Genuine Lies (9 page)

Then there was Nina. Efficient and chic. Why would such a woman be content to subjugate her life to another? The background information Julia had collected on Nina was sparse. A fifteen-year veteran of Eve’s world, she was unmarried, childless. At dinner, she’d unobtrusively managed to keep the peace. Was she worried that the publication of Eve’s story would disrupt that peace irrevocably?

Even as Julia thought about her, she spotted Nina coming briskly along the path, carrying a large cardboard box.

Julia pushed the kitchen door open. “Special delivery?”

With a breathless laugh, Nina swung the box through the door. “I told you I was the pack mule.” She grunted a bit when she dropped the box onto the kitchen table. “Eve asked me to put this stuff together for you. Photos, clippings, studio stills. She thought it might be helpful.”

Instantly curious, Julia flipped open the top. “Oh, yes!” Delighted, she held up an old publicity shot of Eve—sultry, smoldering, wrapped around a spearingly handsome Michael Torrent. She began to root through the box.

To Nina’s credit she winced only slightly as Julia destroyed all of her careful filing.

“This is wonderful.” Julia lifted out an ordinary snapshot, a bit faded, a bit worn around the edges. Her woman’s heart gave a lurch of excitement. “Oh, Christ, it’s Gable.”

“Yes, taken here, by the pool at one of Eve’s parties. That was right before he filmed
The Misfits.
Right before he died.”

“Tell her it’ll not only help the book, but provide me with enormous entertainment. I feel like a kid in a chocolate factory.”

“Then I’ll leave you to indulge.”

“Wait.” Julia forced herself to turn away from the box of goodies before Nina opened the door. “Do you have a few minutes?”

As a matter of habit, Nina checked her watch. “Of course. Do you want to go over some of the pictures with me?”

“No, actually, I’d like an interview. I’ll make it short,” she added hastily when she saw an evasive expression flicker on Nina’s face. “I know how busy you are, and I hate to take any of your time during working hours.” Julia smiled, congratulating herself. It was an inspiration to turn the situation around so that she was the one being inconvenienced. “I’ll go get my recorder. Please, pour yourself a glass of wine.” She hurried out, knowing she’d given Nina no time to agree or refuse.

When she came back, Nina had poured a glass, topped off Julia’s, and taken a seat. She smiled, a handsome woman used to juggling her time to suit someone else. “Eve asked me to cooperate, but to tell you the truth, Julia, I can’t think of a thing that would be of interest.”

“Leave that to me.” Julia opened her notebook, switched on the recorder. She recognized a reluctant subject. It only meant she would have to dig with a gentler hand. Keeping the tone light, she asked, “Nina, you must realize how fascinated people would be just to hear Eve Benedict’s daily routine. What she has for breakfast, the kind of music she prefers, if she snacks in front of the television at night. But I can find out a lot of that for myself and don’t want to take up your time with trivialities.”

Nina’s polite smile remained in place. “As I said, Eve asked me to cooperate.”

“I appreciate it. What I’d like from you are your thoughts about her as a person. As someone who’s worked closely with
her for fifteen years, you probably know her better than almost anyone.”

“I’d like to think that we share a friendship as well as a working relationship.”

“Is it difficult to live and work in the same house with someone who, by her own definition, is demanding?”

“I’ve never found it difficult.” Nina cocked her head as she sipped her wine. “Challenging, certainly. Over the years Eve’s provided me with many challenges.”

“What would you say is the most memorable?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Nina laughed. “About five years ago, while she was filming
Heat Wave
, she decided she wanted to throw a party. That doesn’t sound unusual. Eve loves a party. But she’d been so enchanted by the location work in Nassau that she insisted the party be set on an island—and she wanted it to come off in two weeks.” The memory had her dropping the polite smile for a genuine one. “Have you ever tried to rent an entire island in the Caribbean, Julia?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“It has its complications—particularly if you want it to have any sort of modern conveniences such as shelter, electricity, plumbing. I managed to find one, a charming little spot about thirty-five miles off the coast of St. Thomas. We flew in generators, in case of tropical storms. Then, of course, there was the logistics of getting the food there, the drink, the china, silver, entertainment. Tables, chairs. Ice.” She closed her eyes. “Incredible amounts of ice.”

