Butterfly Tattoo (19 page)

“I better not run into him ever,” I say, feeling the rush of adrenaline—the male need to protect. “And if he calls you again on my watch, I’m gonna explain a few things to him.”

“Thanks, but I think he’s just having a life crisis or something. It’s weird, but I’ve actually forgiven him.”

“How’d you manage that?” I’m thinking of Robert Bridges and how my hatred toward him for killing Alex just never dies down.

“Because me going around bitter isn’t going to change the facts,” she explains with remarkable calm. “Jake dumped me because my career was over, and he didn’t think he could afford to be associated with that. Because, as he said, ‘In this town, you can’t be damaged goods.’”

“What an asshole.” I scowl in disbelief. “And you loved this guy?”

“I thought so at the time, yes. He could actually be quite charming.”

“Well, he was wrong, just so you know,” I say, wanting to be sure she really gets how I feel, that I’m not like this creep from her past. “You’re not damaged goods, Rebecca. You’re all the perfect I need.”

“But,” she reminds me in a careful whisper, brushing a hand over her heart, “you haven’t seen all the rest.”

I comb my fingers through her hair, revealing the part of her disfigurement that I
have
seen. “Yeah, that’s true, I haven’t seen the rest.” Leaning down to kiss her scarred cheek, I say, “But neither had Jake when he said that.”

For a moment, she stares at me wide-eyed, surprised, as if the thought had never even crossed her mind before now, that Jake broke up with her before the bandages came off.

Then she leans close, burying her face against my chest. We hold each other like that, me stroking her silky hair, feeling her heart hammering against mine, her arms wrapped around me. For once, I don’t even care what comes next.

That’s what I’m thinking when she whispers against my heart, “Maybe it’s just me who needs more time.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper back. “It’s okay ’cause I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Chapter Fifteen: Rebecca

“Please tell me Johnny Jordan is actually smart in person,” Trevor says, grilling Cat about her current leading man in the film she’s shooting over at Universal. “He’s always mentioning Nietzsche and Neil Gaiman in the same breath during interviews. And you know what a turn-on intelligence is for me.”

Cat sips her martini, smiling slyly. “No comment.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to Johnny Jordan’s sexual orientation or his intelligence rating—and I’m not sure Trevor actually cares about either. Like the rest of America, he just wants tidbits. We once crashed a Christmas party up in the Hills because he’d heard a rumor that Johnny would be there.

“Is he… or isn’t he?” I laugh. “That is the question. Of course you have terrible taste in celebrities, so it hardly matters.”

Cat high-fives me across the table. “Go girl,” she says. “Preach it, now!”

Trevor blows me a sulky air-kiss. “Yes, well Jules is about to make you, darling Rebecca, so you’re allowed no snarky innuendo about
my
celebrities.”

He’s right, of course; in fact, that’s why we’re doing the post-work drinks round up with Cat, a little mini-celebration of the Kingsley option.

As much as Golden Boy irks me on principle, his book
is
lyrical and brilliant and it’s the first time since my attack that I can remember feeling any kind of professional excitement at all. Maybe Mom was right about God bringing us our dreams in ways we don’t anticipate. All I know is I’m nearly as charged tonight as I was that day my agent phoned me with the role of Mary Agnes Hill on
About the House
. From the way Trevor and Cat keep grinning at me, I can tell that the joy of this moment must be written all across my face.

It doesn’t hurt knowing that Michael Warner’s in my life, either. As complicated as that relationship has the potential to be, he’s the most pure, sweet love interest I’ve had since leaving Georgia. It’s in how honest and true Michael is, something that makes him utterly unlike all the other guys I’ve met in this town. As the good ole boys back home would say, “he means what he says, and he says what he means.” And while all that truthful energy does kind of make me a little skittish, I know that what scares me most of all is simply me.

I notice that Trevor keeps checking his watch, and I lean forward, curious. “Hot plans later?”

“Oh, some Hollywood bowling league thing.” He brushes his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his seat to survey the scene. “Another fun night in the city of dreams.”

“That is so not fun.” I laugh. “See, that’s not even close to fun.”

