Picture Perfect (27 page)

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

“Jack,” I say, finding the courage to ask the question I already know the answer to, “where were you?”

He puts his hand to his forehead. “I was in Mexico.”

“Why?”

“I was trying to help you. Trying to shut Alan down. But things just didn’t work out like I planned.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to worry you about it now.”

“Too late. I already know.”

He cocks his head at me. “You know?”

I nod. “I talked to Barbie. I saw the yearbook. Alan and your mom had a relationship in high school, and you think Alan is your father.”

Jack lets out a long sigh and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He’s no longer the cocky self-assured man that chased me all the way to New York City and back. Now, he looks as lost as I feel.

I place my hand on his shoulder, and he rises. He runs his hands through his hair, and if he smoked, I’m sure he’d be stuffing a cigarette through his lips and anxiously searching his pockets for a lighter.

“Would you like some tea,” I offer, hoping a cup of chamomile will ease his restlessness.

“Whiskey, if you got it,” he counters.

“I might have something,” I say.

Jack follows me into the kitchen where I find an old bottle of Crown Royal that Alan had gotten from some ad agency several Christmases ago. I pour two fingers for each of us, and Jack and I sit at the breakfast bar. Jack downs the brown liquid in one gulp. I bring mine to my lips, and the smell nearly makes me gag. I’ve never been one for whiskey. I slide it over to Jack, but he doesn’t drink it. He runs his finger along the rim of the short glass, and gazes off into the darkened dining room.

“My mother always refused to talk about my father,” he says hazily. He lifts the tumbler to his mouth and tips it back, draining the liquor in one long swallow, and then sets it back on the counter with a thud. He turns his dark eyes on me. “I spent half my childhood thinking I’d come from some fucking magical bean.”

His foul language surprises me, and for a second I wonder if he’s about to explode into a tirade against his mother, but instead he lowers his eyes and fumbles with a loose string at the bottom of his T-shirt.

“I thought maybe a sperm bank,” he says to his belly button, then lifts his gaze to meet my eyes again. “But then, why wouldn’t she just tell me that?”

I shake my head, wishing I knew what to say.

“When I was eleven, I found her high school yearbook and the pictures of her and Alan,” he continues. “I tried to get her to talk about him, but she acted like she couldn’t even remember who he was.”

I reach for his hand and he interlaces his fingers with mine.

 “My grandmother wouldn’t help, either,” he says. “She stuck to her magic bean story. After a while, I just gave up. I figured if he was so bad that both my mom and my grandma wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence, then I was better off without him.”

Jack’s mouth twists, as if conjuring up all those sour memories has left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know that must have been tough on a little kid.”

“It was what it was. I got over it, for the most part.” Jack lifts his shoulder and pulls his hand out of mine. “But when I went to your house in Malibu that night and saw all those pictures of Alan on the wall, I knew it was him. I tried to ignore it, you know. Leave well enough alone. But when he kept coming after you, trying to ruin you, I had to do something. So I went to Mexico, where I was born, hoping I’d find some documentation to prove he was my father. But my mother never listed my father’s name on any hospital records. As far as Mexico and the United States are concerned, I was the result of an immaculate conception. I might as well have come from a magic bean.”

“Your mom didn’t provide your father’s name because she didn’t know it,” I say.

Jack narrows his eyes at me. “What do you mean?”

“Barbie told me that she and Alan were indeed a couple in high school, but she cheated on him, and when Alan found out, he left her. She didn’t know if it was Alan that got her pregnant, or the other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“She said his name was Steven.”

“Steven what?” he asks, an urgency to his voice.

“She didn’t say, but I think if you ask her, she will tell you now.”

Jack drops his gaze. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“I can understand that. But there is something we do need to know.”

Jack regards me curiously.

“Whether or not Alan is your father,” I conclude.

“Does it matter? He’s gone. What would be the point?”

“Closure?” I suggest.

“I guess,” he says with a shrug. “But right now all I want is to hold on to you. I’ve really missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, sliding off the barstool and taking hold of his hand. “Come on. It’s been a long day. We could both use some rest.”

