by Sally Mason
When he retreats and walks across the sand to the main road, he squeaks.
Averting his eyes from the spot where the horrible accident happened, he crosses the road toward the Peggy’s all-night diner.
Perhaps a cup of coffee and a plate of Peggy’s eggs will restore him.
Usually Jimmy keeps a weather eye open for Topsy, Peggy’s terrier, built at the perfect height to trip him up, but today he is too preoccupied to take his usual precautions and the dog—a cunning little beast—darts from nowhere and gets under Billy’s feet and there he is, spinning and pirouetting, that long, gracelessly body flung around as if he’s suffering some kind of seizure, and to break his fall he grabs hold of a table and finds himself falling into a booth, staring at the face of Brontë Baines.
“Good morning,” she says, “how nice of you to join me.”
“Oh, thanks, yes,” he says, getting his breath back. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t. Not at all.” She looks at him with those wild, soulful eyes. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Are you terribly attached to the name Billy?”
“No, I’m not, actually. Why?”
“You look far more like a William to me. Billy, I feel, is more suited to a child or a yahoo, and you are neither.”
“Uh, no, I suppose I’m not. Well, definitely not a child.”
“And far too refined to be a yahoo. So, William you shall be.”
Peggy is there in her apron, her dyed blonde hair fighting a silly hat. “Your usual, Billy?”
“Yes, Peggy. Thank you.”
Peggy glowers at Brontë. “Heads-up missy: the bottomless cup of coffee just hit bottom.”
The woman strides off, the dog falling in behind her, but not before the mutt has shot Billy a look of triumph.
This is a war that has dragged on for many years, and it is usually Billy who is bested.
“So, Brontë, how are you liking Santa Sofia?”
“Oh, I find it very congenial, thank you.”
“Fixed yourself up with a place to stay?”
When the girl stares at him and then blushes into her empty coffee cup, something dawns on Billy and he surfaces from his all-consuming and terribly selfish funk.
“Oh, God, you spent the night here, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“But where are your things?”
“I have no things.”
And she tells him about becoming distracted by that display of petunias and the bus driving off with her bag.
Billy shakes his head, this is a story worthy of him.
“Okay, I know somebody at the bus company. I’ll make a couple of calls and I’m sure they’ll be able to deliver your bag sometime today.”
She’s staring at him. “You’d do that? For me?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” He clears his throat. “Now, forgive me if this is embarrassing, Brontë, but I have to ask: are you, I mean, do you . . .”
“I’m broke, William, if that’s what you’re so kindly asking. I spent my last money on the bus ticket.”
“Ah, right. Well, you must allow me to give you an advance on your wages.”
“That would be an extraordinary act of kindness.”
“Oh, please, it’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not nothing. It’s very definitely something. A bigger something than anybody has ever done for me.”
Billy’s eggs arrive, and Peg—kind hearted despite her prizefighter face and shoulders—pours Brontë another cup of coffee.
“Just because you’re a pal of Billy’s I’ll make an exception,” she says, “but only this one time, hear?” She shoves a thick finger in Brontë’s face. “And get yourself a room.”
The girl cowers and nods, sipping at her coffee.
Billy manages to eat his eggs and swallow his java without major mishap—although it is touch-and-go when he whacks the bottom of the ketchup bottle, and only a smart move by Brontë gets her out of the path of a stream of thick red sauce—and he leaves money on the table and stands.
The girl, so waiflike and pale, stares up at him.
“Come with me,” he says, feeling unusually commanding and masterful.
“Where to?”
“I can offer you a place to stay. It’s not fancy, but it’s a roof over your head.”
“Where is it?” she asks.
He points across at the bookstore. “Above the store. With me.”
Her eyes cloud over and he feels a blush rising, leaving him looking like a red stop light.
“Oh, God, no, I don’t mean with me, with me. I mean above the store, next door to where I live. A place that is completely separate and self-contained.”
She’s smiling up at him as she slides from the booth.
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Wonderful may be stretching it,” he says, leading her out into the morning.
When he sees that she’s about to wander into the path of the postman’s truck, Billy shoots out a hand to restrain her.
“Oh dear, thanks, William. I seem to do that all the time, step in front of cars, I mean.”
Peggy, standing in the window of her diner, smiles as she watches them make their way across the road, Brontë chattering, swiping wild hair from her face, Billy running a huge hand through his own unruly thatch, and disappear up the stairs beside the bookstore.
Peggy, one of the first on the scene that horrible afternoon twenty years ago, shakes her head and says, “You go, Billy. You go for it.”
20
The most ridiculous dream wakes Darcy.
A dream that Forrest Forbes proposed to her at the Spring Ball.
And the craziest part of the dream is that Darcy said yes, with the whole of Santa Sofia looking on.
As she surfaces from under the comforter to face the day a sledgehammer strikes Darcy on the back of the head, and it takes all her willpower to stay upright.
