I
was ready to slip the key card into the door when I heard the ding of the elevators. I turned to see the front desk clerk exiting the elevator.
In his hand was the key to my research. I smiled from my head to my toes.
“Howdy,” I said.
“Evening, miss,” he said.
I held my hand out to him. “Thank you. I’ll take that.”
He looked at me curiously. “Oh? You’re in room 312?”
I could see his hesitation. “Don’t worry. I’m not staying. It’s my dad’s room. I just need to fix a few things up for him.” I leaned in toward him to snatch the phone away, but he slipped it into his pocket.
“I need the phone. He wants me to order his girlfriend some flowers.”
“The front desk can do that, miss. Maybe I should hold the phone for him there.”
“Give me the phone,” I said, sounding more desperate than I’d intended.
“Oh!” he said, a look of surprise crossing his face. “I didn’t . . . well . . . I just don’t want to be giving the phone to the wrong person.”
“It’s okay—look, I have a key.” I put the key card into the lock, only I did it upside down, so nothing happened. “Wait, wait.” I jammed it into the card reader again and slipped it out too fast. The lights on the reader flashed yellow.
“Here,” the clerk said, taking the card from me. He slid it into the reader and the lights turned green, a delightful little click sounding.
The door opened and he pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Here you are, miss. Sorry about the confusion,” he said.
The phone was hot in my hand.
Finally things were going my way!
“No problem,” I said over my shoulder. “Thank you!”
I breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed. Now I’d be able to get some answers. I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed with my feet folded under me.
I tapped on the screen only to be greeted by a low battery message.
“Damn!” I screamed to no one in particular.
What kind of cursed life was I living?
A knock on the door jolted me, my heart racing. What now? Was Dad back so soon?
I dropped the phone like it was on fire and jumped off the bed, ready to hide in the bathroom.
Oh, God, what if Dad and Cheryl had decided to skip dinner and were ready to move right to the nightcap? Where was I supposed to hide? Eventually, she would need the bathroom. Maybe the closet would be better. I dove toward the closet.
“Gordon?” a voice called out.
A voice that stopped me in my tracks.
I turned toward the door and swung it open. Paul stood there, unshaven, hands in his pockets, and looking chagrined. He took a step back when he saw me, a surprised expression on his face.
“Georgia!”
“What are you doing here?” I hissed.
“I . . . I came to talk to your dad. What are you doing here?”
“About what?” I demanded.
He looked around the hallway. “Can I come in?”
“No!”
I had limited time, limited battery, and limited patience.
“Come on, G; don’t make me beg for forgiveness from the hallway.”
I must have made quite a face, albeit involuntarily, because Paul recoiled. “Beg for forgiveness?” I asked.
He took a step forward. “Honey, let me in.”
“I’m not your honey and I’m not letting you in. I’m busy.”
He looked over my shoulder and called, “Gordon?”
“Oh? You think he’s going to be any nicer to you than I am? He’s ready to break your legs.”
Paul hung his head. “I don’t know if I can explain but at least—”
“Save it.” I closed the door in his face, my blood boiling.
He knocked again. “Georgia! Open the door. Don’t be ridiculous!”
I flung the door open. “I’m not being ridiculous! You’re ridiculous! What kind of man leaves a woman at the altar and then tries to worm his way into her life again via a reality TV show, no less!”
“I’m not worming—”
“Worse, you’re worse. You were going to try and talk to my dad—”
His brows furrowed and his eyes flicked to the left. “Because I didn’t know how to find you.”
“Oh, stop. You didn’t even look for me.”
He looked offended. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you! Tell the truth, you big liar, did you even go over to the Prevost to look for me?”
“Well, I—”
I slammed the door on him again and made my way back to the bed. I grabbed the phone and messed with the settings to use less battery; even still, it beeped obnoxiously in my hand at the same time that Paul pounded on the door.
“Georgia! We have to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I said from my position on the bed. I brought up a search engine. “I’m working.”
“Open the door,” he roared.
Suddenly I heard another voice in the hallway. “Hey, calm down, man. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, buddy. Mind your own business,” Paul said.
