Family

by Karen Kingsbury

  Katy fell against the wood-paneled wall. “Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s my fault. I deserve—”

  “No, Katy.” This time Bethany was angry. “That woman doesn’t know the first thing about you.” She tightened her lips and stared after the woman. “People like that give Christianity a bad name.” Her expression softened. “Far more than anything you’ve done.”

  Even so, Dayne had been right that once the tabloids landed on a topic, it wouldn’t die out after a week. The tabloids fed off each other. If one found a juicy tidbit or an irresistible detail, it would be in every magazine the following week. And with the revelation in one magazine that she worked with a Christian Kids Theater, Katy fully expected more stories about her.

  And there were.

  The next Monday, pictures of Katy and Dayne ran on the covers again, and this time each of them was accompanied by a few lines that called Katy a hypocrite. “Mystery Woman Defies Christian Beliefs for Dayne” one cover read.

  He called her that afternoon, but she only stared at her phone and watched his name flash in the caller ID window. Dayne, she wanted to say, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. And she couldn’t. To answer the phone would be to expose her heart to the same wild roller coaster of emotions. Joy at hearing his voice and then almost at the same time a sorrow that was suffocating.

  She loved him—truly she did. But in some ways it was like being in love with a fantasy, an image. Not in the way Dayne’s fans were in love with him. They were infatuated with the on-screen image, the handsome playboy, or whatever they’d made him out to be in their minds. Girls like the ones at CKT practice who could giggle and imagine and dream about what a day at the beach with Dayne Matthews might be like.

  Katy was in love with a different sort of fantasy. The Dayne Matthews no one but her knew. She didn’t dream about the movie star; she dreamed about the man. But there was no separating the two, so the real Dayne was as much make-believe for her as the movie star was for girls across America.

  The phone stopped ringing, and she pressed it to her heart. God . . . why can’t there be a way?

  She reminded herself of the “strength” verses in the Bible. “Nothing is impossible with God” and “I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” But sometimes it wasn’t a matter of willing a thing to happen or believing Jesus would accomplish it. Sometimes it was a matter of accepting His will and letting a closed door be closed, without trying every possible way to pry it open.

  And so Katy limped through the next week, lying low mostly and wondering at church and at the library and at the gym whether everyone really was staring at her or whether that was only her imagination.

  On Saturday they moved the Narnia sets into the Bloomington theater, and Monday began a full week of nightly dress rehearsals. Somehow she kept breathing, kept waking up and putting one foot in front of the other, and in a blur of days it was suddenly Friday, opening night for Narnia.

  At least Katy could see God in every scene of rehearsals that week, because otherwise she would’ve felt very far from Him, missing the stolen moments she’d shared with Dayne and wondering why she had been exiled to a life without love. But because of the kids, because of the work they’d done on the C. S. Lewis classic, Katy survived, and as she drove to the theater that night, she stared at the deep blue Bloomington sky and thanked God for His plans.

  Even if she couldn’t for a single minute understand them.

  Dayne had a beautiful blonde on each arm and a hundred cameras in his face.

  Also at the party were the heiress daughters of an international shipping magnate and dozens of young starlets, the type who still got a charge out of having their pictures in the tabloids every week. At least it seemed that way.

  “Over here, Dayne . . . over here!”

  He did a quarter turn with the women and smiled at a new set of cameras. Not a person watching him could’ve guessed that his mind was two thousand miles away, lost in a bittersweet memory that no Hollywood party could ever match.

  The prepublicity party for his next movie was his agent’s idea, and by the industry’s standards it was a must, the sort of affair that mandated the city’s entire A-list to attend. This one was the fourth since the verdict against Margie Madden. Every tabloid was present and welcome, and most of them would include at least a two-page spread detailing who had attended and what they had worn and who they had sat with and what they thought of the idea for Dayne’s newest movie.

