The Summer of No Regrets (19 page)

chapter
thirty-seven

We didn’t talk at all on the hour drive home. Malory kept her head erect, apparently not needing to nap on Webster’s shoulder. My stomach tied itself in bows and then in granny knots. In my heart of hearts I had thought I was overreacting by teling Luke the kittens would die if we didn’t keep them secret.

But then I had left them to go running off with him. Now they But then I had left them to go running off with him. Now they were going to die. Because of me.

Webster dropped us off at The Center and didn’t come in, claiming an errand. At the door I stopped Malory before she could go in. “We have to do something.”

Malory shook her head. She looked defeated already. “What can we do?” she said.

I puled out my phone. “Do you have a number for Felicity Bowen?”

•••

Felicity was at The Center in twenty minutes, digital recorder in hand, smartphone at the ready. She had a Nikon slung around her neck and the ever-present pencil tucked behind her ear. At nineteen years old, I think Felicity was the most whiz-bang journalist ever to hit the Kwahnesum Valey. I’d thought Malory was driven.

“Cougar babies! Cougar babies are a story!”

She still made me nervous, but she was the best hope we had.

Malory came with us to the cougar den. I told Felicity about the Pedialyte and the goat milk and the al-night feedings. “We worked in shifts,” I said. “Only sometimes I slept through mine and Luke took two shifts.”

“Luke?” Felicity adjusted her recorder. “Who’s Luke?” What in the name of everything sacred had made
that
come out of my mouth?

Malory’s mouth opened. She turned to me. “It wasn’t Devon, was it?” she said slowly. “It was that boy who moved into the Hansen place—the one who was here Sunday.” She met my eyes as everything fell into place.

I looked away. A robin took off from the ground with something in its beak. Fur?

Felicity jabbered on, oblivious. “Oh! The boy at the Hansen Felicity jabbered on, oblivious. “Oh! The boy at the Hansen place? Zach Thompson’s little sister Cheryl has been going on about him. The one who’s supposed to look like Trent Yves?” Felicity licked the end of her pencil and scribbled something on her pad.

“And is not Trent Yves,” I said. “I think we should focus on the kittens.” Cheryl the sophisticated had been going on about Luke?

Felicity took a step closer. “But Trent Yves is an angle—a hook. It could be what sels the story.”

“But he only looks like him.” I knocked a bit of moss off the cougar tree.

“That’s what makes him interesting. I could get a few photos of the two of you by this empty stump. It would look like something out of
Imlandria
.”

“Not that I’m Gwen Melier.” I tried to laugh but felt sick instead.

Felicity grinned. “You’re much cuter than her, Brigitta.” She snapped a picture of me. “Look,” she said. “I’ll start making some cals—the
Times
, the news stations. Do you have a number for Luke?”

I shook my head, feeling a pang that I didn’t have to lie about this.

“I’ll just go and see him. Trust me, Brigitta. Most people love to have their picture in the paper. And if we get him in there, it’ll bring just the publicity you want for these cougar babies.”

•••

Mom did breakfast duty with the nuns in the morning (Dad had some early-morning ritual he had to complete at the stream, and it was simply too difficult for him to help). Malory and I had the upstairs to ourselves. I went to get the paper while she sectioned grapefruit.

The headline was on the second page of the entertainment The headline was on the second page of the entertainment section, above the fold. I set my spoon down.

Trent
Yves
Hides
Out
in
Kwahnesum
Valley.

Below the fold was a photo: an auburn-haired woman with groceries in her arms. The one I’d seen. Beside her was Luke.

The caption said, “Former manager Donna Reardon spotted with her protégé, Trent Yves.”

chapter
thirty-eight

Trent Yves Hides Out

in Kwahnesum Valley

Felicity Bowen—Special to the
Times

Rumors of teen actor Trent Yves escaping to the sleepy town of Kwahnesum were confirmed yesterday by sightings of both Trent and his former manager, Donna Reardon. Yves, who recently won Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival for his portrayal of a young runaway in
Rocket
, was unavailable for comment.

