Stardust (The Starlight Trilogy #3) (8 page)

Beth patted her shoulder. “You’re not alone. I felt uncomfortable when Mr. Mertz touched my knee during a meeting that happened weeks ago, but I didn’t say anything to anyone. Imagine how many other women have done the same.”

“There was a time when I wanted to go to the police, but I never went through with it.” Connie’s expression crumbled with the arrival of more tears. “What was I supposed to tell them? Sure, what Luther and his cronies did was immoral, and using bribery to obtain my consent was despicable, but I had, in fact, consented. There were no grounds for charges to be laid.”

“Oh, Connie.” Beth pulled her in for a hug.

Connie cried into her ear. “I’m so sorry. My comments about your relationship with Aidan weren’t meant to be hurtful. I came here today to help you, and to see you so distraught because he’s gone…it breaks my heart. Aidan may enrich your life, but without him, you’re still worthy. If it’s meant to be, you’ll reconnect. In the meantime, you shouldn’t lock yourself in his house and fade away.”

Beth sniffled. “You’re right, but how can I move forward?
Golden Gloves
is terminated. My film career is over.”

Connie grasped her hands. “Listen to me. My career isn’t finished, your career isn’t finished, and neither is Olivia’s. We’re strong women, and we don’t need to depend on Starlight Studios anymore.”

Beth tossed her a dubious look. “Even Aidan, who wasn’t signed under contract, was forced to make films at the studio. That’s where the money comes from. It’s impossible to green light a project without Mr. Mertz’s involvement and approval.”

Enthusiasm sprung to Connie’s eyes again. “I know it’s a long shot, but I have the courage to try to assert my independence now. It can start with you, Olivia, and me. Things may not change overnight, but if we rally—”

“Putting the broken pieces of my personal life back together is hard enough, Connie. I don’t know if I can salvage my career, too, and be independent in the industry.” Beth retracted her hands. “You know how it is in this town. The three of us—three women, no less—cannot change a studio system that’s been in place for decades.”

“If you’re not going to act anymore, what will you do?”

Beth shrugged. “Before signing my studio contract, I wanted to be a teacher. Maybe I’ll go back to school. I have more than enough money saved to tide me over until I graduate and find a job.”

“And what about your fans?”

“They won’t miss me. I’ve barely been at the studio a year. Another actress will catch their fancy, and they’ll forget all about me. That’s how this business works, isn’t it? I’m sure Mr. Mertz is plotting my replacement as we speak.”

Connie pursed her lips. “Do me a favor and don’t give up on acting just yet. Allow yourself some time to digest everything that’s happened and we’ll revisit this later. You may see things differently.”

Beth nodded. “In the meantime, you’re right. I need to return home to Olivia.”

Connie’s face brightened. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

Beth’s heart pounded as she looked around Aidan’s room. She was afraid to leave, but her priority was to not abandon her friends, especially when they needed her most.

“What time is it?”

Connie checked her wristwatch. “Almost three o’clock.” She smiled. “And that’s afternoon, not morning.”

Beth couldn’t help but smile, too. “Do you mind if we stay a little longer? I promise we’ll be gone before dinner.”

“Sure. I don’t mind.”

Beth and Connie lay down on the bed, facing each other and sharing a pillow. They linked hands and closed their eyes.

“Connie, please tell me all about Mildred Johnson and growing up in New Jersey.”

For the first time in days, Beth heard laughter—carefree, glorious laughter.

“Well, I was raised in Westfield. It’s a middle class town about a half an hour drive from Newark and an hour from Manhattan. I’m the eldest of two children. My sister, Eleanor—she’s two years younger than me and so smart. She’s studying economics at the University of Pennsylvania. Isn’t that amazing? I was always horrible in math. I’m so proud of her. My mother, Alice, is a homemaker. She has a great sense of humor and plays tennis everyday. It’s her favorite pastime, but she isn’t exactly an Olympic contender.” Another laugh. “Then there’s my father…”

Beth smiled and giggled as she listened to Connie’s childhood stories with an appreciation she’d lacked for a while regarding her own upbringing, her own origins.

