Second Time Around (36 page)

“Want?”

“Need.”

“Better. And yes, you do.”

“It was just so hard to hear her—”

“Tough.”

She fumbled over a chair and it toppled.

Dobbins helped her put it right. “The trouble with people who have extraordinary talent is that things come easily for them. Not that you don’t work at your acting—I know you do. But there’s something inherently present within a person of talent.” He indicated she should sit and took a seat himself.

“Does Melissa have talent?” she asked.

“That’s of no concern to you. She’s been chosen. This is her part, her slice of time to shine or fade.”

Lane looked at her hands, then up at him. “She and I talked. We’re okay.”

“That’s good, but actually it doesn’t matter. There are going to be people you work with whom you don’t like. Despise even. To be a success you have to work beyond what is and find out what could be. And you, Lane Holloway, could be great.”

She covered her mouth with a hand. “Really?”

He leaned forward and patted her knee. “Really.” Then he sat back with an expressive sigh. “What you’ve just learned here, during this situation, is a lesson you
had
to learn. You’re probably lucky to have learned it early rather than late. Here rather than on some movie set.”

He’d lost her. “And the lesson is…?”

“Humility. You didn’t get the part you wanted. You are not the star of this production. But you
do
have a part—a good one. And so you need to be the best nurse you can be. Learn your craft through all parts, all participation. Put your heart and soul into the small opportunities, and the big ones will fall at your feet.”

Her stomach stirred with excitement.

He looked at his watch. “We both need to get home to our families. Life goes on without us.” They stood and finished the chairs. “There’s just one more thing I want to leave with you.”

“What’s that?”

“A very famous man named Thomas a Kempis once said, ‘Lord, give me the willingness to be obscure.’” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Think about it, Lane.”

She would. She would.

Lane hung up the phone. Her insides pulled.

“What’s wrong?” her dad asked from his recliner. The opening strains of
Dallas
came from the TV.

“It’s Friday. Brandy and I were supposed to go out like we always do. She’s late, but I got sidetracked going over my lines, and now she’s really late. And no one answers.” She got her coat from the front closet. “I’m going over there.”

Her dad stood. “You want me to come with you?”

She was already out the door.

At Brandy’s house, the porch light was off, but there was a lamp shining from the living room. Lane’s shoes sounded too loud on the wood porch. She opened the screen door and knocked softly, then listened.

She knocked a little louder.

She heard rustling inside and felt the slight tremor of footfalls. The curtain on the door was pulled aside. Brandy opened the door a crack, but Lane pushed her way inside. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.”

Brandy was looking at the floor, her head tilted oddly. Lane took hold of her chin and turned her face into full view. Her cheek was swollen. “Who?”

But she knew who, even before Brandy looked up the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

Lane grabbed Brandy’s coat from the hall tree and held it open for her arms. “You have to get out of here. You can’t stay and let her hurt—”

Brandy took the coat but did not put it on. “She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“That’s what you always say.”

Brandy touched her cheek, wincing. “She did get me good this time. She was talking big and swung the bottle, and…” Her smile was full of sarcasm. “My face got in the way.”

Lane took a step toward the door. “Come on. Come home with me. Now.”

Brandy shook her head. Her forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows nearly touched as she tried to get herself under control. “I need to get far away, Lane. Way far away. I can’t stay with you, with anybody here in Dawson. It’s too close, plus… I’m not a charity case.”

They’d had this discussion before. “You’re not—”

“I am.” Brandy looked up the stairs a second time.

“Is she passed out?”

She nodded. “Finally.” She sank onto the bottom step. “I wish I were brave enough to leave. For good.”

Lane put an arm around her friend. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

They sat in silence a moment.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Lane.”

Though the lure of Hollywood still pulled, Lane discovered the feeling was mutual. Maybe everything
had
worked out for the best.

Bangor—1958

It was all Millie’s fault.

The same file sat in front of David, showing the same empty page. His mug of coffee was full and cold. And no matter where he tried to look, his eyes kept returning to the key sitting on top of his flip calendar. Luring him. Mocking him. Holding secrets he desperately wanted—

“Mr. Stancowsky?”

He looked up and saw Dina standing in front of his desk holding a plate. How long had she been there, watching him watch the key with a 24 on it?

He sat back, putting distance between him and this taunter. “Yes, Miss Edmonds?”

