A Week at the Lake (6 page)

Zoe's tears hadn't stopped, but they did slow.

Tears prickled at the back of Serena's eyelids. She felt like she might cry a damned deluge at the moment if she wasn't careful. She ordered them to cease and desist as she looked Zoe in the eye and said, “I agree with Mackenzie. First your mother will reassure you that this was not your fault. Then she'll undoubtedly give you a ton of shit for what sounds like some serious overacting.”

I
t was well after noon, when Mackenzie thought she might hyperventilate if she didn't breathe some real air, that she took the elevator downstairs, practically sprinted through the lobby, and emerged onto the sidewalk, where a crowd of reporters and photographers jostled each other, Emma's name on their lips. She sidestepped the lot of them, relieved when no one noticed her. It wasn't the first time she was grateful not to be famous.

She left the crowd behind and breathed in great gulps of New York, including the gas fumes from the vehicles that clogged the surrounding streets, the scent of roasting meat from a gyro cart on the corner along with the scents of warm bread wafting from a nearby bakery. The faint scents of summer floated on the breeze from the flower stand across the street. Even the garbage smells seemed preferable to the medicinal, hermetically sealed air of the hospital. The horn honks, shouts, and tumult of the city were a reassuring antidote to the mechanical sound effects and hushed voices of the people inside.

Turning her face up into the midday sun, she headed south on Madison then cut west on Ninety-seventh toward Central Park. Stretching her legs, squaring her shoulders, drawing in deep lung-filling breaths, she speed-dialed Adam and lifted her cell phone to her ear. There'd been no answer when she'd tried him last night. No call back yet this morning. She was preparing to leave a voice mail, when he finally answered. The murmur of voices and the subtle clatter of cutlery sounded in the background.

“You're up and out early,” she said by way of greeting. She drew a deep breath, needing to tell him what had happened.

“I just happen to be taking a meeting with Michael Gold at the Polo Lounge.” For a moment Mackenzie thought her own panic over Emma had caused her to misunderstand. Michael Gold was at the top of the food chain at Universal Studios. The Polo Lounge was, of course, even more iconic than the production head Adam was breakfasting with. “We're in booth one,” he added. “The booth that was always kept open for Charlie Chaplin.” He paused to let this sink in. “There was a text waiting yesterday when I landed at LAX asking if I could make it.”

Her mind cleared, processed what Adam was saying. “Oh, my gosh. That's wonderful.” Even being seen at the same table with Michael Gold could be a serious game changer. “I just needed to . . . we can talk later if you're tied up.”

“It's all right. Michael had to leave to take a call—some emergency on location in India.” She heard the relish with which he pronounced the production titan's first name, his delight in now being entitled to use it. “But I'll have to go when he comes back.”

“Right.” She could picture her husband's face lit by his even, white-toothed smile and engraved by the dimple. She had no doubt he was drawing all kinds of attention in his Hollywood-go-to-meeting clothes, much of it female.

“It'll take a lot more acting talent than I've got to appear only mildly interested in whatever he has to say.”

“I'm so excited for you,” she said because it seemed something else should be offered. And because it was true. All she'd ever wanted was for him to be happy.

“So, how's the reunion going? Is everyone behaving herself? How's the lake?” he asked in high good spirits.

“There was only a partial reunion,” she replied, drawn back into her own far less glittering reality. “And there is no lake. I take it you haven't been watching the news.”

The mouthpiece was covered briefly, background voices became muffled. “What do you mean?”

“Emma was in an accident. We've been at Mount Sinai Hospital since yesterday afternoon.”

There was a moment's hesitation and then, “Sorry, did you say you're in a hospital?”

“No. I mean yes. We spent the night at Mount Sinai. But it's Emma. Emma was hit by a van.” She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “She's in a coma.”

“Jesus.” She heard movement and then the background noise faded. “What happened?”

It was a relief to pour it all out without having to censor her reactions or even the words she used.

“Adam?” She heard his name called in the background.

“Damn.” Adam's curse was whispered. “I'm sorry, Mac. I . . . I have to go back in.” There was a brief hesitation and then, “If you need me to come to New York I'll . . . well, I've got another meeting at the studio tomorrow. But I can check on flights right after breakfast.” She could hear the disappointment in his voice, but Emma was his friend, too—or used to be. She had no doubt he would come today if she asked him to. Adam always did the right thing when push came to shove.

“Thanks for offering,” she said even as she chastised herself for wishing he'd insisted on dropping everything to come to New York. There was nothing he could do here other than hold her hand. It would make no sense whatsoever to leave LA at such an important time. She turned resolutely back toward the hospital. “But Serena and I are handling things and trying to take care of Zoe. If we don't get ahold of Emma's agent or manager, you might come in handier out there.”

“Okay then. Keep me posted.”

She heard the relief in his voice and tried not to feel hurt by it. “I'm going to go back in and, hopefully convince them they can't live without
A Man for Many Reasons
. Or me.”

