If I Can't Have You

by Patti Berg

  “She’s in a rest home,” Adriana’ told him.

  “I imagine she doesn’t have brunette hair any longer, either,” he remarked dryly, then attempted a halfhearted laugh.

  “I went sailing with Errol Flynn not too long ago,” he said. “Please don’t tell me that someone strong and healthy like Errol—”

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” she interrupted. “People aged, got sick...”

  “Died,” he said bluntly. “Hell, Errol was a good five years younger than me. What about Gary Cooper? Cary Grant?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  Trevor plowed his fingers through his hair. “I was laughing and drinking with them just a few days ago.”

  “Sixty years, Trevor, not just a few days. The nightclubs you loved are gone. Most all of the people you knew are gone. All that’s left are memories.”

  Sighing deeply, he held her close, dancing slow and easy, and when the orchestra played its final note, he looked into her eyes again. “Maybe if I say good-bye to that old life of mine, I can get on with the new one.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m an old hand at starting new lives. I’ve done it before, I suppose I can do it again.”

  oOo

  The gates were locked outside Hollywood Memorial Park, the place where so many of Trevor’s friends had been buried. In the darkness of night, they sat in the parked Mercedes and Trevor told Adriana tales about the parties they’d attended and the pranks they’d played. He opened her eyes to life on the studio lot, and to what Hollywood had really been like in the thirties.

  As morning dawned, they drove through towns that had been nothing but orange groves in Trevor’s day, on freeways jammed with traffic the likes of which Trevor had never seen, and gazed at the dismal gray skies that had been a pristine blue when he’d first arrived in Hollywood.

  They stopped at Mann’s, the elaborate Chinese Theater that had been called Grauman’s on the day Trevor pressed his hands in wet cement. They strolled past concrete squares that bore the names of others he’d known, like Shirley Temple and Norma Talmadge, until they reached the two-by-two square dated June 12, 1938.

  Trevor knelt down and put his hands into the imprints, then tilted his head and smiled. “It’s still a perfect fit.”

  And at eight in the morning, when the gates were scheduled to open, they returned to the cemetery so Trevor could pay his respects.

  He said good-bye to Tyrone Power. They’d had so many good times together, attended dozens of parties in the company of beautiful women. How could he possibly have died so young?

  They strolled past the reflection pool that was part of Douglas Fairbanks, Sr.’s grave, and Trevor remembered the way the man had scaled the walls of castles, fought with a sword, and swung from the masts of ships. He’d been Trevor’s idol, he’d given Trevor his very first acting job, and he’d died just a year after Trevor’s disappearance.

  It didn’t seem possible that someone so virile could be gone.

  It was nearly 10:00 A.M. when they walked across the grass at Forest Lawn in Glendale. Just the year before he’d come here for Jean Harlow’s funeral, and now Adriana was leading him past the markers of so many other old friends—Clark Gable and his beloved Carole Lombard, Robert Taylor, who’d won the movie role Trevor had craved, and his drinking and carousing partner, Errol Flynn.

  “God, he was only fifty when he died,” Trevor said, kneeling down to trace the numbers on the simple stone embedded in the lawn. “Not too long ago I watched him filming a few scenes from Dodge City. He was laughing and carrying on as if he hadn’t a care in the world.”

  Trevor looked up at Adriana and saw the sadness in her eyes. “We were a lot alike.”

  He brushed a few wilted flower petals from the stone and read the inscription aloud. “‘In memory of our father from his loving children.’” Trevor shook his head slowly. “I never thought either one of us would have kids. There wasn’t enough time for something important like that.”

  Again he touched the stone, as if doing so would bring him closer to an old and cherished friend. Children. He could picture Errol out on his boat, teaching sons and daughters how to sail.

  Would he, himself, ever be blessed that way?

  Hell, he didn’t know the first thing about raising children, but he was sure he could do a better job than his parents had done with him.

  If he was ever given the chance.

  He sighed deeply, for the life he wanted, for the friend he’d lost.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “Drugs. A scandal.” Trevor felt Adriana’s fingers slide over his shoulder, an attempt, he supposed, to comfort him. “He drank too much and lived too hard,” she added.

  “So did I,” Trevor stated, remembering the way he’d often partied till dawn and showed up on the set with a hangover. He remembered the taste of scalding coffee the makeup and wardrobe girls would bring him. He remembered the way the directors would sigh with relief when he walked onto the set and showed them he could remember his lines and play his part perfectly in spite of the liquor he’d consumed. He’d never been late. He’d rarely needed prompting on his lines. But how much longer would he have been able to go on like that?

  Errol Flynn had died at fifty. Trevor was thirty-four. Would his career have hit the skids in a year, maybe two?

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes, remembering, again, the horror of Carole’s slashed body lying beside him.

  If he hadn’t been torn away from 1938, he, too, would have been involved in a scandal, and surely his life and career would have collapsed.

  Looking up at Adriana, he said the words he was sure she must be thinking: “That could be me lying there, couldn’t it?”

  She nodded. “My father drank too much, and he died at forty-four. It happens all too often.”

