This time, there was no question of whether or not she would keep her baby. Danny had always been the be-all and end-all of her existence, but a single instant of staring at a test tube of blue urine changed her loyalties forever. She rested a hand protectively on her abdomen. This unborn child needed every ounce of his mother’s strength in order to survive. She’d been given a second chance, and no matter what Danny said or did, this time she wouldn’t blow it.
***
Rob called, asking her to meet him at a seafood place near the Santa Monica pier. He was already sitting with a cup of coffee, staring out the window, when she arrived. “Hey, hot stuff,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.
“Hey,” he said, but didn’t smile.
They both ordered broiled scallops, and then she leaned back in the booth. “You look glum,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
He set down his coffee mug, drummed his fingers on the table top. “Monique’s on a rampage again,” he said.
She bit her bottom lip. “Oh,” she said.
“She’s come up with this crazy notion.” He cupped his coffee mug in both palms and turned it in his hands. “She thinks that you and I—” He looked at her, squared his shoulders, and shrugged apologetically. “She thinks there’s something going on between us.”
It took her a moment to understand. And then her mouth fell open. She closed it with difficulty. “As in something sexual?” she said.
“You got it, sugar.”
“You and me?” she said in astonishment. “But I’m married.”
He gave her a look that said she was incredibly naïve. “Happily married,” she amended.
“I know that, and you know that, but Monique doesn’t get it. She doesn’t believe it’s possible for a man and a woman to be friends—the kind of friends we are—without sex rearing its ugly head.”
She snorted. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah? Well, it gets better. She’s forbidden me to see you.”
“How the hell can she do that? Does she think you’re her lap dog?” She saw the look on his face and clamped her mouth abruptly shut. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for.”
“I tried to make her see how ridiculous she’s being. I pointed out that you’re not just my friend, you’re my business partner. But she’s not buying any of it. She’s issued an ultimatum. Stop seeing you, or she walks.”
A dozen thoughts vied for supremacy in her mind. But she gave voice to just one. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Their lunch arrived, but neither of them felt much like eating. “Rob,” she said at last, toying with her food, “do you love this woman?”
He squared his jaw and busied himself rearranging the salt and pepper shakers. “She’s a goddess,” he said at last. “The most beautiful woman on the planet. There must be at least a couple million guys who’d cut off their right arm to have her. She could have any man she wants. And she picked me. Plain, ordinary me. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?”
“I think it’s time for a reality check.” She lay both her hands atop his in the middle of the table. “I hate to tell you this, sweetie, but you don’t have an ordinary bone in your body.”
“Be serious, Fiore. I have a face only a mother could love.”
“Damn it, Rob, not all of us can be gods and goddesses. There’s not a thing wrong with your face. Women fall at your feet!”
“Not women like her,” he said darkly.
“So you’re going to spend the rest of your life being grateful to her for throwing a few crumbs your way? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Do you have any idea,” he said, “how long I’ve waited for the right woman to come along?”
Hands still clasped with his, she sat back against the seat and sighed. “Look,” she said, “you know how much I love you. I’d never say or do anything to hurt you. But I have to say this. I don’t think you’ve found the right woman.”
She felt him stiffen, watched his shoulders square, then slump. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut.”
He sighed. “You only spoke the truth,” he said.
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m mad at myself.”
“I shouldn’t have said what I did. Nobody knows what goes on inside somebody else’s marriage.”
Rob picked up his mug in both hands and took a sip of coffee. “Listen, can we talk about something a little more upbeat? This is depressing.”
“I’ll give you upbeat,” she said. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, he looked stunned. And then he gave her a grin so wide, so genuine, that she couldn’t help reciprocating. “Hot damn!” he said. “About time! What does the Italian stallion have to say about it?”
“I think he’s still a little stunned that it happened so fast. But he’s positive. Very positive.”
“Ah, sweetheart, that’s wonderful. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic. And terrified.”
Some of the elation left his face. “Why?” he said.
She toyed with the strap to her purse. “There’s always the possibility of another miscarriage.”
“Hey.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Stop worrying about things that won’t ever happen. You’re going to have a beautiful, healthy little baby who’ll be spoiled rotten by his Uncle Rob.”
“I get it. Spoil the kid and then leave us to deal with the monster you’ve created.”
“Hey,” he said, “isn’t that what uncles are for?”
After lunch, she drove directly to Monique Lapierre’s Bel Air mansion. The grounds surrounding the house would have rivaled the gardens at Versailles. Lush tropical flowers blossomed everywhere, water erupted from a myriad of fountains tucked in amongst the Greek statuary, and in the distance, a gardener cut a wide swathe through acres of green lawn on a John Deere mini-tractor. While she waited for the door to be answered, Casey tried to picture Rob living amid all this opulence. But she couldn’t imagine it.
The heavy oak door swung open, and a middle-aged woman in a starched maid’s uniform peered at her from beneath heavy brows. “Good afternoon,” Casey said. “Please inform Miss Lapierre that Mrs. Fiore is here to see her.” She brushed past the startled maid, into an entry hall dominated by the biggest crystal chandelier she’d ever seen. Catching sight of the gleaming Steinway beyond an open door, she said, “I’ll just wait in here.”
