Leave Yesterday Behind (9 page)

Chapter 12

Callie froze. The gorgeous hunk right in front of her was a famous crime novelist who’d won an Edgar for his first effort?

She studied him, the piercing blue eyes, the chiseled cheeks, and blurted out, “No way. I picture Nick Van Sandt as a grizzled, scruffy, wear his pajamas around the house all day while he taps away on an old typewriter kind of guy. Or maybe even an urbane, tweed jacket type with a pipe in hand, scribbling on yellow legal tablets before he bothers touching a computer.”

She shook her head. “You look like you just stepped off the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad.” She wanted to say he looked like a David Beckham-wearing underwear model with his sleek, muscled physique, but even she knew when to hold her tongue.

Nick laughed. She liked the sound of it. The laugh came deep from his belly. Not the lightly amused, isn’t-life-insane, bored chuckle of the New York artsy-fartsy crowd she’d grown tired of.

He squatted and leaned back against the tree again. “It’s me. All me. Sometimes I even surprise myself. I’ll read something I wrote and wonder where the hell it came from. Or I’ll start a scene headed in one direction, and the characters head off hell-bent in another. It’s like Gepetto sitting back in astonishment when Pinocchio came to life. Nothing the puppet master anticipated.”

He sighed. “I feel like that. All the time.” He ran his hands through his hair, a slight look of wonder on his face that was extremely appealing to her. “My people do what they want all the time. Sometimes I think I’m just the typist getting it all down before they change their minds.”

“Why a writer?” she asked. “I thought all athletes wanted to coach so they can stay in the game. Or the pretty boys go on up into broadcasting. Why didn’t you?”

Nick’s brows furrowed as he studied her. “You really don’t know?” He chuckled. “I
was
in broadcasting. ESPN.”

Warmth crawled up her neck to her cheeks. “Oh. I didn’t know. I don’t watch much TV.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I walked out in the middle of the season. They nearly crucified me for that.”

Despite her initial reservations about him, his words fascinated her. And jumpstarted her curiosity about him and what he’d been doing for the last two decades. She was on the verge of chucking it all. And Nick was someone who actually did it.

“Why? Walk away, I mean. Was the money not enough? The hours too odd? The travel get to you? Did you have personality problems with another broadcaster?”

He closed his eyes a moment before he opened them slowly and focused on her. A tingle tugged at her.

“No. The money was great. More than I think I was worth. The hours? Not too bad. And I got along with the talent in the booth. The crew. Everyone, really.”

He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair again. “It flat-out didn’t make me happy. I talked about the same stuff, over and over. I could close my eyes and see myself five years—fifteen years—down the road. Doing the same thing.”

“But gray at the temples?” she interjected.

He nodded. “Definitely gray. But all over.” His gaze held hers. “I wouldn’t have contributed anything new. Challenged myself. Grown as a person. I had to move on. It was time. No one understood that. Except me.”

An odd feeling trickled through her. She knew exactly what he meant. Everything Nick said paralleled her situation with
Sumner Falls
.

He stood, cracking his knuckles. “I always wanted to write. Even earned my English degree the hard way since I was drafted right out of high school and never went to college. On the road, I wrote term papers and read novels for my online classes while other guys wasted time playing video games and watching soaps.”

Callie cleared her throat with that comment, her eyebrows raised.

Nick winced. “Sorry. I never had time for that stuff. If I wasn’t working on a course, I would hole up and write.”

“What?” Her curiosity grew enough to push away the strange feelings rushing through her.

He shrugged. “Anything. Everything. Short stories, poems, novellas. A few novels.” He grimaced. “A few really bad novels.”

He moved to sit next to her on the bench. Her heart jumped as his knee brushed against hers. Her throat tightened, the panic beginning to slowly hum with a man’s nearness.

She glanced at him, but he seemed oblivious to her rising terror. He stared out across the gardens, a myriad of rosebushes and magnolias, and finally spoke.

“But I learned from them. How to really plot. Create conflict. External conflict came easily to me, but internal conflict eluded me. I learned with every mistake. I worked hard at my craft.”

He grew quiet. With his very nearness, Callie inhaled. She smelled the dirt from the earth he’d been working, rising with a hint of subtle aftershave. She was aware of his strong forearms resting on muscled thighs. His closeness. Right by her. Something stirred within her that she’d figured dead and long buried. It made her want to run—not from fear of him as a man, but for the feelings it brought. Yet she hungered to continue their conversation.

“I can’t believe no one knows it’s you,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “The public would eat it up. Former pro athlete becomes best-selling novelist.”

Nick turned, a fierce look darkening his eyes. “I don’t want them to know. Ever,” he spit out. “I didn’t want doors opened to me for the wrong reasons. I wanted to make this my own. I didn’t want to be published because of my name recognition.”

“You simply wanted the work to speak for itself,” she observed.

“Yes,” he said enthusiastically. “Exactly.”

She thought a moment. “That’s why there’s never a photo on your jackets. And sketchy bio info. It always says, ‘Nick Van Sandt lives in a small town. He is the author of . . . however many books you’ve written.’”

He eyed her. “You know that by heart?”

“I pay attention. Especially if I like the work. Most authors have web pages or at least email addys for fans to contact them. Not you.”

“Not Nick Van Sandt.” He smiled.

Then an awkward silence rose between them, the kind where people who’ve shared certain intimacies didn’t know where to go next or what to say.

Callie handed him the book he’d brought to her. “Since I’ve read it a few times, I’ll let you keep your copy.” She glanced away and shyly added, “Maybe you’ll autograph mine for me sometime.”

“Sure,” he said softly.

She stood, and Wolf did the same, sticking close to his mistress’s leg. “I’ve got to go.”

