Genuine Lies (3 page)

And, amused by being able so often to crack façades, she enjoyed being the public Ms. Summers who wore her dark blond hair in a sleek French twist, who chose trim, elegant suits in jewel tones, who could appear on
Donahue
or
Carson
or
Oprah
to tout a new book without showing a trace of the hot, sick nerves that lived inside the public package.

When she came home, she wanted only to be Julia. Brandon’s mother. A woman who liked cooking her son’s dinner, dusting furniture, planning a garden. Making a home was her most vital work and writing made it possible.

Now, as she waited for her son to come bursting in the door to tell her all about sledding with the neighbors, she thought of the offer her agent had just called her about. It had come out of the blue.

Eve Benedict.

Still pacing restlessly, Julia picked up and replaced knickknacks, plumped pillows on the sofa, rearranged magazines. The living room was a lived-in mess that was more her doing than Brandon’s. As she fiddled with the position of a vase of dried flowers or the angle of a china dish, she stepped over kicked-off shoes, ignored a basket of laundry yet to be folded. And considered.

Eve Benedict. The name ran through her head like magic. This was not merely a celebrity, but a woman who had earned
the right to be called star. Her talent and her temperament were as well known and as well respected as her face. A face, Julia thought, that had graced movie screens for almost fifty years, in over a hundred films. Two Oscars, a Tony, four husbands— those were only a few of the awards that lined her trophy case. She had known the Hollywood of Bogart and Gable; she had survived, even triumphed, in the days when the studio system gave way to the accountants.

After nearly fifty years in the spotlight, this would be Benedict’s first authorized biography. Certainly it was the first time the star had contacted an author and offered her complete cooperation. With strings, Julia reminded herself, and sunk onto the couch. It was those strings that had forced her to tell her agent to stall.

She heard the kitchen door slam and smiled. No, there was really only one reason she hesitated to grab that golden ring. And he’d just come home.

“Mom!”

“Coming.” She started down the hall, wondering if she should mention the offer right away, or wait until after the holidays. It never occurred to her to make the decision herself, then tell Brandon. She stepped into the kitchen, then stood grinning. A step over the doorsill was a mound of snow with dark, excited eyes. “Did you walk or roll home?”

“It was great.” Brandon was struggling manfully with his plaid muffler that was knotted and wet around his neck. “We had the toboggan and Will’s older brother gave it a really big push. Lisa Cohen screamed and screamed the whole way. When we fell off she cried. And her snot froze.”

“Sounds lovely.” Julia crouched to work out the mangled knot.

“I went—pow!—right into a snowbank.” Icy snow flew as he slammed his gloved hands together. “It was great.”

She couldn’t insult him by asking if he was hurt. Obviously he was just dandy. But she didn’t care for the picture of him flying off a toboggan and into a snowbank. Knowing she would have enjoyed the sensation herself kept her from making the maternal noises that tickled her throat. Julia
managed to undo the knot, then went to put on a kettle for hot chocolate while Brandon struggled out of his parka.

When she looked back, he had hung up the dripping parka—he was much quicker about such things than she—and was reaching for a cookie from the wicker basket set out on the kitchen counter. His hair was wet, and was dark, deer-hide blond like hers. Again, like his mother, he was small in stature, something she knew bothered him a great deal. He had a lean little face that had shed its baby fat early. A stubborn chin—again his mother’s son. But his eyes, unlike her cool gray, were a rich brandy brown. His only apparent legacy from his father.

“Two,” she said automatically. “Dinner’s in a couple of hours.”

Brandon bit the head off a reindeer and wondered how soon he could talk her into letting him open a present. He could smell the spaghetti sauce that was bubbling on the stove. The rich, tangy scent pleased him, almost as much as it pleased him to lick the colored sugar from his lips. They
always
had spaghetti on Christmas Eve. Because it was his favorite.

This year they would have Christmas in their new house, but he knew exactly what would happen, and when. They would have dinner—in the dining room because tonight was special—then they would do the dishes. His mother would put music on, and they would play games in front of the fire. Later they would take turns filling the stockings.

He knew there wasn’t a real Santa Claus, and it didn’t bother him very much. It was fun to pretend to
be
Santa. By the time the stockings were filled, he would have talked his mother into letting him open a present. He knew just the one he wanted tonight. The one that was wrapped in silver and green paper, and rattled. He desperately hoped it was an Erector set.

He began to dream of the morning when he would wake his mother before the sun came out. How they would come downstairs, turn on the tree lights, put on the music, and open presents.

“It’s an awful long time till morning,” he began when she
set the mug of chocolate on the counter. “Maybe we could open all our presents tonight. Lots of people do, then you don’t have to get up so early.”

“Oh, I don’t mind getting up early.” Julia leaned her elbows on the counter and smiled at him. It was a sharp, challenging smile. The game, they both knew, was on. “But if you’d rather, you can sleep late, and we’ll open presents at noon.”

“It’s better when it’s dark. It’s getting dark now.”

“So it is.” Reaching over, she brushed the hair away from his eyes. “I love you, Brandon.”

He shifted in his seat. It wasn’t the way the game was played. “Okay.”

She had to laugh. Skirting the counter, she took the stool beside his, wrapped her stocking feet around the rungs. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. I got a call from Ann a little while ago.”

