Reunion (35 page)

They waited—him, Parker, and Sims, all three of them silent, no need to state the obvious. Julian was unsure whether he thought the metallic smell, the blood, was the worst of the stink; it was more wrong than the other odors, though, he was sure of that. Sure, too, that a person could not die from nausea, but unsure whether a Golan was so airtight that they might, if they were stuck here a lot longer, have to open a window or else be asphyxiated. Once it was full dark, the risk of that open window would be smaller. Meantime, he pulled his T-shirt up to cover his mouth and nose and waited.

A mix of profound and troubling thoughts tumbled around in his mind, adding to the nausea and dismay. When there was nothing else for it, he turned his BlackBerry on again and began typing.

Although he was no writer, and the fading light made it difficult to see the device’s keys, the urge to document his thoughts was too strong to ignore. Suppose this waiting was all just a mind game the insurgents were playing with them, a little torturous cat-and-mouse where the mouse was already trapped beneath the cat’s paws, exhausted? If that was the case and he didn’t take this opportunity to lay down some last words, he’d be gone, and she’d never know.

Maybe it was better that she never know.

Except, if he couldn’t live honestly
now
, what hope was there for him if they got out safely? How would he face himself every day, knowing that even when hanging headfirst off a precipice he was inclined to be a coward? It was a matter of principle.

He needed her to know.

Or, would the knowledge burden her?

He set the device in his lap. His palms were stained, despite having been scrubbed against his pant legs.

Pulling his shirt away from his face, he said, “When do you think our guys will get here?” He asked Sims, because Parker wasn’t talking.

“Soon.” Sims avoided looking Julian in the eye. “Can I … um, can I use that when you’re done?”

“Sure.”

Julian read over what he’d just written. He added,

Or maybe they didn’t. Christ, he didn’t know. He backspaced, deleting the line. What he knew was that he needed safety and comfort, the salty breeze and the blue-green water and the feel of frangipani blooms, thick and silken, between his thumb and fingers while he sipped his famous lemonade. Fresh lemons, sugar, bourbon, ice … She’d like the lemonade too, as much as he did, as much as she’d loved discovering the birds that entranced him. Not a doubt in his mind about that.

Plenty of doubt, however, about the wisdom of his feelings, and why he felt the way he did.

It wasn’t star worship, certainly, because his regard for celebrity in general could not be much lower. He didn’t want anything from her, in material terms. And God knew his attraction wasn’t based on any kind of common sense. Chemistry, then? Yes, definitely. More than that, though, or he would not have spent the last hour sitting here weighed down by anger and dread and the certainty of being in love with the woman who was his father’s girlfriend. As different as he and Blue seemed to be on the surface, he recognized that underneath they had a lot in common. He really thought they might make a good pair. This truth was preposterous, and yet somehow because it was, it felt all the more true.

Sims’s voice cracked when he said, “There’s a light.”

A bobbing, weaving light, up past the destroyed bridge.

Julian wiped his sweating palms on his shirt, then typed,

On the edge of his awareness was a low, rhythmic noise that seemed to be growing louder.

“That’s them,” Sims said. “I think.”

Parker agreed. “Gotta be. Man, do I need a shower.”

The sound became identifiably a helicopter. Julian looked again at the email. When in another minute the small light had disappeared and the helicopter, its searchlight like a path to heaven, hovered above them and rescue appeared imminent, he pressed a button and selected
DISCARD.

“Don’t.”

Julian glanced up and saw that Sims was close to him, reading over his shoulder.

“Look at him.” Sims gestured toward Barredo’s body. “This might not be over. Ain’t nothin’ guaranteed.”

Julian finished the message with a simple
J.
and sent it.

eavy gray clouds hung from massive thunderheads when Blue arrived at the studio on Thursday morning. The line of waiting audience members snaked over the sidewalk; she signed autographs with forced cheerfulness, and when a white-haired woman asked if she was feeling all right, Blue said she just really missed her dog. What else could she say?
I’m hung up on my old flame’s son?
That was a topic for Jerry Springer if ever there was one.

The day felt wrong in every sense, from her dread of this morning’s meeting where they would talk, ad infinitum, about how to make next season better than this one, to the way her hair insisted on frizzing up, to the sight of pregnant women seemingly everywhere—along the streets, in the audience line, working in the office … To her eyes, they all appeared beatific, a joke at her expense.

Unlike those women with their rounded bellies and secret smiles of optimism and contentment, her future contained an unending string of days that would be more or less exactly like the last several had been, not to mention most that had come before. Yes, she had the new house now, and she would use it as much as possible. At best, though, it would be an infrequent exclamation point in a long, long series of dull words, white space, and commas.

Branford’s call came in just as she was returning to her office after the Season Eleven planning meeting. As always, he called her cell phone. As it rang she told her secretary, “I’m not available,” then shut her office door.

She answered the phone. “Massachusetts.”

“I hate to call with so little to report,” he began.

“But?”

“It’s the daughter,” he sighed. “She took the ten grand and now when I call she won’t answer, and she doesn’t call me back. I sent an associate over to both her house and the mother’s, and there’s nobody around. The neighbors don’t know anything. One says she’s gone to visit a sister, one says she’s on a church retreat. Hell, one says she saw her getting her mail yesterday afternoon. Nothing checks out.”

