He’d cautioned that even with her conservative investments, she wouldn’t have enough money to maintain her current lifestyle or take her into old age if she’d continued to subsidize her family. She heeded his advice when her wedding gift to Robyn wasn’t to purchase a house for her but to give her the down payment. Seneca realized she’d made a faux pas when she’d promised to Robyn that she would buy the house, but her new brother-in-law was effusive when he received the check covering the down payment. Robyn pouted and sulked openly until her husband told her she should be grateful for the generous gift.
She’d told Booth she wanted to retire, but her agent wanted her to take six months to think about it. Well, she’d thought about it. She was leaving modeling and not going back.
“Thank you, Eliot.”
“For what?”
“For being a good listener.”
“How good a listener are you?” he asked.
Seneca gave him a sidelong glance in the encroaching darkness. The sun had slipped behind the horizon and stars were now visible in the darkening sky. “Maybe not as good as you, but I’ll do my best.”
“If that’s the case, then I’d like you to have dinner at my place tomorrow. It will be my turn to tell you about Eliot Othello Rollins.”
“Othello?” she asked laughing softly.
“What can I say. When my mother discovered Shakespeare had written a play with a black man as a lead character she wanted to name me for the Moor. But my dad overruled her, so they compromised, and Othello became my middle name. You didn’t answer my question, Seneca.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Seneca slept soundly and woke at sunrise. She showered, slipped into a pair of panties, then pulled a sundress over her head and left the house to walk along the beach. Talking with Eliot was better than spending countless sessions with a therapist. He hadn’t interrupted her monologue, and for that she was grateful, because she feared she wouldn’t have been able to continue; he hadn’t commented, and again she was grateful. She’d needed to unload and he’d become the receptacle for her fears, doubts and frustration.
She walked past his house, which was a smaller version of the one where she was staying, and farther down the beach another quarter of a mile, then turned to retrace her steps. Ynes greeted her with a cup of hot coffee liberally laced with milk and sugar. She sat on the loggia, enjoying the panoramic landscape spreading out before her. Picking up her cell phone, she hit speed dial for Booth’s private number. He answered on the first ring.
“How are you, baby?”
She smiled, wondering if Booth called her baby because he couldn’t remember her name. “I’m wonderful, Booth. Can you believe that a paparazzo tried taking pictures of me sunbathing?”
Booth laughed. “Sure I can. Especially if they know where to find you.”
Her heart stopped, then started up again with a pounding that hurt her chest. “You told him that I was staying here?”
“Don’t get your cute nose bent out of shape, baby. Our publicity department put out the word that Butterfly was MIA, so we arranged for the man to take the photos. He planned to wait a couple of weeks, then sell them to the tabloids.”
“I don’t know if he’s told you, but he’s not going to be selling them. Dr. Rollins caught him and took his camera and memory card. So he gots nuthin’,” she drawled. A raw curse came through the earpiece. “Your little stunt just helped me to make up my mind. I’m out, Booth.” Seneca didn’t tell the agent that she’d already made up her mind. “Put out the press release that Butterfly has hung up her wings. You have three days to do it, and not one day more, or I’ll return to the States and call my own news conference.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll put out the release. I’m glad you called, because I have some good news about a proposed talk-show format for you. One network is very interested since Tyra Banks released a statement that she wants to end her show to focus on her film company. You would be perfect to fill that void.”
“When do you think it might happen?”
“They’re projecting a year to eighteen months.”
Her smile was dazzling. “That’s doable. Where would it be filmed?”
“L.A. Speaking of Los Angeles…”
“What about Los Angeles, Booth?”
“Someone in our publicity department heard a rumor, which still has to be substantiated, about your marriage to Kingston.”
“Do they know who started the rumor?”
“It looks as if Kingston’s estranged wife is looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. He had to tell her, Seneca, otherwise how would she know?”
“I don’t know, Booth, and I don’t care. I’m going into retirement, so it’s moot.”
“Remember, baby, news like this sells copy.”
“What I want to do is forget. I don’t care what you do except put the word out that Butterfly has left the catwalk.”
“Consider it done. I’ll send you a copy of the tapes from the networks.”
“Thank, Booth.”
Seneca rang off. She’d started to dial the number of Manor Oaks to check on Dahlia when the phone rang; the ring tone was the one she’d assigned to Robyn’s number. “Hey, Robbie.”
“Where the fuck is Mom?”
“What!”
“You heard what I said, Seneca. I’m at Jerome’s and Mom isn’t here.”
“Is Jerome there?”
“Yeah. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Jerome knows where Mom is. I gave him the information after I checked her into Manor Oaks.”
“He says he doesn’t know where she is. And, Maya’s hysterical because she says her children are crying themselves to sleep because they can’t see their grandmother.”
Seneca’s free hand curled into a tight fist. “I don’t know what kind of game Jerome and Maya are playing, but—”
“Why did you move her, Seneca?” Robyn interrupted.
“I moved her because when I found her she was sitting in feces.”
“She occasionally soils herself. You would know that if you weren’t gallivanting all over the world. You think throwing a few dollars around absolves you of the responsibility of taking care of our mother? I wonder what your adorning fans would think if we were to tell them that you locked your mother away because you’re ashamed of her.”
