by Nancy Moser
But the words fell flat. They had no substance. They had no bearing or truth. For in his heart, he knew she wouldn’t be coming back. She was with her mother now—lively, exasperating, but loving Dorian. She was having her baby. The past held love for her. Promise.
The present held… no such thing.
He pulled the photo to his chest and cried.
Peachtree City
Rachel Caldwell sat on the window seat of her childhood room and looked outside but saw nothing. Apparently heard nothing either, because when she finally realized her father, Dudley, was outside the door, it was clear it was not his first knock, or the first time he’d called her name.
“Rachel? Are you okay in there?”
She let her feet find the floor. “Yes, Dad, I’m fine. Just a minute.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Sorry.”
“You know I hate a locked door.”
“I know. Again, I’m sorry.”
He looked past her as if looking for clues. “Want something for dinner?”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Me, neither.” He looked pitiful standing there with his hands in his pockets. “I… I really like your new hair. And the clothes. You look very pretty, Rachel.”
She touched her hair. “Thanks.” She thought about telling her father this is the way she always looked away from the Pruitt-Caldwell sphere, but saw no reason to be mean. “Want to sit down?”
He looked warily into the room. Had he ever come in and talked? “Sure,” he said, and took her place on the window seat but faced toward the room. He didn’t say anything. It was awkward.
She sat at the foot of the bed and pulled her legs beneath her, trying to give a casual tone to the scene—however false. “I’m sorry to embarrass the family with that interview. Going against Grandfather and all…”
“It needed to be said.”
Really? “Have you heard from him?”
Her father hesitated. “No.”
“Should we call him?”
He slid his hands beneath his thighs. “You did what the rest of us should have done a long time ago.”
She let her jaw drop.
He laughed. “It was wrong keeping Dorian from Vanessa. If I would have known…” He shook his head. “Who’s kidding whom? I honestly can’t say I would have done anything to intervene.”
“Why not?”
He looked past her and shrugged. “Habit mostly. Your mother and I have been guilty of letting Yardley use us. We’ve always been at his beck and call. When we were first married I didn’t like it much but eventually jumped into the flow of it. It was easier to go along than fight.”
A question popped out. “Did you and Mother ever really love each other?”
She could tell by his quick breath that he was going to say, “Of course,” but he stopped himself. She suspected—and hoped—what would come out next would be the truth. “We loved each other at first. At least I did. And I love your mother still, I really do.”
“But?”
“But there are different kinds of love. We shouldn’t have married. I think we both got cheated. If she comes back, I’ll try to do better. Be a better husband.”
Silence hung between them.
“I don’t think she’ll come back, Dad.”
He nodded and his forehead crumbled. Then he abruptly stood. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? I make a mean omelet.”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
Kansas City
Andrew ran up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.
Mac called up to him. “Andrew! You come back here this minute!”
He wasn’t surprised when nothing happened, and he didn’t feel like being a consistent father by pushing the matter. Andrew’s anger was Mac’s fault. Andrew wanted to see Cheryl and at age six didn’t understand that it wasn’t as simple as a phone call. Cheryl had to actually answer the phone for it to do any good.
And so far she hadn’t.
Mac sat on the stairs and leaned his head against the railing. He was out of energy, both physically and emotionally. Yet in two days, when the winners returned from their pasts—or stayed behind—he had to be on and be in charge. The thought of dealing with the press and being the essence of charm was like asking him to climb Mt. Everest. He needed someone to carry him. Pull him along.
I’m here.
He nodded at the inner words. God was here. Yes, that did make it better. More doable. He whispered into the railing. “I want her back, Lord. I’m so sorry for hurting her. Bring her back to me. To us. I won’t take her for granted anymore. I pro—”
The doorbell rang. Reporters? Maybe if he remained perfectly still they’d go away.
Then there was a knock. But not just any knock. A rhythmic knock Mac had come to know.
He ran down the rest of the stairs and flung open the door, halting the action of her wrist as it readied itself to repeat the pattern. “Hey,” she said.
His chin quivered. “Oh, Cheryl… I’m so sorry.”
She took his hand. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
They went inside and closed the door. In the entry, she pulled their clasped hands upward between them, adding her other hand to the mix. “It is all your fault, you know,” she said.
“I know. I should have owned up to our relationship.”
“True, but that’s not what I’m talking about. All this is your fault because you made me love you. I can’t stay away. I can’t stay mad. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
He pulled her into his arms where she belonged.
A door upstairs opened. “Cheryl!” Andrew hurtled down the stairs. He jumped off the last few steps, barreled into them, and made them lose their balance. They fell onto the floor, a tangle of arms and legs. Oblivious, Andrew crawled over whatever was in the way and wrapped his arms around her neck. “I missed you!”
She hugged him back. “I missed you too, bud.”
Andrew got to his feet and stood between them, casting one arm around his father and the other around Cheryl. “Are you getting married now or what?”
