Redemption (11 page)

She just hoped she could continue to do so. If anyone found out his mother had once had a one-night stand with Matt Grayson, he would find himself the butt of jokes, or worse. The normal life they now led would certainly be nothing but a memory.

Eight weeks—if she could manage to lie low that long. She stuffed a handful of unopened envelopes into the slot marked “unpaid bills” on the desk in the kitchen. Her day of reckoning might eventually come, but for now, she had avoided the thing she dreaded most: telling her son the truth about her past.

She had kept the details from him deliberately, a conscious decision to spare him from knowing the circumstances of his conception. On the day he was born, she had made a vow to herself, a vow that he would never know the depths to which she had fallen before he entered her life. How did one explain to a little boy his mother had had an affair, suffered a cruel and public punishment, and as a result of one sleazy episode had given birth nine months later to a beautiful baby boy?

She smiled, remembering the warm surge of joy that accompanied the news she was pregnant. It might have been a self-destructive thing to wish for, but for such a brief time, she had wanted to have Matt’s baby.

It was only later, when her grandmother had crushed the joy with reality, that she had doubts, doubts that had fled the moment she held her baby in her arms.

He was so tiny, so perfect, so undeserving of the scorn sure to be heaped on him. She would keep him in innocent ignorance, even if that meant lying to him—a sin she had often committed. She learned long ago the difference between white lies and dark ones. White lies saved your skin; dark lies could damage your soul.

From the kitchen window, she watched Tripper prospecting the backyard, attempting to gather the dry powder into a large enough ball to form a snowman. He had yet to learn the intricacies of snow, and she wouldn’t be much help there. In east Texas, where she had spent her childhood, snow had been about as rare as Swedish cars on the highway.

Claire’s gaze grew distant, and her lips tightened in a frown. Snow might have been rare, but a thick layer of permafrost had flourished around her heart. It was only when she had finally broken free, moved to Oklahoma and the shelter her grandmother’s house offered, that the ice encasing her soul had thawed.

That was why Matt had gotten in so easily, all those years ago, and how he had stolen past her defenses.

But now those defenses were firmly shored up. There was no way he would be able to tunnel past them tomorrow.

A shiver ran down her spine, shaking her from her musings. She tapped on the window, gave Tripper a cheerful smile and a “ten more minutes” signal, then started dinner.

Later that night Claire awoke drenched in sweat, stifling a scream of terror. She was choking, drowning as the weight of the water above pushed down on her. Blurry faces laughed at her through the blue haze above, accusing fingers pointing downward. A strong hand gripped her neck, forcing her to remain underwater.

She gulped oxygen into her lungs, biting back sobs of fear. The red LED display on the clock switched to 12:33. Moonlight leaked from the edges of her bedroom window, covered in heavy rose-colored draperies that matched her bedspread.

It was a dream, a nightmare. The first one in a long time.

Slowly, she wrested control of her racing pulse, concentrating on deep breaths. She heard the sound of the furnace clicking on, then its steady reassuring hum.

Maybe Matt had a point: Unresolved guilt could play havoc with one’s sleep.

Sighing, she got up and went across the hall to check on Tripper. He was sound asleep under his Lakers bedspread, his sleep undisturbed by her scream or by the pictures of bats he had recently added to his bulletin board.

She picked up the book still spread open on his bedcovers, smiling as she saw the cover. His dreams were probably filled with Jedi Knights and lightsabers. She poked a bookmark between the pages, then set it on his bedside table.

His life was as normal as she could make it. She felt a touch of pride. She
had
done a pretty good job raising him. She didn’t regret her choice to do it alone.

Occasionally she had wondered, what if
her
mother had made the same choice? Rather than give up her infant to the Reverend Porter and his wife to raise, what if her birth mother had kept her? Then she shook off her thoughts. Regrets were useless, a fact she would point out to Matt tomorrow.

She still couldn’t believe she had agreed to meet him. But perhaps he was right: the horrible guilt she had felt over Hayley James’s death had once caused her to disappear into anonymity. She remembered the measures she had gone to in order to prevent anyone learning it was quiet, unassuming Claire Porter, straight-A college student from Stillwater, Oklahoma, who was now Public Tramp Number One, the catalyst behind the death of America’s sweetheart.

Of course, there was one person who
had
known and wasn’t surprised that Claire Porter had turned into a whore, just like the woman who gave birth to her.

A shudder ripped through her. Claire stood up, forcing unpleasant thoughts back into her subconscious.

But dreams, she had found, had a habit of coming back.

Chapter Eight

K
ASLOW’S
T
HIRD
-F
LOOR
M
EN’S
D
EPARTMENT
was lit up like the Second Coming. Stand-ins, extras, and various members of the film crew milled around like nervous penitents, waiting for the director to create chaos from order.

The set decorators didn’t have to work much to enhance the clubby atmosphere. Reeking with masculine elegance, the location was already a perfect backdrop for the scene. Behind the mahogany counter, a wall of ties formed a rich silk mosaic. Leather chairs waited stoically for inhabitants, and in the corner, a warm glow from the fireplace unfurled onto the polished wood floors.

A rack of suits, like a row of headless executives, stood off to one side. Boxes of shoes—Gucci wingtips, Bally loafers, Bruno Magli slip-ons—were casually piled nearby. On top of the polished table, a trio of stiff shirts on disembodied torsos looked like targets.

