Twice in a Blue Moon (12 page)

“So tell me. How'd you do it?”

“It's real easy when you were married to the biggest Hollywood producer of this generation, and the buyer is a fan.” Her lip curled. “You just lay out your husband's body for the guy to fawn over, and he writes out an order.”

“Jesus, Indigo.” The shock-induced words were out before he could stop them.

“Sorry, but you asked.”

He didn't know what to say. He wanted to roar into town and pound the dude.

“Okay, my turn?” She turned to face him. “Why did you run away the other night when I asked you about your past?”

“I...I don't...” He closed his mouth and just sat there like the wordless idiot he was.

“I know why.” Her voice was small, childlike. “Because that was another lifetime—one you have a hard time dealing with on the inside. And talking about it with other people is more than you can handle.”

“That's exactly right.” He turned in the chair to face her, wishing he could take her hand. But he couldn't, and still keep his vow to himself. “That wasn't about you, Indigo.”

“I know it wasn't.”

They sat for a few minutes, each with their own thoughts. He felt the evening slipping into that familiar black tar pit of depression.

They both needed cheering up. “You know what, we've been working so hard. How about we have some fun? We deserve it.”

She looked away. “Thanks, but I just want to relax then get to bed early.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “But it's something you need to learn.”

She sighed. “Really?”

“Yes. And you'll like it.”

She glanced around as if there were an excuse hiding in the corner that she could grab on to.

“If you go to bed now, you'll just lie there and wallow. We both will.” He knew he was pushing, but he couldn't let her go without doing something to take some of the sadness from her eyes.

“Okay. But I can't stay up late two nights in a row.”

“You won't. I promise. First things first—get changed. You'll feel better after you get out of that suit. Do you have any of those comfortable clothes down here?”

“Yeah...”

He rubbed his palms together. “Then you go get comfortable. I'll get set up here.”

She walked away like a robot completing a task.

Ten minutes later she was back, wearing a tight, clingy top and yoga pants, swaddled in a long cardigan fisherman's sweater. Her hair was down, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She shrugged. “You asked for it. You get what you get.” She padded barefoot to the bar.

What he got was an eyeful of more natural beauty than any makeup could mimic. And if he said so, it would destroy the DMZ boundary he'd given himself. But damn...even her feet were pretty. He pulled out a barstool. “I'm going to teach you how to taste wine.”

“I told you, I don't drink.”

“I didn't say drink. I said taste.” When he patted the leather stool, she sat. “Judges and serious wine tasters don't swallow. They couldn't, and still discern one wine from another.”

She took in the cutting board full of cheese, chocolate, apples and grapes he'd laid out. “What's all this for?”

“I want you to see how wine enhances the flavor of different foods. And vice versa. But first—” He tore off a piece of a crusty baguette he'd nabbed from his apartment. “You need to cleanse your palate.”

She took the bread from him, and he tore a chunk off for himself.

They chewed in silence. The light from the pencil spot high in the rafters fell soft on her hair. She already seemed more relaxed, less depressed than when she'd first come in. He chanced a question. “Why don't you drink, Indigo?”

She wrinkled her nose, eyes slitted. “I've seen what it can do.”

Had an alcoholic played a role in her life? Her mother, maybe? Surely not. Harry Stone? No, a drunk wouldn't be capable of making films like that.

“Okay, what's next?” He was glad to see that some life had come back to her posture.

He lifted a bottle of their Full Moon Merlot that he'd opened to let breathe, and poured it into a stemless globe imprinted with the winery logo. “Here you go.”

She took it but looked dubious. “And what do I do with it once I taste it?”

“That's what this is for.” He set a Dixie cup in front of her.

“I spit it out? That's disgusting.”

“Not the way I do it.” He winked. “Watch.” He poured a splash for himself. “First, you look at it. Especially at the edges. Can you see that?”

“See what?” She held her glass to the light.

“You can see the variations in color with the change in depth.”

“Oh, okay, I see that.”

