Keepers of Eternity

by kimberly

  The woman in the mirror appeared to be normal. She wore a simple skirt and sweater set. The bulky turtleneck helped pad her willowy frame. Despite her attempts to regain the weight cocaine had peeled off her body, she was still thin, ten pounds under her goal weight. Her accessories were carefully chosen, pairing studded diamond earrings with a simple gold cross on a chain around her neck. She was not a particularly religious person, but the cross offered a comfort that had been missing from her life for a long time. Her long copper hair was fixed in a tidy bun. A few strands had been arranged to enhance the nape of her neck in an utterly feminine way. Her bangs had been curled and sprayed to remain absolutely in place across her forehead. Her eyes were lined and shaded to brighten her green irises. The bronze blush on her cheeks added a hue that helped offset the unhealthy pallor of her skin. Though skillfully applied, her cosmetics did not completely conceal the long scars on her face, one stretching from the corner of her eye to her jaw-line. She was lucky. James Hunter's aim had almost cost her the eye.

  Dammit, I can still see them! My face…why my face? I could have taken anything else but this. Why, God, why didn't I see him coming?

  Her hand rose to her right cheek. She used the tip of her finger to gently smooth her beige foundation over the damaged skin. The newly healed nerve endings tingled under her touch. At least her bangs covered the jagged slash across her forehead. She swore beneath her breath when she noticed her nails were bitten to the bloody quick. When had this happened? Yet another sign of her desperation turned in on itself; she couldn't even recall chewing her fingernails.

  "If people don't get close, they can't see the scars," she said to the image in the mirror. But her mind skipped immediately to a bitter track.

  "Who the hell do you think you're fooling?" she snapped back at herself. "Of course, you can see them. The ER surgeon who did the original stitching was an idiot. My face is ruined!" A tear rolled down her cheek, and then a second. The wounds on her face had healed, but the best plastic surgery still could not completely conceal the scars. James Hunter had purposely dipped his blade in battery acid to double the damage. Swallowing hard to squelch her rising emotion, she snatched up a tissue and daubed away her tears. If she cried, it would ruin the illusion she was desperate to create. Outside the hospital was a pack of paparazzi. The world was waiting to see Julienne Hunter.

  The door behind her opened.

  "Mrs. Hunter?"

  Julienne whirled on her heel, balling up the tissue in her hand. It would not do to be seen crying. She had to be strong. She gulped back another rise of panic. Showtime was near.

  "Yes?" She managed to choke out the single word.

  "Mr. DiMarco is here. Would you like to have him come in?" The ward attendant gave the room a quick scan to make sure all was well.

  "Please, show him in, Peg." Julienne offered a tentative smile to show that she was fine. The aides on the wards were the eyes and ears of the doctors and nurses. It was time to play the games. Her favorite mantra sprang in to her head. If you can't dazzle them with beauty, baffle them with bullshit.

  "Time to perform," she whispered after the departing aide.

  Chapter Two

  Needing to steady herself, Julienne took a seat at the table and reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  Extracting one, she put it between her lips. Picking up a cheap plastic lighter, she jiggled it hard and flicked it until the flame caught. Her hand trembled. Get some control, she chided herself before lighting the end of the cigarette. She took a deep drag. A pacifying rush of smoke filled her lungs. Nicotine was the only drug she was allowed. She took full advantage of the freedom to indulge. Already she was a two-pack-a-day smoker, and that number was increasing with each passing day.

  She took another long draw on her cigarette. Its tip glowed red before dying in devouring ashes. She flicked them toward the ashtray. She missed, and the ashes dropped to the floor around her feet. She guiltily brushed at them with the tip of her shoe, leaving long gray streaks of ash on the rug. Sensing the smoke, the butterflies in her stomach took flight again.

