He said he needed to relax. Asked me if I would join him in the hot tub, while we discuss the potential role. I told him I hadn’t brought a suit, and he said it was okay, that I didn’t need one. Eventually he realized I wasn’t going to give in and we talked at the table on the deck outside. He sat next to me instead of across from me and kept touching my thigh, running his finger beneath the hem of my skirt. I kept edging away but he didn’t stop.
I barely remember the conversation. There were people walking below us. If they’d have looked up, they would have seen us. I was scared but he was acting like this was all normal, so I pretended I didn’t mind. I left as soon as I could get out of there. I figured I was lucky. I got the role and he didn’t try anything creepy with me. Not really.
But one night, after everyone had left, Carly was cleaning the coffee machines in preparation for the next day, when he found her.
He trapped me in a corner and started kissing me, groping me. I was screaming, hitting, and kicking. But he’s strong. He tore my blouse and was sticking his hand in my pants when a friend came looking for me. He stopped when he heard her voice and I instantly elbowed him in the nose and got away. I found my friend had called nine-one-one.
The friend was identified only as Person X in the police report. Carly Cassidy refused to identify her. Arondi was furious. He’d heard the voice and seen a shadow, but didn’t know who it belonged to.
The police took her statement. Carly hadn’t been raped. She had no bruises or scrapes. Other than the torn blouse, there was no physical evidence of assault. In the absence of an eyewitness, it would be her word against his. Richard Arondi was a powerful man with endless money for lawyers.
He said if I didn’t drop the charges, he’d dig up every little thing in my past, drag me through the mud, ruin me and my family.
Carly Cassidy dropped the charges. She never identified her friend.
If Jon could talk to Carly, convince her to ask her friend to come forward, this story could result in Arondi being charged. If one woman could be brave, it would almost certainly bring others out of the woodwork. He’d be exposed in all his putrid glory and blacklisted in Hollywood. He’d never again prey on a hungry and desperately hopeful actor willing to do anything, almost anything, to get noticed.
He pushed aside his research and closed his laptop.
Yesterday, Abby and Roman had talked on the porch for a half hour, while the sun set over the hillside. He’d stayed inside, as instructed, but couldn’t resist watching from the window.
Abby was leaning close, her expression urgent. But Roman’s posture stayed stiff, shaking his head and at one point, slamming his hand on the armrest of his Adirondack chair.
Abby had come in with red-rimmed eyes and shiny cheeks, but she only said that if Jon had questions, he had to ask Roman.
Something was going on and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
* * *
Jon was in the kitchen, washing dishes, while his father watched hummingbirds battle at the feeders outside the big window in the room overlooking the yard.
“I’ve got two more reports of women who say they had uncomfortable or inappropriate experiences with Richard Arondi,” he said, over the sound of the faucet.
Roman had taken interest in the story, enough that Jon had started bouncing ideas off him. The old man was a surprisingly good sounding board, when he was in the right mood.
“All of them have been threatened,” he continued. “Everyone is scared shitless of this guy. Nobody will go on record yet but I know if I keep digging, I’ll find someone who will. It can’t go on forever. He’s reaching critical mass. His own hubris will take him down and when he falls, it’ll be a crash unlike anything Hollywood has ever seen.”
They’d been getting along remarkably well. Over the past few days, he and Roman had visited another round of restaurants and they’d had a great, if exhausting, time. The seafood place in town was fantastic. He reminded himself to take Abby there soon. According to Aiden, the oyster bar was the reason he and Haylee were together.
“You hungry, Dad? What do you want for supper?”
When he shut off the faucet, he heard the sound of a glass falling onto the hardwood floor.
“I hope that was empty.” He was drying his hands on a towel when he heard strange clucking sounds coming from the other room.
“Is that dog puking?” he called out. “You’ve got to quit feeding him off your plate, Dad.”
But Roman didn’t reply. Instead, Jon heard Chaos whine, then bark, sharply.
“Dad?”
