He looked at me steadily, doing that thing where he searched me out for a bluff. At last, he was satisfied I wasn’t hiding my true feelings.
Samuel was right. It was about to get worse. And much, much more complicated.
Tuesday morning brought word from Ace Caulfield, who’d returned to his vomiting children and exhausted wife in Boston. Caroline Ortega was still in New York. She agreed to meet with Samuel and me, as long as it was on her turf—which meant trekking to the Upper East Side.
“I’m adamant about listening in on this meeting,” Ace said, when Samuel put him on speakerphone. “I’m no literary critic, but I know what is and isn’t libelous. You won’t hear a peep from me unless you start promising her things or sharing info that could be used against you.”
Samuel and I exchanged a look. His mental health would most likely come up in conversation. Was he willing to discuss aspects of it in front of Ace?
He nodded. “That’s fine.”
So, just before two o’clock, the two of us swept up pristine sidewalks not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Townhouses ran the length of the street, a hodgepodge of styles from bulky Federals to airy Italian villas. Beyond the row of homes loomed the imposing pre-war apartments of Fifth Avenue. Beautifully kept window boxes splashed brick walls with color, and mature shade trees hung over the curbside, pruned to perfection so they wouldn’t scratch the high-end cars lining the streets.
Samuel stopped in front of a stately five-story home. “This is it.”
I would have known it before he said it. Its peach walls, white window frames, and balcony had been dragged here straight from the Antebellum South. He jogged up the stairs and rang the bell.
The door creaked open. I wasn’t sure how I expected Caroline to appear, but my imagination fluctuated between power suit and devil horns. What I hadn’t expected was a woman who was, for all intents and purposes, a mess. Posh exterior abandoned, she slumped to the door in worn jeans and an oversized sweater, though it was early September. Her hair was haphazardly twisted up, a pencil holding it in place. Instead of makeup, glasses framed tired eyes.
“Hello, Caroline,” Samuel said softly.
“Samuel.” She wavered in the doorway, not knowing how to greet him. Finally, she stepped aside and gestured us into her home.
“Kaye—good to see you again. I’m sorry for the clutter,” she said over her shoulder, though the spacious home was immaculate. “I’ve been inundated by work.”
You and me both.
I peered around the open foyer, searching for a humungous portrait of Caro with a poodle or some other yippy animal in her lap. Instead, a large sketch of a sailboat hung at the top of the magnificent curved staircase.
“Not only are we trying to get a new business off the ground, we also have our current authors’ needs to attend to,” she explained.
“I’m sure you’ve also been quite busy with Togsy’s book,” I added with a bitter edge.
Caro paused to appraise me with cool eyes, then nodded. “That, too. I’ve barely had time to sleep, but it’s coming together.”
“That’s what we want to talk to you about—BrownStoners. What’s with the melodrama?”
Samuel shot me a warning glance. “We simply want to hear your side of the story, Caro. Kaye didn’t mean—”
“Don’t scold her, Samuel Cabral. Let her do her job; she’s good at it.” Her Carolina accent thickened. “She’s also right—it is a bunch of drama. Coffee?”
I nodded, picking up my jaw from the polished floor. Samuel, however, didn’t seem surprised. Instead, he brushed my hand with his and murmured an earnest apology.
“Anyway, the book,” her voice carried from the kitchen. “I can understand where you’re coming from, Kaye. If I was still Samuel’s publicist, I’d be pretty damned wary of me, too.”
She emerged with three mugs and a coffee carafe on a tray. Ever the gentleman, Samuel instantly stepped forward and took it from her hands. She led us up the staircase and into a brightly lit hallway. More artwork hung on both walls—a series of dreamy nautical paintings in sea blues and sand. She saw me studying one.
“They’re a series I did of the Carolina coast. I have a small studio in the attic where I paint and sketch, though I haven’t had much time for it in recent years, what with career demands.”
And Samuel’s celebrity, I added, seeing him grimace.
We followed her into a room at the end of the hall—her office. A desk and bookshelves took up most of the space, along with a Queen Anne longue and two armchairs that were too classy to be ostentatious. Caroline pushed a pile of papers to the side and indicated for Samuel to set down the tray.
