The White Night (14 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ford Atticus Ford

Lauren takes a sip
of her wine, staring at me over the rim with a hint of smug satisfaction in her
gaze.

I cough and
sputter a barrage of
ums
and
uhs
like I’m firing them from a
Gatlin gun, then finally manage to squeak, “Married again? Me?”

“Why not?”

“I—it’s
complicated.”

“You’re not a
Facebook status, Ford. Give me words.”

I fill up my wine
glass and drain most of the chardonnay before I reply, “Tell me why you’re
asking.”

“I don’t know.
Just curious. I heard about your, uh, issues. With your ex, I mean.”

“Oh you did, huh?
Issues? Like what?” Obviously, I know exactly what she means and my past
infidelity problems weren’t really a well-kept secret, considering loose lips
are great for making out and sinking ships. Tabloid fodder, I was.

Given the troubles
with Chelsea
and
my infidelity, I’m surprised people didn’t throw rotten
vegetables at me in the streets.

“You know exactly
what I’m talking about. I’ve seen your ex, dude. She’s gorgeous. What were you
thinking?”

“As if I was
thinking at all?”

“Good point.”

“I have a lot of
soul redemption that needs to happen for reasons other than Chelsea Hopper.”

“At least you’re
owning up to the fact. And, I’ll admit, you sound reasonably sincere.”

“I am,” I insist.
“I was an idiot.”

“Is that on the
record?”

“Coeburn—”

“Relax, Ford.
Kidding. Besides, it’s kinda refreshing.”

“My dad always
told me that honesty is like a sugar-coated razor blade, real sweet until it
cuts you deep.”

“Smart man.” Lauren
moves away from the bay window and over to the couch. She sits, picks up a
cracker, and studies it before putting it back on the tray. Can’t risk the
extra carbs, I suppose. “So what made you do it?”

“It?”

“Cheat.”

I turn my focus
back to the rainy world outside. The feeling that this entire shitstorm is a
setup comes hurtling back, and I’m now positive that I’m on some kind of
interview. I’m severely tempted to go exploring for the digital voice recorder
that she probably has stashed behind a throw pillow. “Coeburn, am I gonna end
up on your show again, or are we here to hunt some fucking paranormal shit?”

“We’re talking.
That’s it. You said you didn’t know how long we’d have to wait, so here we are.
Old friends telling stories.”

“Why aren’t you
acting more scared?”

“Of course I’m
scared.”

“That’s not what I
asked. I swear, if you’re setting me up—”

“Setting you up?
For what?”

“Asking me about
marriage, cheating on Melanie. Feels to me like you’re trying to get a scoop.”

“Jesus H., Ford.
Stop with the paranoid bullshit,” she says, eyebrows pinched together as she
slaps an arm of the couch. Her offense seems genuine. Then again, everyone in
Hollywood is an actor, so…

“
Really
,”
she insists.

“Then don’t be so
glib when we have some of the least-researched paranormal beings out there
stalking us. I have no earthly clue what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“Look at me.”

I feel exposed
with my back facing the window, but I look anyway. Lauren pats the couch beside
her, saying, “Yes, I’m freaked out. You’re here though, so it’s not that bad. I
trust you.”

“You probably
shouldn’t. The last time someone trusted me, I lost my show, my friends, and my
life.”

“Fuck that
albatross around your neck. Let it go.”

“I can’t—”

“
For now
.
Forget it, just come sit. We’ll have some wine, and we’ll wait.”

I glance down at
the empty glass in my shaky hand, the chardonnay’s finish sitting sharp and
tangy on the back of my tongue. “I shouldn’t be drinking anyway. Dangerous to
go up against something nasty when you have dulled senses.”

I’m partly talking
about her, partly talking about the black-eyed children.

“The doors are
locked, right? Front door, back door? Garage? Nobody is getting in here. And
besides, didn’t you say we would actually have to invite them in before they
could come inside? It’s just the two of us hanging out.
Mano a womano
,
if that’s a thing.”

“That’s not
exactly what it means, unless we’re in direct conflict.”

“Then it seems
about right to me.”

I’m pretty damn
sure this is an attempt at an interview now.

