Amy shifted uneasily. “No. Have you checked his office?”
“Are you kidding? I never go in there without a SWAT team.”
Amy hurried down the hall to a door festooned with the covers of comic books. Pictures of Elliot’s handsome, boyish face were taped over the heads of all the superheroes. Photos of Carson, Letterman, and Arsenio Hall also decorated the door. Each rival talk-show host wore a goatee, moustache, and devil horns. She knocked, lis- Inside, among the kind of garish kitsch an Andy Warhol fan might have coveted, a futon lay on the floor.
Elliott Thornton, comic genius, was sprawled on the futon wearing nothing but beard stubble. He was snoring loudly.
An empty bourbon bottle lay beside him, along with a mirror strewn with white dust, a box of straws, and a bottle of Valium. Amy ran to him and knelt down. After reassuring herself that he was no more stoned than usual, she sat back wearily and gazed at him with despair.
“You self-destructive jerk,” she whispered, but took his hand. He was starting to go soft around the stomach, his all-American nose was swollen, premature gray showed among the wavy brown hair at his temples, and his once-unstoppable libido looked permanently flaccid. She wondered if it were even capable of chasing model-actresses anymore.
But she had spent years looking after him, needing to be needed by him, and old habits died hard. When he woke up she brought him a cup of coffee and sat on the futon while he drank it. He groaned. “I’m not doing so well by myself at night, baby.”
“You didn’t do much better when we were together.”
“Comeon baby, how long are you going to turn the screws?”
“Like I always say, try some clean living. Then we’ll talk.”
“Oh, boy, more lectures.” He stroked his limp penis and sighed with relief when it began to move. “Speak into the microphone.”
“No, thanks, but I do have something to tell you.”
“Yeah, it’s about time you admitted the sonovabitch’s name.”
She exhaled wearily. “I wish this were about a man. You’d be less jealous.”
He squinted at her and stopped stroking himself. “Huh?”
She told him about Freddie and his cable special.
Elliot’s eyes narrowed to slits. His hand curled on his belly with ominous tension as she finished. “I’ve been Mr. Nice Guy, waiting for you to come back to me, giving you a job you didn’t deserve just so you’d stick around! No more handouts, baby!”
“Handouts?” She tried to keep her voice light. One furious person in the room was enough. “I’ve been your comedy slave for years. I earned my way, and I’ll put my yuks-per-joke ratio up against any writer’s in the business. Good Lord, this is the first year your writing staff has been nominated for an Emmy. I contributed to that nomination, Elliot. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Egomaniac!”
“Calm down, Mr. Nice Guy. I don’t want to quit writing for you because I got this break. I’ve still got a long way to go before I hit the big time—”
“Hit the big time!” He bolted upright and leaned toward her with a taunting and incredulous expression on his face. “Where do you get your fortune cookies, baby? They’ve been lying!”
“I know it’s still a daydream, but I’m gonna try to be a name.”
“Not while you’re working for me, you’re not!” He grabbed his coffee cup and threw it across the room. It splattered into a shelf filled with his awards. “You want to keep your old man in an expensive nursing home? Fine! But go pay for it some other way! You’re history! Hit the street!”
She rose and went to the door, opened it, held onto it tightly. She was so disgusted that she almost didn’t care that he’d fired her. Almost. This was it. Sink or swim. “Good-bye,” she said softly.
“You’ll be back! You’ll never make it! You’re nothing but a daydreamer. What is this, a midlife crisis? Hell, you’re not even thirty!” He beat the futon with his fists. “You’re a follower, not a leader! They’ll eat you alive! You haven’t got what it takes to compete in the big leagues!”
“Wipe your nose. It’s bleeding.” She would always take care of him. But she shut the door hard on her way out.
She gathered her things in the office. The guys gathered around her desk looking morose at being left without her to run interference between them and Elliot. When one of the communal Mickey Mouse phones rang somebody slouched over reluctantly and answered it.
