Chapter Twenty-Two

Tessa was only partially awake when she detected the sound of tires crunching across the driveway. She lay against her pillow, blinking at the dim light leaking in around the edges of the curtains. It wasn’t even six yet. Who was in the driveway this early?

Laya traipsed into her bedroom just then, dragging both Moo and Gerri in her wake. “Eleanor’s gone,” she announced. “She came in to say goodbye. Did you see her too?”

Tessa sat up in bed. “Uh-huh,” she murmured, hoping the vague sound would satisfy her daughter. Eleanor must have turned off the baby monitor in Laya’s room. Where was she off to at this time of day? Tessa was a little miffed that Eleanor had taken off without a word to her on today of all days, but she couldn’t blame her for needing space, not when she’d all but accused her of betrayal the night before. Soon the source of the leak would be revealed, if it hadn’t been already, and then they could put this whole episode behind them. Just in time for Eleanor to leave for grad school on Monday.

“Are you sad Elle has to go, too?” Laya asked.

“I am,” Tessa answered.

“Poor Mama,” her daughter said, and climbed up next to her on the bed. “It’s okay. She’ll be back. But for now, maybe you should take Moo.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” She embraced the large stuffed animal. Moo’s brown eyes gazed up at her steadily, comfortingly.

“Do you want me to bring you breakfast in bed?” Laya asked.

They’d brought Eleanor breakfast in bed the morning of her thirty-fourth birthday the previous month, at Laya’s insistence. The logistics had presented some difficulty, since Eleanor’s birthday had come several weeks before Laya had announced she knew about their sleepovers. But given a heads-up the night before, Eleanor had sneaked out the morning of her birthday and arranged herself in bed in the carriage house, acting suitably surprised when Tessa and Laya showed up with a tray of waffles garnished with flowers Laya had picked from the garden.

“That’s okay,” Tessa said now, and forced herself to push back the covers. “I’ll make breakfast. I was just about to get up anyway.” Staying in bed would only make matters worse. She might as well face what the day had to offer. Reaching for her BlackBerry, she quickly scrolled through her text messages. Nothing from Eleanor, and only one from Melody that read, “Still asking around.”

Downstairs, she went outside to pick up the paper at the foot of the driveway, heartened to see that no photographers were loitering about her gate. Back inside she leafed through it quickly, but there was nothing—apparently ET was sitting on the story for now. Why? It wasn’t like they needed to worry about future slights. She was hardly a hot commodity on the red carpet interview circuit these days.

Over a breakfast of cereal and toast, Laya asked if they could go for a walk on the beach. Eleanor sometimes took her to the ocean, and she thought maybe she’d like to see some seagulls today.

Tessa paused. Soon enough the story would break, and then it would be difficult coming and going again. She was going to have to warn Laya, she realized, and not just about the press. Laya was due to start school this week and would have to be prepared for the things the other kids might say. Tessa knew she should probably wait for Eleanor to get back—she always knew what to say. But she decided to forge ahead on her own. Soon she’d be handling everything related to Laya by herself. Might as well start now.

She led with, “Do you remember how we needed to stay home for a little while after Hawaii because the people with cameras wanted to follow us around?”

“Those cockroaches,” Laya said, slurping milk from her spoon.

It felt like too much work to chastise her on either account. “Well, the photographers are back. Or they will be soon.”

Her daughter frowned. “Is that why Eleanor left? To avoid them?”

“No, it’s not. It doesn’t have anything to do with why she left.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but there was only so much you could tell a six-year-old.

“Don’t you think it’s a coindi-coinki—”

“Coincidence,” Tessa supplied.

“Exactly!”

Eleanor liked the word exactly. She was the one who had taught Laya to call the paparazzi cockroaches, too. Tessa pictured the two of them giggling over their nickname for the photographers, and almost wished that Eleanor were there now. But at the same time, she wouldn’t have known what to say to her this morning, not yet. While she didn’t want to believe Eleanor was capable of something like this, the timing was too suspect.

“Sometimes there are just coincidences,” she told her daughter, resolutely ignoring the irony of the sentence crossing her lips. “This is one of those times.”

