He looked from her to Mac and back. “What are you talking about?”
“I looked back over our emails while I was waiting for my lawyer to call me. I did the homework I should have done before you came here. Your mother won big at a couple of casinos, but don’t gamblers routinely lose more than they win? I’m guessing you need money to pay off her bills.”
He was too shocked to answer.
“Here’s a cashier's check for a hundred grand. All you have to do is sign this paper agreeing that our earlier deal is null and void. This means you forswear any claim on the Little Poke.”
“I don’t want your money, Libby. If the network buys this story, I stand to make ten times this amount in the first year alone. This money could put our child through college.”
“There isn’t going to be a child, Cooper. I’ve changed my mind about the in vitro, but even if I were still going through with my plan, you are the last person on the planet, I’d ask for DNA.”
Her biting tone hit hard. It never occurred to him that she might decide not to have the baby. He was shocked by how disappointed he suddenly felt. “Libby, I screwed up. I’m an ass. I admit it. Can’t we at least talk?”
She shook her head. Her chin fell just a bit, and he caught a glimpse of her pain. “Just sign the paper and take the check, Cooper.”
Mac walked to Libby and put both arms around her in a bear hug. “I knew this was a bad idea, Lib, I just had no idea how bad. I’m sorry.”
She murmured something Cooper couldn’t hear, but he saw Mac nod. Then he stripped off his gloves and walked to the small cluttered sink to clean up.
Coop reached out, imploringly, but Libby had her back to him. She took an envelope from the pocket of her lightweight jacket. Mac produced a pen, still slightly damp from his wet hands.
Two against one. Proud and wronged. He had very little defense against that. He’d go home and regroup. She was right about one thing: he had unfinished business to take care of. He’d take the check and return it to her as soon as possible.
He signed his name without reading a single sentence or clause. Why bother? She wasn’t out to screw him. He did that well enough on his own.
Chapter 16
In the month since leaving Sentinel Pass–-and Libby-–Coop had learned two irrefutable truths: less than one percent of the population, male or female, should wear thong bikinis; and it really, truly was five o’clock somewhere.
“How’s your drink?” he asked Rollie, who seemed to intuit the exact moment when Coop was reaching for the bottle of Grey Goose.
The two had assumed their usual positions on padded chaises beneath the teal-and-orange canvas awning artfully looped between the dozen or so cast-metal poles surrounding his redwood deck. He vaguely remembered approving the unique design that in hindsight was completely wrong for an oceanfront application. Metal of any sort when mixed with salt air corroded. Libby would have known that.
“Still full. You might think about slowing down there, buddy boy,” Rollie said. “Last night you wound up sleeping in your chair, didn’t you?”
“Was that last night?”
Rollie--who only shaved once a week, right before the visiting nurse his children had hired to check on him was due to drop by--looked like a scruffy homeless person. Faded green beachcomber-length shorts that appeared to be held up only by his bony pelvic saddle. A stain-splattered T-shirt sporting the menu from his favorite hamburger joint up the road-–“Saves looking up the delivery number,” Rollie liked to say--and rubber flip-flops that probably cost under a dollar. The man was worth millions but dressed like a bum.
Coop looked down at his own apparel and sighed. Same cheesy Hawaiian-print shirt he’d had on yesterday, he was pretty sure. Lately the days seemed to run together.
“I’m thinking about selling the house,” he said, stirring the sunset-colored mixture of orange and cranberry juices in his acrylic highball glass. He’d switched from martinis to the fruitier drink for Rollie’s sake. The man needed more nutritional value than what three or four olives afforded.
“Why? Not enough good-looking women walking past in bikinis?” Rollie asked with a low chuckle. “I’d buy it from you if I was ten years younger. Best thing you can invest in is dirt-–or in this case, sand. My advice? Rent it.”
“That’s what my friend said, too.” Shane had come unglued when Coop told him his plan to sell out and move back east. Maybe give Broadway a try. Preferably in a dark, morose tragedy.
