Word Gets Around Part 2

Both Amber and Justin looked expectantly at me, their eyes shining with the dreamy glitter of unbridled optimism. I felt like the only black cloud in the room. The token pessimist. "So, you bought two thousand acres in Texas, and you're going to turn it into some kind of charity home for kids ... after Justin does a film there?" And Amber's going to sing the songs for the sound track. Don't forget that part.

I swilled a mouthful of coffee, trying to think. What kind of Justin Shay flick could possibly be filmed on a ranch in Texas? Justin's films were all about chase scenes, high-tech planes, trains, and automobiles, falls from tall buildings, and bad guys with state-of-the-art weaponry.

The Shay struck a pose with his arms over his chest. Sometimes I wondered if, in his mind, the cameras were rolling twenty-four hours a day. "Not just any film. We're doing The Horseman."

The coffee reversed in my throat and went up my nose, and I spewed into the sink, choking on a combination of liquid, air, and a laugh. "Oh, come on." Any minute now, he'd tell me I was on Candid Camera. The screenplay for The Horseman was a notorious dog that had been wagging its tail around Hollywood for several years now. Bestselling book, poorly rendered for film by the author, who knew nothing about screenplays but owned the rights and insisted on creative control. The media glow surrounding the book had come and gone, and the time for bringing it to the screen was long past. Aside from that, westerns, particularly contemporary ones, weren't selling. Audiences wanted flash, action, exotic locations, and political intrigue. The Horseman had none of those things. A man-meets-animal piece, heavy on the emotion, was the last thing Justin needed. "It's a dog, Justin. Everybody knows that project's a dog."

Justin bounced an answer nonchalantly in my direction. "It won't be when you get through with it."

"Not interested. Not my kind of job." The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I'd done. I'd said no to The Shay. Actually, it wasn't that hard. No. I don't want to be involved in your latest tip-of-the-brain idea. I have a life of my own (sort of) and I'm going back to it. Everyone has to grow up sooner or later.

Justin stopped foraging in the grocery bag. "Come on, Nate. Don't chap my a-" Glancing at Amber, he revised. "Stop holding out on me."

Amber's big blue eyes widened, pleading with me. Her lips fell into an unconscious pout, like she might cry.

Not even for you, sweetheart. I'm not going to Texas to pen cowboy stories. A man can't write what he doesn't know. I know cars, planes, trains, and bad guys named Guido with big guns. Sensitive man-bonds-with-animal-and-meets-girl stuff is not for me. It's not for Justin, either. This thing'll flop harder than a fifty-pound mackerel. What producer in his right mind would look at Justin for a part like that?

"Who's behind this thing, anyway?" Did I say that? Was that me keeping the dialogue going? "I heard that the last guy who attempted to put it into production went bankrupt trying to find backing for it." Stop. Halt. Alto. Cease. Don't ask any more questions. Leave gracefully. Get in the car and drive north while there is still time.

"I am." Justin had the chutzpah to appear proud of the fact. "I've got the rights, and I've got the creative control. You can do whatever you need to with the script, Nate."

A string of expletives pulsed through the s.p.a.ce between my ears. I threw up my hands, crossing the room. "You've got to be kidding. What? Have you lost your mind?"

Justin met me as I opened the back door. Pressing his hand against the frame, he pushed it closed again. "Come on, Nate. Hang with me here. Just come and see the place. Take a look at the script. The plane's ready. We'll fly down to Texas, take a long weekend, and check it out. If you don't like it, you can bail. No hard feelings."

"Yeah, right." I muttered something for which Mama Louise would have made me scrub the kitchen with a toothbrush, and then, "How much are you into this thing for?"

"Enough." Justin's gaze lifted and met mine, and I knew what was next. "Come on, Nate. You're my family, man. You're as close to a brother as I've got. I bought this project for us." For a rare moment, I sensed the guy behind the mask, the one who hid from the cameras, who hid from everyone. Sometimes I thought there was more to The Shay than people saw. Sometimes I was convinced he was as one-dimensional as the roles he took on. "I'm sorry about the thing with the car last winter."

"You almost got us both killed, Justin."

