She stops me again. “He is a liar and a con artist. He’s mentally unbalanced and has been ever since Vietnam.”
Vietnam? Did Jeremy make a film in Vietnam? I search my memory and can’t think of any, but then, I wouldn’t watch a desert movie anyway.
“Well, he drinks a bit much, but that goes with the territory,” I start to say. She interrupts again.
“How did you find out he was still alive?” she demands.
Suddenly my world goes still as the impact of what she’s saying hits me. We are not talking about Jeremy “Bad Boy” Reins. We are talking about my father.
I don’t say a word. I can’t. My father is alive and she has lied to me about it for years. Why? Why hasn’t she let me see him? What does she mean he’s emotionally unstable and possibly dangerous? Where is he?
“Why didn’t you tell me he was still alive?” I say, working to keep my voice calm but wanting to scream the words at her.
Mummy’s voice changes when she answers. She sounds broken and uncertain. “We thought it best,” she says finally.
“Who thought it best, you and Victor, or was it just Victor?”
I am sick to my stomach because I know the answer even if she denies it. Victor Rothschild owns my mother. She dances at the end of his string and has for as long as I’ve been able to consciously observe them.
“Your father was never the same after the Special Forces,” Mummy says quietly. “He came home addicted to morphine and liquor. He ran through my trust fund in one year and left us broke and almost homeless. If Victor hadn’t come along, I don’t know what we would’ve done.”
She’s lying. The voice in my head is strong this morning, on my side. Remember the magician who wouldn’t go away? He was your father. He said it. He told you so. He didn’t want to leave!
“You’re lying, Mother,” I say. “He didn’t leave us. I remember him. I remember you sending him away.”
“You remember nothing!” she cries. “You were a baby! You didn’t know what he was like! It was awful! He had flashbacks. He urinated on the Persian rug in my mother’s living room because he was so high he couldn’t remember where he was. He hit me and sometimes I thought he would kill me! You know nothing about that, Porsche, because I protected you!”
The coffeepot hisses, finishing its brewing cycle, and despite the sunny day, I feel chilled to the bone.
“Why did you tell me he was dead?” I ask in a monotone.
“Because to me, he is! The man I loved and married is dead and gone. I got a monster in return.”
She inhales deeply and I suspect she is smoking. She thinks I don’t know she still smokes, even after her breast cancer three years ago, even after Victor and I both pleaded with her to stop. It is the one thing my stepfather and I ever agreed on, my mother’s smoking.
She exhales and says, “I suppose you’ll be going to Carlito.” It is not even a question. She states it like fact.
“I don’t know,” I say cautiously, hoping she will give me more and just not sure what I will do with my sudden windfall of information.
“It won’t be pretty, Porsche, if that’s what you’re thinking. The man lives in a trailer. He has dogs. He doesn’t like people. If you’re expecting him to welcome his baby daughter with open arms, think again. The years have not been kind to your father.”
“How do you know this, Mother?” I feel a cold, hard anger growing in my chest, a bitterness that erects a thick, icy wall between me and her.
“Victor and I felt it best to keep an eye on him,” she says. “We were worried that he might try and harm you.”
A tiny bubble of rage rises to the surface and pops as I say, “Were you afraid he would hurt me or were you more afraid he would try and see me, maybe tell me that you and Victor were keeping him away.”
“He signed over his parental rights, Porsche,” she says, and the words bite into my heart. “How else could Victor have adopted you?”
I close my eyes and see the funny man, laughing and pulling coins from my ears and flowers from my sleeve. He didn’t want me?
Don’t listen to her! the voice inside me screams.
“How much did you pay him?” I ask coldly.
“That doesn’t matter…” my mother says, and I snap the cell phone shut.
Almost immediately it rings again. I ignore it. I pour coffee into a brilliant blue pottery mug and listen to the phone ring over and over again. I leave it on the table as I feed Marlena and let her out of her cage to play. I hear it as I walk into the huge master bath and turn on the shower, finally stopping the sound of my mother’s voice, echoing all the way from England. He signed over his parental rights, Porsche. He didn’t want me.
