Souvenirs (11 page)

“Ben?”

“Yes.” He still sounded pissed. She fought the urge to hang up.

“It’s me. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about the time difference.”

“Grace?”

“I’ll go so you can get some sleep. I got your message and didn’t think too far after that.”

“If you hang up on me, I will find you and kick your arse.” Even across an ocean, his voice, the laughter she could hear, curled her toes. “You’re home?”

“Just now. I haven’t even unpacked.” She couldn’t stop the yawn.

“I’ve been thinking.” Ben yawned in response. “Do you Skype?”

Chapter 10

For weeks, Ben pretended Skype sessions and text messages were enough, that some part of Grace was better than none, and he wasn’t a selfish prat for keeping her. Then one night he turned in his sleep and his hand slid across cool sheets. He cracked one eye open, and struggled to hear something other than the Copenhagen hotel room’s air conditioning. The room was silent. Where was she?

She’s working, remember?
She called you to tell you goodnight during her dinner break.
While part of him pitied her having to work at all hours, his curiosity fueled the other part. What did she do? While she worked from home, she traveled almost as much as he did. He imagined her on a plane, curled up in her seat scribbling madly in her journal, and wondered if she’d bought a new one. After all, she’d filled the one she’d brought to Europe.

And she’d been writing again last night when he’d joined her for their designated Tuesday Skype date. He’d been tardy because shooting had run long, and he’d been content to stare at the screen and watch her frown in thought, wondering what held her attention. Then she’d seen him and shifted her attention, making him forget his questions by tempting him with her well-worn tank-top and ponytail and the view of the sunset from the patio of her lakefront home. He’d been in bed with the computer next to him on the mattress. She’d talked to him until he’d fallen asleep.

And now he was awake wondering why she wasn’t on her side of the bed. He stared at the ceiling, willing his body to forget. Finally giving up, he reached for the phone and typed a quick message. Texts were safe. If she was asleep, he wouldn’t disturb her.

Are you there?

His phone buzzed in his fingers and he dropped it to the bed, scrambling to find it before she hung up.

“Can’t you sleep, sweetheart?” she asked in her soft drawl.

Three a.m. here, meant nine p.m. there. She was awake, but barely. He imagined her curled against her pillows, or maybe in a lounge chair like that morning in Rome. Her skin would be warm. “I miss you, doll,” he groaned. “Talk to me.”

Two mornings later, he was staring at the ceiling again. His body hurt from fight scenes, and he had a bruise on his shoulder where his co-star’s blow had gone astray. But it paled compared to the ache in his chest as he replayed every moment from his impromptu Thursday call with Grace. His text alert rang.

Sweetheart? Are you awake?

He was dialing before he read the last word.

“It’s midnight there, Idgie. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I was working and forgot the time. And . . . I missed you.” She yawned. “Don’t you have an early meeting?”

“I have time.” He looked at his watch. He’d skip breakfast and eat between scenes. She missed him.

Another month brought another hotel. In Berlin, Ben sat at the desk in the office chair that was supposed to be ergonomic but only fit people shorter than five foot eight. He practiced his speech in front of a blank computer screen.
I’m sorry I’ve lied to you, but you need to know. I’m an actor. I’m on location. I want you to come visit, but the paparazzi will follow us everywhere. Please come anyway. I’ll get it sorted.
His reflection gave him a satisfied nod and he entered the video chat.

She was facing the bookshelf behind her desk clothed in a t-shirt and well-fitting jeans. Her hair was wet. She must have just finished a shower.

She was on her cell phone. “My research is going slower than I expected. I’m not going to make that deadline. Well, I’m sorry, you’re just going to have to push it back.”

No matter how much he wanted to solve the riddle of her job, he shouldn’t eavesdrop. “Grace?”

She spun, her eyes wide. “I have to go.” She dropped the phone next to her computer and sat in her desk chair. Everything about her was wary. “Hi. How long have you been there?”

“Not long. All right?”

