Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE WAS SITTING in her favorite spot, on the glider swing. Her head was tilted up, her eyes shut, an expression of absolute contentment on her face. She was humming softly.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Rhys said, keeping his voice gentle so as not to startle her.

  “Catching the last rays before the sun says its sweet farewells until tomorrow,” she replied, her eyes still shut.

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Rhys said. “Mind if we join you?”

  “Not at all.” She gestured to the empty seats beside her. “It can be a farewell party.”

  He sat beside his mom. Eve sat on his other side. Their bodies settling into the swing caused a deeper glide, forward and back, forward and back.

  He didn’t speak. Was happy to bask in the quiet peace surrounding his mom at the present. A farewell party for the sun. He smiled at the thought. She never said things like that when he was growing up. Always seemed to be surrounded with a miasma of bone-weary depression. Had she always had such whimsical thoughts? Or was it a new pathway that had opened after the brain damage had occurred? For a flash he got a vision of his mom when she was young, six or seven years old. A freckle-faced child looking up at him with a gap-toothed smile, unruly brown curls tumbling into her sparkling eyes, a cotton pinafore, and a skinned knee. Had she believed in magic and happily-ever-afters?

  The sun dipped beyond the horizon, its rays no longer caressing their corner of the garden.

  “All done,” his mom said, opening her eyes and dusting off her hands. “Bye-bye.”

  “Bye-bye, sun,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  His mom turned, a beatific smile lighting her face. “Rhys. You came,” she said. “I knew you would. I was so worried. But you’re here now. You’re safe here. I’m so glad.”

  Rhys exhaled. She was having a good day, knew who he was. “Hi, Mom.” He put his arm around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on her head, where her hair was more white now than gray. “I’m big and strong. You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  “Don’t let him hurt you,” she said, her expression perturbed, eyes round. She must be mixing up time. Thinking he was young again, in Howie’s power.

  “Mom,” he said, taking her cool hand in his, patting it soothingly. “Howie’s dead.” When had the skin on her hands gotten so wrinkly? Had it been a gradual process and he just hadn’t noticed? “He can’t hurt either one of us anymore.”

  “No. Not him . . .”

  He could see she was starting to get agitated. Remembering Howie and the past would do that, so he changed the subject. He had become quite deft at that.

  “I brought you some fudge,” he said, shaking the box so the fudge bumped enticingly against the sides. “Four different flavors. I also brought someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Fudge!” she cried happily, her face clearing. “Four flavors!” She reached for the box.

  “Not now.” Rhys laughed, holding the fudge in the air and out of his mom’s reach. “First I want to introduce you to someone.” He stood, pulled Eve to her feet, and tucked his arm around her. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Eve Harris. Eve, this is my mom, Lorelai Thomas.”

  “Lorelai Margaret Thomas,” his mom said. “You’re awfully pretty. Are you his girlfriend?”

  “Um . . .” Eve said, unsure what to say.

  “Yes, she is,” Rhys said, enjoying the surprise flickering across Eve’s face.

  “Is it serious?” his mom asked, tilting her head to the side like a curious baby bird. “Are you in love and going to get married and make millions and trillions of beautiful little babies?”

  “Whoa, now, Mom. Let’s not scare her off,” Rhys said, laughing, trying to make light of his mom’s questions and mask the deep pang of longing that had roared to the forefront of his emotions.

  “But you’ve never brought anyone to see me before.”

  How in the hell does she remember that when she can’t even remember what day it is? “How about,” Rhys said, cutting her off, “we take this fudge inside, cut it up, and set it on a plate for easy access?”

  “Oh boy!” his mom said, rising to her feet and tucking her hand in his. She leaned across him. “I love fudge,” she told Eve. “It’s my absolute favorite!”

  Forty-three

  HE WAS SITTING in the leather armchair, a vodka on the rocks in one hand. He had the living room to himself. She knew better than to disturb him when he was in one of his moods.

  He stared out the big plate-glass window. The dramatic plunging view was obscured by the inky-black nothingness of night. A fire was burning in the hearth, but it did little to alleviate the ice-cold that had seemed to encase him.

  The matrix had once again changed. Shifted course. Another flare of anger surged. He suppressed it. Empathy, he told himself. Empathy.

  He could see her reflection in the window as she approached the living room wringing her hands. Don’t. Even, he thought, his back teeth clenched so hard they were in danger of shattering.

  She paused in the doorway, hovering, one second, two seconds, her hand rising to her throat. Then she silently returned the way she had come.

  Good. He had work to do. New plans to formulate, implement. He did not need the added burden of her fluttering around.

  Forty-four

  AS THE VEHICLE turned the bend, the glare of the limo’s headlights illuminated a few die-hard paparazzi parked in front of his house. “Keep going,” he told the driver.

  A few heads turned as the limo glided by them, but they were unable to see past the dark-tinted windows.

  He was relieved to see the progress that had been made on the stone wall. It appeared to be around three-quarters of the way built.

  “Turn right into this driveway, please,” he instructed the driver.

  Once the limo driver had unloaded Eve’s suitcase, been tipped, and disappeared into the night, Rhys grabbed her small suitcase and took her hand.

