Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (15 page)

A quick scan of the article's date and a grainy photograph sealed the deal: it was her Casper. Or, rather, it was Richard Hanks (no relation), a young actor from Iowa who'd committed suicide when he was replaced in a production of a play Autumn had never heard of. Although the production had been launched with high hopes, it had been floundering in the wake of the Gulf War’s financial implications. Desperate to revitalize the show, they'd dropped Richard for an unnamed TV star.

Bullshit.
I'm so sorry, Richard.

Now working with a name, she quickly pulled up an obituary for Richard, netting his mother's name: Maria Hanks. Hearing the bathroom door swing open, she did a final search for his mother, her heart racing as she waited for the Wi-Fi to cooperate.

"Where are our men?" Veronica asked.

Oakland...Beloved mother of Richard (deceased)... Bingo!
Iowa City needed a little floral attention.

"Um, they went to change... What the hell
are
they doing?"

Deflect
. She was rather good at it when she had to be.

Veronica chuckled, heading for the bedroom. "I'll get them. Hey! If you're getting your sexy on, at least film it for us!"

Scribbling details on a hotel note pad, Autumn tucked a folded page in her pocket. She knew exactly how to keep her promise without drawing attention to it.

The culprit for the delay: video games.
Of course
. Veronica had found their respective lovers watching YouTube trailers for some game involving shooting and e
xpanded online world something-or-other
. Not one to be kept from comfort food, Veronica had shooed them towards the door, swinging her purse just high enough to tag Evan on his rear.

"Let's go, Autumn!"

Autumn winked as she rose to her feet, deliberately smoothing her top over her breasts. "What, now? I thought you wanted food."

"Girl's gotta work up an appetite!" Looping their arms together, Veronica smiled. "Have I told you how wonderful it is to have all of my favourite people with me?"

On their way out, Autumn excused herself, heading for the concierge to "refill the minibar." Which she would mention, of course... after her critical request. The hotel's motto was essentially ‘Anything you want... within reason, and for a price.' She was counting on truth in advertising. Her needs explained, Autumn slid the folded paper across the desk with a smile.

"Shouldn't be a problem, Ms. Brody."

"Could you confirm with me directly at the number written down? Oh, and could you bill me separately for it? I don't want my fiancé to pay," she explained with a sheepish look.

Like a genie in a bottle, her wish was their command. Maria Hanks would have yellow roses on her grave by tomorrow afternoon... and so would Richard Hanks.

I'm surrounded by faces, but none of them are familiar. I can smell the faint aroma of the sugar factory by the waterfront, mixed with dingy water and seaweed. Somehow, this makes me think of a dessert sushi gone wrong, and I laugh in spite of myself.

A woman shushes me, pointing above us.

I look up and am awestruck by the aerial performance taking place. Acrobats, tumblers, a high-wire artist—all are at play in a carefully choreographed routine. All soar, twist and fly through the air, dodging torches of fire as they swing over the rim of what I slowly begin to recognize as a cross between a cargo ship and an aircraft carrier. Battleship gone wrong.

We're watching Cirque du Soleil in the middle of Lake Ontario. For some reason, I feel no sense of concern or confusion. I am only saddened by the choice of venue. My father adores the circus, but has never learned to swim.

An aerial silk performer is suddenly the sole focus of our attention: twisting, climbing and soaring on a pale purple ribbon, she is graceful and daring. Her drops leave me pressing my palm to my chest, terrified she's going to plummet to the hard metal beneath my feet. But she never does. She faces death down and soars away, almost mocking the notion of mortality.

Winding slowly to the ground, a transformation: the ribbon twists and unfurls, first a skirt, morphing into a dress. Her hair is pulled loose from a knot at the nape of her neck and suddenly, I am terrified and angry.

Louise.

With a grin, she waves her hand and we are alone now, rocking gently on the night tide. I edge backwards, keeping my distance.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice. Not if you want to control it. Not if you want to protect yourself." She is clearly annoyed with me, although I don’t think I give a damn.

"I don't want it at all!" I snap, turning away. "Just go back to wherever and leave me alone!"

"That's not what you said to Richard—"

"That was one time. Once. No more."

A chill grazes my shoulder and I realize she is beside me, her fingers embedded in my flesh. I pull back, shuddering.

"I said the same thing. 'It's just my grandmama. It's because I was so close to her.' And then, during the Great War, when the first soldier asked me to tell his mother he was sorry for a wrong he'd done her, I assumed he must have told me before dying. And then another solider asked, and another, and another... One warned me to leave the ship, to miss the return voyage. He saved me..."