Laya seemed to accept this pronouncement. “Then why are the camera people back?”

“Because they found out some information about my mom and dad and now they want to know more. Remember how I told you my mother died and I don’t really know my father, sort of like how you don’t know yours?”

Laya nodded, cereal momentarily forgotten.

“Well, there’s a reason I don’t know him. He made a mistake once a long time ago.” She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and told Laya the barest of details about Chicago, careful to make her mother’s death sound like more of an accident than the judge who sentenced her father had apparently believed.

“But if it was an accident, why don’t you talk to him?” Laya asked, frowning. “Elle says we should forgive people when they make mistakes.”

Another question she didn’t know how to answer. “It’s complicated,” she said. “You know how Eleanor says some things are easier for adults to understand? This is one of those things. When you’re bigger, you and I can talk about my father and why I decided not to be in touch with him.”

Laya sighed dramatically. “I’m sick of being little.”

“Oh, yeah? Well I, for one, think you’re the perfect size.” And she slid off her kitchen stool and hauled her daughter into her arms, inhaling her familiar scent. “I love you, Mahal.”

“I love you too,” Laya said, her voice subdued.

Tessa planted a wet, noisy kiss on her neck, the kind her own mother used to give her before bed each night. Squealing, Laya squirmed away from her and went running from the room.

Well, at least that part was over, Tessa thought as she leaned against her stool. No doubt Laya would be full of questions in the coming days, especially when school started and ill-informed first graders or other, older children at the Barclay School talked about what they thought they knew but didn’t remotely understand. Still, she wouldn’t be blindsided when the first kid walked up to her on the playground and announced that her grandfather had killed her grandmother. That had to be a good thing.

As Laya ran back down the hall, Tessa glanced out across the patio. Where was Eleanor now? At Sasha’s apartment on Beechwood, only a few miles away? This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to spend their last few days together in mournful bliss, not apart. Maybe she should call her, she thought as Laya burst back into the room and collapsed on the love seat. They had to figure out a way to get beyond what had happened the night before. Time was nearly up.

But Tessa didn’t call her, and Eleanor didn’t call, either. She stayed away from the house and Tessa let her, waiting impatiently for news from Melody. The publicist called twice that morning, both times to tell her that she was still working on tracking down the source. Work harder, Tessa thought, but it wasn’t Melody’s fault that her past had refused to stay hidden. The problem was they didn’t know whose fault it was.

Tessa didn’t notice the envelope on her bedside table until after lunch, when Laya went down for her nap. In her own bedroom, she was just starting to strip the sheets from her bed (cleaning was an excellent distraction, she found) when she glimpsed the white envelope leaning against the lamp, her name printed on it in Eleanor’s neat script. For a moment she paused in the act of tossing the comforter to the floor. Then the fabric slipped from her hands.

She sat down at the edge of the bed and pulled a folded sheet of notebook paper from the envelope.

Tessa,

It’s five a.m. and I can’t sleep. I keep seeing your face last night when you told me you didn’t know what to think. Lying here in Ama and Dani’s room, I haven’t been able to picture anything else. I understand, I really do. I know I’ve said that before, and you’ve said I couldn’t possibly, but I get why it’s so hard for you to trust anyone. It’s just, I’m not anyone, and you should know that—after all, what do I have to gain from telling anyone about your past and what do I have to lose?

But you don’t know, so now I’m left remembering the options we discussed—a clean break, a long-distance relationship, or my original, lousy idea for you and Laya to move to the Midwest. I know we decided on option B, but right now, I don’t have any idea what that would look like. Too much has happened. And option C was never a real possibility.

What I would like is to forget the way you looked at me last night, to stop time at the moment you picked up the phone. I’d like to pretend that we had one amazing summer together (we did—at least, I thought so) and that we parted on good terms, cleanly, without any drama. I’d like to say that we were good to and for each other for the short amount of time we had together, and that we’re moving on now but we’ll both treasure the time we shared. Because as incredible a dream as it was to be with you, to love you and Laya, you were right in June when you warned me what it could be like. Until last night, the only part I didn’t understand was how what other people think and say could drive us apart.

