Butterfly Tattoo Page 25

  Andrea seems to catch onto that vibe. “People probably think you’re my parents,” she says, taking a bite of her turkey sandwich. Poking through her lunch sack, she inspects the rest of what Laurel’s packed.

  I slip my arm around her. “Well, I am your father,” I remind her with a forced laugh. There seems no other way to respond. Thankfully, Laurel avoids us both.

  “Michael. You know what I mean.” Andie sighs in exasperation. “That you’re my father and Aunt Laurel’s my mother. That’s probably what people think, seeing us here.”

  “The assumptions people make,” I reply numbly, and Laurel looks away, out at the passing traffic.

  “We could pretend that it’s true,” Andie suggests. “That you’re my parents, just for today. That would be cool. Aunt Laurel, I’ll call you Mommy all day and you have to answer.” She turns to me, excited, but then her expression becomes perturbed—what will she call me?

  “I could be Daddy,” I suggest gently. “Just for today.”

  “If I’m Mommy, then Michael definitely gets to be Daddy,” Laurel agrees, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment. “That’s only fair.”

  “Okay,” Andrea agrees reluctantly as she thinks on it a little more, taking another bite of her sandwich. “But only for today.” Then she spies a cat nosing around in the bushes behind us, and goes to offer it a tiny bit of turkey, leaving me alone for the first time all morning with Laurel.

  Neither of us knows what to say, but then I break that silence. “Loved the painting, Laurel. It’s gorgeous. I’ve gotta figure out where to put it, though.”

  “Maybe with all the rest of them?” she suggests with a wry smile. Busted.

  “I kinda figured you’d notice that.” I nod, staring out at traffic, avoiding her. “That I took the others down.”

  “If you don’t want them—”

  I silence her with my upraised hand. “I want them, Laurel. I want them and you’re not getting them back.”

  “Well, it’s just, they’re like my children, Michael. Do you understand?” Her right eyebrow migrates upward toward her hairline as she talks, a physical trait of Alex’s. The more excited or agitated he got, the more his eyebrow did the exact same thing. “They’re connected to me, part of me. It hurts, not knowing where they are.”

  I ignore the comment about her children. I ignore all that she’s just managed to cram into those few short sentences. Gently, I lift my hand and touch her eyebrow, tracing the outline of it with my forefinger. “They’re in the attic,” I almost whisper. “Wrapped in paper, boxed really careful.” The silky shape of that eyebrow, so familiar beneath my finger, the brush of the hairs, the dramatic lift…it’s so like his that it almost breaks me.

  Laurel blushes, dropping her head. But she doesn’t ask why I’m touching her, thank God. Maybe she understands. “Oh. Good,” she says, nodding as I drop my hand away. “That’s good.”

  “I have always loved your work, Laurel,” I say, even more softly. “That never changed.”

  Tears fill her eyes. “I dreamed the one of Alex. The one I gave you last night,” she explains. “It sang to me, in a dream.”

  “That’s kind of weird.”

  “No, it’s not,” she insists seriously. “It sang for you, Michael.”

  Andrea returns, interrupting my thoughts. “Mommy,” she announces, jarring me, “look what I found!” She’s carrying a smooth, flat rock, held like treasure in her small open palm. “You can paint on it.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” Laurel leans forward, kissing Andrea’s cheek. “This is a great find. Maybe we can paint on it together, before I go home.”

  Andie agrees, bobbing her head excitedly. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “Hey, maybe the rock’ll sing, too,” I quip as Andie plops between us again.

  “Michael, that painting has life,” Laurel insists in a firm voice. Something in her words makes me shiver despite the midday heat. “It will speak to you, but you have to listen.” I think of falling asleep last night, staring at it, of the sway it already held over me. I think of Alex, gone from this world, but maybe having life inside that canvas.

  “Laurel, it’s a beautiful painting,” I say. “I love it, seriously. I was just teasing you.”