The camera had already surveyed the area, filming the requisite “set-the-scene” shots that could be spliced in during editing. A tense edginess hovered in the air. As he left the dressing room, Matt felt the familiar tightening of his own nerves. He welcomed it, knowing the performances of the entire cast would benefit from the tension.

Preparing to slip into character, he was unusually quiet. A makeup bib hung around his neck, and nearby, the makeup tech kept a wary eye on him. His stand-in had already completed the light check.

He watched as orange-red flames danced around the logs in the fireplace. It was never used due to strict fire codes, but Marty had obtained permission from the powers that be to light the massive twelve-foot structure. A fire marshal was on hand, along with several Kaslow’s employees, though the one person Matt half-wanted to see was nowhere in sight.

Soft strains of Beethoven filled the air, taking the edge off the tension. Matt preferred upbeat rock, but in honor of the store’s ambiance, he had chosen the classics.

This would be a complicated scene. They would shoot it roughly in sequence, with the rapid changes of wardrobe shot later in the dressing room. There would be a series of reaction shots, close-ups of Laura critically appraising her creation, a blond Svengali to his
Pygmalion
.

He had already discussed camera angles with Jackson. The camera operator was scanning the script for any last-minute changes. The script supervisor had a digital camera ready to photograph the sets after each successful take. With a fine eye for detail, she would ensure continuity from take to take, setup to setup, scene to scene. If his tie was loose in one take, it would have to be in the exact same position in the next shot, or else they would have to show him altering it.

“Places!” Mimi called.

The makeup artist dabbed his nose and removed the makeup bib, and Matt strolled over to his mark. The actor playing the sales assistant joined him, and after a quick lighting check, Mimi called for quiet on the set. Suddenly, the tension transformed into action.

For the next four hours, “Luke” pranced, postured, and preened; in tweeds, in wool blends, in a cotton undershirt and trousers. He slipped from one designer suit to another, from sport coats to casual sweaters, from pleated slacks to jeans. He admired himself in the wide triple mirrors. “Jane” looked on, made pretty little pouts of dissatisfaction, motioned for him to turn around, and then sent the poor salesman scurrying for more.

They shot the few lines of dialogue from the script. For several minutes at the end of one take, Matt and Laura improvised while the cameras continued to roll. Matt held up a Bruno Magli loafer and eyed Laura hopefully.

“Do they have it in glass?”

Laura snatched the loafer from him. “Talk to your Fairy Godmother. I’ve got a limit on my Visa.”

Matt relaxed, out of character at last, and tossed an arm around her shoulders. “Okay, that’s a wrap. You did good. I think that was our best take, but we’ll wait until we view the dailies to decide.”

“Whew.” Laura fanned herself with a hand. “This place is steaming. Is it just a rumor, or is it really snowing outside?”

“No rumor. We’ve postponed the scene in the rotunda so we can shoot the ending in Logan Square in the snow.”

“Well, at least we’ll cool off.”

Just then one of the store employees approached, and Matt prepared to answer yet another request for an autograph.

But this one wanted something more. She licked her lips and eyed him like a confection. “I’m Lee Ann Ellison, from the executive offices of Kaslow’s,” she said.

Matt remembered being told she was Evan Kaslow’s secretary when she’d been listed as an extra.

“I was wondering if there was anything I could do to make things easier for you.” She looked him directly in the eye, her message clear. “We aren’t all as unaccommodating as some of our board members.”

In response, Matt turned to the assistant director, who had just appeared at his side, a murderous expression on her face. “Fran, weren’t we looking for someone to oversee the cleanup crew? This very accommodating woman just offered to help out.”

The woman’s jaw dropped as Fran took her arm. “I told you we should have hired professionals,” Fran muttered to him, then hustled her away.

Matt sighed, weary to the bone. A big scene always took a lot out of him, and pulling double duty made him feel like a trail rider in a rodeo. He couldn’t forget that the ultimate success of the film rested on his shoulders this time, but the responsibility felt good. He had picked up a thing or two over the years, lurking on movie sets. Never one to return to the trailer after the director called, “cut,” he had watched and listened instead.

An assistant handed him a cup of coffee. They would block tomorrow night’s scene in the ladies’ lounge, and then he hoped to grab some sleep before his meeting with Claire.

Claire was late getting in the next morning. Though the snow plows had made short work of the eight inches of snow, traffic moved slower on the expressway, and her thirty-five-minute commute stretched into an hour. The delay gave her time to reflect on her upcoming meeting with Matt.

She would let him speak his piece. Then she would offer what little absolution she could, pat him on the back, and send him on his way. A good plan, provided he asked no questions for which she had no answers—at least, no straight answers.

Her usual parking slot was taken up by the production trailers and equipment trucks, a concession ironed out in the location contract. She parked across the street, then forged her way through piles of slush that lined both sides of Market. By the time she arrived at the employee entrance on the north side of the building, the hem of her gray wool skirt was flecked with mud.

The doorman let her in, cheerful as ever, despite the frigid air that poured into the building each time the door opened.

“Good morning, Marcus.” She paused to stamp her boots on the dark-green floor mat, carefully avoiding the gold K emblazoned in the center. “You’ve been here all night, haven’t you?”