“Security guard says somebody’s in the lobby to see you,” he told Amy, tossing the mouse ears back on the receiver.
“Who?”
“You expect me to be efficient when I’m this depressed? I forgot to ask.”
“Oh, nevermind, I know who it is. It’s that guy we were reading about in that grocery-store tabloid the other day. The one who makes jewelry from pigeon skulls. I called him … told him to drop by this morning and see us. I thought we might build a piece around him.” Struggling not to cry, she smoothed invisible wrinkles from the soft material of her dress. She had worn the flowing turquoise outfit with its neat little collar and double row of tiny buttons down the front because it had been one of Elliot’s favorites … and because she’d read somewhere that turquoise was a soothing color.
Defeated, she tossed a turquoise-leather purse into the cardboard box that held her other possessions. “On my way out I’ll send the bird man up to see you guys.”
They groaned and looked more pitiful.
“A trooper to the end!”
“A trooper, you say? She’s leaving us with Custer at the battle of the Little Big Horn. And Custer is nuts.”
“Run, Amy. Save your own scalp.”
She cried a little as she hugged each of them. Then she saluted. “It was nice knowing you while you still had hair.”
“We’ll go downstairs with you. See you off into the wicked world.”
“No, I’m looking forward to blubbering in the elevator. Thanks, though.”
Once she was hidden inside the elevator she clutched her box with one arm, allowed herself one loud wail, then wiped her eyes hurriedly. She didn’t want to look deranged in front of the bird-skull man, who might be a sensitive artistic type. He Makes Masterpieces From Bird Brains, the tabloid headline had proclaimed with respect, if not anatomical accuracy.
The lobby downstairs was empty except for Jackson, the aging black security guard.
“Where’s the guy you called about?”
Jackson pointed across the lobby to a sunny anteroom. “Stepped in there. Seemed kind of restless.”
“It’s a high-pressure job, looking for dead pigeons with artistic heads. Here, keep my going-away box while I talk to the guy.”
She crossed the lobby, straightening her hair and brushing her fingertips over her face. Amy reached the anteroom’s entrance and halted, startled. He stood with his back to her, silhouetted by the light of an arching, Spanish-style window. She hadn’t seen a photo of the bird man. She had expected someone who looked as if he had nothing better to do than shellac pigeon skulls. This man looked like an extremely well built statue come to life. So maybe it was how he attracted the pigeons.
He was very still, his hands clasped behind him, his attention focused on some outside scene or inner distraction. Amy rebuked herself for standing there unannounced and ogling him, but she couldn’t help it. An odd feeling of recognition bewildered her.
His solitude. His stillness and unmistakable elegance. His hair, the luxurious color of dark chocolate. His aura of wealth. Even from the back his suit appeared exquisitely cut. It was black, with a fine gray pinstripe. He was not a California native, not in that beautiful but solemn outfit. Plus ça change, plus c’est la mème chose. The graceful window framed him in its old-world ambience.
When she finally stepped forward she was so clumsy that she almost stumbled. She stopped again and took a deep breath. A dreamlike quality came over her, and her peculiar sense of distraction increased.
He made a sound of exasperation, u
nclasped his hands, and flung them up in dismay. “Ne t’en fais pas,” he muttered, apparently speaking to himself. “Sois patiente!”
That voice. Ten years jumbled inside her, leaving her stunned, uncomprehending, unable to fathom that the world could have brought him here, at this point in her life, when her life was falling apart and starting over. After all, he had set her on this course.
She took another step forward, reaching toward him with both hands. Joy and disbelief welled up in her throat. When she tried to speak, the best she could manage was a whisper. “You can stop tellin’ yourself to be patient, Doc. I’m here.”
