Copyright © 2019 Michelle Mankin
All rights reserved
All rights reserved except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system without prior written permission from the owner/publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Edited by Pam Berehulke
Photo by Wander Aguiar of Wander Photography
Cover models Patrick Mullen and Megan Napolitan
Cover design by Michelle Preast at Indie Book Covers
Formatting by Elaine York at Allusion Graphics
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgements
About the Author
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII by William Shakespeare
“You were awesome!” Cedric Wells smiled.
At me.
Hardly able to believe it, I wanted to pinch myself. But then again, I didn’t. If this was only a dream, I certainly didn’t want to wake up from it.
In my bed last night, I’d picked up a magazine with his image on the cover and imagined what it might be like to have the teen heartthrob notice me. As you can probably guess, the real-life experience beat the imagined one. By the factor of—well, I wasn’t very good at math, so let’s just say a lot.
“Thank you.” I gave his compliment an affected nod, pretending I was the coolly confident Paris Geller from Gilmore Girls, my favorite television show, a show that I wished were my real life. The sense of family and belonging in it were extremely appealing. So was the way it had chronicled awkward Rory Gilmore blossoming into a beautiful woman who could stand on her own.
If only that could be me.
Instead, I was a thirteen-year-old novice actress jumping up and down on the inside and feeling like a total dork while talking to the most popular boy on set.
“The crew cracked up watching us film that scene.” His teen heartthrob grin widened. “I could barely keep from laughing when your toilet brush wand got stuck in the evil stepmother’s wig.”
His gaze dipped to my chest.
Again.
I got it. The interest in my boobs. He was a guy, and I was a girl on the verge of womanhood. Over the past summer, I didn’t shoot up in height. I remained five-foot-two and three-quarters of an inch tall. But I had grown notably in one significant area.
Suddenly, all the boys were noticing me where I’d felt mostly invisible before. Not that I’d minded being overlooked by the opposite sex. My life was too complicated for romance.
Sure, I liked boys. The ones who were nice to me, attractive, and bathed regularly. Not a given with boys my age, so quite a few were automatically excluded.
Certainly, I believed in love, or I wanted to. I liked to imagine the fairy-tale setup—the perfect dress, the prince, and the moment when clocks stopped, eyes connected, and hearts began to beat as one.
It was mainly the happily-ever-after following the initial setup that I doubted.
“I ad-libbed throwing the wand. It seemed like something a protective fairy godmother would do.” I swallowed as Cedric’s gaze rose from my chest.
His eyes darkened, and although his smile remained, it was different, no longer amused.
“It was perfect. Totally in character.” His deep voice lowered. “You’re miscast in the role, though.”
“Really?” I tilted my head to the side. “How so?”
“You’re too pretty to be the godmother.” He reached out and brushed a long lock of my strawberry-blond hair away from my face, making me feel a little shivery as his fingers skimmed my skin. “You should’ve been the princess. Then I could’ve kissed you.” Regarding me intently, he rubbed a wispy strand of my hair between his thumb and finger. “I would’ve liked that.”
Our gazes locked, and my legs wobbled.
Pinning me in place with his piercing blue stare, he asked, “Can I see you later?”
I might have doubts about the integrity of lasting love, but it did suddenly seem to me that time stood still.
“Ced,” a boy called from across the crowded dressing room. “Leave the newbie alone and come over here for a sec. Marla wants to ask you something.”
“In a minute.” Cedric lifted one finger in the air and returned his attention to me. “l’d like to talk some more. We’re having a party at my apartment later.” Releasing my hair, he stroked the back of his knuckles down my cheek. “Could you come?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” Does he not realize how old I am?
“At least give me your number. We can talk some more until I can convince you to go out with me.” He cocked his head to the side and his shiny blond hair fell forward, shadowing his eyes as his gaze dipped to my mouth. “What’s your name?”
“Hollie.” I flushed, my lightly freckled skin surely blazing bright pink. “Hollie Lesowski.”
“Oh.” His eyes widening, he took a step back. “Lesowski, as in Samuel Lesowski, the director?”
I nodded, noting that Cedric was the one who looked nervous now. “He’s my father.”
“Oh, um . . .”
An imaginary clock tolled. Time restarted. Reality reasserted itself.
“Maybe you should go,” I said as my almost-prince predictably faltered.
My father was one of the biggest directors in Hollywood, and undoubtedly one of the most feared. He had a reputation for destroying careers for the slightest offenses. Powerful and moody, he made sure no one dared to cross him.