"It was a bad day. I didn't mean it. Come on. We need this project. We need something that ... matters."

"Right," I muttered.

Amber crossed the room, her flip-flops slap-slapping until she put a hand over my fingers, and then Justin's, linking us like the wire on an electrical circuit.

"It'll be good, you'll see," she pleaded.

Her voice was an annoying buzz outside the rush of my own thoughts. "I didn't bring any clothes." I'd thrown shorts and a T-shirt in the car, toothbrush, razor, boxers, and that was it. One change of clothes, on purpose. A measure against exactly what was happening now.

"There's clothes here. Heck, there's more stuff in that closet than Macy's. Take any of it." Justin knew he had me hooked. Any minute now, he'd strike a pose, then swagger back to the kitchen.

"This is gonna be so much fun," Amber bubbled, throwing open the door to see the school of dolphins that were cavorting close to the sh.o.r.e. On the beach below, the homeless man produced a long lens and pointed it our way. "You just hadn't been anyplace until you been to Daily, Texas."

Amber tripped on the stoop and landed against my chest.

Justin reached toward me as I caught her, and for a moment we hovered in an unsteady tangle.

That'd look great in the tabs tomorrow.

Unfortunately, Justin and Amber weren't concerned about the tabs or anything else. They were more interested in breakfast, which Justin consumed with great abandon, while Amber blushed at his cooking compliments.

Justin and I were still lounging at the table when Marla, Justin's lovely a.s.sistant, showed up at the gate to take him to do some promotional spots for a film that had been stuck in editing for a couple of years. Broken Streets was a futuristic flick about undercover cops trying to track down the ultimate terrorist. Not a bad project, really-lots of action, scant dialogue, big special effects budget. Perfect for Justin. Justin's manager, Randall Patterson, was confident the film would reenergize The Shay's career.

Marla breezed in the door with the usual bag of tricks-pharmaceuticals, aspirin, eye drops, and a properly-chilled Red Bull.

She was surprised to find Justin in relatively good shape and fully dressed. For once, she wasn't going to have to roll him out of bed, feed him Diazepam and Rolaids, and load him into a limo like dead weight. Marla was pleased, until she saw Amber outside tossing crumbs to seagulls.

"Hey, babe." Justin was completely oblivious to Marla's sweeping death ray, as always. "Is it that time already?"

Marla nodded, still trying to vaporize Amber. "It's time." She cast a wide, flirty smile that wasn't lost on Justin. "You look good this morning."

The Shay took that as more of a given than a compliment. Leaning back, he rubbed his stomach. "Most important meal of the day."

Marla took in the leftovers in a way that said, Eeewww. Trans fats. "You didn't tell me you were coming out to the Malibu house. I was looking for you in town. Randall's not happy."

"Tell him to chill." Tossing his napkin on the table, Justin stood up. "I'll be there when I get there."

Marla watched him disappear down the hall, then swiveled toward me. "What's he up to?"

"Not quite sure yet." It was always hard to decide whether to keep Justin's secrets or report him to the adults. On the one hand, he had a right to his own life. On the other hand, he usually did stupid things with it. On the third hand, I'd never seen him out of bed, dressed, sober, and happily eating real food so early in the morning.

"What's she doing here?" Marla's laser beamed the deck again.

"Still trying to figure that out."

"What's that?" She pointed to the script Amber had plunked on the table along with breakfast-the one that had spoiled my appet.i.te. I read some of it this mornin', she'd said. It's real good ... mostly.

"Something I'm looking at."

Marla twisted to read the t.i.tle, then gave a rueful snort. "You've got to be kidding. Even you aren't that stupid, Nathaniel. The Horseman? You didn't bring that thing to Justin, did you?"

"Nope." Typically, with Marla and me, the less said, the better. Too bad she didn't keep up her end of the deal.

"Did he bring it to you?"

"Nope." Technically, Amber did.

"You're not trying to get him to attach his name to that thing, are you?"

"Nope."