Her steps slowed as she neared the hospital entrance. “I
know I couldn't live without you,” Mackenzie said. A life without Adam in it was something she refused to even think about. “And I told you when I read the first draft that screenplay was completely kick-ass.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mac. But I don't think the studio people out here are anywhere near as discerning as you are.”

“Well,” she said. “I think that goes without saying. After all, who is?”

E
mma:

My brain streams video I can't control. It comes in fits and starts. Bits and pieces. My triumphs. My mistakes. A twisty road paved with good intentions. I hope they count.

Really, darling. I promise you there are no gatekeepers to the afterlife. It's more like getting into an “it” nightclub—you simply walk right in as if you belong.

I see Gran. At Sardi's. Arm in arm with Elizabeth Taylor. Flirting with Richard Burton. Vibrant. Glittering.

Quite right
. Gran's sigh of satisfaction echoes inside me.
Those really were the days
.

Like the video I come and go. In and out. Enveloping darkness. Shimmering light.

There is no time. No now. No then.

Zoe's tears mix with new voices.

“Everything's going to be okay, Em. But if it's all the same to you, this would be a really great time to go ahead and wake up.” It's Mackenzie's voice. Nervous but clear. “You know, so we can head on out to the lake like we planned.”

“That's right, Mom.” Zoe's voice wobbles. “We're all packed and everything. We're just waiting for you.”

“Now there's an understatement.” Mackenzie again. “Serena has packed everything she owns as usual. Her things are spread all over the family lounge.”

“It's true. You should see all the stuff she brought.” Zoe's voice catches.

There's a flash of light. The words fade. Somehow it's 1986. I'm coming out the door of my apartment building on Bleecker Street, watching Serena Stockton move in. She's tall and big boobed with smooth white skin and elegant features, and whatever she's saying has the cabdriver smiling despite the huge pile of luggage and boxes that he's pulling out of the cab. Everything about her is curvy and slightly oversized: the red-lipsticked mouth that seems to be constantly moving, the long dark curls she tosses over a shoulder.

She says something—using a whole lot of syllables that don't seem to have anything to do with each other. She peers at me and I'm afraid she's going to recognize me. But she pats me on the shoulder and repeats herself as if I'm a little slow and she's not the one speaking a foreign language.

“I say-a-d,”—almost four syllables there—“Ah'm goin' to need some muscle. Do y'all have any frie-nds”—two syllables—“in the building? You know. Anyone who might like to help?” She motions to her possessions, which have eaten up the entire sidewalk. She sighs, long and put upon. “I guess I should have listened to Mama about the movers. Or maybe let Daddy pay so I could get a place with a doorman.” There's a satisfied smile as she flashes her left hand; a diamond sparkles on her ring finger. “But my fiancé and I are absolutely determined to make our own way.” She turns her charms on the driver who can't seem to take his eyes off her chest but who in the end is not willing to leave his cab to carry her stuff upstairs.

“Well, I neveh . . .” She huffs as he drives off still watching her in his rearview mirror. But in less than a minute she's stopped two guys who are walking by. I watch with amazement as they start lifting the boxes and suitcases. She rounds up a third and his friend. And the next thing she's herding them toward the door saying all kinds of complimentary things about how strong they are, how gentlemanly, how she'd had no idea
they had such good-looking men in the North (two syllables). I don't think they have any idea what she's talking about but it doesn't seem to matter. She has them under some sort of spell and I can see in her eyes that she is not about to let go of them until her things are in her apartment.

“That's right, gentlemen,” she calls gaily. “I believe I'm on the fifth floor and to the left.” She's smiling and fanning herself with a plane ticket as if she's Scarlett O'Hara eating barbecue surrounded by admiring men in those opening scenes of
Gone with the Wind
, one of Gran's all-time favorite movies even though she was no fan of Vivien Leigh. I can see the hint of perspiration on the southern belle's upper lip, but there is not a hair out of place and her makeup is still perfect. She smiles and places her hand in mine. “I'm Serena. Serena Stockton. Formerly of Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Em . . . Amelia,” I say, almost forgetting the name I've adopted and all I've done to disguise myself. “Amelia Maclaine. I'm on the fifth floor, too.” I have no intention of telling anyone my real name or where I really came from.

“Well, I don't know a single person in this town, Amelia,” Serena says to me. “Not till Brooks gets here, anyway.” She gives me a wink. “What do you say once you get back from wherever you're headed, and I've got a few things put away, we go downstairs for pizza or out somewhere to have ourselves a drink?”

M
ackenzie escorted Zoe out of Emma's room and found Serena down the hall talking with Dr. Brennan. She'd left to take a phone call, and Mackenzie sincerely hoped it had been the anticipated one from California.

“Did somebody find what we were waiting for?” Mackenzie asked cryptically.

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” Mackenzie said. “Talk about in the nick of time.”