  She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the edges. It’s hard to believe that we started out so young together, and now we’re getting older. “I do know you, Michael Warner.” She reaches for me, touching my hand very gently. “I know you well and love you much.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, even though she’s moved me with her words. “You’re just trying to get those paintings back out of storage.”

  “No, they’re yours,” she disagrees, turning the smooth stone in the palm of her hand. “They may be my children, but they belong to you now. Not me.” I get her pointed meaning, the reassurance that she’s offering.

  “You’ve been very generous.” I slip my arm around Andrea’s shoulder. “With Alex and me. Those are some amazing paintings.”

  “So, Daddy,” Andie interrupts, “this mean we can hang some of Mommy’s stuff up again?”

  “Only if you stop calling Aunt Laurel Mommy like that.”

  “Why?” she asks, her auburn eyebrows knitting together in innocent confusion.

  “Because it’s freaking weird, that’s why.” And then we all laugh together, sitting there on our little park bench along the golf course, enjoying the shade of the palm trees as a family in our own strange, imperfect way.

  After a quiet dinner and probably too many bedtime stories, Laurel kisses Andie goodnight, stroking her hair back from her cheek, then leaves me there in the dark, only the hall light spilling into her room.

  “I had fun today,” Andrea says, her small fingers curling around the edge of the blanket as I tuck Felicity in beside her. “It made me think of when Daddy was still alive. We used to do fun stuff, back then. Family stuff,” she adds. “I miss all that.”

  I never noticed when the family times stopped—have I been that wrapped in a haze of grief for the past year?

  “Maybe we could do that kind of stuff with Rebecca some time?” she continues, licking her lips thoughtfully. “Go on picnics, or to the zoo. You think maybe we could?”

  “I’d love that.” I press a kiss to her forehead, inhaling her fresh little-girl scent of shampoo and Ivory soap. “And I bet Rebecca would, too.”

  “Okay, well, goodnight,” she says, and I squeeze her hand.

  “I love you.” Turning on the CD player by her bed—her nightly ritual for falling asleep, to Sarah McLachlan—I move toward the doorway.

  “Sleep tight,” she calls out to me.

  “Sleep tight, precious girl.”

  “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” I flick on her nightlight, and am about to answer, when that soft, breathy voice adds in a whisper, “Daddy.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Rebecca

  “Someone’s on the phone for you from Foglight Productions,” Trevor speakerphones me. “Says she’s putting together an About the House fan gathering.”

  “Oh, geez.” I groan, continuing to type an e-mail to a producer. “Tell her no.”

  “It’s a fundraiser, she says.”

  “No.”

  “The fans would go crazy if you agreed.” Trevor has decided that me participating in this fan gathering is a good thing, and has therefore become this woman’s co-conspirator.

  I reach for my coffee—my fourth cup and it’s not even noontime yet. “Put her on,” I grumble, adjusting my headset.

  We talk and it turns out the fan thing is in late August; if I would be willing to come and sign publicity stills and glad-hand with the fans at a celebrity auction, it would truly crown the event a success. “I mean, you’re the ungettable get,” the coordinator tells me, none-too-tactfully. “Book Rebecca O’Neill, that’s what I was told. You’re my mandate.”

  “I’ve never done one of these before. Never,” I explain, feeling overwhelmed already. “I just don’t do f
an events, not after what happened to me.”

  “Well, Ms. O’Neill, I completely empathize with that,” she placates, handling me with all the careful acumen of a celebrity organizer. “But this is a fundraiser, to help children with leukemia. And that’s such a worthy purpose for participating.”

  “Kids with cancer?” I’m thinking of Alex, of course, and of how strange that this benefits his very cause. Well, not so strange—cancer is common enough. But then she adds, “All proceeds are to go to the children’s hospital at UCLA.”

  “I’ll do it.” Who said that? Me?

  “Oh, my gosh!” the coordinator squeals. “Wow, thank you, Ms. O’Neill. Thank you so much for agreeing. You’ve really made my week.” I’m betting this coordinator gets a bonus if she can fulfill her “mandate”.