I lead Jack to my bedroom. He strips to his boxers and climbs into my bed. I lay the covers over him, and he tugs on my hand and pulls me under the duvet and into his arms. The warmth and comfort of his body are irresistible, and I nuzzle into his neck. His breathing deepens and within a few moments, he’s fast asleep. But despite my exhaustion, I’m unable to join him in dreamland. Instead, I can’t help but wonder who it is I’m embracing. My lover or my stepson?

***

“Jesus!” Justine shouts, flipping on the kitchen light, startled to find me at the breakfast bar with a mug of tea in my hands. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Trying to figure out what to do about the man asleep in my bed. What are you doing up at five-thirty in the morning?”

“I’m still on New York time. What man are you talking about?”

“Jack.”

“He’s here?”

“He called me last night from a payphone down the street.”

“A payphone? Do they still exist?”

“Apparently. He said he was afraid I wouldn’t take his call if I knew it was him.”

I sip my tea as Justine fills the kettle with fresh water and puts it on a burner, turning the flame on. She hops onto a barstool next to me. 

“So? What happened?”

“Not much. We talked about his mom, Alan, why he went to Mexico—to look for proof of Alan’s paternity. And then he fell asleep.”

“Have
you
slept?” she asks.

I brush a lock of hair from my eyes. “A little. My mind has been racing. I don’t know what to do about him.”

“What do you mean? You don’t think he had anything to do with Alan’s death, do you?”

“No. No way. He was really upset to find out about it. Mostly sorry that he wasn’t here to be with me.”

Justine pouts. “Aww. He’s such a sweetheart.”

“A sweetheart that just might be my stepson.”

Justine dismisses that notion with a wave of her hand and retrieves the kettle from the stove right as it starts to whistle. She plops a teabag into a mug and pours the piping hot water over it.

“What does it matter?” she asks, rejoining me at the breakfast bar. “It’s not like he’s
your
son. Sure, it’s a little weird, but so what if Alan was his father?”

I put my cup down. “Can you imagine, Justine? What would everyone think? How’s it going to look if I’m having an affair with my dead husband’s son?”

Justine blows on her tea. “You should really stop worrying about what other people think, Lauren. They don’t matter. Their opinions, their gossip. It’s all fodder. They’ll be on to something else tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand. In this business, careers can be ruined over rumors. I’m already completely scandalized. For Christ’s sake, I’m suspected of murdering my husband. Toss in an incestuous affair, and I’m done for.”

“It isn’t
incest
. You two aren’t related.”

“But that’s how people will interpret it. I’ll be a disgusting husband-killing, child molester.”

“Now you’re being really ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” I hear Jack say.

Both Justine and I swivel on our barstools to find him standing at the kitchen door, shirtless in jeans. His hair is a tousled mess. If I weren’t so mortified, I’d be utterly aroused.

“So what if he’s my father? That won’t change how we feel about each other,” he says, moving to my side. “At least, it won’t change how
I
feel about
you
.” 

“Jack—” I begin, but Justine juts out her hand, leaning across me and reaching for Jack.

“Justine Baker. Lauren’s BFF,” she says as Jack shakes her hand. “Finally, we meet.”

“Jack Ford,” he replies as they loosen their grip.

“You need no introduction, my friend. I’ve heard all about you. And I do mean
all
,” she says, giving him a once-over.

I smack her on the arm. “Justine, please.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You’re being rude.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says. “I take it as a compliment. I can appreciate a woman who isn’t afraid to be herself.”

“Even when that self is a wise-ass?” I tease.

“Wise-asses are my favorite,” he says, grinning.

“I knew I would like him,” Justine says, quirking her eyebrow at me.

“You’re incorrigible,” I snort.

“Precisely,” she says, lifting her mug to her lips.

“And she’s right,” Jack says.

“About what?”

“About you. You’re being ridiculous,” he says, the mood switching almost instantly from playful to portentous.