Trevor gives my hand a sardonic pat. “Other people can appreciate a good night of sport, darling.”

“Other people aren’t professional hermits,” Cat interjects, grinning innocently at me.

“I am not a hermit.” I pop an olive from my martini. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m out right now. And I was at your birthday party a few weeks back.”

Trevor leans across the table confidingly. “She does have a new beau.”

“Thank you.” I smile in smug satisfaction. “Exhibit A. Michael Warner, my new boyfriend.”

“Oh, but you totally met him in your office, so that doesn’t count.” She waves me off, sipping her scotch. “I’m talking, literally right there, no?”

When I cry foul, they both just laugh at me. “Face it, Rebecca,” Cat declares, leaning in to kiss my cheek, “you’re the most reclusive person I know in Hollywood who actually manages to be successful. I don’t even get how you make that happen.”

Trevor leans back in his chair, studying me with an objective gaze, like he’s an investor sizing up my worth. “She’s bloody good at what she does,” he concludes, “otherwise she could never get away with it.”

“All right, guys,” I argue, “think about it. I do lunch every day, I’m at tracking breakfasts, agent parties. You name it. Oh, and don’t forget how much I read. I read absolutely everything.”

A sly smile spreads across Trevor’s face. “Including certain projects that I attempt to secret away in my desk. You can’t get anything past our girl,” he says, tipping his glass against mine with a hale salute of, “Cheers! Kudos to you on Julian’s deal, sweetie.”

“That’s right, Trev!” Cat slugs him playfully on the shoulder. “Make her step up to the plate. Credit where credit’s due.”

“Okay, okay,” I agree, holding my hands up in surrender. “I did the deal. I’m the master of the universe tonight.”

“Brava, darling,” Trev enthuses. “Brava, indeed. Soon we’ll make a regular egomaniac out of you—oh look, there’s Jeremy Rinzler.” Trevor indicates a secluded table on the far side of the bar. Jeremy, an executive at New Line, lifts his drink in salutation and I wave back. Thankfully, Trevor agrees to do the meet and greet gig on my behalf.

Watching Trevor’s easy manner, the way he laughs and leans in to make obviously clever remarks as he pumps Jeremy’s hand, I envy him. Without a doubt, he’s the most effortless person I know. Effortlessly funny, effortlessly smart, effortlessly handsome. From his Kenneth Cole shirt to his Alain Mikli wireframes to his meticulously tousled hair, he’s the image of sophisticated perfection. And yet, I’ve seen behind the curtain enough to realize that’s merely an impression.

“Will you
look
at him?” Cat observes appreciatively, sipping her scotch beside me. “That boy’s got the gift, my friend.”

“The gift of what precisely? Of being natural at everything?” I whine in a fit of momentary spitefulness toward my best friend. Maybe Jeremy Rinzler’s gay.

“Don’t hate him because he’s beautiful,” she croons, watching Trevor with an appreciative grin, then turns to me. “Hey, and speaking of beautiful, Evan Beckman was asking about you the other day.”

Okay, so she lays
this
zinger on me, and then doesn’t even bother to look up to gauge my reaction? Evan is the director on her current feature, one that’s already generating major Oscar hype—including whispers of a nomination for Cat for her supporting role as a sexy Latin singer. All this before it’s even in the can, but that’s Evan’s reputation. He’s young and visionary and everyone in town is clawing to work with him.

“Evan Beckman? Now who’s that again?”

This time, the dark feline eyes raise to meet mine, narrowing to mischievous slits. “I told Evan that you’re looking great,” she answers smoothly. “That you should meet.”

“Is he looking for a new d-girl or something?”

Cat rolls her eyes in exaggerated agitation. “Geez, would you shut up already? I’m talking about your
acting
career!”

“Hey, you’re the one egging me on with these casual side comments of, ‘Evan asked about you.’”

“He did ask about you!”

“You know what I mean.” Then I lean close across the table, joining her conspiracy. “But tell me everything he said!”

Cat’s face lights up. “His words were, ‘I think she has something very interesting. Bring her around before we wrap.’”

“He didn’t really say that,” I ask, incredulous. “Did he?”

