Found (31 page)

She stood and collapsed the chair she’d been sitting in. “I know, Landon.” The teasing felt good. It was better than being scared to death. “I live here too, remember?”

“Right.” He was breathing faster than usual. “And you’re not in labor, are you, Ash? Tell me you’re not in labor.”

“I’m not in labor.” She handed him her chair and picked up a bag of leftover chips. She felt a sheepish grin lift the corners of her mouth. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Great.” He set the chairs on the closest ice chest and heaved the entire load into his arms. “My wife goes into labor just as tornadoes are spotted coming our way.”

“Just don’t get called in to work.”

Landon groaned and headed down the hill. “God … get us through this.” He looked over his shoulder. “Cole, come on. Let’s get going.”

Despite the chaos and commotion around her, Ashley was 253

touched by Landon’s concern. Here he was, a big strapping firefighter, a guy who had spent nearly three months cleaning up the debris at Ground Zero while looking for the body of his firefighting friend, and now he was coming undone over the idea of contractions and tornado warnings.

She grabbed two blankets and the food bag and followed Landon. Halfway down the hill she realized it had been nearly thirty minutes since she’d had any contractions. Definitely false labor. One less thing to worry about. It was pouring now, the drops so big they stung her shoulders.

Luke ran up from behind her. “Ashley, I’ll get that.”

She stopped and handed the large bag to her brother.

Kari ushered Cole down the hill toward the vehicles.

Landon dropped off one load in the back of his Durango and jogged back toward Ashley. He took the blankets from her and looped his arm through hers. “You okay?”

“Definitely. No more pains.”

“Good.”

They made it down the hill-Landon on one side, Luke on the other. There were no pains, but she felt nauseous, and suddenly she remembered that she’d felt that way before Cole came too. Landon helped her into the Durango and followed both vans out of the parking lot.

Ashley wasn’t sure, but far against the horizon one of the clouds looked as if it were trying to form a funnel. “Exactly how bad is this storm?”

“Bad.” Small beads of sweat dotted Landon’s brow. He looked in the rearview mirror at Cole and Tommy. Luke and Reagan and Malin were in the back. He could see the concern on the faces of Luke and Reagan, but they were busy in conversation with the kids.

Ashley put her hand protectively on her protruding stomach. Please, God …

not now, not tonight. We need to take shelter, Father. Be with us.

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Landon was quiet, intent as they drove to the Baxter house. Lightning and thunder moved in, and rain fell in sheets that made it almost impossible to see the road.

When they finally pulled into the Baxter driveway, Ashley heard Reagan sigh.

“Thank God we’re home.”

“I agree. This is one wicked storm.” Luke sat up straighter, his hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “You okay, Sis?”

“I’m good.” She covered his hand with her own. “At least we’re back.”

They gathered the children and whatever food needed to be refrigerated and dashed into the house, while everyone from the vans did the same thing. Once they were inside, the storm seemed to hit even harder.

Erin and Reagan and Kari put the younger children down for naps, and the adults gathered around the dining-room table, with the kids playing in the next room, the way they had the night before.

An hour later the storm abated. And Ashley’s nausea seemed to fade also.

She and Landon held hands, and silently she thanked God. Not just because the storm had passed, but because the labor pains she felt at the lake had been false. This was definitely not the day to have a baby. Especially after the radio made another announcement.

The most serious tornadic conditions in years were only a few hours away and headed straight for Bloomington.

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Dayne was listening to a talk station, jogging along Malibu Beach when he heard the news. Some of the worst tornadoes of the decade were brewing in the Midwest, most of them centered in southern Indiana.

He slowed his pace and looked at the sky. It was already six o’clock in Bloomington, so whatever storms were forming, the people he cared about must already know the news.

Three girls in bikinis were walking toward him. One of them pointed at him and said something to her friends, and the three of them picked up their pace.

Not today. He increased the volume on his radio and doubled his pace, refusing eye contact as he passed them. For half a minute, they turned around and tried to keep up, and from the corner of his eye he saw them waving, heard them screaming. Other people sitting along the beach also took notice.

