Coming to a stop in front of my garage door, I bend down to stretch, sucking in rattling gasps of air. Despite my asthma, I still run five days a week, but it took a long time to feel comfortable on these secluded side streets of Beverly Hills. I figure that six p.m. on a Sunday evening is about as safe as I’ll ever be, though I doubt I’ll ever feel perfectly secure anywhere on planet Earth again.
Just yesterday in the grocery store I nearly had one of my panic attacks when I noticed a guy staring at me. He had stringy long hair and beady eyes, and generally creeped me out, so I hurried past him, feigning interest in a row of paperbacks until I sensed that he had moved along. Later, he approached me in the checkout line and told me he watched About the House in reruns every day and loved it. “I’m a really big fan, Rebecca,” he told me in an oily voice, black eyes bulging wide. I just smiled and stared at the scorpion tattoo on his forearm.
Once upon a time, I dreamed about being recognized in public like that; thought it would be the benchmark of true success—although, admittedly, scorpion tattoos weren’t factored into that plan. Now all I want is complete anonymity. The syndication payments from the show are nice, but I wouldn’t mind giving them up—not if it meant watching the series slip below the pop-culture horizon and into permanent obscurity.
Even then, I wonder if it would ever really die, especially considering the rabid Internet base that still supports it. There’s fan fiction, multimedia outlets, and online sites that ask me for interviews every now and then, which I always politely decline. And of course all this ongoing devotion—combined with my self-imposed seclusion—only breeds more Rebecca O’Neill rumors. Theories that I’m actually dead, and the execs covered it up by settling some massive lawsuit with my family.
Precisely how this would benefit the studio, I’ve never been able to figure out. Sure, some intern in the production office tossed out the countless psycho Ben letters. We heard that in court. But I have no interest in establishing the studio’s culpability in my attack—especially after having endured all those court appearances associated with Ben’s lengthy trial.
Other rumors: that it was all just a publicity stunt, and I’m perfectly fine, living somewhere off the coast of France. That one sounds fairly appealing to me, but unfortunately someone’s always spotting me around town. Rebecca Sightings, that’s what they call them on the Internet message boards. Like last month when a woman apparently noticed me at my gym, then hightailed it back online to detail my entire workout routine. It’s plain unsettling to read a description of my recent weightlifting session as told by someone watching me from across the floor of Gold’s. And then she did four sets of overhead chest flies. She was really working hard! The scars don’t actually look as bad as we’ve been told by our sources…
Trevor tells me to stop trolling for this stuff, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve lived in this town long enough that I can’t entirely dismiss the rumor mill, and I guess that extends to the fan community. It’s not ego, although I do think it helps to have a healthy one if you want to make it in Hollywood. No, it’s morbid curiosity; the insatiable need to know what they’re saying about me now that I’m gone. They. The masses, the invisible people I can’t see, but who are always out there, peering in through the one-way glass at me. Who knows, maybe I want to be sure I’m not slowly cultivating a new Ben McAllister somewhere out in Middle America.
Bending low, I finish a deep stretch of my hamstrings, then reach into my shorts pocket for the garage-door opener. It’s the only way into my apartment, and I chose to live here after my recovery for that very reason. No more unsecured front entryway, where anyone might sneak up on me when I least expect it—and where I might just die.
Watching the slow, ruminative rise of the old door, I can practically feel the eyes of my landlady, Mona Malone, studying me from the main house. Mona never leaves her home, at least not very often. Ninety-two years old, she was one of the very late stars of the silent movies, and a legendary beauty at that. Now she spends her time regaling her bridge partners with tales of old Hollywood, and doing a really good imitation of Norma Desmond. I can only hope I’m as sharp and alive at her age, although hopefully not harboring quite so many regrets.
Mona also likes to advise me over her nightly martinis, which she sips poolside. “There are other plastic surgeons, Rebecca darling,” she’ll counsel. Or, “You should sell your story, if there’s someone offering. They won’t come around forever, you know.”
