Taste of Honey (12 page)

“She’s flying down on Friday.” In just three days. Andie felt panicky all of a sudden. “Mom’s bringing her home for dinner. How weird will
that
be? I mean, we’ll have everything under the sun to talk about … but I won’t know what to say.”

“She’s probably just as nervous about meeting you, so you’ll have that in common at least. By the way, does
she
have a name?”

“Claire.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a lawyer, I think.”

“That should be good for at least fifteen minutes. After that you’ll just have to wing it.” He reached over to give her hand another squeeze. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

“Easy for you to say.” Simon could have conversed quite comfortably with the Dalai Lama.

They fell silent, both lost in their thoughts. They had turned off Agua Caliente and were climbing the steep winding road to LoreiLinda. On either side of them rose sheer sandstone bluffs scrawled with manzanita and sage. Andie remembered her sixth grade teacher telling them that in ancient times this whole valley had once been part of the ocean floor. As Simon’s plucky little car chugged its way upward she imagined them to be sea creatures drifting toward the surface.

They passed Alice and Wes’s house, built in levels that jutted like steel and glass risers from the rocky staircase of the hill. Half a mile or so beyond, on an even steeper bluff, stood the house that one magazine had labeled “Monica’s mausoleum.” Andie could see it glittering in the distance like a temple atop Mount Olympus. Not until they drew closer was it swallowed up by the dense trees that surrounded it like a fortress. Simon drew to a stop before a pair of tall, scrolled wrought iron gates.

He stuck his head out the window and announced crisply into the intercom, “Simon Winthrop. I have a four-thirty with Miss Vincent.” As if it were every day that he dropped in on movie stars.

A buzzer sounded and the gates swung open with a low, ominous squeal. Slowly they made their way up a crushed gravel drive that glittered in the bright afternoon sunlight. A lawn worthy of the greens at Dos Palmas rolled away on either side, bordered in low-growing shrubs and shaded here and there by majestic old trees. She watched a squirrel scamper over the grass like a fugitive on the run. It was the first sign of life she’d seen.

They parked under the trees at the edge of the turnabout and got out. The house loomed before them, imposing and slightly surreal with its stone lions flanking the curving steps and soaring Greek columns. There was a fanlight over the front door like the one at her grandmother’s, only more elaborate, its frosted glass panels etched with graceful designs of fruit and flowers. On each side of the door was a large bronze urn.

Simon reached for her hand. “Relax. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

His knock was answered by a plump, mousy-haired woman in a plain white blouse and denim skirt whom Andie recognized from church as Anna Vincenzi—Monica’s sister. Anna looked at her in confusion, then gathered her wits and said graciously, “Andie! What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.” She turned to Simon, extending her hand. “Hi. We spoke over the phone. I’m Miss Vincenzi’s assistant, Anna.”

It sounded so strange, Anna referring to her own sister that way, but Monica probably insisted on it. Andie wondered how Anna stood it.

Simon shook her hand. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my—” he glanced at Andie—“colleague.”

“No, not at all.” Anna flushed, and Andie had the feeling Monica might not be so agreeable. “Please, come in. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

They were ushered into a tiled hallway that opened onto a sun-washed atrium ringed with trees in Chinese porcelain tubs. The living room beyond was even more palatial, with its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the valley. Andie padded across a cream-colored carpet that was like soft grass underfoot, lowering herself stiffly into a gilt-legged chair.

“I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” She spoke in a hushed tone.

“You can say that again.”

Simon was strolling about as if in a museum, pausing to gaze at a portrait of Monica over the fireplace. She must have been in her early twenties when it was painted, and though in her forties now she hardly seemed to have aged. The same flowing auburn hair and emerald eyes, the same million-dollar smile.

He turned at the faint sound of an elevator whining to a halt. A moment later Anna reappeared, pushing Monica in her wheelchair. In her pale green silk top and matching trousers, a string of pearls draped about her long white neck, she might have been a queen upon her throne. Her scent wafted toward them, light and flowery.

“Hello, hello,” she called merrily. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. As you can see,” she patted the arms of her wheelchair, “I don’t get around as quickly as I used to.”

