“I’m so sorry. How did it happen?” Stephanie felt a twinge of shame for asking, but polite tactfulness was no match for her growing curiosity.
“Why do you want to know all of this?” Mrs. Richards asked, her guard up.
“Forgive me for all the questions, it’s just, well, I have a sister who was paralyzed in a car accident,” Stephanie said, not missing a beat. “I guess I got a little excited talking to someone who understands what I’ve been through. You know—the guilt, the blame, messed-up family life …”
“Blame and guilt are a deadly combination,” Mrs. Richards philosophized. “And life after a tragic accident is never the same for anyone.”
“Please forgive me for being so inquisitive, but what actually happened?”
Ten minutes later, Stephanie hung up the phone, amazed by the story she’d just heard. With one shot, Lexis Richards had destroyed his entire family, and Stephanie couldn’t wait to tell.
“This is even juicier than I imagined,” Harry commented after Stephanie filled him in. Harry Grain loved digging up dirt on people. His philosophy about fame and privacy was simple: When you make a living demanding that people pay attention to you, you deserve for people to pay attention to you. If that meant people digging into the clothes hamper of someone else’s life—so be it. Nothing made him happier than finding out and revealing all the dirty laundry these spoiled celebrities thought they could keep hidden. “I applaud your resourcefulness.”
“I am very resourceful, Mr. Grain. I talk to a great many people. Famous people your readers would love to read about.”
“I see. And how do you know so many celebrities?”
Stephanie didn’t dare reveal her source. If she played her cards right, her job with Felicia could turn into a nice little bread-and-butter gig, particularly if Wilcot & Associates continued to grow at its current rate. “I told you, I’m a writer with lots of friends in the public-relations business.”
“You’re sure you can deliver?”
“I think my handling of Lexis Richards is adequate proof.”
“All right, I will make any substantive, verifiable news you give me well worth your while, but only if you give me complete exclusivity. No running to Cindy Adams or Liz Smith.”
“And you’ll guarantee that my name will never be mentioned?” “Darling, if I revealed my sources, I’d be out of business in fifteen minutes.”
“In that case, I’ll be in touch.”
16
“Is this a new coffee?” Trace asked, returning his cup to its saucer. He and Felicia were sitting at the breakfast table, reading the Sunday New York Times.
“I thought you might like to try something different,” Felicia explained. Something different to spice up this regimented routine we call our life, she added silently.
“What happened to the kind we always get?”
“Your regular brew is in the freezer,” Felicia replied, a tint of resignation painting her words. This was so like her husband, unable or unwilling to try anything new. She was trying, as they’d both agreed to do at their lunch détente last summer, but Trace was still so anal retentive. From the time he got up in the morning to the order in which he read the newspaper, unless there were extenuating circumstances, nothing could shake Trace from his prescribed routine. Over the years Felicia had come to realize that Trace thrived in the comforting confines of habit. Always knowing what came next gave him the feeling of control. But now they were stuck in a rut—a rut so deep that Felicia had to wonder if they’d ever climb out.
“No, this is fine,” Trace told her. He really wanted his regular coffee but was unwilling to break the fragile truce. Much of the tension that was eating away the love between them had lifted, replaced by a cordial air of cooperation. For the past seven months both he and Felicia had made a concerted effort to improve their relationship, though with his wife’s being constantly on the road with the Montell Spirits promotion, trying to save Lexis Richards from himself, and her new magazine account, it had been impossible to make any drastic changes in their life pattern. Still, as long as Felicia thought he was making an effort, Trace was confident that soon they’d be right back into their regular routine.
That’s why he wanted to readdress the subject of starting a family. Felicia’s reluctance to get pregnant was infuriating, but, as with everything in his life, Trace had a blueprint to reach his goal.
“I have an idea. Instead of spending Easter this year with your folks, let’s book the villa in Aruba,” Trace suggested.
“Why don’t you let me find some place new?” Felicia replied. His timing couldn’t be worse. Easter fell on April 17 this year, smack dab in the middle of her first Appeal event.