  His new film matched him with Randi Wells, the Oscar Award–winning stunner known for her on-camera attitude. His other costar was Maria Menkens, the talented daughter of Sarah Menkens, a woman who was an icon in Tinseltown. Maria had already starred in half a dozen romantic comedy hits.

  With the actresses on either side of him, the image his agent wanted the world to see was clear and intentional. After all, the movie would tell the story of a man in love with two women—one a forgotten high school love and the other the beautiful daughter of a senator—Dayne’s fiancée in the movie. The show would appeal to the chick-flick set, but it had enough drama to be taken seriously. Talk around the city was that this could be Dayne’s biggest film yet.

  “Dayne . . . Randi . . . Maria . . .”

  Another quarter turn and the trio waved and smiled some more.

  They were halfway up the red carpet, halfway to the door when Randi Wells leaned in close to him. “Jim asked me for a divorce.” She waved to a group of cameramen three rows back. “He wants to share custody of the girls.”

  “Randi, no,” Dayne said so quietly that even Maria on the other side couldn’t hear. His heart sank. He waved and smiled to three tabloid reporters. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “It is.” She grinned at the same reporters. “I tried everything to keep him. Everything.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They edged their way closer to the door. The tabs had been saying for a year that Randi and her actor husband were on the outs. His career was dying; hers was thriving. Headlines questioned whether he was merely a house dad for their two young girls. Photos showed them together but with scowls on their faces. Body language experts analyzed everything from the opposite directions their feet were pointing to the meaning of a hand in a pocket or the angle of one of their heads.

  Dayne felt a rush of anger, even as he made another quarter turn and smiled at a group of fans and media. How often were his Hollywood friends going to let this happen? The tabloids played a diabolical role in all of their relationships. They would lure and tempt and attract, making reference to two people who seemed to have an interest in each other.

  Once the pair had been identified as a couple, the photographers couldn’t capture enough pictures. Certainly he and Katy Hart were the current tabloid couple of choice—though the frenzy had died down now that he hadn’t seen Katy since the trial.

  Once the tabs had a couple pegged, once the pair was openly together and had run the course of happy-couple pictures, the headlines would begin to suspect that marriage was on the way. There would be articles about supposed rings and dresses and locations, even if an actual wedding wasn’t in the works.

  For most of his friends, babies came next. One time he asked an A-lister friend of his why everyone in their circle did things out of order, putting babies before a commitment.

  His friend shrugged, his expression cynical. “Are you kidding? Get married and doom the thing to failure?” He had chuckled then. “The longest-lasting couples in Hollywood are the ones who never marry at all. No tabloid can suspect them of breaking a vow they never made.”

  Sadly, it was true.

  Once a couple married, the tabloids could hardly wait to doubt their commitment. “Is He Cheating?” headlines would ask. “Is She Getting Too Cozy with Her Costar?” A few stories would spin into an avalanche of print and photographs designed to give the magazines enough drama to sell copies.

  The wake of crumbled Hollywood marriages that paid the price was of no interest to th
e photographers, reporters, and editors who profited from celebrity pain. Pain like the kind Randi was silently suffering now.

  He leaned closer to her. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  She nodded and smiled for a sea of cameras close to the ropes.

  Soon they were inside for a private dinner. Invited members of the media—which meant everyone, even the tabs—would join them after that.

  When they reached the champagne fountain, Randi took hold of the table and lowered her head.

  Dayne put his arm around her and patted her arm. “Hey . . . you okay?”

  She slipped her hand around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. “He was sleeping with the nanny.” She sniffed. “Remember the tabloid story a week ago? It was true.”

  “I didn’t see it.” His heart went out to her, and he wondered if she would have the emotional energy to pull off the film if her life at home was a mess. He hoped so. He cared for her more than many of the women he could’ve starred with. Randi had appeared with him in his first film, and they’d dated seriously for a year afterwards. He moved in with her for a season, and he would’ve married her, but he was only twenty-three, and everywhere he went another girl was inviting him over for drinks or making passes at him on location. His life had been that wild.

