His knowing chuckle let her know he wasn’t fooled.
Seeking any kind of distraction, Layla looked toward the TV. She hadn’t paid attention to the screen before. Now she did. A familiar face came into focus. Victoria Gray in the role that had earned the legendary actress an Academy Award in 1976. The scene cut to Victoria accepting the Oscar, and Layla realized it was one of those Hollywood tribute specials. She’d seen it before. The same one aired every year on the anniversary of Victoria’s death.
Sure enough, the scene cut to her last interview. This image of Victoria showed a much starker contrast to the younger one. Her skin was so thin and pale it looked translucent, and her eyes seemed to have sunk into her skull. A colorful scarf covered her bare head where a flowing mane of ebony hair had once reigned.
Layla sighed.
Grayson arched a brow. “What’s that sound for?”
She gestured toward the screen. “Hollywood legends aren’t supposed to die of something as ugly as cancer.”
“How are they supposed to meet their maker?”
“I guess we hope they never will, but if they have to go it should be romantic, like a car going off a cliff in Monte Carlo.”
“Grace Kelly still died, and at a tragically young age.”
“Yes, but she never aged. She’ll always remain young and beautiful. Like James Dean or Marilyn Monroe. Poor Victoria Gray withered away by degrees. So sad.”
“Yes.”
“How long has it been?” she wondered aloud.
“Four years.”
The clipped sound of his reply had her twisting toward him. He sat unmoving on the opposite corner of the couch. His eyes were trained on Victoria. Like his aunt earlier, his expression seemed a world away and filled with unspeakable sadness.
“Grayson. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t mind me,” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not an easy day.”
“Your aunt said the same thing—”
His head came up, brows drawn together in a fierce scowl.
She held up her free hand. “Don’t worry. She didn’t tell me why. Look, I’m not asking to be nosy, but if you need someone to talk to, I’m a good listener.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow exhale. “She died today.”
“Who?”
His head tilted toward the TV. “Her.”
“Victoria Gray? Did you know her?”
“She was my mother.”
Silence echoed through the room, filled only by the voice of the narrator on the television.
“Your what?” Layla asked in shock.
“My mother.”
“I didn’t know she had any children.”
“No one did.”
Layla looked back at the special. They’d cut to Victoria in the early days again. Layla searched the face of the actress and gasped as the famous features registered. The dark hair, the shape of the nose and mouth… the eyes. The same characteristics Layla had seen earlier in Helen, and now in Grayson.
“Why doesn’t anyone know who you are?” she asked. “Was she trying to protect your privacy?”
He laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Nothing that noble.” He grabbed his tea and rose to walk to the bar. Ice cubes clinked against the sides of the glass in a methodical rhythm. “She wanted to protect her career.”
Layla twisted around on the couch, following his movements. “Why would children hurt her career?”
Liquid splashed and gurgled over the ice. “Because she thought her fans would look at her differently if she was a mother. She was supposed to be this elusive siren, and a child didn’t fit with that image. Plus, she wasn’t married, and at the time single mothers still weren’t readily accepted.”
“Who is your father?”
He leaned against the bar, his eyes trained on the liquid in his glass. “No idea. She refused to tell me, even when she was dying. She did say once he was married, so that was probably another reason for the secrecy.”
“I still don’t understand how she could hide a child,” Layla said, unable to comprehend how something this explosive could have been hidden for so long, especially in this day and age of celebrity gossip shows and a million paparazzi. “Wasn’t anyone curious about who you were?”
“No one knew I existed. At least not when I was younger. She kept the pregnancy a secret, and I was raised by my aunt and uncle.”
“Did you grow up knowing Victoria Gray was your mother?”
“They explained it to me once I was old enough to understand,” he said, still gazing into his glass as if the tea might suddenly provide answers to questions that had no acceptable explanations. “It never seemed real though. For years I wished Aunt Helen and Uncle Joe were my parents.”
“They were in all the ways that mattered.” Layla stood and rounded the couch to his side. “Did you ever see her?”
His head lifted. “I went out there a couple of times a year, but she told everyone I was the housekeeper’s grandson.”
“You look so much like her. Surely, people must have guessed the truth.”
“I’m sure some did, but no one ever spoke about it. Maybe keeping secret babies secret is some unwritten Hollywood rule.”
Layla could hardly process his story. What kind of a woman would refuse to acknowledge her own child?
The same kind who abandoned her baby daughter without a backward glance, she thought. At least Grayson had seen his mother occasionally.
“My mother left me on my grandmother’s doorstep when I was only a few months old, and never came back,” she said, surprised to hear the words flow so easily out of her mouth. She never talked about her mother, not even with Gran. “Literally on the doorstep. She didn’t even bother to go inside the house.”
He lifted her chin with one finger, and she dared to look up. His eyes had lost their far-away glaze as he focused on her. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and forced a smile, trying to convince herself that the dark truth no longer had the power to hurt her. “Seems we both got gypped in the parental department, huh?”
He released a soft chuckle. “How did your dysfunction manifest itself?”
