Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (45 page)

“If Simone were here, she wouldn't have let them do this to me,” Jennelle said, placing her cup in her lap so she could wipe at the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “If Simone were here...she'd be appalled at what her siblings have done. Simply shameful.”

“Simone was a dear girl and you were so close. Her death was such a tragedy,” Flo murmured.

Jennelle often wondered if people said those things only because they felt it was appropriate given the circumstance and not because they felt any true emotion. How could they possibly understand the pain of losing a child unless they'd gone through it themselves?

“But I do wonder... Simone and Miranda had been very close as I recall,” Flo added. “I don't know that she would've sided with Miranda.”

Jennelle stared at her friend, irritated at her recollection at such an inopportune moment. “Yes, well be that as it may, Simone would've been outraged at everything that's happened.”

“Something tells me that if Simone were here, none of it would've happened,” Flo said quietly.

Jennelle struggled with that small bit of wisdom. So much had changed the day Simone was taken from their lives. What would life have been like if that incident hadn't happened? She blinked at the pain in her heart. Simone had been such a bright, happy girl, and she'd adored her older sister and brothers. They'd all been so happy. Why had fate been so cruel to the Sinclairs? “Yes, you're probably right,” she admitted against the anguish building in her chest. “Everything changed when she died.”

Jennelle couldn't hold back any longer and sobbed into her hands. Everything was ruined. Life would never be the same, and it had nothing to do with a messy house. She longed for the safety of her special room; it was the closest she came to happiness these days—and Miranda and Trace had taken it from her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

D
ELAINEY
SETTLED
INTO
her plane seat and closed her eyes, shutting out the murmurs of the passengers around her. It felt hard to breathe, but she knew why and didn't fight it. This too shall pass, she reminded herself, steeling her nerves against the overwhelming urge to jump from her seat and run back to Trace before he left the terminal. She knew it'd been risky to have Trace drive her to the airport, but he'd insisted and she hadn't had the willpower to refuse him.

Besides, it was good closure, she'd told herself. But now as she sat, rigid and feeling sick for leaving him, she realized it'd been a mistake. She should've taken a cab. Goodbyes weren't good for anyone, much less someone who was fairly certain she was saying goodbye to the one person who was her other half. She signaled the stewardess and ordered a vodka tonic, not caring about the expense of a watered-down alcoholic beverage, just desperate for something to settle her thoughts.

“We haven't even been in the air for fifteen minutes and you're already tossing them back?”

The irritation of Trevor's voice caused her to open her eyes and stare crossly. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Is it any business of yours?”

“Not a bit. Just sharing an observation.”

“Well, unless you're sharing information about a camera that I will care about, please keep your observations private.”

Trevor shrugged, her curt reply bouncing from his shoulders as he tossed a peanut into his mouth. “I can see why you wouldn't want to stay. Alaska is
b-o-r-i-n-g,
” he said by way of conversation, and she wondered why she hadn't switched around the seating to avoid sharing proximity with Trevor. He was such an obnoxious ass. “Nothing like the excitement of L.A.”

“That's not a glowing endorsement,” she muttered before she could censor herself.

“Not a fan? That's a surprise.”

“Why is that surprising?” she asked, grudgingly curious.

“Because it's the opposite of Alaska and you seem to hate Alaska.”

“I don't hate Alaska,” she corrected him irritably. “I just couldn't follow my dreams there.”

“Why not?”

“Because the film industry is in Los Angeles,” she answered. “And why are we having this conversation?”

“Seems someone ought to have it with you.”

“And that person should be you?”

“I guess.”

“Why? We're not close.”

“That's exactly why I should be the one. Everyone who is close to you has probably already given you loads of good advice that you've promptly ignored. Maybe hearing it from someone you're not close to might make a difference.”

“That's some curious logic,” she grumbled. “But let's just say for the sake of argument you have a mild point.... What's in it for you? What do you care about my personal life?”

“Everyone deserves to be happy,” he said. “Even you.”

“Thanks,” she said drily, finishing off her drink and signaling for another. She might need to be drunk to listen to Trevor play armchair shrink, but what the hell, maybe it'd make the time go by faster. “So what's this advice you're offering?”

