“What does that mean?”
“It means that if I wanted to get pregnant, I’d have to buy one of those fertility tests to tell me if I’m ovulating.” And she’d have to gain twenty pounds. She’d been told that her history of irregular periods, coupled with her low weight, made it very unlikely for her to conceive. She wanted children. Just not yet. She wanted to get her career established to the point where she could take time between movies, and she wanted to find the right man. She want to get married and do things in order.
“Do we need to buy one of those?”
“No.” He looked so relieved she had an urge to punch him. “You don’t have to look as if you just escaped death row,” she said as she moved past him on her way to the kitchen. A glass sat upside down on the counter and she filled it with water. What was she doing? He was Henry Whitley-Shuler. She raised the glass to her lips and drank. Of course the thought of having a baby with her sent him into a panic. Clearly, he was not the right man for Vivien Rochet.
Henry moved behind her and took the water from her hand. “I haven’t had a condom break since I was seventeen.” He drained the glass. “I don’t ever want to live through that again.”
She turned to face him and her annoyance faded. She’d never given a thought to how he’d felt seventeen years ago. She’d just always assumed he was happy about it.
“You never told anyone about Tracy Lynn.”
“Of course not.”
“Why?” He refilled the glass and handed it to her. “I expected you too.”
She shook her head. “I might have been a bratty kid who snooped through your things and called you names, but I was never mean.” She took a long drink and sucked water off her bottom lip. “I never intentionally caused anyone pain, and I knew that would be painful for a lot of people.” She handed him the glass.
“You’re right. It would have hurt a lot of people. Mostly Tracy Lynn and her family.”
“Do you ever see her anymore?”
He shook his head. “Never. I heard she married a lawyer and they have three kids and live in Shreveport.” He drained the glass and set it on the counter. “I think seeing me would bring up painful memories and hurt her unnecessarily.”
“What about you?”
His brow lowered over his serious brown eyes. “What about me?”
“Does the memory cause you pain?”
“More guilt than pain, but yeah.” Lines creased his forehead. “I don’t like to think about it. I don’t like to think about what could have been and how my life would be different.” He raised his gaze and looked past her. “It just stirs up the past and nothing can change it anyway.”
The last thing she wanted was to stir up guilt and pain from the past. She took his hand and purposely changed the subject. “I noticed that you don’t use Climax Control Trojans these days.”
He looked at her and confusion deepened the lines on his forehead. “What?”
“You used to use Climax Control Trojans.”
“You remember what kind of condoms I used in high school?”
She chuckled and squeezed his hand. “I didn’t know anything about condoms and had no idea what climax control meant. So I researched it.”
A bemused smile passed his lips and cleared his forehead. “You researched it?”
“Of course.” She put her arms around his neck. “I notice you don’t use climax control condoms these days.”
“I don’t have a control issue these days.” He brushed his hand up her arm, leaving tingles on her skin. “I practiced until I got it right.”
A single candle flickered on the round kitchen table inside the carriage house. The light overhead was turned low enough that the flame cast wavering light across Henry’s face, through his hair, and on the wall behind him.
“I don’t know what to do with Momma’s collection of Limoges boxes. I didn’t realize she had so many.” Vivien took a bite of juicy quail Henry had had delivered from one of his favorite restaurants.
“Put them on eBay.”
“I can’t sell Momma’s Limoges.” She shook her head and swallowed. “I wish I had family.”
“What about the aunt and uncle who came to the funeral?” He cut a few pieces of asparagus.
“Uncle Richie and Kathy?” She reached for a glass of wine. “I don’t know.” Kathy had always been nasty to her mother, but Vivien might not have a choice. Her family tree had dwindled to a twig. “If I’d ever met my daddy’s family this might be easier.”
Henry’s knife stopped and his gaze lifted to hers.
“But maybe not. Momma always said that the Rochets had very few extended family members and she’d never met them.” She raised the glass and took a drink.
He stared at her across the table. “I take it you never tried to find them.”
“Through the years, I’ve thought about hiring someone to find my daddy’s family, but Momma never wanted me to reach out. She said it was too painful for her.”
Henry lowered his gaze and finished cutting his asparagus. “What about now?”
Vivien shrugged. “I’ll think about it, but I don’t know.” She set the glass by her plate and reached for her fork. “I mean, the Rochets must have known about me. My daddy married Momma three months before Hurricane Kate killed him.”
“Hurricane Kate?” Henry stuck a piece of quail in his mouth and chewed for several thoughtful moments. Then he leaned back in his chair. “I’ve never heard about your father and Hurricane Kate.”
No reason he should have, she supposed. “My daddy’s name was Jeremiah Rochet and he was killed before I was born. He and his family were on their three-masted schooner when it went down in the Florida straits during Hurricane Kate. Momma wasn’t aboard because she was pregnant with me and had morning sickness. Momma says we were blessed by the tears of baby Jesus that day.”
“Really?”
She paused to take another bite, then continued with the heartbreaking story of her family. “Pieces of the Anna Leigh were found, but the Rochets were lost forever.”