“How did you manage it.”

Nina’s eyes fluttered open. “By air and by sea. And by the skin of my teeth. I spent three days on the place myself, with carpenters—Eve wanted a couple of cabanas thrown up—with gardeners—she wanted a lusher, more tropical look—and with some very cranky caterers. It was … well, one of her most interesting ideas.”

Fascinated, letting the whole picture develop in her mind, Julia rested a hand on her chin. “So, how was the party?”

“A roaring success. Enough rum to float a battleship,
native music—and Eve, looking like the island queen in a blue silk sarong.”

“Tell me something, how does one learn how to rent an island?”

“Trial and error. With Eve, you never know what to expect, so you prepare for everything. I’ve taken courses in law, accounting, decorating, real estate, and ballroom dancing— among others.”

“In all those courses, was there ever any that tempted you to go further, pursue another career?”

“No.” There wasn’t a hint of hesitation. “I’d never leave Eve.”

“How did you come to work for her?”

Nina looked down into her wine. Slowly, she circled her finger around the rim of the glass. “I know it may sound melodramatic, but Eve saved my life.”

“Literally?”

“Quite literally.” She moved her shoulders as if she were shrugging off any doubts about going on. “There aren’t many people who know about my background. I prefer to keep it quiet, but I know Eve’s determined to tell the full story. I guess it’s best if I tell you myself.”

“It usually is.”

“My mother was a weak woman, drifted from man to man. We had very little money, lived in rented rooms.” “Your father?”

“He’d left us. I was quite young when she married again. A truck driver who was away as much as he was home. That turned out to be a blessing.” The pain in her voice ran deep. Nina began to clench and unclench her fingers on the stem of the glass, still watching the wine as if it might hold a secret. “Things were a little better financially, and it was all right … for a while … until I wasn’t so young anymore.” With an effort she raised her eyes. “I was thirteen when he raped me.”

“Oh, Nina.” Julia felt that icy pain, the kind a woman feels hearing the mention of rape. “I’m sorry.” Instinctively she reached out to take Nina’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“I ran away a lot after that,” Nina continued, apparently
finding comfort in the firm grip of Julia’s fingers. “The first couple of times I came back on my own.” She gave a wan smile. “No place to go. Other times, they brought me back.” “Your mother?”

“Didn’t believe me. Didn’t care to believe me. It wouldn’t have suited her to think that her daughter was in competition with her.”

“That’s monstrous.”

“Reality often is. Details aren’t important,” she went on. “I finally ran away for good. Lied about my age, got a job as a cocktail waitress, worked my way up to manager.” She began to speak more quickly, not as if the worst was over, but as if she had to get a running start at the rest. “My previous experience had helped me keep myself focused on the job. No dating, no distractions. Then I made a mistake. I fell in love. I was nearly thirty, and it hit me hard.”

Something glittered in her eyes—tears or old memories— quickly obscured by her lashes as she lifted the glass to her lips. “He was wonderful to me, generous, considerate, gentle. He wanted to get married, but I let my past ruin that for both of us. One night, angry that I wouldn’t give him a commitment, he left my apartment. And he was killed in a car accident.”

She drew her hand from Julia’s. “I fell apart. Tried to commit suicide. That’s when I met Eve. She was researching her role of the suicidal wife in
Darkest at Dawn.
I’d botched the job, hadn’t swallowed enough pills, and was in the hospital under observation. She talked to me, listened to me. It may have started as an actress’s interest in a character type, but she came back. I’ve often wondered what she saw in me that made her come back. She asked me if I wanted to waste my life on regrets, or if I wanted to make then work for me. I screamed at her, swore at her. She left me her number and told me to call if I decided to make something of myself. Then she walked out, in that go-to-hell way of hers. In the end I called her. She gave me a home, a job, and my life.” Nina drained the rest of the wine. “And that’s why I’ll rent islands for her, or do anything else she asks me to do.”

•   •   •

Hours later, Julia was wide awake. The story Nina told her crowded her mind. The private Eve Benedict was so much more complex than the public one. How many people would take a stranger’s tragedy and find a way to offer hope? Not just by writing a check. Easy to do when the money was there. Not by making speeches. Words cost nothing. But by opening that most intimate chamber, the heart.

