Bridge to Haven (48 page)

“Triple threat?”

Merit explained that meant the girl could act, dance, and sing. “She stole every scene in her last movie. Some drivel about unrequited love.” Her derisive tone changed to briskness. “Giant steps forward from her first speaking role as a zombie. This girl has the potential to become a real star, one who lasts.”

Joshua’s pulse shot up. “A zombie?”

Merit laughed. “You heard me. You didn’t recognize Pamela Hudson, so you’ve undoubtedly never heard of Lena Scott. But take my word for it. If our production company gets her, you’ll see her everywhere.”

Joshua found a telephone number, but no address for the Franklin Moss Talent Agency in the yellow pages. He tried phoning on his lunch hour. A dispassionate woman answered and said Joshua could leave a message. She hung up before he finished. He called back. The woman sighed. “You have the wrong agency, mister. Franklin Moss isn’t handling anyone named Abra Matthews.”

Joshua wanted to hit himself in the forehead. “Abra Matthews is Lena Scott, and I’m an old friend.”

“O . . . kay. Give me your contact information and I’ll pass it along to Mr. Moss. I can’t promise he’ll call you back.”

“Can you give me the office address?”

“Sorry. I don’t have that information. Billing does, but they can’t talk to you. Anything else?”

Joshua called Kathy and asked for Merit Hayes’s phone number. Kathy sounded unduly happy. Merit wasn’t. “I thought you and I had an understanding.”

“I’m calling for information, not a date. Can you give me Franklin Moss’s telephone number and address?”

“Let me guess.” She gave a cynical laugh. “You don’t know Pamela Hudson, but you’d like to meet Lena Scott.” She asked if he had a pencil and paper. “If he won’t let studio execs close, I doubt he’ll give you the time of day.” She gave him the same number listed in the yellow pages. He told her he had that number and had hit a wall. “It’s what I’ve got. No surprise I can get through, but a fan can’t.”

“What was his wife’s name? Didn’t you say she was in Malibu?”

“You are a determined man, aren’t you? Shirley, I think. Or Cheryl. Maybe Charlene. Something with a
shhhh
.”

He found a listing for Cheryl Moss and dialed. A boy answered and said his mom wasn’t home. When Joshua asked when she might return, he laughed and said she’d gone to the Valley shopping with his sister and he didn’t expect to see them until late. Joshua said he’d call back tomorrow. He’d used up his hour lunch break and went back to work. It was hard to concentrate.

Dave grinned when Joshua came upstairs from showering and changing after work. He handed him a letter marked
RETURN TO SENDER
in big block letters. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

The production company address was crossed out and the letter forwarded to Franklin Moss, with a Hollywood Boulevard address also crossed off. The letter had been opened and taped shut again.

Let go, Joshua. She doesn’t belong to you.

It was time to listen. Joshua crumpled the letter and dropped it into the wastebasket.

Dave and Kathy were watching him. Kathy was grave. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

“I lost her a long time ago.” He told them who Lena Scott was.

Dave gave a soft whistle and said he never would have guessed. Then he told Joshua the last thing he ever wanted to hear. “Rumor is, she’s married to her agent.”

Joshua released his breath slowly.

Kathy went back to peeling potatoes. “You had a couple of calls today.” She nodded toward the end of the counter. “Charlie Jessup wants to talk with you.”

Joshua glanced through the messages. Three job offers. He wanted to go home. “Mind if I use the phone?” He called Jack Wooding, who said he had a full crew. He sure wished he’d known sooner Joshua might be coming home. He’d be glad to let him know as soon as he had an opening.

Joshua rubbed the back of his neck and bowed his head.
Lord, are You telling me to stay in Southern California?

God seemed to be giving him mixed messages.

Abra awakened, groggy from drinking too much. Franklin was talking. Was someone in the apartment?

His office door was open. He must be on the phone. She could tell by his tone that he was talking to his son. Something about an Impala and why didn’t he ask his mother? She heard him yank open a drawer and peered in. Franklin had the telephone receiver locked between his ear and shoulder as he read the combination and worked the dial on the safe. He cranked the handle and opened the iron door, wheeled his chair back, and tucked the paper into the drawer. Before he wheeled back, she saw money stacked on a shelf inside the safe, and files just below. She withdrew silently.

Everything she needed to leave him was within reach, but she couldn’t get to it as long as Franklin stuck so close to home. He was never gone for more than half an hour, and then just to pick up a few groceries and come right back.

The only way to be free from him was to play Lena Scott for one more day.

Abra arose early, showered, and took the time to shampoo and dry her hair. She dressed in fitted black capris and a green sweater that accentuated her eyes. She had lost weight and the clothes were a little loose, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She took special care with her makeup. Lena always wore more of it than Abra liked. She brushed her hair and left it loose about her shoulders.

