Red (21 page)

J
ack told her everything. About being Giovanni's bastard, about the day he had confronted his father only to be rejected, about the first time he and Carlo met; he told her how his brother had called him an embarrassment. He shared his anger and his determination that one day he would prove to Giovanni that he had chosen the wrong son.

She had understood his anger at the injustice served him, she understood his pain. Only too well. She burned with her own anger, her own pain.

But most of all, she understood his all-consuming need to prove to those who had hurt him that they had made a mistake, and to somehow, someday, show them that they were wrong.

That same determination burned inside her, sometimes eating away every other thing in her life.

Oh, yes, she understood Jack. So well that it sometimes frightened her.

She hadn't been surprised when it had taken him a couple weeks to rebound, to rediscover his self-satisfaction at making the
Los Angeles
magazine list. The calls from well-wishers had helped, the flowers a couple of models had sent, the small surprise party Sallie had thrown.

And as he had returned to himself, he had catapulted himself into his work with an almost frenetic intensity. They had moved into the new studio and every spare moment had been spent either drumming up new business or fine-tuning the new space.

She hadn't had a day off in months. Until today. Sunday, January sixth. Her eighteenth birthday.

Tears filled her eyes and she sat up in bed, careful to avoid her reflection in the mirror directly across from her, wishing she hadn't awakened so early. At only seven-thirty, she had the whole long, lonely day ahead of her.

She drew her knees to her chest and rested her face against them.

She missed her mother. She wanted to see her, to spend this day, her eighteenth birthday with her. Last year, Becky Lynn hadn't even thought about her birthday until days after. Everything had still been so new and frightening—L.A., her job at The Shop, her living situation. She had still suffered from constant nightmares about the rape. She had been hanging on by an emotional thread.

This year was different. This year she felt her mother's absence keenly. She felt as alone as she was. She longed for her mother's soft smile and even softer “Happy birthday.”

She missed her so much she hurt.

Even as her tears spilled over, she called herself a ninny. Her birthdays at home had never been particularly happy. There had rarely been a cake, and almost never a gift. She remembered the birthday when her father had blackened her eye. But even those memories couldn't ease her desire to hear her mother's voice, couldn't lessen the need to see her face.

Her phone rang; it was Jack. He needed her, after all, he said. He would pick her up at noon.

She set the receiver back into its cradle, relieved because she hadn't wanted to spend her eighteenth birthday alone, but more melancholy because when she heard his voice, she had hoped—down deep in some silly place inside her—that Jack would have known it was her birthday and wished her a happy day.

Instead, he hadn't even asked her how she was.

At noon, she went outside to wait for him. He arrived moments later, grinning like the Cheshire cat, whistling a bright tune.

She climbed into the car, and unable to shake her melancholy, turned her gaze to the side window.

“Pretty day, isn't it?” he said, easing into traffic. “Topnotch.”

She glanced at him, then away. “Where are we going?”

“There's something I want to show you. Some place.”

She leaned her head against the seat back. “You're the boss.”

He turned to her, arching his eyebrows in question. “You're quiet today. Anything wrong?”

“No.” She laced her fingers in her lap, her chest so tight it hurt. “Just quiet.”

“Okay.”

He drove to Glendale, a city located just north of Los Angeles. After a time, he pulled up in front of a small, pretty multiplex painted a delicate shrimp color. Every window except one had a window box filled with bright, blooming flowers.

He shut off the engine. “Come on, we're going in.”

She opened her door. “Who are we visiting?”

“You'll see.”

She scowled. “I'm not in the mood for surprises, Jack.”

“I see that.” He grinned at her and dug some keys out of his pocket. “Too bad.”

The urge to tell him he could go alone barreled through her, she bit the words back and followed him. They went in the central doorway, then took the stairs up to the third floor. But instead of knocking on the door of the apartment they stopped in front of—3C—he unlocked it and ushered her inside.