“I thought you liked Aruba.”
“I do, but we always go there.”
“Okay, you decide on a destination. As long as I’m with you, any place will be perfect,” Trace said as he leaned over and kissed his wife.
He really is trying, she thought, surprised by his uncharacteristic flexibility. Felicia smiled and patted his cheek. Trace wasn’t perfect, but then again he was no monster. Perhaps if she concentrated on the good things, the things that she initially fell in love with, she could get back the feelings she so desperately wanted to recapture. In a rush of affection, Felicia pulled her husband’s face toward hers and gave him a kiss that made her intentions clear. Any doubts or disappointments she felt about her marital situation were temporarily replaced by desire.
Without unlocking their lips, Felicia stood, bringing Trace up with her. She wrapped her arms around him in a passionate, almost desperate embrace. She wanted to want Trace—to need him. If that was lost, what did they have left?
Trace’s lips stretched into a slight smile. He felt great. He had things under control again. It was just a matter of time before he and Felicia were back in sync with each other. Trace opened his eyes to look at the kitchen clock. Perfect timing, he thought. I can make love to my wife and still get to my tennis match.
Gently Trace pulled away from Felicia, took her hand, and began leading her upstairs to the bedroom.
“No, let’s stay here in the kitchen,” Felicia suggested, enjoying the excitement of their sexual spontaneity.
“But, Feli,” Trace protested softly, nibbling on her earlobe, “this is where we eat.”
Felicia could feel her excitement level drop a notch. They always made love in the bedroom, or occasionally in the living room by the fireplace. Right now she was feeling sexy and adventurous. She wanted her husband to feel the same. For once Felicia wanted Trace to get caught up in the moment and—practicality be damned—make love to her right here on the kitchen table, even if it meant spilling his untouched coffee. I’m not going to ruin this by getting mad. That’s just the way he is. I have to keep trying.
“Then we’re in the perfect place, because breakfast is served,” she announced. Just to make certain he got the full scope of her message, Felicia took her hand and reached inside Trace’s tennis shorts. Even Felicia was shocked by her own risque behavior. Sex between the two of them was generally a quiet affair. Physically Felicia was never left unfulfilled, but spiritually and emotionally their lovemaking lacked the fire and imagination she craved.
First the coffee, then the vacation planning, and now this. What’s happening to my wife? Trace wondered. Felicia rarely took this kind of initiative. Granted, it was a turn-on to know that she obviously wanted him, but he was usually the one who made the sexual advances. Now Felicia seemed to be taking control of their sex life, and Trace wasn’t sure if he liked it. Before he could sort out his feelings, the doorbell rang.
“Damn,” Trace said as he disengaged himself from his wife. This unwelcome interruption was going to throw off his entire schedule.
“Forget it,” Felicia pleaded, trying to hold on to her desire.
“It might be important. I’ll get rid of whoever it is and meet you in the bedroom.” Trace winked as he gave her a hungry kiss and sent her upstai
rs. That he had once again managed to get his way was not lost on Felicia.
Trace straightened up his shorts and opened the front door to find an angry and upset Lexis Richards at his doorstep.
“Where’s Felicia? I need to talk to her now,” Lexis barked as he pushed his way into the exquisitely renovated brownstone.
“What the hell …?” Trace said with a glare. “Look here, you can’t come bursting into my home demanding to see my wife. Felicia is not at your beck and call, client or not. Is that understood?”
“My bad. I’m sorry for busting in on you like this,” Lexis apologized, “but this is an emergency. I need to talk to your wife.”
“Well, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow when Felicia is at her office.”
“Lexis, what’s wrong?” Felicia asked, rushing downstairs still dressed in her sapphire-blue silk robe. “Come sit down. You look terrible.”
“Felicia,” Trace said in a stern tone that was both inquisitive and reprimanding.
“Excuse us a minute, Lexis.” Felicia piloted Trace up the stairs and into the bedroom. “Honey, I’m sorry, but you can see how upset he is. I can’t just ignore him.”