I stand in the steaming shower until the water finally runs cold, crying and thinking, feeling years of loss that tumble around me in an avalanche of emotion. By the time I grab a thick, white towel and emerge from the huge shower stall, I know that I will have to find him and ask my questions for myself.
The phone is still ringing, but I answer it this time. I need to make her to tell me where he is exactly. I pick up the phone, flip it open and say, “What is his first name and what is his address. You owe me that.”
“I beg your pardon? Porsche, is that you?”
It is Renee’s cool, crisp voice that startles me. I look at the clock on the stovetop and realize that it is almost noon in L.A. midafternoon in New York.
“Oh, Renee, sorry! I thought you were someone else.”
“Is everything all right there? You sound upset.”
I take a deep cleansing breath, remember my yoga breathing and try to relax.
“Couldn’t be better here,” I lie.
But immediately after I finish, I panic because I realize I have absolutely no idea where Andrea is and I have somehow forgotten or lost the past ten hours of my life. Bits and pieces of memory suddenly flood my brain with images. Jeremy, bruised and dazed. Dark figures running.
“Well then?” Renee says. “What do you have to report?”
More deep breathing on my part.
“Actually, Renee, if you wouldn’t mind, could I call you right back? I’m right in the middle of something and well, it might be better if I finished that first.”
Renee doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I see. You’re okay, but you’ve got someone there and you can’t talk?”
I look at Marlena. “Yes, that would be correct.”
“All right then,” Renee says briskly. “Just call me when you can.”
She severs the connection and I exhale loudly.
“What kind of Rose am I, baby?” I ask the ferret. “I don’t even know what’s going on!”
Marlena chuckles happily while I struggle into a pair of my favorite Lucky jeans and throw a stretchy James Perse T-shirt on before running out the door and heading for the main house.
Workmen in white coveralls are repairing the French doors leading into the dining room. They talk in rapid-fire Spanish, laughing as the shorter one teases his partner about his pregnant wife. A few yards away Sam is standing next to an older man wearing jeans and a T-shirt that reads “Robins Electrical.”
I slow to a more unhurried pace and try to be less obvious about my curiosity. I stop to inspect bougainvillea, sniff a nearby climbing rose and listen.
“You see this?” the man is saying to Sam. “It’s your ground wire. It runs all around the pool. You gotta ground your ladders, your diving board, your lights, your pump and anything that might carry current. Looks to me like your wire got frayed right about here.” The electrician is pointing to a spot on the wire he’s removed. Sam inspects it, looks up as he notices me, and nods in greeting.
“Have they found Andrea?” I ask.
Sam gives me a grim smile. “Turns out she borrowed one of Jeremy’s cars and drove into L.A. Said she couldn’t sleep. She checked into the Beverly Wilshire and didn’t think to tell anyone until just a few hours ago when she woke up, watched the news and discovered she was allegedly missing.”
/> Sam’s facial expression and tone are deliberately casual, probably because of the electrician standing next to him, so I don’t press him about Andrea.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Well, Jeremy’s at the studio. Scott drove him in and then he was going to go see Dave at the hospital. Now, if it’s breakfast you’re after,” he says, making a big show of looking at his watch, “well, you missed that by a good two hours, but maybe Consuela will rustle you up a couple of eggs and a big, fat burrito.”
I ignore his sarcastic suggestion, but only because he is currently my only tie to Jeremy and I need to be where he is.
“I was really hoping to watch Jeremy work,” I say. “He was supposed to take me with him but he didn’t call. I suppose I overslept.”
Sam has turned back to the electrician and seems to be ignoring me. “Normal wear and tear, faulty installation, or did somebody cut the wire?”