Yves has been using the name “Luke Geoffrey,” apparently after his grandmother, Anne Geoffrey Burke, a professor of music at Nottingham Trent University in Great Britain until her death three years ago.

Yves’ father, Valéry Boeglin, is reportedly living in Paris following a contentious divorce. His mother, former child prodigy pianist Wendy Burke, has been seen as increasingly volatile and unstable since a chair-throwing incident at the Daytime Emmy Awards last month. Reports of her entering the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California, are unconfirmed.

“I talked with him last week, and he’s so sweet,” beams Kwahnesum resident Natalie Shapiro, 16. “He said I was very talented. I was shaking like crazy,” she adds. “He’s unbelievable.”

Neighbor Buck Harper has noticed the young man in the black Jeep Neighbor Buck Harper has noticed the young man in the black Jeep several times. “I didn’t know he was famous,” he says. “All I know is he drives too fast.”

No. Please no. I squeezed my eyes shut. It couldn’t be true.

After all this, it couldn’t realy be true. But the details: the bitter divorce, his alcoholic mom being a child prodigy—Luke had told me that himself. I put my head in my palms. I was so stupid.

How could I have been so gulible?

Malory stopped picking mint out of the garden. “Brigitta, what is it?” She crossed the room. I pointed to the article. The kitchen was going in circles.

Malory’s eyes lingered on the photo. “So this Trent person realy is quite wel-known,” she said.

“Eight milion Google results,” I said miserably.

“That’s a lot.” She put the paper down.

I traced the photo with my finger. I had seen him in that shirt

—the black one with the zippers. I wanted to cry. Trent had stolen Luke from me. I couldn’t hate one and love the other.

Because they were the same person.

Malory put her arms around me. “It’ll be okay, Gita.”

“She didn’t mention the kittens—not even once!”

“Yeah, I know,” said Malory grimly. “The movie star is a better story.”

I broke away from her and got my Nonni coat from the bedroom. “I’m going out,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Malory ran a kitchen towel over the counter.

“It may be a media circle out there.”

I almost smiled. “Don’t you mean circus?”

Malory frowned. “Sharks circle,” she said.

•••

I made my way through the woods. Dad was in the clearing in I made my way through the woods. Dad was in the clearing in front of Eve. A man with a camera was climbing down the ladder from the tree house.

“This is private property,” Dad was saying, none too patiently.

“And the property next door is also private. You have exactly two minutes to remove yourself.”

The man jumped to the ground and complied, but he only went toward Luke’s house.

I took the deer trail past the cougar tree. I thought of Luke holding the kittens in his lap, smiling that lazy smile at me, saying my name. Had he only been acting?

I remembered how he’d looked on the beach when he began to tell me about his mother. Was that acting? Had he ever told those things to anyone else? Or was there no one in his world that he could tel?

Kwahnesum
was
a hideaway for Luke. But I was not the goddess in the woods with the golden hair.

What if he thought
I’d
sicced Felicity on him? What if he thought I’d shared his secrets with some reporter?

I had to talk to him—to let him know I hadn’t betrayed him.

And I had to tell him about the kittens before it was too late.

The scene on Luke’s property was worse than circling sharks.

People with cameras crowded in front of the house. They were shooting pictures through the windows, sitting in trees, standing on the edge of the fountain. There must have been forty of them

—mostly men—all with microphones or gigantic cameras. The driveway was full of their SUVs. When the front door opened they jockeyed for position, pushing and shoving. “Trent!” they caled. “Come on out, Trent! Don’t be shy!”

I pressed my cheek against the bark of an alder and held my breath. I didn’t want to see Luke swaggering for the press the way I’d seen Trent do on celebrity websites. At the same time, I wanted to see his face again—to see if Trent had erased him completely. The door opened wider.

Donna Reardon stepped onto the porch.

