The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (124 page)

“Laura phoned us in London. We would’ve been here sooner, but our flight was delayed.”

“You mean
you’re
the ones who—”

“We were happy to help.” Wes spoke as if it were fifty cents, not fifty thousand.

“I … I don’t know how to thank you,” Anna stammered.

“You don’t have to.” Alice took her arm, smiling. “We’d better hurry or we’ll miss the service.”

Minutes later Wes was pulling into the only parking space they could find, several blocks from the church. As they made their way down the street, Anna could see the crowd of reporters and paparazzi on the front steps. Parked along both sides of Calle de Navidad were TV vans sprouting satellite dishes, some with cables linking them to live feeds. She could almost picture Monica stepping through the doors into the spotlight with a shimmy of her hips and toss of her auburn mane.

Luckily they managed to slip in through a side door without being seen. Inside the church it was standing room only. Scanning the pews, Anna spotted Sallie Templeton, who’d played Monica’s mother in
Victory Tour
three face lifts ago. And golden-haired Wyatt Van Aken, Monica’s costar in
The Good Die Young,
whom the press had dubbed Robert Redford Light. Sniffling theatrically into her handkerchief was forever forty-nine Bessie Parker, whom Monica hadn’t seen in years and privately couldn’t stand, but who was carrying on as if they’d been bosom buddies. Glenn, in a dark gray Armani suit, was escorting another aging star down the aisle, her face hidden behind a veil.

She saw the familiar faces of friends and acquaintances as well: Norma Devane from Shear Delight in a fitted black jacket glittering with jet beads; David Ryback and his blond wife Carol, looking more tired and faded than usual; the elderly Miller twins, Olive and Rose, their gray heads draped in matching black mantillas; and bleached blond Melodie Wycoff from the Tree House Café, with her policeman husband Jimmy, one of the few who’d been nice to Anna while she was in jail.

Liz, accompanied by their mother, had saved her a seat up front. As Anna slid in next to them, her mother, dressed in a suit and pearls, her hair coiffed for the occasion, gave her a smile of such tender sweetness that for a moment Anna was a child again, safe in her arms—until she realized Betty was smiling at everyone that way. Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned to find Laura, squeezed in between Hector and Finch, mouthing a silent hello. Maude, on the aisle, peeked out from under a wide-brimmed hat to give her a wink.

Sam and Ian, with Aubrey and Gerry and her kids, sat behind them. Claire shot Anna a sympathetic look, as if to say,
I know what you’re going through.
A reminder that her adoptive mother had passed away earlier in the year—sadly without having seen the success she’d made of Tea & Sympathy.

There was no sign of Marc. Anna tried not to feel let down—she couldn’t expect him to stick around forever—but it gnawed at her nonetheless. Then Father Reardon emerged through a door into the chancel, looking biblical somehow with a shaft of light from the stained glass window overhead highlighting the silver in his hair, and she forgot everything else. He spoke briefly but warmly of the contributions Monica had made, not only to the world, but to the community in which she’d lived—a stretch, given the tiny sums she’d donated to various local charities through the years. He ended with a verse from Ecclesiastes, read with such heartfelt emotion it brought tears to Anna’s eyes.

“Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return to God who gave it”

She gazed in wonder at the still figure stretched out in the coffin. Monica had stipulated an open-casket funeral, but though Anna had dreaded this moment, her fears vanished at the sight of her sister looking as lovely as she had in life. Not a marble effigy, but so radiant she might have been asleep. Her auburn hair glowed like banked fire against the ivory satin pillow over which it was arranged, her slender hands folded about a white calfskin prayer book that Anna recognized with a small shock as the one she’d been given when she was confirmed—never mind that Monica hadn’t been to church in years. Even the gown she was dressed in, one that Anna had picked out, layers of chiffon in her favorite shade of green, seemed to float about her. The thing that struck Anna most, though, was the faint smile on her lips—as if she’d gotten the last laugh somehow.

“She looks so beautiful,” she whispered to Liz.

“You know Monica; she never left the house without being camera ready.” There was no sarcasm in Liz’s voice, just sadness.

