A Week at the Lake (4 page)

“Because you're fifteen years old. You can't live alone in a Malibu guesthouse without supervision. And I read the script. It calls for nudity.”

“But my character doesn't undress. And it's not
gratuitous
nudity,” she countered. “There's a reason why the characters take off their clothes.”

Emma tried to sound calm but firm, but it was a stretch. “Yes, I believe that reason is so that they can have sex.”

Zoe quickly changed tack. “You've left me alone plenty of times when you've been on location.”

“I've left you with a sitter and a staff when I've had to,” Emma replied. And only after Zoe got too old to miss so much school. “That's not the same thing at all.” It wasn't, was it? Her voice faltered as she realized she was asking Zoe to accept things she'd never forgiven her own parents for. If Emma hadn't had Gran, she would have been completely lost.

“You're always trying to hold me back.” Zoe's voice rose. It was a favorite complaint and one she'd clearly come to believe. She delivered it with conviction.

Emma knew her daughter could act. She was fairly certain she'd been emoting in the womb and she'd done really well at the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts. She just didn't think there was any reason to start a career so young. Nor did she think a teen exploitation film in which most of the characters would be screaming their heads off while naked was an acceptable first vehicle. And Emma should know. She'd walked away from childhood stardom, but that didn't mean she didn't remember every painful moment of it.

Their food arrived. She checked her watch and wondered if eleven thirty was too early for a drink.

“I'm trying to protect you, Zoe. If you decide you want to act, there's plenty of time for that. After you finish school. Not before.”

“Sonya is tutored on set,” Zoe argued.

Sonya Craven was sixteen and had a regular role on
Teen Bitch
, er,
Teen Witch
. From what Emma had seen of Sonya—and her mother, with whom Emma had had the “pleasure” of performing—this was a clear case of typecasting and required almost no acting at all.

“You're not Sonya. And I am not Sonya's mother.” Their voices were rising.

“That's such a cop-out.” Zoe quivered with righteous indignation. “At least Sonya's mother nurtures her talent instead of trying to squash it.” Zoe's eyes plumbed hers. She could feel her daughter's awareness of the scene they were playing. When you were born into a theatrical family, there was no escaping theatrics.

Zoe put her glass down on the table and crammed a French fry into her mouth.

As emotional earthquakes went this wasn't even a five on the Michaels Family Richter Scale. Compared to some of the rows that had taken place while Emma was growing up, it was barely a tremor. But there was something about the wrath of a fifteen-year-old girl to whom you'd given birth and loved more than you'd ever imagined you could love anyone, that could yank the ground right out from under your feet.

Emma glanced around the restaurant. At a Michaels family gathering this altercation would hardly be enough to make people stop chewing let alone end a meal. But the other diners had fallen silent and were no longer pretending they weren't listening. It wasn't every day you got to watch this kind of performance between two members of the Michaels family without buying a ticket.

“Oh, what's the point?” Zoe, who knew intuitively how to end a scene
and
make an exit, removed the napkin from her lap, dropped it on the table, and scraped back her chair. “I'm out of here.”

“Zoe!” Emma put some bills on the table as she stood. Then she was speed walking out of the silent restaurant. The last time Zoe had stormed off she made it onto a cross-country flight from LAX to Serena's in New York City.

Emma's heart beat frantically as she shoved open the door. Out on the sidewalk she saw Zoe already across the street and two blocks down. This was the Upper East Side of New
York not West LA, but Zoe was a fifteen-year-old girl and bad things happened in expensive neighborhoods every day.

“Zoe!” Her eyes on her daughter, who was studiously ignoring her, Emma began to sprint across the street. Which was when something hard slammed into her with the force of a freight train and sent her hurtling into the air. She flipped a couple of times, bounced off what might have been the roof or trunk of a car, and slammed into the concrete. Stray thoughts filtered through her head; she empathized with Humpty Dumpty. She congratulated herself for having on clean underwear.

There was no pain, which definitely seemed wrong. She heard feet running and voices and then a siren in the distance. It occurred to her that she could die, and regret flooded through her. She'd already cheated death once. Now she'd never get the chance to prove to her daughter how much she loved her. Never see Mackenzie or Serena again. Her last thoughts began to run together: She should have scheduled the attorney before they left for the lake. Should have confessed the secret she'd been carrying. Should have begged forgiveness. Should have . . .

Darkness descended. Panic came with it. There was something she was supposed to take care of. Something that would alter the lives of the people who meant the most to her.

Her world was going black. And she couldn't for the life of her remember what it was.

M
ackenzie emerged from Grand Central Terminal blinking in the sudden sunlight and staked out a spot on the sidewalk near the Forty-second Street and Park Avenue entrance where Serena was supposed to pick her up for the ride uptown to Emma. Her handbag balanced on the small suitcase beside her. Her mouth felt dry from the plane and the fear, not to mention the tranquilizer, and she reached for the bottled water she'd purchased on the way out of LaGuardia. The flight had been relatively smooth, thank you, God, and she had resisted the temptation she always felt to throw herself on her knees and kiss the solid ground when she'd entered the terminal.

It was mid-June, the air warm, but not yet oppressive, and filled with the pungent aromas of food, gas fumes, and the undulating sea of humanity—some more washed than others—that surged and receded around her. Clothing was summer weight and in rare cases light in color. She smiled, remembering Serena's dry observation that New Yorkers would undoubtedly keep wearing black until they came up with something darker.

