by Thea Dawson
He thought of his dad, who’d probably never made more than forty thousand dollars in a year … who hadn’t lived to see his own success, let alone his son’s.
He blinked back a few tears, glad that he had his sunglasses on, as he clenched his jaw.
“Chris!”
He turned around instinctively at the sound of his name.
“Chris!” shouted someone. “Who’s the new girl?”
“Is Vanessa jealous?”
The flash of a camera was quickly followed by several more as Chris was swiftly surrounded by more than a dozen people, all with phones or cameras. His jaw tightened.
“C’mom, Chris, give us a smile!” shouted a young blond woman.
Chris could see his car only a few yards away and cursed himself for not parking in the station’s parking garage.
“What do you think about the reaction to Galactic Crusaders?” yelled a blogger whom Chris had encountered before. He was a nerdy but aggressive guy who reminded Chris of one of those yappy little dogs who get their teeth into your pants leg and refuse to let go.
“How much money are you going to make on the back-end deal?” yelled someone else.
Chris stopped and gave the small crowd a tight smile. “Look, get a photo if you need to, but no questions today, ’kay? I’ve got a flight to catch.”
“Are you heading to Portland?” shouted the blonde reporter.
Her question was all but drowned out in the flood of other questions and comments. By now the reporters had attracted the attention of dozens of passers-by, too, who had pulled out phones and were trying to get pictures of their own. Chris looked around, trying to suppress his growing agitation.
Yappy Dog Guy took a step closer, elbowing the blonde girl out of the way. He snapped a couple of pictures before leering at Chris. “Tell us more about Joy Albright! Old flame? New flame? Just a little arm candy for the weekend?”
Chris felt his blood pressure mounting. Fortunately, a pair of cops were striding down the street toward the commotion. With any luck, they’d break it up quickly. “I just said no questions. If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my flight.”
He took a step forward but Yappy Dog stepped in front of him and grabbed him by the arm. A surge of anger rose in Chris. He tried to tug his arm away, but the guy held tight.
“Apparently, Ms. Albright was involved in a sex scandal at Falls State University about a year and a half ago. Would you care—”
Chris punched him in the face.
Joy had fallen asleep on the flight and still felt slightly groggy as she walked down the skybridge, past the gate and out into Portland International Airport. She had just passed a coffee shop in the security area and half-regretted that she hadn’t stopped for an iced Americano, but if she had one at this time of the day, she wouldn’t sleep that night.
And she was looking forward to a restful night. She already missed Chris, but she’d have him back tomorrow. In the meantime, she was looking forward to some space to process the weekend.
She was in a relationship. A smile spread across her face as she made her way through the throngs of people toward the exit.
A passionate, friendly, fun relationship, with a guy she really liked.
No, this had to be more than like, didn’t it?
Was she falling in love? Was that what this giddy, nervous feeling was, this feeling that her heart was too light for her body? Yeah, maybe …
The smile widened.
The sky outside was a warm orange, and she fished her sunglasses out of her purse in anticipation of needing them as soon as she was out of the airport. Pulling her suitcase beside her she walked past the ticket agent desks and was making for the escalator that would take her to the sky walk and the parking lot. Suddenly she heard someone calling her name. She looked around, not seeing anyone she recognized and took off her sunglasses in order to see better.
Almost instantly, she was surrounded.
Cameras flashed and clicked. People shouted her name and blocked her way. She had a moment of sheer terror—why would the press be after her unless something terrible had happened? Was Charlotte hurt? Was Chris? Visions of armed gunmen, campus shootings, earthquakes and fires ran across her mind.
Then she began to catch what they were saying.
“Why was he in such a bad mood?”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“Joy, what’s your take on the arrest?”
“Has he ever hit you?”
A different kind of fear seized her, along with at anger at these strangers for blocking her way and making her think someone had been killed.
Arrest? Who—Chris? Why? What had he done? And what did it have to do with her?
