Indiscreet (The Discreet Duet Book 2)

by Nicole French

  “What—what about the video?” I asked once Gronsky had finished.

  This time there was no chuckle—only the silence of regret.

  “Well, Maggie, I’m afraid the judge wasn’t very generous on that count either. Since there was no evidence of the video, not with us or on Mr. del Conte’s cell phone, he saw no reason for an injunction.”

  So. Not only was I unable to keep Theo at arm’s length, I also couldn’t preserve my mother’s dignity. I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands. There was no word for this but one: failure.

  12

  I moved through the rest of the day in slow-motion, calling Mama to make sure she made her one o’clock and working on the house before going back to the inn for the afternoon turn-down service. I was pulling a triple-shift today. Linda was holding an event this evening for the local Rotary Club and needed some extra help in the kitchen.

  “That’s great, hon,” Linda said as she looked over the last room I cleaned that afternoon. Linda Forster was the definition of proprietary. It didn’t matter that she had known me pretty much my entire life or that I had once been close enough to her family to be like a daughter. I was the first person she’d ever hired outside of the Forsters to work at the inn, so she needed to make sure I was doing it right.

  “Empty out the trashes, and I think you’re done for the day.” She shook her head appreciatively. “What I ever did without you, I’ll never know. You’re a gem.”

  She smiled and walked out, leaving me to pack the cleaning materials back into the hall closet and go around to the vacant rooms to double check that all trash had been thrown out. It didn’t take long. There were only five rooms on the top floor of the Forster Inn. I cleaned the downstairs in the morning, when most of the guests were asleep. And after other people checked out, I’d return sometime around noon, get the rooms ready for new guests, and turn down the beds. Most days I finished by two at the latest.

  In some ways, it felt like I was becoming everything everyone had expected of me. Like the second I picked up a spray bottle, everything they knew about the last eight years of my life—my scholarship, my music, my career—disappeared and I became Ellie Sharp’s kid again, doing odd jobs here and there to help pay the bills. The steady to my mother’s crazy.

  It wasn’t a rhythm I ever wanted to keep, but here I was again. And now, with the renewed threat of Theo hanging over me…what the hell else was I going to do?

  In the last room, I found a copy of Us Weekly stuffed in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Before I chucked it into the trash bag, a small, grainy photo of a man following a woman down the street in the bottom right corner of the page leapt out with the accompanying headline:

  Is Fitz Baker rekindling an old flame?

  It was garbage. It wasn’t even clear that the photo was him, although those broad shoulders and the cropped blond hair did look familiar. But Will told me daily to ignore all of the tabloids, and I knew him well enough to know that he went out of his way to avoid everything they said, not confirm it.

  Still…it was as if some masochistic voice in me demanded to know. Demanded to see. It’s LA. There are naked women everywhere, right? Who’s to say who he’s been talking to off set?

  What did these glossy pages know that I didn’t?

  I sat down on the bed and flipped through the pictures: celebrities on red carpets and candid photos of them at the beach, the mall, wherever the photographers could find them. “They’re just like you!” They all made me feel sick, voyeuristic. Some photos had clearly been staged—they looked too perfect, too coordinated not to. Accessories held exactly right, handbags or sneakers brand new, unused. But in so many others, the subjects were clearly unaware of having their pictures taken or obviously didn’t want it. Their body posture was closed, protective. Some of them had small children in tow; others were walking with significant others or friends down the street, shielding their faces.

  I snapped the magazine shut. This was wrong. Will had welcomed me into the deepest, most private parts of his life. He deserved privacy as much as anyone else did, and by looking at this crap, I was violating it as much as the photographers.

  But…

  Is Fitz Baker rekindling an old flame?

  The question echoed through my mind as it jumped off the page.

  I picked up the magazine again, but before I could open it, there was a loud giggle from down the hall, and by instinct, I shoved the magazine aside and jumped up as Lucas and Lindsay practically toppled into the room, grinning at each other like fools.

  “Mom keeps the extra towels in this closet, I think,” Lucas was saying while Lindsay continued pawing at his arms and giggling like an anime character until she realized I was there.

  “Oh my gosh, Lukey, you’re so—oh!”

  Lucas turned to me, face red. He usually got to the house to finish the last bits of work on the outer cottages at the same time I left to clean the inn’s rooms. Our interactions now were fairly limited, and I was certain that had something to do with the fact that his pseudo-girlfriend—or whatever Lindsay was—was responsible for outing Will to the paparazzi.

  Lindsay looked me over with a pointed eyebrow, her slim, tanned hand perched on her waist. They were dressed like they were going out on the Forsters’ boat—Lindsay in a string bikini with a pair of tiny shorts, Lucas wearing his swimsuit too. He inhaled, sucking in his stomach a bit. He was still handsome, but the football player’s body from high school was definitely a thing of the past.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Lindsay said. “I forgot you were the new cleaning lady around here.” She snickered. “How’s scrubbing toilets treating you? I guess having a famous boyfriend doesn’t do much for someone like you, does it?”

  “Beats selling out my friends for money,” I snapped back. “How was Hawaii, Linds?”