Andie blinked at her in surprise. Was this the same Monica Vincent who’d reduced Dawn Parrish, from the Blue Moon, to tears after Dawn had accidentally splashed coffee on her blouse?
This
Monica was as charming as the heartbreaker-with-a-heart-of-gold roles for which she’d been famous.

Simon stepped forward, putting his hand out. “Simon Winthrop. And this is my, uh, associate, Andrea Bayliss.” He gestured toward Andie. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Miss Vincent. I’ve seen every one of your movies, most of them twice.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet.” She smiled coquettishly, revealing a dimple in one cheek. “I’ll admit when you called I didn’t know whether to keep you or throw you back. What could a boy your age want with an old lady like me?” She looked as if she knew very well what any red-blooded teenage boy might want with her, crippled or not. “But I confess curiosity got the better of me.”

Simon seized the opportunity to jump right in. “Look, I’m sure you’re tired of people telling you they love your movies—especially
Northern Lights,
that scene at your mother’s grave, which is art, true art—so I won’t bore you with all that. What I’m after is you as a person. Your likes and dislikes, what interests you, stuff like that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find me rather dull.” Monica lowered her head, looking up at him from a seductive sidelong angle. “Please, sit down.” She gestured toward the sectional sofa, piled with cushions, that would’ve seated an entire entourage. “Would you like something to drink—iced tea, soda?”

“Iced tea would be nice,” Andie piped.

Simon sank down on the sofa. “I’ll take a Coke if you have one.”

“The usual for me.” Monica barely glanced up at her sister, poised at her elbow. Anna nodded, retreating silently into the next room. “Now, where were we?”

Simon pulled a minirecorder from his backpack. “Mind if I turn this on?”

Monica waved disinterestedly, which seemed odd, considering how paranoid she was said to be. Clearly she didn’t view Simon as a threat. “So, you’re a fan of
Northern Lights
?” she said. “You’re also a clever boy. You know very well that we actresses never, ever get tired of hearing about ourselves. It’s true what they say, every bit of it. Vanity, vanity.” She gave an airy laugh that did nothing to dispel the underlying bitterness in her voice. “Of course I have far less to be vain about these days.” She cast a longing look at the portrait over the fireplace.

That was Simon’s cue to say, “I don’t see why you couldn’t still make movies. I mean, with that face …”

She brightened. “Thank you, dear boy, but I’m afraid there isn’t much demand for crippled actresses these days.” Andie sensed a vulnerability that made her almost likable.

Simon asked, “What about TV?”

“I’ve had a few offers. Nothing too interesting.” Anna was back, and Monica snatched her drink from the tray she was carrying. “Anyway, why bother? I have more money than I could spend in two lifetimes. People think I sit around all day feeling sorry for myself?” She leaned forward, her mouth turning up in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The truth is I’ve never been happier. Isn’t that right, Anna?”

“Yes … of course,” Anna replied dutifully. Her gait seemed oddly stiff as she crossed the living room with the tray, handing Simon and Andie their drinks.

“What about volunteer work?” Simon wanted to know.

Monica gave her trilling little laugh. “Can you see me at a bake sale? Or collecting donations door to door? Oh, don’t get the wrong idea—” She waved a manicured hand on which gold bangles jingled. “I’m involved in a number of charities. Why, just last month I donated a Russian sable to my dear friend Liz’s amfAR auction, which, as you know, raises money for AIDS.”

A fur coat she couldn’t have had much use for here in sunny Carson Springs, Andie thought. In her mind she could see the Vincenzis’ shabby little house down the road from Laura’s and wondered what that money would have meant to Anna.

Simon glanced at his notes. “A coat valued at a hundred and forty thousand.”

Monica looked impressed. “Well, well, I see you’ve done your homework. What else do you know about me, young man?” Her speech had grown oddly slurred, and Andie noticed the glass in her hand was empty. Clearly she’d been drinking before they arrived.

Simon didn’t miss a beat. “You’ve had fourteen box office number ones, five Academy Award nominations, and an Oscar for your supporting role in
Wild Lilies.
”

“Which was more like a lead role,” she sniffed. “But I suppose that’s splitting hairs.” She gestured toward the gleaming statuette on the mantel. “Go ahead. Pick it up. Don’t be shy.”