“The guy who owns this place is an old friend.” Jack went to the windows and opened the blinds. Sunshine spilled through. “He's agreed to waive all deposits for the apartment. As a favor to me.”

Becky Lynn looked at him, confused. “But you already have an apartment. At the studio.”

“Not for me, goose. For you.”

“An apartment?” she said, not believing she could have heard him correctly. “You found an apartment for me?”

“I know it's not much. And the neighborhood isn't great.” He lifted his shoulders. “But it beats the hell out of the Sunset Motel.”

She didn't reply, and he continued. “He agreed to give it to you for three-fifty a month. That's great by L.A. standards.”

She already knew that. A day hadn't gone by that she hadn't checked the real estate section of the
L.A. Times
in search of an affordable apartment; each day she had been disappointed.

Becky Lynn moved her gaze over the room, her heart beginning to pound. Her own place. No more hookers and paper-thin walls. No more wail of police sirens. No more leers from the desk clerk.

She wandered through the apartment, ending up in the
kitchen. The apartment was small—one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and bathroom and an all-purpose living area, but it was pretty, with an abundance of windows and nice wooden floors.

She ran her hand along the turquoise and silver-speckled counter. Her own kitchen. A stove. A refrigerator. She opened the oven door and peered inside, then closed it. No more peanut butter sandwiches. No more cans of tuna or greasy fast food. She could make a real meal in this kitchen. She could make meat loaf and mashed potatoes; she could fry chicken and make butter beans; she could bake an apple pie. It seemed like a lifetime since she'd had a home-baked apple pie.

Jack watched her from the doorway. “Do you like it?”

She lifted her gaze to his, tears blurring her vision. “I love it,” she whispered, her words thick, choked with emotion.

“Check the refrigerator.” At her expression, he grinned and started toward her. “Yeah, the refrigerator.”

She crossed to it and opened the door. On the top shelf sat a big chocolate cake.

“Happy birthday, Red,” he said softly from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder at him, struggling to keep from bursting into tears. “I didn't…think you knew.”

“You're not the only one who can keep secrets.” He touched her cheek lightly, then reached around her and slid the cake out. The top was decorated with shocking pink roses,
Happy Birthday
was written in fluorescent green frosting.

She drew in a ragged breath. “It's beautiful.”

“Tasty, too, I'll bet.”

From his jacket pocket he produced a box of candles,
some matches and two plastic forks. They sat on the floor with the cake between them, and Jack insisted on putting in all eighteen candles.

“What are you going to wish for?” he asked as he lit each candle.

“I don't know. Today I feel like I have everything.”

He met her gaze over the dancing flames. “I'm glad.”

She looked away a moment, her heart in her throat, then met his eyes again. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He paused as if nonplussed by her question. Then he shook his head. “Why shouldn't I be nice to you, Becky Lynn? I like you. And I want you to be okay.”

Tears stung her eyes again. He liked her. Nobody had ever said that to her before. Nobody had ever cared enough to want her to be okay. Her heart opened up, like a flower to the sun. She felt bathed in warmth, and for the first time in her life, as if she belonged. When she blew out her eighteen candles, instead of making a wish, she said a thank-you.

Laughing, they each grabbed a fork and dug into the cake, putting a sizable dent in the double layers, eating until they could eat no more. Afterward, they lay on the floor, facing each other but not touching. Sharing wishes of birthdays past. Sharing their dreams.

Much later, after Jack brought her back to the motel, Becky Lynn realized with a sense of horror that Marty had been right.

She was falling in love with him.

S
he had lost her.

Becky Lynn angled past two young mothers with baby strollers, searching over the tops of shoppers' heads for the tall blonde she had been following for the past half hour.

She caught a glimpse of the girl up ahead, and scooted around another group of window-shoppers. As noon had grown closer, the mall had become crowded, making her task more difficult. She needed to find the blonde, get a good look at her face and if she thought the girl had promise, give her the pitch.

