Falling Star (5 page)

That hog and her "policies." Kelly rammed her
pen through the spirals on her reporter's notebook. She'd have
fewer restrictions if she'd gone into the military.

"Once and for all," Ruth demanded, "did you
call the hospital before you went live?"

"I couldn't get through," she lied.

"Don't even try that with me, Kelly. I can
see right through you. And mark my words, if Darryl Mann's family
finds out about this, your ass'll be in a sling. You'll be staring
at a lawsuit—we all will be."

Kelly froze. Lawsuit?

"You were on the air at 10:03, right?" Ruth
growled. "At 9:24, Darryl Mann was pronounced dead."

*

Natalie jammed her newscast script into the
trash can in the matchbox-size yellow office she'd called her own
for fourteen years. Its only adornments were the seven Emmy and
Golden Mike statuettes perched on the gunmetal-gray steel
cabinets.

Finally it was over. She collapsed in her
chair and laid her head on her desk blotter. She couldn't remember
the last time she'd been so drained. Everything ached. What didn't
ache pounded.

The evening had been an extraordinary
humiliation. By sheer force of will she'd gotten through
The
KXLA Primetime News
without a blemish. There was no way she
would allow herself to screw up more than once in a day. She didn't
allow herself to screw up more than once in a
year
, and
never on so grand a scale.

She winced. Calling the aftershock an 8 point
3? What an asinine mistake.

For the first time in her television life,
she prayed the ratings had been low. And that one person in
particular had missed her performance. Miles. There was no hope in
hell Tony Scoppio had.

Which reminded her that she had one more
chore to accomplish that hellacious evening. Telling her agent that
her news director was threatening to can her. Not the sort of thing
an agent likes to hear.

Natalie forced herself to pick up her phone
and punch in his cell phone number. Two rings, then a muffled
"Yes?" on the other end.

"Geoff? It's Natalie."

There was a pause. She heard traffic noise,
the blaring of a horn. She'd caught him in his car. She could just
imagine him in the navy Jaguar convertible with the top down,
yellow tie slapping like a flag in the breeze, sunglasses on at
eleven at night to protect his contacts from dust. At times like
that Geoff Marner did a good imitation of a Hollywood mogul. Not
that that was much of a stretch.

Geoff swore faintly under his breath. Then,
louder, he said, "Whoa, Nellie, are you all right? Those 8 point 3s
can really getcha!"

"You sicko!" But she had to laugh. "I can't
believe you caught that."

"What? You don't think my eyes would be
trained on KXLA while the ground rocks beneath my feet? Searching
desperately for reassurance from LA's premier anchor?" Another
horn. He swore again. "You know, we Aussies aren't used to quakes
of that magnitude."

"All right, already."

He paused and his voice took on a solemn
tone. "Actually, Nats, it's really not all that bad. Maybe I can
get you on
America's Funniest Bloopers
." Another horn, then
a more somber tone. "Seriously, I wouldn't worry about one mistake.
You were gangbusters today. So lunch tomorrow? But remember, I
still want to take you out for your birthday and lunch doesn't
count. The usual?" The blare of a car radio. Another softly uttered
expletive.

"12:30," she agreed. "I'll bring
sandwiches."

"Not that crazy health stuff you keep pushing
on me. One sprout and I'm gone."

She nodded, thinking swiftly.
Maybe I can
put off telling him about my conversation with Tony? Just till
tomorrow?

"Agreed?" he asked.

"Fine!"

"Good! One for the Aussie. Thank God I'm a
patient man."

At that, she rolled her eyes. "Patient" was
the last adjective she'd ever use to describe Geoff Marner. Wild
man, yes. Smartest man she'd ever met, yes. Shark of an agent, yes.
Least lawyerly lawyer on planet Earth? That, too. But "patient?"
Never.

"Till tomorrow then," he said; then he was
gone.

Natalie hung up and stared down at the date
on her desk blotter. June 17. A day that would live in infamy. She
grabbed a black marker, drew a thick annulling X across the square,
and grabbed her things to leave.