“All right?” Her concern faded to her impish smile as she nodded sharply, and his practiced speech unraveled.

“I’m well. You look busy.”

“I’m flying out tomorrow.” She glanced behind him. “Is that your suitcase? Any chance you’re headed to L.A.?”

“Brussels for a week, then Croatia.”

“Beats the hell out of California.”

He watched her loopy grin from across the ocean and told himself, for the millionth time, he was doing the right thing.

“I’m taking my laptop and my phone,” he reassured her. “As long as I have access, I’ll see you. The schedule may be wonky, though.” Location shoots never went as planned. He’d end up in his trailer watching it rain and playing his guitar while she was asleep in a city halfway across the world.

“Call me whenever you can. I’ll be here,” she promised before she took a deep breath. “I need to tell—”

His heart stopped.
No, not like this. If you do, I have to, and I want to tell you when I can hold you and convince you it will be all right.
“Tell me how you spent your weekend.”

They kept with their schedule through the fall, eating dinner together in front of their computers, texting when their schedules didn’t connect, talking when insomnia seized them.

Location shoots ended in November, so at the first of December, Ben was back in London. It had been too long since he’d put his hands on Grace, and his hormones were dissolving his organs. He hated Skype, and text messages had been created by Satan himself. He needed a way to get to the States. Since his best shot was work, he called his agent.

“Archie? Any word on casting for that book adaptation?”

“Not yet. They may have another type in mind. Those Yanks are unpredictable. Cam’s invited me for tea today. Want to come with?”

It had been easy to pick Archie as an agent. He, Ben, and Noah had been inseparable through Uni and then as they’d begun their professional lives. Now they were the cottage industry responsible for creating Bennett Oliver. His mother treated the other men like her sons and loved that they reacted to her as if she were their age, even down to her nickname.

He checked his watch. He had an hour before he got to talk to Grace. It wasn’t enough time for tea. “Can’t. I have a date.”

Halfway around the world, Grace checked her watch and slid from her desk chair. After stretching and twisting to relieve the kinks in her muscles, she walked into the kitchen and stuck a pizza in the microwave.

Outside, the clouds were heavy in the sky, and snow drifted on the porch. Distracted, she opened the door and poked her head outside. The woods were silent under their blanket of snow. There wasn’t even a breath of wind to confuse the flakes as they fell. Beyond her yard, the lake was steel gray. When had it started to snow?

Her phone rang. If this was Ben, telling her
another
meeting had run long, she’d hang up on him. She would.

Sure she would. Because she hadn’t enjoyed hearing his laugh and talking to him in the middle of the night as his words slurred with sleep. She hadn’t, even once, kept the Skype window open to watch him burrow under the blankets and snuggle into his pillow.

It wasn’t his fault she missed him. All it would take is one invitation, one confession.
Come visit, Ben. Come see my life.

She looked at the caller ID. It was only Paul. “What’s up?”

“We’re ready to start casting,” said her best friend-slash-producer.

“I didn’t get any comments on the last edits.”

“It’s because we liked them, dumbass. The technical crew is coming along thanks to your last suggestions while you were here. We’ve got space rented. We’re ready to put it on film.”

“I’ll need to spend Christmas with Mom,” Grace negotiated.

“What am I, Scrooge? We can start right after. You can be here for New Year with me and Meg.”

New Year. Ben. But he hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

The alarm on her phone dinged. It was date time.

Grace pulled her dinner from the microwave. “Text me with the details, and I’ll be there.”

She hung up on him and sat at the computer with her latest script in her head. It was short and easy to memorize.
Ben, I’m headed to California to work on a movie
.
I’m sorry I’ve hidden my work from you, but I’m a writer. Come see, please. I want to show it to you.

“Hullo, Idgie.” His crooked grin melted every thought in her brain.

“Hello, sweetheart.” She dived in. Paul’s revelation would make New Year impossible. “I’m headed back to L.A. after Christmas. It’s a longer stay this time. I’ll be there over the New Year.”