There was the sound of a door closing in the hallway. Paul pounded on my hotel room door again. “Georgia,” he called.
The hotel phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hello, miss, this is the front desk. I got a call from your floor about a commotion. Is there . . .”
“An unwanted visitor, yes. Can you please send up security?”
“What?” Paul called from behind the door.
I hung up the phone and said, “Security is on the way.”
I squinted through the peephole. Paul was leaning his forehead against the door. He was silent.
For a second I felt bad. Then the faces of our guests who had come to our wedding and waited for him flashed before my eyes and the feeling faded.
“What do you get from being on the show, Paul? Was Aaron on the show for the money? Do you get to keep the prize money?”
Through the peephole I saw him step away from the door. His eyes flicked back and forth, searching for an answer.
“It’s over between us, Paul. I’m not your doormat anymore.”
“G, you were never my doormat.”
“No, but you treated me like one.”
The ping of the elevator sounded faintly and then a voice said, “Sir.”
Paul turned toward the elevator, then back toward the peephole. I could see his face plainly now. He didn’t look half as miserable as he should. He didn’t love me; he wasn’t here to get me back. He was here for something different altogether.
What could it be?
He held up his hand and said to the security guard, “I’m going, I’m going.”
Pressing my head against the door, I tried to let the feel of the cool wood calm me down. After a moment, I glanced out the peephole again. I couldn’t see anything anymore, and the hall sounded quiet. I retreated to the phone and brought up the search engine. The low battery message flashed again.
I picked up the hotel phone and called the front desk. “Thank you for sending security,” I said.
“You’re welcome, miss,” the clerk said.
“I need another favor.”
“What is it?” the clerk asked.
“Do you have an iPhone charger handy?”
Silence greeted me.
“Hello?” I said.
“Sorry, miss, I was thinking. Let me check and if I find one I’ll bring it right up.”
I hung up and fiddled with the phone again. I didn’t have access to any of the databases I did when I was a cop, so I did the next best thing.
Called a cop I trusted.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, who’s calling?”
I laughed, realizing the information that showed up on her phone was Cheryl’s name and number.
“Lisa, it’s G.”
She screamed. “Girl! Where are you? Are you okay? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“You have? Why?”
“Well, when the guy had the bungee-jumping accident off the Golden Gate, all hell broke loose here. We all knew it was your show and then Paul took time off to go to L.A. to be with you.”
“What?”
“What?” she repeated.
“What do you mean, Paul took time off? He’s working undercover—”
Lisa interrupted me with a snort. “Is that what he told you?”
The room seemed to close in on me. “I thought he was working the case.”
“What case?”
“The guy falling while bungee jumping wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.”
“No, really? But we’ve had several departments looking into it. It doesn’t appear to be a homicide.”
“Teresa Valens showed up here, too. She was there on the bridge that day. I think she was trying to get to me. And then a guy hung himself. Or was hung . . . he’d seen something. And she was in San Francisco when Aaron died in the hospital—”
“Whoa, slow down. What are you saying about Teresa Valens? Isn’t she in jail?”
“No. Martinez confirmed that she was paroled eighteen months ago.”
“Martinez? You’ve been in touch with him and not me?”
“Don’t get snippety. I haven’t been in touch with him. He found me. I haven’t had a phone, but I need you to look up some stuff now.”
“Oh, sure, what a fair-weather friend you are.”
The phone beeped another low battery warning.
“Save the guilt trip for when we can get drunk together,” I said. “I owe you, but I really need—”
“How’s the show going? Any hotties that you like?”
I thought of Scott.
“Plenty of hotties, but I think I’m lacking guys with integrity.”
“Integrity is so overrated,” Lisa joked. “Besides, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. You need to think like a man: Pick the hottest guy there that can win you the prize; take a nice little trip with him to Jamaica or the Caribbean or wherever they send you; then, when all the photo ops are done, you break up with him and split the prize money.”
An angry buzz from the battery sounded.
“Right, uh, Lisa, I got limited time here. Can you please look up flights from L.A. to S.F., see if Teresa Valens—or Florencia Diaz—was on one of them?”
“Who’s Florencia Diaz?”