“Manifest itself?” she asked in confusion.
He chuckled. “That’s therapist speak for how did your mother’s abandonment effect your adult actions, especially your romantic relationships?”
“You turned to therapy over your mother?”
“It’s what we do in show business,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile. “Therapists are always very high on the speed dial list. Right after agent and manager. Maybe even before the other two since we’re likely to consult said therapist about our agents and managers.”
“No therapy. I was too busy building a business.”
Without even seeming aware of the action, he traced an index finger along the neckline of her t-shirt “I took up with unattainable women. Beautiful, narcissistic, distant, a little broken, and always in need of someone to fix their lives so they never had to worry about anyone but themselves.”
He might not have been paying attention to his wandering hands, but Layla felt the gentle stroke along every synapse. “Women who were just like your mother,” she drawled, easing away from temptation. She pivoted and retreated to the safety of the couch.
Grayson took up pursuit, easing into the corner across from her. “Skye Malone was fashioned from the same clay. Unfortunately, I hadn’t spent enough time in therapy yet to recognize what I’d done. I just kept trying to please her.”
He still didn’t seem to notice that she was approaching near panic at her inability to control her reaction to him. Couple her Code Orange response with a lifetime’s worth of unresolved feelings about her mother, and Layla considered running for her car.
“I’ve never been married,” she said, attempting to regain her typical calm, cool, and collected demeanor. “Never really had a healthy, long-term relationship.”
“You abandoned them before they could abandon you.”
She tried concentrating on her pitiful past, hoping those gut-wrenching memories might short-circuit any romantic leanings where Grayson was concerned.
“I spent my teenage years being the good girl, even when no one believed someone who looked like me could be anything but bad,” she said. “Plus, my mother had gained a reputation as fast, and I happened to look just like her. Things like that tend to stick through multiple generations in a small town like this.”
“Jealousy, too.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Most people come to the same conclusions about me that you did at Joe’s Crab Shack.”
A low grumble rumbled up his chest, and he leaned forward, presenting his stubble-roughened cheek. “Feel free to take a shot at me for that.”
The scent of tea, musky shampoo, and pure, unadulterated male, threatened to overwhelm her. She pressed further into her corner of the loveseat and attempted not to get sidetracked. “Once I got to college, I decided being a good girl hadn’t changed the way people saw me, so why try? I went looking for acceptance in all the wrong places.”
“We are a couple of sad rejects,” he murmured. “I don’t know why some people are even allowed to become parents.”
“My grandmother always said everything happens for a reason. She says it’s all part of a bigger plan.”
He grumbled something under his breath.
“I know,” she said, with a soft chuckle. “I haven’t always believed it either, but she does. I’d probably be happier if I could have her blind faith and know there was a purpose behind it all.”
“She could be on to something, though,” Grayson said. “Your mother left you with your grandmother, who raised you in Shellwater Key. When Skye left me in the most public way possible, I wanted to escape so I wound up here where my aunt and uncle happened to retire. Just when you needed a director.”
She grinned. “Of course. It was all leading to you directing our show.”
His eyes focused on her, growing more serious. “What if there’s more to the plan than The Paradise?”
The air seemed to get sucked out of the room. “What more could there be?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
One brow arched as if he was daring her to acknowledge the spark. “What more indeed, Layla McCarthy?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky timber.
There was no way she was ready to face the question in his gaze. “We should get to work.”
He took a deep, and steadying breath, disentangled his hand from her hair, and sat back. “Right. Work.”
Chapter Seven
Layla’s office at The Paradise was windowless and had beige industrial-style carpeting with suspicious looking dark stains on it. The cracked, sage-green leather couch might have been part of a therapist’s practice at one time. There was also a constant scent of dampness – and sour eggs of all things – in the air.
Her current digs were a far cry from her office overlooking Biscayne Bay. She liked it, though. Especially as it allowed her to hide from the chaos currently underway in the dining room. When she shut herself away in here, she didn’t have to hear Chester instructing Noah on the proper technique for securing bolts. She could almost drown out the sounds of hammers and saws. She could even avoid Grayson and his mesmerizing gray eyes.
Today, she had an actual excuse to be in here as she was working on a press release to send to some of the area newspapers. It was time to start spreading the word about The Paradise. Now that they had a marquee director on board, she could use that angle to pitch the story of the theatre’s comeback.
The phone on her desk jangled; and she snatched it up without taking her eyes off the computer screen. “Hello?”
“Hi, I am so lost,” a velvety-smooth voice purred on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t know what Gray was thinking to take a directing job in such a backwater place,” the woman asked as if Layla hadn’t spoken. “I realize his wicked witch of a wife twisted his heart out and stomped on it, but come on.”
Layla’s temper spiked at the derision in the other woman’s tone. Sure, Layla had often complained about Shellwater Key’s old-fashioned ways, but that didn’t mean she’d stand for the same talk from strangers. “I hate to interrupt your tirade,” she cut in. “But I’m still not sure who you are and why you need directions to my theatre.”
