Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013 (37 page)

My phone was ringing. In yet another classy Peaches move, I’d fallen asleep on the floor of my walk-in closet, on a pile of towels.

The call was coming from an unknown number in California.

“Hello,” I said chirpily, finding it odd the underwear company would call after ten o’clock at night.

A male voice: “Happy to be home again?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Keith. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about me already. Way to kill a guy’s self-esteem,” he joked.

“I deleted your phone contact so I wouldn’t be tempted to drunk dial you.”

There was a pause.

“Keith?”

“I guess I shouldn’t have called,” he said.

I sat up and pulled down a shawl to cover my arms, so I wouldn’t feel cold and sound cold. “I’m glad you called.”

“Long distance relationships don’t work. I’m not trying for one, but I’ve been thinking about you all day. Did you see your little boy?”

I wrapped the shawl tighter against the goose bumps on my forearms. “Yes, he came with my parents to pick me up. He gave me a balloon, and then he drove me crazy. My mother has the patience of a saint.”

“Are you going back to your bookstore tomorrow?”

“Afraid so. There aren’t a lot of modeling jobs here in the Beav.”

“Really? I’ve always heard that the hot spots for the fashion industry are Milan, New York, and Beaverdale.”

I laughed and looked down at the chipped nail polish on my toes. Already the veneer of LA was peeling away.

“Keith, I really admire you.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re flying off to Italy, starting this amazing career, and you’re not even scared.”

“I’m fucking terrified. I just hide it under a big smile and a spray tan.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said, and I meant it.

We talked for another hour, both of us having to plug in our phones to keep going. I could have stayed on the line until dawn, but I heard Shayla come in the front door and call my name.

I said goodbye to Keith, and he told me to “take care.” When I ended the call, I wondered if that was the end for us. I started downstairs to greet Shayla, then paused just long enough to program Keith’s phone number back into my contacts list, just in case.

I ran down the stairs and straight into my roommate’s arms. She put her hand over my mouth and pretended to stage-kiss me, both of us swaying back and forth laughing our asses off.

I was home.

Even as we laughed and play-wrestled, I felt something sharp and bright in my chest, where heartbreak had been. Keith hadn’t left a scar or a wound, but something else. Our shared experience lived on, near my heart. Tiny and brilliant, like a diamond.

Maybe I had changed, or maybe I had just gotten older, the way Keith had when he finally gave in to birthdays. They call this process
growing up
, and I think I know why. With every new experience, your view of the world broadens, and your own life starts to look smaller, because you’re
up
above things, like a plane flying over.

Thursday morning, I walked out the door of my house with my Pop Tart in one hand and my cell phone in the other. Mitchell sent me some funny photos from LA and told me about a wacky photo shoot they were doing that day, with some half-naked girl and a hundred white rabbits.

I didn’t believe him about the rabbits until he sent me a photo.

Mitchell:
They’re multiplying! I swear. I just re-counted and there are 105 now.

Me:
I’m so fucking pissed that I didn’t get any bunnies.

Mitchell:
Shoot me now. I was holding one for a close-up and it pooped little chocolate balls right in my hand.

Me:
Chocolate?

Mitchell:
Yes! I’ll gather them in a basket and mail some to you.

I walked by my neighbor, Mr. Galloway, who called out, “Can’t wait to see your new photos!”

Stopping near his rose bushes, I pretended to be offended. “Mr. G! You do know it’s an underwear campaign, right? That means I’ll be in my skivvies.”

His cheeks reddened, and he pulled his glasses off his long, fine nose and cleaned them on his shirt, flummoxed for a minute.

“Just teasing,” I said, laughing. “I hope everyone sees them, because they’re going to be gorgeous. I’ll autograph yours.”

“As long as you have a nice smile in the pictures, because I swear that’s the only part I’ll look at.”

I started backing away, aware of time slipping by. “Did you get rid of your problem? Your rat?”

He shook his head. “I took away all the food, except I forgot the bananas on the table. Wouldn’t you know, he got the bananas.”

“Maybe it’s a monkey.”

Mr. Galloway waved goodbye, signaling he was finished with this particular topic, and off I went.

With my mocha in hand, I opened the door to Peachtree Books. The shop smelled different.

I started to feel irritated, then angry. Someone had moved the round pedestal table, and it wasn’t aligned with the chandelier anymore, which meant that a tall man browsing one side would hit his head. He would hit his head and then stare at the
store manager
(that’s me) with a very litigious-looking scowl. I could practically see it happening, like a clairvoyant.

“Fucking Adrian,” I growled, and I set to work putting everything right again.

My new coworker Adrian didn’t return any of my text messages on Thursday. I suppose my tone may have been too scary for him. That, and me calling him a cheese-fucker. I didn’t say anything about him talking about my high school crush on him, or his highly inappropriate dick pic (never mind that I started it with my nip pic), but I did give him the excoriating he deserved over fucking with my shit at the bookstore.