I’m sorry that you’re hurting right now. I wish I could change that. But I can’t, and I also can’t be part of your life if you don’t trust me. I think you know that. I’m also sorry that we won’t get to spend my last few days in L.A. together. I’ll be thinking about you. I think you know that, too.

But for now, please don’t contact me. I don’t know how to do this except as option A—a clean break. I hope you’ll respect my wishes on this. And make sure Laya knows I didn’t leave because of anything she did or didn’t do. I love her with all of my heart, the same way I loved you.

Eleanor

Tessa’s tears started when she was only halfway through the letter. Eleanor leaving this morning wasn’t just her taking some time away until the situation was resolved. It was permanent. Comprehension swept through Tessa and she lay back on the bed, curling into a ball as sobs wrenched her. Eleanor was gone. She had left early, and Laya was wrong. She wouldn’t be back.

Hands clenched into fists, Tessa wondered what was wrong with her that no one she loved stuck around. At least she still had Laya. As long as they had each other, they would always be okay, she reminded herself. But somehow the old mantra didn’t feel like enough anymore.

She was still crying softly when her BlackBerry, wedged into the back pocket of her yoga pants, vibrated. An irrational hope welled up in her as she checked caller ID, but it was only Melody. Swallowing, Tessa rubbed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. Just before the call went to voice mail, she answered.

“I’ve got some news,” her publicist said, voice uncharacteristically reserved, “but I was hoping I could come by to share it with you in person.”

Eleanor, Tessa thought, disbelieving. But it couldn’t be. Eleanor wasn’t responsible for this debacle. If Tessa’d had any doubts (and she had), the letter had erased them. “What did you find out?”

“It’s not something we should discuss over the phone, Tess. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“Fine,” Tessa said. Laya should be asleep for a while yet, and a half hour would give her time to shower and repair her face. Melody had seen her at her best and worst over the many years of their professional relationship, but Tessa didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

She set the phone down and picked up the letter again, skimming its contents once more. She should have trusted Eleanor, that much was clear. But working in the film industry, where deceit and betrayal weren’t uncommon, had warped her view of what other people were capable of. She was tempted to throw Laya in the car and drive down to Beechwood and camp out at Sasha’s apartment until Eleanor agreed to see her. But the letter was clear—Eleanor didn’t want to see her. And anyway, Melody was on her way over. She would have to figure out what to do about Eleanor later.

Tessa managed to clean herself up before Melody drove her Mercedes up the long driveway. After exchanging the barest of greetings, they went straight to the patio where Tessa had placed a pitcher of iced tea, Melody’s favorite beverage, and two glasses.

“You make a mean iced tea,” Melody commented after her first sip. Even on a Sunday she was dressed in a sleek Armani suit, her makeup fresh.

“Or Trader Joe’s does, anyway.” Tessa held her own glass tightly, the ice cooling her skin. “What’s going on, Mel? Why the kid gloves?”

Melody, a former Manhattanite a decade her senior, bit her lip and looked down. Long a PR maven to Hollywood’s A-list, she was rarely anything other than confident to the point of brashness, in Tessa’s experience.

“I have some bad news,” she said. “Something of an extremely personal nature.”

“What is it?” Tessa asked again, trying to control her impatience. “Did you find the source?”

“I did. I basically arm wrestled Katie Evans into revealing the story along with her source, but it’s not anything you’re going to want to hear.”

“Just tell me.”

“I’m not sure it should come from me,” she said, then added quickly as Tessa glared at her, “but it looks like we don’t have a choice. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Tess, but your father died last week.”

Tessa leaned back in her chair. This was not at all what she had expected. “What are you talking about?”

“He had a heart attack at the correctional center in Joliet,” Melody explained, tapping her foot against the wicker table, “and died in his sleep. His death is at the root of the story. It seems the prison officials found some indication in his personal effects that you were his daughter.”