I shake my head at him. “I’m not.”

“You are, Lauren. I understand your worry. I do. Honestly. But no matter what my relationship to Alan is, that doesn’t mean we can’t be together.”

“Jack,” I plead, “I just don’t want things to get any worse…for either of us.” 

He puts his hands on my upper arms. “The only way things could be worse, is if you didn’t want me.”

“You don’t know what’s right for you.”

“And you do?” he says, releasing my arms. He grips his forehead as if suddenly struck by a migraine. I stare at him wide-eyed, as he continues. “Jesus, Lauren, it’s been like this since day one. First it was because I’m an actor in your film. Then it was because you didn’t want Alan to destroy my career. Now it’s because Alan might be my biological father. And if he’s not? What excuse will you come up with then?”

My jaw drops, stunned by his sudden rant. 

“I’ll just leave you two to sort this out,” Justine says, slipping out of the kitchen.

I take a deep breath. I need him to appreciate my point of view. He’s young and hasn’t had to fight as hard as I have to achieve his goals. He landed a roll in an indie film that became the darling of the festival circuit, and he was catapulted to the top of every producer’s dream cast list practically overnight. I’ve seen firsthand how easily one can tumble from the top. He hasn’t.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “You’re new to this business. Appearances are everything.”

“So, that’s it. Your image is more important to you than I am.” He puts his hands on his hips, hurt and anger filling his eyes.

“That’s not it at all,” I say, exasperated. “I just don’t want to lose
everything
. I’ve already lost my job—”

“Your job,” he shouts, cutting me off mid-sentence. “This is about your
job
? Fuck your job!”

“Jack—” I start, trying to inject some reason into this conversation, which is quickly escalating to an argument, but he doesn’t let me finish.

“When you love someone, Lauren, you don’t let anything come between you. Especially something as meaningless as a
job
.”

I’m taken aback. “Are you saying you
love
me?”

“Of course I love you. Why do you think I walked off the set? Or flew to New York to find you? Or went to Mexico to get dirt on Alan. Because I love you, damn it.”

“But you barely know me,” I say, stunned at his confession.

“I know all I need to know. I knew the first day I met you. I knew that you weren’t living the life that made you happy. You were living some version of a life you thought you should have. But I saw through it all. I saw
you
. I just wish you could see the woman I see.” He reaches for my hand. “You’d love her, too.”

I blink at him, not knowing what to say, my mouth hanging half open.

“Well?” he says, looking at me expectantly. “Which is more important to you? Your job? Your image? Or me?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I say, finding my voice.

“No, it’s simple, Lauren. You can choose love. Or you can choose greed,” he says, dropping my hand.

“Greed?” I say, shocked at his accusation. “This is not about greed. This is about my livelihood. Would you give up your career for me? Jeopardize your reputation?”

“I wouldn’t have to give up anything. That’s what you don’t get. I live the life I want. I choose my path. I don’t let anyone dictate it for me. Least of whom, Hollywood.”

I gaze at him, perplexed. “I don’t even understand what you’re talking about.”

His face softens, and he takes a seat on the barstool next to me. “When you’re true to yourself, Lauren, when you really listen to what your heart wants, nothing can keep you from your joy.”

“This is starting to sound like some new age bullshit,” I say skeptically. “I don’t live in the world of make-believe. This is not a fairy tale.”

“No, it certainly is not.” His expression grows serious again. “But until you start paying attention to what your heart wants instead of following some rigid set of rules to live your life by, happiness will always just be a fairy tale for you.”

“You’re very young,” I say, trying to make him understand where I’m coming from. Because I sure as hell don’t get where he’s headed. “I had dreams and desires, too, when I was your age. But I grew up. I learned that sometimes you have to give up things, make compromises. That’s not living by a rigid set of rules. That’s living in the real world.”

“I’m not saying you never have to make compromises. I’m saying what you comprise defines who you are. And I think you compromised your way into a job you don’t like, a marriage that was unloving, and a life that is ultimately unfulfilling.”