Leave Yesterday Behind (10 page)

Chapter 14

Callie awoke from her daily afternoon nap feeling refreshed physically. Mentally was a whole different ballgame.

She’d dreamed of Nick, both then and now. She visualized the Nick of long ago, almost on the cusp of manhood.

And what a man he’d become. Just looking at him caused her mouth to go dry. He was the whole package—intelligence, looks, accomplished, looks, a sense of humor—and had she mentioned looks?

And sensitive, to boot. If she were having an expert put together the perfect man, he would look, talk, and be as beautiful as Nick La Chappelle.

Callie shivered involuntarily. It didn’t matter if he was her fantasy man. She was too raw from the mid-March attack. She didn’t want or need any man in her life. Without warning, she flashed back to the forced kiss with Simon. Bile rose in her throat. No, she might find Nick hot as hell, but she was still an emotional wreck. She couldn’t afford to be interested in him—or anyone else—in her fragile state of mind.

She walked into the bathroom and slipped off the terrycloth robe she’d napped in. Gingerly, she removed her bra and panties and stood before the mirror.

Face it. What man would be interested in this?

Her eyes roamed over her injured body. The stitches were gone, but angry red scars ran from just under her right breast, along her side, and down to the top of her right thigh.

Callie examined herself as an impartial observer. Her frame was too thin. As Essie would say, meat had fallen off her bones. She’d lost her appetite since the attack, but hopefully Essie’s cooking would change that. Last night, she’d cleaned her plate, the first time in months. The gumbo had been fresh and spicy, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Southern-style cuisine. So soon that problem might be solved.

She took another appraising glance. Her hair still had a nice sheen to it. Her skin remained clear and peach-like. Her eyebrows could stand a good waxing, though. Everything else seemed fine . . . until the scars. Dr. Maxwell said they’d fade in color during the next few years.

Years. And she’d still be left mutilated. She couldn’t imagine ever showing her naked body to a man.

Especially one as fine as Nick La Chappelle. Like that would ever happen.

Hastily, she dressed. A man that attractive would need to hire someone full-time to beat the women off him with a stick. Or a cattle prod. A stick wouldn’t keep some determined women far enough away. She doubted that even an electric jolt or two would affect the diehards.

As a professional athlete, Nick had probably done groupies in every city. A man with his looks and hot body would have had his pick of the litter.

He would never want a reject like her.

Callie brushed her hair and wound it back into the familiar ponytail. Gretchen begged her to put it up in Jessica’s elegant chignon once, but she refused. It was the only harsh words that had occurred between them. Callie wanted nothing to do with her alter ego. In a way, she blamed Jessica for the attack on her.

She opened the door and caught Essie about to knock.

“Gracious, Miss Callie, you startled me.”

“Sorry, Essie. What’s up?”

“Miz Callandra would like to see you. She’s ready for a good, long chat.”

She smiled. “Same here. Where is she?”

“In her bedroom, same as always. Mr. Nick knows how Miz Callandra loves her sanctuary. When the doctor let us know it would be the wheelchair from now on, Mr. Nick insisted we put in an elevator so Miz Callandra could still come upstairs. Paid for the whole thing himself.” Essie laughed. “That boy. He’s something.”

Her mind whirled at Nick’s thoughtfulness to her great-aunt. He wasn’t the man she’d first believed him to be. She tucked that thought away as she focused on Essie.

“So I’ll be seeing you at dinner,” the cook told her. “You did me proud last night. Thought you might’ve licked that gumbo bowl clean, but having company probably stopped you.” Essie gave her a wicked grin.

Callie shook her head. “Just because I did that very thing twenty years ago.”

“You’ll never live it down, girl.” Essie grew serious. “I’ve loved you since you was that pint-sized peanut. We put you back together all those years ago, you and your mama. Miz Callandra and I’ll fix you up fine again. You’ll see.”

Essie gave her a swift hug and stepped back. “I’m off to fix us something special. That Miss Gretchen’s been bugging me about making mud pies.”

Callie laughed. “She means Mississippi mud. I told her yours was the best.”

“She’s all right. For a Yankee. I’m gonna let her watch me work my magic. I’ll be sure to give her all the local gossip while she’s licking the bowls.” Her eyes twinkled. I’ll make that gal a Southerner before you can say Mark Twain ten times.”

Essie walked one way down the carpeted hall as Callie went in the opposite direction. She paused in front of her aunt’s door and knocked.

