by Meg Tilly
“You did?” There was a cautious hope in her voice, in her eyes.
“That’s right,” he said. “You get me a pen, I’ll sign it right now, on the spot. However”—he held up a finger, then carefully replaced the letter in the envelope and slid it back into his breast pocket—“I am hoping that first you will grace me with five minutes of your time.” He could see her mouth tightening. He had to speak fast, before she got it in her mind to throw him out. “I’ve left Jane.”
She snorted in disbelief. “That old story? Seriously?”
“It’s true. I told her you were the love of my life, always have been, always will be. I am going to file for divorce. At present I am staying at the Plaza Hotel.” Something wasn’t right. Vicki wasn’t falling into his arms, laughing and crying, overcome with joy. She looked almost sad. Weary. “Did you hear what I said?” Phillip was starting to feel scared. “I’ve left Jane. I want to be with you. For us to start a new life together—” He heard the back door slam and froze. Vicki did too. The two of them a tableau suspended in glass, listening to the sound of leather-soled shoes descend the wooden porch steps that led to the back garden. The garden he paid his own gardener to maintain. “Who the hell is that?”
Vicki swallowed, then lifted her chin, brazening it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes locked on his as they listened to the sound of the pea-gravel path crunching under swiftly moving feet along the side of the house. As Phillip headed toward the window, Vicki grabbed his arm. “I can explain,” she pleaded, desperation in her eyes. “He said he knew of a job. A friend looking for someone with my skills—”
Phillip yanked free of her grasp, got to the window in time to see the figure of a man with close-cropped dark hair step off the path onto the sidewalk. Phillip couldn’t see his face as the man’s head was turned away, but there was something about him that was triggering memory bells. An itch he couldn’t quite reach. The usurper was tall, well built, and moved like an athlete. Could probably fuck for hours on end. Phillip watched, jealousy consuming him, his gnarled hands gripping the windowsill. Probably had. The man crossed the sidewalk and got into the sleek midnight-black Maserati that had stolen his parking spot. That was his spot. His! It was the last straw. Phillip whirled to face her. “Who is he?” Phillip demanded, anger rising hot and fierce, snatching his breath from his chest.
“It doesn’t matter. Phillip, you need to calm down. Your blood pressure is—”
He shoved her away. Not hard, but she must have been off-balance, because she gave a little cry as she fell to the floor. And the guilt of accidentally hurting her made him angrier still. “Who is he? You slut. You whore.” As soon as those words were out of his mouth, the caring, pleading expression on her face slammed shut like a steel door. All that was left was a blank, numb sort of grief. A sorrow. As if he had once again disappointed her. But he didn’t care. He was hurting too bad. Needed her to hurt, too. “And to think,” he said bitterly, “that I left my wife for you. What a fool I am.” She was sobbing now, and he was glad. “Tell me who he is!”
She didn’t answer, so he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up so he could see her lying, duplicitous face. “Who is he, goddammit?!” That was where he had made his mistake. Got too rough. Should have known better, because her leg shot out and swept his feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a thud, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Vicki stood towering over him now, filled with all the fury of Medusa herself, and he’d never loved her more.
“Don’t you ever,” she spit out, her eyes narrow slits, “ever lay a hand on me again, old man, or I will beat the crap outta you. Capisce?” She jabbed a deep-red manicured finger into his bony chest. “You. Don’t. Own. Me. No man does.”
Logically, he knew he should probably shut up, but he couldn’t help himself. “Are you fucking him?” He knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn’t care. He needed to know.
She bent even closer, her beloved face twisted in a sneer. “Look, you.” She said it as if he were dog shit on her shoe. “I could welcome the entire male population of New York City between my thighs, and it would be none of your business. Now . . .” She yanked him to his feet, then stormed to her front door and opened it wide. She was magnificent in her rage. “Get out. Of my. House!”
