Revenant Rising (48 page)
“Then she started taking French leave when Colin wasn’t on tour. She’d go missing for extended periods—drug binges, these were—and she’d eventually come crawling home much the worse for wear. That’s the pity of it, she always made her way back, worked her way back into Colin’s good graces, then history’d repeat itself all over again. This went on for way too long, longer than any wanted to admit. Nate Isaacs finally stepped in and somehow forced Colin to cut off the money supply. That’s when rumors circulated that Aurora was doin’ hardcore porn to support her habit. Those rumors were never substantiated that I know of, but the rumors alone were enough for Colin.
“He had her found and brought home. He cancelled a tour of the Far East in order to be with her through withdrawal and a lengthy rehab. Months passed before his sacrifice appeared to be payin’ off. When Aurora started showin’ a bit of interest in Anthony, Colin carried on as though she’d risen new and improved from the dead. When Aurora let on that she was pregnant again, he was quite over the moon because the only truly harmonious stretch in their marriage was when she was expecting Anthony. Within this hopeful atmosphere, I don’t wanna imagine what a blow it had to have been when she relapsed towards the end of the pregnancy and set out for parts unknown.”
Laurel struggles to find her voice. “Do you have any idea why . . . why Colin was able to put up with her for so long?”
“I have a theory, but Nate Isaacs has got the better one. Nate’ll tell you Colin’s got an amazing capacity for love and never gives up on anybody, least of all himself. That’s the statement Nate gave to the press after the accident when he thought it might also be theme for a eulogy. And that rather ties in with the actions that got Colin arrested earlier today. He was lookin’ out for my reputation, not his, when he clipped the photographer.”
Early afternoon, April 6, 1987
A quarter-hour after Rayce’s departure, Laurel is still seated on the sofa in his hotel suite where she was told she could stay as long as she wished. She hasn’t yet made a move to claim the voice recorder he said was hers to keep; she hasn’t yet written down any of the dozens of questions that cropped up after time ran out and he had to leave; she hasn’t entirely shrugged off the shock and amazement that must have revealed to Rayce her need to stay here and decompress for however long it takes.
Another fifteen minutes go by before she stashes the recorder in her carryall, unsure if she’ll ever be able to replay the testimony let alone transcribe it. Her decision-making process has slowed to glacial since embarking on the mission. She’s not even sure she can still call it a mission after learning that very little the press has said about Aurora Elliot is worse than the truth. However she happens to reconstruct her case, that’s no longer the issue. The issue is how the dead woman’s reputation affects the reputations of the living.
With renewed pluck and passion, to use Rayce’s description, Laurel looks around for a phone. When she doesn’t see one right away she elects to proceed without fanfare, gathers up her things and heads for the elevator.
On a lower floor, in an otherwise empty corridor, Bemus and his clone, Tom Jensen, loom like Easter Island monoliths in the middle distance. They’re dressed to go out, as is Colin when he suddenly steps into view. Then it’s Saturday morning all over again because Colin remains planted, forcing her to either bear his scrutiny or declare this a standoff. But there’s no fantasizing the world of a romance novel today, no imagining how she might like to approach under different circumstances. Today, reality is her cloak against self-consciousness and wishful thinking as she covers the final few yards between them.
“Where in
hell
have you been keeping?” Colin separates himself from the bodyguards and hovers over her. “I’m half mad with worry and so is Amanda. She says you disappeared without sayin’ where you were going soon after you heard about the media shitstorm.” He gives off the faint fragrance of expensive soap and minty mouthwash. “
Please
don’t tell me you’re trying to take on the media single-handed.” He makes a grab for her, thinks better of it, and withdraws his hand mid-gesture.
“To do that I’d have to repeal the First Amendment and criminalize stereotyping.” She widens the distance between them to lessen the chances of spitting on him with her next forceful retort.
“But it
is
the bad publicity setting you off, then? And shall I guess you’re still pissed at me for upsetting you last night and newly pissed at me for overdoin’ it with a fuckbag photographer? Amanda can’t have failed to bring that to your attention. Or maybe you heard about it on one of the early-morning chat shows. Or from David. Have you talked to David? Have you watched telly? Did the Stan Mason bloke let you know about the court date and the—”
“Slow down, will you? I’m not pissed at you about anything. It’s not my place to be upset with you about however you choose to deal with individual members of the press. I will say, though, that you might be wise to avoid dispensing pharmaceuticals in public, and you might want to forgo physical confrontations.” As though emphasizing that last bit of advice, she retreats another full step and sweeps him with an appraising glance. “Am I keeping you? Have you an appointment somewhere?”
“No, no appointment. I was coming out to try find you, actually.”
“Very well. Then if there is someplace other than this hallway . . . we should talk.”
“My thought as well.” He nods dismissal to Bemus and Tom, guides her to a door farther down the corridor that opens into a sitting room similar to the one she just left—a plush, heavily decorated space, but by no means glitzy. He takes her coat and removes his own coat to reveal himself dressed more like a bank examiner than a rock star. No surprise there, however. The only time he lived up to her expectations wardrobe-wise was that morning in the hotel lobby when his rumpled tuxedo worn with T-shirt and running shoes caused her to suspect he might be a rock star. And that doesn’t count now that she knows the extenuating circumstances behind that appearance.