Donna Reardon stepped onto the porch.

“Where’s Trent?” voices shouted. “Bring Trent out!” You could barely hear them because the cameras were flashing and clicking like a horde of locusts. Some of them aimed their lenses into the entryway, but Donna puled the door shut behind her.

She looked better than I had seen her before. Hair perfectly styled, makeup even. She wore a short blue jacket with a blue silk shirt.

“Trent has returned to LA,” she caled as the din diminished.

“He begins shooting on
The
Lamplighter
in two weeks.” He was gone again! Only this time I knew where.

More shouts: “You sure he’s not hiding in the house?”

“Where’s Wendy?” “You got Crazy Mum locked up in there?”

“How does Trent feel about her getting a DUI in Seattle?” “Is Trent okay? Just tell us Trent’s okay.”

“Trent has had a difficult year,” said Donna. “He would like to be left alone.”

A balding paparazzo with a ponytail caled out, “Is it true Wendy Burke was committed to the Betty Ford Center for a psych eval?”

Donna pressed her lips together. “You are all on private property. You need to leave now.”

“But is she in the psych ward?” he persisted.

Behind Donna, the door opened. Three paparazzi tried to move in closer, but from inside the house, a burly man appeared and whisked Donna back to safety.

A bearded paparazzo with a video camera caught sight of me.

Before I could get away he had crossed the distance between us. “Do you live here?” he said. “Do you know Trent?” I didn’t answer, but I felt myself redden.

He grinned as if he’d won a prize. “You do know him, don’t you, sweetheart?” He smeled of garlic. Out of his pocket, he puled a hundred-dolar Bill. “Can you answer a few questions?” Several other paparazzi turned in our direction. Bearded Guy Several other paparazzi turned in our direction. Bearded Guy spoke quickly. “Has Gwen been here? Did you see her?” He thrust the hundred dolars at me.

I ran. Into the foliage and down a deer trail, switched back around the twin maples and charged through tangles of snowberry where there was no trail at al. At least three of them folowed me into the woods. I could see their jackets through the trees. I stayed low and out of sight and moved only when they moved away. I kept moving until I got to the cougar tree. I climbed inside just as Bearded Guy stumbled over a rock and landed, sprawled, ten yards from me. I could hear a siren coming up Luke’s driveway.

I pressed my back against the mossy interior of the cedar. The smell of Felix and Kalimar was growing faint. Beside me was the toy Luke had made, carved with their faces. I took it into my lap.

Bearded Guy picked himself up and began pacing down the trail, stopping every now and again to peer into the Indian plum bushes. My heart was beating fast. I ran my thumb over Luke’s carvings. I slowed my breathing and grounded myself. I was a cougar, resting in my den. I could see a human, but he couldn’t see me.

More voices. “Police! That’s private property! Get out of there!” Running feet. The sound of a car door and an engine starting. More engines. And finaly, silence.

I let the earth sing to me, the heartbeat of the earth steady me.

The smell of damp cedar calmed my senses. A song sparrow began chattering with its mate. Finaly, I crawled out of the den, leaving the toy with the odd thought that Felix and Kalimar would come back for it.

•••

Malory was doing yoga when I slipped into the apartment. She was in downward facing dog. “There were three reporters at the door,” she said with her butt in the air. “Dad said he’d call the door,” she said with her butt in the air. “Dad said he’d call the cops if they didn’t leave. We’ve turned off the phone. It’s like being under siege.” She shifted to plank, then cobra—flat on her stomach with her head and chest raised. “The nuns are all praying for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Sister Susannah thought you needed it. She knows who Trent Yves is, and they’re praying for him, too. They’re sweet, realy.” She went into child’s pose, kneeling, with her arms stretched on the floor in front of her, as if she were praying, too.

