Poor Rob, she thought. She’d harassed that man to death after Corey died.
“These are some friendly-ass folks,” Naomi observed, her strides chopping her words. “Even the cops, huh? I should’ve brought my camera to take a picture of that.”
“They’re friendly if they know you.” A lot of them had been at the party. In many ways, they knew her better than anyone.
Back at the house, Angela showered, but Naomi preferred a bath, so she soaked in the claw-foot tub upstairs for nearly an hour. After lunch, they retreated to different rooms to work. Naomi had pages to study for her shoot, and Angela caught herself up on the messages she’d missed Friday: Her golden comic’s negotiations for a series at Fox were at an impasse over the pilot script, an actress she’d just signed had been sentenced to court-ordered rehab, and Stan Loweson wanted to add two weeks to Naomi’s January shoot in Prague. Like hell. Not for free, if that was what he was thinking.
She’d been away from her desk for one day, and all hell had broken loose. But no one had told her this would be easy, Angela reminded herself.Anything that comes too easily is a lie, Gramma Marie used to tell her at every chance, until Angela practically heard the words in her sleep.
At five o’clock, someone knocked on the door.
Onyx barked in hysteria, as if the knocking were a personal insult. “Well,damn,” Angela muttered, leaving the library, where she’d set up her laptop and the portable phone. She didn’t mind a visitor, but she couldn’t stand the barking. No wonder she’d never owned a dog.
Onyx was posted at the front door, chastising the new arrival through the wood. “Hush all that racket. You’re not going to scare anybody, sounding like a damn wind-up toy. And you let me findone puddle of piss in this house,” Angela said, tugging at the soft, neatly groomed ball of fur atop his head. She called upstairs. “Naomi, Onyx is out loose!”
No answer except what sounded like a muffled conversation upstairs. Naomi was in the world of her character, memorizing lines behind her closed door. This dog would have to sleep on a leash tied to Naomi’s bed tonight, Angela decided.
When Angela opened the door, she expected to find Liza Brunell. She didn’t.
Instead, Myles Fisher stood on the porch in a red plaid shirt, holding a cane fishing pole like a walking stick. Angela couldn’t speak at first, lost in the memory of when she’d last seen him: the scent of his cologne the day of the party. The sunflowers he’d brought. Her happiness when he’d arrived, interrupted by such horror. His patient helpfulness after Corey’s death, when he’d been all but invisible to her through her veil of grief.
Myles and Liza Brunell had been the only two Sacajaweans to come to L.A. for the funeral, and Myles had organized Sacajawea’s public memorial service for Corey. He’d mailed her the program afterward, which had been lovely, with someone’s charcoal sketch of Corey’s face. He’d attached a note informing her that two hundred people had attended. But Angela hadn’t sent him a return note, nor had she answered his concerned calls or letters since, just like with Mrs. Everly.
Now, here he was. Angela felt sick with guilt. She hadn’t even called him to let him know she would be in town.
Without a word, Myles rested his fishing pole against the doorframe and stepped into the house. He came within an inch of Angela, pulled her to him, and wrapped both arms around her, squeezing hard. She hugged him back, nearly falling into him. He smelled like he’d been outdoors baking in the sun, but underneath that sharpness was the Myles she remembered from high school, boyish and intimate, almost more her cousin than her boyfriend. Almost, but not quite. Silent tears melted across her face as she held on to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Myles didn’t answer her at first, holding on. Then, close to her ear, he said, “You really know how to disappear, lady. More than two years. I’ve been worried to death.”
“Forgive me?”
“I’ll think about it, but I haven’t decided yet.” At that, Myles pulled back slightly and searched her eyes. He rubbed her tears into her right cheek until most of the moisture vanished, blending. “You sure you’re all right?”
She nodded, smiling. “I wasn’t always, but I am now. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Okay, then,” Myles said, and for a long time, they just stared. Both of his palms clasped her face gently, and for a moment Angela’s heart flipped as she wondered if he might lean over to kiss her lips. The thought of it made her stiffen and nearly pull away, but she didn’t. Myles did not kiss her, nor had he probably intended to. In high school, he had been so powerful in his affection, even his platonic affection, that he had often confused her. Angela had spent years misreading Myles’s signals, and she’d just done it again. For all she knew, he was married by now.
“How long are you here?” he said at last.
“About a week.”
He smiled, surprised. “Good. You planning to keep the house?”
Angela fought to swallow as her throat constricted. “I don’t know.”
Until they heard Naomi coming toward the stairs, neither of them had noticed the way Onyx was pitching himself against their legs in his excitement, trying to intrude on their reunion. With the approaching footsteps, they both instinctively took a step away from each other.
“You have big, furry rats,” Myles said, noting the dog. “I could call someone about that.”
“Shhhhh. My friend Naomi Price is here. He belongs to her.”
Myles squinted. “Naomi Price the actress?”
“That’s the one. She’ll be thrilled you know who she is. You’re the first so far.”