“She can’t just disappear.”

“Not permanently, maybe.”

“Do you think she scammed you? Maybe there was never any file box at all. Or maybe … maybe she’s taken it hostage! I bet that’s it. She’ll let us sweat and then demand more money.”

“No offense, but that sounds like a bad TV show. My theory is, she got cold feet and now she’s avoiding me. Good Christian that she is, her conscience said not to give out the information after all.”

“While she keeps the money you already paid her?”

“That would surprise you? Hey, for all I know, the plan is still on and she just doesn’t share our sense of urgency. Could be she’s in Vegas right now playing slots.”

Yes, and it could be that all of this stress, all the wondering and hoping and believing that if she could find her son, she’d right every wrong in her life, was bullshit. She’d had her chance to be a parent. It was folly—or worse, hubris—to be trying to buy it back now. Even buying only the answers to who he was, and where, was an exercise in self-gratification.

She could call it off right now. She thought of it: no more anticipation, no more fear, no more waking up in the morning and wondering if
this
was the day she’d hear something. It was tempting … But no, no, not when they were as close to the answers as they might be right now. She’d see this through. Get the information, if it could be gotten, and then be satisfied with that.

She said, “Okay, so what do you suggest?”

“We wait.”

Blue closed her eyes and nodded, waiting for the pressure in her chest to decrease. “Fine. Call me when you know something.”

The rumble of thunder drew her to the window. She unlocked it and pushed it open, then climbed out. If anyone on the street below noticed her standing on the fire escape, face turned to the sky, she was not aware. If they did see her, and wondered what would happen if she decided to jump, well, she was wondering the same thing.

She sat down on the step and called Marcy

“If I jumped off the fire escape, would I, you know, splatter?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s nine stories. That’s just break-all-your-bones-and-kill-you height, right?”

“I know Peter was boorish this morning, but I don’t think it’s worth killing yourself over. Where are you?”

“Out here on the fire escape.”

“Don’t jump. I’ll be right there.”

Less than thirty seconds later, Marcy climbed out. She looked annoyed. “You’re
sitting
here.”

“Yeah, now. I was standing.”

Marcy sat down next to her. “It’s starting to rain.” Fat drops, spattering the steel and making small
ting
noises.

A drop hit Blue’s forearm and she watched the water split and slide off. “It’s only noon, and already I’ve had a hell of a day. All I want to do right now is twitch my nose and be in one of those zero-gravity chairs on my Key West patio—would you call the decorator and have her add a couple of those to my list? I’m thinking teak, or maybe bamboo.”

“Sure thing,” Marcy said. “Wait: Do they come in bamboo?”

“A weekend in Key West is going to help a lot, but let me tell you, in my vocabulary, hiatus is a synonym for heaven.”

“So what’s the deal?” Marcy said. “What do you hear from our favorite PI?”

“Nothing of substance.”

“Well… maybe you should take a page from old Marcy’s book and distract yourself with your man.”

“I wish I could, but it’s not going to work.” Right tactic, wrong man.

“What, not at all? What happened?”

“More like, what didn’t happen.”

“Well… there’s always Viagra.”

Blue gave a half-hearted laugh. “Not for this kind of dysfunction.”

“Oh,” Marcy said. “I get it. Sort of. Want me to handle it for you?”

Yes.
“No, I think this needs to come from me.”

A half-hour before showtime, as Blue tried to decide exactly how to break off a relationship that had never really gotten off the ground (again), her phone rang, with good news for Mitch: Her production team was prepared to make an option offer.

Perfect; now she could call on an
up
beat, one of few in her day so far. She offered to deliver the news, hung up, then dialed Mitch immediately. Momentum was everything.

“Hi, Mitch, it’s Blue. You won’t guess why I’m calling.”

“You’ve had second thoughts,” he said.

This stopped her. “Wow. Talk about taking the wind out of someone’s sails …”

“You
haven’t
had second thoughts?”

She laughed. “Actually, yes, I’ve had some, but I wasn’t going to start the conversation with them! What I
wanted
to tell you first is that we’re ready to make you an offer on
Lions.
You should hear from my producers shortly with all the details. I just volunteered to ring the bell.”

“I’m—this is terrific news, Blue. I’m ecstatic, truly.” He paused and she waited while he processed everything. Then he said, “However … I’m not so clear on whether or not you’re also dumping me.”

“You don’t sound especially crushed by the prospect.”

“And you don’t sound especially worried that I might be crushed …”

“Which pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”

He said, “It does. And I’m sorry about that—but to tell you the truth, I’m not cut out for life in the spotlight anyway.”

“Few are,” she said. “So no hard feelings, then?”

“Not a one. I’d say I wish you all the best, but I guess for you that’s redundant.”

Not so much as you’d think.

his afternoon’s audience was a difficult group, peevish and damp after waiting outside in bad weather. The front sidewalk was covered but the wind had blown the rain in on them. They grumbled during commercial breaks and had to be coaxed to laugh at the young comedienne who Blue hoped had gotten a better response from the audience watching at home.
The Blue Reynolds Show.
What a thrill.