Falling Star (6 page)

"No, no problems with the show," Miles said.
"But still, everybody wants to put their own stamp on it." He
snorted.

She regarded him silently. It was a good
twenty years since Miles's first success—a humungous blockbuster of
a success—one that had catapulted him and his writing partner into
the top echelon of sitcom producers. It was while he was still
riding that wave that they'd met and married. Everything about
Miles had been intoxicating then, and yet reassuring, because he'd
seemed so solid, so dependable.

But afterward had come the drought. Miles
unable to write, unable to "find his muse," he told her. Or writing
pilot scripts that never sold. Or that sold but never got made.
Never earning more than a tiny fraction of what he'd made in the
past. Natalie had been his constant cheerleader, not to mention
financial support. When he broke off with his writing partner. When
he was hurt and angry after his partner scored a second hit, on his
own, while Miles continued to languish.

She was jolted back to the present by Miles's
fingers on the engagement ring he had given her years before,
twisting it so the stone would face the correct way, diamond
up.

"Your ring," he said. His eyes were so dark
she couldn't see the pupils. "You're still wearing it."

Yes. But backward. Because I can't quite take
it off.

"You remember the day I gave it to you?" he
asked.

How could any woman forget? They'd been
walking on the beach in Malibu. It was late afternoon, in June,
exactly a dozen years ago. A chill off the ocean was making her
shiver. He'd taken off his jacket and laid it over her shoulders,
then hugged her close.
Will you make me the happiest man in the
world?
he'd whispered.
Will you be my wife?
She'd burst
into tears and he'd pulled the ring from his pocket, an exquisite
pear-shaped stone on a platinum band.

Natalie stared down at her ring. Then up at
her husband. "I do remember."

"I miss you," he whispered. He leaned forward
and kissed her.

She didn't back away, though part of her
screamed to. Another part, warmed by his lips, felt the old
familiar tug, as though he were on one end of an invisible string
and she on the other.
Is this real? Can I trust you?

Then he leaned back against the sofa
cushions, slowly thumping one with his hand. "Remember Frank?" He
raised his eyes to meet her own. "My roommate from college?"

She nodded, her lips still tingling from his
kiss. Frank, from Haverford. Became a tax lawyer. Yes.

"He died last week." Miles shook his head.
"Heart attack. He was younger than me."

"I'm sorry." She was puzzled. It was years
since Miles had spoken to Frank, let alone seen him.

"Made me think, Natalie." Again he met her
eyes. "About the mistakes I've made. About what little time I may
have to make up for them."

Slowly, without looking away, he removed the
brandy snifter from her hand. Again he kissed her, gently, his
mouth covering hers with the warm possessiveness she remembered so
well. He felt so good, so familiar. Again she felt that crazy hope
lurch in her heart and this time didn't fight it. Maybe he has
learned something. Maybe now he understands how much we had.

How wonderful it would be to have the
nightmare just end, almost as if it had never happened. No longer
to have to suffer everyone's pitying looks, to be a cast-aside
wife, to come home every night to a shell of a house and a cold
bed. Imagine if they could go on as before, better than before,
because this time they would truly appreciate each other.

When she rose to go upstairs, he followed, as
she knew he would. They moved slowly through their time-worn
rituals, honed after twelve years of marriage into a familiar path
that led to their bed.

He propped himself on his elbow. She stared
into his eyes and hesitated, still not completely certain what she
saw there. "I don't know if we can make it right this time," she
said.

He looked surprised. "But we're making it
right, right now."

Could it be?
She wanted to believe
that all the pain of the last months could dissipate like smoke
after a fire, leaving not the slightest trace.

The warm reassurance brought by that sudden
hope made words cease, thoughts cease, everything cease but the
heavenly feel of his hands on her body and the very wonder of being
in his arms again. She'd been untouched for so long, her femininity
squashed under layers of hurt and loss, that it was as though she'd
ceased being a woman at all. But now he was being so thoughtful, so
tender. And, oh, God, her chemise was off. Now his lips were on her
breasts. He was arching over her in the dark, her nipples taut, his
tongue teasing.
It's been so long
.

