Her arms crept around his waist slowly, a white flag, a selfless surrender that ripped at the edges of his conscience.
He stepped away abruptly, angry at himself for his lack of control, angry at Cassie for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Another man’s wife. Pregnant. Stomping to his side of the truck, he swung himself into the cab and turned over the ignition. He flicked on the headlights, spotlighting Cassie. She was frozen in the moment. Her hand was pressed to her mouth; her wedding ring gleamed like a prophecy. From this distance, Will could not be sure if she was wiping away the taste of him, or trying to hold it in.
ALEX RIVERS—THE MOST SOUGHT-AFTER ACTOR/DIRECTOR IN HOLywood at the moment, which was a little after four a.m.—sat in the dark in his Bel-Air study. He eyed the three gold statuettes he’d lined up in front of himself like decoys at a shooting gallery. What a night it had been. What a hell of a night.
He had never wished more fervently that he was drunk, but no matter how much champagne he’d consumed in honor of himself that evening, oblivion wasn’t coming. He had left the last party a little over an hour ago. When he’d walked out, Melanie was going to snort coke in the bathroom with a costume designer, and Herb was negotiating Alex’s rapidly rising salary with a huddle of producers. The snafus plaguingMacbethwere suddenly forgotten by the industry; Alex was a golden boy once again. When he paused at the threshold of the door, everyone was saying his name, but nobody even noticed he’d left.
He wondered if Cassie had been watching tonight, then lashed out at himself for even wondering.
This washisnight. For Christ’s sake, how long had he been working toward this? How long had he been in the process of proving himself?
He ran his hands over the bald heads of the statues, amazed at the way they seemed to retain the warmth of human touch.
He picked up his first Oscar, weighing it in his palm as he would a baseball. Then his fingers closed around it. “This is for you,maman,”
he said, and he hurled it across the study with such force that it cut the wallpaper and dented the Sheetrock with its impact.
He picked up the second one, the one for his father, and threw it in the same direction, grunting with satisfaction as his fingers released the smooth metal.
His lips stretched in the imitation of a smile as he walked toward the third Oscar. Save the best for last. He gripped the narrow body, thinking of his dear, devoted wife, and he stretched back his arm.
He couldn’t do it. With a strange keening sound at the back of his throat, Alex fell heavily into the desk chair. He ran his fingers over the statuette as if in apology, as if he were feeling the soft curve of Cassie’s neck and the blunted edges of her hair. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes when they started to sting; he lowered his head to the desk.
Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Director, Worst Husband. Alex had seen the parallel before where art imitated life, but never had it rocked him to the soul. His acceptance speeches tonight had been carefully written, plotted word by word to catch Cassie, wherever she was, and reel her back to him. He was only beginning to see how much he had really meant the things he said.
He could wake up tomorrow with a hundred movie offers and a going salary of twenty million per film, but it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. He would trade it all and live in a cardboard box on the beach if he could rip out of himself the part of him that caused her pain.
In the shifting shadows of his study, Alex Rivers whispered aloud the secret that none of the glittering people still partying on Sunset Boulevard knew: He was a nobody.
Unless. Until.
She made him whole.
When the private line of the telephone rang beside his head, he knew he had conjured her. He picked up the receiver and waited to hear Cassie’s voice.
There was no way Alex could know the trouble Cassie had gone to to find a phone. It had meant sneaking past Will, who was pretending to be asleep on the floor but had let her go without a word. It meant taking Will’s truck, without permission, to the Catholic church and waking the priest and hoping her white skin could convince him of a fabricated emergency. It meant waiting through several false starts with her heart at the back of her throat until a South Dakota operator finally reached Bel-Air.
“Alex,” she whispered. Her word was an embrace. “Congratulations.”
It had been so long, and he was so shocked that his televised speech had actually brought her to him, that Alex could not speak at all for a moment. Then he hunched his shoulders forward, as if he could cradle Cassie’s voice with his own physical presence. “Where are you?” he asked.
She had been expecting this. She didn’t want to divulge anything;
she only wanted to hear Alex. “I won’t tell you,” Cassie said. “I can’t.
But I’m all right. And I’m very proud of you.”
Alex realized he was drinking in her voice, storing it inside himself to play again and again. “When are you coming back? What made you leave?” He reined in his emotions. “I could find you, you know,” he said carefully. “If I wanted to, I could.”
Cassie took a deep breath. “You could,” she said with a practiced bravado, “but you won’t.” She waited for him to contradict her, and when he didn’t she told him what he already knew. “I won’t come back becauseyouwant me to, Alex. I’ll only come back becauseIwant to.”
It was a lie; if he’d broken down and begged her she would have taken the next plane to L.A. She was bluffing, and maybe Alex knew it too, but he also knew how much was at stake. Cassie had never hidden from him before, after all. And if ensuring a happy ending meant playing by her rules, he would do whatever she asked. So he swallowed his pride, his fear, and his failure. “Are you really all right?” he asked softly.
Cassie curled the phone cord around her wrist like a bracelet. “I’m okay,” she said. She glanced up to see the priest’s silhouette at the rectory door. “I have to go now.”
Alex panicked, gripping the phone more tightly. “You’ll call back?”
