Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) (11 page)

Nick grinned, though Ben had the feeling it was in spite of himself. “Okay. Glad that’s understood. Now let me show you where you can clean up.”

Forty-five minutes later, Ben was washed, shaved, and dressed in clothes that fit his frame but not his style. Nick’s jeans were too loose, and his shirts were more appropriate to the frozen north than the Great White Way. At least his head was beginning to clear.

Although one look at his phone, after fishing it out of his coat pocket, changed that.

Fifteen voicemails and eight unanswered texts. His stomach squeezed. He ignored the voicemails and scanned through the texts. All of them were variations on a theme: WTF.

He turned to leave the bedroom Jo had given him, hoping to find her and ask if she had a charger he could borrow, when his phone rang. Only this time, the name that flashed on the screen didn’t turn his bowels to butter.

Yvonne Plummer.

Ben tapped to accept the call and yanked his phone to his ear so fast it made him dizzy. “Yvonne.”

“Ben,” she answered without hesitation. “Where are you?”

He hesitated. “Maine. Where are you?”

“Manhattan.” Her voice brooked no nonsense. “So, you want to tell me why you just committed professional suicide? Because I’m pretty sure ‘You’ll never work in this town again’ is more than a cheap cliché for you now.”

Chapter Eight

Ben squeezed out a breath and sank to sit on the guest bed. He still needed to make the bed, but at the moment he had bigger problems.

“Never is a long time,” he reasoned, keeping his voice steady while rubbing his eyes.

“Never is what you’re staring in the face right now.” Trust Yvonne to lay it all out there.

He shifted his hand from his eyes to run his fingers through his hair, nails on his scalp. “I wasn’t involved with anything that happened to Pamela, or in Ted finding out about Brenda. The truth will come out, people will see that, and by spring everyone will have forgotten this whole sordid mess.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with it,” Yvonne fired back. “By spring, everyone will have moved on to the next scandal, but Ben, sweetie, by fleeing the city and disappearing from radar, your friends on the Great White Way will forever smell smoke when you come near, whether there was ever a fire or not.”

Ben’s hand dropped to the bed. Goddamn Yvonne for being even a little bit right. The Pollards didn’t control all of Broadway—only a small portion of it, in fact—there were any number of other options he could explore, but with a taint on his name, it would be like starting all over again. He hadn’t busted his ass for more than twenty years and clawed his way to the top only to have to do it all over again.

“Sweetie, you’re a little too quiet right now.” Yvonne’s sharp-edged voice bit at him from the other end of the line. “Tell me.”

“I’m not ready for the final curtain.” Trite, cliché, but at the moment, it was the best he could muster.

He expected Yvonne to come back with something along the lines of “Get in there and fight the good fight,” or “It’s just the end of Act One, you’ll kill them in Act Two,” or “New York is filled with opportunity. Go out and grab the next one.”

Instead, she said, “Fuck the curtain. Fuck Broadway altogether.”

Ben’s brow zipped up. Even his hangover cleared with the force of those f-bombs. “Excuse me?”

Yvonne tsked. “Look, honey. You’re not my client, like Spence or Simon or Adelaide, but you are my friend. And trust me, there ain’t many people who get to claim that title.”

Her wry drawl was enough to coax a smile to Ben’s lips. “I’m touched,” he returned with as much sarcasm as she had used. They both knew the other was serious.

“Okay, so Broadway is burning right now,” she went on. “You got muddled up in some garbage and ended up with a black eye. What do you really want? Broadway accolades and adoration or a career as a damn good director?”

Her question came as footsteps reached the top of the stairs. Moments later, Jo walked past the open guest room door. She peeked at him as she passed, expression concerned. Ben’s heart lurched in his chest. Another moment later, and a door somewhere along the hallway opened.

“Honestly, Yvonne,” Ben sighed, forcing his focus back to the problem at hand. “I want both.”

“Both isn’t an option,” Yvonne snapped. “And since you’re not getting my point, I’ll tell you what it is.”

“Please. Do,” he drawled.

“
Second Chances
. The show didn’t get that name for nothing. You’re already slated to direct four episodes of season three. Let me work my magic, and I can get you a few more.”