She groans and as she lifts a hand to her face and a hot beam of sun finds its way through a chink in the drapes, striking the constellation of rocks on her ring finger, she realizes that it was no dream.
Oh. My. God.
It happened.
It honest-to-girl-scout-cookies happened.
He proposed and she accepted.
With the whole of town as witness.
Darcy falls back and covers her face with Porter’s pillow—unused this past year, but still she inhales his musky scent, too silly and sentimental to change the pillow case.
She sees Porter staring at her in shock as she smiled down at the kneeling Forrest Forbes and agreed to marry him.
The memory of that look—the normally oh-so-cool Porter Pringle caught with his jaw dragging on his bootstraps—almost makes her feel better.
Almost but not quite.
Handle this, Darcy.
Contain this madness.
As she rises from the bed she sees she’s dressed in her PJs, but has no recollection of shedding her ball gown, that lies on the floor like something from the last act of Swan Lake.
In fact, she has very few recollections beyond agreeing to Forrest’s proposal and then proceeding to drink enough champagne to sink a battleship.
Darcy reaches the bathroom mirror and assesses the damage.
Raccoon eyes.
Porcupine hair.
Lion breath.
She brushes her teeth and her tongue and rinses with mouthwash, then scrubs her face and tames her wild mop of hair.
Looking more like the sane and sensible Darcy Pringle, she sheds her PJs and slips on jeans and a T-shirt and takes to the stairs, each step setting off a steel band in her head.
As she reaches the hallway she hears the sound of somebody busy in the kitchen, and—straightening herself up to her full height—sails in saying, “Mr. Forbes we have to talk.”
But it’s Eric Royce who stands at the spitting and gurgling coffee maker, looking disgustingly fresh
in a pair of Banana Republic shorts and Lacoste top.
He holds up a cup. “Want some?”
“God, yes, black as pitch and pile on the sugar.” She slumps down at the table. “Where is he?”
“Your betrothed?”
“Cut the wisecracks, Eric.” She closes her eyes, then looks up at him. “Please tell me it didn’t happen.”
“Oh, but it did, darling and it was the most sensational bit of theater I’ve seen since the opening night of Les Mis. This little burg was shaken to its core.”
Darcy groans. “I have no idea what got into me.”
“Well, let’s say quite a lot of bubbly and a perfectly understandable desire to get even. And you know what they say, darling: if you can’t get even, get married?”
“Who says that?”
“I just did and it’s damned good. I’ll use it somewhere.”
“Okay, Spencer Tracy let’s cut the screwball routine. Did you put Forrest up to it?”
“The proposal?”
“Yes.”
Eric stares at her in genuine astonishment.
“Good God, no, darling. As talented a scenarist as I am, I couldn’t have scripted that one. Wowee, talk about a season finale!”
“Then why did he do it?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“I will. Where is he?”
“Driving the Jaguar back to LA.”
She wags her ring finger. “He left this behind.”
“He knows he did. He came knocking on my door at an indecently early hour, terribly contrite. He says you gave him some pain killers.”
“Yes, something Porter used to take for his knee.”
“Well, Forrest is blaming them. Says they turned his brain to Jell-O.”
“And he ran away, too scared to face me?”
“Actually, it was my suggestion that he disappear.”
“Why?”
“To heighten the drama, darling. Deepen the mystique. The tall dark and handsome stranger proposes to the town’s most eligible bachelorette—”
“Divorcée.”
“Have it your way. Proposes and then leaves, called away on urgent business, his bride-to-be pining and staring at the far horizon, dreaming of his return.”
Darcy glugs down her coffee, not even noticing that it scalds her throat.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Enormously. And so should you.”
“I have to come clean about this. Publicly.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I’ve lied to the town I’ve lived in my whole life, Eric. To the people I’ve known since I was in pigtails.”
“Mnnnn.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why, because I’m some gay Johnny-come-lately who lives a lie himself? Fake name, fake accent, fake tan?”
“The tan’s real.”
“Thanks for noticing. Well, newsflash sweetie, I do understand. I understand that all those dear down-homey chums of yours, the one you’ve known since forever, have been spreading their morning toast with thick dollops of schadenfruede.”
“Speak American.”
“They have enjoyed seeing you torn apart. They have enjoyed seeing you suffer. You were too good, too nice, too perfect. They have loved, loved, loved, seeing you bleed. So screw them, Darcy. Screw them.”
She stares at him. “You really believe that?”
“You know I’m right. At least Carlotta McCourt nails her skull and crossbones to the masthead, but the rest of them are even worse, watching from behind their little smiles and polite hellos. You owe this town nothing. No, I’m wrong, you owe it a swift Jimmy Choo in the rump.”
Darcy stares out the window at the perfectly blue sky.
“I can’t do it, Eric it’s not me.”
She tugs at the ring on her finger but it doesn’t budge.
“God, I’m going to have to use soap to get this thing off.”
“It’s like the Cinderella slipper, Darce. It’s made for you.”
“Stop being kitsch.” She wags her finger. “Are these rocks real?”
