by EMILIE ROSE
“That doesn’t have anything to do with you. You’re the best tracker there is. Maybe it was just his time to go.”
“You know I don’t believe in that shit,” he said sharply, uncomfortable with how easily the words came out of his mouth. He despised talking about his feelings, much less his failures, and yet somehow Delainey had managed to pull the words right out of his mouth. He stood abruptly. “I have to go. We can finish this at another time. I have another appointment,” he lied, needing to get some air.
“Well, when do you want to finish, because I have to get the script ready. Can we finish tonight?”
He frowned. “What do you mean tonight?”
“I could bring the tape recorder and meet you at your place?”
“Hell, no. I don’t want you in my house.”
She drew back, stung. “That was rude and mean. Do you think I relish the idea of spending gobs of alone time with you? Get over yourself, Trace. This is a job that you agreed to do.”
Could he handle her in his home? What had almost become their home? The idea made him instantly sick to his stomach and apprehensive and yet strangely curious. “Fine. We’ll finish the interview at seven o’clock.”
“Perfect.” She clicked off the recorder. “Thank you for your cooperation, Trace.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll give you a half an hour. If you don’t get what you need by then, you’re out of luck.”
He didn’t wait for her to negotiate, because he knew she would try. He couldn’t get away fast enough; if he weren’t careful, Delainey would find a way to make him dance to her tune no matter the cost.
* * *
DELAINEY KNEW SHE OUGHT to shelve any feelings Trace had awoken to the far reaches of her mind, but he’d always had a way of getting under her skin. He hated her hair color. She touched the strands and winced at the fairly brittle feel of her bleached tresses. It was a brutal process to strip out the natural light brown to create the platinum she sported now, and she was well overdue for a deep-conditioning treatment. But with her precarious finances she hadn’t been able to see clear to pay the exorbitant amount that a treatment would require.
“Pooh on you, Trace Sinclair,” she muttered as she gathered her documents, reminding herself that Trace’s opinion didn’t matter in the big scheme of things. In the land of fake smiles and plastic bodies, Delainey had stuck out like a country bumpkin before her makeover, and it had been painfully obvious that in order to make deals, you had to turn heads.
“Oh, honey, what is happening here?” Rafe Solange, the premier hairstylist in Beverly Hills, had exclaimed, lifting one limp mouse-brown lock in distaste. One look at her new zip code and she knew a trim was in order, so she’d gone straight to the top even though she couldn’t actually afford it yet. He tsked as if surveying a hot mess and wondering where to start. “Oh, baby child, this has got to go. We’re talking strip, color and style, and I’m talking tout suite.”
“Is it that bad?” she’d asked with embarrassment. In Alaska no one had put much store in fancy hairstyles because half the time, your hair was tucked up into a knitted hat to stay warm. She cringed when he simply stared, placing one hand on his hip with flamboyant flair, and she had her answer. “Okay, do whatever you need to do.”
“Thank you, baby Jesus! We’re going to make you shine, girl. Los Angeles isn’t going to know what hit it.”
And Rafe had transformed her from a mouse to a lion, and the transformation had given her the shot of confidence she’d been lacking from the moment she’d stepped off the plane, scared and nervous about her big, life-changing decision to leave Alaska to pursue her dream.
And she was never going back to who she was—and that included her mouse-brown hair.
“So you can just suck it, Trace Sinclair,” Delainey said, bracing herself against the chill as she hurried to her car. She may have left a mouse, but she’d returned a lion, and she wasn’t going to take any crap from anyone. “Not even you, you big, judgmental jerk.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DELAINEY FINISHED SELECTING her crew and checked her watch. Peter still hadn’t gotten back to her about a hotel, and she was starting to sweat. There was no way she could expect her crew to sleep crammed into her father’s tiny house. She could just hear the Teamsters union shrieking at the thought.
She rubbed at her forehead and then rummaged through her purse, looking for something to take the edge off the headache that was building but realized with a groan that she’d tossed back the last of her Tylenol on the plane. A trip to the store was in her future, and it was something she’d really like to avoid, as the local market was much like the town hall. She had a pretty good chance of running into someone she knew just by stepping through the front doors. She groaned and climbed into her car for the quick drive.
Intent on getting in and out, she went straight to the medicine aisle, grabbed the Tylenol and tried to beeline to the cash register, only to nearly run over one of the last people she wanted to see.
“Miranda!” Delainey exclaimed, forcing a bright smile, her gaze lighting on the small boy beside her, watching the two grown-ups with interest. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Miranda, startled as well, offered an awkward smile as they both wondered how to treat one another. How does one greet a former best friend and sister of your former boyfriend?
“Hi,” Miranda said, putting her arm around the boy, whom Delainey could only assume was her son. A sudden lump rose in her throat. At one time she would’ve been in this child’s life as his aunt. Egad, where’d that come from? “Trace said you were in town.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure he was really thrilled about it,” Delainey retorted, unable to stop herself. She stopped and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have a splitting headache and it’s made me a little irritable.”
“No need to apologize. And you’re right, he’s not happy about you being here, but can you blame him? I mean, not to be a stickler for fact, but you broke his heart and never looked back.”