He rose. “And I’ve got to get back to Miz C’s flower beds.”

“And your characters.”

Nick smiled at her. Oh, God. It was one of those classic Robert Redford smiles. The kind that swept Barbra Streisand off her feet in
The Way We Were
and Glenn Close in
The Natural
. She couldn’t breathe.

She mumbled, “Okay, then,” and abruptly started off. She wanted to say something else, anything else, but she didn’t know if her mouth could form words at the moment.

But as she moved up the path, Wolf on her heels, she turned and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Callie swallowed, frozen in place for a moment, then she hurriedly went back up the path to the house.

Nick let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he held. It was as if all the years in-between melted away. He’d spoken to Callie from his heart. It surprised him how much he’d revealed in a few minutes of conversation.

It had never been like that with anyone, especially Vanessa. She took no interest in his writing, even chided him for wasting his time on it when he could be working out or helping on one of her charity events.

Vanessa, with all her glitz and glamour, seemed the exact opposite of Callie.

And that messed with his head.

Vanessa—and every actress he’d known in L.A.—was shallow. Self-centered. Selfish bitches. They expected the world to revolve around them and their needs. None of them—especially his own wife—really cared about him as a person or what he was interested in.

But in the space of a few minutes, he revealed things to Callie that he never spoke about. Maybe because she wasn’t quite what he thought she would be. Hell, she probably thought he was totally insane to think about his characters the way he did, much less admit that sometimes he wasn’t even in control of their actions. They were make-believe, and yet he knew them so well. Even better than real people.

Nick slipped his work gloves back on and picked up the trowel before he slammed it down in disgust.

“Oh, yeah, she must’ve loved the part about how I thought the guys wasted their time on the road watching soaps. Way to go, Sherlock.”

He glanced around, glad no one was there to hear him berate himself.

Curiosity began to gnaw at him. What had Callie done all these years? What soap was she on? Was she really any good? Miz C always bragged on her, most of which he tuned out, because that lady would shower love on a flea on a dog.

He decided to abandon weeding for now in favor of Googling. He stood and stripped off his work gloves and went back to the cottage and fired up his laptop. A search for Callie hit a wealth of sites. He decided to focus first on her official fan club’s offering and then go from there.

An hour later, Nick was a Callie Chennault expert. He learned the backstory of her
Sumner Falls
’
character, Jessica, and a summary of each year’s plot since she had joined the cast a decade earlier. It was obvious she was the character that the entire show revolved around. She’d been married numerous times and was related to practically every person in the town, by blood or marriage.

She also had won a slew of awards. Big ones, including several Daytime Emmys, and a bucket load from different fan magazines. He also read the message boards. Rabid fans wrote reams about her. Most voiced complimentary sentiments, but some real nut cases logged in with wild accusations about Jessica’s actions and what they’d do to her if they ran across her in real life. It was as if they couldn’t distinguish between fantasy and reality.

Nick had his share of groupies who crossed the line. One in particular followed him from city to city for the better part of a season, always trying to hook up. Something in her eyes made him uncomfortable, and he always tried to ease around her without stirring up trouble. She’d found out his home phone number and left a few messages that spooked him. After he’d changed the number, he came home from a road trip to find someone had broken in and trashed his place. He’d gotten a restraining order against her after that. Even dropped his landline and relied solely on his cell, giving very few people access to its number.

She disappeared on him for a while. He ran into her in the middle of the next season in New York. She was on the arm of a player from the Yankees. He couldn’t get out of the room fast enough for fear she’d see him, and it would start up all over again. He now realized he was only at the tip of the iceberg with what Callie dealt with on a daily basis.

He also found a small piece on her personal life. She donated both time and money to an abused women’s shelter and the New York SPCA. She did yoga. She was best friends with some gal who used to be on her show and now was president of her fan club. Nothing online about her family. Or if she was seeing anyone.

The official fan website was tastefully done. Gave the fans probably enough of what they wanted while allowing Callie to maintain some sense of privacy.

He wondered how many times her stalker must have come to this site. As he wrote more and more crime novels, he’d begun to think like a criminal. He instinctively knew this guy visited her website many times. A fierce possessiveness flooded him. He found he wanted to break the guy’s face.

As he closed the window on the site, he felt like someone punched him in the gut.

“No. No way. Not again.”

Chapter 13

He was almost there.

He tidied up all the loose ends in New York. Killed the nosy landlady, then told the neighbors she was heading down to Florida to see if it was all it was cracked up to be. He knew he would be believed because it was all the woman talked about for the last twenty years.

He said she left him to close the place up. He stopped the paper, the electricity, phone service. He knew where she kept all her records. Besides, he was a whiz when it came to technology. He found all the info he needed.

He financed his trip by clearing out her safety deposit box. The old woman outlived three husbands, and they all left her set pretty well financially. He asked an estate agent to come appraise the furniture. Cleared another bundle that way. Pawned the silver and the few jewels he found.

Then he locked the place up tight. Told the neighbors he found another place in Queens. He would only sublet in case the old woman hated Florida and changed her mind and returned. He really loved her, he said, his eyes misting over.

Now the place stood empty. The basement still held evidence that could easily convict him of murder. All that DNA shit these days. But he was smart. He covered his tracks as best as he could. He watched enough CSI and Law & Orders. They were paint-by-numbers in helping him commit his spree of terror.

He planned to do his business down south and take a vacation afterward. Go to some of the places he’d always wanted to see—Vegas, Disney World—stuff like that.

Then he’d slip back into New York and burn the brownstone to the ground. Bye-bye evidence. Sayonara. He’d be outta there.

And finally free at last. From his mother. From Jessica.

And Nick. Especially from Nick.