And there have been offers, believe me. Just imagine. A Lifetime Original: The Rebecca O’Neill Story. I don’t think so, thank you very much. That’s all I’d need to activate the next Ben-wannabe, the one I’m always afraid will emerge from the bushes of my life. When I was a girl back in Georgia, fantasizing about fame, I never once imagined the dark side of the dream. Now I often wonder how many stalkers Gavin de Becker must have. Weird, but I’m sure it’s true that the world’s greatest stalking expert has his own militant troop of crazies.
I dart into my garage, quickly lowering the door again, watching to be sure no one follows me, and then I jog up the small flight of stairs to my apartment. The phone is ringing, and I can’t help the hopeful flutter my heart gives at the sound—the wish that somehow, even now, it might be Michael. Of course he’d have called before the weekend, not waited until Sunday night. My head knows that; it’s getting my heart to listen that’s the problem. Clearly he misunderstood my hesitancy the other day, must have thought I wasn’t interested, when really I was just scared to let him get too close.
As I turn the key in the lock, the ringing ceases, and I sprint to check the caller ID box.
Oh crap.
Not Michael, no. Dang it all if it isn’t Jake Slater—even after such a long time, I still know that cell phone number by heart.
I lift the receiver, already checking to see if a voice mail has registered, and then the phone rings again, beeping through my call waiting. That’s so Jake. Ever the actor, he can never get his voice mail right in a single take.
Clicking over, I answer. I’m already working to project my displeasure with him that he’s phoning me after all this time. What is it now, more than a year since we last spoke? Almost three years since he dumped me?
“Uh, Rebecca?” comes the deep, rumbling voice, understandably confused by my cranky tone. Not Jake.
“Yes?” Panicked, I glance down at the caller ID box, which might have been a smart thing to do in the first place. Alexander Richardson. Interesting—he hasn’t changed the billing name yet.
“It’s Michael. Michael Warner?” His throaty voice turns up at the end, a question mark, as if he thinks I might have forgotten him already.
“Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”
“You must not like him very much.” I hear the smile in his voice; sense him easing into our usual warm repartee, but this time I’m determined to resist his charms. After all, couldn’t he have called before now? It’s been almost a week, enough time that I’d practically written him off. I don’t want to be the B-roll of anyone’s love life, not even Beautiful Bisexual Boy.
“So what’s going on?” I answer, cool. Making sure he knows I plan to keep this phone call right on track.
Instead, I’m surprised to hear his thoughtful exhalation of breath, and then, “I’m not sure, Rebecca. Wish I were.” His voice is quiet, notably heavy, and all my anger evaporates in the face of his honesty.
“Tell me what you mean,” I encourage, moving toward the sink to fill my water bottle.
“Oh.” He gives an agreeable laugh. “Just been a tough weekend, that’s all.”
“Well that tells me next to nothing.” There’s silence, and I think I hear birds and a lawnmower in the background on his end. “You’re outside.”
“Yeah, on the deck. Watching the sun disappear into the hills.”
“Okay, but please just tell me you’re not going to become That Guy.”
“Which guy?”
“The one who ca
lls me whenever he gets a little moody and sad,” I tease, hoping to make him laugh.
“Nah, I’m more like the guy who doesn’t call for a week.”
“Oh, so you’re admitting that, Mr. Warner?”
“Yeah, and you were pissed,” he says, as I chug deep gulps of water. “Weren’t you?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did you want me to be?”
“Maybe. ’Cause if you were, then I could stop thinking about you so damn much,” he answers with a soft chuckle. “But like most of my plans, guess it didn’t quite work out that way.”
“You know, something tells me you’re a very easy man to forgive.” And I mean it. He’s such a gentle, warm guy that I’m finding it impossible to stay angry.
“I have been thinking about you, Rebecca,” he answers. “A lot more than I probably should have been. But it’s just hard. Figuring things out right now.”