The door to the master bedroom was open. Franklin was still asleep, his bed a shambles, blankets kicked aside, half on the floor, half on the bed. He never slept well after talking to his children or his ex-wife. He stirred.

She hurried quietly to the living room. She had a role to play, and it had better be worthy of an Academy Award. What would Lena do when Franklin came into the room? What would Lena say? She wouldn’t confront him for withholding her money. She wouldn’t threaten him with divorce or breach of contract. Lena would tantalize him with hope. She would be cunning, wise enough not to rouse his suspicions.

Abra realized she was chewing her nails and stopped herself.

She’d always been able to set her clock by Franklin’s routine. He got up at five, used the bathroom, and then did a hundred sit-ups and fifty push-ups. He shaved and took a ten-minute shower. He always set his clothing out the night before—dark suit, white shirt, colorful Italian silk tie . . . the uniform of a successful businessman. He kept his wallet, gold cuff links, and watch in a pewter tray on his dresser. At seven thirty sharp, he came down the hall, set his leather briefcase in the entryway, collected
Daily Variety
and two newspapers from just outside the apartment door, and went into the kitchen to fix himself breakfast: three boiled eggs, two pieces of toast. If his bathroom scale had said anything more than 185, he’d have yogurt and bran. He read fast and scanned everything, his eyes quick to spot any mention of Lena Scott.

Things had changed in the last two weeks.

She heard him in the hall. “Lena?” He must have seen the open door. “Lena!”

“I’m in the living room, Franklin.” Grabbing the script for
The Gypsy and the General
, she seated herself on the couch, back against the armrest, legs stretched out. She folded pages back, pretending to read.

He came into the living room disheveled and shaken, a look of panic on his face. He let out a sharp breath and struggled to regain control. “I thought . . .” He shook his head, as though to remove the fear from his troubled mind. “You’re feeling better?”

“I feel rested.” The lie came easily, without a twinge of guilt. In a few hours, she would be out of this prison and away from him.

“That’s good.” His pajama bottoms hung on his hips. He’d lost weight, too. “You’re reading the script.”

She lifted one shoulder. Lena wouldn’t sound too eager. “I’ve read everything else in the apartment. Only thing left to read.” Lena would do what? Her mind went blank.

Franklin opened the front door and scooped up the newspapers. He pulled the rubber band from one while looking at her. “What do you think of it?”

It took a second before she realized he was asking her opinion of the script. “So-so.”

“So-so?” He looked annoyed. “It’s written by one of the best screenwriters in Hollywood. An Oscar winner.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, Franklin. I’m only ten pages into it. I’ll let you know what I think of it this evening.”

His expression changed. “You’re going to love it.” The stress of the last weeks showed around his eyes.

“It’ll take me all day to read through this and think about the role they want me to play.”

He went into the kitchen and put three eggs in a pot and turned
on the tap. He took bread and butter from the refrigerator. “I see you’ve had breakfast.”

She had run water into a bowl and left it with a spoon in the sink so he would think she had. “I’ll clean up later, Franklin.” He liked everything neat and tidy. It had always bothered him whenever she left dishes in the sink. His irritation over a little thing would make him less suspicious about the possible big things she could do to thwart him. She folded back another page of the script, though she hadn’t read even a single line of dialogue and never would.

Newspaper pages rustled while eggs bounced in boiling water. The toaster popped. She heard the scrape of knife against toast. She could feel him watching her while he ate. “You want to go out to lunch?”

She looked at him over the back of the couch. “Do you want me to read the script or not?” Lena would ask if he wanted to play house instead. Abra didn’t. He surprised her by smiling. She’d only offered a little hope, but he’d grabbed on.

Franklin cleared and washed his dishes. “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed.” She pretended to be too absorbed in the script to listen. “I think I’ll give Merit Hayes a call. See if I can’t set up a lunch for tomorrow. Or is that too soon?”

She sighed and laid the script on her lap. “I suppose, Franklin. Maybe you’re right. The sooner I get back to work, the sooner . . .” She couldn’t say the rest.

“I love you, you know.” Franklin looked at her, but didn’t approach. “I have from the first minute I saw you.”

Just like Pamela Hudson. He didn’t know either one of them. A molten rage welled up between the cracks of her facade. She kept her eyes locked on the script, brushing away angry tears, hoping he’d think them tears of regret for time wasted.

“We’ve been through a hard time, Lena.”

She knew what he’d want Lena to say. “You’ve been very patient with me, Franklin. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me.” She kept her tone soft, apologetic. When she felt in control of her inner turmoil, she lifted her head. He wanted her. If he touched her now, Lena would slip away and Abra would be exposed. She lowered her eyes. “Maybe we can talk tonight. After I finish this.” She lifted the script lightly and didn’t raise her head again.

She heard him make a telephone call in his office. Setting up an appointment. Good.