There was a pause, followed by the kind of awkward chuckle people made when they were trying to cover up nerves. “You’re the owner?”
“Yes, I am.”
Sort of.
“And I’ve just insulted you.” The caller sighed, and when she spoke again her voice became more conciliatory. “I’m sorry. Gray is an old friend, and when he told me what he was doing and asked me to think about auditioning, of course I was worried. I knew I had to come check things out. I’m pretty sure I missed the exit. I just passed a sign that said Everglades, and now I’m having nightmares about an alligator tearing me apart, limb from limb.”
A reluctant chuckle threatened to bubble up in Layla’s throat, but she choked down any hint of laughter. She would not be amused by a woman who bad-mouthed her hometown – even if it surprised her that she’d started thinking of Shellwater Key that way. Added to that, this woman said Grayson’s name with a casualness that boasted of a close relationship.
So instead of laughing, or hanging up, Layla cleared her throat. “If you’re approaching Alligator Alley, you have gone too far.”
“Why would anyone name a highway Alligator Alley?” she asked on a horrified gasp. “Are they roaming free on the road looking for a snack?”
“No. Contrary to popular belief, alligators don’t attack people that often,” Layla said. “You haven’t actually gone too far out of the way. Take the next exit and head back north…”
She finished giving directions and hung up. She couldn’t help wondering what the other woman looked like, and exactly how close she was to Grayson.
Not that it mattered.
Nope. Grayson’s love life was no business of hers. Even if said love life involved a woman whose voice caressed like mink fur against bare skin.
Layla tried to shake off the call and focus on her press release again. Tried to make the revival of The Paradise seem like the story of the century. She spent the next hour polishing the piece – and not thinking about the silken-voiced woman who was even now on her way.
“So stop thinking about her,” Layla muttered out loud.
Aunt Grace poked her head through the doorway. “Talking to yourself?”
Layla smiled. “Arguing, sniping, belittling. You name it. Distract me.”
“Oh, I can do better than that. You need to come with me.”
She rose from her desk. “Why?”
“There’s a woman here looking for Grayson.”
Layla thought she knew who it was. The “friend” of Grayson. The woman Layla could have left stranded in the middle of the Everglades.
“He’s out right now. I’ll speak to her,” Layla said as she followed her great-aunt down the hall.
They stopped at the double doors leading to the dining room and Layla peeked out of one of the high, round windows. A petite, titian-haired woman dressed in a cream-colored pantsuit stood under the skylight. A sunbeam enveloped the woman in a kind of a supernatural halo.
Layla bit back a sigh. The velvet-voiced woman was as entrancing in person as she was on the phone. Of course.
“Your Grayson is one blessed man,” Aunt Grace said, peering out of the other window. “Isn’t she divine?”
“He’s not my Grayson, and that woman is an actress, here to talk about the show,” Layla said. “It’s not like he’s romantically involved with her.”
“Maybe not in the past, but he’s single now—” Aunt Grace paused and let her meaning dangle in the air.
“Don’t you have your quilting circle today?”
>
Aunt Grace chuckled. “I’ve still got a few minutes before I have to be at the church.”
Layla ignored what could only be described as an evil laugh. She turned back to look out the window again and saw that the woman in the dining room had left her makeshift spotlight and was proceeding to scope out the rest of the room.
Then Grayson strolled in.
The woman turned, and a huge smile broke out across her heart-shaped face. She hurried toward him, and he scooped her up and spun her around like they were replaying a reunion scene in a WWII movie. Even through the door Layla heard the other woman’s throaty laughter.
Layla pushed through the double doors before she’d even thought of a reason why she needed to get out there so urgently. Grayson and “Our Lady of the Phone Sex Voice” halted mid-twirl.
“Layla,” Grayson said in a slow, sexy drawl that he had no business using when he still had his arms wrapped around the luscious redhead.
“Grayson,” Layla returned with what she hoped was nonchalance. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Annaliese Matheson,” Grayson said. “I’m trying to convince her to abandon her retirement and be in our show.” He pulled Annaliese closer. “Annie…this is Layla McCarthy. And the beautiful lady there is her aunt, and the owner of The Paradise, Grace-Anne Carter.”
Aunt Grace put on her favorite Southern belle impression again and strode forward. “I am so happy to meet you, dear. I do hope you’ll join us at The Paradise.” She took the woman’s arms and held them out as if to get a better look. “Why, you are just stunning. Isn’t she stunning, Layla?”
“She certainly is,” Layla said through clenched teeth. Did her aunt have to gush quite so much? And did Grayson have to regard Annaliese with such tenderness?
Wait… Annaliese Matheson?
She’d heard that name before. Grayson had mentioned it.
Then she remembered. “You’re one of the actors from Grayson’s theatre in Chicago, right?”
The other woman’s eyes widened in surprise, and she sent Grayson a searching glance. “You’ve been telling tales.”
He shrugged. “I was telling Layla about the early days at The Royale. I mentioned you and Brent.”
Left Turn at Paradise Page 8
