Bridge to Haven (34 page)

“She was just shy of seventeen, Priscilla. She had a mind of her own.” Zeke’s mother had been married by that age.

Priscilla’s anger cooled. Her shoulders drooped. “He’s not anywhere in the picture. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” She held out her hand and Zeke returned the magazine. Priscilla stuffed it back in her purse like a dirty diaper needing to be dumped in an outdoor trash can. “At least we know she’s alive and well. Peter might not have those awful nightmares again.”

Peter had dreamed Dylan raped and murdered Abra. After hearing Kent Fullerton’s story, he’d had recurring nightmares of Dylan shoving Abra off a cliff into the ocean.

Priscilla rose. “You have to tell Joshua, I guess.”

Zeke rose, too. “I know.” He walked her through the outer office. Should he go downtown and buy a copy of the magazine? He felt bleak. The clerk would wonder why and comment. What could he say?

“Is there anything we can do, Zeke?” Priscilla’s tone was filled with hope and despair.

“We can pray.”

She looked impatient at that. “I have prayed. I’ve prayed until my knees ache.”

“Prayer brings us into the throne room of God, Priscilla. And it puts Abra there with us, whether she knows it or not. Don’t forget what you know to be true. Abra is never out of His reach. Never.”

She hugged him. “I think that’s what I needed to hear.” He held her firmly, like a father. She rested her head against his chest for a moment before she withdrew. “Thanks, Zeke.” She offered him a tremulous smile and left.

Zeke saw a note on top of the Sunday bulletins.
I saw Priscilla coming in. I hope you don’t mind me picking a title. It’s the message we always need.
He picked up a bulletin and opened it.
Resurrection Faith.

Abra tried to relax while Murray lathered and washed her hair, but her neck ached with tension. She closed her eyes, hoping that would help. It didn’t. She only had one more appointment today, with a new manicurist, and then she’d be on her way home to Franklin. Maybe he’d give her something for the headache before they went out. Where were they going tonight? She couldn’t remember.

Tomorrow night they’d attend the premiere of
Dawn of the Zombies
. Would reviewers like it? Or hate it? Would they say awful things about her acting? Franklin had worked with her through the entire shoot, drilling her on her lines, telling her how to look, what to do. She always felt sick to her stomach before going on set. All those cameras, like eyes staring at her, and the director and crew. Franklin said to put them out of her mind. When she couldn’t, he said she’d get used to it. She didn’t. He asked how she managed to play piano in front of a church, and she told him she never had to worry about Mitzi standing up and yelling, “Cut!” and telling her to do it again, from the beginning.

Murray put a firm hand beneath her neck as he lifted her from the sink. “You look like you have a splitting headache.” He rested his hands on her shoulders as he looked at her in the mirror. “It’s a hard job, jump-starting a career. This is supposed to be a place where you can relax and let your hair down, so to speak. No one is watching you here, Lena.”

“You are.”

His smile was gentle. “Not with an eye to criticize. I don’t have any motives other than to make you look and feel better.” He began to work the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders. “Take a deep breath and let it go.”

Quick tears burned her eyes. Mitzi used to say the same thing. Abra lowered her head and closed her eyes. Anyone looking at her might think she was praying, but she hadn’t done that since the night she saw Pastor Zeke walk away from Peter and Priscilla’s front gate.

Eighteen months of hard work had produced one walk-on part, a portfolio of glamorous glossy pictures, and one starring role in a movie not yet released. Franklin claimed it would send her name into orbit. She didn’t see how. Everything hinged on the critics’ response to what would be shown tomorrow night, despite the talk in town—talk that Franklin had generated. Abra felt Franklin’s growing excitement like a train racing along the tracks. Where exactly was he taking her? Sometimes she’d see something in his face that made her nervous. She tried not to think about it, but worry had been niggling at her for the last few weeks.

Sometimes she just wanted to be alone. She wanted to find a place where she could hide from Franklin’s driving ambition, his determination, his push, push, pushing because she wouldn’t be young forever and they only had a small window of time to get her name up in lights. She wanted to be still. She wanted to be someplace quiet. Like up in the hills when she’d hiked with Joshua.

Joshua.

She pulled her mind away from the past.

Sometimes she just wanted to be left alone in the apartment. She’d open the piano and play all day.

Murray’s hands were strong. She groaned, though he wasn’t hurting her. He spoke quietly as he continued the massage. “The world thinks it’s all glamour, but it’s hard work.”

“Harder for some than others.” She didn’t fit in. Even as an insider she felt outside.

“Feeling any better?”

Her head was still throbbing. “I think I’m just hungry.”

“We can fix that. What would you like to eat?”

She gave a bleak laugh. “A big, juicy hamburger!”

He grinned. “That’s easy enough. I can send someone across the street and—”

“Don’t. I can’t.” Franklin would have a fit. “I need to take off another two pounds.”

He frowned. “Every woman I’ve ever met has been on a diet, especially the ones who don’t need to be.”

“Tell that to Franklin. I look five pounds heavier when the cameras roll.”

“So what?” His hands stopped working her muscles and rested lightly on her shoulders. “Most men like women with a little meat on their bones.”

“The problem is, the camera doesn’t.”

“You looked just right to me the day you walked in here.”

She caught an unveiled look in his eyes before he let go and moved away. He sat on a stool near the wall. Abra turned the chair and faced him. She’d been around enough men over the last year and a half to know when a man felt stirred. Instead of flirting with her, Murray had backed off. He looked her over on occasion, but always averted his eyes quickly. He’d always treated her with respect, never making an effort to deepen their relationship in any way. She knew that was her fault. Franklin had told her how to act with Murray that first day, and she’d done exactly what he told her. Murray respected the line she had drawn and had kept the conversation light, general. Sometimes he didn’t speak at all, and she wondered if he was waiting for her to break character.