  “Please just make sure security is tight,” I caution, feeling my stomach flutter with unsettled anxiety. “I may bring my own bodyguard with me. Hire someone for the event myself. I know that may seem like overkill, but—”

  “You have my guarantee,” she promises. “And I completely understand.”

  I check the August date in my calendar. It’s a little less than two months from today. I wonder if Michael would like to go? I could introduce him firsthand to the crazed fans of About the House. The weirdness of the subculture, of long-limbed tall girls masquerading in blonde wigs as five-foot-two-inch tiny me. Of people auctioning off scarves or sweaters for a thousand bucks all because I happened to wear one of them in a single episode. Michael needs to know about this facet of my life, I think, and make a note to mention the event.

  The phone calls keep coming all morning long, and I’m about to dart out for a quick bite at the commissary when Trev steps into my office, his face ashen. “Line two,” he says, closing the door behind him. He leans there, slightly breathless and disconcerted. “It’s Jake. He absolutely insisted that I put him through. That’s bloody wrong, don’t you think?”

  Jake hasn’t relented, not since the calls began; I think he’s left a total of eight messages in the past month. “I’ll talk to him.” I’m perversely calm at the prospect of speaking to my ex-boyfriend after all this time. Three whole years. “It’s really no big deal.” I shoo Trevor out of my office, and although Jake can’t see me, I freshen my lipstick, blotting my lips together before I pick up the phone.

  “Hello, Jake Slater.” I manage to sound sexy and composed, thanks to Michael. A few months ago, and his call would have meant the world to me. Even a month ago, right before I met Michael. Now I’m only looking for some closure on a bad chapter in my life.

  “Rebecca. Hey.” He sounds marginally stunned, like he didn’t believe I’d actually answer. “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, Jake,” I laugh, sipping my coffee. “Just peachy. Things are going great for me.”

  “That’s what I hear. You’ve got a load of heat, Rebecca.” He’s still got that sleepy-sounding, stayed-out-until-four-doing-coke kind of voice. “The Kingsley deal is buzzing all over town.”

  “Good timing, that’s all it takes.” I’m thinking of how off his timing has been ever since the show was cancelled. The time-cop pilot, the spate of poor choices. The gossip that he’s still coking around way too much.

  “I want to see you, Rebecca. It’s why I’ve been calling.” He doesn’t sound so sleepy-voiced now—he sounds focused and direct.

  I count out five seconds of distinct silence, then say, “Jake, that’s nice. But the thing is? I don’t want to see you.”

  “You’re not still pissed, are you?” How petty of me, being angry with him for such a trivial thing as abandoning me after I nearly died.

  “No, Jake, I am not pissed, but I have a boyfriend, someone pretty steady and serious—”

  “God, Rebecca, I only meant as friends!”

  “Oh really, Jake?” I ask blithely. “Because I heard Darcy dumped you, so naturally I assumed you were sniffing your way back to home port.”

  “All I want is to check up on an old friend,” he replies, tittering softly, and I think he’s amused to even talk about being dumped. “Figured you’d dig that. Shooting the shit together, like the old days. Get a couple of glasses of wine, you know.”

  Intentionally, I call out to Trevor through the door, instructing him to phone CAA to talk about deal points on a contract. Then, counting in my head I allow ten seconds of silence to pass. “Jake?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “I don’t want to get together, okay?” I answer, smiling to myself. Feeling healthy and whole and triumphant, even if I’m gloating a tad.

  “Just a thought,” he says. “Just a thought.”

  “Not ever, Jake. I’m over you, and besides, I’d rather spend that time with people I actually like.”

  And without so much as saying goodbye, I hit the disconnect button on my phone.

  That’s when I realize he’s probably going to be at that same dang fan gathering I just committed to attending, and I bury my face in my hands with a groan. Except, I’ll have Michael at my side. Strapping, gorgeous Michael, of the deep voice and the towering six-foot-three-inch frame. That should be enough to intimidate Jake, who at five foot eight has a serious short guy’s complex. Grabbing my purse, I head out for a quick lunch, and decide that a walk past Michael’s workplace isn’t actually out of my way.

