time one of them visits that drawer. Even at that young age, they’re embarrassed.”
He grips the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles turn white. “God, I hate that. It makes me fucking furious that hunger exists as a problem in this country.”
“Me, too.”
“If celebrity is good for anything, it’s for stuff like this. I never miss a chance to raise money or draw attention to the fact that while we’re sitting fat, dumb and happy in our big rich lives, kids are starving from coast to coast.” He glances over at me. “I’m actually starting a foundation to put my money where my mouth is on this issue.”
I’m immediately intrigued. “Really?”
Nodding, he says, “It bugs the shit out of me that so much of what I donate to other organizations goes to overhead. I hate going to fancy, costly benefits to raise money for hunger issues. Screw that. Hungry people don’t need the glitterati having another black-tie event on their behalf. They need food. Right now. I want to work on ways to make that happen more efficiently. Develop networks across the country, tap into my own network for funding. That kind of thing.”
“I love that idea.”
“It’s starting to look like it might happen. I’ve had a couple of recent meetings with people in LA and New York about what it would take to get it started. We’re planning to begin in the biggest population centers and work our way out from there. We’ve got another meeting coming up soon.”
“So many people would benefit from that kind of project.”
“That’s the goal. So am I forgiven for my car collection?”
“You didn’t just make up the foundation idea hoping I’d forget about the cars, did you?”
His guffaw makes me smile. “Not hardly. I can provide witnesses that the foundation was in the works long before today.”
“It’s really admirable, Flynn. All kidding aside, I absolutely love the idea.”
“I’m glad you do. I feel good about it.”
“You should. When I first moved to New York, I gave money to every homeless person I encountered on the street until Leah told me I had to stop or go broke myself. It kills me every time I have to walk by someone who’s living on the street, especially in the winter.”
“I used to do the same thing when I was able to walk around in the cities.”
I smile at him as we discover another trait we have in common. “So where are you taking me?”
“I figured since you’ve never been to LA before, we’d do a little windshield tour starting with Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive. Then we’ll hit the coast and check out Santa Monica and Malibu. Sound good?”
“Sounds great. Those are places I’ve heard about all my life but have never seen.”
“The only thing is,” he says tentatively, “we can’t really get out of the car. I don’t go out in public very often anymore without security. That’s why we snuck into ‘Wicked’ after the lights went down and left before they came back up. After what happened in London last year—”
“What happened?”
He sighs deeply. “I was working a rope line at the UK premier of Camouflage when a guy pulled a knife on me. He managed to slice me in the ribs before security swooped in and took him down. It all happened so fast. Scared the shit out of me, though.”
“How did I not hear about this?”
“We kept it hush-hush. The guy is mentally ill, and I didn’t see any reason to make his life more of a living hell than it already is. Luckily, he just broke the skin, so they were able to bandage me up, get me a new shirt and send me on my way to the premier. But my hands shook all night.”
“Jesus. You could’ve been killed.”
“It really scared me, and I’m not easily scared. Ever since then, big crowds freak me out, and I don’t go very many places without security except for in a car. It’s the one time I get to be totally free, you know?”
“And I’m teasing you about your car obsession. It all makes sense now.”
“It’s okay to tease me. My obsession
is totally over the top, and I know it.”
We drive through Beverly Hills, where he shows me the stately home where he grew up. It’s two stories, white sandstone with black shutters and a black iron gate.
“My folks have lunch plans today, or we’d stop by to see them. We’ll see them tonight.”
“I’m not exactly dressed to meet Max Godfrey and Estelle Flynn.”
He laughs at that. “They don’t stand on pretense, so you don’t need to worry about what you’re wearing when you meet them.”
“Right. Whatever you say. You’re their son. Of course it matters what I wear to meet them.”
“I’m telling you, they aren’t hung up on superficial crap. You don’t have a thing to worry about where they’re concerned. They’ll love you.”
“I like them already from the way you’ve described them.”
“I like them, too. I enjoy every minute I get to spend with them and my sisters, even if the girls drive me nuts.”
