"I know."
"She thought she could piggyback onto my name to get famous. When it didn't work with me, she decided to use our son as a steppingstone. I needed to get him away from her so he could have a chance at a regular life. I had to increase her weekly income to get her to go along with it."
"You paid her off to put your son in boarding school?"
He dismissed that with a shrug. "It's just money."
He played another piece, something short and soft she didn't recognize. She noticed he often played piano when he was upset, as if returning to the musicianship of his youth centered him and allowed him to regain his equilibrium.
He put his head down and went through the crescendo of the song, but playing it very quietly.
He finished, and rested his hands on the keys again. "But now she wants more."
"More money? How much do you pay her now?"
"Five-K per week. And I've always paid her expenses since Shane was born. She lives in one of my houses." He gave Maggie a quick smirk. "With a live-in housekeeper."
She laughed. "Lucky her. And her own pool boy, too, I presume."
"Yup. And I pay all of Shane's expenses, of course. There are allowances for food, healthcare." He waved one hand in the air. "All that stuff. I don't even remember what we agreed to. I also gave her everything extra she asked for in the renegotiation last year so I could get Shane into that school. I think she asked for a shoe allowance or something." He shrugged again. "Who cares? The point is, she's lying about being broke."
Maggie clutched her chest. "But you're saying she only gets five thousand dollars a week on top of her shoe allowance? How does the poor thing manage?" She calculated it quickly in her head. "Reese, that's a quarter of a million dollars a year just for pocket change!" She laughed, but he didn't respond to her joking.
"Yeah." He hit the first chord of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 with a bang. The sound reverberated through the loft space, echoing off the open ductwork high above. "But the money's peanuts to me and she knows it. So she wants double what I've been paying her, or she won't come to Carita with Shane."
"That's blackmail."
"Sure is." He attacked the keys on the symphony's first movement, and the customers in O'Riley's looked up and began to pay attention to his playing.
He noticed he was being watched, and took his playing back down to pianissimo, making the intense symphony sound more like coffee shop background music again. He got his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket with his left hand, while continuing to play with his right. He slipped the glasses on and then went back to playing with both hands, ducking his head to hide his face.
Maggie went around to the side of the piano that faced the customers. She leaned against it, blocking the view of Reese from the rest of the café.
"Why don't you sic your lawyers on her?" she asked.
"I will, of course. But that takes time. This week was supposed to be his first visit."
"Of course." She thought about the lack of female houseguests that he'd brushed off with a joke, and the rush to get in a cleaning service for Casablanca. "The questions about what to cook and all that," she said. "That was for Shane."
"Yeah." He turned his head away, and she could see his eyes behind the sunglasses had a sheen of moisture. "It's not a big deal. I was just looking forward to it, that's all."
"But can't you just send a car for him? She can't refuse to let him go, can she?"
"On the phone just now, she said she won't release him to anyone except me. She says that's the way it's worded in the custody agreement. She's insisting I pick him up in person myself. That's what this is all about."
"Why?" Maggie asked, and the question hung there in the air while he worked through the next phrase of the music. He was hiding something, she was sure. A guy who could get what he wanted with a snap of his fingers was way more upset about this simple transportation problem than he should be.
"And I'm not sure how Shane will react to all this," he then answered, as if he hadn't heard her question. "I already have an uphill battle ahead, getting to know him and trying to forge some kind of relationship. She's been telling him I don't care about him. He thinks that's why I haven't been around."
He stopped speaking while he concentrated on remembering the ending of the movement. Then he stopped playing, and muttered, "Maybe I could have my attorney force her to hand Shane over to him. But this is the very first time he's visiting me. Having him dropped on my doorstep like a package isn't a great way to start a new relationship with his father."
"Yeah," she said. "I guess not. You want to make a good impression. So you should just drive down in that ridiculous sports car of yours and get him. What teen could resist a Porsche?"
"Huh?" he replied, as if that were a strange idea.
"Get in that fancy car of yours and go pick him up."
He ignored that, too, so she said, "What aren't you telling me? Why is this such a big deal? Are you afraid to see Olivia?"
He shook his head. "I'm not afraid of that."
She caught the emphasis on the last word. "Then what are you afraid of?"
He didn't answer, but started playing again, finishing the first movement of the symphony very quietly, letting the sound trickle to a stop.
His hands rested on the ivories, but he seemed unsure whether he wanted to continue. He muttered, "I'll have Patricia set it up. Have a car service take me to the executive airport, and then a limo to Olivia's house when I land. That'll work."
She came back to sit next to him on the bench. "It's not that long a drive. Why the elaborate plans? There's something else you're upset about here. What aren't you telling me, Stanley?"
He glanced her way, noticing the use of his real name. "Nothing, Magdalena."
He lifted his hands to begin another song, but she leaned over to put her hand over his. "Yeah. It's something."
He pulled his hand away from her, as if feeling ashamed for some reason. He sat there a minute, very still. "I can't drive him home," he finally whispered. "From Los Angeles to here, or just the five miles from the airport. I can't drive him at all. I can't drive anybody."