  They parted as friends and had stayed so ever since.

  Randi stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad we’re doing this film together.” Her eyes shone with the hint of tears. “You’re a good guy, Dayne. One of the last good ones.”

  Her comment pierced him with guilt. The guy he’d been when he dated her was hardly good. He had been only a handful of years removed from his boarding school, fully aware of what his teachers had taught about right and wrong, but he’d used her the way everyone seemed to use everyone in Hollywood. And the whole time he’d known better. The memory made him suddenly uncomfortable around her, and he made himself a promise. Sometime while they were working together, he’d apologize to her. She deserved that at least—even if she might think him strange for being sorry.

  He gave her another pat and took a step back. They’d spent enough time together. Anything more—especially once the press joined them—and speculation was bound to begin. Randi Wells on the outs with her husband, playing the forgotten love of Dayne Matthews. Katy Hart back home in Bloomington. Was there a new love in the works? Dayne took another step away from her. With their history the whole setup was a little too close for comfort. To avoid rumors he’d have to balance being her friend with staying far enough away.

  A producer approached him and motioned him over. “Dayne, I have someone you need to meet. . . .”

  The night passed in a blur, and before it was over, Randi found her way back to him. “Dayne—” she stood a little too close, her words slightly slurred from the partying she’d done—“let’s hang out tomorrow, ’kay? Jim’s taking the girls to the beach and I—” her lips curved in a smile that was more suggestive than cutesy—“I don’t wanna be alone.”

  While she was talking to him, a dozen cameraman caught the moment. In a rush, an image filled Dayne’s mind. Katy Hart buying milk and eggs at the Bloomington supermarket and seeing a cover story about Dayne Matthews moving on. The idea made his heart race, made his hands clammy. When Randi talked about needing company, he knew exactly what she had in mind.

  He backed up and crossed his arms. Let the body language experts analyze that. “Randi, I can’t. I’ve got . . . well, things have changed for me.”

  “Changed?” She pouted, and the look was exactly the one they’d brought her into the film for. She ran her finger along the side of his face. “You don’t like me anymore, Dayne?”

  He wanted to run, but he had to deal with her. Otherwise she would feel rejected or more determined with him. He stuck his hands in his pants pockets and raised his shoulders a couple times. “I gave my life to God.” He gave a surprised laugh, knowing she would be frightened by the idea unless he kept the moment light. “Went back to my roots, I guess.”

  “You?” Her eyes got big, and she held her mouth open. “Handsome playboy Dayne Matthews gone and given his life to God?” A disbelieving chuckle sounded in her throat. “Nah!”

  “Hey, I’m serious.” He gave her a tender smile. “I’m reading my Bible and everything.”

  “Wow.” As if he’d put a gun to her ribs, she held up both hands. “Well, don’t let me get in the way of that.” She sidled back, putting distance between them. As she did, she stumbled and pointed at him. “You sure this isn’t about that pretty little Indiana girl of yours?”

  His heart warmed. He felt the familiar grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

  She raised her brow, as if she was concerned for his mental health. “I’ll try to look past all that.” She closed the distance between them and kissed his cheek. “You’ll always be my same old Dayne.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders to give himself room but also so he could look into her eyes. This was something he wanted her to understand. “I’m not the same old Dayne, Randi. But I’ll be your friend.” He gave her a hug. “I’m sorry about Jim.”

  “Thanks.” There was a catch in her voice. She pressed her cheek to his. “I’ll get through it.” She looked over her shoulder at a sea of photographers, then back at him. “I just wish we could lick our wounds in private.”

  “I know.” Dayne flexed the muscles in his jaw. The cameramen weren’t ten feet away. The mass of them were shooting Randi and him in rapid-fire mode, capturing every second of the kiss on the cheek, the hug, the closeness—the entire exchange. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Their agents and the movie execs had invited them intentionally, doing what Hollywood often did—using the tabloids and every other venue of media to their advantage to promote an upcoming film.