I remembered Luke asking “Do you pray, Brigitta?” and I remembered that I used to. I’d even prayed once or twice this month, but never for him, and definitely never for a celebrity. In fact, I’d never realy prayed for anyone but me.

chapter
thirty-nine

I convinced Malory that now was the time to drive back out to Cedar Haven. Natalie would have driven me if I’d asked her. In fact, she’d have been preparing speeches for Dr. Jackson. But now that she hated me it was no use caling her.

“Where’s Webster?” I asked Malory as we drove up I-5.

“He’s working on some research,” she said vaguely.

“I thought you were helping him.”

“I was…I mean, I am, but he’s at a juncture where he has to work alone for a few days.”

I wondered how you’d study the impact of sex on coastal environments—or whatever the heck he told Malory he was environments—or whatever the heck he told Malory he was researching—by yourself. I wasn’t mean enough to say this.

Suddenly Malory was the only friend I had.

I pressed my forehead against the window glass. I was relieved to be away from the reporters. How long would they lay siege to Luke’s house? Had he realy escaped or was he in there hiding?

“Look!” Malory pointed. A peregrine falcon dove from the sky to a field just ahead.

“What do you think she saw?” I said as the field gave way to a shopping center.

“Oh, a rabbit or a vole or a mole. Dad says a peregrine shifts its shape to slip through the air’s molecules.”

“You mean they’re shape-shifters?”

Malory laughed. “Not exactly.” It was good to hear her laugh

—a change from the cynical poke-holes-in-everything Malory who had come home from colege three weeks ago.

“Are you still mad at Dad?” I rubbed at a speck of dirt on the window.

Malory was quiet. “I thought you were the one who was mad at Dad,” she said finaly. She took the next exit, and we began passing farms, forest, an old lumber mil.

I studied the latch on the car door. “Why would I be mad at Dad?”

“Do you think I can’t see it, Brigitta? Just because you never open your mouth and tell him? I don’t know why you’re mad at him, but you’re fake around him. It was realy obvious when I came home from school because things didn’t used to be that way between you. It’s like you’re walking on eggshels all the time.”

Now it was my turn to be quiet.

She was wrong. I wasn’t mad at Dad. I was embarrassed by him leaping around in the woods with feathers stuck in his hair. I was annoyed that he was too busy planning retreats and hosting sweat lodges to take me hiking like he’d promised. But I wasn’t sweat lodges to take me hiking like he’d promised. But I wasn’t angry, I was just…indifferent, I suppose. He had his thing to do, and I had mine.

As soon as I thought this, I knew I was lying to myself.

Dad wouldn’t be able to understand me if he tried, but I did understand him. I understood him walking the perimeter of our property stepping toe-heel, toe-heel, listening for the voices with his feet. I understood him wanting to find the heartbeat of the forest. I understood how he heard the animals speak to him through tracks they left in the dirt, a piece of fur caught on a falen log. I understood all that. Because I did it myself.

Malory and I talked more than we had in a long time. She wouldn’t say anything else about Webster, so I didn’t push her.

But I finaly told her a little about Luke—not everything, but about going to the coast and how he’d kissed me in the lighthouse and how I didn’t want him to be Trent.

“Love is complicated,” she said.

“Yeah. And now Natalie won’t talk to me.”

“Why?” She turned. “Because of Luke? Is she jealous?”

“Maybe.” I stared at the telephone poles flying by. “Actualy,” I began. “It’s something I did.”

It seemed easier to confess in the car with no nuns around. I told her about the blog. I couldn’t bring myself to tell that I’d been just as nasty to “Dr. Freuda” as I’d been to Natalie.

“You’ve been so hidden, Brigitta.” Malory spoke quietly.

“You’ve been hiding yourself away since that public school year.

Do you think Natalie was just getting too close?”

“I don’t know.” It came out a squeak. Unexpected tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. “And I don’t know how to tell her I’m sorry.”

•••

Dr. Jackson gave Malory a long look before leading us to the Dr. Jackson gave Malory a long look before leading us to the kittens’ enclosure. “Web’s not with you?”

