Picture Perfect (28 page)

“I like my job,” I say, wounded. “I can’t help that Alan stopped loving me. And my life would be fulfilling if I didn’t have to try to please everybody else all the time.”

“Who are you trying to please?” he asks, taking hold of one of my hands. “Timeless Television? Your boss?”

I look at him, on the verge of tears. “I feel like I’m in therapy or something. You’re confusing me. Stop asking me these questions.”

“I’ll stop,” he says, his tone tender. “If
you
promise to keep asking them.”

I drop my chin to my chest, defeated.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m being selfish. Your world has been turned upside down. You need time to process everything. I won’t push you to do something you don’t want to do.”

I turn to meet his eyes, and out of nowhere I hear Justine’s voice, her words of wisdom flooding my mind, as if they are my own.

the white winter shadows whisper, then fade into the night,

like a woman’s heart accepting full sunlight after

everything she grieved about disappears.

“What is it?” Jack asks, oblivious to the melody in my head, but surely seeing the change within me even as I feel it happening.

“I just remembered the first few lines from a poem that Justine dedicated to me. She read it at the bookstore in New York before you showed up.” I pause, my heart full of hope and love, Justine’s poem shining a light on my deepest flaw, my darkest fear. “I think I finally understand it.”

Jack leans in. “What does it mean?”

“She was telling me to follow my heart.”

“And what does your heart want?”

I hesitate, the word almost too scary to say out loud, knowing that once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid.

“Well?” Jack asks, anxious.

“You,” I whisper. “My heart wants you.”

Jack breaks into a wide smile. “I knew it.”

Chapter 22

I stretch out on the bed, the muffled sounds of the shower in the en suite bathroom like rain against a windowpane. I roll onto my side and pull my knees up to my chest, snuggling into my pillow. For the first time since Alan served me with divorce papers, I actually feel happy. Well, maybe not happy. Just not completely miserable. The fact is, I’m still suspected of murder, still unemployed, still the center of a major Hollywood scandal. But despite all those worries, I’m presently wrapped in that magical gossamer called
love
. God, it’s ridiculous really, feeling this way at my age. But as both Jack and Justine have said, it’s time I start listening to my heart instead of my head.

So what if Jack is Alan’s son? He’s nothing at all like him. The only thing they might have in common is a Y chromosome. Alan had no hand in raising him, fortunately, and his mom (despite her head-in-the-sand approach to parenting) has managed to bring up a very charming man with a propensity for heroism, even if his gallantry is a wee bit misguided at times.

I smile to myself as I hear Jack in the bathroom singing off key under the spray like some
American Idol
reject, axed on the first night. Thankfully, he’s found fame without the need of his vocal abilities. I sit up, stretching my arms overhead, the notion of climbing into the shower with him on my mind, when my iPhone buzzes. I peek at the number, and seeing Tanya’s name, pick up immediately.

“Lauren,” she snaps. “I have great news.”

“You do?” I say, leaping to my feet. I grab my robe from the closet and throw it on, cinching the belt tightly at my waist.

“The DNA evidence is back from the lab. They put a rush on it due to the high profile nature of the case.”

“And?” I ask eagerly, desperate to know why this is good news.

“We have benefit of the doubt.”

“What do you mean? You already said we had benefit of the doubt.” My brows knit together in wonder.

“I mean, there’s no way charges can be brought against you now that the DNA proves someone else was in the room with Alan.”

“But my DNA is also all over the place. I was in there the day he died,” I say, beginning to pace the floor.

“Yes, but there’s compelling evidence that this particular person’s DNA can’t be yours, and could possibly link to motive.”

“But it could have been there for months. What are we talking about? Blood, hair, what?”

“Skin cells were found on the murder weapon. The crystal award. It was wiped clean after you cut yourself on it, so they had to be fresh.”

“This is getting a little too
CSI
for me. Just tell me, whose DNA was it?”

“We don’t know yet exactly. That will require several different warrants being issued to determine whose it is. And the Sheriff's Office is unlikely to get those without further incriminating evidence.”

