They looked like everyone else in L.A.
In that quick clarity which comes once or twice during one’s life, Will understood that he was not supposed to be here at all. He remembered his days on the tribal police, where he’d arrested deadbeat husbands and confiscated six-packs from teenagers, all the while thinking there was more to life than that. And maybe there was—but he wasn’t any closer to finding it now than he had been in South Dakota.
He was so busy watching the audience that he didn’t know what hit him. But the fourth model had caught her heel on a divot in the runway and had inadvertently swung her head, loosening the pins and the glue that secured a fountain of flowers to her scalp. Will was buried in a heap of tea roses and tiger lilies, huge hothouse poppies, stephanotis.
He slipped on the shimmering petals and fell backward on the floor.
A crew of doctors who staffed the Southern California ranch rushed up from their table to make sure that he was all right, but not before the model herself, leaning over in mortification, pitched from the high runway on top of Will. She was sprawled across him, a fiftysomething grand dame with tears of failure in her eyes and a dress cut too low.
“Ma’am,” Will said politely, “are you all right?”
The woman sniffed delicately, and then seemed to notice him. She smiled seductively, stretching the skin of her face-lifted cheeks to its limit. “Well, hello there,” she said, deliberately slipping her thigh between his legs.
And that was how Will knew he’d be going home.
THREE—TWO—ONE—WHITE. THE FILM PROJECTING INTO ALEX’S private screening room ran through to the end, leaving him to stare at absolutely nothing. He pushed a button on his remote control and sighed as the room sank blessedly into black. Better this way; easier.
He picked up the bottle of J&B sitting next to him and tilted it up, only to remember it was empty. He’d finished it sometime during ActIIIofMacbeth, when he had realized that the critics were right: the movie was horrible. They wouldn’t even be able to give away video copies to high school English teachers.
He had wrapped up production several weeks ago; this was the first complete version of the film. And he couldn’t blame the problems on the rough editing; he knew he should have cut his losses months before.
But in Hollywood, that meant admitting failure, and no producer with an eye on the future could afford the stigma. So he’d plodded through the filming, praying it would turn out better than it had felt scene-byscene.
It seemed, these days, no one was listening to Alex’s prayers.
He rubbed his eyes, which constantly burned. “Everyone has a flop,”
he said out loud, trying the words on for size. He was overdue for one anyway. You couldn’t romance success for ten years without also courting disaster.
Of course, not everyone’s life fell apart at the same time as his career.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. He was eight years old again, sitting outside at Deveraux’s, waiting for his father to finish his card game. It was oppressively hot, but that was nothing new. All the windows at Beau’s were open, and he could hear the clink of beer glasses being set down on the rough wood tables; the slap and giggle of the redheaded waitress when Beau pinched her; the cracking claws of crawfish as people cleaned their plates. A lively zydeco wafted from the inside speakers through the Spanish moss that curled around Alex’s head.
“You ain’t got nothin’ left to bet ’cept your kid,” Alex heard, “and he ain’t worth the shit on your shoes.”
He stood up and climbed the low branches of the tree that stood closest to Deveraux’s, wetting his bare feet with the muck of the swamp and stretching across a low-lying limb. His father must have lost again, maybe even used up more than just the money he’d gotten from his haul of crawfish. “Spot me, Lucien,” his father said. “I’m good for it.”
From behind his father, he saw Beau shake his head slightly at Lucien, but the big bald man just crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “You gonna lose again,cher,” he said, “but don’ let it be said I ain’t a good sport.” He dug a roll of bills out of his chest pocket and thrust a handful at Alex’s father. But before Andrew Riveaux could take the cash, Lucien pulled it just out of reach. “Wait a minute,” he said.
“Seems to me if I’m gonna pay you, you ought to whore for me.”
With the entire restaurant laughing, Andrew Riveaux stood up and wiggled his ass around the card table. He sashayed and pouted and acted like a floozy until Lucien took pity on him and handed him the money. Alex’s face had been pressed against the windowsill the whole time. He felt his gorge rise and even so, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
Alex’s eyes snapped open. He stood up and drew wide the curtains, turned on every single light in the little projection room. Then he picked up the portable phone and dialed directory assistance in Maine.
He put through a call to Benjamin Barrett.
“Hello?”
Alex swallowed. “Mr. Barrett?”
“Ayuh?”
“My name is Alex Rivers. Cassie’s husband.” There was a long, indrawn breath, and then silence, which Alex decided to use to his advantage. “I’ve heard what you’ve been saying, and I wanted to, well, apologize for using you as an excuse a few months ago.”
“You don’t know where my daughter is, do you?”
Brief anger welled up in Alex at this paternalistic display, since in the three years he’d been married to Cassie the man had never visited, never invited them to Maine, never even called to say hello. “No,” he said, keeping his voice level. “But I’m trying.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “You don’t know how hard I’m trying.”