  “Is that why you didn’t touch your champagne?”

  “I don’t like the taste,” she admitted. “And I don’t like seeing what too much drinking can do to someone.”

  “Like me?”

  “You. My father. Stewart nearly lost his practice because he missed too many court appearances and his clients got tired of his irresponsibility. He tried to stop for the longest time and couldn’t. Finally he had to get help. My father, unfortunately, didn’t feel he needed any help.”

  “I can stop anytime I want,” Trevor said. “I’ve done it before.”

  “And started again.”

  “It’s never impaired my thinking. I’ve never missed a day of work.” He’d thrown up in his dressing room. He’d had excruciating headaches. Again and again he’d told himself to stop, but then he’d go to another party—or he’d remember his childhood—and he’d pick up another glass of bourbon or scotch and forget everything that was wrong in the world.

  That was the only reason he drank... to forget. He wasn’t addicted to anything, except the pretty blue eyes that were watching him.

  He caressed the softness of her cheek. “I could quit right this moment and never touch another drop.”

  “Then do it,” Adriana asked. “Go home with me and get rid of all the liquor in the house.”

  “I don’t see where that’s necessary.”

  “That’s what my father said, too. The temptation was always there in front of him, and it was too easy to reach in a moment of weakness.”

  “Look, Adriana. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. I promise.”

  ‘I’ve heard those words before, too. After a while it’s one lie after another until you get to the point where you don’t even know what promises you made, what things you said, or what you’ve done.”

  “That’s not going to happen to me.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Of course not. I’ve always been in total control.”

  “You haven’t. You lost all control once. I’ll show you the proof.”

  She grabbed his hand and rushed across the lawns, skirting around stones, elaborate cry
pts, vases of flowers and beautiful statuary. Finally she stopped beside a tall, marble angel, its wings stretching toward heaven. “This is what happens when you drink too much,” she blurted out.

  Trevor’s gaze flashed to the name Carole Sinclair blazing across the base of the monument. His stomach roiled once again at the memory of Carole that continually haunted him.

  “I didn’t do it,” he murmured. “I couldn’t have.”

  “But you don’t know for sure,” she said softly, although he could hear the condemning tone in her voice. “Do you know why?”

  Trevor turned on her, anger building inside. “Of course I know why. I was drunk.”

  “But you can handle it. Right?” she blurted out, then bit her trembling lips. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “You can stop anytime you want. Right?”

  “Stop it, Adriana.”

  He grabbed her arms and attempted to pull her close, but she struggled free.

  “I’ve lived with a drunk once. I lived with a father who valued his liquor more than he valued me, and when he got drunk he got mean. You do the same thing.”

  “I don’t.”

  She held out her arms, shoving the evidence—the bruises on her wrists—in his face. “You did this when you were drunk. Maybe you were upset. Maybe you thought you were going crazy. But that’s no excuse for hurting someone.”

  “I’d never do it again.”

  “How do I know? What happens the next time you get drunk? Will you hit me? What if you totally forget what you’re doing, get a knife, and stab me over and over again. And what if you don’t even remember?”

  Tears burst from her eyes and she clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, Trevor. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

  Silence permeated the morning. A silver vehicle drove by and stopped a short distance up the road. And a wave of fear ripped through Trevor’s soul.

  “I’m not a murderer,” he told her. “But I have no way of proving it to you—or to me. I wish I did.”

  He took a good long breath, trying to build his courage. “I can’t erase what happened that night, but I can change things now. If you want me to quit drinking, I will. If you want me to throw out every bottle in the house, I will. I’ve tried proving to you that in spite of all those stories you’ve heard about me, I have a few good qualities. They’ve been buried for a long time, and you’re the only one who’s ever had the power to bring them out. But, if you can’t trust me, Adriana, if you think you never will trust me, then we have nothing.”

  She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but they kept on falling as she spoke. “In spite of all the horrible things my father said to me, I loved him. If he hadn’t died, I’d still be trying to sober him up. I don’t give up easily on the things I want—and I want to believe in you.”

  “Then you don’t want me out of your life?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t want you to leave... ever.”

  Those were the most blessed words he’d ever heard. They were the words he’d wanted his parents to say—but they hadn’t, and he’d run away from love ever since.

  He held out his hands to Adriana and she hesitantly touched his fingers.

  “Come here,” he beckoned, wanting her to make the first move into his arms.

  She slid her hands over his shirtsleeves, his shoulders, and wove them around his neck.

  She was trembling, and when he pulled her close he could feel the rapid beat of her heart as her breasts touched lightly against his chest.

  “I’ll never hurt you, Adriana. Never.”

  The morning was unusually cool, but his body warmed the moment he kissed her. A gentle sigh escaped her lips when he caressed her slender back and the slight flare of her bottom.

  He trailed kisses from her mouth to her cheek and to the delicate hollow beneath her ear.

  His body was reacting to her touch, to the warmth of her breath, to the softness of her sighs. But he had to slow down.

  “Until you believe in me, without any doubts at all, this thing we have between us won’t mean a thing. Not to you. Not to me, either.”

