Freefall (47 page)
Cameron nodded. “So what now?”
“Well, for starters …” She swung her legs down and stood. “The plants have to go.” She grabbed hold of the stems and pulled the withered root block and solid, crusted soil from the nearest urn. “Where’s the garbage?”
“In the garage.” Nonplussed for only a moment, he stood, uprooted the other two urns, and led the way through the back door into the cramped garage, where they deposited their loads into the large plastic trash receptacle. He turned. “Now what?”
“The living room. Definitely the living room.”
When they’d arranged the tan ultrasuede sofa and brown leather chair with a couple end tables and the lamp, she surveyed the room. “Let’s go shopping.”
“Can we?”
“As you said, they’ll print what they want to.”
At one shop in Pismo Beach, they collected a table lamp and a glass sculpture of Orcas cresting. Guessing that the empty spots had been filled with items Myra considered hers, Gentry insisted he choose things that appealed to him, offering minimal comment only when pressed. She smiled at the four-foot teakwood surfboard he chose for the blank wall. Her only contribution was a frame for the photo of Kevin that Myra had left on the counter.
He picked another like it and said, “For a picture of you.”
“Are you asking for my autograph?”
He shook his head. “Just your smile. And those rain-forest eyes.”
Strolling back to the truck Cameron made one more purchase. A potted palm.
Gentry gave him a skeptical look. “Tell me you’re not feeling sadistic.”
He smiled, hoisting the palm to his hip.
As they’d shopped, she’d signed whatever people held out. Now, arms full, she wasn’t approached, though their activity drew plenty of curious glances and photographs. She didn’t care. She felt as free as Jade, with nothing more troublesome than a blank slate.
Back at the house they arranged the items that reflected Cameron’s personality and filled the empty spaces. He stepped back and circled her shoulders with his arm. “Thanks.”
She nodded. “I know what it’s like to have gaps.”
He turned. “Have you remembered—”
“No. But, Cameron, I don’t care. Uncle Rob and I are moving forward, putting all that behind us. Life is too short to waste it looking back.”
He raised her chin. “Myra said the same thing. Only, she left destruction in her wake.”
She covered his hand with hers. “You’re stronger than any destruction she can wreak.”
“Gentry.” He brought his other hand behind her neck.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What?”
“Grab on to keep me from slipping away.”
His hand softened. “I didn’t realize—”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His mouth parted. “I’m a little raw.”
“Understandable.”
“Clingy, unhealthy …”
“Whatever.”
He pulled her tight. “I love too hard.”
“Okay.”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s too … close.”
“Please don’t push me away.”
His voice rasped. “Even if I don’t, there are too many ways to lose you.”
She rested her fingers on his ropy forearm. “Is that a chance you’re willing to take?”
Curt stood outside the rehab facility. Nice place. Hot meals. Private rooms. People to help a cripple get around. An accident could happen, but wouldn’t. Not here. He needed the niece to muddy the waters. But information would be priceless.
A young woman dressed in floral scrubs came out of the joint, end-of-shift weariness across her fair, elfin features, pale, downy hair pulled into a ponytail clipped into a scatter at the back of her head. He leaned against the tree, hands in the pockets of his slacks, silk shirt open at the neck just far enough to look alluring but not crass. If Brad Pitt could pull off forty-something, Curtis Blanchard would hold his own at thirty-nine.
She glanced, glanced again. He’d known she would. He drew a slow smile, the kind that said, aha, caught you looking. She blushed, continuing down the short walk toward the parking lot. He fell into step.
“Long day?”
She nodded. “They’re all long. Twelve-hour shifts.”
“Why do I think you could use a drink?”
“I don’t know.” She kept walking, but a lot of the pink had stayed in her cheeks.
“My name’s Curt.”
“I don’t go drinking with strange men.”
He laughed. “What makes you think I’m strange?”
“I mean stranger … men.” She faltered. “Men I don’t know.”
“Then how do you get to know them?”
She reached a ’98 Mustang that had been driven hard, probably before she bought it. “Why were you standing there staring?”
“I doubt it’s the first time you’ve had that effect.”
“At the building, I mean.”
“My dad’s in there.”
Oh, smooth. Hadn’t even planned that
.
“Then why didn’t you go in?” She drew out her keys, complete with pepper spray and whistle.
“He’s doesn’t acknowledge me. We haven’t talked in years.” There it was, blooming in her face like a rose—sympathy. What a beautiful sight.
She hesitated. “Why not?”
“I was a wild oat he planted unexpectedly.” He shrugged. “Now he pretends I don’t exist.” Truth always rang true. So what if he’d applied it to the wrong man.
“Then why are you here?”
He looked back at the building. “That’s what I was asking myself.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry I bothered you.”
“Wait.”
He turned back.
“I guess a drink’s okay.”
He eyed her up and down. “Do they feed you dinner when you work twelve hours?”