Once out of KXLA's gated compound she drove
her butterscotch Mercedes 320E west on Sunset Boulevard, the smarmy
stretch bordering the station crowded with bail bondsmen,
pawnshops, and sex stores. At Highland Avenue she turned right to
head north into the Hollywood Hills, the commercial district slowly
giving way to residential streets. At a red light at Franklin, as
she gazed absently at a middle-aged couple entering the crosswalk,
the woman gasped and threw her hand to her mouth in a telltale
gesture of recognition.

"You're Natalie Daniels!" the woman
sputtered, abandoning her companion to approach the car. "I love
you! I watch you all the time!"

Natalie nodded, as she always did, and
smiled, as she always did.

The woman's voice turned reverent, which
never failed to amaze Natalie. It was as if she were a demigod in
anchor's clothing. "Will you sign an autograph?"

"Of course, I'd be delighted," Natalie
replied, as she always did. The light turned green but she ignored
it, as did the woman standing in the street fumbling in her purse
for a scrap of paper.

The transaction accomplished, the couple
scurried away, the woman clutching her companion's arm and
jabbering excitedly. Natalie smiled and rolled through the
intersection toward home.

That made her feel better. It was a cheap fix
but certainly the one big thing she'd miss if she weren't an
anchor. Who then would she be? Her husband had walked out on her.
She'd never had a child. Her parents were dead. It was all she had,
at the end of the day.

She drove swiftly the short distance to
Nichols Canyon Road, then hung a right. The narrow road, heading
ever upward, was well illuminated by a waxing moon. After all these
years its hairpin curves were nearly as familiar to her as her own
skin. Near the crest she slowed to turn left into the gated
driveway of an imposing Mediterranean-style home. Nestled in a
wooded enclave, it was all white stucco and terra-cotta tiled roof,
with San Diego red bougainvillea climbing up the exterior and
geraniums cascading from window boxes. She'd loved it the moment
she and Miles had seen it, a decade before.

Natalie parked and eased her aching body out
of the soft leather seat, walking around to the passenger side to
retrieve her briefcase. Then she heard a rustle and a shadow fell
across the driveway. She spun around, her heart pounding. There was
someone there.

A man.

Monday, June 17, 11:46 PM

"Miles?"

"Natalie." He stepped forward on the stone
path that curved to the front door.

She could see him clearly now that he had
moved out of the shadows cast by the palm trees. The same Miles as
ever, dressed in shades of gray: charcoal trousers, smoke-colored
cashmere turtleneck. Same dark eyes, same thick black hair flecked
with silver. He looked solid, dignified, respectable: like a
well-to-do professor.

"What are you doing here? And at this hour?"
She busied herself with gathering up her briefcase. She hadn't seen
him since he'd left, four months before.
Maybe he wants to come
back?
She slammed shut the Mercedes' door.
You don't want
him back
. Carefully she locked it.
Are you sure?

"I've been waiting for you," he said. He
motioned up the walk to the house. "I was hoping we could
talk."

Wordlessly she brushed past him. She fumbled
for her key, and as usual when she wanted it quickly, it had buried
itself deep in the nether regions of her purse.

"Here. Let me." He relieved her of her
briefcase. "I notice you changed the locks."

She recoiled. "You tried to get in?"

He laughed. "It's chilly out here."

She felt a flicker of annoyance. Same old
Miles. He'd dumped her but still considered the house his. Finally
she located her key and inserted it in the lock, pushing open the
thick oak door and setting off an insistent beeping from the alarm
system. Miles followed her into the beamed two-story foyer, their
heels clicking on the terra-cotta Spanish tile.

She punched in the security code, then
flicked a switch on a separate panel. A heavy iron chandelier
flooded the foyer with light. Strong light, but she preferred that
to standing with her husband in the dark.

She turned to face him. Space and silence
yawned between them.
Like the nights I've spent alone.

"It looks the same," he said finally.

Her voice came out in a snap. "Of course it
looks the same."

"I half expected you to call in exterminators
to wipe out every trace of me."

"If there were people who did that, I
probably would have."