"What do you mean? I've seen you driving that silver monstrosity of yours a hundred times."
"Alone," he whispered.
"Oh," she said, and the tears came to her eyes as she finally got it. Committing vehicular manslaughter will put a damper on a judge's opinion of you. Apparently it also put a damper on his opinion of himself. "In all these years since the crash, you've never driven with a passenger in the car?" she asked.
He nodded slightly.
"I didn't realize," she said. The piano bench creaked when she sat back. "Do people know this?"
He shrugged. "I don't know how many people have figured it out."
"But Olivia knows," Maggie said.
"Oh, yes, Olivia knows. That's why she's doing this. She knows I won't drive him myself. She waited until everything was set. Then she pulled this stunt at the last minute because she knew it would freak me out."
"Witch is not the word I would use for her," Maggie said.
He shrugged. "It's not a big deal."
"Yes," she said. "It's a big deal."
"It isn't," he said. He was still looking at the keyboard instead of at her. "It just threw me when she called me out of the blue." He spoke rapidly, in a clipped tone, unlike his usual casual drawl: "I'll hire a car to take me down. That will solve it. It's no problem. I was just panicking. She knows how to push my buttons and I fell right into her trap. Total panic attack here. I have to get over it." His voice was a furious whisper, like he was talking to himself, trying to convince himself not to freak out. This surprise had triggered something in him she hadn't ever seen before.
Maggie stood up from the piano bench.
"No," she said. "Come with me."
He looked up at her. She could see her reflection in his mirrored shades, dark and shadowy.
"Come where?" he asked.
"T
o Los Angeles," she said. "We'll go right now. I'll close the shop for the day and drive you to LA to pick up Shane. Unless you're too snooty to be seen in a tiny purple car?"
"You'd do that?" he asked.
"Of course I'd do that. Let's go."
Chapter Nine
They were about halfway down the coast highway toward Los Angeles when Jasper began to get restless.
He stood up in the back seat and began to tap his white paws, scratching out a rhythm on the seat cover.
So Maggie kept an eye out, and a few minutes later pulled off onto a small dirt road that led into the hills.
At first the lane was hemmed in on both sides by steep banks studded with blackberry bushes and dusty manzanita. But soon she came to a wide spot where she could pull over. It was a little clearing, filled with dappled shade and surrounded by gnarled live oaks and the sharp tang of eucalyptus.
She pulled the car into the shade and parked on the dirt.
She got out and unhooked Jasper's seatbelt harness. He tried to push his way past her, but she managed to get his leash fastened onto his collar before he barrelled his way out the door. He landed in the dirt with a yelp when he put all his weight on his bad shoulder.
"Told you to wait for me," she said. She patted him gently and helped him to his feet.
He pulled her over to the base of an oak tree and lifted his leg to relieve himself against the trunk.
Then he barked happily and grinned at her.
"Yeah. I know the feeling," she told him. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."
Her phone rang and she answered it. After greeting Lieutenant Ibarra, she listened as he peppered her with questions. "No, Lieutenant," she said to him. "I already told you I don't know where Willow and Grey went. Yes, I would tell you if I knew. I'm not hiding anything." He pushed her a little more, but finally accepted that she didn't have any more info and let her go. She put her phone away, and tried not to worry about what had happened to those kids.
She let Jasper lead her around the clearing for a bit, giving both of them a chance to rest from the driving. The dog's limping was worse after sitting in the car for a couple of hours, but clearly he had no intention of missing out on the chance to experience all the smells in a new place.
As Jasper stuck his long nose into every hole and bush he could find, Reese got out and stretched his legs. He leaned against the little car, resting his elbows on the roof and watching them while they finished their exploration of the clearing.
When she led Jasper back to the open car door, he hesitated before getting in.
"Help me, will you?" she said, and Reese came around to lift the dog into the car.
She fastened the seatbelt harness back around Jasper, and then gave him a gentle rub through his T-shirt (a red one this time). She could feel the prickly new growth covering the scar on his shoulder. "You'll be able to jump soon," she told him. "Be patient. You'll get over it."
Reese started to go around to the passenger side, but she put a hand on his arm. "You'll get over it, too," she said.
"What do you mean?"
She held out the car keys.
His eyes widened. "That's not happening."
"Yeah. It is."
"No," he said. She could smell the eucalyptus leaves crunching under their feet as he nervously shuffled his sneakers back and forth.
"Yes," she replied. "Drive us back to the highway. We're all alone. The coast is clear. It's only a few hundred yards."
He shook his head. "No. I can't. I just—I can't do it."
She crossed her arms in front of her and looked up at him. "Do you want to see your son?"
"Of course," he said, getting annoyed.
"Then you're going to drive this car back to the highway. Or we'll stay here until the sun goes down. Your choice."