“Come in, Callie.” The voice was strong and clear.

She turned the doorknob and stepped into her favorite room in the house. It was the largest of all the bedrooms, two actually, since some Chennault had knocked down a few walls sometime around the turn of the century so his invalid wife would have a place to entertain her guests without having to go downstairs.

The room held so many memories. She gazed fondly at the canopied bed which she’d run to when the nightmares came. Aunt C never turned her away, always holding her close, making her secure. She’d curled up hundreds of times in the club chair by the marble fireplace, escaping to new lands and adventures in her books.

Her great-aunt was seated on a periwinkle blue sofa on the sun porch, an addition that had been made after Callie and her mother came to live at Noble Oaks. She would come up here each day after school, carrying her backpack filled with homework. Essie would follow, tray in hand, and leave her and Aunt C to talk over the school day. Callie’s mom had been present in those early years, before breast cancer ended her life prematurely.

After that, it was only the two of them, sipping hot cocoa with plump marshmallows in the winter and ice-cold lemonade when the weather grew warm. Always with plenty of tea sandwiches and petit fours to accompany the gossip as each shared her day with the other.

Callie smiled and took a seat next to her aunt on the plush sofa. “So you still like spending time in the sunroom?”

Callandra smiled. “I have the best of both worlds here. I can laze about like a cat soaking up the hot sun, all the while letting the cool air-conditioned breeze whisper over me.”

She indicated the tray on the table in front of them. “Essie brought both tea and lemonade. Would you like some? For old times’ sake?”

“Yes. But let me pour.” She filled two tall glasses with ice from a silver bucket and poured lemonade into each one.

Callie took a sip, the familiar sweet liquid tinged with a hint of sour, tart lemon. “Mmm. Still the best. Nothing in New York compares to anything Essie can make.”

Callandra slipped a hand over hers. “But New York has much to offer an ambitious young woman, doesn’t it?”

Their eyes met. Tears moistened both.

“It’s been my whole world, Aunt C. I loved the pace, the excitement, the acting classes, the challenge. Then came the money and fame and awards. And then,” she stopped for another sip, “came the itchy feet. Like it’s time to move on.”

“Oh, dear. Your father’s bad genes coming out, I suppose?”

She shuddered. “I hope not. But . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It’s everything I wanted. Everything I thought it would be. And yet . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You want so much more.” Callandra gave one of her all-knowing looks. “You became so good at what you did, the challenge and fun fled. Routine became boring. You felt tied down to a role that you’d made all your own, but now that role is your prison.”

“Yes. You say it so simply, and it’s true. I owe everything to Jessica and the show. But it’s not enough anymore. It hasn’t been for a while now.” She shifted, folding her legs up under her.

“I had these thoughts months before the attack. I pondered moving on. Not renewing my contract. I’m not foolish enough to think I could jump directly to prime time or movies. All anyone would see is Jessica. But I could do regional theater. Maybe off-Broadway. Something. I want to quit going through the motions. I could be Jessica in my sleep at this point.”

“Ah, the fragile and often misguided Jessica. I do love that girl.” Callandra sighed. “Just when I think the poor child has taken too much, the bitch in her comes out, and she roars back to life.”

She leaned over and stroked Callie’s cheek. “You’ve created a marvelous character, my dear. Full of flaws and surprises. I shall miss seeing her on screen.”

Callie studied her aunt. “You act as if I’ll never return to the show.” She thought about it a moment. Cut all ties. Truly not go back.

“That scares me,” she admitted. “It’s as if Jessica’s always been there, hovering in the shadows, watching my every move.”

“All the more reason to move on.” Callandra’s tone grew serious. “You have great talent. Only the tip of it has been explored. I want to see you happy, Callie. If that means not returning to
Sumner Falls
, I shall support you. I love you as my own flesh and blood child, and I would see you settled before I pass.”

Alarm whizzed through her. “You’re all right, aren’t you? Nothing’s wrong?”

“Do you mean am I dying? Why, yes. We all are, I suppose. Nothing specific has been diagnosed, but I am getting on in years. I sense my time draws near.”

She buried her face in Callandra’s lap. She couldn’t imagine life without her aunt’s wisdom. Slowly, she lifted her head.

“I need you, Aunt C. More than I ever did. I’m not just a mess about my career. I’m a mess inside.”

Callandra pushed Callie’s head gently back into her lap, stroking her hair as she had many years ago. “I know the attack changed you. You’re sharper in tone. At least you were to Nick.”