“Angie, what happened to your walnut tree? There’s a…”
Before he could finish his question, Naomi appeared on the staircase. She was wearing only a long T-shirt and lounging pants, but her face was highlighted with a stunning assortment of earth tones. Myles gave Naomi a toothy grin, leaning over to offer a handshake.
“Miss Price, it’s a true honor,” he said. “You were wonderful as Coretta King last year.”
The magic words. Naomi’s pet project had been a candid script she’d optioned about Martin Luther King, Jr.’s widow, Coretta Scott King, and Angela had finally been able to help her set up the project at TNT. The audience hadn’t been overwhelming—five times as many people had seen Naomi play a stripper, Murder Victim Number Three, in the forgettable Keanu Reeves vehicle released the same year—but Naomi had been nominated for an Emmy and a Golden Globe for her performance inCoretta . It was her best work on film.
“You saw that?” Naomi said, a smile igniting her face. “How wonderful!”
“Naomi, this is Myles Fisher,” Angela said. Then, a beat later: “My high school boyfriend.”
Naomi gave her a quick, perceptive glance. Enough said. Angela could almostsee Naomi pocket the blast of sensuality she’d been about to hurl at Myles. She meant nothing by it, but she was a hell of a tease, another aspect of her star power. Even at a low hum, Naomi could make men flush and forget that their wives and children were standing next to them.
“I didn’t know this town had any brothers.”
“I’m the one.”
“Then you’ll have to stay for dinner with us, Myles,” Naomi said.
Myles looked at Angela for guidance. “Well, I don’t want to be…”
Angela squeezed his hand. “No, of course you should. Are you free?”
A boyish grin broke through. “Too busy for dinner with Angela Tous-saint and Naomi Price? Do I look like a fool? Of course I’m free. I’m just all funky from fishing. Let me go home, clean up, and come back.”
God, he sounded enchanted. Angela couldn’t help wondering if he was more amenable to dinner because Naomi was here, but she decided she might not want to know. “Come back at seven, Myles. How’s that?” Angela said.
“Seven it is.” His voice had pitched to a throaty rumble she had never heard before. Gallantly, Myles took Naomi’s hand and kissed it. He did the same to Angela�
��s, although his gaze was slightly winking when he looked at her face. “Ladies.”
“Girl, he’sfine,” Naomi said once Myles had vanished into the yard. “Did you see that?”
“Oh, I saw it,” Angela muttered. She’d never seen him kiss a woman’s hand before. Myles should have been an actor, too, she thought.
“You need to pack him up with you when you come back to L.A. Or send him to me.”
Angela didn’t answer. She couldn’t be fooled by her childish echoes of jealousy, or by Myles’s sudden display of chivalry in the presence of an actress he admired. By now, she and Myles had been apart longer than they’d been together, and the last time they had shared a true friendship they’d been no more than children. Twenty-two years was a long separation.
Besides, Myles hadn’t been kidding when he said he hadn’t decided whether or not to forgive her for withdrawing after Corey’s death. He might try to give her false reassurances out of politeness, but she knew him too well. He must have written her a dozen times, and she’d never acknowledged a single letter; she probably hadn’t read more than one or two. He was hurt, and could she blame him? She’d pulled the same vanishing act in high school, finding herself suddenly busy for weeks at a time just when he’d thought they were growing closer, and he’d gotten fed up with it. Myles, unlike her, knew how to accept his losses.
She had run away from him. She had done it after what happened at The Spot when they were eighteen, and she had done it again after Corey died. She owed him an explanation, and she would finally give him one, she decided. Hell, he’d seen her behavior at Corey’s funeral. How hard would it be for him to picture her in a loony bin? He’d probably have a harder time figuring out why someone would set her loose.
Like mother, like daughter.
Crazy was in her blood.
“Myles, how’s Ma Fisher?”
“Ma is still hanging in there,” Myles said, scooping steamed broccoli onto his plate. The table setting was more formal than Angela had intended, but she liked imitating the way Gramma Marie had served food on her good china on special occasions. Angela had made jerk chicken breasts, brown rice, and broccoli, the closest she’d come to a dinner party in ages, and she was enjoying herself. The antique oak table seated eight, and they were clustered at the far end, closest to the window. “She doesn’t recognize me anymore, not as her son. She used to in spells, up until about Easter. She can still walk, but the Alzheimer’s is doing a number on her brain.”
Angela’s heart sank. She wished she’d been able to go visit Ma Fisher at least once before her mind dimmed for good, but when Corey died, Angela had forgotten the significance of everything else for a time. She should have called her, even while she was at The Harbor. She’d heard Ma Fisher was sick, she knew how old she was. Between Gramma Marie and Ma Fisher, Angela had gained two mothers after Dominique Toussaint’s suicide.
