Fade to Black (35 page)

Then she catches herself, sighs. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I guess I’d forgotten what it’s like to live like this. You have no idea what Hollywood is like—what my life was like before I came here.”

He’s silent for just a moment too long before saying, “No, I guess I don’t.”

She contemplates that.

Then she says carefully, “You know, Harper, it isn’t fair. I just realized that you probably
do
know. Because every detail of my whole life is being aired on every television network. By now you must know my grandmother’s maiden name and that I once fainted at junior high cheerleading practice because I’d been on a liquid diet for a week.” She takes a deep breath. “But I don’t know anything about you.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And when he does, it’s with a question.

“What is it that you want to know?”

The smile is gone from his voice.

“Just the basics,” she says, frowning.

Wondering what he has to hide.

Wondering if she was wrong when she decided—well, almost decided—to trust him.

“The basics? I was born in Oregon; my parents’ names are Terry and Joe; I have an older sister.”

“Are you close to her?”

“Not anymore.”

“What about your parents?”

“I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

“Oh. So you lived in Oregon before you moved here last year?”

“No.”

“Where did you live?”

“Why does it matter?”

Taken aback at the ire in his tone, she retorts, “Because I’m curious. You know everything about me. Hell,
everyone
knows everything about me, and—”

“That has nothing to do with me though,” Harper cuts in.

“And before you were splashed all over the six o’clock news, you didn’t tell me anything about yourself.”

“But you know why I didn’t! Because I feared for my life!”

“I know. And did you fear me?”

The question catches her off guard. She hesitates.

She hasn’t told him that she had suspected him of being the stalker. She had told the police, but not Harper, what Frank had said about him resembling a wanted fugitive from California.

Now that it’s all over, she doesn’t want to admit to the man who risked his life to save her that she had thought he was the one who was trying to kill her.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Harper says abruptly. “You don’t need to. You obviously were afraid of me.”

“I was afraid of everyone. Can you blame me?”

“No,” he says simply.

“Well, then …”

“Look, I was wrong to try to force you to open up to me,” he tells her. “I don’t even know why I tried.”

“Why did you?”

“Maybe because … when I met you, something just … clicked.”

He’s silent for a long time.

And so is she, thinking about what he’s said.

She decides to take a chance for a change. To open up just a little. To tell him what she’s feeling.

“I know what you mean,” she says softly. “It clicked with me too.”

“I haven’t been with a woman in a long, long time,” he says in a muted voice, almost as though he hasn’t heard her. “And when I saw you, I just … there was something there. Something I knew I should ignore. But I didn’t want to. I couldn’t.”

But why?
she wants to ask.
Why did you want to ignore it? I had a good reason not to want to get involved
.

But what was your reason?

Mallory wishes that he were there in front of her instead of on the phone. That she could see his face, look into his eyes, know whether she should ask those questions, because she would be able to tell exactly how he feels about her…

How she feels about him.

Right now she’s confused. Torn between wanting to reach out to him, to trust him …

And wanting to shut him out, leave him behind.

Along with everything else that’s connected to her existence in Windmere Cove.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks abruptly, as though he’s read her mind.

“I don’t know. I guess … I guess I’ll go back to L.A.,” she tells him softly, wanting him to make her take it back, to stop her from talking, stop her from going.

He is silent.

She goes on, feeling her way blindly, recklessly making plans, because she has to do something, say something.

“I’ll get in touch with my agent and see about getting back to work. And I’ll stay with my friend, Rae … she’ll help me until I can get settled again.”

Still, he’s silent.

“I guess I should go as soon as possible, to get away from the press,” she fumbles on. “I mean, I know they’ll be pestering me wherever I am, but at least in L.A., everyone’s used to it. There, you can hide. Here, the police seem kind of befuddled by what’s going on.”

“What about security?” he asks abruptly.

“What about it?”

“Are you planning to hire bodyguards?”

“No,” she says quickly without pausing to consider it. “I’m through with that. I’ve spent too much time being afraid. First I had bodyguards watching over me every second, and then I spent five years hiding in this tiny house, terrified to set foot outside. I’m through with that,” she says again more forcefully.

And she realizes she means it.

No more bodyguards
.

No more fear
.

“So,” he says slowly, “you’re going back.”

“I’m going back.”

She tells herself that she can’t wait to be back in sunny L.A., back in Malibu, where she’ll find another house nestled in the cliffs, where she’ll once again be able to walk on the beach and feel the salty wind in her hair, feel free, feel …

Safe.

“When are you going?” Harper asks.

She hesitates, just for a moment, hoping he’ll utter something, anything to change what she’s about to say. What she
has
to say.

He’s silent.

Waiting.

“As soon as possible, like I said. Probably tomorrow, if I can get a flight,” she tells him, trying to sound breezy, even eager to move on.

Trying to sound as though some part of her hasn’t just inexplicably died.

“After all,” she hears herself add in one last attempt to get him to stop her, “there’s nothing to keep me here in Windmere Cove.”

“No,” he agrees, his tone flat. “I guess there isn’t.”

