Plain Jayne (34 page)

“I don’t get it,” I admit. “What is that?”

“A bunch of your writing files. Copied—actually, moved—from
your laptop onto this.” The guilty look on his face tells me he’s confessing to
something major, but I still don’t understand the depth of his revelation.

“Okay….”

Holding it up between our faces, he says, “I, uh…” and then
stops. He sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, and restarts. “The day I came out
here to try to get Caroline to leave you alone, I opened your computer and read
your manuscript after I got back from my walk on the beach.”

I nod. “Yes. I remember. It pissed me off, hardcore.”

He smiles at the memory. “Yes, it did. And I told you to
password protect it, and, as usual, you thoroughly ignored me—”

“No, I didn’t! I password protected both the document and
the computer after that incident.”

“Not immediately after,” he points out and then declares, “I
checked. While you were down at the beach.”

Instead of saying anything, I simply clench my teeth
together and stare him down.

“You left your laptop unattended quite often,” he defends
himself. “And with Caroline lurking around… well, it made me sick to my stomach
to think what kind of hell she could unleash on you with one keystroke. I also
wouldn’t put it past her to plagiarize something and have it published under
her own name. Or… well, like I said, I thought of a thousand horrifying
scenarios, so while you were on your walk, I went to the gazebo with this,” He
flicks the thumb drive with his forefinger, “planning to simply copy your
writing files onto it, but I got ultra-paranoid, so… I completely moved the
bulk of them, when I saw you hadn’t accessed some of the files in years. I
figured you wouldn’t miss them. And I was going to put the drive in a safe
deposit box and tell you what I’d done—after Caroline left, and there was no
chance of her overhearing me—but I… I… realized the next day that you’d be
understandably pissed off at my interference, so... I tried to put the files
back on your computer the day you stayed in bed all day, but by then, you’d
password protected it.” He looks miserably at me. “I should have confessed
everything right then, but… I felt like you were finally starting to trust
and—maybe even
like—
me.”

“So you’ve had these files all these months? What are they?
I don’t even know what they could be…”

He swallows audibly. “I wish I could say I don’t know, that
I didn’t look at them, but… I did. Of course, I did. Not until after you’d
gone, though, and I realized I still had it. I looked at them to see if I
needed to send them to you and tell you what I’d done. I was trying to figure
out how I could get away with not ever telling you.”

Even though he’s the one completely in the wrong, I feel bad
for him. He looks so remorseful. About a bunch of stupid documents I don’t even
remember writing. I never would have missed them. But he went back into a
burning house for them.

Pressing the plastic rectangle into my hand, he says,
“There’s some good stuff on there. Obviously. Really, really, really good.”

“There is?!”

He laughs. “Yes! Stuff you must have written in college,
before you started writing your book.”

“Wow. I-I don’t remember any of it.”

He scratches his chin. “There’s a short story about a man
having to put his dog to sleep that made me cry.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Sounds like a knock-off of
Old
Yeller
.”

“No! It’s excellent and original. Anyway, it was worth
saving.”

I gently tap his cast. “And how did
this
happen to
your leg? Obviously, it was after you rescued Caroline and the thumb drive?”

He nods. “Yeah. The stairs collapsed under me when I was on
my way back down. Caroline was already out; she went down the terrace stairs
and around from the backyard into the front. I found out later that she watched
me run back inside. I should have known better than to think she’d still be
inside. She never did have the guts to kill herself the easy way, much less in
a painful way like burning and suffocating to death.” He winces when he sees my
reaction to his statement. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Jayne.” He pulls me closer to
him and hugs me to his side. “That was such an insensitive thing to say!”

Hugging me obviously hurts, because he takes a sharp breath,
which then brings on a coughing jag. I pull away from him but offer my arm for
him to hold while he bends at the waist and sputters. Finally, he stops and
straightens. Eyes watering, he blinks and smiles wanly. “Sorry. Oh, hell, that
hurts. Cracked rib.”

“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hand to him. “Let’s get
you home. You can wait in the cruiser while I go get my rental car. It’s a good
thing I’m here; I don’t know how you expected to call Tom to come get you, if
your phone burned up in the fire.”

He flinches and tilts his head at me. “How…?”

I hold up the thumb drive to remind him of his own transgressions
while admitting, “Yeah, I was eavesdropping on you and Blanche. So sue me.”

For the sake of his ribs, he stifles his laughter but grins
widely while grabbing his crutches and hoisting himself to a standing position.
“No thanks. I think I’ll be getting my fill of legal action in the upcoming
months, what with testifying against my ex-wife at her trial, which will be
sure to be a media circus, considering who she is. No need to add petty
litigious issues, such as eavesdropping, to the docket.”

