Fade to Black (27 page)

He’s sitting sprawled on the burgundy leather couch, his legs straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and his hand rubbing his goatee thoughtfully.

Beside him on the couch is an impeccably dressed studio executive who happened to be in town for a meeting and came by to hear her read.

In a matching wing chair off to the side sits Flynn, and he nods encouragingly at Rae when she catches his eye.

She’s careful to maintain her Mallory-sparkle, to give a flippant little curtsy the way Mallory might, to casually toss her hair—worn in Mallory’s signature style, blown straight and swept back from her face with a side part.

“Thank you,” de Lisser says at last, rising, along with the studio exec, whose name escapes her.

Bob, or Tom, or Jim—something like that.

She knows she should have been more careful to make note of it; it’s just that she had been so nervous when she was introduced earlier.

It hadn’t helped that they’d been forced to fly up here on a tiny twin-engine plane that kept shuddering and lurching, or that the landing at the Sonoma County Airport had been a perilously bumpy one, thanks to the wind.

Rae has never been crazy about flying; she avoids it whenever possible.

But damn, she would have personally taken the controls of Wilbur and Orville’s original glider in a hurricane if that were her only means of getting here for this audition.

She can hardly believe de Lisser agreed to see her, or that the studio exec—what the
hell
was his name anyway?—happened to be in town.

“It was a pleasure—the script is very amusing,” Rae tells them, her voice a perfect echo of Mallory’s distinct cadence and accent She has worked painstakingly on it over the past twenty-four hours, reconstructing it not just from memory, but from videos of her late friend’s movies.

She had a French manicure, Mallory’s signature style. And she doused herself in Mallory’s favorite perfume, a buoyant floral fragrance that’s much lighter than Rae’s usual scent.

She’s even wearing Mallory’s clothing—a navy linen shift and matching pumps that her friend had lent her for an audition just a few weeks before her death. It’s been hanging in the back of Rae’s closet ever since, neatly pressed, its classic style pleasingly current.

“Would you mind stepping outside for a few moments?” de Lisser is asking Rae.

“No problem.”

“Lita will show you the way to the sunroom. It was nice meeting you.”

“You too, Mr. de Lisser.” The words are more casual than any Rae would have spoken; this is Mallory’s breezy, chummy style.

She goes over, shakes his hand, again in a laid-back, easy manner. She moves next to the executive whose name she has forgotten, shaking his hand and saying warmly, “I’m so glad you happened to be in town.”

“I am too,” he says, casting a glance at de Lisser, a glance that sends a chill of apprehension down Rae’s spine.

Are they interested?

She’ll know soon enough, she thinks as she follows the bony, black-clad Lita from the room, leaving Flynn Soderland alone with the director and studio suit.

They head down a long hall that runs the length of the house, lined with rooms that appear, from the glances Rae sneaks, to be impeccably furnished and decorated in California modern.

“You can wait here,” Lita says as they reach the end of the hall. She opens a pair of French doors, and Rae sees that they lead to a glassed-in room at the back of the house.

It’s large, airy, and sun-splashed, with a white and dark blue ceramic tile floor and white wicker furniture mat’s pleasantly accented by plump cushions in navy and white ticking fabric. There are lush tropical plants everywhere. The cheerful chirping from several caged tropical birds and the steady trickling of water from a stone fountain in one corner adds to the illusion of being outside.

“Have a seat,” Lita offers in her vague monotone.

“Thanks.”

Rae perches stiffly on the edge of an armchair.

Then, belatedly remembering that she’s still Mallory, she crosses one bare, tanned leg over the other and leans back, as though she hasn’t a care in the world.

“So … good luck.” Lita’s voice is detached.

“Thanks.”

The model nods, drifting out of the room with a gesture that’s really more of a shrug than a wave.

Bitch
, Rae thinks.
You don’t wish me luck. You couldn’t care less whether I get this role. You probably want it for yourself
.

She lets out a nervous, quiet sigh and checks her watch, wondering whether she’s in for a long wait.

M
anny looks around the Providence bus terminal, trying to appear to anyone who might be watching as though he hasn’t a care in the world.

Everyone seems to be minding their own business, reading the
Journal News
or chatting with a companion—except for an elderly lady who’s seated against the wall, sipping coffee in a paper Dunkin’ Donuts cup and munching on a muffin. She looks right at Manny when he glances at her, and she frowns slightly, as though wondering what a boy his age is doing alone in a big, busy bus terminal.

He’s wondering the same thing himself.

Running away might not have been such a good idea, he now realizes. For one thing, the local bus he’d ridden just to get this far had eaten most of the money he’d had with him—which, actually, was the few dollars’ worth of change he’d found when he opened his piggy bank that morning. He’d been stuffing spare dimes and nickels into it for so long that he’d been certain he’d find a fortune, but when he’d added it all up, he was sick.

How far is he going to get?

He’s decided to go to California, because it’s as far away as you can get from Rhode Island and still be in the same country. He figures that he’ll go to Hollywood and become a big movie star. They’re always looking for talented kids now that Macauley Culkin’s voice has changed, and besides, Rhonda said Manny is one of the best actors she’s ever seen.

He feels a pang at the thought of the play he’ll never get to star in. He had been looking forward to getting up there onstage; he’d even dared to imagine that Grammy and Grampa might be in the audience. He had told them about it, and Grammy had said they’d try to come.

There’s only one person he’d been certain would attend his big night. Elizabeth. He knew he could count on her to be there; she had said she was looking forward to it.