She jammed her sunglasses on her face and pushed through the small throng. “No comment. No comment,” she repeated, trying to sound forceful.
Abandoning hope of walking directly to her car, she pushed her way outside and quickly crossed the street to the median where taxis waited. Walking straight to the nearest one, she dove inside as quickly as possible, dragging her suitcase in behind her.
“Where to, ma’am?” asked the cheerful cabby.
“Long-term parking lot, please.”
“You could just walk—”
“Please!”
The cabby shrugged, then noticed the throng of reporters lining the sidewalk, still trying to snap photos of Joy. He studied her in the rearview mirror. “You famous or something?”
She shook her head. “No, I—they mistook me for someone famous. They’re kind of crazy. Could we go?”
“Yeah, sure.” He put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic. “Who did they think you are?”
“I’m not sure,” Joy mumbled, trying not to look out the window as the crowd of reporters fell behind them.
The cab driver’s eyes flicked between her reflection and the road. “You look kinda like that Desperate Housewives lady.”
“Who? Eva Longoria?”
“Yeah, that’s her. You could be her twin almost, just with darker hair. I bet that’s who they thought you were.” He gave her a satisfied nod in the mirror.
She paid $20 for a three-minute cab ride. He would have given her change, but she was in too much of a hurry to get to her own car. Anyway, he deserved a tip for getting her away from the reporters and telling her she looked like Eva Longoria, she thought wryly.
After she was safely away from the airport, she pulled off the highway into a service area and checked her phone.
She hadn’t thought earlier to take it out of airplane mode. Nothing from Chris, but there were several texts from Charlotte, one with a link to a celebrity gossip blog. From what she could tell, Chris had been arrested at LAX for punching a reporter in the face.
That idiot! What was he thinking? How could he go from being so sweet and gentle and charming when he said goodbye to her at the airport, then barely an hour later apparently go berserk and get in a fistfight?
Though from the article and the accompanying photos, it hadn’t been a fight so much as Chris clocking a guy who looked to be about half his size.
She groaned. What would happen to Chris? To the play? To the—damn it, the fundraiser! Would he be able to get back in time?
And—she felt selfish even thinking about it—what would happen to her? To Charlotte? Would there be reporters camped out at her house?
She called Charlotte, who, to her relief, assured her that no one had come to the house or bothered her.
“But, Mom, what’s going on? Were you there when he hit the guy? Do you know why he did it? Will he be back in time for the silent auction?”
Joy shook her head even though Charlotte couldn’t see her. “I don’t know. I have no idea,” she murmured, hardly aware of what she was saying. “I’ll be home in about an hour. We’ll … figure it out then.”
27
“Sherri’s going to pitch a fit.”
Noel sounded despondent. Despite being a highly successful film agent,
he was terrified of Sherri.
Chris didn’t blame him. He was, too. Noel’s tone reflected his own mood, which was bleak.
It was late the next day and Noel was driving him back to his car, but the laws of physics were against him. A night of self-recrimination had turned into a day of agonized impatience as he’d watched the hours tick past. Noel had bailed him out as soon as he’d been able to, but nothing else had gone smoothly. Between being transported to the police station, waiting to be booked by the short-staffed department, spending most of the night in a cell before Noel got there, conducting an impromptu press conference with his lawyer, Jonah, just outside the jail, then being forced by said lawyer to go over his legal options, the day was pretty much shot. He now faced a 45-minute drive to LAX to catch a plane that wasn’t leaving until 4:35. Unless he could figure out time travel, he had no chance of getting to Silverweed Falls on time for the auction.
He’d texted Joy multiple times, asked if she could postpone the auction even by an hour. When she’d failed to return his messages, he’d texted Simon, then resorted to Luke and Charlotte.
It was Luke who finally got back to him.
We’re cancelling. Stay safe.
He slumped lower in the passenger seat. “Thanks for bailing me out earlier, Noel.”