Seneca gripped the tiny phone so tightly it left a distinct imprint on her palm. “I’m going to hang up before I forget you’re my sister. And in case Jerome still hasn’t regained his memory, I’ll tell you that Mom is a resident of Manor Oaks, which is about a half mile outside Reston. Don’t think of signing her out, because you’ll need my approval for that. And there’s another thing you should know. Maya is not allowed to see her.”
“When did you become such a cunt!?”
Seneca felt her temper rise in response to the slur, then forced herself not to react in kind because that’s what Robyn wanted. “You’ve been hanging out with so many men that you’re beginning to sound like one,” she crooned. “FYI, the reason Maya’s not permitted to see Mom is because she left her home alone—tied to a chair. Now who’s the cunt?”
There came a beat. “You’re a liar!”
“Why don’t you ask your wonderful sister-in-law? Goodbye, Robyn.”
Seneca disconnected her sister and dialed the number of Manor Oaks. She refused to let Robyn upset her. Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
Today was the beginning of the rest of her life.
After talking to the floor nurse, she was told her mother hadn’t had any visitors, but the staff had coaxed Dahlia to leave her room to sit with the other residents in the solarium. The resident psychiatrist had prescribed a low dose of SSRIs to monitor her reaction to the drugs and recommended physical therapy in an attempt to improve her circulation and muscle ton
e. Dahlia Houston’s legs had atrophied from sitting in the same position day after day.
Seneca wasn’t certain how long she would remain on the Caribbean island; her plans included returning to the D.C. area before going back to New York. Her decision to retire now freed her up where she could rent an apartment in the capital city and commute between New York and D.C. every week.
Eliot came around the table and eased Seneca to her feet. She was stunning in a fitted white tank dress. He’d given his housekeeper and her husband the night off while assuming the cooking duties. What he hadn’t anticipated was Seneca volunteering to cook with him.
She’d prepared a tropical salad with sour oranges, mango, papaya, Bermuda onion, sliced beets and avocado, while he’d broiled marinated butterflied lamb on the gas grill. She’d passed on the wine in lieu of sparkling water.
“I ate and drank too much. Let’s go for a walk before I fall asleep on you,” Eliot whispered in her ear.
Tilting her chin, Seneca smiled up at the man whom she thought of as a tranquilizer. Just being with him was calming and soothing, and she didn’t have to pretend to be Butterfly. Seneca slipped her hand in his as they headed down to the beach.
“Where did you learn to cook, Eliot?”
“I was ten when my mother died in childbirth, and my grandmother came to live with us. She had rheumatoid arthritis that impeded her mobility. It took her most of the day to clean the house. Her rule was everyone had a chore. My two sisters learned to do laundry and iron, my younger brother had to keep the grass mowed and the yard clean. I was assigned cooking duties. She would sit on a stool and tell me exactly what needed to be done. By the time I was sixteen I could prepare a four-course dinner in under an hour.”
As they strolled barefoot along the beach, Seneca listened as Eliot Rollins talked about himself. He was forty. He’d married twice—the first time to an older wealthy widow who’d paid for him to attend medical school. She’d died within days of his graduation, leaving him a small fortune and the vacation home in Punta Cana.
He’d remarried five years later to an aspiring actress when he discovered she was pregnant with his child. His wife lost the baby at the beginning of the second trimester when the car in which she was driving was hit head-on by an unlicensed teenage driver. Eliot reconstructed her face, but their marriage couldn’t survive the psychological damage. They divorced quietly and she went on to land a recurring role with a daytime soap.
“I have a condo in the Hollywood Hills and share a practice with another plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills.” Eliot pulled Seneca’s hand into the bend of his elbow. “You’re life is so much more interesting and exciting than mine.”
Seneca dug her bare toes into the soft sand with each step. “My life is crazy. No, let me rephrase that. My life was crazy. I called my agent earlier this morning and officially retired. No more watching everything I eat or drink, jet lag, frenetic runway shows and no more skinnin’ and grinnin’ while strolling the red carpet.”
Eliot patted her hand. “What’s next for Seneca Houston?”
“It’s not what I want but what I need.”
“And that is?”
“Normalcy.”
“What about a husband and children?” he asked.
She smiled. “That, too.”
“Does Booth know this?”
“Why should he?” Seneca asked. Suddenly she didn’t like the direction which the conversation was going. “Why are you mentioning Booth Gordon?”
“Aren’t you Booth’s woman?”
Seneca didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at Eliot for being presumptuous. She decided on the former, if only to remain on friendly terms with her temporary neighbor. “No, I’m not his woman. Booth Gordon is my agent. Why did you assume I was involved with him?”
Eliot realized he’d just come down with a serious case of foot-in-mouth. “All of the women I’ve seen Gordon with here in Punta Cana…just say it’s obvious they were more than friends.”
“How long have you known Booth?” she asked.
“Probably six, maybe seven years. The property had been on the market awhile, because the former owner didn’t want to drop the price. Once he did, Gordon bought it. The first couple of years he hosted some very lavish parties; they stopped abruptly when a young Russian woman drowned in his pool. There were rumors she hadn’t drowned but was murdered. Gordon closed up the house for a while, and then when he came back it was maybe one or two times a year, and always with a woman.”
