“I bummed a ride with Sven Markson and we flew into that airfield a few miles up the road. Everyone’s starting to head up to Napa.” She waved a hand in the general direction. By “everyone” she meant Hollywood royalty and by “bumming a ride” Rebecca of course meant flying in luxury on director Sven Markson’s little private Lear jet, which he shared generously with her since her movie,Better Luck Next Time, had doubled both his wealth and cachet. “I took a cab in to Hellcat Canyon from there. And by ‘a cab’ I think I mean ‘thecab’ because I’m pretty sure there’s only one in this part of the woods. I had towaitfor it.” She sounded astonished. Rebecca never had to wait for anything anymore.
He stared at her blackly until her confident smile wavered.
“No, Rebecca,” he explained slowly, as if she were a dull child. “I’m not going to do ‘breezy’ with you. It’s not as cute as you think it is. The last time we spoke was right before you left Cannes with Anthony Underhill. I haven’t seen you since. You never returned any of my calls or texts. And if you need your memory refreshed aboutwhyyou dumped me, there are a few hundred articles about it on the internet. I remember in particular ‘The Top Ten Reasons Rebecca Corday is better off without John Tennessee McCord.’ So color me baffled about your presence here.”
“Oh, God, John. You shouldn’t have read them. I didn’t.” She sounded genuinely pained.
“Bullshit.”
“Well, not all of them.”
She never could resist reading about herself. She counted on fresh internet mentions the way she counted on water gushing out when she turned on the faucet in the morning. She would be just as shocked if either stopped.
“That one was e-mailed to me. By guess who.”
She struggled not to smile. And then she did. That famous smile that could light a theater. “Let me guess. Franco?”
“Who else?”
She laughed. And once upon a time he’d lived to make her laugh, and now it was as charming as the sound of shattering glass.
“Okay, John, as for the rest of why I’m here, I’d rather not talk in the street. Can we go back to your place, wherever that is? It’s pretty hot in the sun right here. I saw your truck over there. Can’t miss it.”
He sighed gustily. “For fuck’s sake. Get in the truck.”
He stalked over to it without waiting for her and he didn’t open the door for her.
She did as ordered, and he peeled away from the curb fast enough to spit gravel behind them.
He was stonily silent.
She watched the scenery. “It’s pretty as a movie set, this little town, and—oh, look! My Macy’s campaign on all the bus benches!” She gave a little delighted bounce in her seat.
He said nothing.
“So you’re going to be like that, Johnny?”
He said nothing.
“I can keep talking even if you don’t.”
He said nothing.
“Nice country here, even if it’s a little hot.”
He said nothing.
And finally she shut up.
He turned up the road to his cabin and cut the engine.
“Thisplace? It looks like that house made of straw the first little pig made.”
He said nothing.
She shot him a look. Rebecca’s confidence was ironclad. He never could intimidate her.
He didn’t open her truck door, which was something she wouldn’t fail to notice, because J. T. was a gentleman.