“He’s busy.” Malory smiled frostily. “I’ll tell him helo for you.”

A young guy with a Cedar Haven Volunteer shirt was sweeping scat into a scooper while Felix and Kalimar folowed each other from one log to another.

“I’ve enjoyed observing these two.” Dr. Jackson smiled sadly.

Kalimar was busy tearing up a piece of steak with her teeth.

Malory put her hand on my arm, as I absorbed Dr. Jackson’s past tense “enjoyed.”

“Are they going somewhere?” I asked.

“They’re already restless.” She sidestepped the question.

“They’re already beginning to pace. They can’t be released because they’re not prepared to fend for themselves. And because they’ve had human contact”—she looked at me pointedly—“they’d be a danger to any nearby community.”

“But a zoo…” I ignored her guilt trip.

“Is a prison for animals like these,” finished Dr. Jackson.

“So you prefer the death penalty to a life sentence?” I didn’t care if she was some fancy animal doctor. She had no business playing God.

Dr. Jackson put her hand on the chain-link fence that separated us from the kittens. “Death is not always a penalty.

These creatures pay the penalty when we move into their territory and prevent them from living normaly. I’m sorry, girls,” she said. “This breaks my heart, too.”

“No,” said Malory. “I don’t think it breaks your heart at al.” She drew herself up. “Dr. Lampson feels they should be in a zoo. He told me so privately.” She paused as a barely perceptible shadow flickered across Dr. Jackson’s face. “Surely you’d take his opinion into account.”

Dr. Jackson tightened her grip on the chain-link fence. “Dr.

Lampson is a fine behaviorist,” she said stiffly. “He does not, however, specialize in animals.”

however, specialize in animals.”

Malory stared her down.

“Wel,” said Dr. Jackson finaly. “We’ve one or two cals out yet. No final decision has been made.”

•••

Felicity met us back at The Center, which was now clear of all other reporters. I realy didn’t want to talk to her after what she’d done, but she was our only hope. She snapped pictures of us crouched by the empty cougar den and interviewed us both about what Dr. Jackson had said.

“There’s not much more I can do,” she said.

That was easy for her to say. She hadn’t been up nights caring for Felix and Kalimar. She hadn’t held them and looked in their faces. To her it was all a story.

“You could have mentioned them in your article,” I snapped.

“That was what you
said
you were after.” Felicity looked away. “I tried, Brigitta. I realy did. I caled my mentor at the
Times
and sent her the pics of Trent and his manager. She knows an entertainment reporter in LA and forwarded them to her. Turns out the paparazzi have been looking for Wendy Burke ever since she threw the chair at that reporter. This is as close as they’ve gotten. I figured out her mother’s maiden name was Geoffrey and that was all it took.”

“Wel, that’s very exciting.” My voice was sharp. “But this was supposed to be a story about cougars. You said you’d help us.”

“Like I said, Brigitta, I tried. I put the cougars in the original article. But Cedar Haven wouldn’t let any reporters in, and there aren’t even pictures of the cubs. We couldn’t get a statement from Trent. The paper edited the cougars out.”

“But Luke doesn’t want a story about him. That’s why he came out here. To get away from stories. He would want Felix and Kalimar to be saved. He put so much time into them. Can’t and Kalimar to be saved. He put so much time into them. Can’t you just try it for Luke’s sake if you’re so interested in him?” Felicity looked at me curiously. “How close are you to Trent?”

“He’s a friend. We’re just friends.” I said it a little too quickly.

“Felix and Kalimar? Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him pretty wel.” Felicity rubbed her thumb across the top of her Nikon.

“Felicity.” Malory stood, brushing dirt off her jeans. “Brigitta doesn’t need this.”

“Don’t you see?” said Felicity. “Brigitta does need this! This is what can awaken this story. Think.” She swung her camera around to her hip so she could talk with her hands. “The kittens were cared for and tended by Trent in the middle of the night.