The maid, obviously unaccustomed to such directness from visitors, closed her mouth and disappeared into the bowels of the house. While she was gone, Casey roamed around the room, studying the spines of the leather-bound books on the shelves, books she seriously doubted that Monique had ever read. She was picking out a one-fingered tune on the piano when Monique’s voice behind her said curtly, “Mrs. Fiore. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
Monique was dressed in a blue satin robe, belted at the waist, her hair uncombed, her eyes just a bit too bright. “I just had lunch with your husband,” Casey said, getting right to the point.
Monique took her time lighting a cigarette. “Really,” she said, and blew out a cloud of smoke.
“You and I,” Casey said, “need to have a talk.”
“Certainement. Can I offer you a drink? Scotch, perhaps?”
“Nothing,” Casey said. “This isn’t a social call.”
Monique turned and gave rapid orders in French to the hovering maid. And then she turned her attention back to Casey. “You will sit down?” she said.
The maid returned with a silver tray bearing a squat glass of amber liquid. Monique took it and waved the maid away. “And what did you and my husband talk about?” she said.
“I think you already know.”
Monique sipped her drink. “I see. He told you that I have forbidden him to see you.”
“You must realize how absurd this
is. Rob and I are partners. We’ve been writing together for years. We’re right in the middle of producing Danny’s next album. We can’t just walk away from it because of your paranoia. You’re the one who’ll be hurt if you persist in making these irrational accusations. I’ve known Rob for a long time, and I’m telling you that he won’t stand for it.”
Monique drew in the smoke from her cigarette, held it for a count of five, and released it. “You are threatening me?” she said.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Casey closed her eyes. “Look,” she said, glaring at Monique, “you don’t like me, and I’m not particularly fond of you. I tolerate you because you’re Rob’s wife, and I happen to care about him. For months, I’ve been watching the way you treat him, and it’s been difficult to hold my tongue. But I’ve held back from telling you what I really thought of you because for some inconceivable reason, he seems to love you. Or at least he thinks he does, which amounts to the same thing.”
Monique’s lips pressed together in a small, tight smile. “Please,” she said, “feel free to express yourself.”
For an instant, Casey considered just how far she wanted to go. “Rob and I,” she said finally, “will not break off our professional relationship because of you. Period. And if, in spite of your infantile threats, he chooses to continue our friendship, you will not stand in our way.”
Monique’s eyes narrowed in sullen acknowledgment of the challenge Casey had thrown down in front of her. “Well,” she said, “you are a more formidable foe than I had imagined.”
“And you,” Casey said, “are no more than a bitch in heat. A beautiful bitch, but no matter how you dress it up, a dog’s still a dog, isn’t it?”
As she swept from the room, she took immense pleasure in noting that Monique looked a good ten years older with her mouth sagging open.
chapter nineteen
Written and produced by Rob MacKenzie and Casey Fiore, Danny’s third album, Going to the Dogs, went platinum within weeks.
During production, Casey and Rob tried desperately to prevent their working rapport from being tainted by the awkwardness that had sprung up in their personal relationship. But it was impossible to pretend that nothing had changed, impossible to take back the words she’d spoken to Rob’s wife. Impossible to ignore the fact that Rob had not set foot inside her house since her confrontation with Monique. She understood that he was trying to save his floundering marriage, but it hurt to know that he could cast aside their friendship so easily for a woman as shallow, as vain as Monique Lapierre.
As record sales went through the roof, Danny was besieged by offers from television talk show hosts and movie producers. His new manager, Rudy Stone, was pushing him to accept as many offers as possible to promote his escalating career. The end result was that now, when Casey needed him the most, he was spending great chunks of time flying between Los Angeles and New York, taping guest spots for The Tonight Show and Saturday Night Live. Every magazine from Tiger Beat to Rolling Stone to Playgirl wanted an interview. The scandal sheets, on the other hand, didn’t bother with interviews. They had a field day, printing the lurid details of Danny’s nonexistent extracurricular love life.
At first, as her pregnancy progressed, she tolerated it all. She even found some of it amusing, until love-stricken women began calling on the telephone at all hours, forcing her to have their telephone number unlisted. When one bold fan had the audacity to walk right up to their door with a copy of Tiger Beat in her hand, Casey threw a conniption. The next day, Danny had a security system installed. As Casey watched the closed circuit cameras being mounted on the new gate at the end of her driveway, she wrapped her arms around her growing belly and wondered how she would manage to raise a normal child, locked inside a glass house, with the rest of the world locked out.
***
“You should dress this way more often, cher.” Monique fingered the tuxedo jacket he’d tossed carelessly on the back of the commode. “You look terribly handsome in black.”
Rob scowled into the bathroom mirror. “Easy for you to say.” He bent and splashed water on his face. “You’re not the one wearing the monkey suit.”
“But you do it for me,” she said. “Because you know how important they are, these little charity functions.”