Taking a mug of piping coffee, he stirred it, his brow creased. Finally, he plunked it down and leaned forward.
“Why didn’t you fill me in on your plan to leave Buitre, Caro? We may have not treated each other well in recent months, but we’ve always been honest.”
“I couldn’t risk you or Kaye accidentally tipping off Buitre. They would have squashed my new company before I could walk with the agents and writers. I assume you want Ace conferenced in?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“By the way, Samuel,” she continued as she punched in Ace’s number, “how did your meeting with the demigods go?”
His face darkened. “Don’t play games, Caro. You know. The entire room was subjected to a graphic history of my indiscretions, thanks to Togsy’s need to spice up his book.”
A baby wailing through the phone receiver silenced him, followed by Ace’s bushed voice as Caroline put him on speaker. “Squirt, for the love of…Caroline? Hi, sorry about that. This one’s got a temp of one-oh-one, but…oh nasty!…she won’t go to sleep. I can’t stay on the phone long.”
“We’ll jump right in, then.” She gave Samuel a tight smile. “I gather you’ve read BrownStoners. What’d you think?”
“I think the book can stand alone without filling it with tripe.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. As literature, it can. But in the marketplace? No way. Togsy’s a no-name without his dirt on you. No matter how good the book is, publishers won’t put their dollars into it unless it’s a guaranteed sell.”
“So you’re selling out,” Samuel said flatly.
“I prefer to call it being realistic.”
“You used to have more integrity.”
“Youthful idealism alone doesn’t get companies off the ground. You think I didn’t have to pull strings and insinuate some fierce house competition to get you published, Samuel? When I championed Water Sirens, I had Berkshire so worked up over another publisher swooping in, they gave you the ‘big name’ treatment and offered you an outlandish royalty percentage. Now that’s youthful idealism! And it paid off, for everyone.” She took a sip of coffee and cringed. “Sometimes you can be so naïve.”
That was harsh. I brushed the inside of Samuel’s wrist with my thumb, reminding him to stay calm.
Ace blew a stream of air into the receiver. “Ms. Ortega, what would it take to keep this book from being published? Think big…be idealistic.” I wondered if this was Ace’s prelude to the bribe Jerome had suggested.
“Nothing. It’s going to be published, Mr. Caulfield.”
“Would Lyle consider marketing it as fiction?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then we’re looking at some major revisions.” A child’s watery sniffling built in the background. “My client would like his name changed and the inflammatory information removed.”
“So, you’re basically asking for the same deal I gave Jerome.”
Silence flattened the room like a nuke bomb.
“Wait, what deal?” Ace asked.
Caroline grew smug. “I’m not surprised they didn’t inform you of my offer. I told Buitre if they left my fledgling agency alone, we’d clean up the unsavory details. We can change his name, too, but readers will still figure out who the character is.”
“You blackmaile
d them,” I breathed. “That’s borderline criminal.” And pretty genius.
“That’s the game, Kaye Trilby. My point is, you didn’t hear a word of it, did you? Know why? Because Buitre would rather crush any bit of competition than protect its clients. Even you, Million-Dollar Man. I drew up a contract, but they refused to sign it.”
“I’d like to see that,” Ace said.
“I’ll email it to you.” She swiveled her chair and fiddled with a laptop, rubbing tired eyes behind her glasses. “I really do give a damn about you, Samuel. But here’s the thing—Jerome Buitre is scum. The people who followed me out the door did so because they want a champion and weren’t getting it.” She shut the laptop. “So it’s not like they’ll be missed. But Jerome rejected my offer because he’s a greedy, power-hungry bastard. The prick said he could manage Mr. Cabral, Hollywood, and sink my new company with a twitch of his pinkie. I made their company.”
“You and Samuel,” I mumbled. Samuel said nothing.
“So Jerome refused to sign this,” Ace verified.
“Yes.” She passed a piece of paper to Samuel and me. Sure enough, it was an unsigned contract detailing a swap—hands off her company: Samuel painted in a better light. Obviously, there was no way to verify Caro’s story.