But eventually the girls wore out, disappointed and out of breath. They never could’ve caught him and neither could any of the other beachgoers. He was used to running the beach, miles at a time and faster than the average fan.

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Finally, he slowed to a walk. When his heart rate was back to normal, he sat on a dry patch of sand, pulled off his T-shirt, and looked out at the ocean.

Life had been good since he’d come home from Mexico.

Dayne could feel the difference, sense the presence of God’s Spirit inside him.

He and Bob talked every day-sometimes for an hour. He had questions about his future and what he was supposed to do with the feelings he had for Katy Hart.

With every ounce of his desire, he wanted to pack his things and move to Bloomington. But that wasn’t possible-not now. Maybe not ever.

Bob’s advice was consistent. “Talk to God about it, yes. But more than that, wait for His answer. If she’s the one… when the time’s right, God will show you. He won’t leave you in the dark-not if you’re asking Him for wisdom.”

Dayne had been praying about the situation as if his life depended on it. So far, he sensed no real answer or direction, and if Bob was right, that meant he was supposed to wait. Which he needed to do anyway, because he was too busy with work to think about going to Bloomington. Even for a weekend.

He spotted a sailboat on the horizon and watched it for a while. His mind drifted, going over the details of the past couple of weeks and especially a conversation he’d had with his agent, Chris Kane. They’d met in Chris’s Hollywood office, a glittering place on the twenty-third floor of the Bank of America Building. A wall of windows behind his desk offered a view of Hollywood Hills.

“Things good for you, Dayne?”

The room smelled of leather and expensive cologne. Dayne gripped the arms of his chair and gave his agent an easy smile. “Looks like I’m making you rich enough.”

Chris raised an eyebrow and lobbed back at him. “Looks like I’m making you rich enough, you mean.”

“Whatever.” Dayne didn’t care about the money or fame. Not anymore. He still loved acting, loved bringing a story to life on 257

camera. But he was ready to walk away from everything that went with it. “I need to know my obligations, how many films I’m committed to.”

Chris was a deliberate man, best in the business, the top agent in Hollywood.

Everything he did was well thought out, intended to elevate Dayne in the way he was viewed and admired, the way he was sought after. The price he drew for a single film. Chris Kane controlled all of it.

He had leaned his elbows on his desk and given Dayne a strange look. “Ready to go to contract again-is that what you’re saying?”

Dayne could tell by his agent’s tone that the man knew full well that wasn’t what he was saying. He’d chuckled, keeping the atmosphere as light as possible.

“You know what I did last week, Chris?”

“Watched your old films, looking for ways to improve?” His words were slow, calculated.

It occurred to Dayne why some of the people in the business found Chris a little cold. “Wrong.” He felt his grin drop off. “I went to Mexico.”

“Oh.” Chris took a paper clip from a container on his desk. He began to work it into a straight line. “I sort of hoped you’d go to the Bahamas with Angie. She invited you, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Dayne nodded slowly. “Yes, she did.”

“You’ve been absent in the tabs lately.” Chris leaned back. He was still working the paper clip. “A trip to the Bahamas with Angie would’ve made the cover of every rag in town.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“If you didn’t take Angie’s invitation, what’d you do in Mexico?” A hint of frustration had crept into his agent’s voice.

“I accepted a different invitation.” He smiled bigger this time, complimenting himself for his play on words. “I have a friend in Mexico City, a guy I went to school with.”

“Mexico City?” Chris frowned. “Not many senoritas and sunny beaches there.”

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“No.” Dayne had gradually grown more serious. He wanted to keep the air between them light, but what he had to say was important. “My buddy’s a missionary. He and his wife. They’re amazing people.”

“Missionary … meaning, Christian missionaries?”

“Yes.” Dayne listened to his agent with fresh ears. “Christian missionaries.”

This was something Bob Asher had warned him about. He’d get back to Hollywood, and no one would understand. Christianity represented something foreign and dangerous to people in Dayne’s business. Hollywood saw Christians as the religious right, supporters of President Bush, close-minded bigots without any sense of political awareness.