Callie froze. Then she took a deep breath, trying to relax. “I’m not very comfortable in the company of any man right now.”

She closed her eyes as her aunt rubbed her temples in slow, languid circles. “Nick is not very happy in the company of women. I suppose I have two wounded birds who’ve flown home to heal.”

She sat up. “What’s wrong with Nick? He seemed fine to me.”

Callandra pursed her lips. “It’s for Nick to share his story with you if he chooses. I’ll simply say that his wife—his ex-wife—bruised his poet’s soul.” She looked at Callie steadily. “Much as a stranger hurt my girl.”

She swallowed. “Will I ever have your wisdom, Aunt C? Your ability to calm someone and restore his confidence?”

“You’re a Chennault, dear. What you seek has always been within you. You’ll find it’s there.”

She grinned. “Then maybe I’ll be able to hear it without cab drivers blaring their horns, and construction crew’s jackhammers, or street vendors hawking their wares.

“Maybe I’m like Dorothy, Aunt C. I’ll find out there’s no place like home.”

Chapter 15

“Miss Pam just called,” Essie told Callie. “She’s coming by shortly.”

Callie closed
Southern Living Magazine
and placed it on the coffee table. “Thanks, Essie.”

Callandra’s eyes left her embroidery a moment. “It’ll do you good to see her. You girls were thicker than bees’ honey back in high school.”

“We still talk all the time. Usually via email or texts. It’s hard for either of us to be free at the same time with our schedules, but we’ve always stayed in touch.”

“She still want a child?”

Callie nodded. “Pretty badly. She had a third miscarriage back in the spring. I didn’t know about it until summer because of . . . you know.” She stood, feeling restless. “I think I’ll go wait for her out on the porch.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be out there half the night, so I’ll say goodnight to you now. And be sure to look at Gretchen’s latest flower arrangement. She’s doing quite well.”

She went and brushed a kiss on her aunt’s paper-thin cheek. “Good night. Sleep well.”

She walked out of the living room and into the foyer. A new arrangement of roses and day lilies stood on the entry table. Aunt C had taken Gretchen under her wing since they’d arrived a few days ago, helping her to learn the fine Southern art of arranging flowers together. Under Callandra and Essie’s tutelage, Gretchen believed she was well on her way to becoming a modern Southern belle.

Callie opened the front door and stepped out onto the wide porch. The evening heat washed gently over her, as did the smell of magnolias. She went to sit on the porch swing to wait.

Pam pulled up in her old Chevy minutes later. She swung her long legs out and hurried up the path, a wide grin on her round, freckled face.

Callie rose and they embraced, then she pulled away, her head cocked to one side. “And when are you going to get another car? That sedan was ancient when we were in high school.”

Pam laughed. “It’s reliable. And still gets great mileage. Now, I wouldn’t trust it on a cross-country trip, but for going from one end of the parish to the other, it suits me fine. Besides, what would you expect a poor public school teacher in Louisiana to drive? A Lexus?”

They took a seat on the porch swing. Pam studied her with a look of relief. “God, it’s so good to see you in the flesh, Cal.” She gripped Callie’s hands in hers. “I miss you. I always do. You could’ve knocked me for a loop when I got back from my debate workshop at LSU, and Eric told me you were back. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t know if we’d actually make it all the way down here. I didn’t want either of us to get our hopes up and then me not show.”

Pam gave her a questioning look, but Callie fell silent. How could she explain to her oldest friend that she didn’t know if she could be confined in a car that long? That tight spaces made her throat go dry. That there were a thousand times she fought to keep the words in her mouth for Gretchen to turn the car around and go back to New York. That she didn’t think she could set foot on a plane because she might freak out somewhere over the Appalachians and be arrested by Homeland Security.

Pam squeezed her hands and then released them to ruffle her curly, short hair. “Well, girl, we are definitely going to celebrate your homecoming in style. I’m throwing a barbeque tomorrow night in your honor.”

Callie’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Pam.”

Her friend frowned. “I sense reluctance here. Is the heat of August too much for my little New Yorker these days? I know this steam bath makes me tired and all wrung out. If that’s the case, we can just send the men out to grill and eat indoors.”

She swallowed. “Would . . . are you inviting lots of people?”

“Not really. Tom and me. And Eric is itching to bring your friend Gretchen. I can’t wait to meet this gal. Eric is about as smitten as I’ve ever seen him.” Pam laughed. “And wait till Sally runs into them. She still thinks Eric pines away for her. Dumb bitch,” Pam grumbled. “I’m glad she’s history.