She hadn’t even known he knew. She’d decided when she left Chicago that her old life was over, including any contact with her father. It wasn’t like they’d been close. Tessa’s social worker had sent him her school pictures each year, and she’d dutifully written letters and visited him every few months. But the last time she visited him in prison, right before she left for California, she informed him that she was an adult now and had decided she didn’t want a relationship with him anymore. He’d looked at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. He told her that he understood and wouldn’t try to contact her. If she changed her mind, though, he would be there for her. He would always be sorry for what he had done. He would always love her, and her mother too.

Tears pricked Tessa’s eyes (Christ, again?) as she remembered the way he had looked at her in the gray-walled visitor’s room at Stateville, slope-shouldered and defeated, so different from the young man who had pushed her on the swings and argued passionately with her mother and danced with both of them around the shabby living room of their apartment while the El roared past, the walls of their brick house shuddering. That day, only a few years older than Tessa was now, he’d seemed ancient and not a bit surprised by her decision. Judging from the well-rehearsed quality of his speech, he’d been expecting it.

That was the last time she would ever see him, she realized. She couldn’t make contact when he got out of prison, a possibility that had always lurked somewhere at the back of her mind. He was gone, just like her mother. The last thing he’d said to her was that he loved her, but she wasn’t sure now if she’d even told him goodbye.

“I’m sorry,” Melody said again, leaning across the wicker patio table to touch her leg. “Particularly because the leak seems to have come from my office. One of my junior associates fielded the call from the prison and, well, you know how this town works. I’ve fired her, so you won’t have any additional problems on that account. I’m just sorry someone from my staff has caused you grief.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tessa said, wiping her eyes again. “But thank you for telling me, Mel. It couldn’t have been easy.”

Melody waved Tessa’s thanks aside. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thanks.” She stood up. “I think I’d like to be alone with Laya.” And Eleanor, she thought, but that wasn’t an option, and she had only herself to blame.

“Of course,” Melody said, rising too. “But I do think we should talk about how to handle things. I practically bludgeoned Katie into delaying the story, and I have some ideas I’d like you to consider.”

“Let’s talk later, okay?” Tessa said as she walked the publicist out. “I need some time to let it sink in.”

“All right,” Melody said reluctantly. “But Katie’s going public in the next twenty-four hours, so if you want to get a head start on this, you’ll call me sooner rather than later.”

“I will,” Tessa promised, and they air-kissed, Melody’s hand on her shoulder comforting.

The Mercedes had just pulled away when Laya came stumbling down the stairs, blinking. “Who was that? It wasn’t Eleanor, was it?”

“No, baby.” If only Eleanor would change her mind and come back, Tessa thought wistfully. She looked down into her daughter’s wide, trusting eyes. With the story of her father’s death about to break, she would have to tell Laya. But not yet. Right now she needed to curl up with her daughter in a dark room and escape into someone else’s version of happiness. Right now, she needed a movie break.

“What do you think, kiddo—feel like a movie?”

“Okay,” Laya agreed readily. “Can we watch Nemo?”

Tessa paused, remembering the last time they’d watched Finding Nemo in Kauai with Eleanor as rain poured down beyond the windows of the darkened studio. “Actually, I was thinking of Dr. Doolittle,” she said. The 1960s version, starring Rex Harrison and shot partially on location in the Caribbean, had been one of her mother’s favorites.

“Oh, yeah,” Laya said. It was one of her favorites too. When she grew up, she often said, she wanted to be Dr. Doolittle.

By escaping into movieland, Tessa hoped to give her mind (and her emotions) a well-needed rest. If she could project herself out of her own consciousness for just a little while, she might be able to return with a better idea of what to do next. That was what she loved about movies, and books, too—the best ones allowed you to become someone else and then brought you back afterward refreshed, ready to deal with whatever lay in your path.

They stopped in the kitchen to microwave a packet of buttery popcorn, their usual screening fare, then headed toward the downstairs den where Tessa had had surround sound and a retractable screen installed shortly after she moved in.

“Race you,” Laya called, sprinting across the hardwood floor in her stocking feet.

Careful, Tessa thought. But she said only, “You’re too fast for me,” as she carried the steaming bowl of popcorn down the hall after her daughter.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 710