I’m sure it is hard trying to cope without the love of his life, to understand what that means for his family. No wonder this strange dance between the two of us is so baffling to him; it’s baffling enough to me.
I want to tell him that he’s all I’ve thought about for the past week. That he’s invaded my day thoughts, my night thoughts, my dream thoughts. Instead, I practically whisper into the receiver, “You know, you could tell me why it’s been such a hard weekend. Considering that I’d like to forgive you.”
“Would you consider coming over?”
“Now?”
“I could give you the long-form explanation that way,” he says. “Versus the short form that might only get me a tiny pardon.”
“Who’s cooking?” I’m already mentally clicking off ingredients for a pasta dish. Ground turkey, tortellini, cilantro…
“Domino’s,” he answers decisively. “So we can be together, not dividing our time with the kitchen.”
Why do I get the feeling that Michael Warner is a man rarely prone to backing down from things once he’s made up his mind about them? And more importantly, why do I sense that in some crucial way, he might be beginning to make up his mind about me?
Too bad I remembered that dang voice mail from Jake, because otherwise my mood would be dreamy perfect after my phone call from Michael. Unfortunately, I do remember, and listening to Jake’s smooth Hollywood voice sours my improved humor just a little.
“Uh, Rebecca, hey. Jake. How are you?” I towel off my face, still dripping with sweat from the run. “It’s been too long, you know. I’ve been thinking about you… bumped into Cat down at The Derby the other night. She says you’re doing great.” He pauses, and there’s the muffled sound of him covering the receiver to talk to someone else. “Yeah, so listen, it’s been too long, and we need to do something about that, so call me back. You know the number.” Click. Not goodbye or see you later, Rebecca, or anything. Just a dial tone.
Oh, so very, very Jake.
Standing there in the kitchen afterwards, I’m not sure what to feel. My heart rate is wild, and too many old emotions have risen to the surface in the space of a moment, but even worse? Some small part of my heart hopes Jake finally misses me.
And some even smaller part of me also wants to believe that he finally regrets breaking my heart like he did, dumping me flat on my ass two weeks after I left the hospital, my face and career ruined. My body torn and broken, in need of countless months of physical therapy and operations that would never fully do the trick. Now, even three years later, I’m still stunned that he chose that exact moment to drop me because dating me was no longer advantageous to his career. Especially for that booby blonde who was just waiting to slide into my leading role on my hit prime-time television show. And into my boyfriend’s cozy bed.
Huh. Moments like this, and I realize I’m really a Georgia girl—not a savvy jaded California one. Otherwise, there’s no accounting for the naive optimism that a single call from Jake Slater can elicit.
Because despite everything I logically know, I can’t help it: I still wonder why he’s calling, especially after all this time.
***
Pulling into Michael’s driveway, I’m struck again by the beauty of his bungalow. I love the old 1930s style architecture of these houses in Studio City. There’s something wonderfully charming about them, something reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage, or The Three Little Bears. Then again, maybe I really did spend too much time in those fairy tales as a child; you can blame my mother the librarian for that.
I approach the house, studying the climbing vines along the steps, when suddenly I notice little Andrea sitting on the stoop, shoulders hunched, just watching me. I give her a warm wave, and she lifts her small hand tentatively in greeting as I walk up the driveway.
“Hey!” I call to her brightly, and she rises to her feet.
“Careful,” she admonishes, and I’m not sure what she means until she points down at the walkway beneath my thong sandals, and I come to a dead stop immediately. There’s a vibrant design scrawled across the stone steps in pastel chalk. “Wow!” I say, staring at the ground in amazement. “Did you make that?”
She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sundress, shyly nodding her head. “It’s a picture of my grandma’s house.” I cock my head sideways, trying to piece it all together, because the image is divided across a series of steppingstones, strung together like a haphazard jewel necklace.
“Show me what each part is.”
With her pale hand, she gestures to one flagstone. “This is her big front porch,” she explains softly. “With the rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets. That’s her cat, Doldrums.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes bright and dancing. “My daddy named him that when he found him.”
