If I Can't Have You (39 page)

He couldn’t get enough of her, and even on the short trip home, he’d taken a detour, pulling off the highway onto a deserted road, and made love to his wife in the backseat of the Duesenberg.

Each moment together was precious, and he savored
every second. Deep inside, he feared their days together were numbered. It was a feeling he refused to talk about or share. He kept his worries to himself. There was no need for Adriana to live with the fear that was haunting him more than his fear of being a murderer ever had.

They were together. Forever.

That’s all she needed to think.

It wasn’t true, though. He knew he was going to be torn from her—soon. His dreams last night and the night before had been filled with visions of that last party he’d attended. He’d dreamed of arguing with Carole, of Janet asking him to stay with her, of having mixed emotions about what to do. He wondered if his dreams were a premonition of things to come. A premonition of reliving those moments all over again, and of living a life without Adriana.

Lying beside her in the middle of their bed, he wrapped her hair around his finger, memorizing its silkiness and capturing the mere scent of strawberry that wafted toward him. He had to remember everything—tomorrow it might all be gone.

Adriana closed one book and opened another, looking toward Trevor through long, pale lashes. “Your thoughts are a million miles away, aren’t they?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he drew his fingers across her cheek and over her lips. “They’re here with you, right where they belong.”

“Do you feel like sending your thoughts back sixty years?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not today.”

She sat up, pulling one of the books with her as she settled her bikini-clad bottom against his stomach. If she wasn’t careful, he’d push the book away and make love to her, storing one more memory away.

“I know you don’t want to look at these pho
tos again, but something doesn’t
seem right to me.”

She opened the book to a black-and-white of Carole’s body and that morning rushed through him—very vivid, very real. He turned away from the picture, but Adriana was studying it intently.

“I never noticed it before, but Carole wasn’t wearing any jewelry. None at all. Look at her wrists, her neck. No rings, no bracelets, no necklace.”

Trevor glanced at the photo, but all he saw was the blood, and the horror in her wide-open eyes.

“Did she usually wear jewelry?” Adriana asked.

“I suppose. I didn’t pay attention.”

“Then you don’t know if she was wearing any at the party?”

“Dammit, Adriana. I told you. I don’t remember.”

He shoved up from the bed and went to the window. Adriana followed, touching his arm gently.

“I’m sorry. I’m pushing too hard.”

“You want to learn the truth. That’s all.”

She wrapped her arms around him and rested her cool cheek against his back. “I want
you
to know the truth. I want your nightmares to stop. That’s what matters the most to me.”

He sighed, releasing some of the frustration that had been building within him all morning, and tried to remember that night at the Trocadero. “She was wearing white, something long and slinky,” he related. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the dress, her long, bare arms, the curve of her neck. He remembered putting on his top hat and taking her arm as they walked out of the club. He remembered the fans standing around, cheering, calling out Carole’s name and his. He remembered signing autographs while the attendant brought the Duesenberg. He remembered the photographers snapping pictures.

He remembered the photo he’d seen in one of Adriana’s books, a photo taken that night.

Going back to the bed, he sat on the edge, grabbed one of the books, and began to search.

“What are you looking for?” Adriana asked.

“A picture taken of Carole and me when we were leaving the Troc. I saw it that first night I was here.”

Adriana sat beside him and joined the search.

“Here it is,” he said, tapping the black-and-white photo.

“She’s not wearing any jewelry,” Adriana said, leaning close. She tilted her head to look at him and frowned.

“What about Janet? Are there any photos of her that night?”

More than likely, although he hoped she wasn’t wearing anything that might sparkle. He didn’t want to find proof that Janet was guilty. With all his heart, he wanted to find out that the murderer had been someone else, even if it took years of searching.

F
l
ipping through even more photos, he stopped when he saw one of Janet Julian taken the night of the premiere.

“She’s wearing what looks like a diamond necklace,” Adriana said.

“A lot of women were wearing diamond necklaces.”

“But a lot of women didn’t hate Carole Sinclair. They disliked her—but that’s as far as it went.”

Maybe someone else had hated her. Maybe someone else had killed Carole, but it seemed as if everything pointed toward Janet.

Trevor watched Adriana wedge a scrap of paper into the binding of the book, and pull another biography from the stack on top of the bed.

“Why are you marking that picture?” he asked.

“I’m not sure yet, but see if you can find any more photos of Janet taken before that night.”

Trevor laughed at her determination, but he humored
her, tagging numerous pages in his book while she did the same in hers.

Finally she stopped, and drew her finger over a caption. “Listen to this. It’s about a party that Janet attended with several other people. It gives their names, and next to Janet it says ‘Janet Julian, wearing the diamond choker she claims she wears twenty-four hours a day.’
 
”

“What’s so odd about that?”

“Look.” Adriana flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to comment. “She’s wearing that same necklace at a picnic in Palm Springs. Here she’s wearing it at the beach. In this one she’s at a party.” Adriana stopped turning pages and looked at Trevor. “She never took it off. It’s in every photo, including the one taken the night Carole was murdered.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Adriana flipped to another page and tapped her finger on the photo of Janet. “She’s not wearing it in this photo. It was taken at the Fourth of July party at Sparta—the night you disappeared. Why wasn’t she wearing it that night if she says she never took it off?”