“Yes, I’m aware of how things went down between he and I,” Delainey said coolly, not appreciating Miranda’s quick reminder. “And he’s been sure to remind me every second how he felt about my decision to follow my career.”
“We should go to lunch,” Miranda said, surprising Delainey with her sudden offer. Delainey regarded Miranda warily and Miranda laughed. “I won’t bite and I promise I’ll only give you a little bit of a hard time over the past. It’d be nice to catch up.”
Delainey started to decline—the last thing she needed was to know more about everything she’d left behind—but she missed the simple pleasure of knowing that someone was being straight with her, whether she liked what they had to say or not. Back in L.A., she was constantly trying to decipher what people were truly saying because no one actually said anything without layering it with double-speak or a veneer of lies. Or at least that’s how it appeared to her after eight years of constantly watching her back for the knife that was always poised to strike. “Promise me you’ll be gentle?” she asked, half joking. “It’s been a rough day already, and from what I remember about you, you never pull your punches.”
“I’m a kinder, gentler version of me these days,” Miranda said.
“Oh? How’d that happen?”
“Long story short, I found happiness and I learned how to forgive myself. The long story you’ll have to wait until lunch.”
“Where are we going?”
“How about my place? I was just stopping by to pick up some peanut butter for Talen—my son is currently refusing to eat anything but peanut butter for lunch, and wouldn’t you know it, I was completely out—and I think a little privacy would be good for our conversation.”
Delainey smiled. “I’d like that.” She could’ve hugged Miranda for her kindness, but she
was still a little surprised at how easily Miranda was letting her off the hook. She’d half expected Miranda to lay into her as sharply as Trace. “You’re not being super nice just to lure me to your house so you can stab me without witnesses, are you?”
“If I was really still angry about the past and your part in it, I would simply knock your lights out and be done with it. But I’m not mad. In fact, I understand why you left. I just wish you hadn’t abandoned everyone when you split. It didn’t have to be that way, you know?”
“I didn’t mean to abandon anyone,” she said, shifting against the pinch from her conscience. Hadn’t she, though? She’d severed ties for a reason—she didn’t want to ever give herself an out. If she failed, she had nothing or no one to fall back on. At least that’d been her thought when she’d been poised at the precipice of her big jump. It had all seemed so logical at the time. But she was beginning to feel as if she’d made a huge mistake, and it wasn’t only because of Trace. “So where do you live?” she asked. “And should I bring anything?”
“I live at 213 Rochester Road, just around the corner from the Rusty Anchor.”
“All right. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good. In the meantime, I’m off to find peanut butter....”
Delainey watched as Miranda and her son walked away, chatting to one another as they searched for their peanut butter, and Delainey suffered that pang of loss again. She wasn’t maternal and never had been, but watching Miranda with her son, plainly delighted at being a mother and all it entailed, made her wonder what life would’ve been like if she’d stayed. For one, she would’ve married Trace. And two, likely they would’ve had kids. Maybe she would’ve found a job in Anchorage and did the commute thing, or maybe she would’ve taught at the local university. A sudden shudder rippled through her. That’s exactly what she hadn’t wanted. Domestic bliss was not her dream, so why even wonder what would’ve been? Her life was amazing. She lived in a desirable neighborhood, she had a job most people dreamed about and she rubbed elbows with really important people.
Well, almost really important people. Vertical Blind had pretty much kicked her reputation to the curb, and now not even the D-list people were taking her calls.
But all that was going to change, she told herself. Soon she’d be the one turning down lunch meetings and triaging the scores of people looking to spend a little time with her. For once, she’d be the important one.
Ugh. But first... She cracked the seal on the Tylenol as she walked to the cashier. She needed to quiet the pain slicing open her brain. After that—anything was possible.
* * *
MIRANDA KNEW THE probability of running into Delainey at some point was probably high, but she hadn’t expected to literally run into her.
Talk about shock to the system. At one time, they’d been thick as thieves, and Miranda had been just as stunned as Trace when Delainey had left town right when they’d all needed her the most. But Miranda had had some time to think since Trace had informed her that Delainey was in town, and she’d come to the conclusion that they couldn’t continue to hold a grudge against the woman for following her dreams. It hadn’t been Delainey’s fault that Simone had died, and it wasn’t fair for them to assume that she should’ve put her life on hold because of the Sinclair tragedy. Time and distance had eased that wound for Miranda, but Trace was a different story. Miranda didn’t think Trace would ever forgive Delainey, but Miranda could do her part and extend the olive branch.
About fifteen minutes later, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway signaled that Delainey had arrived, and after cleaning up the peanut butter mess her son had left behind from inhaling his sandwich, she put on his favorite movie and started making sandwiches for Delainey and her.
Delainey walked in tentatively, gesturing toward the door. “I figured it was okay to walk in because you invited me to lunch....”
“Laney, at one time you and I were practically sisters. You don’t have to knock to come into my house,” Miranda said, and for a split second she thought she saw Delainey’s eyes well up. Miranda wondered what was really going on with Delainey after all these years. Something told her that her former best friend was putting up a good front, but the question was why? “I hope you don’t mind egg salad,” she said as she dished two plates.