“I could get it in the cafeteria if I wanted, but why would I? You know?”
He nodded. “Why don’t I follow you to your favorite restaurant and pick up the tab?”
Her mouth formed a V-shaped smile. “Okay. Except …” She looked down. “I don’t want to go in this.”
“Go home and change. Tell me where to meet you.”
She pressed her palm to the side of her head. “You sure?”
“Sure. Beats standing outside wondering why it hurts that my old man lost his leg, when he wouldn’t care if I died in my sleep.”
Her brow pinched just enough to show she understood. “Fanny and Alexander’s on Emerson? They’ve got live music.”
He smiled. “My kind of place.” Though the music was probably the kind kids her age got off on. The thought surprised him, along with the realization that he’d rather spend the evening with Allegra. But that was the point after all. And to get what he wanted, he could baby-sit.
The new cleaning woman had just left, but Allegra crouched on hands and knees and scrubbed the shower floor. It didn’t look dirty, didn’t smell dirty, but it felt dirty. She rocked back on her knees when the phone rang, her teeth gritting with each invasive tone. She wanted to ignore it completely, but she pushed up. It could be Rob, or news of Rob.
“Hello?”
“Darling, you have to meet us at the club for cocktails.” Lorraine’s voice was shrill. “It’s simply cruel to keep us in the dark.”
Allegra winced. They wanted to hear about the mystery man who’d whisked her off to Hawaii. Was it romantic? Was he wonderful? Was she going to make an end of it with poor Rob now that he was maimed? And then she’d break down and tell them how she’d been too cowardly to face him. How she longed to be a comfort, but things had gone so wrong. Curt’s words echoed.
“Let him start over with dignity.”
Sometimes she thought Curt must be reading her mind. Could he know how she’d hoped for that very thing when she remade herself? She’d left behind Allison Carter and created Allegra Delaney. Diction tapes to lose her cracker accent, deportment lessons from the movies where glittering stars walked like queens. Personal grooming from magazines, and all the rest from watching people everywhere.
Then she’d met Rob. Anyone who’d known her before would say she’d married his money. And maybe she had. But it wasn’t his money she’d fallen in love with.
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t,” she told Lorraine on the phone. “I have a date.”
“My, my, my. Well, one of these days, you
have
to let us meet him.”
“I’ll try, but with his being away so much on business, he guards our time jealously. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, darling. But Bev’s claiming he’s imaginary.”
He was. Tonight at least. She hadn’t heard from Curt since she’d given him the check, and for that she was intensely grateful. Seeing him filled her with the deep self-loathing she had striven to escape. And yet underneath it all, she deserved him.
Rob greeted the nurse’s aid Nicki the next morning as always, but her response this time was resistant, almost hostile. He rose from the bed, gripping the walker and balancing precariously. At first he’d had to account for the lack of bone and muscle that his mind still thought was there. Now the missing weight was overcompensated by the prosthesis. Sooner or later he’d train his brain to recognize this as his body.
Nicki glowered as she escorted him to physical therapy. He thought he could make it down there alone, but they hadn’t declared him stable. Wise in more ways than one. So she was stuck with the job whether she liked it or not—poor girl. Maybe his stump repulsed her. She was too young to realize how temporary physical appearance was.
“Big plans for the weekend?” He glanced her way.
“Not really.”
“Weather’s going to be nice. Good for sailing.” He enjoyed watching the boats in the marina outside his window. “You like sailing?”
“Not really.”
He nodded. “Have I … offended you?”
She looked momentarily concerned. With what he paid for this facility, his complaint might cause her trouble.
“No.” She bit the side of her lip.
“Good. Well, thanks for the escort. Have a nice day.” He passed through the automatic doors she activated with a big square button on the wall, to the torture chamber where Paul, personal trainer and royal thorn, awaited him.
Phone to her ear, Gentr y drew up her
knees and curled into the corner of the couch beneath the trailer window. Cameron no longer barked “Pierce” when she called. It was sometimes “Hey,” sometimes
“Aloha”
, but usually he just started talking with “I was just thinking about you” or “I’m glad you called; I had this idea.”
This time she heard “Just a second.” Some quick keyboard typing, then he was back. “Hi.”
“Am I interrupting?”
“It can wait.”
Knowing his sharp focus, she appreciated those words every time. “I won’t keep you. I just wondered, would you like to come down for a shoot?”
“Ducks?”
“No.”
“Rabbits?”
“Definitely not.” These past three weeks, they’d made up for the silence of the first three, talking every night and more than once during the day. But she hadn’t seen him since fixing up his place—which the tabloids had trumpeted as their setting-up house.
With the ensuing barrage of calls from people willing to pay for interviews, pictures, anything he had to give them, he’d unlisted his number. One guy had perched outside for days with a camera aimed at his bedroom.
“It’s sick, Gentry.”
But every time she went to her trailer after a long day on the set, he’d be on her voicemail. It amazed her how much she treasured that.