He stared into the camera, his eyebrows arched in an unspoken question. “I could meet you there.”

“I’ll be working.”

“I’m a big boy. I can entertain myself until you’re finished.”

Her heart was on a roller coaster. He wanted to see her, but seeing her in L.A. meant seeing it all. Though it had sounded so good in the script, it sounded lousy aloud. She focused on the one true thing.

“I’d love to see you. Please come.”

Chapter 11

Fiona Ashe had considered herself Bennett Oliver’s assistant since his first stage appearance in prep school. Just like she knew the man belonged in front of an audience, she knew she was better at operating behind the scenes. Besides, background people had most of the influence anyway. That’s why, while Noah and Ben rubbed elbows with the movers and shakers, Fiona spent her time with the power behind those thrones. Like today, over lunch with Emily Saunders, the assistant to Archie Boxley, Ben’s agent.

“Marcus Ingram was in the other day,” Emily said. “He asked after Ben. Said it had been ages since they’d talked. Didn’t he go to Uni with you lot?”

Fe nodded. “He did. Don’t have Archie mention him to Ben, would you?”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” Fe assured her. “But Marc told the press a story about having his nose broken by the Beast of Britain.”

“Ben broke Marc’s nose?” Emily asked, her eyes wide.

“It was a football accident,” Fe explained. “But that part was left out, and Ben won’t even consider that Marc was misquoted. And even if he did, Marc
talked.
You know how irrational Ben gets about the press.”

Emily nodded, and they fell silent for a few minutes.

“What’s the story on the movie casting in L.A.?” Fiona asked around a mouthful of chips. “Did they reject Ben out of hand?”

“Which?” Emily blinked at her, clueless, and Fe’s stomach dropped. She’d always suspected Archie was dodgy.

“The action fantasy thing.”

“He said something about another project.” Emily paled as her eyes widened. “He said Ben was on board with it.”

“He’s not,” Fe sighed.

“Archie’s an arse,” Emily growled. “Those books are bloody brill. Ben’s perfect for it.”

“I think so too,” Fiona said. “Can you get me his audition package?”

“Archie will be narked if he finds I’ve nicked it.” Emily chewed on her straw, making Fe worry until she smirked. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

Fiona nodded, picked up the tab, and left for the office. She’d keep this her secret. Otherwise Noah would howl, and Ben would get his hopes up. And if she failed, they’d be hell to live with. But if she succeeded, and
then
told them, neither of them could complain. Right?

The next day, Ben was halfway between the tube station and home. He’d spent Christmas with Grace by phone, he and his mother switching conversations between Grace and Sunny. Enough was enough.

I’ll tell her while I’m in L.A. I’ll close my eyes to minimize the distraction and blurt it out before she can talk.

Between after-Christmas sales ads, The Sun’s blaring headline had him sliding to a stop.

Does the Beast Have a New Bird??

The air left his lungs. The photo showed him on the train with Grace stretched out next to him, using his shoulder as a backrest as they laughed with Adam and Nora. He hadn’t even seen the camera.

The article went into great detail about his career, his abandonment of Hillary, and speculation about his new companion.

They were wrong, of course. Everything was a rehash of things they’d already printed, what Hillary had fed them. Recycled photos were in a box on the corner of the page. Yelling, sulking, and stalking through crowds. He hated those. Hillary had always picked a fight with him when a camera was around, and she always made sure a camera was around. Those pictures were like the wallpaper in his mother’s dining room—there, yet easily ignored after years of viewing.

But the picture capturing the private moment with Grace made him ill. Who the hell had done this? No one had said anything about knowing him on vacation, no one had approached him first. Except Grace.

The writing, the research, and the deadline. The camera and the mother all the way at the front of the bus, with the perfect angle for a photo of them together.

His mind seized on the first opportunity and the puzzle snapped together. It sickened him to think he’d been fooled so roundly. But the longer he marched toward home with the offensive and, he realized, stolen rag clenched in his fingers, the more convinced he became.

Come to L.A., I’d love to see you.

