Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  It seemed really important to him to be able to tell her whatever it was he wanted to say. Probably part of his recovery treatment, Eve thought. Make amends. Apologize to those you have hurt. So, although his hand on hers made her feel a mixture of squeamishness, sadness, and a touch of regret, Eve left her hand where it was.

  His grip was scrunching her hand, causing the overly buttered and now squished slice of bread to extend from her fingers like a bulbous question mark.

  “I’m trying,” he continued, “to show you I’ve changed, to show an interest in your work, so you’ll know that I regret what a self-involved fool I was.”

  His other hand landed on the hand pile. It reminded Eve of that game she and Maggie used to play on road trips. He sure would be surprised if I slipped my hand out from the bottom fast and slapped it on top of his. She kept her smile secret because for some reason Levi was acting super serious.

  “I’ve missed you so much, Eve. You have no idea. You complete me.” He stood up abruptly. “I was going to wait until dessert to do this, but what the hell, since we’re on the subject.” He pried the slice of bread from her suddenly numb fingers and dropped it on his plate, her hand still firmly clasped in his.

  “What subject?” she said nervously, a feeling of foreboding washing over her, but it was too late. He’d already rounded the table and dropped to his knees.

  “Eve, you are my heart, my life, my reason for living.”

  He was talking so loud. Everyone in the restaurant was staring. In her peripheral vision Eve noticed the waiter rushing toward their table. He was carrying a sweating silver ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling inside. Two champagne flutes dangled from his fingers.

  Suddenly the penny dropped, along with her stomach. Oh shit.

  “But never let it be said,” Levi brayed, “that I don’t learn from my mistakes. I love you, Eve. I’ve always loved you. My life without you is nothing.”

  “Oh my goodness,” she heard a woman behind her say. “So romantic . . .”

  “Levi,” Eve whispered through clenched teeth as she tried to tug her hand free. “Please, you have to get up.”

  “No way, my love,” he announced, releasing one of his hands to thump it on his heart. “I am not getting up. You deserve me on my knees, after all these years of trials and tribulations! Nothing but the best for you. Speaking of . . .”

  Out came a velvet ring box, which he flipped open with his thumb. A small solitaire diamond set in a black rhodium ring blinked up at her accusingly.

  “Evelyn Ashley Harris,” Levi said with an expectant smile on his face. “Will you marry me and make me the happiest man alive?”

  Thirty-three

  RHYS TRIED TO focus on the script. He’d printed the notes Andy had e-mailed earlier to cross-reference. Usually this type of work was a breeze. He was lucky that way. Could drop into business mode at the drop of a hat.

  Many actors had difficulty with the business side of their work. They were amazingly talented actors but couldn’t handle money to save their lives. Saying yes to the wrong movies could trash a career. Handing their finances over to a hotshot business manager or lawyer only to discover years later that the bulk of their wealth had been stolen. Those unfortunate actors usually ended up trapped in drawn-out court cases. Eventually, they would declare bankruptcy in their twilight years. It was heartbreaking.

  Rhys did what he could to help, but it was never enough. Most actors were like children, too trusting and easily distracted by short-term gratification and acquiring the trappings of success.

  Tonight, however, it was impossible to focus. He was on his second read-through of the script and still wasn’t seeing how the fixes Andy wanted to implement would help.

  Was it because he couldn’t stop his mind from veering off track to obsess about Eve, wondering where she was and what she was doing?

  He glanced at the time. It was 7:12 p.m.

  Rhys sighed. Even if Eve and Levi ate fast and had nothing to say to each other, it was doubtful they would be home before eight. And from the peek he’d had of Levi, Rhys was pretty damned sure the guy had lots to say.

  He forced himself to read through Andy’s notes again.

  No. It wasn’t the Eve distraction. Something was not adding up.

  He opened FaceTime and called Andy. It rang a couple of times, and then Andy’s beaming face appeared on the screen. “Rhys, my man, wassup?” Rhys could hear the TV in the background, some cop drama from the sounds of it.