Julia’s ambition for the book began to creep along a new path. It was no longer a story she wanted to tell, but one she needed to tell.

As longer-range plans began to form, she thought of the paper still in her pocket. It concerned her more now after Brandon had responded to her casual question by telling her he’d found the envelope lying on the front stoop. She ran her fingers over the page, then withdrew them before she could give in to the urge to take the paper out and read it again. Better to forget it, she told herself.

The night was growing cool. A breeze fragrant with roses ruffled the leaves. In the distance, the peahen screamed. Even though she recognized the sound, still she shuddered. She had to remind herself that the only danger she faced was becoming too used to luxury.

There was little chance of that, she thought, bending to pick up one of her discarded sandals. Julia didn’t consider herself the kind of woman who could fit comfortably into minks or diamonds. Some were born for it—she tossed the scuffed leather toward the closet—some weren’t.

When she thought of how often she misplaced earrings, or left a jacket crumpled in the trunk of her car, she admitted she was definitely better off with cloth and rhinestones.

Beyond that, she missed her home. The simplicity of it, the basic routine of tidying her own things, shoveling her own walk. Writing about the famous, the glamorous was one thing. Living like them another.

Peeking into Brandon’s room, she took another look. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face smashed into his pillow.
His latest building project was neatly arranged in the center of the room. All of his miniature cars were lined up in a well-orchestrated traffic jam on his desk. For Brandon, everything had a place. This room, where the famous and powerful must have slept, was now completely her little boy’s. It smelled of him—crayons and that oddly sweet, somewhat wild aroma of a child’s sweat.

Leaning against the doorjamb, she smiled at him. Julia knew that if she took him to the Ritz or plopped him into a cave, within a day Brandon would have cordoned off his own space and been content. Where, she wondered, did he get that confidence, that ability to make a place of his own?

Not from her, she thought. Not from the man who had conceived the child with her. It was at times like this that she wondered whose blood ran through her to be passed off to her son. She knew nothing about her biological parents, and had never wanted to know—except late at night when she was alone, looking at her son … and wondering.

She left his door open, an old habit she had never been able to break. Even as she walked to her own room, she knew she was too restless for bed or for work. After tugging on a pair of sweats, she wandered downstairs, then outside, into the night.

There was moonlight, long silver tapers of it. And quiet, the exquisite quiet she’d learned to prize after her years in Manhattan. She could hear the air breathing through the trees, the fluid ebb and flow that was the song of insects. Whatever the air quality in L.A., here each breath was like drinking flowers and moondust.

She walked past the table where she had sat that afternoon, verbally jostling with Paul Winthrop. It was odd, she thought now, that they had shared her most extensive personal conversation with a man in too long to remember. Yet she didn’t think they knew each other any better than they had before.

It was her job to find out more about him—as it pertained to Eve. She was already certain he was the little boy Eve had spoken of to Brandon. The young boy who had liked petits
fours. It was difficult for Julia to picture Paul as a child hoping for a treat.

What kind of mother figure had Eve Benedict been? Julia pursed her lips as she considered. That was the angle she needed to explore. Had she been indulgent, careless, devoted, aloof? After all, she had never had a child of her own. How had she reacted to the smattering of stepchildren who had woven in and out of her life? And how did they remember her?

What about her nephew, Drake Morrison? There was a blood tie between them. It would be interesting to talk to him about his aunt, not his client.

It wasn’t until she heard the voices that Julia realized she’d wandered deep into the garden. She immediately recognized Eve’s whiskey tones and just as immediately noticed a faint difference in them. They were softer, gentler, with the richness that enters a woman’s voice when she’s speaking to a lover.

And the other voice was as distinctive as a fingerprint. That deep, gravelly rasp sounded as if the vocal cords had been scraped with sandpaper.

Victor Flannigan—the legendary leading man of the forties and fifties, the dashing and dangerous romantic lead in the sixties, and even into the seventies. Now, though his hair gone white and his face was deeply lined, he still brought sensuality and style to the screen. More, he was considered by many to be one of the finest actors in the world.