He wagered she would. She probably had a camera crew scheduled for the airport.

The exposé would follow. “My Vacation with the Beast of Britain.” Could Skype calls be downloaded for later? Text messages could be printed and saved, couldn’t they?

God
. He should have read her damn notebook. He’d have to get Noah to file restraining orders to prevent publication of anything else. Nothing in his life could be private. Nothing could be simple.

He charged into his apartment and yanked the plane ticket from his desk. Like a bloody moron, he’d bought a one-way trip, determined to stay with her until they’d worked things out. He’d been played . . . again. She was just like Hillary, just like everyone else.

He grabbed his electronics and raced to the repair shop two blocks over.

“Did you spill beer in it again?” Jeremy, the tech, asked.

Ben ignored the small talk. “I need you to scrub the email, clean out everything, disable the web cam, delete the Skype account, and sell me a new phone, with a new number.” His hand shook as he scrawled detailed instructions and shoved the sheet across the counter.

Jeremy pulled the equipment toward him. “Ooh-kay. Do you need this back by tomorrow, or will Wednesday do it?”

Tomorrow was Tuesday. He and Grace were supposed to finalize their plans for New Year. There wouldn’t be a phone call. He’d never hear her again. Well, she’d not be hearing him either. He wasn’t giving her any more exclusives, no more ammunition.

“Disable the phone today,” he clipped. “Disconnect the number and close the Skype and email accounts. The rest of it doesn’t matter.”

Hours later, Ben drained another glass of whiskey without tasting it and watched the flame die in the dustbin. That was the last of it. If only his brain could be so easily cleaned.

Fiona barreled through the downstairs door in a clatter of keys and high heels. “Nobby?”

“Bugger off, y’ bint,” he bellowed.

She stomped up the stairs. “I’ve been ringing all afternoon. What’s wrong with your phone? Why are you in the dark?”

“New number,” he mumbled.

“Are you pissed?”

He leaned back against the sofa cushions and stared into the dark room as he raised his glass. “I pissed passed—pissed pa—piss—oh, sod it! Yes.”

Fiona sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”

“What do you want?”

“You’ve got an audition for the book movie. You have to be in L.A. in two weeks.”

Los Angeles. Grace is there, waiting for me.
Stop it. No more. She was like everyone else, only smarter, and funnier, and softer . . . He ran his fingers through his hair and ended up trying to yank it out. “I don’t want to go.”

“Rubbish. You’ve been bashing on about this for weeks.” She perched on the couch. “What’s up?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Fe switched on a lamp, and he knew what she saw. He was slumped on the sofa, and the hacked and ripped pages of
The Sun
were under every bottle he’d scrounged from his cabinets. He’d just drained the last one. His chin itched and his eyes burned. His crusty, sweaty gym clothes scratched his skin.

“What’s happened?” Her voice was softer.

His throat closed off. He didn’t want kindness. “Go away, Fiona. Please.”

She shut off the light and walked to the door, cursing as she hit her shin on the edge of a table.

He clung to the one thing certain in his life—he had a professional responsibility. “I’ll be ready to go whenever you tell me.”

Grace stood in the window and watched the constant stream of L.A. traffic flow around the hotel like white-hot lava around her own private island.

It was after nine. Ben should have called by now to finalize plans. She’d talked to the concierge and learned a few spots away from tourists, and Meg had talked to someone about getting them into the observatory to look at stars. He’d like that, wouldn’t he? It was important he like it here.

They should’ve talked hours ago, but she’d been delayed in Phoenix and her phone had died because she’d thrown her charger in her checked bag instead of her carryon. Maybe cyberspace had eaten his message.

She pushed his speed-dial button.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

“Huh.” She tried again with the same result. Flipping open her laptop, she checked her chat window. He wasn’t online. She sent an email, and got an immediate response.

Undeliverable.

Her stomach rolled in dread as she opened Skype and clicked on his name.

Account has been terminated.

