Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2)

by Jill Blake

  “This isn’t about sex,” he said. “And I didn’t call you last night so you could criticize my choices. I’m not giving up Grace. So if that’s the best advice you have to offer, I can get myself another lawyer.”

  “Not so fast, ace. I’ll get you out of this, just give me time.” She studied him with narrowed eyes. “Not about sex, you say?”

  Several seconds ticked by before he answered. “No.”

  “Okay, then. You want the paparazzi to stop bothering your lady? Let’s have her do an interview. I’ll find someone reasonable, don’t worry. Grace can answer a few questions, dish a little about life and love and whatever else is on her mind.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Dead serious. You want to help her or not?”

  He glared at her.

  “Then this is your best bet,” she said. “The press wants something, you give it to them, they go away. Problem solved.”

  “Fine. Do it.”

  “Not so fast. You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not off the hook yet. Still that little issue of whether or not the guy plans to file charges. You have his number? I’ll call, see if we can straighten things out.” She tapped her lip with a slim finger. “Maybe if you agree to cover the cost of the damaged equipment and issue an apology?”

  “An apology? Me? The guy practically assaulted her!”

  “Practically doesn’t count. You, on the other hand, pushed him back and broke his camera.”

  “He deserved it.”

  She waved his protest aside. “Whatever. He’s still within his rights to press assault charges against you, and sue your sorry ass for emotional pain and suffering. Might even drum up some medical injuries to get worker’s comp or disability.”

  “I barely touched the guy!”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell a different story.”

  “Then he’s a liar.”

  “Tsk-tsk, Logan. You need to dial down the emotions.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours, of course. Never doubt it.”

  Her response deflated his anger. “I screwed up, didn’t I?”

  “Letting emotions get the best of you does it every time, ace.”

  “She’s worth it.”

  Angie shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “What’s made you so cynical, anyway?”

  “We’ll leave that discussion to another day, when you have more time and plenty of booze on hand.”

  He frowned. He’d never seen his sister drink to excess. A story that required alcohol for either liquid courage or as emotional anesthetic sounded ominous.

  But before he could question her further, Angie cleared her throat and got up. “Enough of this sentimental crap. You have a meeting to get to, and I’ve got some planning to do. Text me the reporter’s number and I’ll take it from there. I want to get everything wrapped up by the weekend.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It took some negotiation, but in the end Angie managed to broker a deal with the aggrieved paparazzo that satisfied both parties. In exchange for agreeing to drop charges and signing a waiver promising not to sue, the man got a brand-new, state of the art, professional digital SLR camera with a top-of-the-line zoom lens, flashgun, and power pack.

  “I thought extortion was illegal,” Logan said later, as he signed a check to cover the transaction.

  Angie added the check to a pile of documents he’d already signed, and placed everything in a folder inside her briefcase. “Just be thankful that the L.A. City Attorney’s office has better things to do than deal with nuisance complaints.”

  Logan frowned. “If they weren’t planning to prosecute anyway, then why are we doing this?”

  “Because in California, the cap on pain and suffering only applies to medical malpractice.” She shrugged into her jacket and adjusted the cuffs. “So if the guy decided to sue and managed to find an attorney to take his case, you, my friend, might end up paying a whole lot more.”

  “But you said this was a nuisance complaint.”

  “From a criminal prosecutor’s standpoint, it is. But civil litigation is a whole different ballgame. Juries are unpredictable at best, vicious at worst. Trust me, you’re better off this way.” She picked up the briefcase. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to risk your tenure case over something as stupid as this.”

  Logan shouldered his backpack and followed her out, locking the office behind him. “I’ve got a paper coming out in Nature next month. Plus a slew of publications in Neuroscience and Neuropharmacology. I don’t think my tenure case is at risk.”

  Angie rolled her eyes. “Glad this hasn’t affected your ego.”

  He held the door for her as they exited the building. “Where did you park?”

  “Structure 1, off Gayley.”

  “I’ll walk you.” He checked the time. If he was lucky, he might catch Grace before she left her office. They hadn’t made specific plans for tonight, but he was optimistic.

  Angie’s voice interrupted that thought. “I hope you realize that no one is immune to departmental politics.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “If someone doesn’t like you, or has a personal agenda—say, another candidate they want to promote instead of you—they’ll grab onto any excuse. Conceivably, they could make the argument that a long, drawn-out lawsuit takes time and attention away from your professional responsibilities to the university. Not to mention that it calls into question your suitability as a role model for your students.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  She shrugged. “That’s politics.”

  “Fine, you’ve made your point.” They cut through the medical plaza building toward the garage. As they approached her sporty two-seater, he slowed down. “Angie, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  She must have caught the hesitation in his voice. “But...?”

  “What’s to prevent this sonofabitch from stalking Grace again?”