“I don’t know if I can believe you anymore, Caroline,” Samuel said quietly, voicing my very thoughts.
“You trust them over me?” Caroline tossed the file on her desk. “If I were you, I’d ditch The Buitre Group and find other representation.”
I snorted. “Who? You?”
“Please. I wouldn’t represent Samuel Cabral now, even if you threatened to drown me in Sofia’s vegetable soup. I’m telling you this for your own good. Because, despite the way things ended, I find I still care what happens to you.”
I wasn’t moved. “That’s great. You still give a damn about Samuel. So are you going to remove the controversial details about him from the book? Because I find I don’t give a damn whether Buitre takes you out or not.”
“You’re a tough little backwoods cookie, aren’t you?” Caro’s unpainted lips twisted. “Fine. I’m open to negotiations.”
I heard a whoop from Ace’s end, followed by an indignant baby shriek. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m willing to haggle it out line-by-line.”
Caro jotted something in a planner. “I’ll have my lawyer schedule several conference calls with you. I’m sure he’ll fold on half of it—he’s young and he’s cheap.” Translation: a spitfire.
The entire time the wheeling and dealing whipped back and forth, Samuel was silent. He sipped his coffee and bit his lower lip. I knew that look—the Cabral pout—because I’d seen it on his face since he was a fifty-pound runt and I’d pushed him into creeks. He was hurt. Betrayed. My heart broke a little for him.
Finally, he spoke. “Ace, do you mind if I have a word alone with Caroline?”
“Ah…yeah, sure, Sam,” Ace stuttered. “My kid just puked on my lap, anyway. No promises, no contracts, okay?”
“Fine.”
I rose and smoothed my creased pants. “I’ll just go peek at the paintings again, if that’s all right.”
Samuel squeezed my fingers. But Caroline…she held up a hand. “You two are still together, right?” We nodded. “Then Kaye should stay.”
“But it’s not business-related,” I said.
“All the more reason to hear what we have to say. If my daddy ever sent my mama out of the room so he could speak to another woman in private, he’d be sleeping on the couch for a week.”
Samuel gave her a small smile—the first bit of warmth since we walked through her door. Then he turned that gorgeous, repentant smile on me and pulled me back to the longue, entwining his fingers with mine. “I apologize to both of you for my disrespect. Now tell me the real reason you didn’t fill me in on your plans to break from Buitre. You know I would have supported you.”
Hard eyes gentled. “Because I couldn’t face you. I didn’t know how to tell you…”
“That you were planning to use my life as a bargaining chip to boost Togsy’s career?”
She pushed a black strand behind her ear. “It’s fair play. You shut me out to get back in Kaye’s good graces. I have to help Togsy publish his story. He called me. Said he missed me. He begged for my help—he’s kicked the drugs, goes to meetings, and is writing again. I was skeptical when I visited him earlier this summer—the week of your sister’s wedding? But then I read his book, and oh…I was so glad for him. You would be, too, Samuel.”
“I just don’t want him to use you,” he said kindly.
“Samuel,” she sighed, “you and I have been using each other for years. You’ve been my only friend in a backbiting industry where real friendship just doesn’t exist. I don’t know how we stuck it out so long. Maybe because you felt guilty over my split with Lyle.”
“I never meant to drive a wedge between the two of you. I’m so very sorry.”
She shook her head. “Despite his claims, it wasn’t your fault he jilted me. You gave him an easy out from a relationship he stayed in because of obligation instead of love.”
She rose from her chair and perched on the edge of her desk, across from Samuel. “We’ve pushed each other to succeed because that was all we had. I always knew, deep down, that I’d be sidelined if Kaye came back. I’m not going to lie—it hurt like hell. But you knew I’d do the same thing to you if I had a second shot with Lyle. So Togsy’s book? That’s me sidelining you.”
Samuel’s voice grew tellingly hoarse. “Fair enough. Next question: Why didn’t you tip off Togsy about my bipolar disorder?”
