“You know her.”
It wasn’t a question, so Zander didn’t answer. Keeping one hand in the pocket of his black leather motorcycle jacket, he raked the other through his hair. It had been Olivia’s idea to strip it of some of its color. She’d been convinced—correctly—that lighter hair would make his eyes appear more intense. Five years later, he still wasn’t quite used to it. There were times when he caught his reflection and saw a stranger.
After yesterday’s press conference, he had accepted the fact that he was looking at a stranger every time he caught his reflection.
“She certainly seemed to know you, Zander,” Olivia said.
She hadn’t raised her voice above her usual conversational purr, but Zander knew that she was worried. Concerned, rather. In the years she’d represented him, Olivia had never worried about anything.
“A crisis is merely a problem for which one is ill-prepared,” she’d told him early on in their relationship. “I’m always prepared.”
Zander doubted that Olivia was prepared for the appearance of Faith Wheeler. He certainly hadn’t been, although he thought he had played off his initial reaction very well. His carefully cultivated image would have taken a dramatic hit if he had passed out from the shock of seeing her.
Even thinking about her now, his knees weakened, and he might have actually slumped against the windowed wall if he hadn’t caught himself.
The past decade had been more than kind to Faith. She still had the silky skin that always put him in the mind of hot cocoa with just the right amount of marshmallows melted into it. He hadn’t recognized her voice at first. The shrill, native cry of the story-hunting reporter was nothing like the voice he would hear in his deepest, most vivid dreams over the years.
If warm honey had a voice, it would sound like Faith.
“She writes for Personality!,” Olivia said, pulling him from his reverie. “She took the job there close to two years ago after spending the prerequisite time at daily papers in New York City and Chicago and stringing for a few rags in San Francisco and Los Angeles. She graduated from New York University with a master’s degree in journalism, and although she comes from money, she earned a partial scholarship and paid for her schooling herself.”
Her information had no effect on Zander. So far, Olivia hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already Googled himself.
“Her father, Justus Wheeler, is something of a self-made millionaire, having purchased the Duchess Waverly Coal Company in Dorothy, West Virginia, with part of the fortune he made after Proctor & Gamble bought the patents for two household detergents he developed. Justus renamed the mine for his wife, calling it the Lady Emiline Coal Corporation.”
The admiration with which Olivia recited Mr. Wheeler’s accomplishments increased when she spoke about his wife. “Emiline Wheeler was a stay-at-home mother who now fills her days with volunteer work at a hospital and an assisted-living facility in Raleigh County. She also chaired a committee that supported the Mine Improvement and New Emergency Response Act a few years ago. I’ll bet that made for a few chilly nights in the Wheeler bedroom.”
Zander threw one of his characteristic dark looks at Olivia, who seemed proud of the reaction she had elicited.
“You knew her. Before?”
“Before…” Zander repeated. “Before” was Olivia’s name for the time preceding their meeting, and it encompassed the entirety of his true history, not the one Olivia had manufactured.
“Yes,” he said, “I knew her before.”
Neither Zander nor Olivia reacted when her door flew open and Brent rushed in. Where Zander and Olivia were two versions of the same type of reserved composure, Brent was all color, hurry and noise.
Olivia’s preference for wintry pastels had not been passed on to her son. Perhaps in response to her aversion to color, he always wrapped himself in it from head to toe. Impeccably dressed in the custom-tailored clothing he favored, he looked like a macaw on an ice floe when he stepped into his mother’s office.
“I thought you were going to wait for me,” Brent said to his mother, taking a seat in one of two white leather chairs facing her desk.
Zander pinched back a smile as he watched Olivia’s pale eyes scan her only child.
Brent’s short hair with its razor-sharp right-side part was a few shades darker than Olivia’s, but still lighter than it would have been if he spent less time on his surfboard and more in a temperature-controlled office like his mother’s. Everything about Brent was Southern California—his sun-bleached hair, perfect teeth and the surfer physique he kept dressed in every style from avant-garde Japanese couture to classically tailored Armani and Calvin Klein. Brent had the looks and charm to succeed in Hollywood as an actor. But he didn’t have the heart. In fact, he had too much, although it had taken Zander a while to realize it.