He whipped around, his reaction so swift and intense that she felt the emotional power like a wave of heat. The large, dark eyes were deeply creased at the corners but had lost none of their breath-stealing effect. The face was even more brutal in its uncompromising strength, like granite that has been stripped of softer rock through the action of time and storms. But it was spellbinding. The scar still made a diagonal slash on his chin, and above it his mouth still held its tough appeal.
What was there to say? After her initial effort she went blank and simply stared up at him, her hands rising in shock to her face. She believed that she was smiling but couldn’t think clearly enough to be certain. She knew that she was bewildered but also delirious with pleasure. And that she was afraid of the way he made her feel.
His eyes gleamed. They studied her with careful attention to detail before meeting her gaze again. “You remember me.”
She almost choked at the irony. “Of course.”
“But I can’t tell if I’ve done the right thing by coming here today.”
“Yes!” The emphatic word silenced them both again. He looked pleased, but she was alarmed. Control yourself, she thought desperately. This time, control yourself.
So she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Which, she reasoned, was a perfectly acceptable thing to do when greeting someone who had changed your life ten years ago.
Especially when he made a gruff sound of amazement and lifted her off the floor in an embrace that conveyed much more than a hello among old acquaintances. She cried out and pressed her face into the crook of his neck. After ten years he had remembered, and she had never forgotten.
“It is so good to hold you,” he whispered. “So good.”
His voice was an elixir that made her drunk. Self-preservation was a must. She stiffened and let go of him—not angry, just attempting to be dignified. He felt the change and set her down. His arms relaxed a little but still remained around her, his hands resting possessively on her back. The welcome in his expression made her weak.
“I don’t believe this,” she admitted. “Why are you here?”
“That, my dear Miracle, is a long story.”
My dear Miracle. She clung to his shoulders. “You’re visiting the States on business?”
“No. I bought a home north of San Francisco. An old vineyard, with a large stone cottage. I’m living there.”
There is a Santa Claus. She tried to be nonchalant. The trance of excitement between them made it a ridiculous effort. She struggled for a diplomatic way to slap reality into the situation. “Where’s Mrs. Doctor?”
He tilted his head and looked at her shrewdly. “How did you know that I had married?”
“Oh, somebody told me, years ago.”
“I’m divorced.”
“Oh?” Her voice squeaked.
“And you?”
“Just an old maid. Not a maid, but you know what I mean.”
“Wonderful.”
“I don’t think I believe this,” she said, swaying inside his arms. “I don’t. What are you doing here—”
“Whatever it takes to explain the past ten years to you. More simply, I came here to see if you would be interested in hearing my explanation. Or in just having dinner with me … someone who wants to know everything that’s happened to you, how you’ve fared in the world, how you’re doing now.”
“That could be a long dinner.”
“I hope so.”
The breath shuddered from her lungs. She was adrift in a fantasy come true, and right now she felt helpless, giddy, wild. If this was real then she was ripe for it. If it wasn’t real, then she was going to throw herself into the jaws of the Venus-flytrap in the corner. Calming down, she cleared her throat and said, “I’d be glad to have dinner with you. I could meet you at a restaurant one night. How long will you be in L.A.?”
Her coolness brought a slight frown to his face. “Indefinitely.”
“When did you get here?”
“I just drove down this morning.”
“You drove all the way from somewhere above San Francisco and got here by this hour? You must have left in the middle of the night.”
“Yes.”
“A medical emergency? Do you have patients here?”
“No. Last night I saw your name on the credits for a television show. I made some phone calls to locate the show’s offices. Then I packed a bag and left. I arrived in Los Angeles an hour ago, checked into a hotel, then changed into presentable clothes and came here.”
She wondered what the maximum heart rate was for a woman her age. She thought she’d reached it. “When would you like to meet for dinner?”
“Right now, but I’ll settle for tonight.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Let’s go, then.”
His harsh features softened in a beautiful smile. “Mon dieu. Certainly. I’d love to.”
She hesitated. “Doc, what’s the deal here? Aren’t you busy? What about your work? Haven’t you set up a surgery practice?”