That tells me so much about Alex’s sense of humor that I have to smile myself as I settle on the bottom step and listen as Andrea describes the whole house to me, every detail from the mansard roof to the wedding-cake latticework. It’s unbelievable to me that an eight-year-old could be quite so capable with a simple set of sidewalk chalk, and I tell her so.
She stares at the stones, twirling a shiny lock of red hair around her finger. “Well, we were just there, and all. In Santa Cruz, where my grandma lives.”
“Santa Cruz?” Michael’s “disappearance” over the past week is becoming much more clear to me.
Andrea turns away, reaching for a gray piece of chalk. I’m not sure I hear her right, as she bends over her picture and whispers, “My daddy died yesterday.”
My body stiffens and I want to say something. Anything at all, but I’m frozen, afraid of sending her scurrying away. This must be how Michael feels around her all the time. But I get brave. “So you went to your grandma’s house,” I venture cautiously, and she bobs her head.
“And we went to Daddy’s grave yesterday.”
“How did that feel?”
She stands, brushing off her hands, and gesturing toward her picture. “Look, all done.”
“I’m absolutely impressed. It’s beautiful.”
“You should see my Aunt Laurel’s paintings.” She mops her brow as she studies her own handiwork. “They’re great. We used to have some, but Michael took them all down after Daddy died.” My curiosity piques at that statement, but I’m smart enough not to ask.
I’m also smart enough to realize that she’s never going to answer my question about visiting Alex’s grave, so instead I suggest, “Let’s go find Michael and tell him I’m here, okay?”
She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to her, and slips right past the step where I’m sitting. For a few moments a bridge had formed, but it’s retracted just as quickly, which gives me a brief glimpse of one reason Michael stays in so much pain.
Venturing into their home, there’s no sign of anyone; only the chilly sensation of air conditioning and late-day shadows. Andrea must have vanished into her bedroom, so I call out, “Michael?” but there’s no answer. Wandering through the living room, I spy him sitting on the back deck, staring thoughtfully up into
the mountains. Rough weekend. Talk about an understatement, I think, seeing exhaustion in his dark features. Then, feeling guilty for staring at him when he’s unaware, I urge the sliding glass door open. He glances up with a start, and flashes a dimpled smile as he stands to greet me.
“Didn’t expect you so soon,” he announces a little too cheerily, and I know that his good humor is forced on my account.
“Oh.” I wrap arms around myself. “Is that bad? Sorry.”
“No, no, not bad,” he rushes, taking a step toward me. “Just lost track of time, I guess.”
One glance at his wardrobe and I can see that he showered and dressed for my arrival. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt and nicely pressed khakis this time—the first occasion I’ve seen him out of blue jeans, and he’s absurdly handsome, with his dark looks and boyish smile. His hair’s still wet, too, curling slightly where he’s combed it along his nape. It’s obvious that if he’d let it grow, the curls would get out of hand, and I itch to lift my fingers and stroke the damp hair. To lean up onto my tiptoes and kiss him hello, right on his sandpapery cheek.
“I love your outfit,” he remarks, glancing at my sundress and denim jacket getup, one I lingered over nearly forever before walking out the door tonight. “Very Reese Witherspoon, gotta say.”
I wave him off dismissively, feeling embarrassed that he’s putting the focus on me. “Oh, it is so not.” But I’m still smiling inside and out, and he sees it.
He takes another step even closer. “Most people would consider that a compliment, Ms. O’Neill,” he says, voice whiskey-deep. “She’s blonde, she’s hot. You do the math.”
Swallowing hard, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, staring at my sandals. I’m about to joke that I might prefer a Naomi Watts comparison when the side gate to the deck opens unexpectedly, startling me until I realize it’s the Domino’s guy. “Hey, Jose,” Michael greets him warmly, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. No surprise that my single guy is on a first-name basis with the pizza man.
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