As soon as he gets to where he’s going, he’ll call her and let her know he’s all right. He has her phone number in his pocket.

Maybe she’ll even come out and visit him. If he gets a big movie right away, he’ll even buy her plane ticket, to pay her back for all the stuff she’s done for him.

Manny glances out the big plate-glass window at the Bonanza bus pulling into the spot marked Lane Two.

An announcement over the loudspeaker tells him that it will be boarding in five minutes, and it’s headed for New York City via Hartford and White Plains.

New York City.

There are a lot of movie stars there too—aren’t there?

Besides, New York is a lot closer to Rhode Island than Hollywood is. Maybe he should …

He hurries up to the ticket counter and waits impatiently while the man behind the desk tries to explain to some old guy who doesn’t speak English that he just missed the bus to Logan Airport and the next one doesn’t leave for almost two hours.

Finally, it’s Manny’s turn to step up.

“How much is a ticket to New York City?” he asks.

The man looks him over, opens his mouth like he’s going to ask Manny if he’s traveling alone.

“My grandma can’t remember how much the fare was, and I think she dropped her ticket somewhere,” Manny says quickly, motioning behind him in the general direction of the waiting area, where there are at least five vaguely confused-looking old ladies who might be mistaken for his grandmother.

“It’s twenty-nine ninety-five one way,” the man says, still appearing doubtful.

“Dollars?”

The man narrows his eyes, says, “Yes, dollars.”

“Okay, thank you,” Manny tells him, trying to hide his dismay.

Conscious of the guy’s eyes following him, he walks across the terminal and sits next to the muffin-eating, nosy old lady.

He decides he’d better talk to her, in case the counter guy is still watching.

“Are you going to New York City?” he asks her.

She tightens her grip on her handbag in her lap. “Yes,” she says, not unfriendly, but not grandmotherly warm either.

“So am I,” Manny tells her in a conversational tone.

“Alone?” She frowns.

“Yeah. I have to go visit my … sister. My mother’s dead.” Those last words, an afterthought, give him a great deal of satisfaction.

“That’s too bad,” the woman says.

“Yeah.” He shrugs.

The loudspeaker clicks on and a voice announces that the bus for New York City is now boarding in Lane Two.

The old woman stands, brushes the crumbs off her double-knit pink pants suit.

“Do you want some help carrying your bags?” Manny asks, an idea forming in his mind.

“No, I—”

“I can help you. I’m going on the same bus.”

All he has to do is walk next to this lady, and sneak past the guy standing in front of the open luggage bins in the side of the bus, collecting the tickets.

But that’s against the law!

So? You can’t afford a ticket. Someday, when you’re a rich, famous movie star, you can pay the bus company back
.

Besides, if you go back home now, you’ll get beat by Grampa for running away, and your mother will come after you
.

“All right, you can carry that suitcase,” the old lady has decided.

He obediently picks it up, finding it impossibly heavy. What does she have in there, giant rocks?

He starts lugging it toward the door, noticing that there’s a good long line waiting to board the bus.

He’s just a short little kid in the crowd. They’ll never notice him.

He and the lady wait in line.

“You go ahead of me. Ladies first,” he says as they get closer to the driver collecting the tickets.

The old woman actually cracks a smile and steps in front of Manny.

Finally, they reach the head of the line.

“Ticket, please?” the man says to the old woman.

She fumbles for it in the pocket of her jacket.

That’s Manny’s cue.

Still lugging her suitcase, he sidesteps her, then scoots around the ticket collector, who doesn’t seem to notice.

Home free
, Manny thinks, putting one foot on the step.

Then he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and a stern voice says, “Where do you think you’re going, son?”

R
ae doesn’t ask Flynn for the news until they’re in the limo, heading down the long, winding drive away from Martin de Lisser’s house.

She tries not to give away her anxiety, but realizes that her perfect French manicure is tapping a furious staccato against the tinted window of the car.

“Well?” she demands, turning to her new agent. “What did they say?”

“First of all,” he says, turning to her, “can I tell you that you were fabulous?”

She smiles.

“You
are
Mallory Eden,” he informs her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be spooked by you. You look like her, you sound like her, you even have her walk—that slow, nonchalant way she used to move around. How did you do it, and overnight, Rae?”

She doesn’t tell him about the tacks she placed inside the toes of the linen pumps, that every time she sets her feet down, she must do so gingerly, thus naturally slowing her gait and refraining from her usual, more purposeful stride.

“I’m an actress, remember?” is her slightly haughty reply to Flynn, who raises an appraising eyebrow.

“You certainly are,” he agrees mildly. “And your performance absolutely grabbed Martin’s attention. He’s interested, Rae. He and John are going to discuss it …”

Oh,
John. That
was the studio executive’s name.

“… and he’ll get back to us later on today, or tomorrow. But I really think that it’s possible that you might be cast. De Lisser commented on your reading. He said that it was like watching Mallory Eden’s ghost.”

Mallory Eden’s ghost
.

A shiver runs down Rae’s spine, once again, at the persistent image.

Mallory’s dead
, she reminds herself.

And she isn’t coming back....

No matter what she promised that long-ago day in Big Sur.

Rae smiles at Flynn, and she gestures at the stocked limousine bar opposite her. “Why don’t you open that bottle of champagne, Flynn, and we’ll celebrate?”

He hesitates.

“Or are you on the wagon again?” she asks, remembering his three-martini lunch just yesterday.

“It’s not … it’s just … I’m trying not to—oh, what the hell. You’re right. We should celebrate. I’ll open the champagne,” he says with a careless laugh.