“Maybe the clasp broke? Maybe it was stolen?”

“Or maybe it fell off when she murdered Carole.”

Hand in hand Trevor and Adriana walked along the fragrant, rose-lined path at Magnolia Acres. A year before—back in 1937—Trevor had been one of Janet’s regular visitors. He’d brought her roses each time he came, while Charlie Beck, the young photographer who’d been smitten by her, brought her rosebushes.

Charlie Beck was in love. Things might have been different if Janet had loved him in return.

Trevor halfway wished he could return to 1938, to right all his wrongs and to change the course of his future, Janet’s future, and Carole Sinclair’s.

But, if he was somehow tossed back into his own decade—alone—was there any way he could change the past, and still come back to his wife?

He didn’t want to think about it. The thought of going back and never holding Adriana again frightened him more than living with the horror of his memories.

He plucked a red rosebud and handed it to Adriana. “You know,” he said, “a few short weeks ago—when I saw Janet last—she was twenty-two. She’s eighty-two now. I wonder if she’ll recognize me.”

“She lives in the past, not the present. I’m sure she’ll know who you are.”

“And Charlie Beck? If he shows up while we’re here, do you think he might guess at the truth?”

Adriana shook her head. “People might travel through time in the movies, but no one would ever believe it could actually happen.”

“You believed it.”

“I wanted to believe it. You’re all I’d ever wanted.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her words. God, how he loved her.

A nurse met them at the back door and led them up the stairs to the second-floor room where Janet lay in bed. “She’s had a bad bout with the flu, and I’m afraid she’s not very strong. Don’t stay long, please.”

The nurse left the room, and Trevor crossed the floor to the bed and sat in a chair at one side while Adriana sat on the other.

For the longest time he studied Janet’s features, but he saw nothing familiar. She was an old lady now and very frail Her face had turned the palest of gray instead of being ivory tinged with pink, as he remembered it. Her skin hung in wrinkles from pronounced cheekbones, and her white hair was sparse.

Trevor looked across to Adriana, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing she can tell us.”

Adriana put a quieting finger to her lips and smiled at Trevor, then leaned closer to the lady in bed and whispered. “Hello, Janet.”

Nearly translucent eyelids raised and a quiet, feeble voice asked, “Do I know you?”

“I’m an old friend. Adriana Howard. Remember?”

“Are you an actress?” Janet asked, and Trevor caught the familiar sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
It lasted only an instant, but he remembered it just the same. “Are you working on
Break the Night?”

“That was filmed a long time ago, Janet. And, no, I’m not an actress... just a friend. I’ve brought you a rose.”

Janet looked at the deep red bud. “You’re so sweet,” she said. “Would you mind putting it in my vase. Charlie brings me flowers every day. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“They’re lovely,” Adriana said, tucking the rose into the already overfilled vase next to Janet’s bed.

“I’ve brought another friend with me, too.

Janet slowly rolled her head to the left and a soft smile crossed her lips. “Hello, Trevor. I haven’t seen you in a while. Why haven’t you come to visit?”

Trevor easily slipped back to the past, to a time more than sixty years ago when he’d sat next to Janet in this very same room, and talked to her about the studio, about the day’s events.

“I’ve been working a lot of hours,” he said. “You know how it is with production schedules.”

“Jack keeps you too busy. You should tell him you need a rest.”

“I suppose I should. But I like making movies.”

“I do, too, but Jack told me yesterday that my contract was up. He doesn’t want me at the studio any longer. He wants Carole, but not me. Can you believe that? I’m as good an actress as she is.” Janet sniffed back tears. “Oh, Trevor, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

He put a calming hand on her cheek, and she clutched it with fingers gnarled with age. “I’ll help you find another job,” he whispered, wishing he had helped her all those years ago. But he didn’t know she’d lost her job, he didn’t know how badly she’d needed him that night.

“I’ll help you Janet. Whatever you need.”

“No. You won’t help me,” Janet sobbed, her eyes
reddening with tears. “You’ll leave me—for Carole—just like you always do.”

“I never meant to leave you.”

“You wanted Carole, not me. Charlie’s the only one who ever wanted me.”

A tear fell down her cheek. Slowly she whispered, “Charlie loved me. He said he’d do anything for me.

“Of course I’d do anything for you.”

Trevor spun around, startled by the intrusion.

Charlie Beck.
Older. Stooped and walking with the aid of a cane. Heavier than he’d been as a very young man, but beneath the wrinkled skin Trevor could see the same warm, loving eyes he’d seen smiling at Janet all those years ago.

“I have visitors, Charlie,” Janet said, her eyes narrowing as if suddenly confused. “I don’t know who they are. Do you?”

“It’s our friend, Adriana. You remember her, dearest. She’s the one who brings you the chocolates you like so much.”

“Oh, yes.” Janet turned her head to Adriana and smiled. “I remember you, now. You’re the one who asked so many questions about Trevor Montgomery.” She laughed lightly. “He was such a wicked man. Not at all like my Charlie.”