“Now you swirl it.” He demonstrated. “This way you can determine how viscous the wine is. The more viscous, the higher the alcohol content. Our merlot falls pretty high on the scale.”

“Does that mean it's good?” She studied the swirling liquid.

“We call it having legs. Alcohol content isn't an indicator of quality. It just means it's a fuller-bodied wine.”

“Oh.”

“Swirling also allows the aroma to open up. Sniff.” He closed his eyes and took in the wine's structured aroma. When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him. “What do you smell?”

“Alcohol. And fruit.”

“Okay, good start. Smells are complex, and it takes a bit to detect the subtle ones.”

“What do you smell?”

“The fruit is a plum fragrance. A hint of flowers. Violets, maybe?” He sampled it again. “This is an older bottling, so I'm getting just a hint of cedar.”

She chuckled. “God, you sound like a wine snob.”

“And damned proud to be one. But—” He held up a finger. “Merlot is fruity, so it's esteemed more by drinkers than collectors. A top-of-the-line snob wouldn't touch it.”

She nodded. “So you're a run-of-the-mill snob.”

His shirt tightened across his chest when he straightened. “I'll have you know that I've judged topflight local contests.”

She lifted her chin and sucked in her nostrils. “Groundling.”

It was so Sondra that he had to laugh. “Onward, Grasshopper. When you sip, roll it around your mouth to use all your taste buds. Pay attention to the texture and weight on your tongue.” He sipped, tasted and held the paper cup against his mouth and spit. “See? Classy, huh?”

“Still yucky.”

“Try it.”

She did, though he could tell she was self-conscious about it.

“Good. Now this time, take in some air with it. It'll allow you to smell and taste at the same time.”

“Without drowning?”

“Watch me.” He demonstrated.

“You slurped!”

“I most certainly did not.”

“You did. I heard you!”

He gave her his sternest glare. “I know slurping, and that was not it. You try it.”

She did.

He pointed at her. “Now
that
was slurping.”

She laughed, slapped a hand over her mouth and tried not to choke. She spit it out then waved her hands in front of her streaming eyes. “No fair, you made me laugh!”

“I did not. You are an inveterate slurper.” He shook his head. “We may as well stop now. This is hopeless.”

A shadow flitted across her face. Then she realized he was kidding and punched him in the shoulder. “You are so bad.”

“No, I am the
best.
That's why you hired me.” He grinned. “Now, let's taste this with cheese, and then the apples, so you can see what this wine goes best with.”

She must have been tired. She spit out every drop of wine, but by the time they'd worked their way through the Chardonnay and two zins, she'd completely relaxed.

He tried to ignore the fact that she looked like an innocent. A gorgeous innocent.

And isn't that just your MO.

The ice-water reminder brought back his focus. He spit into his Dixie cup. “Try the Lunar Eclipse Zin with the aged cheddar. It's a great pairing.”

Elbow on the bar, she swirled the blush wine in her glass, staring as if it were a crystal ball.

“Indigo?”

She continued swirling the glass, transfixed.

“Are you all right?”

When she turned her head, her eyes seeped sadness. “You asked why I don't drink.”

He was afraid she'd stop talking if he said anything, so he didn't.

She looked back to the swirling liquid in her glass. “When I drink, I get happy. Everything has a rainbow aura, and I'm like a puppy that loves everyone and can't conceive that anyone wouldn't love her back.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

When she didn't answer, he put his fingers under her chin and turned her to face him. “It's okay, Indigo. Tell me.”

When her eyes skittered away, he let go.

Well, that's that.

“When I hit Hollywood, I landed a job as a masseuse at a trendy gym and spa.” She took a breath that sounded like she hadn't inhaled in a while. “I was making great tips and saving every penny, living in a tiny dump of an apartment so I could buy nice clothes to wear to the clubs.

“See, I was obsessed with the stars. I'd followed every gossip rag in high school. I swear, I knew more about Madonna than about US history. And there I was, in the middle of that world, like Dorothy in the Emerald City. I lived in a constant state of dazzled.” She snorted.