Dayne didn’t know about any of that. He’d simply handed over the reins of his existence to God, and in the process his entire life felt whole. But that wasn’t how his agent was bound to hear his news.

“So …” Chris waved his broken paper clip in the air. “What did you do …

get born again-or whatever it’s called?”

Okay, God, give me the words. Dayne cleared his throat. “Yeah, I did.” He nodded, giving his agent the easy grin that people around the world had come to love. “No brainwashing or anything. Just a surrender. Time for God to take over.”

His agent froze, unblinking. “You’re serious?”

“I’m still me.” Dayne lifted his hands and gave a nervous chuckle. “Don’t flip out.”

Chris leaned across his desk. The paper clip fell to the floor. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? the press or anything?”

“Of course not.” Dayne gave him a strange look. “It’s not like that.”

But his agent had acted differently the rest of the meeting, trying to talk Dayne into going clubbing with Angie and some of the cast from his current film and telling him he needed to

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keep his image sharp. “People want their Hollywood stars edgy, Matthews. Not churchy.”

The comment had stayed with Dayne every day since.

He squinted at the way the sun shone against the ocean water now. The place where he was sitting was far enough down the beach that there were no other people nearby. Even his house was half a mile away. The privacy felt wonderful-even though the paparazzi couldn’t be far behind.

Edgy? Meaning the only way he could maintain his star status was by staying out until three in the morning and having his picture in the magazines with any one of a dozen starlets? That’s what should define him?

Well… it was too late for that. He had God in his life now. The only relationship that was going to take him into the life he wanted was the one he was starting with his Creator. Forget the tabloids. If they truly weren’t interested in him, then so be it.

He was finishing his thought when he heard the rapid click of a camera nearby.

Yeah, Chris Kane, he wanted to say, they’ve completely lost interest in me. He looked up, feigning boredom, his grin in place automatically. “Come on, guys . .

. my backside’s never my best.”

The photographers didn’t know what to do with him. Half the time he was brilliant at evading them, and other times he practically invited them up for snacks.

He turned toward the sound of the clicking. “You can come out.”

“You’re no fun.” It was the big guy, the one who had been there the day Katy fled the parking lot. “And you’re wrong. The girls love your backside.” He shuffled out from the bushes and held his hands out in surrender. “Okay, who was she, Dayne? The girl who ran that night.”

“I told you. She was an actress.” The paparazzi still didn’t know about Katy. If they did, her picture would’ve already made the magazines.

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“We talked about it.” The photog came a few steps closer. “Everyone thinks she’s from out of town.”

Dayne shrugged. “It’s a mystery, I guess.”

The man snapped another dozen photos. “How am I supposed to make a living off a picture like that? Dayne Matthews sitting on the beach-alone?”

“That’s your job.” Dayne had talked with the guy long enough. No matter what he pretended, the paparazzi were bloodsuckers. They’d chased Princess Diana to her death, and they’d do the same to him and his colleagues, given the chance. He stood, grabbed his shirt, brushed the sand from his shorts, tipped the bill of his baseball cap at the guy, and gave him one last smile.

The photographer snapped pictures until Dayne was too far down the beach to hear the sound. Chris Kane was wrong. As long as Dayne was making hit movies and maintaining his six-pack abs, as long as he looked tanned and toned without a Tshirt, the paparazzi would put his mug in the magazines.

Even if he was a Christian.

Dayne jogged another five minutes and then-with the photographer out of sight-he slowed to a walk. With all his heart he wished his agent was right. Because if there really was a danger that the paparazzi were losing interest, then his freedom might actually be achievable.

It happened to the older guys eventually. The media lost interest in following their every move. But he was just hitting his prime. That might not happen to him for another decade, and by then … well, by then the Baxter family would be ten more years removed from ever knowing him. And Katy Hart? She’d probably be married with three kids.

The question he’d asked his agent was the only one that really mattered to him.

How many movies were left on his contract? The answer was something Chris finally gave him before Dayne left his office that afternoon. Five. He was obligated to star in five more films with his current studio-each for more money than