  The door opened again and Daniel DiMarco brusquely walked into the room. A portly man in his early sixties, his round face and olive skin bespoke his Sicilian descent. His hair had thinned considerably, leaving him with only a ring around his bald pate. His brown eyes regarded her over the rims of plain black-framed glasses. His Armani suit was rumpled from several days' wear. His skin was sallow from a life spent under florescent lighting, drinking too much coffee and exercising too little. Dark circles drooped under his eyes, the result of many late nights on his clients' behalf. Despite his hangdog demeanor, he was the best, and the most expensive. He carried a large attaché case, which he placed on the table as he took a seat opposite her.

  "Jesus, your ex-husband is a lowlife creep." His expression was hardly one of pleasure. "Now I recall why I left criminal law."

  "The divorce went through?" Julienne asked, barely able to say the words. An emotional knot wedged in her throat. She smoothed back a few stray wisps of hair behind her ears, then twisted the simple gold ring around the third finger of her left hand. It remained a symbol of hers and James' quickie Las Vegas wedding, and the only memento she had to prove they were married.

  "Yeah," DiMarco said. "It's over. You're no longer Mrs. Hunter."

  Julienne nodded slowly. There was no remorse or regret in her expression, only great relief. Putting down her cigarette, she slipped off the ring and flicked it into the glass ashtray. It lay among the ashes and cigarette butts, a fitting symbol to the end of her marriage. There was a word for men like James. Gigolo. She had married a male hustler.

  "Guess I don't need this anymore." She eyed the briefcase in front of DiMarco. "Did you get them?"

  DiMarco leveled a look at her, one penetrating enough to make her fidget. "Everything," he clipped. "James released the negatives. But there's a catch…"

  Julienne breathed a sigh of relief as she retrieved her smoke, though his last words caused her stomach to twitch for a moment as she wondered silently about "the catch." "Thank God. I can't believe he was going to try and sell them."

  "Well, the photos would've gotten him a tidy sum from any porno publisher," DiMarco countered.

  "I shouldn't have put it past the son of a bitch!" Julienne spat bitterly. "To think he was taking pictures I didn't know about. It's disgusting."

  "Well, he's where he needs to be now. Behind bars. Now that the trial's over, you're free."

  "Good." Julienne angrily crushed the butt of the cigarette in a single decisive movement. She'd had enough of men using and abusing her. She'd been furious when she learned about the deal James was trying to cut with porn hustlers. Even from behind bars the man had tried to exploit her.

  "How much did the negatives cost me?" she spat. "How much did he get?"

  "A million five. The man's lawyer knows his blackmail. Worth paying, though, to keep them out of media hands," DiMarco answered. Skipping a beat, he added, "And these aren't the negatives. Those are now in the hands of a third party." His words caught his client by surprise.

  "W-w-w-what?" she stammered. "These aren't the negatives? That was the deal, right? I pay and James would turn over everything and sign the divorce papers." She felt hysteria rising. This was not what she was prepared to hear.

  DiMarco sighed and reached to extract a roll of antacids from his shirt pocket. Unwrapping it, he removed two white tablets and popped them into his mouth.

  "You didn't have the money to cover the purchase." He spread his hands in a gesture of finality. "Everything you own is mortgaged to the hilt and your cash reserves have dried up. Both you and James liked to spend money, but your bank account was not limitless. You were living heavily off the credit of future earnings. You're over two million in debt."

  Julienne shook her head adamantly, as if unable to comprehend his words. If she had possessed the energy, she might have been angry. She even might have cried. Emotion, however, h
ad deserted her. She was numb. There was literally no more desire to fight left inside her. If a noose had been available, she might have hung herself.

  This misery has to end. What more can it take from me?

  "And you're now saying I'm broke? I don't understand. I just signed the Velour contract two years ago. That was worth six million."

  "It wasn't all paid up front," DiMarco reminded her. "You still had four more years to go on the contract to collect in full. It's moot, though. The Velour people pulled out a few days ago. They don't believe you're going to be able to continue as their spokesperson in light of your recent legal troubles."