Her eyes flashed, then turned icy. "Well, don't. Randall's got a new Davis VanHarbison project for him, and if Justin can keep his act together a few more days, we'll ink the deal. He doesn't need you distracting him, and he doesn't need that." She pointed at the script, and then at Amber, who'd just noticed we had company. "The last time he got mixed up with that little bimbina, I had to bail him out of jail in some disgusting town in the middle of nowhere, Texas. VanHarbison's people are concerned about Justin's insurability for a new film. If he screws up before we ink this deal, he's dead. Get her out of here."

I rubbed my head. Amber's nonstop chipper chatter might have been a bit much first thing in the morning, but talking to Marla was like being trapped in an elevator with a dentist's drill. "Fortunately, I'm not in charge of her. You'll have to talk to Justin about that one." The man is capable of making his own decisions. Sometimes.

"I'll talk to her people." Marla lowered her voice because Amber was trying to open the door. "Her handlers don't want her within fifty feet of Justin. I bet they don't even know she's here."

"Good luck." I meant it, and then I didn't. The kid in me was rooting for Justin and the intrepid Amber, and their Hansel-and-Gretel plan to run away to the gingerbread ranch. The adult in me knew that the Davis VanHarbison project was the best thing that could happen to Justin. A tiny little bit of me thought about Justin with his eyes clear and his step steady so early in the morning.

Amber finally wrestled the door open just as Marla was turning to leave. "Hey, Marla. Guess what," she said, and for a minute I was afraid Amber was going to spill the beans. "They finally fixed that culvert by the Daily jailhouse where you got your car stuck. They cee-mented it in and put up a red post with a big ol' reflector on it, so no one else'll back off into the ditch like you did. Isn't that ni-ice?"

Marla's face puckered inward around her surgically-perfected nose. She looked like a rat sniffing for something tasty to nibble on. "Your people are probably looking for you, Amber. Did you sneak off the tour bus again?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. We finished the American Megastar tour yester-dey. We don't head into the studio for a whole 'nother week and a half. I'm just free as a bird."

Marla's lips expanded under pressure like an air raft wedged against a tree. "Well, Justin's not. We have meetings. Today, tomorrow, and all weekend." Marla shot a pointed look my way, hoping, no doubt, to turn me into a pillar of salt.

I lifted my hands. "Hey, he called me."

"He always calls you, Nate." Marla glanced toward the hall. "Every time he needs someone his own age to play with."

Amber sucked in a quick breath and braced her hands on her hips as if she were about to jump in on my side. Marla would chew her up and spit her out in wholesome little pieces.

"Let's roll," Justin called, coming up the hall. Marla moved toward the door, simultaneously providing the customary ego stroking, admiring Justin's wardrobe choice of a black T-shirt, jeans, and a blazer. "You look great." Her appraisal stopped where a pair of silver-toed cowboy boots occupied the spot that normally would have been devoted to some kind of custom-fitted Italian leather footwear. "What are those?"

"Cowboy boots." Dropping his sungla.s.ses into place, he struck a pose. "I'm trying to get used to them."

By the table, Amber giggled behind her hand.

Marla vacillated in place. She, like all previous a.s.sistants, had learned not to speak negatively of something if The Shay liked it. "They work," she said finally, before smiling over her shoulder. "You two have a nice day. Make sure the security system is on when you leave."

"See y'all after a while," Amber called, and Marla stiffened.

Justin jogged back to the table and grabbed a piece of bacon, leaning close to Amber. "Have everything ready at five."

"I will. Don't worry."

"Later, Nater," he added before heading out, salt pork in hand.

"Later," I said, but I hadn't really decided if I was going to be there later.

Behind his back, he made the motion of an airplane taking off, then held up five fingers. Thirty seconds later, he and Marla were out the door, leaving Daisy Mae and me to pack the wagon, hitch up the team, and point 'em toward Texas.

Yee-haw!

Chapter 3.

Lauren Eldridge I couldn't stop myself from looking at the phone, replaying the conversation with my father and thinking I'd made a promise I couldn't keep. I should call him back and tell him I'm not coming. The idea came wrapped in a slick coating of guilt, so that I couldn't quite get a firm grasp on what I would say-how I would tell my father that now, when he needed me, I wasn't coming. Two years ago, when I lay in the hospital, it was my father who sat by my bedside for weeks. He was there for every minute of physical therapy, every doctor's appointment, every hopeless hour, each milestone on the road to recovery, all the dark nights of reliving the flood and the single careless act that changed everything. Through sympathy cards and funeral notices, breaking and healing, my father's love was steadfast.