Her finger hovered over her mother’s speed dial number. What if something was wrong? He was half a world away, at least. He flew all the time. What if something had
happened
?

No. Camille would have called Mom, and Mom would have sent Meg and Paul to tell her. Of course she could call and make sure, but then Mom would butt in or, worse, call Camille.

Grace did something she’d vowed not to do. She googled him. Ben Brady.

Nothing. Well, a few twentysomethings, but not her Ben.

He was gone as if he’d never existed.

She stared at the blank wall and listened to the hum of the air conditioner. What had she said? Done? She’d tried to be encouraging but not needy. Maybe he’d wanted needy. Maybe she should have—

She leapt to her feet, shoving the desk chair against the bed behind her. Fuck that. He could’ve just said he’d changed his mind.

What was he playing at? She’d given him a perfect out in Paris, but he’d pursued her. Begged her, even. He could have left her alone instead of torturing her for months. What came from dragging things out, what other than this empty feeling? He’d dug himself into her life, only to dig through her and leave her hollow.

Was this how he had his fun while he jetted around the world doing mysterious things he avoided discussing? Did he laugh with his
mates
about the lonely American idiot who answered the phone whenever he called, who waited like a puppy for a pat on the head?

She violated another rule and invaded the mini-bar. Pulling a tiny Crown Royal bottle from the fridge, she piled onto the bed and turned on the television.

Hours later, she scraped a load of empty bottles into the trash and flipped BBC World News the bird. On wobbly legs, she shuffled to her laptop, opened her email and typed.

Who the fuck do you think you are? What goddamned game were you playing? How fucking bored do you have to be with your shitty life to decide to—

It went on for pages. When she ran out of English curse words, she used British ones, then German ones. Then she invented new ones. Unlike people, words had never failed her.

Words and work. They’d saved her more than once, and they’d do it again.

The next night, she took a cab to LAX. Sitting in baggage claim while his flight arrived, she cursed herself for clinging to the hope that he’d decided to surprise her.

Nothing was a surprise. Not the teary, lonely cab ride back to the hotel, not the raid on the newly stocked mini-bar, and certainly not the second drunken novella.

You at least owed me a goodbye. You spineless shitbag—

On New Year’s Eve, Grace stepped from the cab in front of Paul and Meg’s Malibu home. She wrapped her fingers around the bottle of wine the hotel sommelier had suggested, and reminded herself of her choices. She could have dinner with her friends or sit in her room, drinking alone, while couples crowded the hallways on the way to parties in the ballrooms. Besides, Paul and Meg would have come to get her.

As the car pulled away, the purr of the engine was replaced with cries of gulls and the crash of waves on the beach at the bottom of the bluff. Exhaust fumes were replaced by the salt breeze. December and no snow. It was another level of wrong for the holiday.

Meg and Paul had skipped their huge New Year’s bash this year, choosing instead to host a party for the cast and crew on the eve of their initial full day in the studio. For the first time in her life, Grace wished for a crowd to get lost in. She could disappear outside and sleep in a lounge chair next to the pool and no one would miss her.

There wouldn’t be any hiding now. Still, she could try. She stiffened her spine and told herself, again, she was done with Ben Brady, done with mini-bars, and done feeling sorry for herself.

Before she could knock, Paul opened the door and swept her into a hug.

“I told you we’d come get you,” he scolded as he took the wine. “And I told you not to bring anything.”

They walked through the large house to the kitchen, and Paul joined Meg at the island in the center of the room. He kissed her cheek as he reached for the corkscrew. Jealousy and guilt swirled through Grace, forcing her to drop her gaze to the countertop. After he’d poured glasses and handed them around, Paul left the room. There was a plot afoot.

“So, we’re thinking you should stay in our guest house once production starts,” Meg announced.

Grace grimaced at the bite of the dry merlot. “That’ll be an inconvenience, won’t it?”

Meg waved it off, much like she’d waved off loaning her favorite shoes their freshman year of college. “It’ll be like living in your mother’s guest house. You can come and go as you please.”