Glancing down she checked her cell phone for the time and any messages. Nothing. She wondered if Adam had managed to charm himself onto a flight yet, whether Serena had been held up in the traffic that now clogged both Park and Forty-second as far as she could see, and how when she did arrive, the cab would get anywhere near the curb. Mackenzie had been
fifteen minutes late getting to Grand Central and Serena still wasn't here. She took another drink of water and reminded herself that she'd spent enough mental energy keeping that plane in the air; she was now officially on vacation. New York traffic was not something she needed to worry about. And neither was the potential awkwardness on the drive up to the lake. Which would take some four and a half hours, depending on traffic.

“Mackenzie!” She looked up and saw Serena emerge from a cab. Serena's white halter dress hugged the luscious curves she'd bequeathed to Georgia Goodbody and played up her shapely legs. Her dainty feet were encased in high-heeled sandals that were undoubtedly designer. Her toenails were a deep red that matched her lips. Hanging with Emma and Serena had sometimes left Mackenzie feeling invisible. Which was no mean feat for someone her height.

“I see you're still working on mastering the concept of traveling light,” Mackenzie said as the driver pulled what looked like a mountain of luggage from the trunk, then began rearranging it in an attempt to make room for Mackenzie's carry-on.

“Packing light doesn't work for me,” Serena said. “The one time I did I spilled something on the lone, yet versatile, skirt I'd brought less than five minutes after takeoff. And although I'd like to pretend my beauty is natural, I need a lot more beauty products than can be crammed into a quart-sized ziplock bag.” She hugged Mackenzie lightly and kissed the air near both cheeks. “Anyway, Emma's arranged a car and driver, so I might as well have everything I'll need.”

They contemplated each other for a long moment before Serena added, “I forgot how tall you are.”

“And I forgot that you're practically a midget.” The insult rolled automatically off her lips, though Serena was in fact slightly taller than average and was often referred to as “statuesque.”

“Hey, I'd gladly borrow an inch or two so that I could
wear lower heels. My feet are completely pissed off and I've only been on them for a matter of minutes.”

Mackenzie laughed. “Well, we can't have your digits angry at you. I hope you have a pair of flip-flops in one of those bags.”

“Of course I do. It's just finding them that might be a problem.”

“Georgia!” Parts of the sea stopped surging to form a small crowd. “Miss Goodbody!” There was pointing and some laughter. Serena turned to smile and wave, but her body was as tight as her facial muscles.

“Where's your fan, Georgia?” a middle-aged man laughed.

“I seem to have left that at home,” she replied in a teasing tone. “So you're safe for the moment.”

“Where are you headed? To work out?” a middle-aged woman tittered, though Serena was clearly not dressed for the gym. Georgia Goodbody spent a lot of time with her private trainer maintaining her “good body.”

“I'm done for the day, thank goodness,” she replied in the drawl that had made Georgia and her famous. “You all have a nice day now, you hear?” Gently, she turned her back on her impromptu audience. “At home I could have added a ‘bless your heart' and she would have known I was telling her to take a hike. Here I'm always afraid someone will think it's a religious comment.” Serena kept her eyes on Mackenzie's face. Her shoulders and her smile softened as the crowd dispersed.

“That's what you get for being famous,” Mackenzie said.

“I know. And I don't ever want to seem ungrateful. But let us not forget I'm famous for being a sexy cartoon character. It's kind of hard to take that seriously.

“So, how's Adam?” Serena asked as they headed back to the cab.

“Good. He's on his way to LA to pitch a new screenplay.”

“That's great.” Serena looked at her closely. “And you?”

“Good. Everything's good. The theater's . . . good. I brought pictures from our production of
Annie
. The kids were
unbelievably adorable. And the blog keeps growing.” Mackenzie shrugged. “Noblesville isn't exactly the fast lane, but it's fast enough for me.” She immediately regretted her defensive tone. “Do you think one of us should text Emma and let her know we're on our way?”

“I'll do it,” Serena said as the driver slammed the trunk shut and held open the door, perspiration dotting his forehead and his smile more than a little strained. She pulled out her phone. “Oh, my God!” she said, looking down at the screen, her face twisted into a grimace of surprise, which turned into an expression of horror.

“What is it?” Mackenzie asked. “What's going on?”

“There's a text from Zoe! Emma was hit by a car earlier this afternoon!” Serena leaned over the seat. “We need to get to Mount Sinai Hospital as quickly as possible!”

“Oh, my God!”

Serena's thumbs moved over her phone's keyboard as the cab began to inch back into traffic. When she got no response, she dialed Zoe's phone and then Emma's. No one answered.

“Oh, God, please hurry!” Serena and Mackenzie reached for each other's hands, holding on as the cab picked up speed and began to cut and swerve through traffic for what felt like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

E
mma:

Darkness surrounds me. Fills me. Cushions me. I float in it. On it. Only pinpricks of sound. Muted. Mechanical.
Where am I?

It's all right, darling. You had a bit of a tussle with a delivery van
.
The
van won
.

Gran's voice. Calm. Steady. Like arms wrapped around me.
I'm fairly certain you were taught to look both ways before crossing the street.

Am I dead?
There are no trumpets. No tunnel of white
light. No hovering above my body.
Are you here to escort me to the “other side”?

Don't be so dramatic, dear.
Gran's voice delivers the favorite joke.
It's all right. I'm here. Just as I've always been.

Zoe?

I hear footsteps. A voice. “Ms. Michaels?”

Panic wells up when I can't respond.

It's all right, darling. Sleep. Gather your strength. Remember the show must always go on.
She launches into a campy version of Ethel Merman's “There's No Business Like Show Business.” Another inside joke we've shared since I first found the original cast recording of
Annie Get Your Gun
at the cottage and practically wore a hole in the vinyl.

The footsteps retreat. I float in the darkness and realize that if I'm talking to my grandmother, I must be dead.