Noel sighed. “You’re not the first client I’ve bailed out of jail.”
“I hope I didn’t ... wreck your day or anything.”
“No biggie. I’m used to late lunches.” Noel was silent for a moment. “Anyway, I talked to Jonah. I guess he went over your options with you. Sounds like with any luck, he’ll be able to talk Brogan into dropping the charges—”
“You mean pay him off.” This was pretty much what Jonah had told him, too.
“Exactly. Which he’ll probably go along with because he makes a living stalking celebrities and his readers will hate him if he starts putting them behind bars. At worst, it’s a misdemeanor, and if we can get Brogan to drop the charges, then we’re in the clear.”
Chris looked out the window at the sinking sun.
He was not in the clear.
The Jill and James Cooperton Room was more often known simply as the Coop.
It occupied the top floor of the university’s administration building and had a grand view of the entire campus spread below it. It was a popular spot for wedding receptions and other special events.
Joy had met the Coopertons on a couple of occasions. They had graduated from Falls State almost 50 years earlier; Mrs. Cooperton had inherited a small fortune, and Mr. Cooperton and turned it into a much larger one. Together, they had made several significant contributions to the university.
Mrs. Cooperton was sweet and a bit daft, while Mr. Cooperton was courtly and rather pompous, but the times that Joy had met them, she’d been struck with how much they seemed to enjoy each other’s company, even after being married for five decades. Mr. Cooperton always jumped at the chance to show his wife small courtesies like taking her coat and holding her chair, and Mrs. Cooperton never failed to reward him with an expression of delighted gratitude.
Imagine being married all that time and still being so charmed by each other, Joy thought. She stood in front of the enormous windows of the Coop that overlooked the quad, watching the sun fade behind the mountains.
Would Mr. Cooperton have ever punched a reporter and thereby wrecked one of Mrs. Cooperton’s fundraising events?
She doubted it very much.
She was now in the last stages of damage control. The sympathetic special event coordinator had promised a refund on the unopened bottles of wine, but couldn’t do anything about the food that was already prepared or the deposit for the room. With Charlotte’s help, Joy had packed up the food and put it into her car; the food bank wouldn’t take unpackaged food, but perhaps it could be a snack at the next rehearsal. The university staff that would have served drinks and hors d’oeuvres had been sent home after packing up the tables and chairs. Luke, Rob, and Krystal had been able to reach almost all the guests by phone to tell them that the event had been cancelled and that refunds would be given the next day.
Joy’s own phone had been rendered almost useless by a stream of calls from reporters and bloggers who wanted to know what she felt about Chris’s latest scandal. They’d not only gotten her phone number somehow but found her address; that morning, she’d awoken to knocking on the door and a half dozen strange cars, including a television station van, parked in the street by her house.
She’d panicked, feeling trapped in her own house. Charlotte, sensibly, had called Wyatt, who’d swung by in a squad car and politely asked the reporters to disperse as they were blocking the residential street.
She wasn’t sure if they’d be back when she got home though.
Now she was simply waiting for any guests who hadn’t gotten the message. Two couples had come in earlier. She glanced at her watch. It was almost eight; she’d give it another ten minutes before going home. Part of her was just as happy to stay at the Coop as long as possible. If her house wasn’t surrounded by reporters, it would simply be lonely. Charlotte was out with her friends.
In the hall behind her, an elevator dinged. She turned around to see Chris walk into the room. He was still wearing the suit he’d worn when he was arrested however many hours ago.
He looked around the empty space, at the tables and chairs that now lay folded and propped against the wall, and finally at her. She realized how dark the room had gotten; the sun was almost down now.
“Joy, I’m so sorry.” He looked shamefaced. “I’ll pay for everything. Just tell me what it cost. I’ll write you check.”
“Three thousand, three hundred twenty-five dollars and forty-two cents for everything we spent,” she replied tonelessly. “But it’s not me you’re writing the check to, it’s the Players. And it’s not me you should be apologizing to, it’s Simon and Victor.”