  She sniffed. “Fine, thanks. Look, it’s not my problem some people can’t handle a little attention.”

  Lucas frowned at her, but didn’t say anything. “Everything all right in here, Mags?” he asked me.

  I nodded, standing up. “Yeah, just finishing up for the day. You’re back early.”

  He smiled. “We’re done at your house. I put in the final light fixtures on the upper cabin. Everything’s ready to go.”

  Twin emotions of relief and fear swept through me. Finally, some good news today. “Really?”

  Lucas grinned. “Yup. Airbnb away, Mags. You never know. Maybe having some people around will help keep Ellie busy and out of trouble.”

  Lindsay snorted. “Not likely.”

  “Linds—”

  “Come on, Lucas, you saw her at Curly’s last weekend.”

  “Lindsay, I said—”

  “It’s all right.” I picked up the trash bag. “I know what she does. And sure, maybe you’re right. But we’re going to try anyway. Maybe it will help her to have something else to focus on.”

  “Hey, what’s that?” Before I could stop her, Lindsay reached around me and snatched the magazine from the bed, immediately spying the article on Will. “Ooooh,” she said as she flipped quickly to the pages. “This must really bum you out.”

  “I didn’t read it,” I said, turning to the door. All I wanted was to get out of here.

  “Well, it makes sense, of course,” she said. “He’s back with all of those beautiful women, you know? His fiancée must have been so excited to find out he was alive—she was probably the first person he saw when he went down there.”

  “Lindsay…” Lucas warned. “Leave it alone.”

  “Come on, she was just reading the article.” Lindsay turned to me with a smirk. “Amelia Craig is so gorgeous, don’t you think?”

  “Linds.”

  Lucas’s voice was uncharacteristically steely. He grabbed the magazine from her with a glare that made her shrink, then took the garbage bag from me and tossed the magazine inside.

  “I’ll take this out for you.” He gave a small smile. “Let me know if you want help gett
ing furniture for the cottages, Mags. We can use my truck to pick up stuff if you want.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  But strangely, it didn’t make me feel better. Lucas was kind, but his actions didn’t change the fact that Lindsay’s words, nasty as they were, could have been true.

  Instead of going home, I ended up driving back to Will’s. I didn’t like the doubt that was growing in the pit of my stomach. More, it seemed, every day. Our conversations were becoming shorter, more curt, as his days on set grew long, and most of the time when he was off, he was too tired to talk for long.

  I opened up the cabin door and was immediately inundated with Will. The scent of fresh water and laundry soap was barely evident, but I could still smell it, especially when I pressed my face into his sheets or wore one of his old, ratty t-shirts to bed.

  In the studio, I took a deep breath. Like everywhere else, the room was full of ghosts, but they were friendly. A vision of the first time I’d played in here, when Will had recorded me, had sat with me while I played through my fear, and then afterward, when we’d made love amidst the instruments.

  Had that only been a month ago? Had it really only been three since we met?

  That night had sparked something else in me: that voice, that song, something inside me that called. It had been muted for years, but in the last few months, it had bloomed. And as soon as Will left, a different kind of sadness than the kind that comes from the oppression of abuse––a sadness that simply comes from separation from the one you love––filled me. And inspired.

  Over the last few weeks, songs had been flowing out of me like the water outside. I was alone, but that loneliness without Will inspired poetry. He inspired poetry, some of the best stuff I’d ever written. Songs about my past, about Theo, about my mother. About us.

  I picked up one of the Fenders hanging on the wall and tuned it, leaning close to hear the subtle nuances when I plucked each of the strings. Having perfect pitch meant I never had to use a tuner, never had to listen for the resonance frequency across multiple strings. I could just hear it. It was a gift I often took for granted.

  When the guitar was tuned, I set it down on the stand and went into the sound booth to start the recording. As I looked over the massive soundboard, I sighed. Will had enough variations of Sound Recording for Dummies lying around that I’d learned to record a few other tracks of me and one of his beautiful guitars. But I yearned for more. In my head, there was a full band to accompany my songs. Complex harmonies with complex instrumental accompaniments. Sometimes even an orchestra. I could maybe lay a few separate tracks of guitar and piano over each other, but I didn’t have the vocal range or resources to emulate all of it. The new songs sounded so much fuller than anything I could do on my own.

  But that was better than nothing.

  I pushed a few buttons and set up the parameters the way I wanted them for this particular piece, then went out to the studio, picked up the guitar, and began to play the song I’d written a few days before.

  I still see you standing, in a river made of sand,

  Where trees don’t grow from land, but from the sky.

  We grow old so quickly, that we soon forget to breathe,

  Our sight reduced to sleep before night.

  I can’t be blamed for going.

  Could you be for not knowing? Hey…

  It was a good dream,

  but it was half lies, and that’s

  All I need asleep from you,

  It was a good dream,

  And if I’m gonna wake without you…

  Then I…don’t need to know the truth…

  Walking on the edge

  Where the water meets the land

  Like we’re walking hand in hand to the shore.