  There’s a deer head mounted over the doorway to electrical construction, a true testimony to the macho creed behind the place. As I poke my head inside, I hear the sounds of drills buzzing, overlaid by The Who. Roger Daltrey’s rousing “yeeeeaaaaaaah” of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” echoes through the soundstage that serves as home to their department.

  Across the vast space, I spy Michael working, unaware of me. He’s tinkering with a piece of equipment on a workbench, and I’m not sure if I should simply walk over to him—call out—or what the right protocol here would be. We’ve met at the commissary a few times, gone off the lot for lunch. But I’ve never dared enter Macho Town, especially not without an invitation.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” a voice calls out, and I turn to see a grizzly old guy, the sort of fellow we used to call an old-timer on the set, wearing his threadbare T-shirt for a show cancelled some twelve seasons back. Most of these old guys know the skinny on a studio like this one; they know where all the bodies are buried, as it were.

  When I explain my mission there, the man whistles loudly, “Eh! Warner!” Michael looks up, and instantly his face brightens when he spots me. “There you go.” The gray-haired man moves past me with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Hey,” Michael says, beaming at me as he approaches. He rubs off his hands on the hem of his T-shirt, sliding something into the tool belt slung low around his hips. A guy with a tool belt—every girl’s dream. Well, and undoubtedly many guys’ dreams, too.

  “I hope this is okay—” I glance at the man, who seems a lot like his boss, but Michael waves me off before I can finish.

  “Of course it’s okay.”

  “Because I don’t want to get you in trouble at work or anything,” I explain.

  His gaze roves the petite length of me, particularly lingering on my expensive suit. “You’re the studio shit, so of course it’s okay.”

  “I am not the studio shit.” I smile, shoving my hands in my slacks’ pockets self-consciously.

  “Yeah, you’re our consumer, you know,” he explains, bobbing his head amicably. “It’s our job to keep your lights on.” He gives me a wicked, suggestive grin.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “An old electrician’s joke.” Echoing from a tinny radio in the back, The Who becomes the Stones, and I wonder if they listen to anything around here that was released after 1980. We chitchat a while, and then I bring up the real reason for my visit, the fan gathering at the end of August.

  “Yes, unbelievably, it’s true. I still have fans, even after all this time,” I explain, then add with a laugh, “I mean, apart from you and my paren
ts.”

  I notice that a couple of young guys are watching from the back, whispering and chuckling at our expense. “Looks like we’re generating some gossip,” I warn, cutting my eyes in their direction, and he glances over his shoulder.

  “Ah, Lorenzo and Gordon. Ignore ‘em. They can give me hell after you go.”

  I think of his long past here, working in the electrical department. I wonder if they ever knew about Alex, and if so, what they’ll make of me. “You’ve worked here seven years, right?” He nods, his dark eyebrows furrowing together, as he tries to follow my thinking.

  I look over toward his co-workers again, dropping my voice. “What did they think about—”

  “Never met him.” His mouth forms a hard line; the humor and warmth between us vanishes.

  Comprehension dawns for me. “They didn’t just not know him,” I press quietly, “they never knew he existed at all, did they?”

  He takes off his baseball cap, mopping his brow with the back of his hand, and laughs sadly. “In this place?” He glances over his shoulder again, to the land of classic rock and heavy testosterone. “What do you think, Rebecca?”

  “Oh-kay. I’m tracking right with you on that one.”

  But what about when Alex died? Did anyone here have a clue what Michael went through, his grief and heartbreak? I imagine not, I think, as a loud drill drones over our conversation. He was forced to put on a pretense as to how he lived his life, to wrestle through his sorrow in utter silence. A wave of loneliness washes over me at the thought of being so closeted.

  “Tell me more about this fan thing,” he encourages, glancing sideways at his friends in the back. They seem to have moved on, but we both know the workplace gossip will begin as soon as I go. Interestingly enough, he seems unconcerned about that.