Simon rose to his feet, and Andie followed suit. The Oscar, standing between a pair of Chinese porcelain dogs, was heavier than it looked, and oddly thrilling to the touch. She pictured Monica onstage with it, beaming into the camera. How sad for her that it was the last acceptance speech she would ever give.

They talked more about her movies, and Monica told the story about her first big break, when she was “discovered” waiting tables in the Universal Studios canteen. All the standard stuff, including the tidbits about her three ex-husbands. Her only reference to the accident was the way she spoke about her life, as if it were divided into two parts, like
B.C
. and
A.D.
When she could no longer make movies, she told them, she’d gone home to Carson Springs.

“I was born and raised here,” she said. “It makes sense that I be buried here as well.” She said it jokingly, but there was something in her eyes that sent a chill up the back of Andie’s neck, as if in a way Monica were already dead.

After downing a refill, she grew even more talkative, going on and on in a scathing tone about various untruths that had been perpetuated by the press. Like the rumor that she’d been responsible for the breakup of Roone Holloway’s marriage, which anyone could have told you was on the rocks long before she appeared on the scene, she said. And the even more insidious lie that she’d neglected her poor old mother.

“Who pays for Mrs. Simmons to look after her while you’re at work?” she demanded of Anna. “Who covers the bills her insurance doesn’t pick up? My God, do they expect me to play Florence Nightingale on top of everything else?”

“You’ve been very generous,” Anna murmured, darting a worried glance at the glass in Monica’s hand.

“Christ. Half the time Mother doesn’t even know who I
am.
But what do those sleaze mongers know? All they care about is dragging me through the mud.” Her lovely face had turned hard, her mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “
Now
it’s different. They feel sorry for me. Poor, crippled Monica. You want to know why I don’t give interviews?
Turn that fucking thing off!
” she shrieked, stabbing a finger at the recorder. “I’ll tell you why. Because they don’t give a damn about the truth. The bloodsucking bastards—they’re only interested in what sells.”

“Monica, your five-thirty?” Anna tapped her watch in an attempt to cut the interview short.

Simon took the hint and quickly rose. “Thank you, Miss Vincent. I think I have enough to go on.” He cast a meaningful glance at Andie, who shot to her feet as well. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“Sweet boy.” Monica’s tirade had passed like a summer squall. When Simon offered his hand, she patted it before turning to smile blearily at Andie. “I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. Otherwise, some smart girl is going to snatch him up.”

“I …” Andie didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for the … everything.”

Anna seemed tense and distracted as she showed them to the door. Why did she put up with it? Surely she could have gotten a job elsewhere. Did she know that her sister was referred to around town as the Bitch on Wheels? Any one of a dozen shopkeepers would’ve hired Anna out of pure sympathy alone.

Andie was halfway down the steps when Anna called after her, “Oh, I almost forgot. Please thank your mother for the honey.”

“Sure, I’ll tell her.” She found the reminder of her mother’s thoughtfulness—Mom was always giving away jars of Blessed Bee honey—vaguely uncomfortable for some reason. “Um, I guess I’ll see you at the wedding. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Anna looked blank for a moment, then brightened visibly. “The wedding. Yes, of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She pushed a hand through her lank brown hair, her eyes inexplicably misting over. “Sorry. I’d better …” She gestured weakly toward the back of the house. “It was nice meeting you, Simon. Thank you for … for not saying anything. She, uh, gets a little down sometimes.”

“Understandably so,” Simon replied.

“You won’t—?”

“I’m just a kid, remember? What do I know?” He flashed her his innocently boyish grin, poking at the glasses that had slipped partway down his nose.

Anna looked relieved. “Thanks.”

They were in the car, heading down the drive, when Andie ventured timidly, “You meant what you said, didn’t you? You won’t say anything about—”

“Her being drunk?” Simon filled in. “Don’t worry. I have something a lot more interesting in mind.”

She didn’t dare think what Monica might do to him otherwise. “You were wonderful back there,” she told him. “I’m not sure I’d have handled it as well.”