“You mean Alan’s murder will go unsolved? That’s not good news, Tanya. I have to clear my name. If no one is ever convicted of killing him, the suspicion that I did it will hang over my head forever.”

“No, you’re in the clear. As long as you didn’t marry your brother, you’ll likely never be charged.”

“Marry my brother? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The DNA found at the scene shares common markers with Alan’s, meaning it comes from someone like a sibling or a parent.”

I stop short, a burst of anxiety exploding in my chest. “A sibling or a parent?” I ask.

“Yes, the DNA belongs to someone closely related to Alan. Someone in his immediate family.”

I stand in the middle of my bedroom floor, gazing at my pedicured toes as a tightness grips the back of my throat.

“Do you understand, Lauren? You’re no longer the prime suspect.”

“A sibling or a parent,” I repeat, dazedly.

“Yes,” Tanya replies. “A sibling or a parent.”

“Or a child?” I squeak.

The thought of Jack being Alan’s son was hard enough to swallow. Now the knowledge that it may be his DNA that was found at the scene of the crime is enough to choke a whale. I never really believed Jack had anything to do with Alan’s death, even when his actions looked suspicious. But if, in fact, this DNA evidence belongs to him, how did it get there? 

“Well, that’s possible,” Tanya says, cutting through my thoughts, “but Alan didn’t have any children, did he?”

I look to the bathroom door, behind which may possibly be Alan’s long lost son.

“I don’t know,” I say, stricken with a horrible fear I don’t want to face. 

The sound of the shower cuts out, and I hear the click of the glass door opening. “I have to go,” I say into the phone and quickly hang up.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, flying to my wardrobe and pulling out clothes. I land on a burgundy shell dress and yank off my robe, stepping into the garment and shimmying it on. Just as I’m trying to zip up the back, Jack emerges from the bathroom, his hair a mess of dark wet curls and a towel around his waist.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “You look in a hurry.”

“Uh, yes.” I stammer, my mind racing. “I have a luncheon at The Beverly Hills Hotel at eleven-thirty.”

Jack’s gaze drifts to the clock on my nightstand. “It’s only nine-thirty. It definitely doesn’t take two hours to get to Beverly Hills from Westwood,” he says, gliding over to me and putting his arms around my middle.

“No,” I say, squirming to get away from him, “but I need to take care of some errands before.”

“Okay,” he says, letting me loose. “At least let me zip you.”

I turn around, and he sweeps my hair over my shoulder. His fingers graze my back as he grips the fabric of my dress. The zipper slowly inches up my spine, and I feel him latch the hook and eye at the top. His hands move to my hips and then his lips are on my neck. I quickly spin away from him.

“I’m really in a rush,” I say, lowering my eyes.

Guilt washes over me, and I feel wretched for assuming the worst of Jack, but what other explanation is there? Jack’s DNA was on the murder weapon, and I can’t think of any reason it would be there other than the most terrible one.

Jack reaches for my hand, and I pull away. “What’s the matter, Lauren? You seem upset.”

“No, I’m not,” I say stiffly. “Just in a hurry.”

Jack brushes a hand through his hair. “You’re keeping something from me.”

I shake my head at him, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

“Please tell me. What happened since I got in the shower?”

I sit on the bed, all strength vacating my body. “Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing,” he says, moving in front of me. “What is it?”

“I got a phone call,” I say, staring at his knees, “from my lawyer.”

Jack sits down next to me. “What did she say?” He puts one arm around my shoulder and reaches for my hand. I flinch, and he pulls away from me. “Why are you so uneasy?”

I look at him, into his big brown eyes, and despite the knowledge that his DNA was found at the scene of the crime, I still can’t believe him capable of anything as horrible as murder.

“Jack,” I say. “Did you go to the house in Malibu on Sunday?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?” he asks, his face scrunching into a question. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about your DNA being found at the scene of the crime.” I can’t bring myself to say
murder weapon
out loud.

“
My
DNA?”

“
Someone’s
DNA. Someone related to Alan.”