“I’m serious. Apparently he’s hooked on reruns of the show, and thinks you have…” She taps her forefinger against her head to dislodge some near-forgotten remark. “That you have brilliant comedic understatement. That’s
exactly
what he said.”

“But come on, Cat, who would hire—” I gesture at my face for emphasis, “—
this
? He’s Evan Beckman, why would he even think about hiring me?”

For a long moment she inspects me, her dark gaze roaming the whole of my features, and if she weren’t one of my dearest friends, I’d flinch beneath such close scrutiny of my scars. “Rebecca, you have a really remarkable look,” she pronounces gently. “And you’re still gorgeous. Some directors—smart ones like Evan—are looking for a distinctive look like that. I’ve been saying it’s time you got back out to auditions.”

“You do realize Bernie fired me?”

“So what?” She scowls in distaste. “He’s Jake-tainted anyway, and he’s not the only agent around.”

“Evan Beckman.” I sigh, contented just knowing he thinks I’m talented. Funny how that naive girl from Georgia, thrilled by rave reviews, can still come out to play even now.

Then my plucky optimism fades a bit. “I wonder if he wants to direct Julian’s movie?” I hate being cynical, but it’s the next thought popping into my head: that he’s hoping to attach to the project, and will use me to get it.

“Rebecca! This was last week, before anybody even knew about Julian’s deal.”

I smile again, feeling radiant inside. “Then I can be excited for about five minutes, right?”

“I think you can be excited from now on, girl.”

What a radical concept: I could actually act again. No agent, no job, loads of scars, but Evan Beckman is asking about me. At this rate, maybe I’ll even forget all those average days eventually.

***

While we’re waiting in the valet line, braving heat that’s still suffocating even this late in the day, Cat starts in with the Michael Warner survey. I notice that Trevor falls silent, and since that’s such an unusual occurrence, it catches my attention.

“Have you told her the full story?” he asks after Cat waxes dreamy about Michael for a while.

“What full story?” Her black eyes widen in curiosity.

“
Trevor
.” I smile, but my silencing glare telegraphs another message entirely. I hadn’t planned to let Cat in on that aspect of my new guy, at least not yet. I feel incredibly protective of Michael, and I don’t want anything said that might hurt him—or Andrea—later on.

“No, no, no,” Cat cries, grasping at my arm like the professional gossip-hound she can be. “I need to know. What full story?” The valet driver squeals up to the curb with her BMW, but she stands her ground, unwilling to move until she wrangles the truth out of me.

Folding his arms over his chest, Trevor sighs and looks away disinterestedly. Sometimes he’s such an ornery little priss, it really ticks me off.

“Ma’am?” the young valet driver calls, holding the door of Cat’s car expectantly.

“He has a daughter,” I allow, hoping to throw Cat off the scent. “An eight-year-old, a really precious girl.”

“Wow, so it’d be like, not just a guy, but a kid, huh?” she says. “That’s interesting.” Great, my little tidbit worked like a charm, and she leans in, pecking me on both cheeks. Then, as she’s sliding into the seat of her car, and I’m letting loose a sigh of relief, she looks back, calling, “What about the ex? What happened to her?”

Trevor peers at me, a slight smirk on his face. I was nearly home free for a moment there. “We’ll talk about that part later,” I call to her, noncommittal as I wave goodbye. “It’s a long story.”

“Oh, oh, oh.” Cat laughs through her open car window. “Girlfriend’s gotten herself into a big mess, hasn’t she, Trevor?”

He slips his arm around me, making peace. “Well, it’s a
lovely
mess,” he answers pointedly, winking at me. “We’ll give our girl that.”

“And it’s a mess that makes me
happy
, unlike some of my other messes,” I say to Trevor as we wave goodbye to Cat.

“Darling,” Trevor says with a wry grin, “the happy messes are the only ones worth bothering about.”

Chapter Sixteen: Michael

Waiting in baggage claim for Laurel to arrive seems to last forever, a real study in patience for a guy like me. It’s damn hot for one thing: an oppressive heat wave spiked temperatures into the upper nineties by late morning, and now that the afternoon’s here, the city’s a regular boiler room. I only hope the weather’s not some kind of omen about this visit.