“Felicia, we were about to make love.”
“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Felicia promised as she quickly got dressed. “Lexis is my biggest client. You can understand that.”
Trace recognized Felicia’s subtle dig, and it did not set well with him. Damn skippy that his clients came first. He was the provider in this house. Everything they owned—the brownstone, the car, stocks, art—everything was bought and paid for with his paycheck. This business of hers could not begin to compete with his law practice, which is why he couldn’t believe that Felicia was putting some client’s needs above his. This little public-relations company of hers was getting out of control. Once things were back to normal, Felicia was going to have to make a choice. She was going to be either Felicia Wilcot of Wilcot & Associates or Mrs. Trace Gordon, wife and mother. It was obvious she couldn’t be both.
“Why do you have to talk to him now?” he asked, still unwilling to concede.
“Because you insisted on answering the door. But isn’t it time for you to meet Derek anyway?” For once his routine was coming in handy.
Felicia was right, it was time for him to go. Besides, he was no longer in the mood for sex. “Just make sure he’s gone by the time I return,” he demanded as he pulled on his jacket and stormed past Lexis without saying a word.
Felicia shook her head as she walked back out into the living room. If it had been the other way around, there would be no discussion. She’d be expected simply to accept the situation. She might as well face the fact that Trace was never going to change. Felicia was going to have to either learn to deal with that fact or make some drastic changes in her life.
“How could you let this happen?” Lexis asked wildly, waving a newspaper in her face.
“Let what happen? Calm down for a minute and tell me what’s got you so upset.”
“You mean you haven’t seen this?” he said, thrusting a copy of the Star Diary into her hands. “Tell me again, Felicia, just what the hell am I paying you for? I was under the impression that it was your fucking job to keep shit like this from happening.”
“Hold on a minute, Lexis. I don’t know what you’re ranting and raving about, but I suggest you get a grip on yourself before I finish what my husband started and throw you out of my house.”
She was furious. How dare he come in acting like a complete and utter fool, accusing her of not doing her job? Men are all alike, she thought in disgust. When something goes wrong, blame the woman.
What the hell are you doing? Lexis admonished himself. He knew that none of this was Felicia’s fault. In the months since he’d hired her, she’d been a public-relations godsend, creating so much media attention over him and his movie that Southeast was now a box-office smash. Felicia was a damn good publicist, and he trusted her instincts, which was exactly why he had resigned with her at the conclusion of their trial run.
But seeing Felicia half dressed, looking all sexed-up and hot, cozying up with that Oreo-cookie, Clarence Thomas—lovin’, chino-pants-and-Docksider-wearin’ husband of hers, caused something inside him to snap. What the hell did she see in that asswipe? And to top it off, here was this bullshit story by Harry Grain. How much was a man supposed to take in one morning?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dis you, it’s just—What are we going to do about this?”
Felicia smoothed out the mangled tabloid, revealing its bold headline: HOMEBOY DIRECTOR SHOOTS TWIN. The subhead read, “As Lexis Richards Sits in Lap of Luxury, Quadriplegic Brother Languishes in the Projects.” Accompanying the explosive headlines was a picture of Lexis in a friend’s lavish Tribeca loft, borrowed for a recent magazine photo session. In juxtaposition was an exterior shot of the Clifton Terrace projects, located in southeast Washington, D.C.
“Oh, no,” Felicia said, her anger displaced by concern for her client’s obvious pain. “Come have a cup of coffee while we sort out this mess.”
“Where did he dig up this stuff?” Lexis asked, pouring a cup of coffee.
“Not only does a slime like Harry Grain have sources all over town, but he also couldn’t care less if what he prints contains a ‘grain’ of truth—pardon the pun.”
“Some of it is true,” Lexis admitted.
“Well, then you better tell me about it. It looks like we’re going to have to do some damage control.”
Lexis pulled off his wire-rimmed sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Judging from his body language, it was clear that all the anguish and guilt that had eaten away at him these past years were rising to the top, replacing his characteristic confidence with remorse.