  “I can’t give you a one hundred percent guarantee,” she said. “But I suspect that after tomorrow, there won’t be much of a story left.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I arranged for an exclusive interview with Santa Monica Magazine. Full four-page spread with lots of glossies of Grace and her grandmother and their lovely home. She’ll answer a bunch of questions and hopefully dispel whatever mystery still remains.”

  “Grace agreed to this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think it’ll work.”

  “Like I said, no guarantees. But there’s nothing duller to the public than a perfectly ordinary woman living a perfectly ordinary life.”

  He couldn’t imagine anyone less ordinary than Grace. As for her life...well, he wouldn’t call that run-of-the-mill either. “We are still talking about Grace, aren’t we?”

  Angie smiled and patted his arm. “Trust me.”

  ###

  “I grew up in this house,” Grace said, leading the woman from Santa Monica Magazine on a tour. A cameraman followed, pausing every few steps to photograph whatever caught his attention.

  “My grandfather bought the place in the 1950s,” Grace continued. “Back when property values were much lower.”

  The reporter chuckled. “The land here has appreciated quite a bit since then.”

  Grace nodded and proceeded to answer questions about her childhood and adolescence. By the time they returned to the living room, where Ruth King joined them for tea, the topic shifted to Grace’s life in New York. They covered her early years with Harry, touched on the scandals that had already been well documented in the press, and concluded with the events of the last few weeks.

  “Harry was a deeply troubled man,” Grace said, as the interview drew to a close. “It’s tragic that he wasn’t able to get the help he needed. Worst of all, he’s not alone. Mental illness affects one in four adults in the U.S. at any given time. It doesn’t discriminate acr
oss age, ethnicity, or socio-economic levels. The key is to recognize and treat it early. Unfortunately, less than fifty percent of those affected actually receive treatment.”

  “Why is that?” the reporter prompted.

  “There’s still a stigma attached to mental illness. What people need to understand is that no one chooses to be depressed or bipolar or schizophrenic. It’s something that happens as a result of genetic, biological, and environmental factors. It’s a disease, like cancer and hypertension and diabetes. And just like those conditions, it’s treatable. Provided there is adequate funding and access to mental health services.”

  The interview wrapped up with a few posed shots of Grace and her grandmother.

  “Brilliant,” Logan said later, when Grace described the experience over dinner Saturday night. “And you got a plug in for mental health reform.”

  “Sort of,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “If they include it in the final copy. At least some good will come of publicly airing all that dirty laundry.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After a decadent weekend spent mostly in bed with Logan, with a few short forays out for necessities like food and more condoms, Grace felt like a new woman.

  Her good mood carried her through the following week, when she got an unexpected job interview. It was a place she’d applied to several months ago, when she’d first started looking for psychiatry positions in L.A.

  “We can’t offer you much,” the program director said, after concluding the interview and giving Grace a brief tour of the facilities. “As you know, we’re always scrambling for funding, and our budget relies heavily on donor support. But if you’re interested, we’d love to have you on board.”

  Grace shook the woman’s hand and promised to review the offer and get back with a response by the end of the following week.

  Logan noticed her preoccupation that evening over dinner. They went to a hole-in-the-wall Thai place, and were walking back to his apartment when he asked her what was going on.

  “I’m considering another job offer.”

  “Another one? As in, not the faculty position you were so excited about?”

  “The department still hasn’t made me a formal offer,” she said. “I need to look at other options, in case the university position falls through.”

  “I thought you were a shoe-in.”

  She smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but no. I’m not even sure who the other candidates are. For all I know, there’s a Nobel laureate among them. Or someone with a list of publications a mile long.”

  “So what’s this other job?”

  “It’s only for a year. At least, that’s all they have funding for right now.” She hesitated. “I’d be doing clinical psychiatry and overseeing mental health services for a non-profit that runs some women’s shelters and a rape crisis center.”

  His pace slowed. She glanced up, and even with the fading evening light, she could see the concern in his eyes. She braced herself for an argument, but all he said was, “It sounds like a worthy cause.”

  “It is.”

  They crossed the street and walked another block before he spoke again. “You think you’re ready for something like this?”

  That was the crux of the issue.

  She’d applied for the opening because she knew what it was like to be abused and raped by the very person who’d promised before God and man to love and cherish her. She knew the fear, and shame, and self-loathing that went with it. Luckily, she’d had the resources and courage to escape the situation. But she had shied away from seeking help, even when she most needed it. She became good at rationalizing. If she sought help, she told herself, there would be repercussions to her career. And the press would for sure go to town on the story. Her best recourse, she figured, was to leave New York and start fresh. And maybe, in some small way, she could try to help other women who weren’t as fortunate.

  This job was her chance to do just that. But was she ready? Had she recovered sufficiently from her own trauma to deal empathetically and effectively with others survivors of abuse? Or would every story she heard be like re-opening a freshly-scabbed wound?

