Authors: Jean Stone
Cody
, she suddenly remembered.
That was his name
. She then remembered that Cody had once said he was twenty-eight. How could she remember that but not why she was here?
“Should be on the stands any day now.”
“Great. Can’t wait to see it. I hate to admit it, but I’m a big fan.”
“Of Madonna’s?”
He grinned again, revealing even white teeth which, until now, Maddie had never noticed. “Of Madonna’s,” he confirmed, then added, “and yours.”
She smiled again. “Thanks.”
“I’ll bet you have some great proofs from the shot.”
“Well. Yes. Especially the one where the donkey shit.”
Cody laughed. “You’re kidding. Oh, God, I’d love to see them.”
“Are you a pervert?”
“I’m not sure. I never thought about it.”
Maddie laughed in return.
Ringing up her order, Cody stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. I was going to call you later. Your Hasselblad is ready.”
Hasselblad. Right
, Maddie thought. That’s why she had come. She stared at the boxes of film and realized she hadn’t come here for film; she didn’t need film. She’d come to see if the camera was ready, if the shutter was fixed.
Cody raised a finger. “It’s in back. Wait right there.”
While she waited, Maddie wondered if her forgetfulness was another damn symptom of the change of life. Headaches. Dizziness. And now this. She dismissed them all from her mind as Sophie would suggest, then moved her eyes around the camera shop to the dozens of prints that lined the walls—huge blow-ups of great-looking shots: people shots, landscape shots. She supposed she was one of
the few professionals who actually traded here; the bulk of the clientele was probably hobbyists and families snapping the life out of graduations, weddings, and trips to Disney World. None of the dramatic stuff she went for was here—none of her artistry of black-and-white contrasts was visible among the mortarboards, white veils, and kids with ice cream smeared over their faces.
Then her gaze landed on one photo of a mother and two kids—two boys, not twins like Bobby and Timmy, but close in age. The shot looked as if it had been taken at Yellowstone, or any one of a hundred national parks where families were families. But there was only a mother in this picture, a mother and her two boys. Maybe this mother, too, was divorced, raising her kids alone, taking them on vacation without benefit of a father, a husband. Then she remembered that someone else had to have taken the picture. A fourth person. In Maddie’s recent pictures of her with the twins, Sophie had been the one to snap the shutter. Sophie, their grandmother. Not Parker, their father.
The earlier elation over the fantasy of his murder slowly receded, replaced by the mournful smog of unending loneliness.
“All set,”
Cody called, returning to the counter. “You really have to stop letting your kids play with your cameras.”
Maddie turned to him. “It’s Timmy. He’s got the bug, I’m afraid. I let him use this one because it’s old.” She wondered why she suddenly felt tired, sapped of her energy, drained of her spirit.
“Well, I’m afraid his ‘bug’ is going to cost you thirty-five dollars.”
She opened her oversized backpack—the one remnant of her old self with which she’d refused to part, much to Abigail’s chagrin.
“And dinner,” Cody added.
Maddie looked up. “Excuse me?”
“Thirty-five dollars and dinner. With me. I’d really love to see those Madonna proofs.”
Maddie handed him her credit card. “You don’t have to feed me, Cody. I’ll bring in the proofs.”
“Don’t have to, but I sure would like to. Are you busy Friday night?”
“Friday? Well, I don’t know. With Thanksgiving next week …”
“I won’t make you eat turkey.”
“Well …”
“How about Hilliard’s? They have great steak kabobs.”
“I don’t know …”
“I close up shop at six on Friday. Shall we say seven-thirty?”
“Cody, you make it sound like a date.”
“It is a date. That is, it will be, if you show up.”
Somehow Maddie paid him the thirty-five dollars. Somehow she managed to smile again. Somehow she heard herself say “I’ll see you Friday night” as she walked out the door, and wondered why on earth she’d made a date with a twenty-eight-year-old boy, and why he had even asked.
“I don’t
believe it,” Abigail hooted. “You—Maddie Kavner Daniels—have a boy toy.”
Maddie had gone straight from the camera shop to the manor; she’d needed to talk to someone, she’d needed to talk to a friend.
Luckily, Abigail was home. They were about to start shooting another show, a postholiday something-or-other that Sophie would undoubtedly tape for her library of Abigail’s litanies. Little did Maddie’s mother know that someday soon those tapes might become collectors’ items.
