Distant Shores (21 page)

He sat down on the end of the bed. “You're exaggerating, as usual. Believe me, it's hard to be the best. I know. And sometimes the—”

“—training rips your guts out. I know, Dad. I've heard it all before. But you're not listening. I'M QUITTING! At the end of this season, I'm done. Over, finished, wet no more. If I never see another nose plug, it'll be too soon. I would have discussed it with you last week, but you never called me back. I'm going to tell coach tomorrow.”

“Don't do that.” He didn't know what to say and he didn't have time to think about it now. “Look, honey, I have to run. Honest. I've got important business tonight. People are counting on me. I'll call you back tomorrow, and we'll talk about this. I promise.”

“You do that.” She paused. “And, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Strangers aren't the only people who count on you. How come they're the only ones that matter?” Before he could respond, she hung up.

What in the hell did she mean by
that
?

Then he remembered what Elizabeth had said to him on the phone. Something like,
I can't keep you and your daughters on track anymore. Your relationship with Jamie is up to you.

They both acted like he'd been distant, unaware of what was going on in his own family. But that was ridiculous. He'd known what was important—to give his girls all the opportunities he'd never had. He'd worked sixty to seventy hours a week to make a good living, and then he'd coached every sports team Jamie had joined.

He slammed the phone onto its cradle and left the apartment. By the time he reached the lobby, he was pissed off. He slid into the town car's backseat and shut the door.

Strangers aren't the only people who count on you.

He flipped open his cell phone and punched in his daughters' number.

Stephanie answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey, is Jamie there?” He realized a second too late that he'd been abrupt. Stephanie wore her fragile emotions on her sleeve; her feelings needed Woolite care. Unfortunately, he always seemed to remember that a split second too late. “I'm sorry, babe. Your sister just called. She threw me a real curve ball. I didn't mean to be rude.”

“I understand. No one can make you crazier than Jamie.”

“Is the princess at home?”

“She just left with her boyfriend.”

“Keith?”

“Keith is so yesterday, Dad. You'll have to call more often if you want to keep up with Jamie's love life.”

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Here we are, Mr. Shore.”

“Thanks. Hang on a minute, Steph.” He signed the voucher and got out of the car. Marquee lights tossed yellow streaks across the rain-slicked pavement. A throng of celebrity watchers and paparazzi milled in front of the theater. They stood cordoned behind a red velvet rope. Jules Asner was interviewing some man in a tuxedo.

As Jack emerged from the town car, camera lights flashed in his face. He smiled, waved, and kept walking.

In the lobby, he found a quiet corner. “Stephanie?”

“I'm here, Dad. What's all that noise?”

“It's a film premiere. There's a real crowd.”

“Cool. Any movie stars?”

“George Clooney is supposed to show up, and Danny DeVito. And one of those teenybopper girls; I can't remember her name.”

“That sounds awesome. Have fun.”

“We'll talk tomorrow, okay, honey? You can tell me everything that's going on with—”
genetics … microbiology … physics
. He knew she'd changed majors, but he couldn't remember which it was now.
Shit.
“—your life.”

“You promise?”

“You bet. And tell Jamie I'll talk to her, too.”

“Okay. We'll be home tomorrow morning until eleven. Will that work?”

“It's a date. Love you, Steph.” He snapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

Inside the theater, he found a seat on the aisle.

The theater filled up quickly. Finally, a young man walked onto the stage; his ponytail was at least six inches long and thinner than a pencil. He wore a wide-ribbed red turtleneck sweater with sleeves that hung past his fingertips, and a pair of wrinkled brown corduroy slacks. His shoes were clogs. Clogs.

A hush fell over the crowd.

“I'm Simon Aronosky. I directed the film you're about to see.
True Love
is the tragic, yet ultimately uplifting story of a woman in a coma. The deepness of her sleep is a metaphor for life itself. The film explores the hard choices a husband must make to keep his family together. After the show, I'll be available to answer a few questions. Oh, and be sure to fill out the comment cards on your way out. The mice at Disney want to know what you thought.”

The theater lights dimmed. The credits started.

A Northwest Diversified Entertainment production … A Simon Aronosky film …

George Clooney.

Thea Cartwright.