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  They reached his building. He opened the door and followed her in. “I imagine the burnout rate in this kind of job is pretty high.”

  “Probably,” she agreed.

  “What if you were to do this part-time?”

  “It’s a full-time position.”

  “There’s always room for negotiation.” He unlocked the apartment door and flicked on the lights. “You could job-share.”

  “And do what the rest of the time?”

  “I don’t know. Hang out your shingle. See patients privately.” He laced their fingers together and slowly backed her up against the wall, his chest brushing hers.

  She stiffened for a moment, and he stopped until she relaxed again. His breath whispered along her cheek. A butterfly kiss brushed her jaw. Another landed on her chin. She tried to capture his lips, but he evaded her efforts, moving down to her neck instead. He nipped a spot just above her collarbone, then soothed the area with his tongue.

  “Logan...”

  “You could enjoy life,” he said, punctuating each sentence with another kiss. “Run on the beach. Catch up on reading. Spend more time with me.”

  He released one hand to undo the top button of her blouse. His finger brushed her breast above the lace edge of her demi-bra, back and forth. The nipple puckered and she shivered. When he continued the same teasing movement, she let out a sound of frustration and grabbed his hand to direct it where she needed it.

  He grinned. “What do you say?”

  She arched against him, restless, hungry for more.

  When she failed to answer, he pulled back slightly. “Grace?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Fine.”

  He eased the lace out of his way and licked her nipple, then blew on it. “Fine, what?”

  She tried to bring him closer, but he resisted. “I’ll think about it.”

  His mouth closed fully over the nipple and sucked hard, and she felt the fire streak all the way to her core. Cupping the back of his head to keep him from moving away, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the heat.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Beat you,” Grace laughed as she breezed past Logan on the bike path the following Sunday.

  He caught up with her alongside the pier. “It’s not all about speed, you know.”

  She unclipped her helmet and grinned. “So says the man who came in second.”

  He followed her toward the bike racks, admiring the curve of her ass in the skin-tight bike shorts. “I was enjoying the view.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “It is a gorgeous day.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” He cleared his throat and looked back at the stretch of beach that went for miles in either direction, dotted with people and umbrellas. Beyond it, the water glistened like a vast expanse of smoky glass, with only a few sailboats and intrepid swimmers breaking the otherwise smooth surface.

  “I’m glad you talked me into this,” Grace said, threading the lock through her helmet straps and securing her bike.

  Logan followed suit. “Hungry?”

  “Starving. And someone promised to feed me as soon as we hit Manhattan Beach.”

  “Ah, that explains the rush to the finish line. Say no more.” He caught her hand and headed up the street that led from the beach toward town.

  They found a café with outdoor seating and fast service. Logan set down his fork after a few minutes, too fascinated by the sight of Grace digging into her food to be able to concentrate on his own plate.

  “What?” She glanced up. “Do I have something on my chin?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “This omelet is amazing. Want to try?”

  The taste of walnut pesto and sun-dried tomatoes exploded on his tongue.

  “Well?”

  “Mm
.” He nodded. “Delicious.”

  And it was. Who would have thought that such a combination, along with kale, spinach, eggs, and ricotta, would work so well? Completely unexpected, and yet absolutely perfect.

  He sipped his coffee and continued to watch Grace eat, enjoying the way she seemed to relish each bite.

  The past few days had been full of moments like this. When the simple act of witnessing Grace’s pleasure heightened Logan’s own. Hearing her laugh during a musical comedy they attended at the Geffen Playhouse, holding her hand as they strolled amid packs of teenagers and weekend tourists on the Santa Monica Pier, feeling her sway to the strains of Mozart beneath the stars at the Getty.

  Grace set down her silverware and sighed. “Why didn’t we ever do this before?”

  “What, bike to Manhattan Beach?”

  “Yes. And go to the theater. And ride the Ferris wheel. Play tourist. All of it.”

  Logan hesitated. The truth was he’d never before set out on a deliberate campaign to convince Grace that there was more to life than work. The whole work-life balance issue hadn’t even crossed his mind until she dropped the bomb about her recent job offer. It was the prospect of her burning out from taking on too much that got him thinking. He hoped that by offering her a taste of all there was to experience outside the clinic, he could persuade her to accept a part-time schedule.

  But telling her that was likely to have the opposite effect.

  In the end, he settled for a partial truth. “We were too busy, I guess.”

  She refolded her napkin and set it aside. “You know, I spent eight years in New York and never even visited the Statue of Liberty. Or the Lincoln Center. I used to pass by there all the time, without ever once going in.”

  “Is that something you want to do?”

  “Maybe. Someday.”

  “We could go together,” he offered. “Fly out for your graduation, stay a few days. Visit all the places you want to see.”

  “Nice try, Logan.” Her smile softened the sting of her words. “Don’t you find it strange that we’ve done more things together in this past month than we ever did in college?”