On Friday, I started creating a binder of Do’s and Don’ts for the store. Actually, it was more of a collection of Do’s, Don’ts, Fucking Never’s, and Death Will Befall You If’s.

The day went by quickly, and I closed up the shop at six, as per the new schedule. We had been open later hours on Friday through most of summer, with Amy working the later shift, but now she was gone and apparently Adrian was doing Friday shifts at Chloe’s, making pies, so we were just closed at six.

I snuck out quickly and kept my head down to avoid eye contact with any potential customers on their way in for some evening shopping.

Someone called out my name, so I started walking faster. Then he started chasing after me, his footfalls approaching rapidly.

I turned around, prepared to go back in and open the store for someone’s literary emergency.

The man chasing me down was middle aged, with a brown mustache and long hair tied back in a ponytail. At first I thought he was a regular customer, because seeing Vern, Dalton Deangelo’s butler, didn’t make any sense in Beaverdale.

“Sorry to be any trouble, but where would you buy towels here in town?” he asked.

“At the mall, I guess. Why?”

“There’s a mall?”

“Yes, with a K-Mart. Beaverdale isn’t that small.” I stared into Vern’s cool, professional face. “No offense, Vern, but why are you here?”

His calm veneer cracked as his eye twitched. “Mr. Deangelo didn’t tell you?”

“Vern, tell me you’ve quit working for that Hollywood asshole and you’ve moved to Washington for a slice of the small town life. Tell me you’ve joined three book clubs and you’re thinking of getting a mountain bike. Tell me he’s not here, in this town, where I live.”

“He’s not here.”

I hugged Vern and kissed his cheek, to his surprise and dismay.

Vern explained, “I’m preparing the cabin for his arrival.”

“Fuck. Tell him I won’t see him. We’re through. Tell him don’t bother coming to Beaverdale for me.”

Vern shuffled his feet, his eyes cast down. “He’s not coming here for you. He needs somewhere to hide, and I’ll admit I suggested coming here because I do enjoy the town so much.”

I shook my head. “He’s hiding? Now what has he done?”

“It’s quite unfair, really. He hasn’t done anything. I’m afraid it’s something rather troublesome from his past. I suppose you could read it along with everyone else in today’s papers, or tomorrow’s. Apparently, Mr. Deangelo bears a striking resemblance to a young man in some adult films.”

My insides grew heavy from the weight of the news.

We stood there a few more minutes, as Vern described how everything had happened so quickly, starting Monday morning. As his lips moved, words came out and fell on my unhearing ears, because my body was focused on pumping out panic sweat and adrenaline.

Dalton had told me his secret, about how his parents had been in adult films, and how when he grew up and ran away from home, he’d been in a couple himself, despite being underage. That was all before he changed his name and started fresh. He told me his story, then he had me sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement, promising I wouldn’t divulge any of his secrets.

But then I’d gotten really hurt by him, and…

Did he suspect me of being the one who leaked the information? Was he going to sue me? Did people do that?

Oh, shit.

In the last week, I’d been pretty angry with him, and I’d had at least two nights of heavy drinking. Everyone who knows me would agree my mouth is the biggest thing on me.

I couldn’t remember blabbing about Dalton’s seedy porn-star past, but I didn’t remember getting a tattoo, either. Did I…?

Vern was still talking, saying, “Most people aren’t annoyed by sounds from nature. Even the most shrill of bird calls is still a welcome antidote to city life and big trucks with air brakes… and there’s a goat that comes with the cabin, but I don’t expect I’ll be milking her, though who can say, really.”

I nodded. “Right. Who knows?”

“Goats are the ones with the weird little eyes, right? Do they have hooves, or feet?”

“Everything has feet.”
(How am I having this conversation right now? How are my lips moving and saying these things?)

He said, “I suppose hooves and feet aren’t mutually exclusive. So, which way to the mall?”

I pointed down the hill. “Five blocks. Take the east entrance or you’ll have to walk in through the food court, and have cheese popcorn smell in your nose the whole time.”

Vern thanked me, then turned and went on his way, in a manner I would describe as
merry
.

I started walking home, mulling over the news of the day.

Vern didn’t seem upset at all about Dalton’s secret getting out. He’d been disappointed with life in Beaverdale the previous time he was there, until I gave him a few pointers about making an effort, and now he acted like an eager transplant.

Had Vern released Dalton’s secrets to the media? He’d always seemed so loyal.

Who knew, besides me and Vern? I didn’t know who else Dalton had confided in, besides his manager and legal team. Could one of them have slipped up? Delicious secrets were difficult to keep.

That awful girl, Alexis, knew, but they were making friends with each other now. And besides, she’d known for years.

So, why now?

More importantly, without Keith around to keep me busy, how was I going to stay away from that charming liar, Dalton-whatever-his-real-name-was?

Shayla took me out that night to drink and get my mind off all things Dalton-related.