Brandon knew Ann was his mother’s agent, and that the talk would be about work. “Are you going on tour again?”

“No. Not right now. It’s about a new book. There’s a woman in California, a very big star, who wants me to write her authorized biography.”

Brandon shrugged. His mother had already written two books about movie stars. Old people. Not neat ones like Arnold Schwarzenegger or Harrison Ford. “Okay.”

“But it’s a little complicated. The woman—Eve Benedict— is a big star. I have some of her movies on tape.”

The name meant nothing. He slurped chocolate. It left a frothy brown line above his lip. A young man’s first mustache. “Those dumb black and white ones?”

“Some of them are black and white, not all of them. The thing is, to write the book, we’d have to go to California.”

He looked up then, his eyes wary. “We have to move away?”

“No.” Eyes sober, she put her hands on his shoulders. She understood how much home meant to him. He’d been uprooted enough in his ten years, and she would never do it to
him again. “No, we wouldn’t move, but we’d have to go there and stay for a few months.” “Like a visit?”

“A long one. That’s why we have to think about it. You’d have to go to school there for a while, and I know you’re just getting used to being here. So it’s something we both have to think about.”

“Why can’t she come here?”

Julia smiled. “Because she’s the star and I’m not, kiddo. One of her stipulations is that I come to her and stay until the first draft is finished. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” She looked away, out the kitchen window. The snow had stopped, and night was falling. “California’s a long way from here.”

“But we’d come back?”

How like him to cut to the bottom line. “Yeah, we’d come back. This is home now. For keeps.” “Could we go to Disneyland?”

Surprised and amused, she looked back at her son. “Sure.”

“Can I meet Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

With a laugh, Julia lowered her brow to him. “I don’t know. We could ask.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, Brandon finished off his hot chocolate.

It was okay, Julia told herself as the plane made its final approach into LAX. The house had been closed up, the arrangements had been made. Her agent and Eve Benedict’s had phoned and faxed each other continually over the last three weeks. Right now Brandon was bouncing in his seat, impatient for the plane to land.

There was nothing to worry about. But, of course, she knew that she made a science out of worrying. She was biting her nails again, and she was annoyed to have ruined her manicure—especially since she hated the whole process of manicures, the soaking and filing, the agony of indecision over the right shade of polish. Lucious Lilac or Fuchsia Delight. As usual, she’d settled on two coats of clear. Boring but noncommittal.

She caught herself gnawing what was left of her thumbnail and linked her fingers tightly in her lap. Christ, now she was thinking of nail polish like wine. A flirty but substantial shade.

Were they ever going to land?

She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, then pulled them
down again while Brandon stared wide-eyed through the window. At least she’d managed not to pass on her terror of flying.

She let out a long, quiet breath, and her fingers relaxed fractionally as the plane touched down. You lived through another one, Jules, she told herself before she let her head fall back against the seat. Now all she had to do was survive the initial interview with Eve the Great, make a temporary home in the star’s guest house, see that Brandon adjusted to his new school, and earn a living.

Not such a big deal, she thought, clipping open her compact to see if she had any color left in her cheeks. She touched up her lipstick, dusted her nose with powder. If there was one thing she was skilled at, it was disguising nerves. Eve Benedict would see nothing but confidence.

As the plane glided to a stop at the gate, Julia took a Tums out of her jacket pocket. “Here we go, kid,” she said to Brandon with a wink. “Ready or not.”

He hefted his gym bag, she her briefcase. Hands linked, they deplaned, and even before they stepped through the gate, a man in a dark uniform and cap approached. “Ms. Summers?”

Julia drew Brandon a fraction closer. “Yes?”

“I’m Lyle, Miss Benedict’s driver. I’ll take you directly to the estate. Your luggage will be delivered.”

He was no more than thirty, Julia judged as she nodded. And built like a linebacker. There was enough swagger in his hips to make the discreet uniform a joke. He led them through the terminal while Brandon dragged his heels and tried to see everything at once.

The car was waiting at the curb. Car, Julia thought, was a poor term for the mile-long, gleaming white stretch limo.

“Wow,” Brandon said under his breath. Mother and son rolled their eyes at each other and giggled as they settled in. The interior smelled of roses, leather, lingering perfume. “It has a TV and everything,” Brandon whispered. “Wait till I tell the guys.”

“Welcome to Hollywood,” Julia said and, ignoring the
chilling champagne, poured them both a celebratory Pepsi. She toasted Brandon gravely, then grinned. “Here’s mud in your eye, sport.”

He chattered all the way, about the palm trees, the skateboarders, the proposed trip to Disneyland. It helped soothe her. She let him switch on the television, but nixed the idea of using the phone. By the time they cruised into Beverly Hills, he’d decided that being a chauffeur was a pretty good job.

“Some people would say that having one’s even better.”

“Nah, cause then you never get to drive.”

And it was as simple as that, she thought. Her work with celebrities had already shown her that fame exacted a heavy price. One of them, she decided while she slipped off a shoe and let her foot sink into the deep carpet, was having a chauffeur who was built like a bodyguard.

The next price became apparent as they drove along a high stone wall to an ornate, and very thick iron gate, where a guard, again in uniform, peered out of the window of a small stone hut. After a long buzz, the gate opened slowly, even majestically. And the locks clicked tight behind them. Locked in and locked out, Julia thought.