  "It's my face, is what you're trying to say," Julienne snarled. "I'm not perfect anymore. I don't represent beauty and glamour to people now!" Frustrated, she jumped up and flung the ashtray at him. DiMarco's attempt to fend off the flying missile was clumsy. He shot to his feet when the ashtray struck his chest and dropped to his crotch. Cursing beneath his breath, he brushed the butts and ashes off his suit. Picking up the empty ashtray, he slammed it down. He'd had enough of this temperamental princess.

  "Forget your face for a few minutes, okay? If they really wanted to keep you, they'd airbrush out the goddamned scars. It's your after hours behavior that's blown your career," he stated bluntly. "Before this happened, you'd already begun burning your bridges in the industry by playing the bitch goddess. I don't think you realized how erratic your lifestyle was getting to be. The attack just put you deeper in the hole you had already dug for yourself."

  Julienne sat back down in her chair. Leaning forward, she placed her elbows on the table and massaged her eyes with her fingers, not caring whether or not her makeup was ruined. She was too drained to argue a point she couldn't win. As much as his words stung, she was not deluded enough to deny them. Everything he had said was the absolute truth.

  "So, Mr. DiMarco, tell me, if I didn't pay for the pictures, who did? Who's going to hold them over my head now?"

  "Your family paid James' price."

  "That's impossible! I haven't got any family. My mother's been dead for over seven years."

  "Blackthorne is your maiden name, correct?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "You have relatives living in Virginia, did you know?"

  Julienne's brow crinkled in thought. "No, I didn't know." Her mouth drew down into a vexed frown. "But it doesn't matter. Give them back their money. I don't know them. I won't take it."

  DiMarco leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. "So gracious of you to slap down a helping hand. Show some sense here."

  "Are you sure you've got your facts straight?" Julienne argued. "I'm not aware I have any close surviving relatives."

  "I'm sure." DiMarco reached into a pocket of his suit coat and extracted an envelope "Here. Your grandmother sent this for you." He slid it across the table.

  Julienne looked down at the envelope. Her name was written across its creamy ivory surface in a beautifully penned calligraphic script.

  Oh, my God. Her fingers curled around the cross at her neck. The past had just come around full circle and nipped her hard.

  "What's the matter?" DiMarco asked. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

  Julienne slowly raised her head. Her eyes were wide with panic. Her heart hammered, threatening to tear itself from the hollow confines of her ribs.

  "It might as well be, Mr. DiMarco." She gulped, struggling to take in fresh air. "I haven't seen one of these since…"

  Reaching out, she brushed the tips of her fingers over the paper. It was rough to her touch. She picked up the envelope. It was a heavy bond, stiff and obviously expensive. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The cloying aroma of vanilla tickled her nostrils. She recognized the handwriting, the scent on the stationery.

  Grandmother Anlese. After all these years.

  She fired an accusing look toward DiMarco. "How long have you been in contact with her?"

  "Three months," DiMarco said. "All your expenses have been covered by the Blackthornes."

  Julienne put the envelope down. "I see."

  "Aren't you going to open it?"

  "No. I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "I, oh, God, I wasn't prepared for this." She jabbed a finger at the envelope. "My mother, Cassandra, hated Grandmother Anlese. They didn't speak after she left home."

  "What about you," DiMarco asked. "How did you feel about her?"

  "I never really knew the woman," she admitted. "I was just three when Mom left home. I barely remember her." She sighed heavily. "I thought I'd put all of the past behind me when Mother died. I don't like thinking about what our lives were like then. You see, my mother was not…" She stumbled, searching for the best words. "How can I say this? Um, she wasn't a stable person. She had a lot of problems. Not that I've been any better."

  Julienne let herself go limp, leaning forward until her face rested on the table. Her hands were locked around her head, a parody of a woman expecting a head-on collision. She'd tried to forget that she had been left alone at the age of seventeen to fend for herself. She survived because her haphazard life had given her an in-depth education not garnered in any classroom. Her uncanny knack for taking advantage of her surroundings, seizing every chance as it came, had helped propel her into the upper echelons of society. But it was also this ability that had ultimately been instrumental in her undoing. Perched atop the glittering tower of career and fortune, she hadn't hesitated to drink from the harsh cup of excess. Like her mother before her, she had managed to destroy herself, fleeing, too, from the demons inside her mind.