They had escaped to Edmund’s study, where they could
be alone. Maddie looked at the abundance of makeup that Abigail wore and the neat, ivory cashmere dress that made her look like the millions she was worth. Even in her new corduroy suit Maddie felt like a dump in her presence.
She swept the Warm Autumn Haze bangs from her forehead. “He’s not a boy, Abigail. Bobby and Timmy are boys. Cody is … well, he’s older.”
Abigail laughed. “Older than your twins? So, does that make him sixteen? Eighteen?”
A rush of heat flooded Maddie’s cheeks. She grabbed for her bag. “I thought you’d be pleased that my ‘makeover’ has been good for something. Guess I was wrong.”
Abigail touched Maddie’s arm. “I’m sorry, Maddie. I didn’t mean to upset you. But I’m under so much pressure right now. Forgive me?”
Maddie looked around the room, noting that its quiet repose was livened by the glub-glub of other voices from other parts of the house: the sounds of activity, of work, of people. She was reminded again of how painful it was to work in solitude—how painful it was without Parker, without her business, without her life. She glanced back at Abigail. “Sure,” she answered. “I forgive you. Why not.”
Abigail led her toward the sofa. “I have a few minutes before they call me. Now tell me about him. This Cody. Is he more handsome than Parker?” She smiled what appeared to be a genuine smile, as genuine as Abigail could muster.
Maddie sat down beside her. “I don’t know if you’d call him handsome. He is rather good-looking, I guess. He has a good body.” She laughed. “Not as good as Andrew, but close.” Then she glanced nervously around the room. “But you’re right, Abigail. He is young.”
“How young?”
Maddie shrugged. “Hard to tell. Thirty-five, maybe.”
“That’s not so young.”
“Or thirty.”
Abigail sucked in her breath. “Well, now …”
Maddie twisted toward Abigail “Have I completely taken leave of my senses? I mean, all he really wants is to see the Madonna proofs. You don’t really suppose …”
“Suppose what? That he couldn’t see anything else in you? Look at yourself, Maddie. You’ve been transformed. You’re … why, you’re lovely.”
“I’m still fat.”
“No you’re not. Maybe you could still stand to drop another few pounds, but now that you’ve shed yourself of those god-awful hats and are wearing the right clothes …”
Maddie stood up. “The right clothes? God, Abigail, who’s kidding who? I can put on the brightest colors and the ‘right’ makeup and I’ll still end up looking like exactly what I am—an almost-fifty frump, trying to look thirty-five.”
“No you’re not. I’d never let you do that.”
Maddie walked to the bookcase that was set between timbers that must be a century old. She glanced at the books: she did not see any on Rubens. Apparently even Abigail’s husband knew there was no market for fat.
“It’s all in the genes, you know,” Maddie said. “I look at a nacho and my thighs turn to flab. You’re lucky. You don’t have the flab gene.” She scanned the rows of volumes, conscious that the abbreviated hemline of her corduroy skirt stopped just below the place where her thighs became indecent.
“Can’t you let yourself enjoy the attention?”
Maddie laughed. “Enjoy it? How can I enjoy it? What if he’s only using me to get himself a job? I know he’s done some photography himself. How will I know if he’s using me? And, even worse, what if he wants … sex?” Which, of course, was the main thing on her mind—not jobs or the fear of being used. Her underarms began to perspire. “How can I have sex with a twenty-eight-year-old … boy?”
Silence deadened the room.
She turned back to Abigail. “Thanks for not mentioning that I lied when I said he was thirty.”
Abigail rested her head against the back of the sofa. “Maddie, Maddie. Will you ever realize that relationships are not about sex or games or who’s younger than whom or who’s fatter or thinner?”
Maddie couldn’t resist a chuckle. “And I’m supposed to believe you—guru to the world of perfect relationships?”
“All I’m saying is, have a little faith in yourself. Life is too short, Maddie. Before it’s too late, stop fighting yourself.”
Lowering her head, Maddie spoke softly. “I don’t want this boy, Abigail. I want Parker, remember?”
“And maybe this boy will help you get Parker back. Maybe a few nights with Cody will give you self-confidence.”