The film, shot in black and white, opened on a close-up of Thea's face. She was sitting at a kitchen table, making out a grocery list. She was illuminated by a single candle. Her blond hair, long and a mass of curls, seemed to be woven of a dozen shades of gray and white. But it was her eyes that held the camera. Big, smoky-dark eyes that seemed to promise the world.

God, she was beautiful.

Jack tried to concentrate on the film, but he'd never liked black and white much, and it was definitely one of those chick tearjerkers that no one really liked but made a shitload of money.

He was awakened by the sound of applause.

The lights came up.

Simon walked, slump-shouldered, back onstage. He was smiling and laughing. “Thanks. I'll answer any questions you have, but first I'd like to introduce you to our star. Ladies and gentlemen, Thea Cartwright.”

Jack straightened.

Thea walked onto the stage, and even from this distance, she was radiant. Flashbulbs erupted, cameras clicked and whirred, people applauded wildly.

She wore a skimpy black top that plunged almost to her nipples, and a pair of skintight, flare-bottomed low-rise jeans. Her belt buckle was a rhinestone-studded
T
. Her black sandals had knife-sharp stiletto heels.

She waved to the crowd, then ran a hand through her chopped blond hair. “Hey, New York,” she said, grinning, “how'd you like my movie?”

The audience went wild.

“Who wanted to try kissing my character to wake her up?”

More applause. For the next thirty minutes, Jack watched her seduce a room full of strangers. By the end, they were eating out of her hand. There was something in her luminous black eyes that made every man—including Jack—think she'd singled him out, that her smile meant something.

“Well, guys,” she said, lowering her voice to a sexy, disappointed purr, “I've got to run now. They've scheduled me for a few more things tonight. Ciao.”

And she was gone.

The director came back onstage. Jack couldn't hold back a groan. The last thing he wanted to do was listen to Mr. Generation-X wax poetic about art in a chick flick. He left the theater. There was an after-premiere party scheduled at a nearby restaurant. He'd go, have a drink, then head home.

He was the first one to arrive at the restaurant. A guard at the door asked for his invitation, looked it over, then nodded. “Go on in.”

Jack walked past an open-air, stainless-steel kitchen where chefs in white hats were working their magic. The tables were empty now; waiters in tuxedos stood around, waiting for the party to start.

He walked up to the bar, ordered a Dewar's on the rocks.

Someone came up beside him. “Hey, Jack. I see you got my invitation.”

He turned, and there was Thea, smiling at him. “You put me on the guest list?”

“I needed
something
to look forward to at this grinfest. So, where's your handler?”

“Sally?” He laughed. “She's running down facts for an upcoming show. She wanted to see your movie, too. It was … good, by the way.”

She smiled, a little too brightly to be real. “I hope so. My last one bombed so fast I saw it on the airplane on the way to the premiere. I need a hit.” As if she realized what she'd just revealed, she laughed easily and took a sip of her cosmopolitan.

In the other room, a band started to play. Soft, romantic mood music that no one would be able to hear when the crowd hit.

“Dance with me,” she said, putting her glass down on the bar.

“Thea …” His mouth was so dry he couldn't manage more. He understood suddenly why a man lost at sea would finally drink the ocean water.

She snuggled closer, slipped her arms around his neck.

They stood eye to eye. She moved slowly, seductively. He couldn't help himself; his arms curled around her. He frowned, noticing how thin she was. Bony, even.

It was the first time in more than a dozen years that he'd held another woman, and it reminded him of his old life. Images of other women tumbled through his mind, memories of long, hot, wet nights spent in hotel beds.

And of the night it had come to an end.

He'd been at Tavern on the Green with a woman he couldn't now remember. Another pretty blonde. It had been one of those flawless late spring days in New York; the smog and humidity of summer hadn't yet arrived.

They'd been outside, dancing cheek-to-cheek beneath the light of a hundred Chinese silk lanterns. The band had been playing “My Romance.” That, he wouldn't forget.

Jack had heard a sound, something out of place. He'd turned, and there was Birdie, standing on the edge of the grass with her handbag clutched to her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Before he could get through the crowd, she was gone. When he'd gotten home that night the house was empty. She'd taken the children to a hotel.

There was no note. Instead, on their big king-size bed, Birdie had left an open suitcase beside a framed picture of their family.