Mac looked at Cheryl and they laughed. “Remember how I told you when I got around to proposing you’d know it?”
“I do.”
“So…?”
She got to her knees and leaned toward him, giving him a proper kiss. Andrew’s applause made everything perfect.
Montebello
When all the press attention started, Toby had hoped to go back to work as a conquering hero. He’d even daydreamed about quitting his job. After all, as the love of Lane Holloway’s life there was no need for him to work.
Daydreams. Pipe dreams. Dead dreams.
Reality won. There were bills to pay. And ribbing to take.
As Toby drove to work, his dread was as heavy as his foot was light. He’d called in sick yesterday but couldn’t push it, even though he was going to be way late. He tried to brace himself for the heckling and the jokes. He’d even come up with a decent comeback line that might fend them off, “Hey, it was worth a shot.”
If only he didn’t feel so weary. His extra day off hadn’t brought him rest. Reporters were still camped outside his apartment, though the numbers were down. He’d taken the phone off the hook. What did they want him to say anyway? He’d come forward based on the lie that Laney still wanted him. It was her lie. None of this was his fault. In fact, he should sue the Time Lottery for… what did they call it? Pain and suffering? Mental cruelty? A friend of his had a brother-in-law who was a lawyer…
He went through McDonald’s and got lunch and then stopped for gas. But finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer. A Big Mac seemed like a very bad idea when he pulled up to the job site and saw his
coworkers strapping on their tool belts after their lunch break, when he saw them point at him. Lean close together. Laugh.
Keep driving. You don’t need this. You don’t need them.
But he did. He really needed things to get back to normal so he could forget any of this happened.
He got out of his truck, grabbed his toolbox and belt from the back, and walked toward them.
Their words pummeled him and he froze in place.
“Decided to lower yourself to our level, Bjornson?”
“Dumped in the past, dumped in the present, eh, Tobe?”
“Getting the shaft in two lifetimes. Isn’t that a new world record?”
“You were real smooth on TV. ‘Uh… duh.’ Oh yeah, you’re in Lane Holloway’s league all right.”
“Maybe you could go change her light bulbs or unclog her toilet.”
“Once a loser, always a loser. Ain’t that right, Tobe?”
“You thought you were hot stuff, didn’t you?”
“You fizzled big-time. On national TV, too.”
“Hey, can I have your autograph?”
His confidence evaporated and the muscles in his arm tensed.
One of them shoved his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Tobe? Can’t take the heat?”
In one sweeping motion of his arm, Toby’s toolbox landed against the left side of the guy’s head.
They jumped him.
Toby couldn’t see out of his left eye. He suspected some bones in his hand were broken. It was hard to breathe. Did he have a cracked rib?
He managed to drive away from his beating and knew he should go to an ER. But that would mean more publicity. He could imagine seeing a shot of himself all swollen and bloody on the front page and as the lead story of every network: “Lane Holloway’s Ex Bloodied in Brawl. News at eleven.”
He couldn’t go home. Not with the piranhas lurking. He couldn’t go to any public place. Even if people didn’t recognize him, his current appearance would freak them out. Someone would call the police.
Every moment led him deeper. Deeper into the dark.
He needed somewhere to hide out. If only he knew someone who had a place in the mountains or by the ocean. Somewhere he could crash for a few days.
Then he laughed. He did know someone who had a place at the ocean.
And at the moment no one was home.
Malibu
Toby parked two blocks away and walked. Once outside Lane’s house, he hesitated. There were no cars in the driveway. It was his for the asking. And oh, was he asking. Begging. He was out of options. The gun in his pocket was proof of that. He’d bought it ages ago and kept it under the seat in his truck. He’d never used it and didn’t want to use it now, but…
Then, just as he was about to cup his hand against a window, his mind cleared and found logic. This was a fancy house, and fancy houses had alarm systems. He looked around for a sign from a security company and found one near a bush by the walk. Great. He had to assume it was on. Meaning there was no way he could break in without bringing down the cops. Not an option. Gun or no gun.
But neither was leaving—and the reasons went beyond his desperate need for rest. As he’d driven over, he’d gotten a funny feeling that his destiny was here. At Lane’s home. Everything that had happened the past few weeks was leading him to this place, to this point. She would be back in two days and he would be here to meet her. Greet her. Beg her to give him another chance. If not as a boyfriend, as a fellow human being whose entire life had gotten messed up because of her. She owed him.
He cautiously walked around the side of the house, glancing at the neighbor’s windows. The sound of the waves got louder. Even though he’d lived in LA. for years, he’d never spent much time at the ocean. It held a force that scared him. He’d only had to feel the undertow once to make him stay away.
He felt an undertow now, threatening to drown him. But it would pass. He just needed rest. Sleep. Everything would be all right in a couple of days. When his Laney came back to him.