He had been in the middle of a session with a dialect coach when Brent, freshly graduated from the University of Southern California, had bounded into his mother’s study.
“Another one of Olivia’s strays?” he had asked the coach in a tone that had made Zander self-conscious about his worn-out work boots and the crescents of auto grease that seemed permanently imbedded under his nails. “I hope this one is housebroken,” Brent had added.
Zander had approached him, and perfectly mimicking his coach’s Australian accent, he said, “You must be Ms. Baxter’s pampered, pedigreed poodle of a son.”
Weeks of traded insults eventually formed the foundation of a fast friendship. Brent had come to respect Zander’s talent, particularly his chameleon-like ability to fully inhabit his characters, becoming them so convincingly that even veteran actors with whom he worked were impressed. And Zander had come to admire Brent’s determination to carve a niche of his own in Hollywood rather than coast on the reputation his mother had spent most of his life building. He was his mother’s equal when it came to business, which was perhaps why he opted to call her by her first name in all business matters.
Exceptional business acumen was all the mother and son had in common. They were as different in personality and dress as a spark is from a snowflake.
Brent’s light jacket was as red as fresh arterial blood, and Zander remembered Brent’s joy at its arrival from Japan, where artisans had hand spun the cashmere thread used to make the fabric. His black collared shirt was vintage GAP and his resin-rinsed blue jeans were Marithé+Girbaud. His shoes, though, were the conversation piece, and by the way he slowly set his right ankle on his left knee, Zander knew that Brent was waiting for someone to notice them.
Olivia did the honors. “Son,” she began evenly, “did you skin Bart Simpson to have those shoes made?”
“That’s an awful thing to say, Olivia,” Brent chuckled.
Zander thought Olivia’s question was fair. Brent’s latest kicks looked like they had been cobbled by a master but dyed by Dr. Seuss. Most of the upper was dark mustard-yellow leather; the outer side of the vamp was blue and the inner side was the same bright bloody red as his jacket.
“Italians,” Olivia sighed, shaking her head.
“So how are we going to handle Faith Wheeler?” Brent asked, turning their attention from his wardrobe to business.
Zander turned his attention to mother and son. “What do you mean, ‘handle?’ ” he asked. “You sound like you’re planning to put a hit out on her.”
“I hope it won’t come to that, but I certainly can’t rule it out,” Olivia said blithely, slowly rising from her chair. “With one Personality! headline, that pretty little minx could undo an image it took me years to craft and destroy a product perched on the edge of superstardom. I won’t have it all ruined because of some reporter trying to make a name for herself.”
“Faith isn’t like that,” Zander said.
“So you do know her,” Brent remarked. “Mom pulled her bio. What else can you tell us about her?”
It had been years since Zander last felt the urge to flee an uncomfortable situation, but the old i
nstinct flared as he contemplated the best way to answer Brent’s question. If he would at all.
Zander absently switched places with Olivia, moving closer to her desk while she went to the bar near the office door. He let the majestic sight of the mountains carry him to another one in another time, a dying mountain overlooking a terminal town on the opposite side of the country.
* * *
Marsh Spring really didn’t have a chance, not with quarterback Rafe Hatchett at the helm for Dorothy. As if playing in the shadow of Kayford Mountain didn’t make the Marsh Spring Cardinals feel small enough, with a full quarter left to play, the Lincoln Black Bears of Dorothy led them by twenty-four points. Ordinarily, Black Bears coach Hiram Benton would not have run up the score, but the annual Thanksgiving Day game between Lincoln and archrival Marsh Spring was one of the few games that drew scouts from major collegiate football programs.
Rafe was having a good season, and a good “Turkey Bowl” performance was sure to earn him a four-year ticket out of Dorothy.
From the far end of the uppermost bleacher bench, Alex watched the game. Even though most of the town had turned out for it, Alex still managed to isolate himself. He was the only spectator dressed in black instead of Lincoln’s gold and blue on the sunny but chilly November morning.