By the time they left Aidan’s house later that evening, the next road on her journey was paved. It was time for a trip back to Clarkson.

Aidan never set out for Chicago. He just kind of ended up here. Initially, his plan was to head straight to New York. He still had his Upper West Side apartment, and the whole point was to get as far away from California as possible. His Midwestern detour wasn’t a surprise, though. His father was one of the main reasons behind his failure to lead a normal life. A face-to-face confrontation was inevitable someday.

Aidan parked in front of his father’s house in the posh suburb of Wilmette just after midnight. The two-story brick residence looked exactly as it did when he left over five years ago, aside from the addition of a white picket fence in the front yard. A familiar Oldsmobile was parked in the driveway, confirming his father still resided at this address. On the outside, it seemed like an ideal place to raise a family. Inside? Well, that was another story.

Aidan trembled as he emerged from his Porsche and shut the door. He could stand up against anyone except the man with whom he was supposed to feel most comfortable. Before he went any further, he needed to relax. Confidence was vital to his success.

He placed his keys in the pocket of
Spike Rollins
’ red windbreaker and lit a cigarette. On a roadside stop somewhere in Nevada, he had cleaned the blood from his hands and face and bought a white T-shirt to replace his soiled one. He’d also purchased several packages of Winstons. With 
Golden Gloves
 terminated and Beth no longer in his life, there was no motivation to stay healthy anymore.

Aidan strolled down the driveway and stopped at the side of the road to take a drag. It had rained recently and looked as though it would again soon. A dense fog hovered in the air, mixing with the smoke billowing from his cigarette. How long had it been since he left L.A.? Four days? A week? He couldn’t be certain. Exhaustion clouded his mind. Time held no meaning. Missing Beth was the only thing that reminded him he was still alive. No dead man could hurt this intensely…feel this debilitated, this hopeless.

Grief, sorrow, and guilt—the combination created a fatal foe. For years, they lurked inside him, feeding his anger, his fear, his unpredictability, waiting for the opportunity to consume his soul and show him he was never in control—prove to him that even when he kept his nightmares and daytime visions at bay, he was the puppet, not the master. All the progress he’d made in the last few months was nothing but an illusion. He was no stronger than the ten-year-old boy who had wept over his dying mother and did nothing to save her.

Aidan had lost crucial memories of his mother over the years—the sound of her laughter, the flowery freshness of her scent, the radiance of her smile. Sure, he remembered pieces here and there, but the fine details eluded him. But it wasn’t like he was worthy to remember her anyway. All that was good in him had vanished when he left Beth, the only woman who had ever penetrated his battered armor. The only woman he’d ever made love to. The only woman he’d ever loved and would ever love in the romantic sense.

He would lose Beth’s memory, too. Not the impact she had on his life, nor the depth of his feelings for her. But over time, the little things—her laughter, her scent, her smile—would fade, regardless of how hard he fought to keep them.

Aidan bent over and braced his forearms on his thighs as nausea seized his stomach, his head, his heart. He retched and retched but emptied nothing. The grief, the sadness, the guilt—they couldn’t be purged, no matter how violent his cries, how desperate his pleas, how steadfast his resolve.

He expelled a rough scream toward the heavens, taunting the lightning that blasted from the sky to strike him down, open up the ground he stood upon, and let him plummet straight to Hell. He was the worst kind of man. No, not a man. A monster.

He had ripped all the feathers off his fragile little dove.

“Beth, I’m sorry. I love you so much, and I’m so fucking sorry.” His cigarette tumbled to the asphalt. He gripped his hair with both hands and keeled over again, this time releasing a strangled sob into the night.

On the evening Aidan had left Chicago for New York, he had only his meager savings of his allowance and no concrete plans aside from establishing his independence from his father. After his acceptance into the Actors Studio and his critical success on Broadway, he’d often thought, 
Man, if only my pop could see me now. I’d show him!

With a curse, Aidan stomped on his cigarette, dimming the ashes against the damp pavement. Back then, why did he have the need to show off his accomplishments and prove his father wrong? Most disturbingly, did his visit here tonight—after he’d sworn he would never return—indicate he still, somewhere deep down, desired his father’s approval?