He threw the towel over his shoulder and went to his father’s usual place in the chair by the window.
“Oh my God. Dad!”
Roman was slumped sideways, a thin string of drool coming from the side of his mouth. One hand gripped the armrest, the other rotated rhythmically at the elbow, palm up, palm down.
Chaos shoved his head under Roman’s arm and whined loudly, but there was nothing he could do to help. His master was having a seizure.
Jon got his arm under his father and dragged him—how light he was now—onto the couch, where he placed him on his side. He unbuttoned his shirt and piled pillows around his head, between his knees, in the small of his back. The arm continued spasming.
Jon grabbed his phone and punched 9-1-1, taking note of the time. When had it started? Thirty seconds earlier? Maybe a minute? When had Roman last responded?
Ring, ring.
“Come on, Dad, you’re going to be okay.”
He spoke quietly and calmly, the way the articles said he was supposed to, but his heart thundered like wild horses in a canyon. Why weren’t they answering?
Did he have epilepsy? Is that why he was on the valproic acid? Why wouldn’t he warn Jon?
Flick, flick, went the hand.
Then, the hand went limp. Roman’s body sagged.
“Dad!” Jon dug his fingers into the side of Roman’s neck, feeling for a pulse, hardly able to believe it when he found it.
Roman’s eyes fluttered open. “You tryin’ to strangle me?”
“Hey.” Jon’s voice shook. “You’re okay.”
The 9-1-1 operator finally answered. “What is your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance,” Jon said. “My father just had a seizure.”
“No!” Roman grabbed for the device but only ended up knocking it out of Jon’s hand.
“Dad, what the hell?” Jon found the phone, made contact with the operator.
“Please, Jon,” Roman said, struggling to sit up. “No ambulance.”
“Sir?” asked the operator. “Is everything all right?”
No, Jon wanted to scream. Things were not fucking all right.
With Roman batting at his arm, Jon described the incident. But upon learning that his father was breathing, conscious, unhurt, and begging to be put on the phone, the operator asked to speak to Roman directly.
“No ambulance.” Roman’s hand shook so hard that Jon had to hold the device to his ear, and his words, while slurred, were understandable and authoritative. He shot a glance at Jon. “I zoned out. I’m okay now.”
Chapter Nineteen
From Abby’s notebook:
Spittle bugs may appear on ornamental plants as foam on stems. In most cases, they don’t require management. If they bother you, wash them off with water or insecticidal soap. You could also learn to accept them.
Abby got there as quickly as she could. Jon had been adamant that she come help him convince Roman to go to the hospital.
Roman was equally adamant that he not go to the hospital.
She yanked up the emergency brake on her truck and ran up the porch steps.
“Roman?” she called, kicking off her boots.
“He’s sleeping.”
She followed Jon’s voice to the couch by the window where Roman was lying, bolstered by cushions and his big yellow dog.
“I’m not sleeping.” His voice was thin and weak, querulous like a
sick child.
She touched his forehead. It was cold and damp. “How are you feeling?”
“How do you think?” He twitched away from her hand. “Tell Jon to quit fussing.”
“He had a seizure. I’m guessing, since he’s on this, that it’s not the first time.” Jon held up the medication vial. “Since when does he have epilepsy?”
His hair stood on end, as if he’d been tearing at it with his fists. His white T-shirt hung over the top of his jeans, which rode low on his hips. His feet were bare.
This was it, the moment she’d been dreading, and she found herself unable to look away from his feet, his long toes and their clean, tidily clipped nails.
“Abby!”
She shook her head. “Sorry, what?”
“What do you know,” he said slowly and deliberately, “about my dad having epilepsy?”
Her shoulders tightened. She looked helplessly at Roman, willing him to answer for her, to explain, once and for all, what was going on inside him.
Roman’s face was carved like stone, a sweaty, angry statue. “One little episode. No big deal. It happens.”
She lifted her hands and let them fall with a smack against her thighs. “He’s been having dizzy spells for a while now. Numbness in his hands and feet. He didn’t want to bother you. The drugs keep it under control.”