With a frustrated glare, she shoves me away, surprising in her strength. I rub my arm, mystified at how a spirit without mass can inflict pain.

"Autumn, it's never just once. They will not go away. Not until the gift passes to the next. Your choices are to run and risk weakness, risk losing control, or to create the terms of your relationship with the other side. Refuse, and there are those who will take advantage. Those who will lash out...”

I see it then: the blood. It seeps from her chest, trickling down the front of her dress. Louise doesn't bother to try and stop it, doesn't apply pressure. Unconsciously, I react. My palm stretches to the crimson swell, tries to stop fate. Louise laughs bitterly.

"Even now... This is why they will come to you. You must be ready. You must know how to control them. Or one day, they'll control you."

Autumn awoke with a gasp, scrutinizing her palms for any trace of blood. Beside her, Andrew immediately stirred, his hand shooting out to her back.
Grounding
. That's what he always called it. Connecting her to him, to something solid.

More solid than a ghost
.

"Nightmare?"

"Mmhmm." She forced herself to take deeper, slower breaths, focusing on the gentle circle of his hand against her lower back.

"Lie down," he coached her. "Relax. You're safe."

She was so tired of this: the endless surges of adrenaline; the terror; the jarring shift from dreamscape to the harsh light of day.
I was almost past this, damn it!
She'd been so close to a normal sleep schedule before...

Before the door opened.

Nestling into his embrace, Autumn closed her eyes. "Aren't you tired of talking me through this crap?"

"No. I'm tired of being helpless to stop it. This isn't your fault."

No, it wasn't. That she could agree on. Her leg sprawled over his, bending and tangling around the sturdy limb. The fine hair of his calf tickled her ankle.

"It was her again."

A squeeze. "I'd figured as much. Did you want to talk about it?"

"No, but I want to talk to my mom. Something she said... I think maybe she was at war."

"War? Women weren't soldiers in her time."

"A nurse," Autumn clarified. "I think maybe she was a nurse. I just don't understand how I didn't know about her. My dad's grandfather was a veteran. We've talked about his experiences at the Somme."

"Maybe she didn't talk about it?" Andrew suggested. "If she was... a conduit? Was that the term? If she was seeing the dead, maybe she put it behind her. Maybe she tried to avoid talking about it."

"Maybe..."

"Remind you of anyone you know?" he gently goaded.

Moving over him, she leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Nope, not at all."

"Hmm. My mistake then." He caressed her cheek, studying her face for a long moment. "I know you're going to make it a personal mission to find this guy stalking Veronica. I know I can't convince you otherwise. Can you make me a promise?"

"What promise is that?"

"Part A—that you trust the professionals to do their jobs. No undermining the protective detail and sneaking Veronica away from her guard."

Autumn frowned. "I'm not stupid. If I had my way, she'd be handcuffed to them to prevent her from blowing it off."

"Figured that was the easy sell. Part B is trickier."

"Which is?"

"You should know by now what I’m going to say: that you don't let it take over your life. Aside from this being a vacation, it's also a trip for you to handle promotions for
Dissected
. That novel deserves your full attention and don't even
try
to argue." His finger pressed to her pouting mouth, shushing her. "Veronica would tell you the same."

"Fine," she muttered begrudgingly. "But that means you're stuck helping me with interview prep."

Satisfied, Andrew rewarded her with a kiss. "It's a price I'm willing to pay."

Thinking of her nightmare, she mulled over Louise's warnings. What price would she be asked to pay as a consequence of this supposed gift? More paramount, was there anything that would be worth the cost?

Veronica's safety. Our safety.

In her mind, an echo: "
Your choices are to run and risk weakness, risk losing control, or to create the terms of your relationship with the other side."

How long could she outrun something inside of her?

"You okay?"

Flashing a practiced smile, Autumn ruffled his hair. "I'm fine. Ready to play my editor's game of Twenty Questions."

* * *

Ever the ingenious creator, Andrew decided that interview prep required an atypical approach to keep Autumn on task. Ushering her out of the hotel, he waved around their list of sightseeing musts.

“Let's get this vacation started.”

“Vacation?”

Winking, Andrew ran his finger down the list. “I wager we can pull off at least three of these today, all while making sure you are a polished professional on camera tomorrow.”

First stop: the Statue of Liberty. Andrew's rationale: “Ferry time is 'ferret through the mind for a quality answer' time.” Sheepishly, he added, "I also had to book our Crown access back in April, so it's today or never if we want the full experience."