Didn’t you say something about him taking two feeding shifts in a row? ‘Trent was dedicated to the task by his love for the beautiful Brigitta Schopenhauer.’”

“No!”

“Yes!” said Felicity. “Realy, hon. You’re his Mystery Gall Pal.

It’s perfect.”

I felt sick.

Felicity arched her eyebrows at me. “It could work.” Could it? If I told the story, would it bring the press to Cedar Haven in such great numbers that they’d have to let them in?

Could they save Felix and Kalimar from execution? What would I say? That Trent Yves had found the cougars? That he’d almost been kiled by their mother? That he was sad a lot of the time and wanted to find Eden? That he was kissing me when he wasn’t kissing Gwendolyn Melier? And if I did tell the story, what would be the difference between me and every crazed fan or paparazzo he’d ever come across?

“No,” I said finaly. “He asked for privacy. It would be a betrayal not to leave him be.”

Malory had been silent for several minutes. “He’s already a Malory had been silent for several minutes. “He’s already a public figure, Brigitta,” she said gently.

I looked at her. Did she think this was Felix and Kalimar’s last chance? It couldn’t be. There had to be another way.

“No,” I said. “And no.”

Felicity shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “I can respect that.”

•••

Mom wasn’t home when I went in, and I suddenly wanted her to be. I was ready to curl up in her lap, like when I was six, and tell her everything. Instead I climbed into her hammock chair and let its multicolored folds envelop me. This was where Mom sat and wrote in her journal every morning, with the sun splashing across her feet. The hammock swung comfortingly. A tumble of books lay at arm’s reach on a small table—one on angels, another on aromatherapy, a copy of
Mansfield
Park
, and a packet of stapled pages, probably downloaded from somewhere. I picked it up: “How to Become a Wildlife Rehabilitator.” My throat tightened. Mom must have printed these the night we stayed up with Kalimar and Felix. We had been so close to keeping them with us!

I skimmed through the pages, stopping at “An animal that is too severely injured or sick to return to the wild has a right to euthanasia.” I cringed at the irony of having a “right” to be kiled.

If the kittens were in pain and couldn’t get better, maybe putting them to sleep would be a kindness. But Felix and Kalimar weren’t sick anymore. Surely the other vets at Cedar Haven would talk sense into Dr. Jackson. They wouldn’t let her kill the kittens just because she didn’t like zoos.

The Trentwatch blog had six new photos dated today, Friday.

Four of them were Trent riding a horse on his ranch. They were taken from a distance, so I couldn’t distinguish any of his features. The other two were of him by his pool with Gwen wrapped around him like a koala. And I’d thought today wrapped around him like a koala. And I’d thought today couldn’t get any worse.

If these had been taken this afternoon, Luke had made tracks to get there. He’d have been on a plane yesterday. Or early this morning. I looked back at the other pictures, supposedly taken when Luke was with me. How could he have been with me and in California at the same time? I clicked through again. The pictures themselves didn’t have dates on them, only the blog entries. And while the captions said things like “Tuesday” or

“yesterday,” there was no way of verifying pictures that were simply sent in by people snooping around LA. These photographers weren’t even sophisticated enough to be real paparazzi.

I thought of Luke saying he’d been to a horse show in LA—

probably at the Equestrian Center, where he’d crashed his Mini.

It was so obvious. Why hadn’t I seen it? Because every time I’d looked at Luke, I’d so not wanted him to be Trent that I’d seen someone else.

•••

I got up at 6:00 Saturday morning, too restless to sleep any longer.

Dad was already in the kitchen eating granola. On the table was a vase of roses. “Are those for Mom? Your anniversary isn’t until next month.”

“They arrived an hour ago,” he said. “Look at the envelope.” It said, “Brigitta.”

In the vase were twelve roses, pink with red tips. Their fragrance filed the kitchen. I unsealed the card and took it to the sofa to read.

B,

I let it go too far. Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.

you.

—LG aka TY aka MLB

At the bottom was a small hand drawing of a cat.