“I haven’t had egg salad in years. Sounds perfect.”
Miranda slid the plate over to Delainey, and they both sat at the counter like old friends, even though there was plenty that needed to be said between them. “How weird is it to be home after all this time?” she asked, trying to break the ice slowly. “It must be like going back in time. Not much has changed since you left.”
“Weird isn’t the word,” Delainey admitted. “The worst part was having to stay at my father’s place. He hasn’t changed, either.”
Miranda nodded. Harlan and his daughter had never gotten along, and Harlan, like many Alaskan men who made their living by the harsh conditions of the sea, could be difficult at best. “How’d that go?”
“Not well. He didn’t like me before I left, and the only thing that’s changed is that now he hates my hair, too.” Miranda took in Delainey’s appearance and noted all the differences. Delainey touched her hair and shrugged. “He said I was a stranger to him.”
“I think it’s safe to say that he never really knew you in the first place, so how can you be anything but a stranger now?” Miranda pointed out, and Delainey laughed at the logic. God, she’d missed Miranda. She’d forgotten how easily Miranda had always gotten straight to the point of an argument. “But you know, maybe it’s time you introduce yourself. He might find that he likes the real you.”
“I doubt that. I don’t value anything he does and vice versa. It’s a colossal joke that I was born his daughter. I hate fish, I’m a dreamer, I hate the snow... Shall I go on? We’re so different sometimes I wonder if I was switched at birth. I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere out there is a woman who can spit like a man, would feel right at home hauling rigging and slipping around on the deck of a boat, and can shoot a moose between the eyes at several hundred yards. That’s the daughter who should’ve been born to Harlan Clarke. Not me.”
Miranda laughed. “I am that woman, if you recall, and I can assure you, I’m not Harlan’s daughter. You’re stubborn like him, and you’re not afraid to take risks. I’d say those are pretty cool characteristics to have.”
Delainey stared at Miranda in somewhat disbelief. “What’s happening here? You should be angry with me. We shouldn’t be gabbing like old girlfriends and playing catch-up. I don’t understand why you’re being so nice.”
“Laney...there was a time when I would’ve been exactly as you think I would act because I was eaten up with anger and working myself into becoming a full-blown alcoholic, but I’ve recently come to realize that being angry about things I can’t change isn’t doing me any favors. So, I guess, it’s your lucky day. Do you want me to yell at you? Would that make you feel better about how things went down?”
“No.” Maybe. “I just don’t know how to feel about this. I guess I feel guilty for how I handled leaving.”
“You had to do what was right for you. I don’t begrudge you your happiness. I wish I could say the same for Trace. He’s still pretty hurt. He covers it up with anger, but he’s really never gotten over you. And he’d kill me if he heard me say that because he’d go to his grave denying it. But I know my brother, and he’s never been the same since you left.”
“Why didn’t he meet someone else and move on?” Delainey asked, a pained expression on her face. “I would’ve expected someone to snatch him up the minute I left.”
“I don’t know. I got him to go on a few dates, but beyond the superficial dinner and a movie...nothing really materialized. But it’s not all your fault, Laney, and I want you to know that. Simone’s murder did a nu
mber on us all. There’s no saying that if you’d stayed he would’ve been different. Being the one to find Simone...it did something to his head.”
Delainey’s eyes glazed and Miranda knew she was reliving that moment as only Trace’s girlfriend could. But because Miranda didn’t want to wallow in a painful past, she made an effort to redirect the conversation to less depressing ground. “Okay, enough about sad things. Tell me about your glamorous career in Los Angeles as a movie producer.”
Delainey emitted a short laugh and her gaze skewed away as she answered with a bit of a flush, “I’m not a movie producer—yet—but I’ve produced a few television shows here and there. It’s a difficult business and the players are constantly changing. One minute you’re on top and the next the bottom, but one thing is for sure—you’re never bored.”
“Oh, wow...sounds...” Miranda searched for the right words so as not to offend Delainey. “Well, it sounds like an adventure. If you’re happy, then that’s all that matters, right?”
Delainey’s smile was blindingly bright—too bright—as she bobbed a nod. “Yep. And I am so happy. Deliriously so, actually. I mean, I live a life most would dream about. I live the Hollywood lifestyle. Rubbing elbows with the important people. Making dreams come true. Yep. It’s everything Alaska isn’t...and that’s what I love about it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TRACE TRIED NOT to check the time, but his nerves betrayed him as his gaze continually strayed to the small wall clock above his fireplace. Each minute ticked closer to the time he’d agreed to finish the interview with Delainey. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to talk with her after hours when his instinct was to flatly turn her down.
And now, it was too late to rescind his reluctant agreement.
It seemed a lifetime ago that Trace and Delainey had been planning to start a life together. When he thought of how stupid she’d made him look, leaving him crying as she’d bolted, he wanted to throw something. She’d done a number on his pride, for sure. So why’d he allow her to manipulate him into this late-night interview? He was baffled by his own behavior, and he didn’t like the obvious reason staring him in the face.