  These miles seem like inches,

  These fathoms become feet

  In a place where lovers meet in the dark.

  Don’t blame me for defending

  What you only thought was ending…hey…

  It was a good dream,

  but it was half lies, and that’s

  All I need asleep from you,

  It was a good dream,

  And if I’m gonna wake without you…

  Then I…don’t need to know the truth…

  In the end, I trapped the strings with my fingers and muted the music, frustrated with the sound. I already knew that when I played it back, I wouldn’t like it. It was a song that needed more than my fingernails strumming awkwardly on the strings like some kind of faux-Joni Mitchell. It was more than a simple folk melody—this piece was grand, almost symphonic. It was a song I’d written about missing the greatest love of my life. In my mind, I could hear the whirr of cymbals, the hard thrum of a bass line, arpeggios up and down from a piano, even a violin coming in with a slow wail. I could manage some of the tracks, but I wasn’t going to be able to learn the violin in a few weeks. I’d never find an orchestra to match the music in my head.

  I sighed, frustrated, set the guitar back on its stand, then went into the studio to stop the recording. I removed the memory card to take with me—I’d be able to listen to it and maybe do some editing on my computer later. I had a folder of songs I shared with Calliope, but no one else had heard any of them yet. She was convinced that when I was ready, they’d earn me another showcase.

  But showcase for what? So I could go on the road as a folk singer? A rock star? More and more, I was starting to feel like chasing that kind of life wasn’t what I wanted anyway. And yet, time and time again, people told me that was the only way to get my music out there. To be heard at all.

  After I shut down the studio, my phone vibrated in my back pocket. Outside, the lake was fully abuzz with the sounds of boats, jet skis, country music blaring from loudspeakers. It was peak summer on Newman Lake.

  I walked out to the deck where I could watch the water from beneath the shade of the pine trees and smiled when I saw Will’s face light up my screen to FaceTime. I swiped right.

  “Hey!” I greeted him. “Twice in one day, huh? Lucky me.”

  He grinned. “I got another break,” he said, revealing a bright white smile. “The whole evening, actually. And…I don’t know. Things seemed weird when we left off. You seemed, I don’t know. Off. God, you’re pretty. I miss you.”

  I sat on one of the big Adirondack chairs with a thump, not even trying to hide my blush. “I miss you too. How’d filming go today?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, they made the script changes I suggested, so I guess that’s good. But I’m so sick of all this CGI crap. You can’t trade energy with a tennis ball, you know?”

  I nodded, though I didn’t know. I could guess, though.

  “Did you record anything today?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I just put something else down, actually.”

  “When are you going to send it to me?”

  I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. Calliope was one thing—she had been hearing my music from the start, and I wasn’t afraid of her comments, good or bad. But with Will, it was personal. Especially when most of what I was writing these days was about him.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “When it’s finished.”

  “Come on, baby. You gotta give me something. I’m dying down here without you.”

  I squinted, looking behind him. “Where are you?”

  Will turned and looked out at the view. It was fuzzy, but I could make out the shape of a long pier and a Ferris wheel, plus a wide blue sky that never seemed to end. It looked like Santa Monica.

  “Well, since I had more than a few hours off, I decided to go to the beach. It’s basically the one nice thing about LA. One of the cast members has a house here. It’s sort of private, so I figured, why not?”

  “Your cast member? Who’s that?”

  We hadn’t really talked much about who he was actually filming with—he’d jumped in so quickly, and I’d avoided any press coverage of him and the movie to be respectful.

 
“Will! Are you coming, darling? We’re about to start the game.” A throaty, British, and very female voice sounded behind him. Will started and turned around, but before he could block the screen again, I caught a glimpse of the speaker.

  She was tall. Blonde. Tan, and from what I could see, exquisitely pretty. She was also recognizable.

  “I’ll be there in a second,” Will said while my heart turned to glass.

  “Will?”

  “Huh? What’s up, Lil?”

  He looked back, his handsome face once more filling the screen. But I was more interested in who was behind it.

  I worried my lip between my teeth. “Is that…is that Amelia Craig?”

  Will’s big green eyes flew open guiltily, and I knew without hearing the answer that it was definitely her.

  I pressed my lips together, hating the way that pit in my stomach grew. As if this day could get any worse. “Will…w-why are you with your ex-fiancée?”

  At the sound of my stutter, Will’s eyes shut tight. I’d never explicitly told him why and how it had developed, but he had obviously figured out enough to know that it emerged when I was stressed. Scared.

  His features shuttered. “Well, this is her house.”

  My chest tightened more. “Your…y-your co-star is your former fiancée? As in, the woman you were planning to marry?”

  “Lil, it’s not like that—”

  “How is it n-not like that?” Dammit, my stutter wouldn’t leave. I turned the phone away, not wanting him to see the fear contorting my face.

  “Maggie, can you put the phone back, please? I don’t want to talk to the wall.”

  When I did, Will’s entire face was crinkled with concern.

  “Look, babe, there are a bunch of us here since they are doing stock shots all afternoon. Amy offered to have everyone over, so here we are. You have nothing to worry about.”