Then he came on top of her, and she was
ready, his ministrations and her pent-up need making her body open
like a bloom to the sun. Sweet, so sweet.

It had been so long and yet was so
wonderfully, achingly familiar. His smell. The weight of him. The
wonder of his chest pressing against her breasts, his neck craning
above her, his mouth planting kisses along her forehead, her face,
her throat.

When finally he made his final thrust within
her, and her own body shuddered with release and happiness, tears
rose in her eyes, hope rose in her throat, all the ache was
banished in the awesome joy that they had found each other
again.

They lay quietly, entwined, tears running
down her face and disappearing into her hair. Tears for Evie, for
time lost, for Miles, for everything that had been and might still
be. She felt no need for words or promises. Only sleep. Happy,
blessed sleep.

A few hours later Natalie stretched a
languorous arm out from beneath the thick, downy duvet, thrusting
it across the wide bed into the shaft of moonlight that sneaked
beneath the draperies. She raised her head to read the digital
clock: 3:13 AM. She fell back against the pillow and let her gaze
drift around the shadowy bedroom: pine beams crossing the ceiling,
gracefully hewn dressers and side tables stained a luminous teal,
the green iron bars of the bed's footboard wrought into an
intricate web of vines and leaves. The sheets were thoroughly
rumpled and gave off a decadently musky scent of sensual pleasures
shared. She felt Miles's side of the bed. It was cool.

He was probably downstairs reading. Like
always. Like the old days.

She smiled and rose from the bed, her muscles
pleasantly sore, and pulled on a robe. Her bare feet slapped on the
hardwood. She stepped into the hallway. "Miles?"

Silence. She frowned, arrested by the odd
quietness. Slowly she made her way downstairs and peered into the
pitch-black living room. Two brandy snifters stood on the coffee
table. The cushions of the plump white sofa were askew, a pillow
knocked to the floor.

An ugly thought crossed her mind.
"Miles?"

Silence.

It simply wasn't possible.

"Miles?" She was moving swiftly now, running
across the cold Spanish tile to the front door. She pulled it open
and ran down the curving stone path to the street.

Gone. His Porsche was gone.

Miles was gone.

She stood in the street, looking both ways,
disbelieving. A yellow-eyed cat looked at her warily from a nearby
driveway. Why had Miles come, if all he was going to do was leave?
To sleep with her, to prove he could? Because on some level he
missed her? Why?

Dazedly, she returned to the house. In an odd
penitential rite, she forced herself to conduct a thorough search,
first of the main floor, then of the rooms upstairs. All to confirm
what she already knew,

There was no sign of Miles anywhere. Nothing.
Nowhere.

It wasn't until she was again standing on the
cold tile of the foyer that she realized he had never once asked
how she was. Never asked how she had managed, what was new.
Oh,
Natalie, there's a bruise on your neck. Did that happen in the
earthquake?

She was struggling to take it all in when the
next jolt came. He'd never mentioned her birthday. Her fortieth. He
didn't care. Or, much the same, he simply hadn't remembered.

*

Damn.
Tony gulped his morning coffee
and stared at the in-house computer message from Ruth Sperry that
scrolled across the top of ms screen. Just what he needed.

(r-sperry) Got a call from the hospital where
Darryl. Mann died that his family has seen a tape of Kelly's crash
piece and is meeting with a lawyer. I suggest a strategy session
this afternoon and again I urge you to suspend Kelly. I've spoken
with Elaine in Legal about the required grounds and Kelly's
behavior certainly meets the threshold.

Tony jabbed at the DELETE key, then sat back
in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

No question, Kelly was a wild card. Airing
that video of Darryl Mann all banged up in his mangled car was a
big-time TV-news no-no. The phone banks lit up like goddamn Times
Square after her spot aired. And not getting script approval? That
was downright insubordinate.

Still . . . Tony wondered. He bet that lots
of the folks at home were secretly fascinated by the video and that
the ones who called in were mostly crazies. He couldn't let his
news department be dictated to by
them
.

He'd seen a lot of talent. He trusted his
ability to judge talent. And in his estimation Kelly Devlin had
serious potential. He knew it. What he had to do was get her to
exercise some judgment without losing her edge.