“Where y’ going?”
Crazy.
“I haven’t decided. Just too many memories here. Mom loved this place.”
Rollie was quiet a moment. “You know your mom and I had a thing once. She ever tell you about us?”
A wave of chilled pink vodka sloshed over the hand holding his glass. “I don’t think so.” He licked a few drops from his wrist while pretending to ponder the question. “Nope. Definitely not. I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered if she’d mentioned fooling around with my neighbor.”
Rollie made an offhand motion. “Wasn’t anything serious. I thought it could have been, but she said the only man in her life was her son. I told I didn’t think that was fair to either of you, and she told me to get screwed.” He laughed. “She was the most outspoken woman I ever met. Refreshing. Reminds me of your secretary.”
“Assistant. Ex-assistant. She and my first wife have decided to become lesbians. They’re collaborating on an off-Broadway play about women who don’t know they’re lesbians.” He grinned. “God, Mom would have laughed her butt off over that, wouldn’t she?”
Rollie nodded. “She never thought any of the women you dated were good enough for you. She called them Popsicles-–sweet on the outside but cold on the inside.”
Cooper knew a woman who was just the opposite-–a little cool at first meeting but warm and delicious on the inside. God, he missed her. If the past month was a precursor of what he had to look forward to for the next forty or so years, he was in big trouble.
“So, how’s the investigation coming? Did they nail your mom’s bookie, yet?”
Coop had confided in Rollie as soon as he got back in town. On the flight home Coop had decided that he wasn’t going to pay the man a dime. What was the worst that could happen? The bookie could have him killed. Big deal. And if the guy threatened to expose his mother’s gambling habit…well, if Coop was dead, what did it matter? But he decided it was important to warn Rollie because the old man might become collateral damage if the bookie sent some goons to the beach house and they got the wrong address by mistake.
Instead of being surprised by the news, Rollie had come unglued.
“I warned her this would happen,” he’d shouted, shaking his fist in the air. “Goddamn, low-life scum-suckers preying on people’s weaknesses. I had a good friend who lost everything–-his house, his business, family, self-respect. He committed suicide rather than get help. You can’t let this happen again, Coop. Your mother wasn’t strong enough to fight this jerk on her own, but she can with your help.”
“I’m a little late, aren’t I?”
“Why? All you gotta do is call the police, give them access to your mom’s computer and help them find this asshole.”
“What if someone leaks it to the tabloids? Mom’s reputation—”
“What reputation? My God, man, your mother was a bull terrier with a nasty bite. She never let anybody close, and most people were scared to death of her. Letting people know she was human might be the kindest thing you could do for her memory.”
Coop wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but the detective who'd come to the house to check out the threatening emails told him this particular online syndicate had stepped over the line many times and Coop’s documentation might prove instrumental in closing them down.
As soon as he was given permission to do so by the police, he’d called a journalist he halfway trusted to get the facts right and went public with his mother’s story. The reporter asked questions that really made
Coop think. What did he know of the woman who was his mother?
When he emptied her condo, he’d stumbled across half a dozen boxes filled with clippings and memorabilia she’d saved over the years. At first he’d thought everything pertained to his life, but gradually, as he sorted through the layers, he found bits and pieces of a young woman who didn’t fit in the world to which she’d been born. A small-town beauty queen with acting aspirations. Not quite pretty enough to complete with the leading ladies of the day but smart enough and resourceful enough to make a life for herself on the fringes–-until Cooper came along. Then he became her ticket in.
He found his original birth certificate. On the blank for father was the word Unknown. But there was an address. He looked it up online and found it belonged to a studio that had been gobbled up years ago by another company.
When the article came out, Coop was deluged by requests for interviews. But, much to his publicist’s despair, he’d turned them all down. Maybe in the back of his mind he hoped Libby might read the piece and feel a tiny bit of understanding of why he did what he did. But he knew that wasn’t likely. She didn’t have time for the triviality of celebrity. No interview was going to change that.