Andrea keeps wandering off, too, which makes me crazy, and I have to keep following after her. “Andie!” I call to where she’s flipping through some tourist brochures. She doesn’t even glance my way; in fact seems to turn her back more pointedly against me as I call, “Andrea, come back over here with me.”

When I reach her, she rolls her eyes. “Michael, it’s not a big deal. You can see me fine from right over there.”

“I don’t care. Come back over now,” I insist, glancing up the escalator for any sign of Laurel. “Besides, it’s not polite to be over there. You need to be waiting for your aunt.”

“I am waiting,” she argues, and finally I just give up, wiping the sweat away from my brow, closely watching my daughter from the sidelines.

When the sign flashes that Laurel’s flight has arrived from Albuquerque, my nervous anxiety spikes upward by a few notches, and I try to rein Andrea in. “Sweetie, look, her plane’s here, so any minute now she’s gonna be coming down that escalator. Any minute.”

To my surprise, Andrea does become compliant then, standing beside me dutifully, chattering about all the things she wants to show her aunt. The art project that won the Best Overall award for third grade; Jerry’s World Famous Deli down at the end of our street; her new doll, the one Laurel sent her a few weeks ago. But to my supreme mortification and anxiety, Andrea is most interested—more than absolutely anything else—in sharing my new girlfriend with her. Rebecca O’Neill and the Richardson family are on a collision-course trajectory, and while I knew it was coming, I’m still not sure what to make of it.

“There she is!” Andie scampers away from the baggage carousel to the foot of the escalator, waving exuberantly at her aunt. Laurel looks as beautiful as ever, maybe even thinner, and she’s always been rail-thin to begin with. Long and willowy, that’s Laurel’s look, with porcelain skin. She has shiny black hair down the length of her back, gypsy style. And clear blue eyes exactly like her late twin’s. That’s what I notice when we first make eye contact, and it spooks me in spite of myself.

“Hello, Michael.” Laurel steps off the escalator, leaning in to kiss my cheek. A delicate whisper of a kiss, practically like air brushing past, and then her full attention locks on Andrea. “Hello, my pumpkin!” she cries, folding Andrea tight in her embrace. Andie buries her face against Laurel’s shoulder, holding on hard. I doubt I’ve gotten a hug like that out of her in more than a year. Over Andrea’s head, again Laurel’s translucent eyes meet mine, and I’m not sure exactly what it is I see. Affection? Guilt? An apology?

I don’t keep the gaze long enough to find out. “Look, we gotta go get your bag.” I gesture toward the carousel. “This is L.A., you know, not Santa Fe.”

The words come out like an accusation of sorts, but Laurel gives me one of her opaque looks and nods. “Of course, Michael,” she says, holding onto Andrea’s hand as she rises to her feet. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“No problem.”

“And thank you for inviting me.” She searches my face, but this time I say nothing. After all, I
didn’t
invite her here, never would have; I simply complied with her plan because I have no other choice in the matter. Not when she’s made it painfully clear that when it comes to Andrea, she’s the one with all the control. “I’m hoping we’ll have a nice visit,” she persists. The three of us walk toward the carousel, the flopping sound of her thong sandals loud on the polished floor.

“That’d be good,” I agree, wondering how I’ll ever make it through the next four days.

“I’ve missed you, Michael,” she says, just like the other night on the phone. I roll my eyes at that one, and don’t even care if she sees, but she’s already turned toward Andrea anyway, saying, “I’ve brought you a present, pumpkin.” I’m about to complain about the preponderance of gifts lately when she goes on to announce: “And I brought something for you, too Michael.” She holds up a large shopping bag by the handles, showing me.

I shove my hands into my pockets. “An American Girl doll’s not really my style, you know.”

She actually laughs. Hard to believe, but I can still joke with her a little and get a good reaction, which is as much a tribute to our former friendship as it is to the lack of it these days.

“No,” she says, tossing her long, silken mane over her shoulder. “Something I made for the house.”

Oh, crap. I hadn’t even thought about all those damn paintings I took down after Al’s death. She’s going to notice that right away.