“Television,” Ben huffed. He couldn’t muster the same derision Jett and Ashton has used when they made the comparison to theater.

“That’s right,
television
.” Yvonne latched on to his scorn and fired back with bigger guns. “Let the purists keep their noses in the air, but right now, you and I both know that some of the best writing—not to mention the finest acting—in the entertainment industry is happening on the small screen. You want a list of Broadway’s finest that have turned to television to boost their careers and take them to the next level? Honey, that list is too long.”

“So I gather,” he hummed, but her speech was having the effect she probably wanted it to. A spark of hope itched in his chest.

“So join it. Throw yourself into
Second Chances
, and maybe you’ll get one for yourself,” Yvonne finished.

In spite of himself, Ben grinned. “You’ve got quite a way with words, Yvonne. You and Jo should get together sometime.”

“Who’s Joe? You’d better not be trying to set me up. If he’s not a cabana boy, I’m not interested.”

“
Josephine
,” Ben clarified, “is a new friend of mine. She happens to be a writer. A real, actual, talented writer.”

Jo chose that moment to walk past his open door again. She paused, glancing into the room and meeting Ben’s eyes with a ridiculously sexy, bashful smile. Ben winked at her. She pressed her fingers to her lips and hurried on and down the stairs. His whole body heated and expanded.

Ah, libido. There you are, old friend. I thought you’d left me too
.

To Yvonne, he said, “Somehow, in my inebriated state last night, I managed to find my way up to Jo’s house in Maine.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. And she has been incredibly gracious.” That too was meant to sound teasing, but came out with genuine feeling. He owed Jo more than he wanted to think about.

As usual, Yvonne missed nothing. “Josephine the writer, you say.” She finished her comment with a hum.

Ben toyed with the idea of telling her they were only friends, it was nothing to get excited about, but instinct kept his lips tight. That and the fact that he wasn’t sure whether telling her that would constitute lying.

Perfect. Just what he needed right now. His heart on a joyride and the return of his long-lost scruples.

“I’ll be back in New York by tomorrow at the latest,” he said, standing and twisting so that he could start making the bed with one hand. “I’m bound to have to face the fire at some point, so why not now?”

“I’ll tell you why not.” Yvonne stopped him mid sheet-tug. “Filming for season three starts in nine days. There’s no point in coming all the way back down here to give yourself a stomach ache. Stay where you are. Take a few days of vacation. Get your head in the right place for the job you have instead of banging it against the wall of the job you lost.”

“I haven’t lost the job,” he corrected her, resuming making the bed with harsher movements. “I’ve lost financiers and a few fair-weather friends. I can still get it back.”

“Maybe,” Yvonne conceded. “But in the meantime, why don’t I stop by your apartment and pack a suitcase for you? I’m heading up there soon myself anyhow. I’ll bring the suitcase to Sand Dollar Point, and you can pick it up from Spence at your leisure.”

He should argue against the point. It was bad enough that he’d fled New York in the first place. Wouldn’t staying away now that the flames were consuming his career be admitting defeat? He should go back and fight, really stick it to the Pollards, to Adam, and to anyone else sick enough to think he’d sell out colleagues who trusted him.

From downstairs, he heard Jo’s soothing voice ask, “You going out?”

“Yeah,” Nick answered, followed by the shuffle of some sort of fabric, possibly a coat and a bag. “I’m picking up a couple extra bucks shooting a wedding for a friend of a friend tomorrow. I’ll be in Portland overnight.”

“Okay. Have fun.”

Ben turned to the door. Jo would be alone in this big, old house tonight. Troubles or no, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of him to leave her alone and unprotected. Who knew what beasts might be prowling the night?

“All right,” he told Yvonne. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll stay in Maine.”

“Josephine the writer,” Yvonne hummed.

“My suitcase is in the hall closet, next to the elevator. I’ll call Roger and tell him to let you into the apartment.”

Ben spent another five minutes giving Yvonne instructions for what to pack, where to find all of his toiletries, and which drawers she should not open under any circumstances. She thought the last bit was funny. At least someone did.

When that was all taken care of, he ended the call, slipped his phone into his back pocket, and finished making the bed. By the time he wandered downstairs, the house was filled with the settling quiet that only old buildings full of fond memories had.