  “Follow me,” he said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry over the noise of the automated gate swinging shut. He led her along the side of the house. They followed stone pavers to a curved wooden gate with an iron peekaboo window. They entered another yard and walked past the pool.

  “Your neighbors don’t mind you traipsing through their yards?” Eve whispered.

  “They would,” he answered. “That’s why I bought them out.”

  “What?” she said, eyes wide.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. “I know it seems wasteful, but it helps me maintain a modicum of privacy. And the rise in property values more than pays for the maintenance. I like to think of it as diversification.”

  “Mortgage payments must cost an arm and a leg,” Eve said.

  He shrugged. “I know there is a tax advantage to carrying a mortgage, but”—his mind flashed to coming home from school and finding his mom weeping over red-stamped overdue notices—“I prefer not to carry debt. Call me old-fashioned, but I won’t purchase something unless I can pay for it in cash.”

  “Must be nice,” Eve said. There was an undertone of something buried in those three words. But before he could sort it out, she stopped in her tracks, tilted her face to the sky, and inhaled deeply. “Do you smell that?” she asked. “Vanilla . . . and jasmine?”

  He breathed in, enjoying the scent of the blooming Cestrum nocturnum and heliotrope.

  “The smell makes me feel,” she said, turning to him, her face aglow, “like I’m really on vacation. Somewhere different. Magical.”

  What she doesn’t know, he thought as he placed her suitcase down, wrapped his arms around her, and savored the taste of her sweet mouth, is it’s her who makes our surroundings so magical.

  When they arrived at his house, he didn’t bother with the l
ights. There was no need. The moonlight streaming through the windows lit the way. They walked in silence, hands clasped, to his bedroom. He undressed and made love to her, slow and sweet, with the cautious optimism of the first flowers of spring making their way through the still frozen ground. There was a fragile, just-born quality imbued in every touch, every kiss—a tenderness that had been lacking in his life.

  Ah, he thought with a sense of wonder as he withdrew and then slowly sank back into her warm, welcoming body. This is what making love is.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVE LAY NEXT to Rhys, his arm snuggling her close. Her head was on his chest, her hand, too. She could hear the steady thump of his heart. Feel the rise and fall of his chest, the slow, soft inhales and exhales as he slept. The duvet was pulled over her shoulder. The warmth emanating from his body should have been enough to keep her toasty, but she felt chilled.

  Scared.

  She wasn’t sure why exactly.

  She flipped through various reasons, checking in with her gut, riffling through the obvious ones first.

  In the last week someone had broken into her apartment, stolen her sheets, and purchased Midnight Moon. Normally she’d be happy that someone had bought one of her paintings, but the creepy way they did it . . . And if all three incidents were connected, even creepier.

  She blew out a breath. Thinking about that series of incidents made her stomach clench and her throat burn as if bile were threatening to overflow into her mouth.

  It made sense that those incidents were what was causing this unease.

  But that’s not it, is it? No, it wasn’t. It didn’t explain the chill, the slight feeling of dread.

  She sorted through a few more thoughts. There was guilt about sending Larry home, but that wasn’t the cause of this feeling.

  Maggie and Luke coming home? No, she was thankful they were.

  It’s crazy to be feeling this. You are tainting the present with worries that may or may not have any bearing on you. You’re in no danger now. You are safe and sound, lying in the arms of a wonderful man who is funny and kind and sensitive and oh so lovely to his mom. What’s not to love?

  Oh shit. She stared into the darkness. You’ve gone and fallen for him, haven’t you? Dammit! She gently extricated herself from his arm around her shoulders, then lay on her back, glaring at the ceiling. There is no way your heart is not going to end up broken. He’s a movie star, for fuck’s sake! This is a recipe for disaster.

  Rhys shifted, his hand moving up as if to caress her shoulder, only to find she had moved away. He rolled to his side. She could feel him studying her profile.

  “You okay?” Although sleep-roughened, his voice was gentle.

  “Yeah,” she said, but even she could hear the tension in her tone.

  She felt the air around her shift as he reached out, his knuckles skimming her cheek, a barely there touch. “Eve,” he said softly. “We made a pact. Remember?”

  She turned to face him. “Fine,” she snapped. She was unsure why she was so angry, which didn’t help matters. It just made her madder, at herself, at him. “You want the truth. I’m scared shitless about this stalker—”

  “Me, too—”

  “Stop interrupting!” she shouted, slamming her hands on the mattress. She knew she wasn’t being fair, that she was being a bitch, but she didn’t care. “If you want me to tell you how I feel, then you’ve gotta shut up.”

  “Okay,” he said, totally calm, not judging.

  “I like you more than I should and that makes me mad! I saw that. Stop smiling. It’s not funny. I’m going to get hurt.”

  “Eve,” he started to say, but she flipped over and straddled him, her hand over his mouth.