“That’s what Teresa Valens is going by these days, her alias.”
Lisa sighed. “Okay, but it’ll have to wait until morning. I have a life, you know. It may not be as exciting as yours with a bunch of men vying for my attention, but Stinky’s here.”
I laughed out loud. Stinky, who weighed about as much as a mouse, had been in love with Lisa from the moment he laid eyes on her ten years ago. Lisa, however, was happily married with elementary school age kids and had never given Stinky the time of day.
It’s seemed like maybe my luck was turning, though, because Stinky was the department’s computer hack. If there was information to be found between the zero and ones, Stinky would find it.
“Where are you guys at?” I asked.
“Annie Get Your Gun.”
Annie Get Your Gun was a popular cop bar near the hall of justice.
“Well, ask Stinky to look it up for me. He doesn’t have a life,” I joked.
Lisa made a retching sound. “You know what kind of payment I have to give him for favors.”
“I know. You actually have to be nice to him and flash him your pearly whites.”
“Hold on,” she said. “Stinky, G needs a favor.”
For a moment, all I could hear was the hubbub of the bar. Glasses and bottles clinking in the background along with the noise of a baseball game broadcast from the bar’s big screen.
Stinky came on the line. “G! What’s going on?”
The phone beeped again loudly. “Stink, I got a dying battery. I gotta go. Lisa will bring you up to speed. Need flight info and a little look-see into a death at S.F. General.”
“What number can we call you back at? The one you called on?”
“Oh! No, no, don’t call this number. Call my dad’s number; it’s 530—”
A loud tone buzzed in my ear. I glanced at the phone, the red battery line flashing up at me. I’d lost the call.
Shoot!
I knew Stinky would get the information for me, and I’d have to hope he was smart enough to pull Dad’s info and call me at the right number.
I fiddled with the phone. I had 1 percent remaining. I thought of Scott and pulled up his Web page. His handsome author photo stared up at me. My heart hurt a bit. I’d just been starting to fall for this guy.
I clicked on the Buy Now button for his book and paid to have it shipped the next day to my Prevost, feeling justified that it was all in the name of research.
T
he clerk never arrived with the phone charger and I felt the need to slip out of Dad’s room before he showed up with Cheryl. I left the now dead phone on the desk, being careful to wipe my prints off it. Not that I figured she carried a fingerprint kit around with her, but, hey, why take a chance?
I put my shoes on and made it out of the room, feeling a sense of relief. The entire time I’d been in the room, the stress of Paul’s visit and the thought of Dad and Cheryl returning and catching me red-handed with her phone had drained me.
• • • • • • • • •
I
woke up groggy. The fog was hanging over the coast in a way reminiscent of San Francisco, and I was a bit disoriented. Then the image of Martinez sitting in the little coach’s kitchen and showing me a folder flashed into my mind.
The events of the past few days came rushing back to me and immediately I felt depressed. I glanced at the clock, knowing that I needed to be on the set early. Cheryl had succeeded in getting us into the Monterey Bay Aquarium an hour before opening; this meant our call time was six
A.M.
I rolled out of bed and into the shower. I knew the drill now: If I arrived with a fresh face and wet hair to the makeup tent, then the day seemed to go smoother. I secured my wet hair into a ponytail and slipped on sweatpants and a jacket.
The temperatures in the valley were to be over a hundred all week; therefore, the air on the coast would be frigid, something to do with a marine layer getting propelled inland by the intense heat in the valley, so we would be blanketed in fog and the valley would be enjoying sunshine and orange juice.
I just couldn’t catch a break!
• • • • • • • • •
W
hen I arrived at the aquarium, I found the catering cart outside and immediately grabbed some fruit and coffee. Cheryl was there wearing dark sunglasses and speaking softly to one of the show’s runners. She hugged her coffee mug to her as if defending the elixir of life.
Hm. Looks like she had a late night.
I wondered if she’d figured out that I’d used her phone.
“Good morning, Georgia,” she said to me pleasantly.
Well, she was being nice to me, so my guess was she hadn’t put two and two together.
Something buzzed from inside her pocket and she fussed with her jacket, handing me her cup of coffee to hold.