Much to Autumn's chagrin, his idea proved the perfect antidote to her jitters. At random moments—after an amusing discussion of films featuring Lady Liberty, or between dodges of dive-bombing pigeons—he would pause and fire a question.

Looking out from within Lady Liberty's copper crown: “At the age of eighteen, you inked your three-book deal with Forked Creek Press. Tell us about the experience.”

With a pirouette, Autumn hummed to herself, snapping her fingers. “It's an experience that can't truly be articulated, even by the greatest of wordsmiths—and I'm hardly one of those,” she added playfully. “For me, the key to my finding a home at Forked Creek Press was the support of my mentor, George St. James, and the keen eye of Courtney Nelson. Not once did either of them treat me differently because of my age. They critiqued my manuscript as if I'd been doing this for decades, and I feel their confidence that I could not only edit together a strong piece of literature, but also accept honesty, made me a better author.”

“See? You're a natural. Dropping those names like Perez Hilton at a cocktail party.”

Autumn rolled her eyes, leaning to study the distant skyline of the city. “They're looking for an endearing ingénue, the 'wise beyond her years' teen. I'm going to play the part so Jeremy can do his magic.”

After a lunch stop, they took a wander into the MOMA, admiring the collections with half-interest. It was about a
vacation state of mind
, as Andrew put it. No critical thought of herself or the book. No worrying about Veronica (who was in capable hands, as he frequently reminded her).

Shorter questions peppered their meandering in the museum. “Tell us about Laurel, the character at the heart of
Dissected
,” Andrew would throw out. She, in turn, would spin out her log line, carefully crafted with George back at Casteel. It was easier than it had seemed in their suite, staring at a numbered list of hypothetical queries.

By the time Jeremy Dixon called her cell, Autumn was beyond the notion of anxiety. She was ready for a junket.
Bring on the media room. Bring on the critics. Let's chat.
Courtney's words remained at the forefront of her mind:
I know the book better than they do. I have the advantage.

“Autumn! I've been having some difficulty reaching you today. Is everything all right?”

Glancing at her cell, she shrugged.
Three missed calls
. “Sorry, Jeremy. Looks like we haven't always had reception today. Or my phone. I did have to lock it up at the Statue of Liberty.”

"The Statue of Liberty? You're sightseeing today?" Jeremy sounded a bit concerned... Perhaps more than a bit. It was cute.

"You do realize I wrote this novel between pizza and zombie movies on campus, right?" She laughed at the dead silence on the line. "Jeremy, if there's anything I've learned from the last two years, it's how to multi-task."

“Oh.” Jeremy paused long enough that Autumn wondered if he'd short-circuited entirely and revealed himself as an android. “Have you had a chance to prepare for the interview?”

“Doing it as we speak,” she replied, clapping as Andrew presented her with her coveted Pinkberry treat. “I've been promised a soft pretzel if I can tighten up my discussion of my personal connections to the domestic violence explored in the book. Trust me, I'm going to be ready for anything.”

“Soft pretzels? I'm not certain what that has to do with preparations for an interview, but I trust it is a part of your unique approach to creation.”

Autumn fought the urge to giggle. This guy needed to relax in the worst way. Courtney was a studious worker, but she was also the one who invited her to a karaoke night with authors and staff from the publishing house. Courtney's song of choice: "Dirty" by Christina Aguilera.

“Jeremy, I assure you that I may sound unconventional, but my fiancé is a documentary filmmaker. He's been monitoring my responses all day for camera worthiness.”

Andrew stole a dollop of her frozen yogurt and she hissed.
Mine
, she mouthed at him, jabbing the air with her spoon.

Only child
, he mouthed back with a grin.

“I'll be emailing you shortly with the details of your interview: arrival time; interviewer; clothing and make-up expectations. If there are any issues, give me a call, day or night. I'm here to support you during this process,” Jeremy insisted, almost too eagerly.

Politely ending the call, Autumn threw her phone in her purse. “That was exhausting! I know he's detail-oriented, but he needs to relax.”

“Micro-manager, isn't he?”

“To the Nth bloody degree. Kill me.”

Andrew offered a spoonful of his dessert as penance for his prior thievery. “No way. Stuff a sock in his mouth? Possibly.”

Sampling his peanut butter cup concoction, Autumn moaned.
Oh God. I'm going to gain thirty pounds on this trip
. “Let's give him a chance... for now. He's such a newbie, I'd like to cut him some slack.”

“Speaking of slack—verb, not noun—what would you like to do with the rest of your Thursday, Ms. Brody?”