To that, he said nothing. She walked into the
adjacent study and switched on a table lamp, needlessly. How could
he have anything to say that she wanted to hear? Maybe she should
just shut the door and leave him out in the foyer. Eventually he'd
go.

She heard his voice behind her. Resentful.
Petulant. "I'm sorry you're still so angry."

"Oh, Miles!" She threw up her hands and
turned to face him. "What the hell do you expect? You walked out on
me. For some bimbo from your sitcom! If that's not the tritest,
most pathetic—"

"It's over."

"What?"

"It's over. It was a mistake and it's
over."

She eyed him closely under the chandelier's
harsh glare. Could it be true? He looked tired, hardly happy, she
realized. And now his black hair was more than flecked with gray.
It was streaked.

She felt a stab of pity. For the first time
Miles actually looked his age. He looked like a 55-year-did
man.

Well, she wasn't exactly a youngster,
either.

Her body felt leaden with fatigue. She didn't
have the energy to know what to feel, what was right, what to do.
She certainly didn't have the wherewithal to fight. All she wanted
was for the blasted day to end.

She stalked into the living room without
turning on a lamp. Moonlight gleamed through the beveled panes to
illuminate all she needed to see. Two crystal snifters stood in
their usual place and she sloshed brandy into each, then held one
out in his direction. He'd drink, he'd talk, he'd leave. "All
right, spill it. Why did you come by tonight?"

He moved forward to take the drink. "I told
you. I want to talk."

"And you picked me out of all the people you
know?"

"It was you I wanted to talk to."

The brandy burned down her throat. She
laughed. A mirthless sound, high-pitched and forced. "There's
something ironic about that but I'm too tired to pin down what it
is."

"Natalie, please." He sounded exasperated.
"Can't we be civil to one another?"

She hoisted her snifter high in the air.
"What could be more civil than this? I've got news for you, Miles.
Couples who break up don't get more civil than this."

She couldn't quite bring herself to say
"couples who divorce." She didn't know whether it would come to
that, whether she wanted it to. Even now, seeing him here, she
didn't know what she wanted.

She returned to the carafe to refresh her
brandy. It was being kind to her, this amber liquid, coursing
through her veins, making everything seem that much less
important.

She collapsed onto the plump white sofa and
leaned back, closing her eyes. Her limbs began to relax.

He sat down next to her, then spoke, his
voice soft. "You look lovely."

"I look like hell." But she had to admit it
was pleasant, like the old days, him next to her on the sofa,
relaxed, nursing a brandy. She smelled the old familiar smells, his
skin, his musky cologne.

He was silent for a moment. "Do you ever wish
you could turn back the clock?"

She opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You know, take back some of the things
you've done."

His eyes were on her face.
Is he talking
about leaving me? Does he want to come back?
She felt a crazy
lurch of hope, even as she castigated herself for the reaction.
The guy leaves you for a bimbo, but the minute he wants to come
back, you're there with open arms?
She spoke carefully. "I have
to say, I have no major regrets."

He gave a quiet laugh. "That's one of the
wonderful things about you, Natalie." His hand reached out to brush
her cheek, his touch light, gentle. "You're always so upbeat, so
positive." His hand dropped to his lap. "You probably never feel
unappreciated."

At that, a bitter laugh gurgled in her
throat. After the day she'd had. After he'd walked out on her. "Who
isn't appreciating you, Miles?"

"Oh, the network, mostly. The executives, the
suits." He shook his head, as though it were all more than he
should have to bear. "It never changes. They just don't understand
the creative side."

"Are you having problems with the show?"
Forget Maui
, the sitcom was called. Miles had told her it'd
taken him years to write the pilot script. His baby, he'd called
it.

The irony was that, not long after he'd
walked out on her, he'd sold the script in an enormous deal that
had gotten massive coverage in the trades. It had been huge,
inescapable news:
Miles Lambert to Helm New Series of His Own
Creation
. Of course she'd read all about it. And every word had
felt like a slap in her own face. All of a sudden the man who'd
just unloaded her was at the pinnacle of his career.