He nodded and pulled a checkbook out of his breast pocket. “I know. I’ll apologize to them as well. I wanted to come here first ... just in case ...”
“We decided to cancel this morning. We couldn’t take the chance that you wouldn’t show up at all. I’m just here in case anyone didn’t get the message.”
He looked at the floor, then slowly raised his eyes to hers. “I’m so sorry, Joy. I know how much this meant to you.”
All the anger that she’d been bottling up since that morning suddenly rushed to the surface. “Really? Yet you go and get yourself arrested anyway! We were supposed to make $20,000 from this event, but instead we end up $3000 in the red. Meanwhile, I can’t get out of my driveway or use my phone because of all the reporters who want to know if I’m sleeping with you, and I couldn’t even reach you because you were in jail!”
She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, her eyes flashing. “But I’m glad you at least know how much it meant to me.”
He cringed slightly at the vehemence of her attack. “Joy, I’ll make it up. I’ll make a donation of $20,000 or whatever you want, I swear.”
“Chris, that’s not the point! What about next year, and the year after that? This was supposed to be our chance to get community support! You know who was supposed to be here tonight? Marta Pressfield, the new owner of Laughing Vine Vineyards. Luke knocked himself out getting her to buy a couple of tickets, and I was going to have you sweet talk her so that maybe she’d let us perform there next year.” She threw her hands up into the air in exasperation. “It’s not enough just to have money. We need people to audition, we need venues, we need people to care about the performances.” Her voice went quiet again. “We need people who keep their promises.”
She could hear her voice crack with despair and knew she was no longer talking just about the Players.
She turned away from him and crossed her arms again as she stared out at the darkening campus willing herself not to cry. She felt him step nearer and put a hand on her shoulder. She stepped away and his hand fell.
“Chri
s, this—us—was a bad idea. I just can’t.”
“Joy, I will fund the Players for the rest of my life if I have to—”
She shook her head. “No, it’s not just that. I woke up to reporters in my driveway. They chased me at the airport. Total strangers are dissecting my life on Twitter. It’s insane.” She rubbed her temples, trying to will away the headache that was coming on. “I had a wonderful time with you, but I’m getting a glimpse of the dark side now … and I don’t know if I can handle it.”
“I’m really sorry about the press,” he said earnestly. “They’re assholes sometimes. I never thought they’d go after you like this. I’ll call Sherri, maybe she—”
She turned around to look him full in the face and shook her head. “Forget it, Chris. We’re too different anyway. I’m too old for you, we move in different circles, you hang out with famous people ... Heck, you are a famous person. Let’s cut this short now before one of us gets hurt.”
He stepped back as if she’d slapped him, and she regretted the harsh tone she’d taken. He didn’t say it, but she could almost hear the words It’s too late for that hanging in the air. There was a long silence. His expression grew grim. “Fine. I guess I can understand that.”
She swallowed and nodded. More silence. “Will you be able to be at the next rehearsal—”
He got up abruptly, cutting her off. “I gotta go ... move in a different circle or something. I’ll leave the check on the table. See you around, Joy.”
She watched him write out the check then walk into the hall. The elevator dinged again and she heard its doors open and shut. She waited until she was sure there was no chance of running into him again on the way out, put the check in her purse, and left.
28
Chris sprawled on his couch. It was mid Tuesday afternoon, the shades were drawn, and he was half-heartedly channel surfing, a beer in one hand and a remote in the other.
He turned around and driven straight back to PDX after his encounter with Joy, getting back to his home in Manhattan Beach in the early hours of the morning. The idea of going back to Professor Estrada’s cozy little house—or anywhere in Silverweed Falls—seemed unbearable. The whole town reminded him of Joy. But he’d regretted coming back to California almost as soon as the plane had landed at LAX; now he was compounding his screw-up with the fundraiser by blowing off one of the last rehearsals.