M
anny happens to look up, out the front window, just in time to see the long black stretch limousine pull up at the curb. In front of it and behind it are two police cars with their lights flashing.

It can mean only one thing.

His heart starts pounding as he stares at it, watching as the uniformed driver steps out and goes around to the door facing the house.

He opens it.

Manny holds his breath.

A pair of bare legs appears.

Then a hand, reaching up to take the outstretched hand of the driver.

Then, at last, a woman emerges from the dark interior of the limousine.

Manny slowly releases his breath at the sight of a real live movie star.

This isn’t Elizabeth, this beautiful woman moving slowly toward the house, her long legs carrying her in a casual, almost lazy manner.

So different from the way Elizabeth had moved—always quickly, as if she were in a hurry to get someplace—or get away.

This woman is wearing Elizabeth’s clothes—Manny remembers those wide-legged black shorts that almost look like a skirt, and that white sleeveless blouse. But before, she had never worn the blouse tucked into her waistband, with the top two buttons undone. And she had always worn the shorts with sneakers, never with a pair of strappy black sandals that show her bare toes, painted with red nail polish.

And her hair …

It’s …

Well, it’s
big
. All high on her head and loose around her face and flowing down over her shoulders. He never knew she had so much hair.

She’s wearing makeup too. And earrings.

And a pair of black sunglasses—but then, Elizabeth had always worn sunglasses.

But that’s the only thing that’s familiar about the woman who is walking up to the front porch, carefully sidestepping the rotting boards that Manny tried, but failed, to fix.

She rings the doorbell.

Manny is unable to move, but the sound brings his grandmother from the kitchen, where she has been making egg salad sandwiches for lunch.

She opens the door, makes an exclamation.

Still, Manny is frozen.

He just sits on the couch, suddenly feeling miserable.

He listens as Elizabeth says, sounding just like her old self, “Hello, Mrs. Souza. Is Manny home?”

“He’s in the living room, watching television. Manny! Manny! Get in here!”

Manny forces his legs to the floor, to carry him into the front hall, where the beautiful woman is waiting, not seeming to notice that his grandmother is just standing there, gaping at her with her mouth hanging open.

“Manny! Come here!” Elizabeth kneels on the worn linoleum floor and holds her arms out to him.

Finding himself forcing back a sob that has come out of nowhere, he goes in to them, allows himself to be enveloped in her fierce embrace.

“You even smell like a movie star,” he says when she finally releases him.

She makes a sound that’s either a laugh or a choked sob; he can’t tell which.

“So you know,” she says, “about me.”

And he nods.

“I saw you on TV all day yesterday,” he tells her. “I’m really sorry about what that bad man tried to do to you. But he’s in jail now, isn’t he?”

She nods, reaching out to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Then she turns to his grandmother, who looks flustered.

“Do you want egg salad?” Grammy asks in her thick Portuguese accent.

“No, thank you. I’m on my way to the airport. If I could just talk to Manny alone for a few minutes …”

She’s on her way to the airport.

Her words sink in as he absently watches his grandmother leave the room, returning to the kitchen, where Manny’s grandfather loudly wants to know what’s going on.

“Where are you going? Back to Hollywood?” Manny asks, turning back to Elizabeth.

She nods.

“I figured you would. There aren’t any other movie stars living in Windmere Cove.”

She smiles faintly.

He notices that her lips are outlined in dark red lipstick; it makes them seem a lot fuller than before. But he’s not sure whether he likes the way she looks. It’s almost too perfect, too … fake.

She asks him in a low voice, “How have your grandparents been since you got back? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

He shakes his head, wanting to ask her if she’s still going to help him do something about his mother but afraid to open his mouth.

Now that he knows who she is, he can’t believe she had ever offered to help him with his problem. She had so many problems of her own.

“Manny,” she says, suddenly taking off her sunglasses and looking into his eyes. “I want you to know that even though I’m leaving town, I’m not abandoning you.”

How long has he been wondering what her eyes look like behind those dark glasses?

Now he knows. They’re a light brown color, like warm honey, the biggest, prettiest eyes he’s ever seen—and it isn’t just because of the way she’s outlined them in some smudgy dark pencil, or because of the mascara that makes her lashes longer. It’s the expression in them, the way she’s looking at him …

Like she really cares.

“I’ve spoken to several police officers about your case, and they’re going to be coming over to talk to you and your grandparents. I don’t want you to be afraid of them, Manny. They’re going to help you. And so am I.”

“But you’re going away.”

He sees a flicker of sadness in her expression.

“I’ll still help you,” she says. “I’ll be in touch with you, and I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. Okay?”

He nods, wanting to believe her.

“And maybe,” she continues, brushing another piece of hair from his face, “I’ll fly you out to California to see me. Would you like that?”

He nods again.

So part of his dream is actually going to come true.

But what about the rest?

The part about her being his mom?

That’s the impossible part
, he reminds himself.

“I have to go now, Manny,” she tells him, straightening up again, checking her watch.

“Thank you for making my costumes,” he says, swallowing hard over a lump in his throat. “Rhonda dropped them off for me yesterday.”