“You say I'm not your type,” he said, pointing out the obvious. “And you know what, I'm glad.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the guy who is your type, you left behind without blinking an eye. Lady, that's harsh. Even by L.A. standards.”

“I didn't just leave him behind. It's complicated.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, it is.” She glared.

“Only as complicated as you make it. Look, if you spent half the time looking for a solution that you do making excuses, I'll bet you'd have something figured out by now.”

“Okay, genius, you seem like you've got it all figured out—what's the solution?”

“Depends...you want to stay in California or Alaska? You have to choose.”

“
Duh.
That's been the problem all along,” she said, annoyed that Trevor had sucked her into a dead-end conversation. “While I appreciate—sort of—your attempt at helping me with my personal life—”

“Did you know that Alaska has the largest commercial halibut fishing outfits?” he interrupted.

“Of course I know that,” she snapped. “My father and brother are longline fishermen. Your point?”

“So if you know that, then you also know that longline fishing is very controversial for snagging unintended fish and fowl.”

“Yeah,” she agreed slowly, wondering where he was going with this information.

“Seems like a good hook for a series...kind of like
The Deadliest Catch,
but with halibut instead of crab. If I were you, I'd be using the momentum of your pilot success to springboard to a new project—one that doesn't put you at odds with the main star. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that your guy isn't one for the limelight.”

“No, he hates it,” she said, staring at Trevor with newfound appreciation. “So you're saying, pitch the new series while I might still have a chance to open some doors?”

“That's what I'd do, but hey, I'm just a camera guy.”

She immediately thought of her brother—handsome, sweet, yet hardworking—and the camera would love him. Except for one thing... She frowned. “It's a good idea but it hinges on one thing—the network has to love Trace's pilot for me to get the green light for the new project.”

“Not necessarily,” Trevor added with a crafty smile. “You really need to get more cutthroat if you're going to make it. You and I both know that Trace's pilot, no matter how good, is a dead-end street because he's not interested in doing a full series. However, the network doesn't know that. And, even better...neither does the competition. You polish that pilot until it shines and then when you gain momentum, you pitch that new idea to a competitor and see what happens.”

“I'd lose my job,” she said, her stomach trembling at the idea.

“Who cares if you're moving on to bigger and better things? Besides, in case you haven't noticed, Hannah's out to get you canned. Unlike you, she's been actively campaigning to put you out on your ass.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said. “It's a huge risk, though.”

“Life's all about taking risks, baby. If you're not willing to take big risks, you don't deserve the big reward. There's no room for a Pollyanna in our line of work. Either go after what you want or step aside so you're not in the way of those who will.”

She nodded, knowing Trevor was right. She'd long ago figured out that sooner or later Hannah was going to get her fired for something. And she wasn't likely to gain much respect from the network at this point, no matter how well the pilot did. The incentive to stay with her current employer was pretty weak. She could lose her condo if this all went sideways, a voice reminded her. Screw the condo. Why did she care about a building? A building wouldn't love her back. And she certainly didn't suffer any illusions that Los Angeles was the place of stardust and magic that she'd believed when she'd first moved there. What was she holding on to? Fear—that's what she was holding on to, and she was ready to let it go. She regarded Trevor with a growing spark of excitement. “You wouldn't have suggested it if you hadn't already known who would be open to it. Tell me who's in the market.”

“On one condition,” Trevor said.

“Which is?”

“You take me with you.”

Delainey did a double take. “What?”

“I'm not getting anywhere where I'm at. Besides, Alaska could grow on me.”

“You said Alaska is boring,” she reminded him.

“I just said that to get your goat. Alaska is cool. Besides, with me there, it would cease to be boring,” he said with a grin.

She laughed ruefully, not quite sure if she was making a devil's bargain. “Okay, deal. Give me the skinny on who's buying what.”

For the next hour Trevor shared everything he'd gleaned from his contacts out there in the field, and by the time they landed at LAX, Delainey was anxious to put their plan into action.

For the first time in a long time, Delainey couldn't wait to get to work.

* * *

T
RACE
CLIMBED
THE
short steps to where his mother was staying and knocked. Florence, a short, stout woman with a frizz of gray hair, opened the door, and a tremulous smile followed when she recognized him. “Oh, Trace, it's you,” she breathed with relief. “Come in, come in. Your mother is in the den.” She gestured for him to lean down, and she whispered in his ear, “She's been crying off and on all night. Go easy on her, dear. She's taking things pretty hard.”