Nodding, Cedric turned and moved away. He hadn’t bothered to take one of my shoes. In other words, he wasn’t returning to reclaim me.
A moment of time to capture a boy’s attention?
Sure.
The accessories?
Certainly.
I was a girl who liked to dress up and wear pretty shoes. I was a fan of all the glitz and finery that went along with the fairy-tale setup to make you feel like a princess.
But the undying love part?
I was mature enough to know that was only a fantasy.
No longer jumping up and down inside as I processed my disappointment, I murmured a general good-bye to everyone, scooped my backpack off the counter, and exited the trailer. Threading a path between other trailers in a studio back lot cluttered with equipment, I headed toward the parking area and set my thoughts to another dream. A more practical one.
Making a career for myself in film.
Did I have it? That undefinable charisma? The confidence needed to connect with an audience in a real and meaningful way?
Based on my costars’ reactions to my performance today, I thought I might be on the right track. None of my peers had been as enthusiastic when I dabbled in ballet or cheerleading.
My disappointment in the interaction with Cedric faded. I smiled softly, remembering how good it had felt today with the camera trained on me and the crew seeming to hang on my every word.
Had I found my place to belong? My calling? Maybe even a part to act out within some grander design?
“Finally,” a deep voice boomed.
My smile faltered as my father appeared, striding across the parking lot toward me.
“What took you so long?” He towered over me, his frown drawing attention to features I thought were severe, but some seemed to find handsome.
“I had to put away my costume, take off my makeup, and change clothes.” Ever the dutiful daughter, I hurried to apologize. “I’m sorry.”
I lifted my chin to maintain his gaze, though being on the receiving end of his displeasure made me feel more like crawling into a hole and hiding.
“You’re half an hour late, Hollie.” His gray-green eyes narrowed as he stopped directly in front of me.
My half sister, Fanny, said his eyes were the same shade as the money he worshipped. She was the bold one, not as eager to please him. Turning eighteen seemed to have made a difference for her.
“Come along.” He stared down the length of his nose at me, accustomed to most people bowing and scraping before him as if his glowing box office numbers and the Oscar statuettes on his shelf made him royalty. His younger daughter certainly was no exception. “Your mother’s waiting in the car.”
He clucked his tongue at me, turned, and walked away without another word, anticipating—correctly—that I would follow. I might be a teenager, but I rarely openly rebelled against him.
“With the paltry amount of money they’re paying you, I don’t know why you agreed to participate in this second-rate production.”
“It’s only my second speaking role.” I swallowed with difficulty, my confidence demolished by yet another criticism he thought was constructive. “It’s a popular show. The exposure will be good for me. I’m honored to have the part.”
“I saw the playback of your performance.”
At the end of a row of cars, he turned right but didn’t slow down. I hurried to keep up with him.
“How is that possible?” I asked as I drew closer. It had been a closed set today.
“The producer owes me a favor.”
“Oh.” The rules didn’t apply to my father. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“You’re not going to get the type of exposure you need on a show no one over the age of fourteen has heard of.”
The afternoon sun stretched his shadow over me, and I felt smaller than usual as I scurried to keep pace with him.
“As for experience,” he tossed a disdainful look over his shoulder, “not much to be gained in a bit part where you’re the butt of every joke.”
“I thought I did okay.” I dropped my gaze to my feet. Tears pricked my eyes.
“If by okay, you mean being a complete and utter disgrace to the Lesowski name, I would agree with you.”
“But everyone said—”
“What you wanted to hear, Hollie-doll. Don’t be a fool. They were laughing at you. Not with you.”
“I didn’t realize.” My cheeks on fire, I slipped past him toward his Mercedes just ahead.
My mother sat in the front passenger seat, waiting for us as he’d said she would be. Her gaze met mine through the glass. Noting my expression, hers softened in empathy.
Tears escaped and silently tracked down my cheeks as I opened the door behind her and slid into the back seat. After closing the door, I fastened my seat belt, successfully swiping the moisture from my skin before my father climbed into the driver’s seat.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. He hadn’t noticed my tears. If he had, he would have chastised me.
“You’re a good deal better at finding the car,” he said after a quick glance at me in the rearview mirror, “than you are at noting the obvious among your colleagues.” He cranked the engine, and I turned my head to the side to avoid any more comments.
Resting my damp cheek against the cool leather, I slumped down into my seat, wishing for invisibility almost as much as I wished my sister, Fanny, were in her usual spot beside me.