Or maybe
, Maddie felt Abigail wanted to add,
he’ll help you get over this stupid obsession
. God, Maddie thought, if this was what Abigail called “fighting herself,” would she ever be able to stop?
“Besides,” Abigail added, checking her watch, “there’s nothing more enticing to a man than thinking he has competition.” She stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on the set before Larry has a coronary.” Then she laughed. “I guess I’m still plugged into the madness. I forget it doesn’t matter anymore. I forget that my life is finally going to have some peace.”
Watching her light a cigarette, Maddie noticed that Abigail’s hands were, once again, trembling. It was odd to see Abigail so obviously hurting, as though she were out of balance with her insides, out of control with her world. “That’s what your birthday wish is all about, isn’t it, Abigail?” Maddie asked. “About you … stopping the fight against yourself.”
Abigail’s green eyes looked squarely into Maddie’s. “You see?” she asked. “Who said we’re too old to learn new
things?” She started from the room, then turned back. “Stop by Friday morning and we’ll talk about what you should wear. Then go on your date, Maddie,” she added with a smile. “Betty Ann, of course, would be shocked; but if Kris were here, I’ll bet she’d say if you have the chance to get into his bed, grab it.”
Kris stared
up at the ceiling that had been painted navy blue and was dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars—specks of silver that fluttered to the CD sound effects of waves lapping a shore.
Only in L.A.
, she thought.
Only in L.A. would they be tacky enough to encourage meditation before an injection of sperm
. The only things missing were lava lamps, two glasses of champagne, and a veined-throbbing penis in place of a sterile syringe.
“Okay now, Ms. Kensington, this will only take a moment,” came the whispering voice of young Doctor Kildare.
She adjusted her legs in the stirrups and said a quick, silent prayer that the UCLA graduate wasn’t, in reality, a serial killer.
Abigail
saw Maddie out the front door, then went to the kitchen to check on the crew’s progress. Above the island cooktop copper pans glinted in the spotlights; between them, dried herbs tied with raffia hung in plump bunches. It looked picture-perfect, warm and cozy, not at all like the oversized room that it was—oversized, and now overcrowded with a dozen technicians and miles of cables.
The preproduction ritual was the worst part about doing the TV show. She hated the standing around, the waiting, the on-guard poising required to enable her to jump into action once the director barked the words “We’re ready!” Abigail, of course, knew she didn’t have to jump when called—she was the star, and stars didn’t have to.
However, in recent years she’d realized it was best to get it over with. Over and done with, as quickly as possible.
She glanced at a long trestle table off to one side, where the set decorator fussed with a centerpiece: earthenware jugs holding chili peppers and cactus flowers, and tall glass bottles filled with oils and fresh cilantro. The arrangement was accented by boldly colorful Mexican folk art figurines. This, after all, was to be an informal southwestern brunch, complete with burritos, bread bowls with corn salsa, and green chili puffs—a marked change of pace from her viewers’ rich holiday feasts.
Best of all, José Ruiz was to be her guest host. Boasting a heritage “one hundred percent Mexican-American,” his bronze skin and black hair contrasted with Abigail’s looks with shocking appeal, and his talents for cooking had made him head chef at Manhattan’s famous El Grande restaurant.
José’s back was toward her now as he stood over the sink, chopping up something that looked like vegetables. She did not think it prudent to interrupt.
Maddie, of course, could have stayed longer. But Abigail had said all she wanted to say. After what Maddie had done to Kris, there was no point in letting Maddie in on the details of her fake suicide. If the woman could not even be trusted to be supportive of Kris, there was no telling how she might screw up Abigail’s plan.
She would be nice to her, of course. Encourage the whims of her birthday wish. But Abigail would not share. She had realized that Maddie Daniels was simply too undependable.
There would be only Kris to rely on. Kris, who was still on the opposite coast.
Shuddering a little, Abigail decided to look for Larry. Next week was Thanksgiving, and it was time to tell him her decision about Rupert’s—that she simply did not want more responsibility. She hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed.
She looked around the room but did not see him. “Try the solarium,” the director said.
As she
walked into the dining room, Abigail heard the sound of low voices coming from the solarium. It was not like her to worry about interrupting. It was not like her to hesitate at the door. But for some reason—fate, intuition, or divine intervention—Abigail did not enter.