“They keep you humble.”
“That they do.”
We zip past his famous high school before taking a slow ride down Rodeo Drive, where all the top designers have storefront boutiques. The street is all about high style, from the buildings to the cars to the women on the sidewalk, and I’m mesmerized.
“Sorry we can’t get out and walk around.”
He sounds genuinely regretful, and I feel for him. “It’s okay. I’m happy just to see it all.”
We head out to the Pacific Coast Highway and check out Santa Monica and the famous Ferris wheel on the pier, before driving north to Malibu. I gaze longingly at the beach, which I can see is crowded on this particularly warm day. The Pacific stretches out before me, huge and blue and sparkling in the sunshine.
“What do you think of your first look at the Pacific?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I grew up on these beaches, surfing and partying and generally loving life.”
“Can you believe I’ve never stepped foot on a beach?”
“Seriously?”
“Believe it or not, there aren’t a lot of beaches in Nebraska.”
“Well, we have to fix that. Immediately.” Reaching for his cell, he makes a call. “Are you decent?” he asks. “I’m going to stop by, and I’m bringing a friend who’s never been to the beach before.” After a pause, he says, “I know, right? I told her we have to fix that immediately. See you in a few, Mo.”
I’m practically bouncing in my seat with excitement at the thought of going to the beach. A short time later, we pull into a driveway, and Flynn punches in a code to open the gates.
“Whose house is this?”
“Marlowe Sloane,” he says casually, as if he’s not speaking of one of the biggest female movie stars in the world.
“The Marlowe Sloane?”
“The one and only. She’s one of my best friends.” He shuts off the car in front of a dark wood bungalow that’s much smaller than what I’d expect for a star of Marlowe’s caliber. But then again, what do I know about movie stars and where they live? “Come on. Let’s go check out Marlowe’s slice of paradise.”
With a quick knock, Flynn walks right into Marlowe’s house. I follow, feeling hesitant and concerned that we might be bothering her. He, apparently, has no such worries.
“Mo! Where are ya?”
“Back here! Come on in.”
The single-story house is much bigger than it seemed from the driveway and the view of the beach and ocean is nothing short of breathtaking. We find Marlowe on the back deck, stretched out on a lounge chair enjoying a cup of coffee. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a barely there black bikini. Her gorgeous red hair is contained in a messy bun on top of her head.
She jumps up to greet Flynn with an enthusiastic hug. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Mo, this is Natalie. Natalie, Marlowe, but we call her Mo.”
She raises her sunglasses to the top of her head, exposing warm green eyes. The toothy smile that helped to make her a star is on full display as she hugs me, too. “So great to meet you. We’ve all been buzzing about Flynn’s new girlfriend, and I was looking forward to meeting you this weekend.”
“Thank you.” I’m so starstruck, I can barely get the words out or process the fact that Marlowe Sloane considers me Flynn Godfrey’s girlfriend. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Aww, that’s so nice to hear. Come in, have a seat, make yourselves at home.”
“Your place is incredible,” I say, immediately feeling foolish for stating the obvious. Like she doesn’t already know that.
“Isn’t it? It’s my favorite spot on the planet. Any day I get to spend on this deck is my idea of heaven.”
“You sure we’re not disturbing you?” Flynn asks as he proceeds to make himself right at home as directed. He produces bottles of water from an outdoor fridge and hands one to me. We sit together on the lounge next to Marlowe’s. I wish I could text Leah and tell her I’m at Marlowe Sloane’s house in Malibu. She’d totally flip out. Maybe I can take some pictures for her before we leave.
“You’re not disturbing me at all. I’m glad you came by.” With the sunglasses back in place over her eyes, she returns to her lounge. “How are you feeling about tomorrow night?”
“Surprisingly nervous,” Flynn confesses. For my benefit, he adds, “I’ve been nominated five other times, but I’ve never won.”