21
Monday, Mick arrived at his office to a shitstorm. The phones were ringing. Lois wasn’t at her desk. Bob, Paul Peterson’s new intern from USC, was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. He was banging cupboards open, rifling through them, letting out a groan and then racing to the next one to repeat the process.
Ring . . . Ring . . .
“What the hell are you doing?”
Bob froze. Then slowly pivoted and swallowed hard. His eyes wide, hands up in the universal gesture of don’t-want-no-trouble-here. What does he think? I’m going to body-slam him to the floor? Mick sighed wearily. “Why are you rummaging through my office?”
“I . . . uh . . . Well, you see, sir, it’s like this. The writer sent over new pages for Mr. Peterson’s Fatally Yours project. He wants them printed on blue paper and incorporated into the script pronto. However, Harmony says she forgot to replenish the supplies and sent me over here to get some.” Figures. Paul’s new secretary, Harmony, was another instance of Paul letting his libido do his hiring. It seemed, where Peterson was concerned, bra size figured more prominently than brains.
Ring . . . Ring . . .
“Where’s Lois?”
“Haven’t seen her. Don’t think she’s in today,” the harried intern replied. There was a slight sheen of sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. “Look, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but do you happen to know where she keeps the blue paper—”
“Wait a minute. Back up. Lois didn’t . . . show up?” In the fourteen years Lois Caplan had worked for him, she had never missed a day. “Did she email or call?”
The intern blanched, started backing toward the door. “I . . . I wouldn’t know.” Mick heard a peal of feminine laughter drift in from the hall, a deep baritone rumble of a laugh that could only belong to one man. A second later Bradley Reed, in all his mega-movie-star glory, ambled in with his arm slung over his co-star Lauren Taylor’s shoulders. Mick hoped for Lauren’s sake that it was just Bradley being Bradley and didn’t point to a more intimate relationship. Bradley was gold at the box office but a narcissistic dickhead off-screen: self-involved, temperamental, and very married.
“Hey, Mick.” Bradley swaggered over and clapped him on the shoulder as if they were buddies. “Sorry we missed your party. Heard it was a wild one.”
“We were planning on coming,” Lauren said apologetically, sliding her long blond hair away from her face. Her English accent was more pronounced now that the cameras were no longer rolling.
“Oh, we were coming, babe.” Bradley wiggled his eyebrows at Mick over the top of Lauren’s head. “That’s why we didn’t show up, if you get my drift.”
A blue-assed baboon could get his drift. Mick managed not to roll his eyes. Barely.
A flush of color rose in Lauren’s face. She batted at Bradley. “That’s private.”
Ring . . . Ring . . .
Grateful for the distraction, Mick reached for the phone. “Gotta get this. Lois is out. Catch you guys later.” Luckily, they took the hint and headed through the connecting door into Peterson’s office. Mick exhaled, sank into Lois’s chair, and brought the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”
“Hello, Mr. Talford, please.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Ruth Parker. I’m a nurse at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Lois Caplan asked me to give you a call.”
* * *
* * *
The elevator doors were closing, but Mick lengthened his stride and managed to slip inside. The accelerated movement caused some water to slosh out of the large vase o
f flowers he was carrying, soaking the lower portion of the sleeve of his jacket. Luckily, his stainless-steel Rolex was waterproof. The button for the fifth floor was already illuminated. Excellent. Fewer germs to pick up. Hopefully, this thing with Lois wasn’t anything too serious. Perhaps she had caught that flu bug that had been making the rounds and had gotten dehydrated. He propped his hip against the wall, tipped his head back, taking advantage of a rare moment of stillness. He had not slept well. Hadn’t had a good night’s sleep ever since Rachel had moved in. He’d come home at night, dog-tired, have a bite to eat, a shower, then slip between the fresh sheets and sink into his comfortable bed. However, sleep refused to come. His mind wouldn’t stop churning over the plethora of press and TV interviews he’d been slogging through for Retribution. Also, gnawing at his peace was the realization that he was rapidly becoming accustomed to the cozy creature comforts Rachel had imbued his house with. The troubling fact that he found he was looking forward to stepping through his front door. It bothered him that he would catch himself daydreaming about what treat she would have left out on the kitchen counter to greet him when he came home. After that first night, there had always been something: a plate of fresh cookies or brownies, a wedge of chocolate seven-layer cake, milk in the fridge to wash them down.