Trace nodded and followed Florence into the den. Jennelle sat in a chair with a box of tissue, her eyes swollen and her nose red. When she saw Trace, her expression became pinched and she looked away. “Come to oust me from my friend's house, too?” she asked.

“Florence, would you mind giving my mother and I a moment to talk?” he asked, and Florence bobbed a short nod before disappearing.

Trace took a seat opposite his mother and wondered where to begin. He decided to start with the facts. “I thought you'd want to know that dad opted to stay in jail until his court date,” he said.

“What are you talking about? Why would he do such a thing?” she asked, wiping her nose with a glare. “That's nonsense. Your father would never choose to stay behind bars.”

“Well, he did. Rhett Fowler went to bail him out and he refused. That's straight from Rhett's mouth.”

She stared, her mouth trembling. “He wants to stay in jail?”

“I don't think it's that he wants to stay in jail, per se, but I think he knows it's the best place for him right now.” He gentled his voice. “He's admitting that he has a problem, and he's using this time to sort things out. The way I see it, this is a good thing.”

Her stare withered. “You would.”

“Okay, come on, now. Don't you think you're being a little childish here?” he asked gently. “You need to admit that Dad has a problem. The fact that he can admit it and you can't says you have a bigger problem than he does.”

“Of course, blame me some more. That seems to be the thing to do these days.”

“Mom, I'm not blaming you. I'm being honest. It's high time we all start being honest with each other.”

“I've never lied to any of my children, or my husband for that matter.”

“Tell me about the room.”

She balked, as if chagrined that he'd brought it up. If he'd caught her with her pants around her ankles, she'd likely look no less mortified. “What are you talking about?”

“Miranda said there's something about Simone's old room. You won't let anyone go near it. Why?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“Tell me about the room.”

“That's none of your business.”

He sighed. “Mom, you realize we're going to see what's in that room when the cleaners come.”

“What cleaners?” she asked, startled. Her voice rose a level. “What are you talking about?”

“Mom, let's not play games. What are you afraid of? That I'll judge you? I promise I won't.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

He sighed. Whatever she was hiding in that room would become evident soon enough, but it killed him to see her act like this. She was so far from the woman he remembered from his childhood. And he had to take responsibility for his part in the change. “Mom, I know I haven't been there for you, but I promise that's going to change. I think we've all been pushing our heads into the snow, afraid to acknowledge what's happening right in front of our faces, which is that Simone's death took a lot more from this family than just her presence in our lives.”

“I don't want to talk about Simone, and I won't have you blaming your dead sister for the problems in this family,” Jennelle said. “If that's all you have to say, you can take yourself off and go.”

“Mom,” he said, frustrated. “Will you stop and listen for a minute?”

“I'm done listening. You didn't try to talk to me before you ousted me from my home. Why should I listen to a word you and your sister have to say? Don't you understand how betrayed I feel?”

“I can only imagine and I know you're mad, but think of this as a temporary thing. We don't want you out of your home permanently, but if we don't work together, that's exactly what's going to happen—and it won't be by our hand. Your house has been condemned.” At the word
condemned,
Jennelle winced and looked away, but Trace couldn't mince words if he was going to get his point across. “We have a certain amount of time to get it cleaned up and approved by Social Services. Do you want to go home?” he asked.

“That's a silly question, not even worth answering,” she said sullenly, crossing her arms tightly. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying, if you want to go home, you're going to have to work with us to make it happen. And that means no more of this attitude.”

“Fine. I'll start cleaning it myself.”

“No. That's not happening,” he said. “You had your chance. It's gotten beyond what you can handle. I've hired a professional cleaning and organizing crew to come out and help.”

“Strangers going through my things?” She looked appalled. “I don't think so.”

“Then say goodbye to your house,” he said, shaking his head. “You can't have it your way. It's going to be this way or no way.” She clenched her fists and looked ready to scream, but she held it in. He hated being so firm with her, but he knew there was no backing down. He pressed a bit harder, knowing he was likely going to be the bad guy, but it was time he shouldered the responsibility instead of letting Miranda take the load. “I also want you to see a professional who specializes in hoarding.”