Her point had been obvious: Choose.

He'd stared at the open suitcase forever.

Then he'd closed it and put it away.

Thea drew back. “Is something wrong?”

He was saved by a sudden noise. People streamed into the restaurant in a buzzing, chattering throng.

“Damn.” She eased away from him, smoothed her hair. “I'm staying at the St. Regis, Presidential suite. I'm listed as Scarlett O'Hara. Come see me after the party.”

He wanted to say yes.

We're separated, for God's sake. And at Birdie's insistence. That gives you carte blanche, Jacko,
said his bad side, the part of him that had been quiet for years.

But he knew.

He knew. Some boundaries remained.

“I don't think so, Thea.”

“What do you mean, you ‘don't think so'?” She sounded harsh, as if she hadn't been denied something in a long time.

“I can't.”

“There she is!” someone cried out as the crowd pushed toward them.

As Thea went to greet her fans, Jack got the hell out of there.

Because if he stayed, he'd finish that Scotch, and then drink another and another, and sooner or later, he'd forget the reasons not to go to Thea's suite.

TWENTY-TWO

The newest art gallery in Echo Beach was on the corner of First and Main. A scrolled ironwork sign above the door read: eclectica.

Only a few weeks ago, the Flying High Kite Shop had inhabited this space, but the new owners had obviously gone all out in refurbishing the site. Espresso-colored shingles covered the exterior; freshly planted flower boxes graced the area beneath the front window.

That window was blank now, covered from end to end by a sheet of black paper. A small sign was tacked to the glass. It read: no peeking. we're doing the window display and you're going to
love
it.

Elizabeth glanced down at the piece of paper Daniel had given her. This was the place.

Just go see her,
he'd said over coffee;
she's new in town and could use a little help.

Elizabeth had wanted to decline, but when Daniel looked at her with those incredibly blue eyes, she'd automatically nodded.

Now, she wished she'd been firmer. Most of the so-called art galleries in Echo Beach carried knickknacks—coasters made out of polished driftwood … Christmas ornaments made of that ugly Mount St. Helens ash that looked like a jumbled swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream … crocheted doilies … dried sand dollars in brown mesh netting, that sort of thing. She stayed away from most of them.

Still, a promise was a promise.

She opened the door and went inside. At her entrance, a bell tinkled overhead and a bird squawked loudly.

“Hello?”

There was no answer. She looked around.

To her left was a table filled with stunning wood sculptures. Most of them were women—nudes—from neck to hips. The wood was unbelievably rich and beautiful, the color of well-aged red wine, polished to silken perfection. She couldn't help touching one of the statues; her finger glided down a delicately curved shoulder.

On the next table was an exhibit of black-and-white photography. Each print was extravagantly matted in black suede and framed in gold. The photographer had masterfully captured the spirit of the coast in a series of strikingly original shots: a beach at low tide on a windy day … a misty, ethereal image of the lighthouse called Terrible Tilly … a haunting, nighttime picture of Haystack Rock, rising out of the surf like some ancient monolith.

On the back wall were several paintings. Enough, but not too many. There was a watercolor collage of open umbrellas. A multimedia abstract work that suggested a spinnaker puffed out with wind. The largest piece was a spectacular oil painting of Orca Point.

“Amazing,” Elizabeth said softly to herself.

“It is, isn't it?”

Elizabeth spun around. With the suddenness of the movement, her hip hit a table; beach glass necklaces clinked together.

A woman stepped out from behind a hanging tapestry. She was at least six feet tall, and nearly as wide as she was tall. Her hair was a bird's nest of brown frizz that hung to her waist. She had on a dress that could have doubled as a sackcloth and fell to her feet, which were bare except for the silver butterfly ring on her left big toe. A plunging neckline revealed breasts that quivered when she walked. A huge white bird was perched on her right shoulder.

She stepped closer, smiling. “I'm Large Marge.” She grinned. “I picked up the nickname at a commune in the Bay Area. I never could figure out how a petite, retiring gal like me got saddled with a nickname like that, but there you have it.” She frowned dramatically. “Saddled was a poor word choice. I forbid you to run with it.”

“I'll rein myself in.”

Large Marge laughed heartily. The movement almost tossed her breasts into midair.