“What’d you bring me?” Andrea asks, walking backwards so she can face her aunt as we move toward the baggage carousel. “Oh, and I love my Felicity doll!
Love
her, she’s so cool. I can’t wait to show you my room…” And she doesn’t stop, just rattles on about her life, her toys, her friends, the dangers of learning to rollerblade if you live in a hilly neighborhood.

As I stand beside them, listening, watching the same pieces of luggage go round and round, I feel like I’ve been here before. Been on the outside, face pressed up to the glass, trying to find a way back in. Laurel listens, just nodding and encouraging her niece, and I sense my child orbiting away from me. I haven’t gotten this much out of her in a month.

It’s that Richardson gift: the ability to do all the listening and make the other person feel perfectly affirmed. Alex had it—one reason he was such a good doctor, with his knack for getting his patients to open up to him. Laurel has it, uses it to “hear” her paintings, that’s what she once told me. They got it from Ellen, of course, who has always had a world of patience for listening to me.

And in this particular instance, with Andrea talking to her aunt at record speed, it only points out that maybe Laurel
was
right a year ago. Maybe Andrea would have been better off living with her, instead of here in L.A. with me.

***

Stepping into the kitchen, the house feels cool and quiet compared to the choking L.A. traffic we just fought our way through out on the freeways. Late afternoon heat rolled like a mirage off the asphalt, and it seemed like we’d never get here, like I’d never survive all the polite chitchat volleying between us. The 405 was log-jammed with cars because of an overturned truck, and edging past that accident only made me more cranky and irritable about this whole damn visit.

Laurel shakes out her hair, dropping her shopping bag to the floor along with her funky, beaded purse. Andie slips past me, scampering to her bedroom ahead of her aunt while I lug Laurel’s expensive suitcase back to the guest room. She follows me, wordless, as she sees her brother’s house again for the first time since his death. Her movements are pensive as she steps through the living room toward the back hallway. I know she’s wondering where all her damned paintings went, but that would require a trip to the attic for me to show her all the loving care I used in warehousing them all. Just ’cause she hurt me doesn’t mean I wouldn’t protect such a material reminder of my years with Allie.

Andrea and I’ve spent the past year steadily erasing Alex’s fingerprint from this place. Bedroom shoes, eyeglasses, razor, toothbrush, these are the things that mark a home as belonging to someone distinct, and so long as that person is alive, you take every balled-up athletic sock, every discarded tissue and half-finished Coke for granted. It’s only afterward, when you wander through each room, that you’re spooked by the illusion that your lover might simply waltz through the ether into your bedroom, slip on those eyeglasses, and finish the novel he left cocked open bedside.

Of course Laurel doesn’t understand that as she wanders through each room, admiring what I’ve done with the place since Allie’s death—which is exactly nothing. But it’s been a few years since she’s visited; the last time was when Andrea was about five. So the leather sofa we bought a couple of years ago, and the thick hand-woven rug, and the mission-style entertainment center—those are all new to her. She drops to the floor, admiring the rug. “This is great,” she says, tracing her fingers over the pattern.

“Al bought it up around Monterey.” Shoving my hands deep into my jean pockets, I rock back on my heels. For some reason it hurts, talking about that trip we made together, like it was only yesterday.

“I never knew he liked this kind of thing.”

“Sure he did.”

“I guess I always thought he was a little more…” She pauses, fingering the fibers and texture. “I don’t know. Classic.”

“Guess it’d be hard to say, sitting two states away.”

A whole damn lot she didn’t know about her brother, no matter how well she thought she understood him. Especially not in death, when it came to what he would’ve wanted from her with his family. I think of the past year, all that’s happened between Laurel and me, of how our only communication for a while consisted of angry phone calls and lawyerish e-mails. And then just silence, Laurel always trying to reach me, while I just spun farther and farther away.

Without a word, Laurel rises to her feet and continues meandering through the house, down the back hallway, until she notices our family portrait—that same one Rebecca admired on our first date. “Oh, my.” She stops, studying it appreciatively with a kind of awed hush as she clasps her hands over her heart. “Oh, look at all of you.”