He slipped behind a bush, waiting for a jogger to pass. As soon as it was safe, he made a beeline for the stairs leading to her deck. That would be an acceptable place to wait—as if he had a choice. With each step he took, his ribs screamed, and he had to lean on the railing. When he spotted a cushioned lounger…
He fell into it and slept.
Santa Monica
Randy Lopez got himself a bowl of what Brandy called his Law and Order ice cream—Randy always liked a bowl of butter pecan while he watched his favorite program. He licked the spoon. “Are you sure you don’t want a bowl?”
Brandy rifled through her purse. Where is my list? I just had it. “No thanks. I really want to go to Lane’s and get things perfect for her return.” She swung at him with a pointed finger. “And don’t remind me she might not be coming back.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be gone long.”
She found the list and was on the way out when she had the oddest feeling of unease. She’d been out alone at night before. She’d been at Lane’s alone at night before. What gives?
She backtracked and hugged Randy from behind. “Wait up for me?”
“As always, doll-face. As always.”
Malibu
As Brandy put the key into the door, she was assailed by the scent of the bouquet in her arms. Pink roses. She drew the flowers closer, drinking them in. The pink against the newly painted yellow walls of Lane’s bedroom would be lovely.
It would be a grand homecoming. This evening, Brandy planned to make a batch of brownies with extra-thick frosting, and earlier today she’d stocked the fridge with all Lane’s favorites. She’d even tied a half dozen Mylar balloons to her bar stools. Welcome Home! We Missed You!
She got the door open and heard the high-pitched tone of the security system. She flipped on the foyer light, punched the proper buttons into the key pad, and the house returned to silence.
She moved into the kitchen and got a vase for the roses. She arranged them nicely and took them into the bedroom. The room still smelled of fresh paint. A good smell. And the roses made it perfect.
Speaking of plants, she really should water Lane’s. In two days, things would be crazy busy.
Brandy got a pitcher and filled it with water. She’d get the ones on the deck first.
A light woke him. It took a moment for Toby to remember where he was. But as soon as the thought I’m on Laney’s deck took hold, a door from the house came open. A woman came out, carrying a pitcher.
He didn’t know what to—
She saw him and squealed. Then she threw the water at him and ran for the door.
He wiped his wet face with one hand and fumbled for the gun in the other. “Hold it right there!”
He was surprised when she followed his direction. She froze in the doorway and raised her hands. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He stumbled to his feet and held the gun on her. He didn’t know how to answer her. He didn’t want to hurt her and he didn’t want any thing.
“My purse is inside. Take it. There’s a stereo, a TV… have at it. Just don’t—”
“Shut up, just shut up!”
Then, to his surprise, he saw a shift in her eyes, almost a softening. Her body actually relaxed as if the fear had left her. What was going on?
She studied him a moment, then began shaking her head. “Toby? Toby Bjornson? Is that you?”
All words left him. Surely he wasn’t that famous?
She took a step toward him as if the gun wasn’t even there. “Oh my... Toby, it’s me, Brandy. Brandy Mayer from Dawson—though it’s Brandy Lopez now.” She made a face. “You look terrible. What happened?”
No. This wasn’t happening. He waved the gun at her. “Get insid
e. Now!”
He followed her inside, closed the door, locked it, and adjusted the blinds.
Brandy started walking toward a hallway. “Let me get something for your cuts and—”
“No! Stay right here!” He shook the gun toward the floor and had to remind himself to be more careful; it was not an extension of his finger.
She dug a fist into her hip. “Fine. You want to call the shots, you call the shots. I was just trying to help.”
He had no idea what to do next. His ribs really hurt. He needed to sit, which meant he needed her to… “Sit.”
She hesitated, then pointed to the kitchen. “You want something to eat?”
He did. He hadn’t eaten anything since his Big Mac. But he shook his head. “I’m not going to let you go to the kitchen and use the phone to call someone.”
“Then come with me. Want a cup of tea?”
He snickered.
She motioned for him to follow her. “Not a tea man, eh? How about a Coke?”
Her banter was absurd. He had the gun. He was holding her hostage and she was offering him a Coke like an old friend visiting? And yet, that’s exactly what they were. Old, old friends.
She pulled out a bar stool and patted it, making a bunch of Welcome Home balloons gyrate. She got him a Coke, popped the tab, and set it on the counter in front of the chair. “Crackers and cheese sound good?”
“Sure.” He half sat, half leaned against the stool and downed the Coke. He rested the gun on the counter.
“So, Tobe. What are you doing here, sleeping on Lane’s deck, all beat up?”
The brick of cheese she was slicing looked good. “I’m waiting for Laney.”
“She may not be back.”
He bonked the nearest balloon, making them all dance. “You obviously think she will.”
“Well, yeah. Wishful thinking. She’s still my best friend.” She placed the plate of food in front of him. “And I’m her personal assistant. Have been since we left Dawson.”