Ass.

Hole.

Both of us,
actually, because I fell for it. When will I ever learn?

Moron.

I tell her, “We
have to be insanely careful. Most of the evidence we have is anecdotal. Pure hearsay.”

“Whatever. The
doors are locked. Come sit. Tell me more about the almighty Ford Atticus Ford
while we wait.”

“You are
relentless
.”

“Nervous,
actually. I get chatty and excitable when I’m on edge. Talking helps. Why do
you think I do it for a living? I’m never more anxious than when I’m in front
of a camera filming, and yet it’s when I’m on top of the world.”

“Funny thing.” I
know precisely what she means, and I’m not going to admit it to her. I don’t
want her to sink her claws into some flimsy psychological bond we might share.

I pour myself
another splash of wine and plop down on the couch beside her, then get an idea.

I might as well
get
her
drunk, throw off her game, and then make my escape.

Sometimes I’m a
genius.

Sorta.

“More?” I ask,
holding up the bottle.

“Absolutely.”
Lauren holds out her glass, and I listen to the
glug-glug
of a heavy
pour. “Whoa, cowboy,” she says.

I lean back
against the soft cushions of Ellen’s ancient couch. This is what I love about
old furniture—the fact that it’s broken in. Just when you get used to
something, get it right to where you want it, it’s time to throw it away.

Reminds me of
Graveyard:
Classified
. I’ve always wondered if I didn’t somehow subliminally self-sabotage
my life when my screw-up happened. Maybe it was my brain trying to tell me it
was bored with the routine and needed to shake something up.

Yeah. You just
keep telling yourself that, Ford. Shattering ratings and sealing your place in
television history didn’t have
anything
to do with it, did it?

Lauren wiggles
around sideways on the couch and pulls her legs up in a criss-cross position,
getting cozy.

It’s strange, her
vibe. Her level of familiarity feels like we’re maybe somewhere between the
third and fifth date, and this is the precursor to the first time. Meaning,
that fumbling, awkward, pathetic attempt at whoopee when you have yet to
uncover the other’s natural rhythms, favorite positions, or hot spots.

Feels
like
it. Ain’t happening.

The reality is,
this is probably the interview right here.

There should be
lights and cameras strategically placed around the living room. We’re supposed
to pretend as if we’re simply relaxing like two old friends while she grills me
about my love life and what the
real
Ford Atticus Ford does in his
downtime.

Lauren says, “So.
Marriage? Again? Ever?”

I close my eyes
and gently press on my temples. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I might as
well get this over with, at least until she passes out, and I can sneak away.
“I don’t know, honestly. I had my time with Melanie, and I screwed it up.
I’m—maybe I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to handle monogamy.”

Which is a total
lie, but it plays into what Lauren is looking for in her “scoop.”

The low-down dirty
of it all.

“What made you do
it?”

“You tell me. What
makes anyone stray?”

“Boredom. Lack of
respect. Sex addiction?”

“Are you asking
that about me?”

“Maybe?”

She allows a slight
gotcha
grin to slip through when I lie and say, “Oh, definitely. I
couldn’t keep it in my pants. I was horrible.”

“That poor girl.”

“She’s fine now,
though. Probably the best thing she could’ve done was to get away from the
likes of me.”

“Oh, stop. You’re
not so bad.”

“More wine?” I
ask, hoping to change the subject. Melanie isn’t someone I want to be thinking
about right now.

Why?

Hurts too much.

After Mike got my
hopes up, and she used a pin to pop my hope bubble once I got back home from
the Craghorn case, I have yet to get over it. I could’ve taken a monster step
toward redemption, and then,
whoosh
, there went the rug, right out from
under my feet.

Lauren looks down
at her glass. She’s only taken a couple of sips so far. “I’ll have a little
more, sure.” I refill it, and then before she takes another sip, she asks,
“Here’s something I’ve always wanted to know, Ford.”

I hold up my palm.
“If it’s about Chelsea and my reasoning, that’s off the table. I don’t have any
new responses to that question.”

“No, no. I wasn’t
going to. The ratings and fame were obvious motivators.”