Elizabeth offered her hand. “I'm Elizabeth Shore. Daniel Boudreaux asked me to stop by and see you.”

Marge grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pumped it hard. “He told me about you. I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk to you about the Stormy Weather Arts Festival.”

“It's a big deal around here.”

“That's what Danny tells me, though it's hard to imagine an arts walk in this weather. I've never seen so much rain.”

“We locals barely notice it, and the tourists find out too late. I'd be happy to help you organize your gallery's event, if that's what you're interested in. I know who's who around here.”

“Organization skills I got. Local artists are scarce as hen's teeth. It seems that all the good ones are already taken.” She studied Elizabeth. “Danny boy tells me your work might be worth exhibiting.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Marge said softly, “He told me you'd be scared.”

Elizabeth's smile faded. She took a step back. She didn't mean to, and when she realized what she'd done, she stopped. “I just started painting again, after years away from it.”

Marge's gaze moved pointedly to Elizabeth's wedding ring. “Raisin' kids, huh?”

“Yes.” She smiled, though it felt grim, that smile, almost a grimace.

“Are you any good?”

“I was.” It was as confident as she could be.

Marge made a clicking sound, then snorted and slammed her hands on her fleshy hips. “Danny's take is good enough for me. I'd like to show your work for the festival.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Elizabeth didn't know what the right answer was. “What if it's no good?”

“Then it won't sell. Or maybe it'll sell anyway. Hell, honey, it's art. Anything can happen. You want a guarantee, get a bank job. What's the point of painting if no one ever sees it?”

“I suppose I could think about it.”

Marge glanced at the wall clock. “I'll give you three minutes.”

“Come on …”

Marge took a step closer. “I know you, Elizabeth. Hell, I've
been
you. I spent ten years trying to fit my full-sized personality into a compact marriage. If you don't give me an answer right now, I'll never hear from you again.”

Elizabeth felt exposed by that observation. And empowered. She didn't need psychic abilities to hear Meghann's voice in her head:
Damn it, Birdie, don't you dare hesitate.
“How many pieces would you need?”

“Five. Is that possible?”

Elizabeth had no idea, but she knew she had to try. For once. “They won't sell, you know.”

“I'm sure we've both survived worse than that. Come on, Elizabeth, say you'll do it.”

“I'll try.”

Marge grinned. “I love confidence in a woman.” She smacked Elizabeth on the back so hard she stumbled sideways. “Are you still here? You ought to be home painting. Now, git.”

In the past five days, Jack had been in six cities, and every moment in each of those cities had been a blitz. He'd interviewed Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Randy Johnson, Shawn Kemp, and Brian Bosworth.

When the interviews were finished, he spent another three days in the editing room, working the narration and music into the one-hour special he'd titled:
Breakable Gods
.

He'd loved every minute of it.

“You and Sally did a hell of a job,” Tom Jinaro said, leaning back in his chair. “You were right to hire her. She's a pistol.”

“Thanks.” Jack had been confident coming into this meeting. He knew his special was a virtuoso blend of news and entertainment. He'd dared to expose himself emotionally on camera, just enough to humanize the story. He'd admitted how difficult it had been to be forgotten by a city that had once adored him. Alex and Ken had been honest, too, admitting how much it had hurt to be vilified by their former fans. Brian talked convincingly about being forgotten.

Tom leaned forward again. “I've been in this business a long time. I've seen people come and go—mostly go. But you're the real deal. I've never seen anyone shoot up the ladder quicker. I had Mark produce your special because he's the best we have. Honestly, I didn't think you were ready for this sort of thing, but he tells me you were as good as anyone he's ever worked with.”

“Thanks,” Jack said again.

“So, what do you want?”

“Excuse me?”

“It's a simple question. What do you want? The
Fox NFL Sunday
show? Your own interview hour? A book deal? What?”

“You know what I was doing three months ago, Tom? Begging for a job on a low-rent regional sports show—and I didn't get it.” He let that image sink in. “You hired me when I was in the gutter, professionally. You took a chance on me; believe me, I won't forget that.”

Tom smiled tiredly. “You'll mean to remember it, but after a while, you'll start racking up offers, and then you'll think about your age, and your agent will tell you to make hay while the sun shines. It's how the game is played.” He leaned forward. “What I'm going to tell you now can't leave this room. If it does, I'll know it was you.”