“That’s a real tragedy.” He swirled wine in his glass. “Did your momma tell you how many Rochets were lost at sea?”
“Five. Both my grandparents, my daddy and his two brothers. They were part of the Democracy Movement and routinely rescued Cuban refugees.”
“Your family was Cuban?”
“No. They were humanitarians.”
His brows made a V in the center of his forehead. “Isn’t that something.”
“I used to daydream about what my life would be like if Daddy had lived.”
“Vastly different, I would imagine.” He raised his glass to his lips. “I just can’t picture you as a Cuban rescuing humanitarian.”
Vivien laughed. “If Daddy had lived, I might not be the person I am now. I might have been sent off in the Peace Corps, and I wouldn’t have started acting and I wouldn’t have the life I do today.” She looked across the table into his dark eyes, which were watching her like he expected her to do something or say something. She continued, “When I was young, I used to fantasize a lot, but never about carrying water to villages in Africa. I guess I just didn’t inherit the humanitarian gene from my Daddy’s side.” She set her fork on her plate. “My dreams were kind of vague. Except for the part where I got famous, then come back to Charleston and get revenge on anyone who’d done me wrong.”
His forehead cleared. “What sort of revenge did you plan for those poor people?”
“I’d tell them to kiss my butt. I remember that I actually wrote a list. I called it the ‘kiss my patootie’ list.”
“Your big dream has come true.” He lean forward and placed his hand over hers. “You’re famous and can get your revenge on anyone who was ever mean to you.”
“No. I’ve learned that living well and thriving like a weed is the best revenge.” She smiled and turned her hand palm up. “Besides, you were number one on my list.”
He laughed and rose to his feet. “I be
lieve you’ve already told me to kiss your butt a time or two.”
“Probably.” She stood and he pulled her close, exactly where she wanted to be. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“I know.” He hugged her even closer. “I’ll take you to the airport.”
“I’d like that.” She took him by the hand and led him to her momma’s bedroom. That night, his touch seemed less hurried. He took his time and looked into her face as they had sex that felt a little different. That felt like making love. The next morning when he drove her to the airport, she wasn’t ready to go.
“When are you coming back?” Henry asked.
She looked across the cab of his truck as he raised a mug of coffee to his mouth. “Saturday.” She hoped to see him when she returned. She thought that she probably would but he’d never mentioned anything about a relationship more than sexual.
They’d had a nice few days together. Okay, a few great days. Fabulous days, but that was it. He’d never hinted in anyway of a future for them. “We’re both grown-ups,” she began, deciding it was best to talk about expectations, or lack of expectations, before she left. “You know you don’t owe me anything, Henry.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m going to be flying in and out of town until I get everything settled here.” She was a grown woman. She wanted to do the mature thing. The realistic thing. “A lot of time we’re going to be miles apart, and I just want you to know that I’m perfectly okay with you dating other women.”
He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Is that right?”
Of course not! “Yes. As long as I know you’re only going to see me when I’m in town.”
Again he glanced at her. “Let me see if I’m hearing you right.” He pulled the truck to a stop at a red light. “It’s fine with you if I have sex with other women while you’re out of town.”
Hell no! Just the thought of him touching another woman made her feel sick. “Yes.” She wanted him to object. To tell her he didn’t want anyone but her.
The light changed and he drove through the intersection. “But when you’re in town, I’m your exclusive piece of meat.”
She wanted . . . Wait. Had he just said, “piece of meat?” He couldn’t be serious. “Yes.”
“I’m not just meat, Vivien.”
He was serious. She recognized his serious scowl creasing his forehead. She raised a hand to trap her laughter behind her fingers.
He glanced at her and an exasperated frown tugged the corners of his mouth. “It’s not funny.”
Oh but it was. Henry Whitley-Shuler, descendant of southern gentry, former Wall Street trader, current journeyman cabinetmaker.
Man meat.
Chapter 15
Barricades and studio security surrounded two city blocks in downtown Los Angeles. Production trailers clogged a parking lot, and the California sunlight pinwheeled off a row of Airstreams. Outside the silver trailers, the cast of Psychic Detectives joked while the crew set up for a long shot.
“I’ve confirmed your car service for tomorrow at eleven.” Sarah sat in the salon chair next to Vivien and scrolled information on her tablet. “You aren’t needed on the set until one.”
While the hair stylist reglued a widow’s peak half way down Vivien’s forehead, she read the lines for her second scene that day. Not that she really needed to. Memorizing lines came easy for her. It was staying in character that gave her trouble at times. She sat in the makeup trailer, getting her bad wig and the dark circles under her eyes touched up. Today she would shoot her second scene. Tomorrow her third and final scene, when she’d have black contact lenses in her eyes and a beating heart prostheses beneath her worn dress. She’d stare at her husband, her heart pounding harder and harder as the evil Revered Mumford exploded in a torrent of blood and gore. She couldn’t wait.