She shrugged. “We don’t have much left to give to each other; we’ve punched each other out. Consider my silence on the subject a parting gift.”
I jumped in. “But, Caroline, if you publish only half the story—the drugs and cheating but not the bipolar disorder—it will make Samuel look like a tool.”
“So, publish your own story.”
“Hydraulic Level Five?” Samuel was appalled, as if she’d suggested he release a homemade sex tape.
“What else? It’s one of your best. It’s not fantasy—it’s the real you.” Her eyes gleamed. “Your readers will adore you even more for it. I don’t think you realize how deeply your words reach into them, Samuel. This book will be your coup de grace.”
“I can’t publish it, Caro. I’ll be that author.”
“For a time. And then you’ll be that author who has record-breaking movies. Or that author who was on Ellen the other afternoon. The masses have a short memory. They’ll gossip about it, wait for you to go manic and rip Indigo’s Oscar out of her hands during her Water Sirens acceptance speech. When you don’t, they’ll commend you and move on.”
“I don’t know…” But he was caving. “I’ve told you before, it’s too personal. I’m writing it for myself and for Kaye, not millions of people.”
Caroline’s eyes burned. Not with anger or triumph in besting him, but something else. It dawned on me: she was proud of him.
It was then I saw what Samuel had always seen in Caroline Ortega, beauty queen from North Carolina. She cared about him. Yes, she was manipulative. She didn’t play fair. She was a hard-nosed bitch who went after what she wanted. But she tried to be a friend the only way she knew how—she pushed when others would not. Sometimes she pushed Samuel too hard, because she would rather have him hate her than watch his slow self-destruction. And he got that about her.
She got him, too, so she knew which trump to throw on the table.
“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Kaye. She’ll be bone-weary after a month of media cover-up, trust me.” Her eyes drifted to mine and locked. Understanding passed between us.
He held my hand, absently scuffing the area rug with his shoes. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 12
Hypoxia
Divers who spend too much time
in thin air and high altitudes
&nbs
p; will exhibit symptoms of intoxication,
such as a lack of judgment and clumsiness.
OUR NEXT MEETING WITH the “demigods,” as Caroline pegged them, played out like a choreographed Broadway number. Jerome performed a little shuffle when he asked if I’d prepped my client for Monday’s press interviews. “Naturally,” Samuel smoothly covered for me, though we hadn’t glanced at the talking points. A cadre of dancers figuratively swooped on-stage when we grimaced over Caroline’s stack of affidavits, including the indie singer, several of his grad school colleagues, and the cocaine-coated brunette who haunted my dreams. Thankfully, Indigo Kingsley’s people told Caroline to piss off.
But Jerome stole the spotlight in a thundering finale when he unveiled a fresh copy of Togsy’s book.
“I understand you were forced to obtain the book yourself, Ms. Trilby.” Reptilian fingers slithered over the binding. “I sincerely apologize for the delay.”
I flipped through the pages. It was identical to the copy I’d swindled from Berkshire House. Dang it, I’d hoped to catch him in the act. I was absolutely certain they’d been planning to tweak the hell out of the thing and cast Caroline as Hitler, but now there was no way to prove it. Lexi’s eyes were carefully lowered, and I realized she’d tipped off Jerome.
As we packed away laptops and files, Justin sauntered up. “So, what’s your boy planning to wear the ninth?”
After a grueling day of press interviews (to make up for Samuel’s canceled LA events), Buitre was hosting a swanky reception at the Boom Boom Room. It was a charity event for a New York arts foundation, given under the auspices of Buitre and its need to schmooze. According to Justin, Boom Boom was the jet set’s new Studio 54, had the toughest door in the city, and the PR giant was shelling out a fortune. Indigo Kingsley would also be there with her famous flowing hair and pouty lips, and you could bet the press would be more interested in whether Samuel fell to his knees and begged her to take him back than in his bestsellers. Incidentally, the big shindig also fell on my birthday. Yay.
“He’s wearing a suit, some number Caroline picked up for him in LA. Why, are you going to coordinate?” I teased.
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Page 26