  DiMarco's hand fell heavily on her shoulder. His rough voice sliced through the chaos in her mind. "Jesus, I'm sorry this upset you. Are you all right?"

  She slowly lifted herself with a jerky heave. Her entire body trembled with the effort. Nevertheless, she drew back her shoulders and called upon all her inner willpower to appear calm. Her stomach was churning acid.

  "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't expect to have everything thrown at me all at once. I haven't thought of my grandmother in years. I didn't think she was still alive. When my mother died I didn't have a way to contact her. If I had…" Her words trailed off. She reached for the envelope, wanting to open it, then drew back her hand as if bitten. Regret, like hindsight, was always a thing examined in retrospect.

  "I think you need something."

  Daniel DiMarco retrieved two bottles of Perrier from the small refrigerator. Opening one, he gave it to Julienne and settled back into his own chair.

  "Be better if it were vodka," he muttered as he downed his.

  Julienne wrapped her hands around the cold glass bottle. Its cool surface was soothing. She lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. The water was like a balm on her soul. She'd forgotten how refreshing cold water was to a feverish body.

  "My grandmother wants to see me, doesn't she?" She gestured at the envelope.

  DiMarco nodded. "Yes. This has been in planning for some time."

  Julienne tapped her fingers on the green glass. "Nice of you to let me know what's been going on," she groused.

  "I've been trying to do what's best for you," he defended himself. "I've been looking out for your interests, believe it or not. Frankly, I would've quit some time ago if your family hadn't stepped in to help. I don't work for free, and neither does anyone else you've expected to be there for you."

  "Point taken." Julienne lowered her eyes in shame. "Please don't think I'm being an ungrateful brat."

  "A brat is exactly what you've been for years," DiMarco returned. "It's time to grow up and be damned glad you've got a family to help."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "This is not the finest of days for me. You know, not a single day of the last four months has been. And now this comes up--a grandmother I haven't had contact with in, oh, twenty-some-odd years. Hell, I don't even know who my father is."

  "Look, at least they're trying to reach out to you. That's more than a lot of people have in thi
s world," DiMarco said.

  "I'm not interested in a humility lesson," Julienne clipped, then sucked in a ragged breath, immediately sorry she'd lost her temper. "Maybe you're forgetting that the only place I need to be going is back to California. I need work, Mr. DiMarco. I'm not a total leech. I can earn my own way. Later, I could go see her, but not now."

  "Hollywood is the last place you need to be."

  "You think I'll go back to the drugs," she stated.

  "I just think you need time away from that lifestyle," he said. "A long time away."

  "I have to go back," Julienne insisted. "I want to work. I want to show that even with these," she indicated her face, "I'm still worthwhile. Maybe I'm not top material anymore, but I can work the catwalks. God knows I've still got the frame for it. That hasn't changed."

  DiMarco eyed her. "Ok, so say you go back to work. Then what?"

  "I start rebuilding the pieces." She released a tremulous sigh. It was clear by the expression on his face that he did not find scrawny women in the least bit appealing. However, in her line of work one could never be too thin. Starvation kept the bills paid. "God knows, all I've got are pieces, but it's something."

  "Alone?" He hammered the single word hard.

  "Why not?"

  "Why should you when you don't have to?" DiMarco made an exasperated gesture with his hands. "Your grandmother wants you to come home."

  "I can't do that," she stated flatly.

  "Why not?" he parroted her. His eyes narrowed with chagrin. "It would be better for you."

  "My mother hated her family," she blurted. "There must be some reason she ran away. I'm thankful they want to help, but I'm not sure it would be good to try and reconnect with a past that's dead to all of us now."

  "Maybe it's not dead to your grandmother," DiMarco prodded softly.

  Shaken by this turn of events in her day, she reached for her cigarettes again. DiMarco asked for one. She started to say something, decided not to, and quietly passed him a cigarette and her lighter. Wasting no time, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag off it before returning the lighter to her.