His direct line rang. He picked it up.
"Scoppio."

"Tony, it's Willa."

From Promotions. Boring. "Yeah?" He stared
across his office at his far-left monitor, which he always kept
tuned to CNN, his attention caught by spectacular video of a train
burning.

"I need you to make the final call on the
photos of Ken and Natalie for the billboard campaign," Willa
said.

Tony watched the flames lick the silver
chassis. Amtrak crashed again? "What photos?"

"For the billboard campaign for
The KXLA
Primetime News
?"

"Oh." He forced himself to look away from the
fire video. "Those." He frowned. Did he really want to do a
billboard campaign?

"We had blowups done of the shots you liked,
remember?" She was sounding irritated now. "But we need to get down
to your one or two favorites if we want the billboards up by the
July book."

He cleared his throat. Did he want to promote
The KXLA Primetime News
? With Ken and Natalie? Now? "Uh, put
a hold on that."

"What?" Willa sounded stunned. "We've been
gearing up to do this ever since you got here!"

"I said put a hold on it." He hung up. That
was what he liked about being boss. He could start things. And he
could stop them.

He returned his attention to the CNN monitor,
on which the train was still burning. Grabby. That was what he
needed. Grabby. Grabby stories. Grabby talent

His eyes drifted to the middle monitor, which
he kept set to his own Channel 12. On air was Kelly's taped teaser
of her piece for that night's primetime news. Something about
school violence—he didn't know what the hell it was about, but she
had the collar up on her leather jacket and was on a real tight
shot. Tony narrowed his eyes appraisingly and decided, not for the
first time, that she looked good.

*

Suite 3800. Natalie stepped off the elevator
directly into the reception area for Dewey, Climer, Fipton and
Marner. She had the same reaction she always did when she stopped
by Geoff's firm: it made her think of an exclusive men's club.
Persian carpets. Cherrywood paneling. Tapestries hung from bronze
bars. She half expected to see aging British gentlemen in wing
chairs poring over
The Financial Times
, port and cigars by
their side. It was a jarring counterpoint to the rest of crass,
sunshine-bright Los Angeles 38 floors below.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Daniels." The
receptionist was a tiny Japanese woman, impeccably turned out,
who'd fronted Dewey, Climer for more than thirty years. "I'll tell
Mr. Marner that you're here." A moment later, she said, "Please
follow me."

Natalie allowed herself to be led down a hall
lined by offices, doors ajar to reveal men and women suited in navy
and gray wool, the only obvious variation solid or pinstripe. To a
person they were bent over desks piled high with documents and
outsize leather-bound tomes, no noise save for the murmur of
conversation and the tap of computer keys.

"Whoa! Another hit! Yes!" A shouting male
voice suddenly shattered the quiet, a voice raised in the sort of
delirious frenzy produced in males by only two activities, though
Natalie could hardly imagine either sex or sport ever occurring in
these rarefied chambers. Unperturbed, the receptionist deposited
Natalie inside Geoff s plush corner office and glided away.

Natalie shook her head. Her agent, the only
person besides herself on whom she depended to manage her career,
was perched on a stool in front of a mammoth television screen,
video-game joystick gyrating in his hand, shirtsleeves rolled to
his elbows, red paisley tie loose around his neck.

"Give me a second, Nats," he demanded, his
eyes never leaving the screen. "I'm closing in on my all-time best
score."

Which did look in serious danger of toppling.
Bemused, Natalie watched this paragon of legal skill make pinpoint
hit after pinpoint hit on alien spaceships, huge blobs of orange
and yellow light exploding repetitiously on the screen. His score
ratcheted ever higher until, suddenly, the screen shimmered with a
blinding silver flash as his own vessel,
Surfboy
, got
sideswiped by an alien module and peremptorily dispatched.

"Shit!" His voice raised in a paroxysm of
glee and anger, Geoff let go of the joystick and swiveled around on
his stool. "I hate it when I lose!" He leaped to his feet, towering
over Natalie with a grin spreading across his face. "But I already
had one huge victory today so I'll let this slide."