Important for her image, perhaps. Monique was continually sponsoring one benefit or another. The publicity was good for her career, and that spectacular face sold tickets to these thousand-dollar-a-plate affairs. But he doubted that his little love muffin even knew what charity tonight’s benefit was raising money for. Patting his rear pocket absently, he said, “Bring me my wallet, will you?”
She stepped away from him, elegant in a clingy black silk gown that revealed everything, including the fact that she wore nothing beneath it. Her heels clicked on blood-red tiles, and he watched her go, aroused by the sight, the sound, the smell of her, troubled by the knowledge that every man who saw her tonight would have the same response. “Robert?” she said a moment later. “What is this?”
He dried his hands on a plush, floral-scented towel and followed her. “What’s what?”
“This?” She held up a mottled blue slip of paper.
“It’s a check. What does it look like?”
“Oui. I can see that,” she said. “But what is it for?”
“It’s for my mother,” he said, taking it from her and tucking it back into his wallet. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Why are you sending your maman a check for five thousand dollars?”
A muscle knotted in the back of his neck. “I send a little money home once in a while. Okay?”
Her mouth thinned, and two deep lines bracketed those lush lips. “We are now supporting your parents?” she said.
The anger rose in him slowly, so slowly he could measure its ascent, like the thin line of mercury rising in a thermometer. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I haven’t touched your precious money. Every goddamn penny of it’s mine.”
She raised those slender shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “You are too—what is the word? Thin-skinned. You grow angry each time I mention money. Why is that?”
“I can’t stand the waste I see all around me. My folks are scraping to get by, and you’re terrified that I might send them a tiny fraction of your money and leave you too poor to buy the bare necessities. Like expensive Scotch and designer dresses.” He eyed the revealing black gown and his mouth drew tight. “How much did that one cost you?”
“That is not your concern, cher. Perhaps I made a mistake when I married you. You still think like a poor man. And you wish to live like one.”
“And what are you, the world’s expert on poverty? You wouldn’t know poor if it bit you on the ass. I’ll be glad to tell you what poor is. Poor is wearing the shoes your brother wore last year, because your dad got laid off again and there isn’t money to buy shoes for nine kids. Poor is digging through the box of clothes Father McMurphy brought over, looking for something that won’t look too ridiculous. And then wearing it to school, wondering who’ll recognize the old clothes their mother gave to the church last week. Poor is your mother coming home at night with her knees all bloody because she spent the whole fucking day on them, scrubbing floors for some rich bitch who doesn’t give a goddamn about her or you or anything except her damn money. So you can build your altar and pray to your money god, but don’t expect to see me kneeling there beside you!”
Her face hardened, erasing any beauty that had been there. Or perhaps her beauty had never been anything more than illusion. “I was right,” she said. “You’re nothing more than a peasant.”
For a moment, as he studied her face, he wondered what he had ever seen in this woman. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m a peasant. I come from a working-class, blue-collar, meat-and-potatoes family. And you know what? I’m damn proud of it. My people know who they are. Nobody I know is pretending to be Queen of the World.”
Her face went white. “You bastard,” she sai
d.
“Right.” He picked up his car keys and his wallet, crammed them into the pocket of the monkey suit, and headed for the door.
Her voice followed him. “Where are you going?” she said. “We have a dinner to attend in forty-five minutes.”
Without breaking stride, he said, “I’m not going.”
“How dare you walk away from me?” she said. “Nobody walks away from me!”
“I’m not fighting with you tonight, Monique. Just give me some space, before I do something we’ll both regret.”
“Nobody walks away from me!” she repeated. “Do you hear me? Nobody!”
He stopped abruptly next to the antique telephone table in the foyer and turned to look at her. She was standing in the archway, her fists clenched, her eyes furious. “Watch me,” he said.
“If you walk out that door,” she screeched, “don’t expect to be allowed back in this house!”
He paused, squared his jaw, and for a full ten seconds, he just looked at her. “Fine,” he said bluntly. “I’ve had enough of living with a lunatic anyway.”
She gaped at him in astonishment, and then her blue eyes filled with tears. “Monster! Fils de chienne! Nobody has ever walked away from me!” She threw herself on him, clenched fists beating ineffectually at his shoulders, his chest, his face. He peeled her loose, imprisoned her wrists in his hands and held her away from him. Breathing heavily, he said, “Grow up.”
Monique was not the kind of woman who was attractive when she cried. “You are not the only man in the world!” she shouted. “There are a million other men who would be thrilled to be where you are, sleeping in my bed every night!”
“That’s fortunate,” he bellowed, “because that position just became vacant!” He released her, bent and pulled the telephone directory from beneath the hall table and flung it at her. “You still have forty-five minutes,” he said. “If you start calling now, I’m sure you can find another date for the benefit.”
It took five minutes to pack what was his. He left the new clothes hanging in the closet, the diamond pinkie ring and the gold wedding band on the dresser. He loaded all his worldly possessions into a single suitcase and put the top down on the Porsche so the wind could blow through his expensively styled hair. And without looking back, he drove away from the Bel Air mansion that had been his home for the past twelve months.
Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Page 21