His shoulders hunched against the cold in his worn and scarred motorcycle jacket, he rested his elbows on his knees. The smoke from the Marlboro pinched between his thumb and forefinger curled upward, mingling with his condensed breath to shroud his head and shoulders. His right knee bounced as if he were apprehensive over the outcome of the game.
Alex could not have cared less about the game. He’d come to watch Faith.
She seemed immune to the frigid air blowing off the mountain, although in deference to it, she and her cheermates were outfitted in their winter uniforms—fitted, long-sleeved jerseys in Dorothy’s colors of gold and blue—and blue skirts trimmed in gold with white spanky pants underneath.
Faith wasn’t head cheerleader, but she certainly stood out most. Her ballet training softened the stiffness of some of the signature cheerleading moves. A little punch of a shoulder when she raised her arms for the “V, V-I-C” half of the Victory cheer, followed by a saucy shift of a hip when she twirled into the V-I-C-T-O-R-Y part set her performance apart from the more robotic movement of her fellows. Even her tumbling moves were as elegant as they were powerful, and Alex wanted to applaud along with everyone else after she completed a roundoff-backhandspring-back tuck tumbling pass that was so polished, even Marsh Spring fans cheered.
She bounded back to the cheerleaders’ bench afterward, her smile warming the chilly Thanksgiving Day.
Alex had no idea what was happening on the field, but he could have provided a detailed play-by-play of Faith’s every smile, laugh, shiver and wave. The other cheerleaders had an eerie sameness—blue eyes, strawberries-and-cream complexions, and blonde or light brown hair pulled into severe ponytails adorned with blue and gold ribbon curls.
Faith was the one true individual among them, her fuller figure and distinctive hair setting her apart. The cheerleaders sat on their bench with their backs to the bleachers, and it was impossible for an onlooker’s eyes not to pause at the head of spiral curls in the middle of the bench. Untethered by satin ribbons, Faith’s curls bounced with her laughter and danced in the cold breeze. The ponytails on the other girls looked like dead things compared to the liveliness of Faith’s curls, which caught the sunlight and gleamed in a spectrum of browns ranging from dark gold to sienna.
All the cheerleaders were about five and a half feet tall and probably no more than a hundred and twenty pounds, but Faith seemed taller because she stood straighter, her hair giving her another several inches over the other girls. Her arms and legs seemed longer and certainly more graceful. As easy as thought, she lifted her right leg in a high kick that left Alex blushing.
A wolf whistle forced Alex’s attention from Faith to the group of young men sitting nearest him. They were natives, Dorothy High alumni home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Alex recognized all three of them because they had graduated in the same class.
The thought made him chuckle. Socially, he wasn’t in the same class. Justus Wheeler was the richest man in Raleigh County, but the three guys leering at the cheerleaders and whispering about them were the offspring of Dorothy’s few well-to-do families. Leland Birch, Travis Gates and Ritchie Platt had gone on to college—Leland and Ritchie to Montgomery University and Travis to Mountain Valley Bible College. Of all his classmates, these three were his least favorites.
“Al Brannon,” Leland said enthusiastically, displaying a smile crammed with crooked yellow teeth. “Man, what is up?” He held his hand up and out and waited for Alex to slap him a high five.
Alex left him hanging.
Leland lowered his hand and returned it to the pocket of his plaid flannel hunting jacket. He exchanged a shifty glance with Ritchie before he said, “Been keepin’ the home fires burning, man? I hear you’re working at Red Irv’s.”
“Brody’s,” Travis chimed in. “Uncle Brody says Al’s the best he’s got in the shop.”
“Good game today, Al,” Ritchie added. “Scenery’s not bad either.”
“I’d tackle that curly-headed Black Bear in a red hot second,” Leland said. He pointed a gloved finger at the cheerleader’s bench, where Faith was sipping a steaming beverage from an insulated Dorothy Black Bears bomber cup clutched in her mittened hands.
“Faith Wheeler,” Ritchie said, following up with a lascivious grunt. “Talk about hot cocoa. I wonder if she’ll be at any of the parties tonight.”
“Your dad would shoot you if he caught you with Justus Wheeler’s daughter,” Leland laughed.
“Justus Wheeler would shoot you if he caught you with Justus Wheeler’s daughter,” Travis retorted.