Still, he’d felt a certain measure of satisfaction when his publicist told him his website was getting thousands of hits per day and his fan mail was running ninety-nine percent supportive and positive. Big deal. None was from Libby, so what did it matter?
The sound of a door slamming inside the house made him look over his shoulder. Shane, of course. The only one with a key.
He’d had to change the locks after he fired Daria, his ex-assistant. Despite his best effort to bow out of the project that had been his idea, the juggernaut called Sentinel Pass Time was becoming a reality faster than global warming.
“Hey, Shane,” he called. “Make yourself useful. Rollie and I need another drink.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rollie said, slowly getting to his feet. “I have a date tonight. My nurse. The blonde. Turns out, she has a thing for older men.”
“Especially one with a house on the beach.”
Rollie waggled a gnarled finger at him. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a cynic when it comes to love?”
“Wrong. I’m a born-again, hard-core believer. Love exists. But for most of us it just never works out.”
“That’s what your mother said, too, but I told her she was a coward. Once burned doesn’t mean you give up entirely. You grow another layer of skin and try again.” He started toward the steps that led to a stretch of sand between the two houses. “I’ve got so many layers of scar tissue the doctor who performs my autopsy are going to need dynamite to get into my chest.”
Coop was still smiling when Shane joined him a minute later. “Where’d Rollie go?”
“To get ready for his date. I hope that includes showering. The man’s getting a bit ripe.”
“You should talk. If the paparazzi found you like this, they could use Photoshop to put you on the street with a shopping cart, and everyone in American would think you were a bum.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you jump in the shower and we’ll go to Spago?”
“I’m drinking my dinner. Besides, this is Friday. Morgana and her friends are probably there.”
Shane turned to face Coop. “Her agent said she wants the role of postmaster. So bad, in fact, she’s willing to sign off on the spousal support clause of your divorce if you agree.”
Coop blinked. “What do I have to do with it?”
Shane’s poker face gave way to a smirk.
“Oh, crap. What did you do to me now?”
“Made you executive producer. You have final say in casting. And story line.”
Coop gulped down a swig of his drink. A part of him saw an opportunity to make amends to Libby. He could make the show less of a comedy and more real. But would that be enough for her to forgive him? Probably not. The name was in place. Shane’s scouts were headed to the Black Hills to take stills and background footage. Negotiations were underway to build the sets they’d need on-site and rent existing facilities. “It won’t be enough to fix things, Shane.”
Shane stood up and held out his hand. “How do you know if you don’t try?”
Coop looked at the shimmering glow of the sun setting across the waves. “She hates me, man. I screwed up her life. I don’t blame her. I hate me, too.”
Shane took the glass from Coop’s fingers. “Yeah, well, join the club. Both of your exes said the same thing, but now they’re singing your praises. Did you see the public apology Tiffany’s publicist issued after the story about your mother’s gambling addiction came out? Maybe, given time, Libby will forgive you, too.”
Coop shook his head. “What are you talking about? Morgi’s only playing nice because she wants something from me. And Tiffany…” He didn’t know what was going on with her. They hadn’t spoken since she broke the news about her love affair with his assistant.
“T-fancy needs your permission to disclose certain facts about your marriage that she agreed never to talk about in the divorce settlement. Standard wording that you probably don’t even remember your lawyer putting in but significant enough that her publisher won’t go to contract until you’re on board.”
“Publisher? Oh, right, her tell-all book.” Coop shook his head. “What kind of things?”
Shane nodded toward the house. “The excerpts in question are on your counter. I read them. Ballsy, I know, but I figured given your present depression, you wouldn’t care. And the deal benefits you more than her. The only bad part is she claims you never satisfied her as a lover, but she’s quick to point out that this isn’t your fault since she was a lesbian and didn’t know it.”