“Oh, and Nick, of course,” Pam continued. “But that would be it. Why?”

At the sound of Nick’s name, that funny feeling washed over her, making her heart flutter and her pulse race.

Pam touched her arm. “Say yes, honey. We need to catch up, and with school beginning in a couple of weeks, I won’t have as much time as I do right now. And that reminds me, would you like to be a guest speaker to my drama classes? They will go nuts hearing it straight from a real live star who’s been there, done that, in style.”

“I don’t know, Pam,” she said quietly. “That’s a lot of people. A lot of strangers to talk in front of.”

Shock painted Pam’s face. “I have seen you roll around half-nekkid on TV with a dozen different men. Not at the same time, of course. But talking with your clothes on in front of a few hormonal teenagers should be a piece of cake for a pro like you.”

She closed her eyes. “Seems like it would be. But . . .” She hesitated. “Pam, it’s different now. I’ve . . . changed.”

Pam reached for her hand. They sat silently for several minutes, only the creak of the swing making any noise.

“I remember how we sat here and talked about when I first got my period,” Pam said. “It about freaked me out. I thought I had to be dying.”

She smiled. “Your mom hadn’t thought to tell you, having two boys ahead of you. Thank goodness Aunt C clued me in before it hit.”

“And how we used to sit out here and make our plans? Talk about boys and life and everything?” Pam eyed her steadily. “We need to talk about what’s wrong now. We’re face to face. It’s not email or a text. Don’t put me off, Cal.” Pam put an arm about her shoulder. “I want to help. In any way I can. You’ve got to trust me.”

“I try to be normal,” Callie started. “But it’s hard. I get these panic attacks. I think . . . he’s . . . following me again. I know it’s incredibly stupid because he’s in jail back in New York, but I still get paranoid. If it starts to storm, that scares me even more.”

She broke off, her eyes searching Pam’s face. “It was raining that night. And I lay there bleeding on that dirty sidewalk as the thunder growled and the rain beat down on me, and I knew I was a goner.” She sucked in a deep breath. “And just being around people—men, really—upsets me.”

Pam squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll just be Tom and Eric. You’ve known them forever. And Nick. I forget you don’t really know him much. But you’ll like him. He’s family.”

“I don’t want to like him,” she said stubbornly.

Pam snorted. “He probably doesn’t want to like you, either.”

“Why?”

Pam faced her. “Nick had it rough. He retreated here, mostly because his mom had moved back to Aurora. It’s complicated. Besides, it’s not like I’m setting you up on some god-awful blind date with him. And he’s here at Noble Oaks anyway. He and Miz C are tight. You’re going to have to get used to him sometime. Might as well be with a medium-well cheeseburger in your hand.”

Pam stood. “In fact, I’m going to go see him now and let him know about tomorrow night. He never has plans anyway.” Her face softened. “Please come. Please. We’ll make it like old times.”

Callie bit her lip. “Okay. Only because it’s you asking. And I can’t promise how long I’ll stay.”

Pam laughed and grabbed Callie’s hands, pulling her to her feet. “Okay, your mission—which you’ll now choose to accept—is to go sweet-talk Essie into sending her world famous coleslaw along with you. I’ll admit it, that’s the only reason you’re being asked to come. We’re all hankering for her slaw and couldn’t figure out how to get it there without inviting you.”

Pam kissed her cheek. “You be good now. Bye.”

As Callie watched Pam cut around the side of the house and head to Nick’s cottage, she wrapped her arms around herself and whispered, “What have I gotten myself into?”

Nick had the lights low. An Eric Clapton CD played softly in the background. His thoughts wandered, his writing pad close by in case he needed to capture something as he sat on the sofa.

Nothing came.

Nothing except Callie Chennault’s image—fragile, vulnerable, constant.

He lowered his head to his knees and groaned. He refused to let it happen again. He’d fallen for one self-centered actress, the biggest mistake of his life, and he’d made several doozies in his thirty-five years. He would not let another one get under his skin.

Vanessa had played him like a master strumming a classical guitar. He believed every smile, every lie, until it was too late. She trapped him into marriage, something he didn’t really believe in, or so he told himself now.

And she never really loved him. That’s probably what hurt the most. Oh, she loved the nine thousand square foot house with every amenity available. And her designer clothes and Jimmy Choo shoes and diamonds too numerous to count. The first-class travel. The couple who took care of the house and lawns. Having her own personal assistant at her beck and call.