“Jo?” he called after checking the kitchen and not finding her.

“In here.”

Her voice came from the other side of the house. He crossed back through the kitchen and dining room, past the bathroom that he really and truly needed to offer to clean with his toothbrush, and down the hall.

Jo was seated at the desk he’d spotted in a room that looked like a library. He thrust his hands into his pockets and glanced around at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves as he entered. The room smelled like the library in the century-old school he’d attended as a boy. He breathed it in, remembering far better times.

“This is incredible,” he said, walking to a shelf and taking down what turned out to be a first edition copy of Hemingway.

“We’ve always been bookaholics in my family,” Jo answered.

She didn’t get up from her desk—even though she swiveled her chair to face him—so he slipped Hemmingway back onto the shelf and wandered over to look at her computer. State-of-the-art. A printer and a pair of speakers fanned out around it, along with a short stack of historical research books. A word document with the title “Chapter One,” followed by a few paragraphs, was open on the screen.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I?” He winced, taking a step back.

“No. I need a break anyhow.” Jo sighed. She stood and rubbed her forehead before throwing a gesture at the computer screen. “No matter what I try to write, nothing is coming out right.”

“Oh?”

“Everything seems stupid. I don’t know why I think I can do this writing thing anyhow.”

Against his better judgment, Ben laughed. “It’s the curse of creative people everywhere. We’re the harshest critics of our own work.”

Jo managed a weak grin, but said, “It doesn’t help when your livelihood depends on knocking one out of the park.”

Once again, the slippery sensation that Jo knew what it was like to walk in his shoes—at least to a certain extent—struck him. She couldn’t have been more different from the people he knew in New York, but the problems she faced were eerily similar to his. Produce, sell, entertain, repeat.

“It also doesn’t help that this was in today’s mail.” She pivoted to swipe what looked like an invoice off of her desk.

Ben took it when she offered. Giroud’s Tree Service. The bill was for over eleven thousand dollars, the items being charged listed simply as “tree removal.”

He let out a long whistle. “For this kind of money, I should have become a tree surgeon instead of a director.” There was probably less drama in tree surgery too.

Jo took the bill back from him with a mirthless laugh. “That’s eleven thousand dollars I don’t have. And I’ve already maxed out my home equity line of credit repairing the roof and getting new gutters last spring.”

“Ah.”

She tossed the bill on the desk. “They don’t tell you that adulting involves these sort of things. Inheriting a hundred-year-old mansion should come with a warning label: Inheritor must be highly liquid.”

Ben could see clear as day that her attempts to be glib about the whole thing were masking a fear that might have been deeper than his own. It was there in the tight lines around Jo’s mouth, the dark circles under her eyes. If he had his way, he’d throw her over his shoulder and haul her upstairs to mess up that bed he’d just made. They’d both feel so much better.

“So tell me about what you’re trying to write,” he said.

Jo sighed and turned to her computer. “Diane—my agent—wants me to write a contemporary romance. They sell better than historicals. I’m trying to figure out something with a high-powered Manhattan billionaire and a nanny who—” she huffed an impatient sigh. “You know what? I can’t talk about this right now. In fact, right now, I really want to pick up the computer and throw it through the window.”

If he was lucky, brother Nick had a stash of condoms somewhere that Ben could tap into.

“I don’t particularly feel like talking about work either.” He opted for a grin instead.

Jo’s shoulder slumped, and she glanced at him with guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. Your problems are much worse than mine are.”

He laughed. “We could make a game out of that: Whose Problems Suck More?”

She chuckled, sitting against the edge of her desk. “You go first.”

“All right, I—” He stopped, posture slipping. “You know what? Let’s play this game somewhere else. I need to move around.”

“Me too.” She brightened. “I need to get away from these four walls before they crush me. And I know just the place.”

Summerbury Beach was the scene of some of Jo’s best childhood memories. Her parents had packed her and Nick into the car for the hour-long drive almost every weekend from May to September. They’d jumped in the waves, eaten ice cream, watched movies, and generally been a family together in those days. Jo couldn’t name too many people who had enjoyed such normal, loving, secure childhoods. If only a secure childhood translated to smooth sailing later in life.