Becky saw her up ahead and picked up her pace. Her quarry had paused outside a dress shop to study something in the front window. As Becky Lynn approached the girl, she strained to get a clear look at her face, but was unsuccessful once again.

Just as Becky Lynn came within a couple yards of her, the blonde turned away from the window, walking in the opposite direction. Becky Lynn followed, studying her. She looked to be about her own age, maybe a year younger, maybe one year older. She had hair the color of honey; it fell in a riot of curly waves to the middle of her back. She tossed it jauntily over her shoulder as she walked, her equally jaunty gait quick because of the extraordinary length of her legs.

She would make a perfect model.

If her face was right.

One of the ways a photographer made a name for himself was by finding and launching new talent. She and Jack were forever scouting for new girls, introducing themselves and handing out cards. As Becky Lynn had discovered, it took more than a beautiful face and body to be a successful model. A woman had to have a certain look, a chameleon-like ability to become whatever a photographer needed her to be.

Some of what she needed could be learned; the photographer groomed the novice model, teaching her how to move in front of the camera, how to emote, teaching her the simple tricks of the trade.

But the most important part couldn't be learned. The camera had to love the face. And so far, she and Jack hadn't found anyone the camera loved. They hadn't found that special face.

She had a feeling about this girl.

The blonde ducked into the rest room. A moment later, Becky Lynn followed her. The sinks and mirrors faced the row of stalls, and Becky Lynn stood in front of them, waiting. She dug her comb out of her purse and pretended interest in fixing her hair.

Several minutes later, the blonde stepped out of one of the stalls. Her eyes, huge and heavy-lidded, met Becky Lynn's in the mirror. She smiled.

Becky Lynn returned her smile, her nerves jumping. The girl had a beautiful mouth, full, soft, too big for her face. Her cheekbones were high, her nose small and straight.

She would make a perfect model.

The blonde stepped up to the sink. She washed and dried her hands, then fished in her purse and pulled out lip gloss. She applied the shiny pink, her eyes on herself in the mirror.

“Why have you been following me?” she asked bluntly, not looking at Becky Lynn. She smoothed her lips together, evening the gloss. “You queer, or something?”

Becky Lynn made a choked sound of surprise. “Hardly.” She cleared her throat. “I'm a photographer's assistant, and I followed you because you caught my eye. I thought you might make a good fashion model.”

“Right.” The girl capped the tube, dropped it back into her purse, then turned to walk away. “Stop following me, okay? It's giving me the creeps.”

“This isn't a joke, I think you'd make a terrific model. Here—” Becky Lynn dug one of Jack's business cards out of her pants pocket. She handed it to the girl.

The blonde took it and studied it for a moment, suspiciously. She brought her gaze to Becky Lynn's once more. And once more, Becky Lynn was struck by both the size of the girl's eyes and their sexy, sleepy quality.

Men would fantasize about those eyes, Becky Lynn thought. Women would aspire to make theirs look the same way.

“This isn't a gag?”

“No gag.” Becky Lynn tucked her hands into her pockets. “I'm Becky Lynn, Jack Gallagher's photo assistant.”

“Cool.”

“So, are you interested in coming in for a sitting?”

“How much?”

“No cost at all. If Jack thinks you have the right look, if he works with you and finds you're photogenic and have talent, you sign with him. He teaches you the things you need to know to be picked up by a big agency. When you do, he gets a finder's fee from the agency. The standard fee is three years, five percent. Interested?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Becky Lynn repeated, surprised. Usually, the girls she approached were not just interested, they were ecstatic.

“Yeah.” The blonde tucked the card into the back pocket of her tight, white jeans. “Maybe I'll call.”

She started out of the rest room, and, frustrated, Becky Lynn watched her walk away. She couldn't lose this one, she thought. This girl had the face she and Jack had been searching for.

“Wait,” she called as the blonde pushed open the door. “What's your name?”

“Zoe,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Becky Lynn. “Zoe Marie Tucker.”