“He’s the front-runner this time, and rightfully so,” Marlowe says. “If he doesn’t win—”
Flynn holds up his hand to stop her. “Don’t jinx me.”
“Knock on wood to your heart’s content, but I’m predicting a sweep for you this year—Globe, SAG, Oscar.”
“For fuck’s sake, Marlowe,” he grumbles.
She unleashes a lusty laugh that makes me smile. It’s that contagious. She makes a big show of knocking on the teakwood arm of her lounge chair. “Better?”
“Much.”
I’m surprised and delighted to discover Flynn’s superstitious side. I wouldn’t have suspected it of him. He always seems so confident and in control.
“So, Natalie, tell me everything about you,” Marlowe says. “I understand you’re a teacher?”
“Yes, third grade in New York City.”
“Good God, woman. How do you stand being with little kids all day?”
I laugh at her bluntness. “I got really lucky with a great group this year. I love them. I’m having a great time. I hear I can’t count on that every year, so I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”
“We should all be thankful for teachers like Natalie,” Flynn says, directing a warm smile my way. “They’re making sure the next generation doesn’t grow up to be ignorant idiots.”
“That’s certainly one way to put it,” I say, making them both laugh.
“Is it really true that you’ve never been to the beach?” Marlowe asks.
“Yep. As I said to Flynn, there aren’t many beaches in Nebraska where I grew up.”
“Well, let’s get you down to the beach!” She jumps up again and goes to a cabinet where she pulls out towels for each of us. “Do you want to borrow a suit so you can swim? I have tons of them, and you’re welcome to them.”
“That’s so nice of you, but I’ll be happy to put my feet in the water.”
“Good enough. Let’s go.”
She opens a gate on the deck that leads to stairs that go right down to the beach.
I’m giddy with excitement that I try to hide from them, lest they think I’m a silly nitwit. But when Flynn smiles at me, I realize I’m not hiding my giddiness from him. He sees right through me.
For the first time all day, he takes hold of my hand as we walk onto the warm sand and kick off our shoes.
“You can leave them there,” Marlowe tells me. “No one will touch them.”
I’m immediately in love with the feel of the sand between my toes, the scent of fresh air and other smells I’ve never experienced before. Overhead, seagulls dot the clou
dless sky.
“You got a perfect day to see LA,” Marlowe says. “January weather can be anything from sixty to eighty. You got the better end of it.”
“It’s beautiful and such a nice relief from the freezing cold in New York.”
“I was there last week and froze my ass off. I don’t know how people can stand a full winter there.”
“You’re going to think I’m a total weirdo, but I love the winter in New York.”
“You’re right—you are a weirdo.”
I laugh as I fall a little bit in love with this incredibly successful woman who is so down-to-earth I feel like I’ve known her far longer than half an hour. She’s put me immediately at ease, and I appreciate that more than she’ll ever know.
We walk to the water’s edge, where I splash gleefully in the frigid water. It’s so cold, my feet quickly go numb. But I couldn’t care less about that as I gaze out at the massiveness of the Pacific. Light, rolling waves deliver the surf gently to the beach, another sight that leaves me mesmerized.
Flynn comes up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “What do you think?”
“I’m in love—with the beach and with Marlowe.” I look back at him. “Thank you for this.”
“My pleasure.”
“This has been an incredible week, Flynn. Thank you for all of it.”
“It’s been just as incredible for me. I should be thanking you.” He wraps his arms around me from behind, and I lean back against him, enjoying the sun and the water and the rare feeling of serenity that has been so elusive in my life.
Chapter 17
Who am I kidding thinking I can end this thing with Natalie after the weekend? Every second I spend with her has me wanting a lifetime of her sweetness and infectious joy. Watching her dance in the ocean for the first time packed an emotional wallop for me, knowing I had done that for her. I had given her a wonderful new experience.
Now, holding her in my arms as we look out on the endless blue ocean, the thought of not being with her anymore makes me feel sick and sweaty. The fear reminds me of the aftermath of the knife attack in London last year, as if something has changed that can never be undone.