  Still, at a publicity party like this, even dressed in tuxedoes, the paparazzi felt like a flock of scavengers, representatives from the seedy underground, the voyeuristic side of society.

  Randi ran her thumb above his ear and wrinkled her nose. “I think the whole giving-your-life-to-God thing is a little weird.” She smiled, and her eyes danced. “But I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Thanks, Randi.” His smile let her know that he wasn’t going to be baited into letting the conversation turn into a debate on faith. That could come later, and Dayne hoped it would. For now he needed to remember what Bob Asher had told him in a recent phone call.

  “Your Hollywood friends are going to think you’re a freak, Matthews.” Bob had sounded matter-of-fact and at ease. The way he always sounded. “As soon as they find out something’s different you’ll no longer be one of them.”

  Instead, Bob had said, Dayne would be strange, a pariah. Especially in the movie crowd, where Christians were considered out of touch and insensitive—bigots even. Dayne understood. In his world of celebrity, where thinking seemed to be done corporately, how could any of them understand what he’d done?

  “Let your life be your testimony,” Bob had told him lastly. “Don’t preach at them. Not when they wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

  That was Dayne’s plan exactly. But sometimes—when a friend like Randi Wells was making herself available in every possible way—he needed to be very clear where he stood. No matter what she thought.

  Before the party was over, the producer caught up with him. “Big things, Dayne. This film is going to do big things for you and Randi and Maria.” He made a fist and tapped it over his heart. “I can feel it in here.”

  Dayne gave a thoughtful nod. “I agree.” Across the room, Randi and Maria were talking and giggling about something. A dozen guys, involved one way or another in the film, hovered around them. Randi would be fine. There would never be a shortage of people willing to keep her company.

  Dayne focused on the producer. “Everything the same for the shooting schedule?”

  “Definitely.” The producer was a black man, fifty years old, h
ighly successful, and serious about his films. He had been an actor in his twenties and thirties, a professional with two Academy Awards on his list of credits. “We’ll start the first week of June, and even with reshoots, we should wrap up by the end of August.”

  “Good.” It was a longer schedule than some. They were shooting most of it in Los Angeles, but they would have a week in Maui near the middle of the schedule. The location team had all the details worked out.

  The producer took a step closer. He shot a glance at Randi and Maria. “Look, Matthews, I know you and that Indiana woman are over. She’s back there and you’re here. But I have to tell you—” he smiled—“I wouldn’t mind seeing you and Randi together a little more often. Her marriage is a mess, and, well . . . you know the drill. Publicity is everything.”

  Dayne forced a chuckle. “Tonight should take care of that for a while.”

  “Right.” The man gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “I’m just saying.”

  They talked for a few more minutes, and then the producer ambled over to another group.

  The break gave Dayne a chance to look at his watch. Almost five thirty. Eight thirty in Bloomington. He sighed. The mentions of Katy were getting to him. Not so much because there was anything he could do about the distance between them. But because he had another six hours of party life and plastic smiles ahead of him, a reminder that he wasn’t where he desperately wanted to be.

  In his favorite seat at the Bloomington Community Theater, watching Katy work her magic for the opening night of Narnia.

  John Baxter took his seat in the Bloomington Community Theater next to Cole and Maddie and Jessie. The play was set to begin in five minutes, just enough time to send his grandkids to the snack stand. He took a handful of dollar bills from his pocket and handed four of them to Cole. “You and Maddie get popcorn, okay?”

  “Really?” Cole’s eyes lit up. He grabbed Maddie’s hand and took the bills from John. “One each, Papa?”

  “Let’s see . . .” He looked down the row. Ashley and Landon were here and Kari and Ryan. Brooke and Peter had stayed home with Hayley, who wasn’t feeling well. Little Devin was asleep, and Ryan was too young. “Let’s get four, Coley. That way we can all share.”