“Hey, Al,” Ritchie called, “is Faith Wheeler with anybody these days?”
With deliberate slowness, Alex took out another cigarette and lit it. By the time he’d taken his second draw on it, the college boys had figured out that he had no answer or just plain wasn’t going to answer.
“Dot’s a small town, Al,” Leland said. “Between the diner and the ding shop, you gotta know everybody’s business. Who’s Faith screwing? Jefferson Winslow?”
“I’ll bet she’s doin’ Hardy Ketchum,” Ritchie said. “He’s a senior, he’s always had game and he’s got a thing for black girls. Remember when he got busted last year, driving ninety miles an hour into Comfort to see that black girl at Stonewall High?”
“He got some comfort, all right!” Leland laughed. “I’ve got a thing for hot girls, and little Faith Wheeler’s all grown up and fine! I’m gonna talk to her after the game.”
Alex made a sound that was something between a laugh and a snort.
“Something funny to you, man?” Leland asked coolly.
“I’m just minding my own business,” Alex said through a long exhalation of smoke.
“Ignore him,” Ritchie said.
Leland lowered his voice, and muttered something to his friends, who laughed. “…loser…”
Up until that word reached his ears, Alex had been able to ignore them. “What did you say?” he asked, his eyes pinned on Leland.
“Nothing, man,” Travis said quickly. He put a hand on Leland’s shoulder. “Come on, guys, let’s show the Black Bears some support.”
Travis began clapping, and other spectators joined in, but Leland was still trying to win a staredown with Alex.
“I said you’re a loser, Al,” he taunted. “I thought you were rock bottom in high school, but you’re even more of a loser now. I’d kill myself if the highlight of my life was watching high school girls cheer at a football game.”
“Guys, it’s freezing out here,” Travis said, again putting his hand on Leland’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to my house and catch a game on television.”
Leland shook off Travis’s hand. “I was never scared
of this stupid thug in high school and I’m not scared of him now.” Sneering at Alex, he said, “What are you doing for dinner today, Al? Gonna get drunk with your pa over a bowl of corn nuts at Buzzy’s Tavern? Or are you gonna be taking your ma to the vet’s office in Charleston to get stitched up, like last year?”
Ritchie snickered, pretending to hide it behind his hand.
“Quit it, Leland,” Travis urged. “We’re not in school anymore.”
Alex calmly ground out the butt of his cigarette under the heel of his heavy black boot. “I never beat your ass for you in school because I didn’t want to get expelled. You might want to listen to your buddy Travis, because he’s right. We’re not in school anymore.”
Leland laughed. Ritchie scooted a safe distance from him, no longer amused. Travis continued appealing to Leland, looking anxiously from his friend to Alex.
“I’m not scared of Alexander Brannon,” Leland announced, drawing the attention of their nearest bleacher mates. “What’re you gonna do, Al? If you lay a hand on me, I’ll have you arrested for assault.”
“Dang it, Leland, can we all just watch the game in peace?” Travis pleaded.
Throwing off Travis’s hand, Leland stood and approached Alex. Leaning over him, he jabbed a finger at Alex and ranted, “I’m not backing down from Al Brannon. What’s he gonna do in front of all these people? Nothing! A loser like—”
Leland’s fingertip brushed Alex’s forehead, and Alex heard nothing past that moment. The sudden rush of blood to his ears deafened him to Leland’s taunts, the roar of the crowd cheering Rafe’s latest touchdown pass and Travis’s attempts to pull Leland back.
Alex’s left fist was connecting with Leland’s jaw before Alex even knew what he was doing. His blow sent Leland hurtling over the back of the bleachers, and his momentum carried him after him, and both young men fell eight feet to the frozen ground. On his hands and knees, Leland tried to scramble away, but Alex grabbed his ankle and yanked him back, flipping him over. Straddling him, Alex let his fists speak for him, finally answering every taunt, jeer and joke that Leland and others like him had subjected him to from kindergarten right up to this moment. Every derogatory comment hurled at him about his mother, every nasty comment about his father, even the pity from people like Travis was answered with a blow to Leland’s head and face.
Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) Page 4