“Well, I don’t have my jeweler’s loupe screwed in, but, yes, they’re real. Diamonds and sapphires.”
“It must be worth a fortune.”
“Oh it is, but its value is far greater than that.”
Darcy waits for the one-liner but it doesn’t come.
“What do you mean?”
“It was Forrest’s mother’s ring. She died giving birth to him, and he’s worn it on a chain around his neck his whole life. It’s his lucky charm. I’m sure you realize he’s been financially strapped the last while?”
“Yes. You told me.”
“But he never hocked that ring. Not even to save himself a beating.”
“Then I must return it to him.”
“He told me he wants you to keep it safe for him. Away from temptation.”
“It should be in a vault somewhere.”
“He trusts you, Darce.” Eric gives her a long look. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Keep the ring on your finger. Keep up this pretence, just for a day or two.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s been a tonic for you, darling. I thought I’d lost the Darcy I know and love, until I saw her again at the ball last night. It’s a bit of magic. Stay under its spell just a little while longer.” He takes her hand. “Promise?”
She stares at him, then at last she nods.
“Okay, I promise.”
21
Forrest Forbes returns the Jaguar to the rental company near the Château Marmont and stands a while outside the lobby of the hotel, tempted to stroll into its bar and order a cocktail.
God knows he’s earned one and the money that Eric Royce gave him for playing his little role burns a hole in his pocket.
No, he’s going to jump a cab and head over to Raymond Gomez’s lair and give the bookie enough money to get him off his back a while.
But, as Forrest stands on Sunset Boulevard, trying to hail a cab, he sees a bar across the road, one of those tacky places that grow out of LA’s sidewalks like toadstools.
Rick’s, it’s called with a cheesy deco neon sign that’s meant—he assumes—to recall the faded glamor of Casablanca.
Forrest has been there before, drinking to the retro tunes on the jukebox and placing bets with the bartender who keeps a very hush-hush book.
But that’s not why he’s is crossing the road, he assures himself.
It’s for a drink.
One of the cheap daytime drinks the place is famous for.
Forrest walks into the bar’s windowless gloom, Frank Sinatra ushering him to a stool at the counter.
Except for an old guy nursing a beer, it’s just Forrest and the bartender.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Rick says.
“I’ve been away.”
“The usual?”
Forrest nods. “And whatever you’re drinking.”
The man has a prodigious memory, and Forrest watches in admiration as he pours a Maker’s Mark over two blocks of ice.
He slides Forrest’s drink over to him and pops the cap on a beer, raising the bottle in salute.
“Cheers.”
“Sláinte.”
“That’s Irish right?”
“Yes. I have a drop of the blood, on my mother’s side.”
The old geezer needs another drink and when Rick crosses to him Forrest gets to thinking about his mother, and his hand reaches by reflex for the chain at his neck.
The chain’s there, but the ring isn’t.
It’s on Darcy Pringle’s finger, of course.
What the hell did he think he was doing last night?
Easy to blame his outrageous behavior on the painkillers and the booze, but Forrest in his day has had more experience of chemicals than a pharmaceutical rep, and has never been driven to an act as wild as last night’s stunt.
&
nbsp; Did he really give a damn about Little Miss Potato Chip?
No.
Maybe her heart was broken but she had tons of loot to sweeten the pain.
And she was well rid of Porter Pringle.
So why, then did he do what he did?
Forrest, not given to introspection or self-analysis, decides he did it because he was bored.
Bored with being on the bones of his ass.
Bored with getting kicked half way to Sunday by a Mexican thug.
Bored with what he’d allowed himself to become: a lap dog at the beck and call of people like Eric Royce.
That morning, when Forrest went to Eric’s house to collect his money and prevail upon the man to get his mother’s ring back from Darcy (even Forrest had qualms about invading her bedroom and yanking the rocks off her finger) the TV hack treated him like the hired help.
“God, what a brutal hour to come calling,” Eric said, even though he was freshly showered and coiffed, sipping a fruit juice. “I have a good mind to dock your pay.”
“I’d like to hit the road.”
“Understandable.”
“But first I need you to get the ring back.”
“Whose ring is it?” Eric waved a hand. “Wait let me guess: your mother’s?”
Forrest nodded.
“You’re in a deep hole, financially?”
“You know I am.”
“Then why don’t you sell the thing? It’s worth a fortune.”
When Forrest didn’t reply, Eric burst out laughing.
“Well, well, who would’ve thought that Forrest Forbes has a sentimental streak?”
“I’m a regular Hallmark card. Come on, Eric, help me out.”
“Leave the ring with Darcy for safekeeping. I can assure you it’ll be safer with her than with you.”
Forrest couldn’t dispute this, but he sniffed other motives.
“You just want to play this marriage thing out, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons. Tell you what, why don’t I throw another Grover Cleveland on this little pile,” Eric lifted the envelope containing Forrest’s wages off the table and wagged it, “in payment for you loaning the ring to Darcy?”
“For how long?”