  “Make me believe in you, then. Take away all my doubts.”

  If only he could, Trevor thought, but how could he, when he wasn’t sure if he believed in himself?

  An unexpected noise jerked Trevor away from Adriana.

  The click of a camera.

  Another click. Still another.

  Before he could move, the photographer ran up the road, jumped into a silver van, and sped away, tires screeching.

  Adriana was trembling when Trevor turned around. Her eyes had glazed over, and he gathered her into his arms.

  “Why can’t they leave me alone?”

  “Because they get paid too well. Because the public wants to know all about the lives of famous people.”

  “I’m not famous.”

  “You’ve lived with one of the richest men in the world. You inherited his wealth. It’s only natural that people would want to know more about your life.” He kissed the top of her head, comforting her as he would a child. “Thank God it was just a few harmless pictures. You and me kissing, that’s all.”

  She drew back and glared at him. “All it takes is an insane caption printed beneath the picture to turn it from something innocent into the makings of a scandal. I’ve avoided all of that for nearly eight years.”

  “You’ve run away from it, that’s all. But you’ve run away from life at the same time. You can’t run away forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because running away doesn’t solve anything. Just ask me. I know all about it.”

  She stared at him for the longest time, then rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You taught me how to dance tonight,” she whispered into his ear. “Can you teach me not to be afraid?”

  “I’m afraid of things, too, Adriana. I need your help just as much as you need mine. We can’t change things overnight.”

  “One step at a time, right?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him once more.

  He kissed her forehead, her nose, then tenderly kissed her lips.

  “And we’ll take each step slow and easy. There’s no need to rush, Adriana. No need to rush.”

  Chapter 14

  Adriana touched her lips, lightly smoothing her fingers over the tender flesh, remembering the kisses she’d shared with Trevor in the cemetery, in the car during the long drive home, and when they’d parted company at her bedroom door just an hour ago. So many times she’d dreamed of his kiss, but her dreams couldn’t compare with the warmth she’d felt in his arms. Never before had she felt such gentleness, such passion.

  The man she’d dreamed of had traveled sixty years through time to show her there was nothing wrong, nothing sinful about enjoying a kiss and the touch of a man. For only a moment she let her father’s anger cloud her memories. She remembered the last time he’d caught her with one of the young gardeners who worked at Sparta. It was the second time he’d caught her with Robbie, it was the second time he’d yelled and screamed, but it was the only time he’d had a stroke.

  This time no one told her what she’d done was wrong. This time she hadn’t questioned herself or even thought of her father. For once in her adult life, she wasn’t going to question the right or wrong of something. She was just going to cherish the memory and pray there would be many more to come.

  She stifled a yawn as she slipped her feet into black patent sandals. She’d slept briefly during the trip home, giving in to Trevor’s pleas to let him drive. But sleep was far from her mind now. She wished she could ignore the meeting she had to rush off to and spend the day with Trevor, allowing him to teach her new and wonderful things. Fortunately, there was always tonight.

  The scents of frying bacon and strong French roast coffee wafted down the hallway when she opened her bedroom door. He’d said he’d fix her breakfast, even though it was well past noon. She wasn’t hungry for anything more than his kisses, but
he’d insisted on preparing her a meal she’d never forget. Cooking was a trait she hadn’t expected from him. Golf, maybe. Polo. Betting at the track. Those were the hobbies men like Trevor indulged in—not cooking or clipping roses. He was so much different from the man she’d idolized, so much better than the man she’d dreamed of.

  She found him standing over the stove turning slices of crispy bacon in a pan full of hot grease. She leaned against the doorjamb and contemplated his body. Strong, long legs encased in slim black jeans. His legs had looked good in tights when he’d played a knight of the realm and a devil-may-care pirate—they looked even better when he acted out the all-American boy next door. The white cotton shirt, its cuffs rolled up two complete folds, stretched across his shoulders and back, and she could see the flex of his muscles under the sleeves. He looked like a piece of heaven fallen down into her home.

  A piece of heaven with many earthly faults.

  Maybe it was all of those faults that made her care so much.

  “Smells good,” she said, wanting to capture his attention.

  He turned, and when she saw that movie-idol smile shining across his face she felt a tug at her heart and a quiver racing through her chest.

  He switched off the flame on the stove and perused her body slowly, from the tip of her head, over the white silk T-shirt she wore with a lacy camisole beneath, down the entire length of her black pinstriped trousers, to the toes of her shoes, then back again. Slowly he beckoned her toward him with a wiggle of his finger, and she floated into his open arms.

  Tilting her face toward him, he captured her lips.

  Gentle, so very, very gentle. How could anyone find fault with a feeling like this? There was no sin involved, just pure, heavenly bliss.

  “You’ve been sampling the bacon,” she whispered.

  ‘I was hungry,” he murmured, “and you weren’t around.”

  She tensed when his fingers brushed over her bottom, when he trailed tender warm kisses from her lips, over her chin, and down to the hollow of her throat. “You smell of strawberries.”

  “Raspberries.”