  “My turn,” she said ferociously, her face up close to his. “You think you know me, but you have no idea. I have debt. Did you know that? No, of course not! I have major debt. Three hundred and seventy-six thousand, five hundred and twenty-three dollars, and eighty-nine cents! And I don’t know how the hell I’m ever going to pay it. I can’t sleep at night. Do you know what that’s like, not being able to sleep because you are worrying about the bills? Of course you don’t, Mr. I-Like-to-Pay-for-My-Multitude-of-Homes-in-Cash! I’ve got debt! Big debt with no way out. Stick that in your pompous pipe and smoke it.” Then, like a summer squall that rises sudden and vicious and finally blows on by, all the anger and fury drained out of her.

  “Oh, honey,” he said, sitting up, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. He tucked her head against his solid, broad chest, then snagged a tissue from the bedside table and gave it to her. His large hand traced slow, soothing circles on her back.

  “I’m . . . so ashamed,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not healthy to hold things in. Gotta let it out, or the stress will kill you. There you go. That’s right, honey. Cry it out.”

  Forty-five

  EVE WOKE A little discombobulated. She was in a massive bed. The room was flooded with morning light streaming across a pure white linen duvet cover and rumpled sheets. Where . . . ? Oh. That’s right.

  Rhys’s side of the bed was empty. When had he slipped out? Last night? This morning? Did he regret bringing her there?

  She wouldn’t blame him after last night’s histrionics.

  She felt her face heat up. What the hell had come over her?

  She sat up and glanced around. The man had gorgeous taste. His bedroom looked like it belonged in the pages of an interior design magazine. The wooden bedframe was the same warm wood tones as the floors, just a hint darker. The walls appeared white, but she could see a tinge of unbleached titanium mixed in that warmed and softened the color. A stunning wooden and glass arched double door led to a covered outdoor area with comfy sofas and an armchair covered in rich rust, golden, and brown chenille. There were cushy pillows to nestle in, and beyond the private seating area was the lush garden. So different from Solace with orange and lemon trees, flowering trumpet trees, lilies, lavender, a thick verdant grassy lawn. She wanted to sprint barefoot across that grass and dive into the sparkling blue tiled pool beyond. Hoping the cool water would wash away the embarrassing memories of her late-night confession.

  Instead, like the grown woman she was, she showered, dressed, and followed her nose to the kitchen, where she could smell coffee brewing.

  * * *

  • • •

  SHE ENTERED THE kitchen looking like a modern-day Aphrodite having just risen from the sea. She was finishing a loose braid in her long dark hair, which was still damp from her shower. Her gaze was cast down, a delicate peach flush high on her cheeks, her luscious lower lip caught between her straight white teeth.

  He envied those teeth and their proximity to her mouth, her lips. The sight of her sent heat rushing through him like a double shot of whiskey downed.

  “Morning,” he said, pleased with how normal he managed to sound, given that he wanted to leap upon her like a ravening beast. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  He poured her a mug of steaming coffee, could feel her watching him, but when he turned and handed her the mug, her eyes met his for a split second. Then she leaned her hip against the counter, took a careful sip, and gazed around the kitchen.

  “Well,” she said. “If you ever dump acting and decide the cooking gig is just too damned difficult, you could always pick up some extra dough as an interior decorator. This place is gorgeous. I love your use of color and contrast.”

  “Whoa. Hey now,” he said, taking a step back, his hands up and palms out. “You think I did this?” He couldn’t help it. He started laughing. “Eve, there is no way in hell I could pull off something like this. I hired a decorator. The place cost me a goddamned arm and a leg.”

  “Well, it was worth it,” Eve said.

  “You think?” Rhys looked aroun
d. “I’m not sure. It looks perfect and all, but it feels like a movie set. You know, as if I’m acting out the life everyone thinks I’m supposed to have. All these decorative touches?” He gestured dismissively at the table, at the tasteful old-fashioned cream-colored roses in a clear crystal vase with a dainty tendril of ivy curling down the outside. His gaze wandered over the napkins the color of summer wheat, tucked into antique acorn napkin holders, then moved on to the silver and crystal salt-and-pepper shakers. “I wouldn’t know how to put this assortment together to save my life.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked, looking at him now with her intelligent, sea-green eyes that seemed to see right down into the core of him.

  He sighed. “Sure. It looks nice. And I know how lucky I was that Mavis—the designer—took me on. She books up years in advance. But a big job fell through, and the producer’s wife of the movie I was working on convinced her to do my house. She told Mavis it was an emergency, that I was living like a heathen.”

  Eve laughed. Her shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension. “A heathen?”

  He nodded. “Yup. I guess I was. Had this gorgeous house, a dual-purpose beat-up leather sofa bed, a matching beanbag chair—they were on sale the day I ambled into the store—a couple pots and pans, a couple plates, a couple towels, and a pillow.”

  “That was it?” She was grinning at him.

  “Yup,” he said, feeling rather pleased with himself at having entertained her.

  “Where’d you put your clothes?”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I had one more item. My suitcase. Just left it sprawled open on the floor, easy access.”

  “Huh,” she said, looking around again. “Well, you can think of this place—the interior design work she did—as a great starting-off point. Now all you need is a few personal items scattered around to make it yours. That’s easy to do. The hard part has already been done for you. Why are you chuckling?”