Come on, Jon. Figure it out. Put it together.
A muscle in Jon’s jaw flickered. His blue eyes burned with icy fire. “We’re going to the emergency room.”
“The hell we are!” That brought Roman back to life. “I dropped a fucking glass, didn’t even break it. So I’m on a boatload of pills. Do you think I know what each of them is for? I’ve been on pills of one kind or another for years. This is no big deal, Jon. Let it go.”
But Jon already had his jacket on and his keys in his hand. “No way. I saw you. You were unresponsive. Drooling. Your hand was twitching.”
“I’m old,” Roman roared. “I dozed off. You were boring me.”
“We were talking about Richard Arondi,” Jon yelled back. “There’s nobody you’d rather dish dirt on than him, so don’t try to tell me you were bored.”
He stopped. Blinked. Looked at Abby. “Maybe that’s what triggered it. He’s hated Arondi for a long time. Extreme emotions can trigger seizures, right?”
Abby stood up between them. She was done. Roman was being ridiculous and it was pissing her off and it was scaring the hell out of Jon.
“Roman, do you have something to tell your son?”
“Nope.” He crossed his arms and looked out the window.
“Are you sure?”
She could feel Jon’s gaze going back and forth between them, as if he was watching a tennis match.
“Roman!” She’d had enough. “If you don’t tell him, I will.”
“Tell me what?” Jon set down his keys and approached Roman’s sofa. He squatted down beside it. “Tell me what, Dad?”
He looked up at Abby and those blue eyes had ice in them. “One of you better start talking, and soon.”
“Aw, hell.” Roman’s lips twisted. He blew out a long, slow breath. At the same time, Abby held hers.
“Truth is, son,” he said, “I’m dying.”
Jon stared at him. “I’ve had a long, unpleasant day, Dad. I’m in no mood for hyperbole.”
“I’m not giving you any.” Roman turned his head on the pillow, as if looking for a comfortable spot and not finding one. “There’s a tumor in my brain. That’s why I fell in the bathroom. That’s why I have seizures. That’s why I get headaches.”
“A tumor.”
“Yes. In my brain.”
There wasn’t even a ghost of a smile on Roman’s face.
Jon turned to Abby. “Where did he get this idea? If he’s kidding me—”
“I wish he was.” Her throat was so dry she could hardly get the words out. “But he’s not.”
* * *
Brain tumor. Brain tumor. The words bounced back and forth between Jon’s ears, repeating endlessly until they lost all meaning.
What were they talking about? Roman had vertebral spurring, badly healed breaks, chronic arthritis, muscle degeneration, nerve impingement, the list went on. He had problems walking because of damage to his musculoskeletal system.
He didn’t have a brain tumor.
He looked at Abby. She had tears in her eyes.
“Dad,” he said, trying to ignore the panic rising up from his belly. “I came out here because you fell in the bathroom and hit your head. No one said anything about a brain tumor.”
“That’s because I told them not to.”
Jon looked at Abby. “I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense. He’s joking, right?”
Dad had to be joking. He didn’t seem different. If someone had brain cancer, wouldn’t they seem different?
Roman pushed himself upright on the couch. “You’re not listening, son. Read my lips. Cancer. Of the brain. Of my brain. I didn’t want to tell you. It’s a fucking nuisance, is what it is.”
Jon felt dizzy himself.
“Hang on. Go back. When . . . ? How?”
How could Dad be so sick without Jon knowing? Had he been that self-involved over the winter, immersed in work, that he’d missed the signs of a terminal illness in his own father?
Roman grimaced. “You and your questions. I got suspicious around Christmas. I started dropping stuff. One week, I smashed a bowl of soup all over my kitchen, followed by my best bottle of scotch. My hip was acting up and I thought it was making me clumsy. Then I got a kind of numbness all down the left side of my body.”
“Oh my God,” Jon said. “What if you’d been having a heart attack?”