Coop put his head in his hands and groaned. “God, my life, sucks. I want to go back home.”
“Home? Where’s that?”
Sentinel Pass. The only place that he'd ever felt truly comfortable. At peace. And he’d screwed up any chance he ever had of staying there. With Libby. And their child, which she’d decided not to have.
Shane cuffed him on the shoulder. “I’ve been patient--and we both know I’m not a patient man--but this is getting stupid now. If you want a life with this woman in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere, then get off your butt and do something to fix the problem. Are you your mother’s son or not?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lena Lindstrom, for all her faults, thought the sun rose and set on her fair-haired boy. What would Lena do if she were here?”
Coop sighed. “She’d make me go back to work. ‘These bills won’t pay themselves,’ she’d say.”
“Agreed. And you were adamant about not cashing the check Libby gave you, so even though you don’t have to pay your Mom’s bookie, you still need to start bringing in some dough. Call your agent. Tell him I’ve got a part for you. Sweet money up front.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing yourself. In the pilot.”
“No.”
Shane shook his head. “Think, Coop. Do you want to make this character a real person who goes to this town with one idea, then falls in love or do you want Jason Segal to give it his take? He was suggesting a washed up show biz type with a drinking problem who goes there--”
Cooper knew he was being played, but the image that came to mind stuck. And burned. “You’ve changed the story line?”
Shane shrugged. “Not yet. But…”
“If my character falls in love right off the bat, what about the sustained sexual tension and conflict?”
“Do you see any resolution in sight?”
Coop shook his head.
“Then there’s a story. We’re still using the town. We’re adding our own people, like in Cheers. You’re the hero and you’re fighting to win the heart of the postmaster and the townsfolk, both of whom you unintentionally wronged. They want their way of life back-–or think they do-–and most would be happy to see your he
ad on display right beside Felix the dinosaur.”
“Seymour. As in, come to Sentinel Pass and see more.”
“Whatever.”
Coop took a deep breath to clear the vodka haze, then stood. “Okay. Let me shower, and we’ll work on the script. Order a pizza or something from the burger place down the road. Rollie’s got the number if you need it. It’s tattooed on his chest.”
Shane’s low grumble was carried away by the onshore breeze, but Cooper wasn’t listening anyway. This plan might not work, but at least it would provide a way to publicly tell Libby he was sorry. And that he loved her. Something he hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud when he had the chance.
---
Libby knew a good week before she bought the home pregnancy tests what the result would be. She hadn’t even missed her like-clockwork period, yet, but every day began a rollercoaster ride of emotions that started in the pit of despair, chugged through “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” peaked at “I’m going to be sick,” then bounced through varying degrees of panic.
She was pregnant. She knew it. But it took three different brands of prediction sticks before the reality sank in.
“One lucky shot in the dark,” she muttered for the hundredth time. “That kind of thing only happens on soap operas.”
Which was exactly what her life was turning into. At first, people were full of questions. “How could you, Libby?” seemed to be the most prevalent. Then, gradually, the tone changed to fear. And finger-pointing. Customers who normally stopped to chat would stalk straight to their boxes, retrieve their mail, and then exit without a word. Others would mumble and grouse, never really making eye contact with Libby.
Everywhere the citizens of Sentinel Pass gathered, the division between the pro-isolationists and those who saw a prospective economic boom became more pronounced.
Her town was in an uproar, and it was all her fault.
Mac had stood by her, telling people, “Libby never saw any of this happening. Who could have? The guy was stringing us all along.”
That’s how she’d felt then-–and still did–-like a puppet whose strings had been suddenly cut. She went through the motions of the act she’d perfected over the years, but she didn’t feel anything. Most days were a blur, punctuated by concerned phone calls from her book club friends, visits with Gran, who didn’t seem to grasp the problem facing the town or her granddaughter, and tender moments of escape with Megan.
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