“Then, one day, Brenda Stone came in, wanting a massage. I was so nervous my hands were shaking, but I must have done okay, because she came back. After all, we had common ground—I knew every bit of gossip that had ever been printed about her and her pack. We became—” she air-quoted “—‘friends.'

“Pretty soon, I was hanging out with her group at the club. I wasn't in the center, mind you, but the periphery. And I was
so
happy to be there. I got my picture taken, and it showed up in the magazines. They called me The Masseuse to the Stars.” She shook her head and sat a few moments, as if divining the story from the twirling liquid in front of her.

“Brenda had a party. She was living in her dad's house, on the bluffs above Malibu. She billed it
the
party. When she invited me, I was so excited. I figured that was my entrée to the
inner
circle. No more periphery. I took all my savings down to Rodeo Drive and bought an OMG dress.”

He wondered at her wince.

“A scrap of spandex, bloodred and so tight they sold me double-sided tape to keep from flashing my girly parts. Tiny crystals scattering down the front glittered like the Milky Way.” Her cheeks reddened. “That's what I thought at the time, anyway. The last of my money went to matching stilettos.

“I thought I was so hot.” Her mouth twisted. “I looked like a ten-dollar hooker.”

Her shoulders rose with her deep breath.

“But I fit in with the crowd. The house was stupendous—all white marble and class—just what I'd pictured lying in my bed back home. The huge crowd was sprinkled with young actors and actresses, and tons of hangers-on like me. Well, like I used to be, because I figured that now I'd made it. Brenda introduced me to people. Some of her friends looked at me like I was a curly hair they'd discovered on a canapé, but I was so excited, I didn't notice.

“Then.” The word fell out of her mouth, stiff and dead.

She threw her hair back with a parody of a happy smile. “Oh, I was a huge hit. Guys paid attention to me. Like magic, my wineglass was bottomless. I was funny. I was clever. I was a
star.
” The fake-happy smile fell from her face like the mask that it was.

“At some point, things shifted. I went from darling to drunk. Savvy to sloppy. Smart to sl— well, you get the idea. But I didn't notice. I was going too fast to notice. This was
my
moment in the spotlight. And I eventually passed out in that spotlight.”

She looked into the mirror behind the bar. The woman he saw there was much older than her years, as if this story had added them in its telling.

“When I came to, I was in a rumpled bed, staring at the ceiling. Alone. It took me a few minutes to become aware...” She took a breath. “My movie-star dress was around my neck, and the sheets were...stained.” Her upper lip curled from her teeth. “Many times.”

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear any more. But if she was brave enough to tell this story, he had to be brave enough to listen. Reaching a hand, he laid it on her arm to remind her she was here, not back in that bed.

“I'd had hangovers before. This was different. It was like my brain was furry. Furry and pounding and blank. I didn't remember a thing.” Her deep breath squared her shoulders. She shifted on the stool, straightening. “I was still trying to make my mind move my body when an older man appeared above me. He pulled a comforter over me. I was mortified. But his eyes were so kind. He talked in this calm, peaceful voice. I don't even remember what he said, but he sat with me until I got it together. It was like that voice hypnotized me, because I calmed down. He got me to tell him the little I knew.

“He said someone must have slipped me a drug. A date rape drug. He wanted to call the police.” She blew out a breath, her cheeks ballooning. “I lost it. Crying, begging, probably a little hysterical, I pleaded with him not to. I thought the only thing worse than what had happened, blood and all, would have been if other people knew. I just wanted the whole night to disappear into that blank spot, and if I had to tell someone else about what happened, it would make it real. At the time, I didn't wonder why telling him didn't make it real.”

She fell silent, turning the glass slowly in her hands.

Danovan held his face in everyday planes. If she saw his shock, she'd stop. So he sat quietly amazed—by the horrific experience, and the courage it took to talk about it.

And wondering what it meant, that she was telling
him.