If anything could pull me back to the place where my life fell apart, it was that love. My father knew it and I knew it, but my mind kept spinning through the list of excuses as the workday wore on. When the last finals were scored, I packed up the remainder of the minimester grades and decided to go home early.

On my way out, I poked my head into the office next door to tell Marshall I was leaving.

"I'm headed out. Lockup's all yours. Enjoy the day off tomorrow."

Marsh crossed the room, towering over the computer and the file cabinets. "Want to go grab a burger at P.B.'s?" he asked. "I've got Bella this weekend." The last sentence was hastily added so I wouldn't think he was trolling for a date again.

"I'd better not. Tell little Miss Bella hi for me, but I need to go home and pack. I'm heading to my dad's place in Texas for the weekend."

Marsh raised a brow. "Seriously? You're actually going to get in a car and drive somewhere ... outside the city limits?" Marsh turned his head toward the slap-thud-slap-thud of Bella's little red cowboy boots coming up the hall.

Bella spotted me as she turned the corner. "Hey, Miss Lo-lo. Guess what?"

"What?"

"It's big, and white, and hairy."

"That describes a lot of things around here."

"It eats a lot."

I pretended to think for a moment. "Can't imagine."

Bell giggled, falling forward and slapping her knees. "Dad said I can bring Snuggles to the house and keep him in the yard this weekend." Snuggles was a miniature horse who had somehow found his way into the university horse program. He was completely useless, other than the cute factor.

"Cool," I said as Bella wrapped herself around my waist, vibrating like wiggling Jell-O. Sometimes, when Bella hugged me like that, I felt a painful yearning for what might have been.

"I wanna teach him some tricks," Bella said, smiling up at me. "Can you come over and help me?"

"I'm not a horse trainer anymore."

Bella leaned against the circle of my arms. "Dad says you used to be. He said I should ask you to help me with Snuggles."

Marsh blushed, and I felt a little pinp.r.i.c.k, because I knew I'd never be what Marsh and Bella needed. I'd never be what anyone needed. There was no point encouraging either of them to hope. "I have to go on a trip for a few days."

"When're you gonna be back?"

"Next week." Next week seemed light-years away. I tried not to overa.n.a.lyze my reasons for being relieved that I wouldn't be here to spend more time with Bella and the pony.

"Okay," Bella said, looking adorable and angelic as she let go of me and proceeded into her father's office. "I'm gonna miss you, but I'll have Snuggles." She spoke the words with complete simplicity, as if they made perfect sense. A girl must have her priorities in order, after all. Horses first, then people. I could recall being just like Bella. That girl, the one I remembered, seemed like someone I'd seen in a movie once, someone two-dimensional, whose head I couldn't quite get into, whose motivations I could no longer understand.

As I said good-bye and left the building, I tried to visualize that girl, that Lauren, going back-returning to the scene, as it were. Eight or nine hours of highway-through Wichita, through Oklahoma City, then Dallas. After the turnoff at Waco, she would leave the expressway, travel the two-lane into the hills, slipping soundlessly over clear-running creeks, beneath the thick shade of overhanging live oaks, and past fence rows laced with the scraggy cedar bushes my father hated. Things would start to look familiar, smell familiar, feel familiar. She'd remember driving those roads with Dad, with Aunt Donetta, with Danny. She'd feel the pull of all she had left behind in Daily.

She'd arrive in town, and then ... what?

Every time I imagined the journey, it ended there, at the Caney Creek Bridge, just a few blocks out of town near the Buy-n-Bye. The place that had always been home now hung in shadow, indistinguishable.

Sitting in my SUV in front of my condo with my fingers wrapped around the keys, I contemplated the idea of walking the streets of Daily, a stranger in the skin of a hometown girl. What would people say? Would they offer belated expressions of sympathy? Would they carefully avoid mentioning the night of the flood, skirt it like quicksand? Would they talk about old times, or ask about my new life? Would they whisper behind their hands that I was lucky to have survived when two others didn't?