Alone, I twisted my hands together and focused on regulating my breathing. In for one, two, three beats. Out for one, two, three. Yoga techniques to relax. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t work all that well, given my present circumstances.
“I saw the video, Samuel,” my mother said, her pretty profile to me as she turned to look at him. “You’re being too hard on her. It wasn’t a bad performance.”
“Our daughter isn’t cut out for comedy.” He kept his gaze straight ahead, as intractable in his driving as he was in his opinion of me.
“Yet that’s the role she received.” In the rearview mirror, my mother offered me a small smile, attempting to temper his disapproval. It was a full-time occupation for her since I rarely met his exacting standards.
I returned to her what I hoped was a satisfactory smile. But looking at her beautiful face in the mirror only made me feel more inadequate.
My mother was breathtaking. Something I would never be, though we shared the same hair color and similar facial structure. Her arched brows and elegant nose aligned to give her a regal Grace Kelly effect. My features were too softly rounded, and my eyes were merely matte gray to her shiny platinum, though I liked to pretend the stage lights gave my gaze an added sparkle.
“She did her best to shine in her part.” My mother believed in the power of encouraging words and spoke them often to me. I loved her. Everyone did. To know Abigail Lesowski was to love her. She had a depth of kindness inside her heart that surpassed her outward beauty.
Kind nature aside, I also valued her opinion regarding acting. Before she’d gotten pregnant with me and chosen to stay at home, she had been on the cusp of a promising career. But though I adored and respected her, it was my father’s difficult-to-obtain approval I coveted.
“She should’ve withdrawn from the production when she didn’t get the lead.” Samuel flicked on his blinker with a slash of his hand and turned the Mercedes off the main road. “She’s a Lesowski. Destined for bigger and better things.” He had been pestering me constantly to star in one of his films.
“I want to get roles based on my own merit.” I clenched my fingers, anticipating a retort as Samuel turned onto the driveway to our estate, braking the vehicle in front of the ornate wrought-iron gate.
“Then choose a different profession.” My father lifted a finger to acknowledge our guard. The man waved back from his hut and opened the gate. “Show business is all about who you know and can influence.”
“Samuel . . .”
“She needs to grow up, Abigail.”
“There’s plenty of time for that. She’s only thirteen.”
“Almost fourteen. Nearly too old to train.”
“She doesn’t need training. She needs stability. Let her finish her schooling. Then she can make a go of things her own way befor
e she decides whether a career in show business is for her.”
“You want her to do things that way.”
“Yes, but only because I didn’t have those choices.”
My mother’s options were ripped away from her when she lost both her parents. Near my age when they had died, she’d bounced around the foster care system afterward and used make-believe to cope. She had discovered a knack for pretending and eventually employed those skills professionally.
“You shelter her and fill her head with your fanciful ideals.”
“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on.’” A quote from Tempest.
If my mother wasn’t pulling life philosophies from her favorite playwright, it was her beloved yoga teachings. Sometimes she even blended the two, a novel spirit who processed the world in her own unique way. I might covet my father’s approval, but deep down, I wished I could grow up to be like her.
“We should protect our daughter’s innocence,” my mother said. “This world will attempt to exploit it. If unchecked, hope will become sorrow. Sacrificial choices will become regrets. Truths will become lies, and lies will become unignorable ugliness.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“When will it end, Samuel? How many indiscretions must I overlook? When you’re at work, that’s one thing, but now . . .”
She sniffed and I couldn’t see her face anymore, but I knew from her strained voice that her eyes had tears in them.
“With the housekeeper. How could you? In my own home. The children . . .”
My sister and I were appalled. Why would he choose anyone else when we knew he only wanted her?
“Home, you say? The word rolls so effortlessly off your tongue. But what you really mean is the place you reside. A home is where a wife should love her husband.”
“I do love you.”
“What good is love without desire?”
“You have everything I have to give.”
“What you didn’t leave behind with him.”
“I’ve always been faithful.”
“Faithful makes for a cold bed.”
I swallowed hard, not wanting to hear this. I loved my parents, and it hurt when they slung insults at each other.
I slunk lower in my seat. Since I couldn’t make myself invisible, I tuned them out, erecting a setting and a story within my imagination. I used pretend to escape much like my mother had. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself as a grownup—as beautiful as my mom, my hair no longer straight and strawberry blond but boldly red and strikingly curly like my sister’s.
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