He stood there glaring at her, the dappled sunlight in the clearing making his hair shine like liquid gold. The sheen matched the glittering tears in his eyes. "You don't understand."
"No," she said. "I don't. I've never been responsible for another person's death. But I know you can't go on like this for the rest of your life."
"Of course I can," he said. "I've done it for all these years. I have the money to never drive again if I choose to. I can pay for any accommodation I need to avoid this problem."
"Good for you," she said. "You can buy your way out of dealing with your guilt and shame and grief."
"That's not what this is," he said, sounding angry. "That's not what this is at all."
"Of course it is. You told me to get over my grief and move on with my life. But I guess that only applies to me. You get to stay stuck in yours forever."
He shook his head and looked away. "It's not the same thing. I killed my best friend because of my recklessness. I will never do that again."
"I would hope not. But that has nothing to do with driving this car a hundred yards while you're stone cold sober on a clear summer day."
He was definitely angry now. He walked away from her to the far edge of the clearing, where he kicked at an innocent rock to let out his frustration.
She didn't argue with him any more. She waited. Silently.
They stood at opposite ends of the dirt turnout on the quiet little country road, the scent of dust and ocean all around him.
He was over there a long time, staring at the trees.
She watched him work it out in his mind, reach a conclusion.
Finally he came back and held his hand out. She dropped the car keys into it.
"Okay," he whispered. "Just back to the highway."
When Reese showed up at Olivia's door unannounced, smug and resolute, she immediately caved and handed over their son without an argument, just as their custody agreement demanded.
He had won a battle there, and she knew it.
But there was something in Olivia's reaction that made Maggie uncomfortable. Something calculating, as if she had other tricks up her sleeve she could use to get her way. Maggie had to suppress a shiver when the woman's eyes briefly flicked to her.
But Maggie had been around Hollywood phonies long enough to cultivate some phoniness of her own, so she was able to offer a cheerful bit of chatter about the weather and then bid a friendly goodbye before she turned away and wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Then they piled into the car and, after a quick stop for coffee, immediately headed back north toward Carita.
Maggie drove as quickly as she dared, anxious to get out of the Southland before the afternoon commute gridlocked them in place for hours.
Soon they got far enough away from the traffic to relax. She rolled down the windows and the ocean breeze flowed in, and everybody settled in for the fun part of the drive along the curving oceanside highway.
As she drove she kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the boy in the back seat.
Shane had turned into a mini-me of his dad.
He had always been cute, with the kind of looks you'd expect the child of a movie star and a model to have.
Maggie had met him only once before today. His dad had taken him to the Oscars when he was about five years old, and they'd sat at the same table at the Vanity Fair party, where Shane had spent his time pulling gold sequins off her Oscar de la Renta evening clutch and scattering them on the tablecloth while the grown-ups chatted.
That's about all she remembered of him—a darling, fair-haired little boy with chubby cheeks, carefully removing every bead, sequin, and jewel from her purse to alleviate the boredom of an industry party.
She had handed her purse over and let him tear it apart, knowing that feeling of boredom all-too well, and sometimes wishing she could do something equally destructive to break up the monotony.
They'd both come a long way since then. She doubted he even remembered her. She hardly recognized him, either.
He'd gone from child to slender teenager seemingly overnight. And he'd somehow managed to skip all of the adolescent awkwardness in between.
He was
already taller than her, and would likely end up over six feet like his dad. He wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt, exactly what his dad was wearing, though she didn't dare point it out to them.
Despite the academic rigor of his school, the boy's deep tan showed he spent a lot of time outdoors, and the muscles of his arms were defined from all the sports he'd been playing. At least she assumed he played sports. When she'd asked him about his activities, she'd gotten the typical adolescent grunts and monosyllabic answers in reply.
His hair was burnished gold, and cut long and shaggy, framing the same startling blue eyes that were his father's trademark. The eyes betrayed that same quicksilver mind at work, too, making it clear he wasn't some empty-headed beauty, but would become a force to be reckoned with. She wondered how such a strong-minded father and son would butt heads in the coming years, if they chose different paths.
Shane sat in the back seat, stretching out his long legs and staring out the window at the passing road. He had said little when they'd picked him up, just throwing his suitcase in the hatchback and clambering into the car to settle in for the long ride.
The only sign of enthusiasm had come when he'd spotted the grinning dog waiting for him in the back seat. It had been like Reese the first time he'd met Jasper: all hugs and wrestling and the coming together of boy and dog in joyful greeting.
Now Shane and the dog sat as close as they could cuddle, both contented in their companionship. Two long-limbed, elegant creatures of almost unreal beauty, oblivious to the magical effect they had on others.
She glanced at the man in the passenger seat next to her as she drove. It was all eerily similar to how his father had been at that age. Reese had only been a teenager when Nora had whisked him up into the tornado of fame that had almost killed him.
Now Reese's own son was fourteen, and was blessed (cursed?) with that same indefinable star quality that made people stare and wonder why he was so special.
Maggie and the Mourning Beads Page 6