But most of all, she’d loved the status. How little Vannie Malone from Hicksville, Nowhere, had become the lethally seductive Vanessa La Chappelle. The fact that she hadn’t made it as an actress didn’t matter. Acting proved too much work, with all the early calls and learning lines. But she loved playing at being Mrs. Nick La Chappelle and seeing all the doors that name opened for her.

When Nick retired early due to rotator cuff problems, she’d been thrilled when he reluctantly accepted the network job she pushed him to take. It only improved her status among her in-crowd, having her husband in the ESPN booth.

And when he became so miserable doing it that he didn’t want to get out of bed anymore, he told her he couldn’t stay in broadcasting. He wanted to get serious about his writing and return to his own small town roots.

That’s when the shit hit the fan. He could still hear her screaming now.

“Nick, you don’t want to do that. Leave this? L.A.? This is our
life
, Nick. This is what makes us happy. I have my charity work, but you’re an athlete and an entertainer. You need the spotlight to thrive. Don’t you realize that? How can you think to go back to some backwater bump in the road to be a fucking writer? Besides, I have a terrific chance to be on next season’s
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
”

“No,” he’d replied. “You need the spotlight. You need the three hundred dollar massages and nine hundred dollar shoes and the stylist and limousine and paparazzi. Me? I need a life again. My life. Not this glitz and glamour fakery.”

“You dumb fuck, you can live it without me. I will never give all of this up. Never!”

“What about love?”

“Love?” She looked puzzled before her nose crinkled and her whole face turned into a giant sneer. “What about it? It’s just a fantasy, Nick. Love doesn’t exist. It never has. Not for us. Not for anyone. Just face it. We used each other. I needed you to get out of the rattrap I was in. My career was headed straight into the toilet. You gave me instant name recognition and opened all the right doors so I could blossom into who I am today.
People Magazine
writes about which fashion shows I attend.
US
covers my charity events. I’m named to best-dressed lists. Even Oprah and Ellen return my calls.”

“And how did I use you, Vanessa?”

She laughed. “You needed a nursemaid, Nick. Someone to be sure your clothes matched. Someone to organize your leukemia foundation and keep your head out of the clouds with all that silly writing and be sure you showed up to games on time. You needed someone around so you wouldn’t feel so lonely. Well, I did my part, babe, but not out in the sticks. I’ll take you for every cent you have, down to your last cashmere pullover.

“I never loved you, Nick. That’s why it’ll be easy to walk away.”

That’s why he couldn’t fall for another shallow, self-consumed actress. Or really any woman. Women always had a hidden agenda. The few dates he’d been set up on since he’d come to Aurora proved it. They only went out with him for who he used to be, so they could brag about their time spent with a sports legend.

The one woman he thought was different ended things a month into their relationship when she realized he had no money—and what she decided were no prospects.

So he gave up on women. And romantic feelings. He wouldn’t be bothered by them anymore. He knew he’d never marry again. He was all right with that. As a writer, he was used to a solitary life. And he still had his family.

And his characters. That’s where he created true, lasting love. Each of his novels had murder and mayhem in them since crime sold well, but every time he built a relationship between two main characters. Twice it had been between a cop and the heroine. Once the hero had been a journalist instead. But in his perfect world, he could create real, lasting emotions. He could give his people the love he craved that he knew didn’t exist in real life.

He would not—under any circumstances—give into this momentary infatuation with Callie Chennault. For God’s sake, she was an actress who could probably fake every emotion on the planet. He could feel sorry for her because of the brutal attack she’d endured. He could even learn to get along with her while she resided at Noble Oaks. He would be friendly but keep his distance.

But he knew not to get hung up on her. Because as an actress, she probably decided to milk this whole attack anyway for publicity purposes. It probably hadn’t been nearly as bad as reported. And she’d retreated to Aurora, so the public would keep guessing. Then she’d make the comeback of her career at twice her old salary, and the ratings of her stupid show would go through the roof. Plus, she’d probably win every award out there since she’d survived a crazy stalker’s attack.

And he’d be one of the poor fools she practiced her story on. Glean a little sympathy. Play up to him like they had some things in common.

No, sir—he would
not
fall for her.
Or her act. He would keep his distance and pray she returned home soon.

Before he lost his willpower.

Because he wanted nothing better than to take Callie in his arms and kiss her senseless.