“I was wondering about that myself,” he says slowly. “It hasn’t been cut, that much is true, so near as I can tell, it’s either human error on the installation end or somebody messed with it so it’d come loose.” He looks up at Sam, shoving the wire toward him. “I’m not saying it was done on purpose. Could be people was just not taking the care they ought and by being rough, things started coming loose. I guess all it took was for somebody to jump on the diving board and the wire just wore through.”
The electrician doesn’t say what I guess he’s thinking, that rich people don’t take care of their belongings, but Sam apparently sees what he’s thinking.
“Well, I’d have to say that pool’s fairly new and Mr. Reins hasn’t been in it more than three or four times that I can think of in the past year, so…”
The electrician nods his head vigorously. “Like I thought—installation error then.”
But Sam doesn’t buy this. He shakes his head. “No, so far there’s never been a problem.”
What Sam doesn’t say is what I’m thinking, that someone deliberately tampered with the ground wire so that anyone jumping on the diving board would dislodge the live wire causing it to fall into the water, where it would give the diver, or anyone unlucky enough to be in the water at the time, a nasty dose of electricity.
“Well, I’m sorry for your troubles,” the electrician says, taking the wire back from Sam. “But don’t you all worry. I can get it fixed right in about thirty minutes. I just gotta get something out of the truck and we’ll be good to go.”
He doesn’t wait for Sam’s dismissal. He scuttles away, reminding me of a hermit crab. I walk over to the spot where Sam stands and ask, “What do the police think?”
Sam frowns. “It’s fairly obvious. Jeremy seems to have a stalker intent on being a nuisance at the very least. The amount of current probably wouldn’t have killed anyone, but it came too damned close. The police are doing criminal history checks on all the employees and delivery people. We know someone’s been getting onto the grounds, we just don’t know how they’re doing it.”
I nod. “Who’s watching Jeremy now?”
“The studio has sent extra security people to cover Jeremy until the police get to the bottom of all this.”
“Will you be going in to meet Jeremy?”
“I’ll take you in, don’t worry,” he says, sounding weary and put-upon. Sam is suddenly back to the sulky, rude man he was before last night’s crisis.
“Never mind,” I tell him. “I can call a cab. I wouldn’t want you to knock yourself out on my account!” I put my hands on my hips and square off in front of him, barely aware that I am unconsciously mimicking the stance my nanny always took when she was heading into a confrontation with me. “Have I done something to offend you, or is it just my mere presence on the planet that irritates you?”
Sam studies me for a long moment before answering, apparently unruffled by my outburst.
“I just don’t have much use for unemployed princesses who have nothing better to do than shop, lunch or skinny-dip in Italian fountains,” he says. “It’s kinda like having a Chihuahua on a working ranch when you really need a herd dog.” He lifts his shoulders and lets them drop, punctuating his comment with his body. “However, what I think isn’t what matters here. You’re Jeremy’s guest, so I reckon I can drive you into town. I’ll have the car out front in five minutes. Be there.”
He leaves before I can set him straight, before I can even formulate a snappy comeback. I realize that the workers repairing the French doors have fallen silent, only too happy to have overheard Sam’s opinion of my overall worth.
We ride for a full hour without saying a word and I stare out the window at the miles of highway that initially rise up away from the beach and hug its contours as we travel south toward Hollywood. I tell off the sullen cowboy in my head but don’t waste my time saying the insults aloud. I am thinking of him as a small gnat and trying my best to ignore him, but he has rented too much space in my head. I am in, I realize, a state of cognitive dissonance.
I have a psychological conflict arising from the inconsistency in my feelings about Sam. On the one hand, I find him intensely attractive, and I do believe that there is more to him than this current manifestation of ill temper belies. I feel he is hiding behind his gruff exterior and that the flashes of kindness and levelheaded thinking are glimpses of what lies inside the inner man. But on the other hand, he has pissed me off! I will not, cannot, and have never allowed anyone to treat me the way Sam does. I don’t need to take verbal abuse or callous disregard. I am a worthwhile human being and deserve to be treated with respect at the very least. Unemployed princess, my ass!