Gramma Marie had tutored Myles in black history and literature from the time he was ten. The Fishers thought the lessons would be good for their new adopted black boy, and Ma Fisher had sat in on the sessions too, inquisitive and eager. That was how Angela had first met Myles’s mother, three weeks after discovering the meaning of the wordorphan herself. Angela’s mother had just died, and her father had been a one-night stand whose name Dominique Toussaint had never known. When Angela saw Myles and Ma Fisher sitting together at Gramma Marie’s library table, she’d felt envy. Ma Fisher’s skin was white, but Myles had a mother. Anyone could see it.
“That’s awful about your mother,” Naomi said. “I’m sorry.”
Myles half-shrugged. “She’s happier now that she’s not fighting to hang on to her memories, thank God. She smiles a lot. So, I’m feeling a little relief for her sake. It’s hard, though. I finally had to figure out this isn’t about me.”
“Is it all right to leave her alone like this?” Angela said.
“We have two nurses now. The weekend nurse is a good lady. Her name is Betsy, but Ma calls her Sandy.”
“Sandy? Like your old dog?” Angela said. The sudden memory surprised her.
Myles smiled, looking at Angela with appreciative eyes. “Yes.”
Myles and his golden retriever had been inseparable, until Sandy crossed a hunter’s scope when Myles was sixteen. That had been the first time she had seen him cry. But not the last.
“Myles, I’m gonna keep your mama in my prayers,” Naomi said. “Even the scientists are admitting prayer makes a difference when folks are sick.”
Those words struck Angela as something she should have said, but her feelings rarely leaped out into words that way. She wished they did.
“That’s good of you to say. Angela, this is a very nice lady.”
“Yes, she is. I wouldn’t be back here if Naomi hadn’t offered to come with me.”
“Is that so?” Now, Myles gazed at Naomi with an added spark of admiration. “Then we both owe you. You saved me the expense of hiring a private investigator to track her down.”
“Don’t forget, she’s my agent. I’m gonna keep her healthy and happy, no matter what.”
“I thought that was supposed to work the other way around,” Myles said.
Naomi leaned closer to Myles across the table. “Honey, she just got me my first million-dollar deal,” Naomi stage-whispered. “Believe me, I’mhappy.”
Myles raised his crystal water glass. “To a million dollars and the future of the lovely andtrès talented Naomi Price—you better wear sunglasses, sister, because it’s gonna be bright.”
“Damn right,” Angela said, and they tinkled their glasses together.
“Wait,” Naomi blurted. “Also, to Angela Toussaint—the strongest, smartest woman I know.”
“Hear, hear,” Myles said.
“You mean the bitchiest,” Angela murmured.
“Girl, hush. Don’t be talking about my friend like that,” Naomi said.
Angela’s eyes stung during the second toast, and she could feel blood rush to her face. After isolating herself from companionship for so long, her heart seemed to be drowning in their combined warmth. She was moved, and at the same time she felt unresolved.
“It’s my turn,” Angela said, her words nearly too big for her throat. “To Myles Fisher…” She faltered, wrestling with herself. “For the truest kind of friendship. A friendship that forgives.”
“Merci, chérie,”Myles said, but Angela thought she saw a small wince in his eye.
“Don’t tell me you speak French!” Naomi said.
“Only the little bit her Gramma Marie taught me. Nothing to brag about.”
By the time they were eating the fruit salad dessert, the three of them had toasted Gramma Marie, Naomi’s father and late grandmother, and Pa Fisher, which brought a tear to Myles’s eye. Angela called for the final toast.
“To Corey. He’s in good hands. He’s with his grandmother,” she said. Myles and Naomi saidamen as they toasted. It was only then that Angela realized she’d made a breakthrough Dr. Houston would never believe. She’d toasted Corey and she hadn’t crawled under the table to bawl. Gramma Marie’s magic again, she thought. Simply being inside this house made her feel stronger.
And death was destined to be their dinner subject.
“Myles,” Angela said, “what happened to Rick Leahy?”
Myles shook his head, pushing his chair away from the table. “Rick, Rick, Rick,” he sighed. “I still can’t believe it. What a waste. He got hit by a truck right on Main Street in the middle of the day. I wrote the obituary. I’ll bring it next time I’m here.”
“You write at that paper? I thought you were the boss.”
“I’m the managing editor, so I do hire, fire, and grumble. But I made a special dispensation for Rick. We used to go fishing every once in a while, philosophizing. He was a good man.”
Myles and Rick were both outsiders in some ways, Angela realized, and as an adopted child himself, it was only natural Myles would be drawn to a man who rescued children. Myles had come to
Sacajawea at ten, after spending a couple of years in foster homes. Myles was only two months older than Angela—You could be twins,Gramma Marie used to say—although Angela had avoided him until she enrolled in Sacajawea High if only because Gramma Marie had tried so hard to push them together every summer. To Angela, Myles had always been a skinny, bookish boy, dark as tar, who tried too hard to please adults, keeping his hair cut too short, calling his white mother “ma’am” and his white father “sir.” In high school, though, she couldn’t ignore Myles anymore. He had been the only boy who seemed to see her, to notice she was a girl. That had meant so much to her, it scared her.
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