“What’s going on? Who died?” Their mother tugged on Anna’s sleeve, looking bewildered.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Anna tucked a hand as light as a fallen leaf under her arm. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Will I be back in time for tea?” Betty asked fretfully. “I don’t want to be late. Mr. Harding …” she leaned close to confide, “always takes more than his share.”

Anna shared a smile with Liz. It seemed the ultimate irony that their mother didn’t know it was her own daughter in the casket, but maybe it was for the best.

Her mother subsided with a sigh. The days when she’d attended mass without fail, drawing comfort from the liturgy, were behind her. Nowadays it was the Sunshine Home where she was most content.

Glenn stepped forward to give the eulogy, looking pale and drawn. If anyone had a reason to mourn, it was he. Even with Monica’s career in permanent hiatus, there’d been a steady trickle of endorsements, advertising revenue, and percentage payouts from movies enjoying a second life overseas. But Anna knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d miss Monica. The bond they’d shared was closer in some ways than that of lovers.

Once again Anna was remembering the incident in the pool house—weeks ago that felt like years. And she’d thought being seen in a swimsuit when she was fat had been bad; nothing could have prepared her for what had come later, when she was thin … and seemingly desirable. She shuddered at the memory. Then Glenn cleared his throat and began to speak. “I’m not here to talk about what Monica Vincent meant to me personally. She belonged to the whole world, a shining star who made everyone’s lives a little brighter, even when the light in her own had dimmed …”

He went on about Monica’s courage in the face of the accident that had left her wheelchair bound, and how despite her handicap she’d remained radiant to the end. When he was finished, a select handful got up to pay their respects as well. Not the usual aunts, uncles, and cousins—Monica hadn’t bothered with them in years. The only people she’d cared about were the ones coming forward now, one by one, to sing her praises: Melissa Phelps, who’d produced several of her pictures, and balding mogul Len Shapiro, head of Unicorn Pictures, who spoke glowingly of Monica’s professionalism—every movie she’d starred in had come in on schedule, he said. Last, but not least, was Giorgio Frangiani, the Italian heartthrob with whom Monica was rumored to have had an affair and who spoke of her in such loving terms it would have been easy to imagine him carrying the torch—that is, if Anna hadn’t known for a fact he was gay.

No one mentioned the ghastly circumstances of her death, and Anna was grateful for that. It was enough that she’d have to contend with the lion’s den outside.

The organ in the choir loft began to swell and a voice known to millions sent goose bumps up the back of Anna’s neck—how on earth had Glenn gotten Bette on such short notice?—as it opened throttle on “The Party’s Over,” Monica’s favorite song and one that seemed particularly suited to the occasion. As the last chord soared into the rafters, there wasn’t a dry eye in the church. Even those who’d despised Monica were moved by the spectacle of her death.

What would they think if they knew what
really
happened that day?

The doors were flung open and sunlight flooded in. As Anna was borne down the aisle by the river of people making their way outside, she could see the mob of reporters and paparazzi on the steps jockeying for shots of the celebrities scurrying toward their waiting limos, shielded by the handful of B-list stars who’d paused for photo ops. Anna ducked her head, praying more fervently than she ever had in church, that she might slip through the crush unnoticed. But she’d scarcely set foot outside when a deep voice yelled, “It’s her! Hey, Anna!”

Others joined the chorus:

“Anna, how does it feel to be out on bail?”

“Can you comment on the funeral?”

“Give us a shot, Anna, come on, be a good girl … just one.”

She brought her hands up to cover her face. Blinded by the storm of camera flashes, she stumbled and would have fallen if a strong hand hadn’t gripped her elbow. She couldn’t see who it was through the black dots swarming like tiny insects across her field of vision, but then a familiar voice boomed, “Move aside! Give her some room!”

Marc.
She went weak with relief.

“Don’t look back,” he muttered, his grip tightening about her arm as he steered her down the steps onto the curb where his Audi was double-parked. Shoving aside a stringy-haired man with a camera who’d stepped into their path, he wrenched open the passenger door and none too gently pushed Anna inside. Before she could say a word they were roaring up Calle de Navidad.