Vivien closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She pictured Jenny in her head, and thought about her character’s simple objective and the final inciting incident that pushes her to act and unleash her telekinetic ability on her husband. Vivien quieted everything in her head, and thought about abuse and what she knew of PTSD. She thought of hiding from trauma and shielding emotions until they bubbled up. She thought of rough hands . . . and the brush of fingertips waking her in the morning. She thought of the soft, gray light of morning chasing away the night and whispered kisses on her bare shoulder. Her eyes opened and she smiled when she should be frowning. When she thought of Henry, he cleared her head of everything but him. She’d been back in L.A. for three days, and she’d been thinking about him way too often. As a result of all that thinking, she figured out what it was about Henry that made her want to be around him. What it was that made it so easy.
She trusted Henry in a way that just felt natural and easy. There weren’t many people she trusted these days. Only three, actually: her assistant, her agent, and her manager and they’d all signed confidentiality agreements. She’d trusted her momma. Her momma never would have hurt her. Her momma never would have lied and told stories about her that weren’t true. She never would have sold stories that were true. Neither would Henry. His character was too solid to lie and leak and sell out.
“Vivien.” A production assistant stuck his head in the door. “We’re ready for you.”
She looked in the mirror at herself. At her dull, limp wig and pallid skin. Haggard came to mind. She stuck the script under one arm and stood. Sarah followed her out the door and into the California sunlight. She walked onto the hot set and handed the script to her assistant.
“Quiet on the set!”
The sound and speed rolled and the clapboard was placed in front of the camera. “Scene fourteen, take one.”
“Action,” the director yelled and Vivien walked into the parking lot. She stared blankly ahead at a beige Chevy. Jenny’s life was one dull task after another of living beneath the thumb of a man who claimed to speak for God. She’d been beaten down to the point of being blank by a man who’d convinced his flock that he was the second coming of Christ. She—Jesus Christ, Vivien! popped unexpectedly into her head. That one was ripped from the pit of my soul.
“Cut!” Everything stopped and the director said, “Vivien, you just found out your husband cleaned out your bank account and you had to leave the store without your bag of groceries. He is having sex with a fifteen-year-old. You’re supposed to look defeated, not suddenly smiling like life is a bowl of cherries.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t even been aware that she was smiling. “Sorry.” She retraced her steps.
“Quiet on the set!”
The camera and sound rolled again. The assistant director yelled “mark it,” and the slate person put the clapboard in front of the camera. “Scene fourteen, take two.”
“Action!”
Vivien took a deep breath and let it out. She stuffed her head with Jenny and her horrible circumstances. She became her character. Meek. Submissive. In fear of her powers and believing Enoch is the only man who can save her from hell. I’m not your man meat, Vivien.
“Cut!”
Vivien bit the side of her lip and retraced her steps. It took six more takes before the scene ended with her gazing across the parking lot at her husband and a fresh-faced girl. The young girl who used to be her.
On Vivien’s way home from the set, she checked her text messages. Henry’s name popped up and she bit her lower lip. How’s work? Two words. He only wrote two words but that wasn’t the point. He’d reached out to her.
She waited until she got home to write back. She didn’t want to write too much and give him the impression that she missed him or sat around thinking of him. She typed, Fine. How’s everything with you? It wasn’t until she crawled into her four-poster bed that he texted back. Muggy as hell here in Charleston. Met a friend for a drink.
Vivien found the remote and hit a button. Across the room, her flat-screen television rose from a recessed compartment. The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon flashed on the screen, but she wasn’t
interested in Jimmy tonight. Henry had met a friend for a drink. Possibly a female friend. Yes, she’d told him he was free to see other women, but she hadn’t meant it. He had to know she hadn’t meant it.
Right?
They weren’t in a relationship. They’d had great sex, but sex wasn’t love. Not even when it had felt like making love. He’d said he didn’t want to be her man meat, but he hadn’t said what he did want to be with her. He’d never talked of any sort of future between them. No, “let’s fly off to Mexico this summer” or “bring an extra tooth brush to my house.” He’d told her he’d pick her up from the airport. That was it. Not exactly a commitment.
Vivien tossed the remote and curled up on her side. There were plenty of obstacles that stood in the way of them ever becoming a couple. First, they lived thousands of miles apart. Second, he was Henry Whitley-Shuler, Charleston royalty, and just his name gave him entrée into the most exclusive clubs and organizations. She was Vivien Rochet, international movie star. Her name was known around the globe, but her name could never get her into the circle of society that had welcomed Henry at birth. Men like Henry had relationships with young ladies who came from old families with old family names. Not with a girl who came from the carriage house and used to vacuum their carpets. No matter how rich and famous she’d become, men like Henry formed real relationships with women like Constance Abernathy. Former St. Cecilia debutantes, members of the Junior League, and dabblers in the arts.
At the end of the day, fame and fortune and hard work was not enough. She might play fairytale characters in movies, but in real life there was no enchanted wand to turn her into a suitable princess worthy of southern royalty.
At the end of the day, she was not enough and she better remember that before she fell completely in love Henry.
Vivien’s face lit up when she talked about acting and the Dorothy Parker role she hoped to land. Her eyes shined with a spark of life that chased away the sorrow of her mother’s passing and the stress of the past week. She looked happy and happy looked good on her.
Just Kiss Me Page 15