She pulled out her phone and swore under her breath.
“What is it?” I asked, panic rippling up into my throat.
Oh, God. Lisa wouldn’t call Cheryl’s phone with a message for me, would she?
“Makeup gal overslept,” she said, putting the phone back into her pocket and pulling me toward the makeup tent. “I’ll have to do it.”
I held my breath. Just because she was being nice to me now didn’t mean I wanted her up close and personal. She tossed me a pair of hot pink Capri pants and white blouse that fit like a second skin.
After I shrugged into the costume, she told me to take a seat, and immediately got out the blow-dryer. She gave me a voluptuous hairdo in a matter of minutes. Then she moved on to the makeup and tilted my chin, her hands cold on my face. “You have nice bone structure.”
“I do?”
She nodded as she turned to get the foundation out. “I have to work fast; the men need someone, too.”
“What happened to the makeup girl?” I asked. “Are you shorthanded?”
“Yes, one of my makeup people quit this week.”
“Florencia?” I asked.
She nodded as she brushed foundation on me. “One of her family members in Mexico is sick. Her mother, I think.”
A likely story.
Hadn’t Ophelia said Florencia’s mother was in San Francisco? Lies were hard to keep track of.
She probably knew I was onto her. This was where she would get nervous and messy. She’d make mistakes and I’d get her again!
Cheryl moved on to my blusher then eye makeup. She took off her sunglasses and focused in on my lashes. Her eyes were red rimmed.
“Late night?” I asked, unable to resist.
She blushed. “No, no. Not that late. I’m just . . . not a morning person . . .”
I suddenly felt ashamed of myself for trying to embarrass her. Dad deserved someone to get all swoony over him.
“You’re fast at the makeup,” I said as she was finishing up with the lipstick.
She laughed. “That’s how I started.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah, worked my way up. Nothing worthwhile comes easy.”
I sighed. “Ain’t that the truth,” I said.
She stepped back and studied my face. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you developing any real feelings for any of these guys, Georgia?” she asked, concern brimming in her voice.
Oh, God!
Cheryl was actually worried about my feelings?
Maybe she was falling in love with Dad—what else would explain her sudden sensitivity to my plight?
My skin pebbled at the thought.
Surely Dad and Cheryl weren’t that serious!
The thought of Scott lying to me broke my heart, and I suddenly felt sick. “I thought I was having some real feelings,” I confessed. “But now I just don’t know.”
She leveled a gaze at me and it seemed for a moment as though she wanted to tell me something she probably shouldn’t.
I smiled. “Do you have any advice?” I asked.
She straightened. “Hmm.”
I waited for her words of wisdom, but all she offered was, “Be careful who you give your heart to.”
Yeah, I’ve already learned that lesson.
Cheryl packed up the makeup case. “I have to get over to Paul and Edward. We only have an hour in the aquarium and we can’t waste any time.”
“What do you need from me in terms of the shoot?” I asked.
She looked surprised. “You mean you’re going to cooperate?”
“We only have an hour,” I said.
“Good.” She leaned over and undid the top button on my blouse. “This will get things started.”
• • • • • • • • •
T
he Monterey Bay Aquarium, built in 1984, was located on the site of a former sardine cannery on Cannery Row. The aquarium was large, with hundreds of displays, but Cheryl had decided to film our scene in front of the awesome jellyfish display.
I waited for the men by the round tank of jellyfish, staring in wonderment at the array of colors they offered. The fish glowed and glided through the water; in contrast, I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. Stress and tension emanated all the way down my back and up my neck, giving me a throbbing headache.
My plan had been to eliminate Edward tonight. I was sure he was in it for the money. But that would leave me choosing between Scott and Paul. And if Scott couldn’t be trusted, then I’d have to select Paul at the end . . . and that thought made me sick.
I guess I was hoping for a miracle. That somehow Edward would convince me he hadn’t come on the show looking for the prize money and wasn’t a prescription pill addict.
“Action,” Cheryl called.
I turned away from the tank in time to see Edward round the corner first, followed by Paul.
Edward approached me quickly. “Hey, there, gorgeous,” he said, kissing my cheek. He stepped aside to let Paul greet me.