I
T WAS A STANDARD LINE
that Holy Name Cemetery, which boasted one of the best views in Carson Springs, was wasted on its residents. Tucked into a bend of the road that meandered up the hill to Pilgrim’s Peak, it was shaded by centuries-old oaks and honey mesquite and remained green year-round due to the stream that could be heard faintly murmuring through the trees. It was where Anna’s father and grandparents were buried as well as many of St. Xavier’s earliest parishioners, but since the fancy gated cemetery across town had lured away most of its business, the sight of picnickers was more common now than mourners. As she looked about at the modest headstones, many moss-grown and tilted askew, Anna couldn’t help being struck by the irony of Monica’s being laid to rest in obscurity.

The graveside service was brief, with only the immediate family and close friends in attendance. Jimmy Wycoff had set up a roadblock at the foot of the hill to hold the press at bay, for which Anna was deeply grateful. Her nerves were so raw that a squirrel scampering up a tree nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. Standing by the open grave, trying to hold her balance with her high heels sinking into the turf, she was conscious only of Marc’s hand on her elbow. Years before, her mother had signed her up for ballet lessons (which had succeeded only in making her feel even fatter and clumsier), where she’d learned to pirouette, eyes fixed on a single point on the wall to keep from growing dizzy. Right now, Marc was that point.

Father Reardon read a verse from Psalms, and she watched dry-eyed as the casket, gleaming mahogany with brass rails, was lowered into the ground. She felt as though she were seeing it all from a distance: Glenn standing with his hands solemnly clasped in front of him, the sun winking off his Rolex; Liz staring grimly ahead, in the grip of memories she clearly wished no part of; Betty looking anxious and befuddled, as though wondering what any of this had to do with her. As if in a dream, Anna stepped forward to pitch a shovel full of dirt into the grave, thinking as she did of when she and her sisters were little, the prayer they said every night before bed:
If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Then they were drifting toward the parking lot, where everyone said their good-byes. The faces blurred together. There were only traces of perfume, the glimmer of earrings, flashes of sunlight off dark glasses as they pressed in. Only Laura stood out, her sweet smile a reminder that for all that was bad in the world there was an equal measure of good … and Finch, her somber gaze giving her the look of someone far older than her years.

She hugged Anna, murmuring, “Don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“If you need anything, just call,” Liz told her. She clearly meant it, whereas in the old days she’d only given it lip service.

Then Anna was back in Marc’s car, sinking into her seat with a sigh of relief—all she wanted was to be home soaking in a hot bath. “My place isn’t far,” she reminded him as they started down the hill. “At the bottom take the first right, then—”

He didn’t let her finish. “From what I’ve seen, it looks like the entire Fifth Division is camped out in front of your house.” Anna’s vision of her home as a safe haven dissolved. “Tonight you’re staying with me.” He spoke as if it were all settled.

She protested even so, “Marc, I can’t ask you to do this. You’ve put yourself on the line enough as it is. Besides, I don’t have any of my things.”

“We’ll pick up whatever you need along the way.”

“What about you—don’t you have to be at work?”

“I’m taking some time off.”

She fell silent, unable to wrap her brain around the idea that a man, any man, much less Marc, would go to such lengths for
her.
What did it mean? She gazed out her window at the coyote brush forming a dense berm along the road. It was covered in white blossoms that scattered in their wake, whirling up into the air—not blossoms after all, but butterflies, hundreds of them.

“I have some vacation days coming,” he went on in the same matter-of-fact tone. “My boss has been after me to take them, so I figured now was as good a time as any.”

“Still, it’s … I don’t know what to say.”

“You can’t do this alone. You need help.”

“I thought that’s what my lawyer was for.” Besides, Rhonda had warned her to keep a low profile. If the press got wind of her spending the night with a married man, it might only make matters worse.

“She can only do so much, and since the police don’t seem to be pursuing any other leads,” he went on determinedly, “I thought we should do a little digging of our own.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Do you always play by the rules?” He cast her a challenging look.