  “Andy,” Rhys said. “I’ve been reading this thing over, and it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but I think if we—”

  Suddenly he knew what had happened, could see it spiraling out before him as if someone had laid down a map. “Andy,” Rhys interrupted. “The script is garbage, and it’s not fixable because the premise stinks.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Andy interjected.

  “What I think happened,” Rhys said, steamrolling over him, “is they offered you a shitload of money to put rouge on the corpse. They knew having you on board would be an incentive for me.”

  Andy blinked in visible surprise behind his trendy glasses. His lips formed an O shape, which made him look as if he hadn’t realized someone had removed a Popsicle from between his lips.

  “Look, Andy, I don’t blame you if that’s the case. They’ve offered to back up the dump truck full of cash to my house as well. That kind of payday is tempting.”

  Andy exhaled. Rubbed his face. “Yeah. You’re not kidding,” he said, looking depressed. “You’ve pretty much summed up the entire situation. The financing for the project I was working on fell through. Didn’t get green-lighted in the final hour. I got bills to pay. Need the money.”

  “I understand. The movie business has changed. Times are tough.”

  “Jesus, you’re not kidding. And the wife spends money hand over fist. The kid wants to go to Harvey Mudd next fall. A great college, but do you know how fucking expensive it is? Sixty-nine thousand seven hundred and seventeen dollars for tuition, plus room and board! That doesn’t include ‘spending’ money, books, or clothes. And we’re talking after-tax money, so let’s just add another 39.6 percent to that whopping sum and I’ve put her through one measly year of college . . . for a liberal arts degree! What kind of work will she ever get with a liberal arts degree? And why go to Harvey Mudd if that’s what you’re after? It’s because her boyfriend wants to go there for the mathematics program. Kill me now. I swear, Rhys, never have kids. It’s too damned expensive.”

  Rhys hated being in this position, but he’d learned over the years that the kindest thing to do was to rip the Band-Aid off fast. “I’m sorry, Andy. I can’t do this film. Not even for you. It would be career suicide.”

  Andy’s shoulders slumped even further. “Shit.” He sighed wearily. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

  After Rhys hung up, he sent a text to his agent telling him to pass on the project. Then he switched off the sound on his phone, so he wouldn’t have to hear the bombardment of eleventh-hour texts and phone calls that were sure to pile in until the deadline had passed.

  The smart panel on the wall chimed, causing a tiny jolt of happy adrenaline to course through him. The front gate. Eve must have misplaced the code. He pressed the button activating the camera.

  Damn. Some middle-aged balding dude in a truck.

  “Yes,” he said into the speaker. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here from Prestige, to switch out the rental for Mr. Thomas.”

  That was fast. “I’ll open the gate.”

  He activated the gate, told Samson to stay, and headed outside.

  * * *

  • • •

  “YOU SURE THIS is what you want?” the guy from Prestige asked, looking at the nondescript low-value truck. “I
got all sorts of luxury brands on the lot—Range Rover, Ferrari, Tesla, Audi?”

  “This is perfect for my needs,” Rhys said, signing the new lease agreement. Now that word was out that he was on the island, people would be looking for a flashy, expensive car. Hopefully, implementing the hiding-in-plain-sight strategy would buy him a few more days of privacy.

  Rhys fished the keys for the SUV from his pocket, laid them on the clipboard, and passed it back.

  The guy shook his head. “Hard to believe you are trading this excellent piece of machinery for that piece of junk. Guess what they say about you Hollywood types is correct. You are all crrrrayzy.” He laughed—the guy had a lot of fillings in his teeth—then opened the SUV door and tossed the clipboard on the passenger seat.

  “Mind if I get a selfie with you before I head out?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Wrapped a large sweaty arm around Rhys’s shoulders as if they were best buds. “Say ‘cheese,’” he ordered, holding up his phone and taking a couple of shots. “Thanks, man. My wife is going to flip out.”