“And you assumed I was one of his women?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Eliot apologized. “Apology accepted.”
Eliot smiled. “Now that I’m forgiven, I’d like to ask you something.”
Seneca stared at a flock of seagulls swooping down on the sand, fighting one another for food left by the incoming tide. “What is it, Eliot?” Her voice was a monotone.
“Why do you make it sound as if you’re dreading my question?”
“I’m trying to imagine what you want to ask me.”
“Did anyone ever tell you projecting can sometimes be bad for you?”
She smiled. “As a matter of fact he did, and I married him.”
Eliot chuckled. “That’s probably not going to happen with us.”
“You’re right about that,” Seneca concurred. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice in one lifetime, because of the similarities between the two men: Phillip, who was now Dr. Kingston, and Dr. Rollins both practiced medicine in L.A.
“Damn, Seneca,” Eliot drawled. “You really know how to wreck a dude’s ego.”
“You were the one who said we’d never marry, and I just agreed with you.”
“I said probably.”
“What do you want to ask me, Eliot?” Her voice had taken on a bored tone again.
“When was the last time you went out dancing?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “I can’t remember.”
Dropping her hand, Eliot wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her back in the direction from where they’d come. “If you can’t remember, then that means it’s been too long. I know a little club in a resort not far from here that offers the best live music on this part of the island.”
Seneca felt a warm glow flow through her. The last time she’d gone out dancing was in high school. She’d spent the past thirteen years working so hard that she’d forgotten how to enjoy life. Unlike other high-profile celebrities, she hadn’t been one to make the rounds of clubs or after-parties. She showed up, posed for photographs, nibbled on finger food, drank sparkling water and mouthed the appropriate inane responses before her date dropped her off at her hotel. She didn’t ask them in, because she hadn’t wanted a repeat of what she’d had with Phillip.
She’d been on an emotional merry-go-round for thirteen years, and now it was time for her to catch the brass ring so she could get off. Becoming friends with Eliot Rollins would offer a modicum of the normalcy she wanted and needed.
Seneca’s idyllic world came crashing down when she answered her cell phone. Dr. Marks had called to tell her that Dahlia Houston had slipped into a coma, and because she hadn’t signed a DNR she was being kept alive with machines.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.”
Everything seemed to fast-forward like a movie. She’d called Eliot to tell him she had to leave because of the turn in her mother’s condition. He told her quietly to pack her travel documents and that he would arrange for her to return to the States. She’d been too shocked to realize he’d chartered a private jet to fly from Punta Cana directly into a private airstrip in Washington, D.C.
After spending two glorious weeks in the tropical sun, eating regularly and swimming or walking the beach with Eliot, Seneca felt stronger than she had in a long time. She’d called Manor Oaks every three days to check up on Dahlia, and the feedback was always positive: her condition hadn’t deteriorated. She’d wanted to ask Dr. Marks what happened, then remembered hi
s prognosis that victims of the fast-progressing neurodegenerative disease could expect to live five to ten years after diagnosis. Dahlia Houston had beaten the odds because she’d been living with the disease for more than a decade.
Seneca stared out the small oval window when the skyline of D.C. came into view. “You know you didn’t have to come with me.”
Leaning to his left, Eliot squeezed the hand gripping the armrest. “I wanted to come, Seneca. This is a time when you don’t need to be alone.”
“I called my brother and sister.” She had called and left messages for Jerome and Robyn, hoping they could get past their resentment and meet her at the facility. Whenever she called Manor Oaks, she’d stopped asking whether her mother had had any visitors. If her siblings didn’t want to visit Dahlia, then there was nothing Seneca could do about it.
Shifting her gaze from the window, Seneca met Eliot’s gentle eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. Whenever he wore glasses he looked like Dr. Rollins. The first time she saw him without them he’d explained that he usually wore contacts.
Her gaze lingered on the slight cleft in his strong chin before moving up to his head, where coarse salt-and-pepper hair had replaced the stubble. “I really appreciate you coming with me, but I feel guilty that you—”
Eliot brushed his mouth over hers. “Stop it, Seneca. We’re friends, and friends are supposed to help each other. And don’t worry about me cutting my vacation short. Remember, I can always go back whenever I want.” Pressing his thumb between her eyes, he smoothed away the frown lines. “Keep frowning and you’re going to need a shot of Botox.”
She gave him a sad smile. Eliot was a friend. Mitchell Leon was a friend. Luis Navarro was a friend. Seneca found it odd that her only friends were male. What was it about her that she didn’t have or couldn’t keep a female friend?
The jet touched down smoothly, and ten minutes later they left Customs and made their way to where a car awaited them. Once they were seated in the back of the warm automobile, Seneca realized she wouldn’t have been able to make it back to the States so quickly without Eliot’s assistance. She could’ve called Booth, but he wasn’t the first person she’d thought of. She didn’t know when it had happened, but Eliot Rollins had become more to her than she could have imagined. He was someone she had come to depend on for emotional support.
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