She set the plate on his desk. On it was a piece of cake. “I made this for you,” she said. “It’s carrot cake. Yesterday when we were talking about menus, you mentioned how much you like it, saying it had been a long time…”

“How nice of you.”

She glanced at his coffee. “Would you like me to freshen that for you?”

“That would be great.” He moved the file to the side and zeroed in on the cake. Maybe some sugar would give him a jump start. Dina returned with a steaming mug. “You’re too good to me, Miss Edmonds.”

“Nonsense. You make it easy. I’m very happy to be here, to be of some help.”

He was reminded of her short tenure. What was it now? A month? “So you like working here?”

“I like working for you.”

The distinction was slight, but it created an awkward silence—and a blush on her part. “I’m here to stay, Mr. Stancowsky. I’m very loyal to those I respect and admire.”

Surely he was imagining the undertone of her words. She was his secretary. She wasn’t even that pretty. Besides, he was engaged—to the boss’s daughter.

“Is that a locker key?” she asked, pointing to the key sitting on the calendar.

Locker key?
He picked it up, looking at it with new eyes. “I don’t know. Is it? I… I found it.”

“May I?” He handed it over. “It looks like the keys they have for the lockers at the bus station. I used one once when I first moved here and needed a place to keep my suitcases for a bit.”

She handed it back, and he turned the 24 over and over.

“If you’d like me to go over there and turn it in, I’d be happy—”

“No. Thank you.” He set the key down and took up his fork. “But thank you for the cake. It’s very good. That will be all.”

He didn’t look at her face to see if she looked disappointed. He had enough to think about.

David had never been in the Bangor bus station. There’d been no need. One did not drive a new Bonneville and take public transportation.

He spotted a band of lockers against a wall. His heart pounded as he closed in on number 24.

It was a large locker. Large enough to hold a piece of luggage. His hand shook as he aimed the key at the lock, and he was tempted to stop and walk away. Ignorance was bliss.

Ignorance is stupidity.

Call him many things, but never stupid.

He turned the key and opened the door. Inside was a medium-sized suitcase, marbleized ivory in color, along with a matching overnight case. They each had luggage tags. He looked at one of them. The name was Tracy Osgood, and the only address was a post office box in New York City.

Why would Millie have the key to a locker containing a New York woman’s suitcases?

He was about to shut the locker, when an awful, niggling feeling came over him. He removed the overnight case and set it on a bench nearby. It was unlocked. The contents were not unexpected. In the top removable tray were a pink plastic hairbrush, comb, and mirror; toiletries; some pins and matching earrings; and makeup. Underneath were lingerie and some hair curlers.

Then it happened. When he put the tray back he noticed the compact. It was gold with an initial on it.

Not a
T
for Tracy but an
M.

He sank onto the bench and pulled the case to his lap. He rummaged through it roughly, looking for more. More what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize the lingerie, but that wasn’t surprising considering the limits Millie had set on their relationship.

But in a small pocket on the side he found a wad of money: $280. And within the folds of the bills was a driver’s license issued to Tracy Osgood: five-foot-four, one hundred twelve pounds, brown hair, brown eyes.

No. No.

He shoved the case aside and yanked out the big suitcase, opening it right there on the floor. Inside was a blue sweater set he’d given Millie for her birthday, a red plaid dress he’d seen her wear a thousand times… clothes he knew. Clothes he had felt against his hands as he’d held her. He pulled the sweater to his face and inhaled. “Evening in Paris.” Millie’s scent.

He closed his eyes, nearly sick with the smell.

An old man carrying a broom came close. “You okay, mister?”

“Leave me alone!”

David’s voice echoed in the large room. People looked at him. They whispered behind their hands. He looked at the man, who’d backed away. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

The man nodded but looked unconvinced.

David had to finish this—whatever
this
was. He tore through the rest of the belongings. He found a metal music box, whose lid came off revealing a dusting of powder and a pink powder puff; two books:
Gone with the Wind
and
Wuthering Heights;
and a small photo album.

He opened it, only to find pictures of Millie and her parents. Millie and her friends. A picture of the Reynolds’ house. Her high school. Her favorite park. Old pictures of grandparents long gone. Noticeably absent were any pictures of David. He kept flipping the pages, hoping the chronology of her life would place him at the back, on the final page. The climax.