Second Time Around (48 page)

As soon as Lane heard the applause, she knew she’d made the right decision to come back. Her soul was like a sponge, soaking in the life-sustaining refreshment. She strode across the stage, waving to the audience, and took her position beside Mr. MacMillan.

As soon as the applause died, she spread her arms and said, “I’m back!” More applause. Hoots and hollers, too. “Thank you for that wonderful welcome home. And I
am
glad to be home. Though it was an interesting experience returning to my childhood roots, I came to realize that the blessings I’ve been given through acting opportunities in this lifetime are not to be thrown away without cause and—”

The back door of the auditorium opened and a man rushed in. “Toby Bjornson is dead! He died!”

Bedlam. Lane felt her knees buckle. She was glad Mr. MacMillan was there to steady her. “Is it true?” she whispered to him.

“I don’t know. But I’ll find out.” He motioned for the man who’d run in with the news to come toward the stage. They conferred a few minutes, then Mr. MacMillan returned to his place beside her, giving her the slightest of nods before speaking. “I am sad to report that it’s true. Though Mr. Bjornson’s condition was thought to be stable, he took a turn for the worse this morning and died.”

“Oh, Laney!” Lane turned toward Brandy’s voice calling from the wings. She wanted to go to her but could not. Not now. For inside her, besides the sorrow and shock, a fierce anger brewed. One that could not be denied. One whose time had come.

Questions were tossed in her direction, but she ignored them. She left Mr. MacMillan, moved to the edge of the stage, raised her hands, and waited for them to be quiet. She needed their full attention.

Finally, she had it. “I am deeply saddened to hear that Toby has died. Although I had not seen him since 1987, I wished him no harm. Obviously, in my absence I was unaware of all that has transpired this past week with him coming forward and receiving media attention—and humiliation. I cringe at the pain he must have gone through that led directly to his death.” She pointed to her chest. “I am partly responsible.” She pointed to them. “But so are you. We all are. This obsessed fascination we have with so-called news, with butting into the private lives of others to fulfill some kind of sick need…”

She heard a stirring but quieted it with a hand. “I’ve chosen a life of fame and celebrity. The media is a necessary part of my life. I need you. In part, you have made me what I am. But there has to be a balance. We each have public and private parts of our lives. And when the private is shoved into the public domain… could your own lives survive such scrutiny?

“I am partly to blame for Toby’s humiliation because I lied about my true motivation for visiting the past. I didn’t want the bad press that would surely come out of my choice to explore a life without fame. And so I lied and offered you a choice I hoped would satisfy yet keep my reputation intact. The choice of young love. For whatever reason, Toby latched onto my words and stepped into your path—and was run down because of it. More specifically, because of a leak of information.”

She looked at Mr. MacMillan. It was payback time. “Although the wisdom of my initial lie is questionable, it was never meant to hurt anyone, and it never
would
have hurt anyone if the truth would have remained secret. But without me here to explain and soften my true choice, the leak created havoc—and now death.” She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I can only assume that the person who created the leak did so out of a sick need for scandal and publicity. Unfortunately, I have discovered that the person responsible for the leak is the chief administrator of the TTC, John Wriggens.”

The audience responded with shouted questions. She gave them a nod, said thank you, and left the stage.

She grabbed Brandy’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

Mac fell into his office chair. He had not seen Wriggens since the press conference. After Lane had left the room it had been chaos. But chaos that he had enjoyed handling. If the Time Lottery caught a little heat, so be it. Fire refined silver and made it stronger.

For now it could be stronger without John Wriggens at the helm. And though Mac hadn’t heard anything from the higher-ups, he couldn’t imagine them allowing Wriggens to keep his job. Of course, there was a possibility that Mac’s job was in jeopardy. If so, he would make the sacrifice. For the good of the Time Lottery.

“Busy day at the office, hon?”

He looked up to see Cheryl in the doorway. “You could say that.”

She came in and closed the door. “Is he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lane did a boffo job. You couldn’t have planned it better yourself.” She looked at him through her lashes. “Unless…?”

“She’d told me she was going to handle it. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know she’d accuse him in front of the world.”

Cheryl took a seat in the guest chair. “He deserves whatever he gets. After he took that bribe from Phoebe’s husband last year, we all knew he was working on borrowed time.”

Mac cleared off his desk, ready to leave, to go with her anywhere. “You know what’s odd? I feel sorry for him.”