  “If you could keep this location and the type of vehicle you dropped off to yourself, it would be greatly appreciated,” Rhys said, shaking the guy’s hand with a hundred-dollar bill folded neatly in his palm. The transfer went off seamlessly. The guy didn’t look, just slipped the money in his pocket faster than bacon disappearing down Samson’s throat.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Thomas,” he said, laying a thick finger against his lips. “You can count on me.”

  Thirty-four

  HE ALMOST LOST them.

  It had been a welcome surprise when his ladylove magically appeared in the restaurant where he was eating. Even more unexpected was when the imbecile she was dining with dropped to his knees and pulled out a ring.

  Eve, however, was a woman of high standards. Refused the guy. Clearly saving herself for something better.

  It was a little startling when they left the restaurant in the middle of their meal.

  Made things a touch awkward for him. He had to make his excuses to his dinner companions. Dropped a handful of cash to cover his portion of the bill, then wound his way through the tables, dodging the waitstaff carrying plates of food.

  The tricky part had been palming her soup spoon. He’d accomplished it with the simple matter of letting his fingers settle over the spoon in the guise of resting his hand on the table. Meanwhile, making good use of the old distraction technique, he’d thrust his unoccupied arm outward, retracting the sleeve of his shirt and exposing his watch. “Ah!” he said loudly. “So that’s the time.” While the other hand slyly slipped the coveted spoon into the pocket of his jacket. Then, smooth as silk, he continued his journey out the door of the faux French restaurant.

  The little side excursion to collect her spoon had almost lost him the trail of his quarry. He caught the briefest glimpse of the glowing taillights of her first-generation blue Prius before it disappeared around the bend.

  He took the porch steps two at a time, leapt into his vehicle. Gravel spitting from under his tires caused him to skid slightly as he tore out of the parking lot.

  At first he was trying to catch up, but once he had her car firmly within his sights, impotent fury started rising like bile in his throat. Where is she going? She’s not returning to her brother-in-law’s house. She’s headed in the wrong direction.

  When her beat-up Prius pulled into the Harbor Motel, he couldn’t pull in after her. He had to cruise on by, looking straight ahead, nothing to see here, until he was able to park a block and a half away.

  He doubled back, crouching down low and keeping to the shadows.

  By the time he arrived at the motel parking lot, her car was gone and the idiot with the ukulele was exiting the lobby, a key dangling from his hand.

  Ah, so that’s their game. He’d danced this dance himself a million times before. The guy checks in, gets the key, and unlocks the room, while the woman parks elsewhere. This way her car isn’t recognized in a sleazy motel parking lot. Then she gets the text on her smartphone, ambles by the motel, and if no one’s around, she makes a sharp right turn into the room.

  Perfect. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. That’s when I’ll grab her.

  Thirty-five

  THE SOUND OF Samson’s bark yanked Rhys back to consciousness. I must have fallen asleep, he thought as he stretched and enjoyed an enormous yawn. Samson’s tail thumped against the coffee table leg on his way across the living room to wait by the front door.

  A second later Rhys heard Eve’s car pull into the drive, the crunch of gravel under her tires.

  That’s right. The events of the past few hours came roaring to the forefront. She went out with her ex. A hot-looking wannabe rock star who is clearly still in love with her. Rhys glanced at the clock on the mantel of the huge stone fireplace. It was 8:23 p.m. She didn’t stay out late. Cautious hope began to bloom. He hadn’t realized how stressed he’d been that they might have chosen not to return. He stayed on the sofa, envying Samson’s absolute certainty that if he greeted Eve at the door, she’d be pleased to see him.

  She entered quietly, a silhouette in the darkened room. She bent over and nuzzled her face in Samson’s wiry gray fur. “Hey, old boy. How are you?” She seemed tired. Subdued.

  “You have a good time?” Rhys asked.