Paul kissed my cheek, just as Edward had; only he put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, his fingers finding a knot in my trapezius muscle. He manipulated the muscles, sending chills up and down my neck.
Edward seemed to notice Paul’s hand lingering on me because he looped an arm through mine and said, “Can I breeze you away to look at some of these amazing fish?”
Paul lifted his hand off my shoulder, annoyed and eager to show Edward his displeasure. Edward, for his part, sloughed it off.
We walked through a corridor into the main exhibit room, where the crew had spent a good amount of time setting up the equipment.
The display in this room covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. It was like peering directly into the ocean.
I turned toward Edward. “So, what are you going to do with the money?”
He blinked at me. “What?”
“The prize money. I mean, if you win. What are your plans?”
He snaked an arm around my waist. “Well, wouldn’t we go to someplace exotic?”
“You mean, after you pay your medical school bills?”
His eyes clouded over. “See, that’s where I’m lucky. I received an inheritance from a great-aunt right before med school. So I don’t have any.”
“Loans?”
“Right. I don’t have any loans or bills. It’s incredible, really.” He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and I wondered if he was already jonesing for the pill he always kept at the ready.
I studied the jellyfish. They were magnificent colors of magenta, lime green, and cinnabar. They looked electric and translucent at the same time.
Much like a lie. See-through and stinging all at once.
“What was her name?” I asked.
“Vivian,” he said, without missing a beat.
It was a plausible story. Anyone could have told it. And I’m almost ashamed to admit that without the information from Martinez, I wouldn’t have been able to tell it was a lie.
Although . . . there was a small bead of sweat forming on Edward’s brow. Ever so slight and it would have been easy to miss if I hadn’t been studying him so closely.
I leaned over and wiped his brow. “You have something here,” I said, winking coquettishly. I made sure to pull my shoulder back and give the camera a shot of my cleavage, hoping Cheryl would be happy.
Edward didn’t say anything, just brought his hand reflexively up to his neck. A universal body signal for distress.
“Med school must have been tough,” I said. “I admire you.”
His eyebrows dipped in the middle, forming a V. He was unsure why I’d suddenly thrown him a softball.
Basically, I’d gotten all the confirmation I needed: between the report from Martinez, the bead of sweat, and the pill popping, he was out of the running as far as I was concerned.
Now I knew I probably had to pick Paul in the finale. If I wanted a shot at the prize money. An incentive that was quickly becoming irrelevant.
Paul made an entrance, clearing his throat and strutting onto the set like a peacock. Edward excused himself and I was left alone with my ex.
He touched my elbow. “Good to see you, G. I especially like when you have to be nice to me.”
Shame flared inside me. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was a guy I’d been willing to—hell, wanting to—commit myself to for all eternity and, yet, now it felt like a guardian angel had been with me that day. Saving me from, what, marrying the wrong man?
It did feel wrong.
Our chemistry was adrift. His touch felt cold and when I looked into his eyes they seemed dead.
What had captured me so entirely just a few months prior?
Had it been the thought of a happy little marriage, in a city that I loved, with a job I’d found so fulfilling? Now all these things were worlds away. The city magic had worn off, the job lost its appeal, and Paul’s charm suddenly faded.
It must be me.
It couldn’t be that all those things were bad. I’d take responsibility. It was me that was the problem.
“Paul,” I said in a hoarse whisper.
“I want to make it right,” he said, his words too soft for the microphone to catch.
“You can’t. It’s over. It’s me,” I said.
“Cut!” Cheryl yelled out. “We can’t hear you guys. Can you amp it up a notch?”
Paul nodded, but his eyes were watery.
“Ship sailed, Paul.”
Part of me wanted to say I wished it were different, but the truth was I didn’t.
I
was different now.
I was a woman who’d been jilted at the altar. That experience had made me different. Damaged goods, in one respect. Paul had taken my innocence, yes. But I’d become stronger. I would survive. I’d be better because of it.
That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.
Was that from
The Farmers’ Almanac
or was that just Dad talk?
Well, at any rate, I finally knew that I wasn’t in love with Paul any longer.