Then the weekend had come. And there were no new surprises left on his counter. He understood in his logical brain. She had weekends off, for Chrissake. She wasn’t about to traipse over, barge into his house to drop some delicious delight off. He was the one who had told her he wanted privacy, solitude on the weekends. Not to mention, she was probably a little apprehensive about what—or whom—she’d find. But he found he was waiting, hoping anyway. Didn’t like the feeling. Reminded him of Christmas, all the other kids talking excitedly about Santa this and Santa that and what Santa was going to bring to them. Mick knew Santa didn’t exist. Hell, his grandma had disabused him of that notion when he came racing off the school bus, a glitter snowflake he had made in his kindergarten class trailing behind him on a string. He’d been bursting with the news of this magical being called Santa Claus and how he brought the most marvelous toys and candy to the good little boys and girls. He’d informed his grandma that the only reason Santa had never visited them was because they hadn’t known to hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve. She had laughed that raspy laugh she had, full of venom, a trail of stale cigarette smoke escaping from between her lips. “Better hang up that pipe dream, kid,” she said, wafting the smoke aside, thin bangles jangling on her bony wrist. “You ain’t getting nothing from no Santy Claus. Bad kids don’t, ’specially ones like you, who are rotten to the core.”
But Mick had gone to bed that Christmas Eve with an empty sock in his hand, hoping, praying. The next year, too, but he’d stolen a thumbtack from the school bulletin board so he could attach the sock to the wall above his mattress on the floor, just in case Santa hadn’t been able to remove it from Mick’s hand without waking him.
But in the morning there was nothing. Not even a lump of coal. That’s how bad he was. After that, he’d stopped waiting. Stopped hoping. Stopped participating in that fool’s game.
And these new expectations Rachel had conjured of a cozy, safe haven and a loving home’s embrace? The way he was unable to sleep until he knew she was home safe and sound? They stunk. Were dangerous. He’d ridden that train a million times before. Every time his mom showed up at the ranch, sometimes on her own, sometimes with a new guy in tow. She’d coo over Mick, how big he had gotten, wrapping him in her perfumed arms, kissing and hugging him with tears in her eyes. She made all kinds of promises. Talking about how she was saving up, and one day she was going to take him home with her. A real home and he’d have his own bedroom, a bike, and maybe she’d even be able to get a place with a backyard and a swing tied to the branch of an old oak tree. Yeah. She spun pretty pictures, his mom. Carrying them out? Not so much. He fell for it, over and over, and then one day he just knew it was never going to happen. The next time she came to visit, he didn’t bother coming out of his room to say hello. Mick heard her arrive, greeting all the girls. She had her party voice on because she had a new boyfriend in tow. Mick had seen them pull into the parking lot and get out of the car. “Where’s Mick?” his mom had said. “Where’s my darling boy?” He waited until they entered the front door, and then he climbed out his bedroom window and started running. Missed dinner. Didn’t matter. Every once in a while, she’d stepped out into the parking lot, shielding her eyes from the sun, hollering his name, but he didn’t come. No point. Couldn’t stomach playing the game, hearing the lies, pretending he believed her. He stayed on his rock, hidden from the ranch by a creosote bush that smelled like rain. The moon came out, the stars, too. Finally she and her “friend” left. He had waited for another half hour in case it was a trick. But it wasn’t. She was gone. And when he stopped crying, he wiped his face, returned to the ranch, climbed through his window, and crawled into bed.
No. Mick knew not to believe in fairy tales. Not anymore. They needed to be stamped out before they could take root and do permanent harm.