Roman ignored that. “My doc said it was probably a pinched nerve—God knows I’ve got enough of those—but a few days later my head started aching, not the usual pain. Different. I can’t describe it.”
Jon fisted his hand and pressed his knuckle against his upper lip. “You have a tumor. And you didn’t say a thing.”
“I begged him, Jon.” Abby stepped toward him, her eyes beseeching him. “I did everything I could to convince him to tell you, but he refused. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Anyone but you.”
Her face fell at his tone, but he ignored it. “You should have told me anyway, Abby. I’m his son. His next of kin. I’ve got power of attorney, for God’s sake.”
“Exactly why I didn’t want you to know.” Roman shifted on the sofa and pointed at Jon. “I needed time to think, to plan, to decide what I wanted, before you barged in like a returning hero to save the day, deciding what’s best for me without taking my opinion, my wishes, into account.”
“I’m so sorry, Jon.” Abby had her arms wrapped around her middle.
Against his will, he felt sympathy for her. Roman was a hard man to fight when he got his mind set on something.
“Let’s remember the issue at hand, shall we?” Roman gave a bark of laughter. “I’m the one with the problem. A plum-size problem, you might say.”
“Plum size.” His dad picked a hell of a time for levity. “What does that mean? How big is it? What kind of cancer is it? Where’s it located?”
“Does it matter?” Boredom and irritation spiked his tone.
“Of course it matters, Roman.” Abby spoke from the corner. “Tell Jon what you know.”
There were so many questions going through Jon’s mind, he didn’t know where to start. “What kind of tumor, exactly? What stage? Has it spread? What kind of treatment will you pursue? Do you need surgery? Chemo? Radiation?”
Then he stopped. Roman wasn’t a reliable source. He probably didn’t even know. A diagnosis like this wasn’t confirmed without a lot of tests and appointments and consults. “We’ll get you to a bigger hospital and figure out what’s really going on.”
“I’ve had enough of that, Jon-boy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I went to Springfield a while back.”
�
�Yeah?” Jon vaguely remembered hearing about that trip.
“I had a head CT.” Roman shrugged a shoulder as if it was no big deal.
He’d thought his father was meeting an old friend, maybe a woman friend.
If he’d have spent a nanosecond analyzing that, he’d have realized how ridiculous that was.
“You went to Springfield for a head CT . . . alone?” Jon felt like he was about to explode.
“I went with him,” Abby said quietly. “He was going to take the bus. I couldn’t let him do that.”
Jon dug his index fingers into his temples. “You knew he was having a head CT. And you still didn’t call me.”
His eyes met hers, trapped them, demanding an explanation.
“Focus, son,” Roman broke in. “The scan revealed the tumor, neurologist confirmed it, end of story.”
Again, the casual tone, as if he was mentioning an afterthought, rather than a life-altering, possibly life-ending news.
“Before you say it, I’ve already gotten a second opinion,” Roman said. “I’ve seen all the specialists. It’s a done deal.”
“Not for me. Damn it, Dad.” He stared helplessly at his father, who seemed suddenly so much older and more frail than he’d been ten minutes ago. “How is this happening?”
“It just is.” Roman sighed. “Jon, I’m tired and my hip aches like my marrow’s on fire. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when the headaches started, but it was such a little thing, I didn’t want to bother you. The numbness in my hands raised some flags though, and that’s when they started running tests. I didn’t want to tell you then, because what if they were wrong? Then, when they found the cancer, I didn’t know how to tell you.”
He stopped then, like an old Cadillac that had just run out of gas.
“It’s called a glioma tumor,” Abby said, speaking quietly. “They can’t remove it surgically. Chemo and radiation may or may not buy him some time.”
“Time that’ll make me wish I was already dead,” Roman added.
Jon paced over to the window. Hummingbirds hovered and darted at the feeders, oblivious to the human drama nearby. Then he inhaled and opened his mouth. “There must be something they can do. There has to be.”
Blackberry Cove Page 19