“No, I’m taking a sabbatical. I’ll try to make sense of it to you. I’ve only just begun to make sense of it, myself.”
“When anything makes sense, I plan to celebrate.”
“It will. As long as you’re glad to see me after ten years, anything is possible.”
Anything? She wouldn’t even think about it. In fact, she’d short-circuit it. “How long do you plan to stay in the United States?”
“Let’s put it this way—I have no plans to leave.”
“That’s a diplomat’s answer.”
“Then here’s a more specific one. My life is here now. I want to make California my permanent home.”
She was dizzy from the verbal ricochets. There was so much to learn about the stranger who continued to hold her—and so much for him to learn about her. They weren’t the same people as ten years ago. Yet they were falling together with reckless abandon as if nothing else mattered and no time had passed. He hadn’t loved her before; he hadn’t ever tried to contact her since; why would he care about her now?
“When did you move here from France?”
“In December.”
“Why, you’re still a newcomer.”
“I could use a tour guide.”
“At your service. We could start with breakfast, although I think that if I try to eat anything my stomach will just go, ‘Honeychile, you couldn’t get me interested in food even if it was grits.’ ”
“Your voice—your incredible voice. Thank God it hasn’t changed.”
“Lots of other things about me have changed, though.”
He nodded. “I’m very different, too. For the better, in some ways. For the worse, in others.” His arms tightened and he searched her expression in provocative detail. “But we still communicate very well with each other, don’t you think?”
They were too close to avoid the touch of breath on parted lips, the scent of male and female, the maelstrom of unresolved questions and emotions and now, rising quickly to the surface, desire.
She flowed into his kiss and heard herself make small, frantic sounds at the overwhelming tenderness of it. There was no point in trying to analyze this situation. She wanted him more now than she had ten years ago, and if she weren’t dreaming, he wanted her, too.
It might take days for her to comprehen
d his presence and sort out her feelings. Right now she was caught in a tornado, and all she could do was hang on to anything that appeared solid.
She wasn’t hanging on very well, either, because at the end of lunch when he said abruptly, “Would you like to see my new home?” she nodded without the slightest hesitation.
“Let’s go right now,” he said next, as if it weren’t a nine-hour trip to the wine country.
And she replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”
They left L.A. without even stopping at his hotel to get his suitcase or pick up any fresh clothes for her. They had only the clothes they wore—windblown and rumbled. Oh, she had her purse and the box with the things from her office, including a bola bouncer, which counted for something, she supposed.
Now she and Sebastien were more than halfway to their destination, a fact that both worried and excited her.
The sun was a piece of silver melting toward the Pacific. The Ferrari he had purchased recently—another Ferrari!—clung to the winding, cliffside road with the precision of a magnet on steel. Once again he was taking her someplace unknown at a speed she couldn’t resist. She settled deeper in the seat. The wind washed away the need to talk. They had talked all morning, but these past few hours in the car they had been quiet by mutual agreement.
It was good to let the silence absorb the shock. Dancing on the edge of memories was tricky business; they had discussed a hundred things—mostly about her and her work, at his insistence—but avoided the real issues. Each time the unanswered questions overwhelmed her she felt as if she were trying to scoop the water from a deep well with nothing but her hands.
What had gone wrong with his marriage? Why were there no children? Why had he searched for her after ten years? What did he want from her?
And more important, what was she going to give him?
It seemed no more strange to spend the entire afternoon in the car with him than it had seemed strange to spend the entire morning at a cheap diner, where they had ordered and mostly ignored breakfast, and then lunch. Each time she had switched the conversation from her life to his, all he would talk about were the vineyards and the stone cottage he was restoring. The dark intensity still seethed in him, in the private expression that came over his face at times, in the commanding posture and impatient hand gestures. But there was a lightness, too, that she knew hadn’t been there before. It showed when he talked about his new home, and each time he stopped talking to look admiringly at her.
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