She laughed. “You’re way too godly for me, Mac. For the world.”

Not at all.
“He’s a bitter man. The only time I’ve ever seen him joyful is when he got one up on someone.”

She stood. “You ready to go?”

“You mean am I ready to surrender myself into your capable hands?”

She pulled him close. “You have no idea.”

At the last second, Mac backtracked to Wriggens’s office, feeling the responsibility to check on him, offer some word, some comfort. But it was dark. He flipped on the lights. The desk was cleared. There was a bare space on the wall where a modern art reproduction used to hang.

“He’s gone,” Cheryl whispered.

That he is. Thank You, God, for large favors.

Mac shut off the light and closed the door.

EPILOGUE

And we know that in all things
God works for the good of those who love him,
who have been called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:28

Present-Day Buckhead—Two Weeks Later

Yardley Pruitt sat in the leather wing chair by the fireplace. The fire had grown cold.

When?

He’d lost track. He pulled the afghan around his shoulders, causing his feet on the ottoman to stick out the other end. He was missing one slipper. He reached to find it and saw that his glass of milk had tipped over on the side table, making a gooey mess of the crackers there. It smelled bad.

He smelled bad.

He felt bad.

He felt tipped over, missing, and cold. Extinguished.

He had no idea what day it was. All he knew was that it was post—Vanessa. She hadn’t come back. She’d chosen a life with her mother rather than come back to him. Never again would he see her smiling face or put his arms around her to tell her he loved her.

Not that she’d smiled much. Not that he’d ever hugged her or told her how much he cared. And now it was too late.

He ran a hand over his face and found days’ worth of stubble. He felt old. He
was
old. Too old to start over without her. He put a hand to his chest. His heart ached. Could a person die of a broken heart? He closed his eyes, willing to glide into that place of nonbeing. Maybe if he slowed his breathing enough his body would allow him to slip away. He started when he heard a key in the front door.
Who
—
?

Then Rachel’s voice. “Look at all these newspapers, Dad. I know there’s something wrong. I know it.”

They came inside and saw him. Ran to him.

“Yardley, what’s happened to you?”

Rachel knelt at his side. “Are you all right? We’ve been calling and calling and—”

“Here’s the problem.” Dudley picked up the phone’s receiver, which was making an odd pulsing sound. “How long have you had it off the hook?”

To admit he didn’t know would admit too much. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He lifted his chin. “And no one wants to talk to me either.”

Rachel moved to the ottoman, nudging his legs to the side. “We missed you last week at Mom’s funeral.”

“She didn’t think about me when she stayed in the past; why should I think of her?”

Rachel put a hand on his. “But isn’t that exactly what you’ve been doing? Thinking of her?” She looked at her father. “We have. It’s going to take awhile to move forward.” She looked back at him. “But it will be much easier with us helping each other. I took a semester off to do just that.”

Her words were like a slap, forcing him into the moment, into reality. He sat forward, putting his feet on the floor. “You quit school? You can’t do that. I need you to finish, young lady, and not throw away all the opportunities I can offer—”

Her laughter stopped him. Then Dudley joined in.

“What
are
you laughing at?”

Rachel cupped a hand around her mouth and pretended to whisper to her father, “He’s back.”

And Yardley realized she was right. It was as though he could actually feel the blood flow through his veins, as if each breath of air had power behind it, filling up his deflated shell. He held out a hand. “Help me up, girl. We have work to do.”

She pulled him to standing. “I don’t like the sounds of this.”

He headed for the kitchen. “Of course you do. We have your future to plan, but first, I need a sandwich.”

She and Dudley followed him. “Don’t I have any say in this?”

He faced her, putting a hand on her shoulder. He looked at her seriously. “Of course you do, Rachel. Turkey or bologna?”

It was good to be back.

Malibu

“Well?” Brandy asked.

Lane closed the book and set her hands on top of it. “It’s wonderful.”

Brandy burst out of her chair and pumped a fist. “I told you! I told you
The Seat Beside Me
is the movie you need to make, the story you need to tell.”

Lane nodded, admitting it all. Why hadn’t she read it before now? Brandy had been after her to read this book for months. Yet she knew the answer. Before the Time Lottery, she’d been so concerned with which movie was Oscar material that she hadn’t had time for more obscure screenplays. Or books.