I pace beside her, unable to stand still. Unable to tolerate the dishonest reverence she’s displaying toward her brother and the family we fought so hard to weld together.

“Yeah, it’s a good picture,” I mumble as I move on toward the guest room, and after a moment, I hear her Birkenstocks clopping behind me on the hardwoods. “This is the guest room.” I shove the door open gruffly with the palm of my hand. “Bathroom’s connected. You know the drill.”

“Yes, I have stayed here before, Michael,” she reminds me, her clear eyes bright and teasing, but I ignore her attempt at familiar warmth. I follow her in, then hoist the suitcase onto the queen-sized bed. She enters the room cautiously, tiptoeing toward the open closet where Alex’s old suits now hang. I’ve stockpiled a lot of his stuff in here—suits and dress slacks and the like, much of it preserved in plastic dry-cleaning bags. His winter sweaters are in the dresser, the cashmere and hand-knit stuff he loved when it got cold enough.

“You kept all this?” she asks in a choked voice, folding her arms over her chest with a protective shiver.

“Couldn’t get rid of it,” I explain with an offhand shrug. “Couldn’t figure out what to do, exactly, so yeah, it’s here for now. The stuff I don’t wear.”

She trails her fingertips over all his suits that aren’t sealed off, sifting through each sleeve and bit of material with quiet reverence. Until she discovers his long suede jacket, that caramel-colored duster he wore from college until he died—the one he refused to give up despite juice stains from Andrea’s babyhood and ink stains from his office. She presses it longingly to her face, inhaling, a lost child burying her face in a beloved blanket. I’m startled when a quiet sound escapes from her throat, a slight moan of grief, and even with all the fury I’ve felt toward her, tears still burn my eyes.

“Oh!” she cries out in an anguished voice, stroking her hands over the familiar worn suede. “It’s so stupid, Michael, but I thought maybe, somehow, it would still smell like him.”

God, don’t I know that feeling? Just like me in his surfboard room, or slouching in his T-shirts, it’s no different at all.

“It’s been too long for that, Laurel,” I answer, gruffer than I intend to be. “He’s been gone more than a year.” I won’t tell her that sometimes I do still catch his scent now and then, like a gift right from God in heaven.

She glances at me over her shoulder, a melancholy expression on her face. “All this time, I kept thinking there was someplace he’d been hiding.”

“Thought maybe it was here?”

“I know that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, I always think he’s still over at the hospital working,” I concede gently. “Keep thinking I just gotta go see him, that’s all. Spooks me a little every time I drive near the place.”

She turns to face me, running her fingers down the shiny length of her black hair, smoothing it. “How have you possibly done this, Michael?” she asks, searching my face. “How have you managed?”

I shrug. “You do what you gotta do.”

She smiles, a beatific, forgiving expression that mirrors one I often see on her mother’s face. “You’ve done an excellent job, Michael,” she affirms, and I know what’s coming next—some kind of commentary on Andrea and my single parenting skills—so I cut her off at the pass.

“Look, I’m gonna go make some coffee, okay?” I turn my back on her, walking toward the doorway, fast. “Make yourself at home—”

“I want to make peace with you, Michael.” Her voice is electric-quiet, shocking me sure as if I’d reached out my hand and touched her. “That’s what I want. It’s why I’m here.”

“It’s pretty late for that, Laurel.”

“Why?” she pleads, with the childlike innocence that is forever surprising me about her. “Why is it too late?”

I sigh, and turn back to find the liquid blue eyes wide and beseeching me. Softening, I say, “Look, I kind of thought I was gonna see you a few weeks ago, up in Santa Cruz, for the anniversary. Thought we were gonna do this scene then.”

“Is that what you really needed?” she asks, earnest in her question. “For me to be there?”

I shake my head. “Nah, not really.”

“And would it have made a difference if I’d come?” she asks, stepping toward me, hands opening. “Would you have forgiven me then, Michael?”

“Like I said, Laurel. It’s pretty late for that.”

Her gaze lifts, and this time there’s a fragility there that I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. At least not but one other time—the day we put Alex in the ground.

“Michael, I honestly didn’t think you needed me there, not that day.”