He needed to let Rachel go.
He would.
Just not yet.
The elevator binged for the fifth floor, and the stainless-steel elevator doors slid open. A woman with a cane slowly shuffled out. Mick stepped around her, glanced at the hospital map in his hand, then turned right.
When he inquired at the nurse’s station at the end of the hall, a young nurse with a ponytail slipped out from behind the desk and led Mick to Lois’s room.
There was something about hospitals that freaked Mick out, as if death, illness, and pain were lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce. And yet here he was. He stepped through the door of Lois’s room, rounded the corner, and saw her lying there. He stared at his secretary, worry coursing through him. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It was immediately clear that she would not have the mobility or desire to type, file, or answer phones. Casts encased both of her forearms and wrists; only her fingers were visible. Her leg was in a cast as well, strung up in the air. “How the hell did this happen?”
Lois mumbled something.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Mick’s concentration was thrown off by the fact that an embarrassed rosy hue had bloomed across the face of his elderly, gray-haired secretary. “What did you say?”
Lois lifted her chin. “Hang gliding,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Been feeling in a bit of a rut, so for my sixtieth birthday I decided to try something new.”
“And you thought it would be a good idea to jump off a cliff clutching a glorified kite? Seriously?” It was hard to wrap his mind around the idea. Lois was always so pragmatic, so systematic and unemotional.
“It wasn’t my fault. Everyone said so. The wind changed direction at the last minute. These things happen.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks for the support. You have a lovely bedside manner. Why am I not surprised? Anyway. As you can see”—she held up her cast-clad arms—“I will be out of commission for a while. You’ll need to find someone to take over. Stop glaring at me. I didn’t do this just to inconvenience you.”
“I’m not glaring at you.” He was. He could feel scowl lines digging furrows in his face. Mick plopped the vase of flowers on the wide window ledge, a splash of color that brightened up the beige room. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell we’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do, but as you can see, my options are limited. It’s binge-watching The Great British Bake Off and bonbons for me. The doctor says it’s going to be anywhere from eight weeks to six months off the job, depending on how fast I heal, rehab, et cetera.”
“Eight weeks to six months?!”
“Stop bellowing—”
“I’m not bellowing.” He was.
“And heads up, I’m
not sure if at the end of rehab I’m going to want to come back.”
“What?”
Her familiar face softened, as did her voice. “It’s not you, Mick. For all your bluster and shenanigans, you’ve been a great boss. Best I ever had. Actually, it’s because of your generosity that retiring a few years early is even an option. You see, in those split seconds between hopping off that cliff and realizing it was all going very wrong, I thought of all the things I’ve always wanted to do and have never done. It’s true what they say, my life did flash before me, and it was short and uninspiring. I haven’t lived, Mick. Not really. I’ve existed. Have meandered through life being dutiful and reliable and boring as hell. You see, none of us know how long we have, Mick, but by God, I want to make sure I begin to live fully.”
He nodded, his throat a little tight. He felt lost. Cut adrift. “Where will you go?”
“Not sure.” She smiled at him fondly. “I’m thinking maybe to get a little cabin by the sea. Watch the waves lap the shore, listen to the wind in the trees.”
“Okay.” His mind spun with images of Lois hang gliding intermingled with thoughts of the present and memories of the past, the workload waiting at the office. “Tell you what, let’s not make any drastic decisions.” He couldn’t imagine his office without her. Lois had been by his side from day one. Helped him navigate the shark-laden waters. “You’ve had a bit of a shock. Focus on getting better. Get some rest. We’ll deal with what comes next once you’re back on your feet. No pressure. But you might feel differently after lying around for six months.” Hopefully she would.
“Mick.” Her voice was soft. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I just think it’s best if we leave your options open. You want some time off. Fine. We’ll check in with each other in September. If you still feel the same way, I’ll accept your decision. Until then, I’ll make do with temporary help.”