“I haven’t been very nice to you, have I?” Franklin had warned her not to trust anyone, but she found herself wanting to trust Murray. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. It wasn’t my idea.”

He didn’t pretend not to understand. “Franklin doesn’t want you to get personal.” He looked sad as he studied her. He seemed to be
debating whether to break the rules. “I remember the first day I met you.” He shook his head. “All that beautiful red hair. I thought Franklin was crazy, wanting to change it.”

She didn’t smile or play the usual flirtatious games Franklin told her to play with other men. “What do you think now?”

“Hard to say. Red seemed to suit you, but then, how would I know? I don’t really know you at all, do I?”

She felt the prick of hot tears again and swallowed. No one really knew her, Abra Matthews. She’d always kept the walls up, just the way Franklin told her. She was so tired of being Lena Scott all the time. Why couldn’t she be Abra for an hour or two now and then?

Murray sat silent. She knew the course of their relationship was being left to her. She took a shaky breath and stepped over the line. “There’s not much to know. I met a bad boy and fell in love. He brought me south and moved me into a little bungalow in Beverly Hills. He did whatever he wanted with—or without—me. I guess you could call me his beck-and-call girl. When he got tired of me, he made a bet Franklin couldn’t refuse.”

“What was that?”

“Franklin said he could make a star out of anyone. My boyfriend said, ‘Try her.’ My life in a nutshell.”

Murray didn’t look shocked or disgusted. Maybe a hairdresser was like a priest. They’d heard it all before.

“He will make you a star, if that’s what you want to be.”

“It never even occurred to me, until Franklin put the idea in my head.” She lifted her shoulders. “It would be nice to be somebody.”

“You are somebody, Lena.”

She shook her head and looked away.

“Well, then, you’re on your way, aren’t you?”

“Lena Scott is on her way.” She was sorry the moment she said it. She was sharing too much of herself. She put her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. Franklin wouldn’t be happy if he knew
she was talking to Murray like this. She waited for him to pry. When he didn’t, she felt oddly bereft. Maybe he wasn’t interested. She opened her eyes and saw that he was. Blinded by tears, she told him what she’d wanted to say for a long time. “My real name is Abra.”

“Abra.” Murray tested the name. “I like it.” His mouth curved. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me enough to tell me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“You’re telling me now.”

Her heart began to pound. “Don’t tell Franklin—”

“You don’t have to say it, Abra. What you say to me stays with me.”

The habitual caution still had a firm grip on her. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake trusting him. She changed the subject. “How did you end up in Hollywood?”

“I was born in Burbank. My mother was a hairdresser. My father left when I was two. I spent most of my life in the salon where she worked.” He smiled. “At first, women were lifting me out of the playpen or sitting me on their laps while Mom worked on their hair. As I got older, they played board games with me or read me stories while they sat under a dryer. I had two dozen aunts, big sisters, and grannies.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was. My mother had big dreams for me. She wanted me to go to college, become a doctor or a lawyer. Just like most mothers, I guess. I did well in school, but what I really enjoyed was watching my mother work and seeing the difference a couple of hours in a salon could make for a woman.” He shrugged. “My life was school, the salon, and church on Sunday morning. Until I hit high school. Then it was baseball and girls. I kept my grades up. Mom was tough and made sure of that. I hung out with friends, went to parties, necked with girls, but never went too far.”

When Murray fell silent, emotion tightening his jaw, Abra waited,
not pressing him. “I was a sophomore when my mother went through a radical double mastectomy and radiation for cancer. She didn’t even have enough energy to fix her hair.” He looked grim and angry. “She’d cry and say she didn’t feel like a woman anymore, as though breasts and perfect hair were all that mattered.”

Aren’t they?
Abra almost asked. She felt his pain and anger, was touched by his words. Would Franklin or anyone else in the world care about her if she didn’t have big breasts and raven hair?

“I bought Mom a wig and fixed it up for her. She looked and felt better. One of her clients came to visit and commented on how nice she looked. Mom sent me out to buy more wigs. Training me gave her something to think about other than cancer. She would be a blonde one day, a redhead the next, a brunette with hair down her back, or a platinum blonde with a bob.” He chuckled at the memories. “We had some great times together before she died.”

“How old were you when she passed away?”

“Seventeen. Still in high school. One of Mom’s older patrons took me in so I could finish. I quit baseball and got an after-school job at a hamburger joint. I saved money for beauty college. Not that I told anyone about my plans.” He laughed. “Most of my friends thought male hairdressers liked men better than women, if you get my drift. They were applying to colleges or trade schools, or enlisting in the Army or Navy.”

Grinning, he shook his head, his expression wry. “I was one of four guys in beauty college, and the only one who loved women, which made me pretty popular. I might have given in to temptation. Fortunately, my future wife was one of my fellow students.”

She stared in surprise. “You’re married?” He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and she’d always sensed he was available.

“Widowed. I lost my wife the same way I lost my mother.”

Abra caught her breath. “That’s not fair.”

“Life never is.”

“I’m so sorry, Murray.”

“Yeah, so am I. Janey was . . .” He didn’t speak for a moment. “No word is good enough for what she was. I blamed God for a while, thought it was a bad joke He’d played on me.” He stood and turned Abra’s chair around, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “And then I remembered we had five wonderful years together. I’m thankful for the time I had with her.”

“Do you have children?”

“No. The salon had only been open two years. We wanted to make sure the business was solid before starting a family. Logical choice when we thought we had years ahead of us, but one we both regretted later when we ran out of time.” He worked conditioner into her hair. “You reminded me of Janey the first time I saw you.”