She’s drawn to the piano, focal point of the room, and to the two solid objects dominating the piano surface. One is the Icon statuette she’s not surprised to see, the other is a sleek Steuben glass owl she is a little surprised to see there because it’s not the standard sort of flash-and-trash one generally associates with rock stars. Reminded that she once identified the owl as her favorite in a window display, she caresses the gleaming object and puts thoughts into words. “That seems like such a long time ago I almost forgot,” she says and moves toward the windows.
“You feel that way too?” He joins her at the windows. “As though we met more than a few days ago . . . as though we’ve known each other a lot longer than that? I’m constantly reminding myself only a week’s gone by since the Icon show because so much has happened since.”
The view of Central Park is choice, especially this time of year. The park is among the few places she’ll miss if she ever abandons the city altogether. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“It is that. The one spot in New York guaranteed to make me homesick.”
“Does your home overlook a park?”
“Uh . . . yeh, you could say. We can go into that sometime when I’m not on pins and needles waitin’ to hear what brought you here. I rather doubt it’s a social call you’re makin’.”
Laurel casts around for suitable seating arrangements and selects the dining table as the best substitute for the executive desk she’d prefer to have between them. She takes a seat on the long side of the oval table and indicates he should sit opposite.
“Well,” he says, “let’s have it, then.”
She moves aside the morning papers and demonstrates composure she doesn’t feel with folded hands and level gaze. “I went to see Rayce Vaughn without first telling you,” she says for starters. “When I left my office this morning I came straight here to The Plaza. I’ve been with Rayce ever since.”
For a long moment she’s unsure if it’s annoyance or resignation flickering across his face. Within the pause she can almost believe his thought processes are audible, that she can hear wheels turning and gears meshing.
“I suppose I should be relieved,” he says finally. “And I suppose I should know why you sought him out at this particular time, but I’d like to hear you say.”
His expression is still hard to read. Her attempt to decipher it takes in the distinguishing qualities of a face destined to remain compelling long after frown lines become grooves, laugh lines lengthen into creases, and dimples deepen into furrows.
“I’m waiting,” he says just as she’s wondering what time will do to his straight strong nose that veers to one side when viewed head-on, if time will erase the thin scar on his cheekbone and the one along his jawline, if time will fade his blues eyes and strip his dark blonde hair of color.
“Oh . . . sorry,” she says, “I . . . I was gathering my thoughts.” And still am. “Okay . . . you already know Amanda brought me up to date on the bad publicity you’re receiving. The common thread in those unfavorable mentions is your late wife. I take strong exception to the recycling of unproven allegations, especially if the subject of those allegations is considered fair game for being deceased. I have a big problem with that, just as I have a big problem with issues of presumed guilt by association.”
Colin is given a condensed version of the appeal made to Rayce, with heavy emphasis on her reason for the appeal.
“I couldn’t very well decide what was actionable and what was accurate without consulting a reliable source,” she summarizes. “And I chose Rayce Vaughn because . . . no one else was available . . . and because you said he should be consulted . . . and because—”
“Because in order to correct media perceptions about my late wife you needed hard facts.” Colin gets to his feet. “And you knew I wasn’t likely to supply ’em.”
“Yes, that was the conclusion I reached.” She’s at a slight disadvantage for having to look up at him as he slides his chair back and steps away from the table. Then vantage points cease to matter when he pats himself down as though unsure of where he left the car keys. Whatever he’s looking for, he now seems to have found in a side pocket of his trousers, but he doesn’t produce it. Instead, it’s that hard-to-read expression again.
“What color is your dress?” he says for no reason she can readily imagine because her tailored gabardine dress is unmistakably beige.
“Beige?” she says.
“Yeh, I can see that, but by what fancy name for beige did the designer call it?”
“It’s not a designer dress, it’s off the rack from Macy’s, and taupe is the only other word for beige I can think of at the moment.”
“Then taupe it is, and ever after shall be when I remember this occasion for the rest of my life.” Before she can even begin to ask why, he goes to the piano where he shuffles through several sheets of staff paper resting on the music stand. He selects one, looks it over, wads it up and stuffs it in the same trouser pocket that holds the other mystery item. “No,” he shakes his head, “not yet . . . time’s not quite right.” He resumes his seat across from her, takes no notice of her perplexed state. “Where were we?” he asks.
“I was about to make a proposal.”
“Well then, weren’t we all.”
Now it’s his laughter she’s unable to comprehend.
“Sorry,” he says when it’s depleted. “Don’t mind me. No sleep . . . too much on my mind . . . You were saying?”
Not that much time has passed since the older celebrity peppered her with unexplained laughter, and this second volley is no easier to take.
“Just so you know, I’m not here to add to your problems. If you’d rather discuss this another time, perhaps when you’re better rested and better able to focus, that will be fine.” She starts to leave her chair and he reaches across the table, catches her wrist, then her hand.
“Laurel . . . I wasn’t laughing at you, I was laughing at me. One day soon you’ll understand what was funny and you’ll laugh too.” He employs the Rayce Vaughn defense, and she doesn’t like it any better now than the first time she heard it.