  She jumped slightly, startled. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  “Seemed like too much bother to switch the lights on. Once my eyes adjusted, I wondered why we do it. Was so pretty without. The moon and starlight shimmering off the bay, pouring through the windows, the sound of the water lapping. Peaceful. I dozed a little.”

  “We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” she said, dropping her purse on the floor and joining him on the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her, nestling next to him. He could feel the cool night air still clinging to her clothes. She tapped his glass. “What are you drinking?”

  “Whiskey. It’s very smooth. Want some?”

  “Sure,” she said, removing the crystal tumbler from his hand, electric sparks zinging through him from the brief contact of her cool fingers sliding past his in the handoff. She took a sip. Her eyelids drifted shut as she savored the smoky liquid fire going down. She took another sip. “Mm . . .” she murmured, her voice husky. “Tastes good.” The pink tip of her tongue snuck out and gathered the lingering traces of whiskey shimmering on her luscious, bee-stung lips. And just like that, his cock was rock-hard and aching.

  “Where’s Levi?”

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “I thought he was going to crash on the sofa.”

  “Well . . .” She stared into the tumbler of amber liquid as if the words she was looking for were floating there. “Dinner ended up being . . . um . . . rather unusual. So, I made an executive decision. Dropped him off at the Harbor Motel near the ferry.”

  Tension he didn’t know he was carrying unfurled gently. “So it’s just you and me,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and snuggling her closer. Her hair was silky soft beneath his cheek and smelled of citrus and springtime. “Bit of a drive to the ferry,” he said.

  She shrugged, then burrowed her face into his chest as if needing to draw warmth, physical and emotional, from his body. So he held her, savoring the magic of the moonlight and the sense of peace that surrounded them.

  She felt right. As if she and no one else belonged on that sofa beside him. His arm tightened around her, wanting to claim her for his own. But he could tell from her posture when she’d come in the front door that tonight had wearied her. So he opted for dropping a gentle kiss on her head while breathing her in and trying to disregard the gigantic boner he was sporting.

  “I thought it best,” she murmured, her sultry voice coursing through him. He took a healthy swallow of whiskey and tried to focus on the burn as it went down. “It wi
ll make it super easy for Levi to hop on the morning ferry back to the mainland.” She yawned mightily. “So tired,” she said, another yawn escaping as she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him tight, snuggled in even more. Her jean jacket had fallen open. He could feel her soft breasts pressed against his chest through her cotton T-shirt, the rise and fall of her breath. “I’m so glad”—her voice was getting quieter, like a slow fade in an old-time movie—“to be home . . .” She smiled sleepily at him, her eyelids drifting to half-mast, then sliding closed as sleep overtook her and pulled her into its embrace.

  Home, Rhys thought, feeling her body relax into his, growing heavier as her breath took on a gentle, even cadence. That’s how I feel when she’s in my arms. As if I’ve arrived home. He’d always associated the word with a physical place. Had spent most of his life longing for a home, where there was beauty, comfort, and safety like he had read about in books. He’d purchased a beautiful Spanish hacienda in Bel Air hoping to create that sort of sacred oasis. He’d hired an award-winning interior designer to decorate it and a landscaper to create gorgeous lush gardens for him to enjoy and entertain in. However, as beautiful as the place was, it felt as if he were living a lie, presenting a pretend life to the world that had nothing to do with who he really was. I’ve been looking at it wrong. Home is not a physical place, he thought, smiling up into the darkness. It’s a state of being. And right now, in this very moment, I am home.

  Thirty-six

  THE WIND HAD picked up, rattling through the tall trees. Leaves, browned needles, and small branches were plummeting to the ground all around him. A light, steady rain had started a little after nine p.m. Not a big deal at first, but now, forty-five minutes later, he was soaked to the bone. Decisions had to be made. He told himself the tremors running through him were from the cold, but they could have been caused by nerves.

  He had made a miscalculation. She must have looped back to the motel when he’d dashed to the trunk of his vehicle to retrieve the tools he’d collected for this venture.