Jack stands. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight. The DNA of someone related to Alan was found at the scene, and you assume it was mine?”

“Who else’s would it be?”

He plants his hands on his hips. “We don’t know he’s my father, Lauren.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, exasperated. “Obviously, he is.”

“Oh, it’s so obvious to you, is it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what else to think.”

“And if it’s my DNA, then I killed him, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Lauren.”

I gaze up at him, feeling like the absolute worst person on the planet. How could I suspect him? Just because his DNA is all over the murder weapon, that doesn’t mean he did it. Does it? There must be some other explanation.

“Fine,” he says, whipping the towel from his waist and yanking on his jeans. “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Prove it?”

“I’ll go to the police. Turn myself in. They’re probably looking for me, aren’t they?” he snaps at me.

“No. I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t tell them.”

“Well, thanks for that,” he says, shoving his feet into his shoes. He pulls his jacket on and heads for the door.

“Wait,” I call to him.

“What?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You do,” he says. “You don’t want to, but you do.”

And with that, he’s out of my bedroom. And I wonder, too, if he’s out of my life.

***

My stomach is bloated and a wave of nausea washes over me. I don’t know if it’s the pound of cocktail shrimp I managed to consume in the ten minutes since I’ve arrived at the Rodeo Ballroom of The Beverly Hills Hotel, or worry that Jack is not only Alan’s son, but his murderer as well. A waiter glides by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I snare a glass of the pale bubbling liquid, downing it as if I’ve spent the past two days wandering Death Valley with an empty canteen.

“Cool it, will you,” Justine admonishes me. “You’re going to throw up.”

She maneuvers me through the throng of pastel-suited women of film and television glory to an upholstered chair at a table topped with a gold satin cloth and a centerpiece overflowing with purple and yellow roses. I scan the crowd in search of Rebecca or Jennifer or Sally.

“There’s the waiter with the mini sliders,” I say, excitedly waving him over in my direction.

“They’re serving lunch in twenty minutes, Lauren. You’ll explode if you keep eating the appetizers.”

“I deserve to explode,” I say, snagging two baby burgers as the waiter lowers his silver tray for me. I shove one in my mouth and Justine snatches the other out of my hand.

“You do not.” She bites into the burger, and her eyes roll back. “Jesus, what do they put in these things. Crack?”

“I’m sure crack tastes like shit. Otherwise, why would you smoke it instead of eating it?”

“I was being facetious.”

“And I was being capricious.”

She gives me look that I’m certain she employs on a frequent basis in her classrooms. That is, if her students are anywhere near as immature as I am. Somehow, I doubt it, though.

“You don’t know for sure yet that Jack is—”

I hold up my hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, you’d rather stuff your feelings down your throat until your stomach bursts.”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding.

“You know, people have been known to die from rupturing their intestines. The human body can only hold so much.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll puke long before that happens,” I say, motioning another waiter to our table.

“I’m not joking,” she says, glaring at me.

I smile at her. “I know. And I’m grateful that you care. But this is how I deal with stress.”

“I really think you need to spend some time on a therapist’s couch. Seriously, this is not healthy. And I’m not even talking about nutrition here.”     

I’m about to pop a salmon canapé into my mouth when Sally suddenly sidles up next to me. “Lauren, oh my God, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“What is it?”

“Rebecca. She’s a mess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s falling over drunk. I don’t know how many champagne cocktails she’s had, but the woman is on the verge of blowing chunks,” she says, desperately. “You have to come help her.”

“Lead the way,” I say, dropping my appetizer on my napkin. I turn to Justine. “You hold down the fort.”

“Aye, aye, sergeant,” she says, saluting me.

I follow Sally as she quickly cuts through the sea of floral-colored suits knocking back tall glasses of sparkling wine and noshing on aromatic hors d’oeuvres. Rebecca is leaning against a round table near the stage. She’s wearing a sky blue cropped blazer atop a pleated chiffon skirt that just grazes her knees, and she’s dripping in pearls. Her white hair is perfectly coiffed and her normally cold blue eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.