“It happened when we were ten years old,” he began softly, his voice almost inaudible. “My uncle had given me an old home-movie camera, one of those eight-millimeter things. I decided to shoot a Western called Shoot-out at the LR Corral. Pretty original, huh?” Felicia saw Lexis smile slightly at the bittersweet memory. He paused and let loose a heavy sigh. She reached over and took his shaking hand in hers.
Lexis squeezed her hand slightly and continued. “We had all the props—hats, lassos—everything we needed, except we were short one pistol. It was Lewis’s suggestion that we use my father’s gun. It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said, his voice growing momentarily faint. “Anyway, we both wanted to use the real gun, so we flipped a coin. It was heads. I won,” Lexis said, his face expressing the irony of his last statement.
“We staged the shoot-out, just like a real Western—standing back to back, counting to ten as we walked away from each other. Lewis must have miscounted, because when I turned around and pulled the trigger, he was still walking. When the gun went off, I was shocked. I had no idea there were bullets in that gun.” Lexis looked Felicia in the eye, imploring her to believe his story. She did. There was no question in her mind that Lexis was telling the truth.
“At first, when Lewis fell down, I laughed, thinking he was really getting into this acting thing, but he didn’t say anything. I noticed he wasn’t moving, so I went over to him. That’s when I saw the blood. The bullet hit Lewis in the lower back and severed his spinal cord. He hasn’t been able to walk or use his arms ever since.…”
Felicia could hear the guilt and regret in Lexis’s voice as his words trailed off. He hung his head in shame, like a child who has inadvertently broken some treasured heirloom. But in Lexis’s mind he had damaged much more than some porcelain vase. He’d broken the very heart of his family.
“Lexis, you were playing a game,” Felicia offered gently. “You didn’t intentionally shoot your brother.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mom said, but that game caused much grief. I ruined everybody’s life—my brother’s, my folks’, mine. Sometimes I think Lewis would have been better off had he died, because the way he is now, the brother has no life. He’s stuck in a wheelchair, unable to do
anything for himself.”
“He lives with your parents?”
“My folks split up a couple of years later. My father dropped out of sight, leaving my mom alone to raise the two of us. I don’t know, maybe he felt guilty, too. Mom had been after him for years to get rid of that gun. I think she blamed him, which was wrong. It was my fault, not his.”
“Why are your mother and Lewis living in the projects?” Felicia asked. If she was going to rectify this situation, she needed to know all the details, no matter how distressing they might prove to be.
“They’re still there because the new house I bought them isn’t ready yet. They’re making it wheelchair accessible. And contrary to what that asshole Grain has to say, I’ve always done whatever I could to help with my brother’s medical expenses. Now that I’m finally making some cash, I’m taking everything over so my mom doesn’t have to work so hard.”
“What about you and Lewis? Are you close?”
“No.”
“He never forgave you?”
“Lewis forgave me. I just can’t forgive myself.”
Felicia didn’t know what to say to her client. His anguish was palpable. Her heart ached for him. At a complete loss for words, she simply pulled him into a sympathetic hug. Lexis leaned into her body, drawing comfort from her supportive embrace. He felt better for telling her the truth, and he trusted Felicia to explain his story in a way the public would understand.
Felicia closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe in the provocative scent of his cologne. She immediately recognized the citrus smell as Armani. An appropriate choice, she thought. Definitely indicative of the man—bold, compelling, and, if not applied in correct measure, overpowering.
Perhaps it was the cologne, the intimacy they’d just shared, or being in such close proximity to this complicated man that sent a sexual charge surging through Felicia’s body. She was confused. How could he infuriate her one minute and leave her feeling tipsy and lightheaded the next? This is ridiculous, she thought, refusing to acknowledge her attraction to Lexis. Felicia decided that her feelings were the remnants of her earlier, unconsummated seduction with Trace and pulled away.
Read Between the Lies Page 12