As he recalled his eighteen-year-old self hitting the road that would lead him to great professional achievement, the discovery of the love of his life, and ultimately, heartbreak, he determined the answer was no. He didn’t desire paternal approval anymore because in the last several years he had realized his father had never been worthy to hold such power over him in the first place.

Then why could he not continue to New York without seeing the man first?

Aidan walked back to the house, fighting the urge to have another smoke. Procrastination wasn’t going to get him to the East Coast in a timely manner. He had witnessed his mother’s demise and defeated Mr. Mertz. He could handle his father, too. Besides, with the erratic way his nerves fired, he’d run out of cigarettes long before his courage trumped his anxiety.

With confidence as shaky as his legs, he ascended the first several steps to the porch. White light scorched his eyes.

“Fuck! Not now.
Please
.”

Aidan dropped into a sitting position and placed his head between his knees, yanking at his hair as if he could extract the memories of his mother’s attack along with his roots. Flashes of her broken, bleeding body and echoes of her screams launched from his subconscious, hijacking his muscles, his bones, his blood, until he was nothing but a sweaty, spastic mess.

When the vision ceased, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Releasing a deep breath, he looked to the starless sky. It was fitting there was nothing for him to wish upon tonight. His luck had run out ages ago—if he ever had any luck in the first place.

The completion of his climb to the porch was made with steadier steps than the initial journey. He raised his curled hand to the front door but lacked the gusto to execute a knock.

When he exited the freeway, he’d gone through several scenarios in his head on how he would confront his father—jumping out of his Porsche immediately upon his arrival, hurling rocks at the windows along with profanities, and kicking down the front door were all attractive options—but now that he was here, the part of him still tormented by his mother’s murder and the neglect and blame his father subjected him to made him want to run away.

A stealthy entrance seemed like a more practical approach. Aidan walked the length of the porch and lifted the potted plant in the corner. The spare house key was still hidden under the pot as it was before he left for New York. This time, he didn’t pause before fitting the key into the lock and opening the door.

Darkness greeted him inside, accompanied by a tomblike silence, which made him question whether his father was even home. Lightning flickered through house as he made his way down the corridor as quietly as possible, soiling the hardwood floor with his muddy boots.

When he opened the door to his father’s office and turned on the light, he found the wood paneled room in pretty much the same condition as it had been five years ago. Neatly stacked papers embossed with Dr. Evans’ signet sat on his antique oak desk next to black-framed reading glasses. High back leather chair? Check. Fleischer stethoscope? Check. Remington DeLuxe Model Five typewriter? Check. All the accessories of a well-to-do physician.

Several new plaques were mounted on the walls. Their inscriptions confirmed they were presented to Dr. Evans in the last five years. They praised his skill, his genius, and his compassion, as if he was a patron saint of the medical community. He even had a photograph taken with the mayor, which had graced the front page of the 
Chicago Tribune
 last month, according to the date on the newspaper clipping. The sole photograph perched on the desk—a framed picture of Betty—established what Aidan had figured all along but hoped to disprove: It was as though he and his mother had never existed.

Aidan flicked off the light and left the office before he tore the place apart. The kitchen at the back of the house was equipped with new cupboards and appliances, a far cry from their dingy kitchen in Fairfield. His mother had loved to cook, but of course, his father had never provided her with such nice accommodations.

He passed through the archway connecting to the living room. His steps faltered. His mother’s piano…it was still here. Old and scuffed, it didn’t fit amongst its fancy surroundings, but to him, it was the most beautiful item in the house.

The cover lifted with a creak of its hinges. Aidan grazed his scabbed, bruised fingers across the keys—the same keys his mother had touched years ago. Rehearsing with her had brought him so much joy. Now the reminder plagued him with such agony he didn’t know how he’d play a single note ever again.

Grief. Sorrow. Guilt. Beth. He squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. He needed to travel across oceans, not just the country, if he ever expected to extract himself from her life for good.