Marlena is curled up at the bottom of my lime-green leather carryall, oblivious to the conflict going on above her, but when Sam finally speaks, she pokes her head out of the bag and clucks twice. I feel she disapproves of him just as I do. “Listen, I’m sorry I was short with you earlier,” he begins.
“You weren’t short,” I say in my best haughty diva voice. “You were quite long-winded.”
“Yeah, well, it was uncalled for and I apologize if I hurt your feelings.”
I am staring straight ahead at the road, but sneak a sidelong peek at him. He is also keeping his eyes on the road, but a tiny muscle in his square jaw twitches with the effort to make up to me.
“Apology accepted,” I say, sniffing slightly. He hasn’t said he didn’t mean the things he said, only that he is sorry he said them. “You know, I may not need to work for a living, but I do work. I mean, my life does have meaning. I’m not exactly a bubblehead with no purpose in life.”
“I’m sure you aren’t,” he says, but the way he says it makes me think he doesn’t believe that. Really, I shouldn’t let this bother me, but for some reason the fact that this cowboy-used-to-be-drama-coach-turned-personal-manager thinks I’m shallow and purposeless has absolutely worked its way under my skin.
“I donate money to many worthy causes,” I begin.
Sam is silent.
“Go on, say it! It’s all over your face—just tell me what you’re thinking.” When he remains quiet, I can’t help myself. “You’re thinking, well that’s an easy thing to do, give money, but you don’t actually do anything. How hard can it be to write a check, huh? Well, people need money and I have it. I have something not everybody has and I try and use it to better the lives of others.”
He looks at me, eyebrow raised.
“What?” I demand. “What?”
“Donating money to the Weasel House? Last year you gave half a million dollars to a group of tree-huggers who want to save abandoned rodents.” Sam held up a hand to ward off my protests. “Oh, yeah, and you gave money to the usual and standard charities, but you threw away a half a million dollars building a home for oversized rats! How is that doing something meaningful?”
“How do you know about No Ferret Unloved?” I ask, shocked that he knows so much about me.
“I make it my business to know all I can about the man I work for and the people who come into his
life,” Sam says. “When I heard you were coming to stay for a couple of weeks, I wondered what was in it for you, so I checked you out. I figure you must be slumming. I mean, I know why Jeremy needs you. His reputation has gone through a bit of a shredder lately, but why does New York’s hottest socialite need him?”
“The Miller Children’s Home is an important project,” I say. “Jeremy has agreed to attend the event I’m cohosting. He’ll bring friends with deep pockets and the children will benefit.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam says. “Your good work extends not just to homeless wharf rats but to their friends, the little homeless children.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying as hard as I can to remember that while I may hate this man in the moment, he is key to staying close to Jeremy Reins.
“You and I have an obvious clash of moral and ethical values,” I say and hear myself sounding like a prim Sunday school teacher.
“What, because I think saving homeless children is more valuable than spending millions on weasels and designer clothing?”
That’s it! I turn in my seat and glare at him. “I give away millions every year. For your information, the event that I am cohosting will raise over five million dollars just because my name is on the ticket. That’s what socialites do! And, for your additional information, my friend, I do have a job, a real job, and it’s important and dangerous and…”
Oh, dear God, what have I said? I shut my mouth, appalled, and look down at my hands, trying to gather my wits enough to do damage control. But Sam beats me to it.
“You have an important and dangerous job?” he says, clearly not believing me but curious nonetheless. “Do tell.”
I sniff and become the Diva. “You wouldn’t understand,” I say.
“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t, but why don’t you try me anyway?”
Oh, great. Now what?
“You know,” I say, “I don’t think I owe you any explanations. Like you said, I’m here as Jeremy’s guest.”
“What is it you do that’s so dangerous and do you use that megawatt brain of yours while you’re doing it?”
He is mocking me. The cowboy is mocking me! Well, whatever! At least I’ve taken his mind off my stupid comment about having a dangerous job.
Lethally Blonde Page 10