“What is it?”

“One of the guys is quitting
NFL Sunday
. One of the big four. I can't tell you which one. But we're looking at you to fill that slot for next year.”

The only show bigger was
Monday Night Football
.

Jack drew in a sharp breath, savoring the moment.

“Thanks.” It was all he could say. Any more and he might start laughing.

“It's not for sure.” Tom grinned. “But it's damn close to that. So, let me give you some advice, man to man. You had a bad-boy image in the NFL and it doesn't look to me like you've changed. I hear you practically live at Kel's pub.”

Jack started to disagree, but Tom stopped him with a laugh.

“Save the denials for your curiously absent wife. I don't care what you do offscreen as long as it doesn't hurt our ratings. But you know what it's like when the tabloids turn on you. Opportunities can vanish in an instant. Stay away from drugs and DUIs and underage women.”

“Don't worry. Nothing is going to derail me this time. I'm older and wiser.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, get going. Talk to Steve in postproduction. I want you and Mark to redub the music. The opening score sounds like the music they played at my aunt Rose's funeral. And there's a bad cut on the Randy Johnson segment.”

“Thanks. When do you think we can air it?”

“Sweeps week. I'll set up with Marion to run a series of promo spots. We'll want to shoot them ASAP.”

Jack left the office and went straight to the editing room, where he and Mark Lackoft spent the next ten hours examining and refining every split second of footage. By the time he was finished,
Breakable Gods
was worthy of a damned award.

Although he was exhausted and starving, he couldn't remember when he'd felt so good. He left the office and walked home, strutting like Tony Manero. He could practically
hear
“Stayin' Alive” playing in his head.

“Hey, Billy!” he called out to the doorman as he strode through the lobby and rode the elevator to his floor.

He opened his door and walked into the apartment. He almost yelled,
Birdie, I'm home,
but stopped himself just in time.

The apartment was as quiet as a tomb. No candle scented the air, no music had been turned on, no aromatic dinner pulled him toward the kitchen.

Disappointment poked a hole in his good mood. He hadn't realized how lonely success could be if you had no one to share it with.

He made himself a drink, then put a CD into the stereo—an old Queen album. “We Are the Champions” blared through the tiny black speakers.

Sipping his drink, he went to the window and stared out.

Tonight, the view didn't help. All he saw when he looked down was a crowd of strangers. For the first time in this city of millions, Jack felt alone.

He picked up the phone and dialed Birdie's number, then hung up before she answered. He didn't know what to say to her anymore. “I love you” was no longer enough, but what else was there? All he knew was that tonight's victory was hollow without her.

He finished his drink and poured another. By now, the apartment was starting to soften; hard wall edges were blurring. Queen moved on to “Another One Bites the Dust.”

He slid down to the floor and sat there, leaned back against his Barcalounger. He flipped open the drink holder hidden in the tufted velour arm. He tried twice to put his glass in the hole, then gave up and downed the rest of the Scotch.

Maybe he should go out, have a few drinks at Kel's.

But he didn't feel like moving.

What he
felt
like was talking to his wife. He wanted to show her the tape, and watch her smile at him afterward. In the old days, she would have teared up; no doubt about it. She would have said, “Oh, baby, that was
amazing
. I always knew you had it in you.”

He needed that now.

It was funny how profoundly you could need something that for years you hadn't even noticed was missing.

He got to his feet. The apartment swayed for a second, then righted itself.

He was drunker than he thought. “So wha?”

Why should he stay sober anyway? He'd rather be drunk right now; he had a lot of things he wanted to forget. Like the softness of her touch … or the way her green eyes sparkled with pride at his accomplishments.

He stumbled into the kitchen, where he made himself another drink. He'd left the jigger somewhere—God knew where—but it didn't matter.

The doorbell rang. His heart lurched. Against all common sense, he thought,
Birdie
.

He hurried to the door and opened it.

Sally leaned against the doorframe, a bottle of Dom Pérignon dangling from one hand. Her hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders. She wore a pretty, scoop-necked dress that tucked in at her tiny waist and ended just above her knees. “I sneaked past the doorman. I hope that's okay.”

“Uh. Sure.”

“I saw the final edit,” she said, smiling.