“Then what?”

“In all those
years doing
Graveyard
, did you ever actually get scared?”

“Hell yeah, all
the time.”

“Like pee your
pants scared?”

“I might’ve
dribbled a time or two.”

“Gross.”

“You asked.”

Lauren leans back
against the armrest both hands cradled around her chardonnay held close to her
chest. “If that’s the case, then here’s what I
really
want to know. If
you got scared, if you dribbled pee-pee into your panties like a big boy, then
why the fuck did you constantly tell those families that they had nothing to
worry about, that whatever was in their home couldn’t hurt them?”

She’s pointed out
something that always bothered me, too. I
had
to do it. The data from
The Paranormal Channel’s test audiences suggested that the viewers loved seeing
that our clients were going to be fine once the white knights rode out on their
equally white horses.

That’s not
something I want Lauren to know. It’s too much juicy insider info that’ll make
its way out onto the Internet. Instead, I say, “Because more often than not,
they
were
fine. If somebody’s grandma passes away—take Ellen, for
instance—if she steps over to the other side but sticks around to haunt this
place, it might be freaky at first, but you’d get used to it, and you’d
understand that she wasn’t going to do anything to harm you. Maybe the spirits
were too weak to do anything physical and
yes
, the families would be okay.”

“But what if they
weren’t? What if it was one of the times where you really were scared shitless?
I watched
Graveyard
constantly—I had to, because you were such good fodder
for
Weekend Report
—and yet, I can’t ever remember an instance where you
told some terrified family, ‘Hey, you need to pack your shit and get the fuck
outta Dodge.’”

“True, but at the
same time, you’re forgetting that faith is a powerful weapon.”

“Don’t feed me
that bullshit, honey. I know better. If
you
were scared, the greatest
ghost hunter who ever lived, then yeah, those people had every right to know
that they were in extremely real danger.”

I break away from
her gaze and study the loose button on the couch cushion beside me.

“I think, maybe,
that
might’ve been one of the reasons I was so hard on you when
Weekend
ran
that piece. I’d been holding onto a lot of this, I don’t know, distant anger.
Like you deserved what you got because you weren’t always this bastion of good
vibes. Don’t shake your head. You know what I’m talking about. The Keenes, the
Richards family with the lighthouse, those poor nuns down in New Mexico.”

“Good memory.”
That’s a partial list of investigations where I was definitely scared out of my
mind. Guess I conveyed more than I intended during filming.

“I saw the look in
your eyes in each one of those episodes, then you sat right there and told them
they had nothing to worry about. Then Chelsea happened, and I… It pushed me
over the edge. I wanted to hurt you.”

“You succeeded.”

“Truth time. I
mean, yeah, the producers pushed me toward it, but it was mostly me. I felt
like, a couple of years ago, if karma’s a bitch,” she says, holding out her
hand to shake, “then hi, nice to meet you. I’m Karma.”

“You should write
bumper stickers.”

“It wasn’t right
of me. Who the hell am I to judge? I’m no better, am I? I rip people a new one
every single weekend. So, I’m trying to say I’m sorry.” I mumble a slight
acknowledgement, and she adds, “I’m serious. I took it too far.”

“And so did I.
Producers. Ratings. Contracts. I’ve been there.”

“Still doesn’t
make your disinformation the right thing to do. Anyway. You know what they say
about hindsight.” She gulps the last of her chardonnay and motions for the
bottle. Instead of refilling the glass, she squeezes it around the neck, brings
it to her lips, and tilts her head back. She wipes her mouth clumsily. The
alcohol’s effects are creeping up on her like dusk on a slow afternoon. “I
didn’t need to be so hard on you. You already had enough of that shit from
everyone else. I could make amends somehow.”

I let the silence
stretch out a bit, since I don’t know how to respond to that.

Outside, the ocean
wind howls under the eaves. Rain drives through the hazy glow of a single
street light, sheet after sheet.

Lauren slides her
foot across the middle couch cushion, puts it against my thigh, and uses her wiggling
toes to get my attention. “One other thing I always wanted to know.”

I scoot to the
side, moving my leg just out of her reach. “What’s that?”