His reference to Caroline sobers me. “I’m sorry life’s been
so… difficult… lately. And I’m sorry if I’ve added to it in any way.”

“Bah! Fearing for your life on a daily basis adds some
excitement. And…” now he looks away from me when he continues, “…heartbreak
reminds you you’re alive.”

“In that case, I’ve been extremely aware of being alive,” I
say to let him know how I’ve felt without him.

He smiles sadly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I step in front of him and look up into his face.

“I’ve spent a lot of time lately wishing I wasn’t.”

“All you had to do was stop moving out of the way of speeding
cars, stabbing knives, and blazing blowtorches,” I point out.

His lips inches from mine, he says thickly, “The will to
survive is oddly subconscious. And extremely difficult to fight.”

Our lips are nearly touching when I say, “I’m very glad
about that. And don’t ever risk your life again for something like a thumb
drive with a bunch of my forgotten ramblings on it. Understand?”

“But the guy… and the dog… and… Tears streamed down my face
when I read it, Jayne.”

“I don’t care. Promise me you’ll never do something stupid
like that again.”

He rolls his eyes. “I promise the next time my insane
ex-wife tries to burn me in my bed that I’ll only worry about saving my own
ass. And yours. Since I fully expect you to be in that bed with me.”

Finally, our lips touch, first softly and tentatively and
then firmly and hungrily.

There’s
that tummy-jolting, heart-jerking feeling I’ve
been missing so much!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“It’s coming along quite nicely,” I say, getting into the
car after our latest look at the beach house’s construction. “How much longer
are they saying it’ll take?”

Luke buckles his seat belt and turns the key in the
ignition. “A few more weeks. It’ll go quickly from here on out. Mostly cosmetic
stuff. And Malcolm O’Shea’s money gets things done more quickly than normal
people’s money.”

In settlement talks (out of court, of course) nine months
ago, Malcolm had tried to appeal to the Luke he’d been dealing with all the
years he’d been married to Caroline, demanding, “Isn’t it enough that my only
daughter lives in a loony bin and will forever be looked upon as a criminal?”

But that Luke doesn’t exist anymore. He got lost somewhere
in the smoke and ashes overlooking the beach. Instead, Malcolm’s ex-son-in-law had
matter-of-factly replied, “No. I want my house back, and since your only
daughter—who tried to kill me on more than one occasion—was responsible for its
burning down, I think it’s reasonable for you to pay to rebuild it. Maybe you
should have locked her up sooner—perhaps the first time she tried to kill me?—and
saved yourself some money… and face. Not to mention, you would have been doing
me
a huge favor.”

Malcolm had forked over the dough, however grudgingly.

“I’m dying to get back into that gazebo,” I half-joke. Actually,
I’m not joking at all. I’m praying it’ll work its magic, and I’ll be inspired
to start—and eventually, finish—the book that Thornfield is seriously
pressuring me about. I have enough money to pay them back the advance I
received so that I can get out of my contract with them, but Tullah says that
won’t work in my favor if I ever want to publish another book sometime in the
future (ha!). I’m not going to have a choice for much longer, though. I’m going
to have to put out or pay up. I’ve never been great at putting out on demand.

Turning from the driveway onto the road, Luke sighs. “You
don’t need the magic gazebo. You have the thumb drive. Why won’t you look at
the stuff on it? I’m begging you.”

Yes, he’s been begging me for months, to no avail. I want
nothing to do with that thing.

“When we get home, I’m loading those documents onto your
laptop,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

“Why?!”

“Because. This is ridiculous. You have two dozen good starts
right under your nose, but you’re too stubborn to look at them. You’d rather be
a one-hit wonder.”

“That’s not true! I’ve been busy, that’s all. Too busy to be
bothered. Too busy to be inspired. Now that we’ve finished the screenplay and cast
the movie, and they’re scouting filming locations, they don’t need my input for
a while. I’ll have some time to relax and think and—”

He reaches over and grabs my hand. “I’m not Arthur
Thornfield, so stop trying to blow smoke up my ass.”

I know better than to continue lying to him. He knows I have
nothing. He knows I feel like a fraud. He knows I’m worried I’ll never have
another idea.

Letting my head fall back against the headrest, I stare out
my window. “You’ll see. There’s nothing on that flash drive that can help me.”

He lets go of my hand and says hotly, “I’m sick of you
ignoring my instincts on this! Would I have gone to the trouble to run back
into a burning house if there were nothing on it?”

Ironically, that’s part of why I can’t bear to look at it.
It freaks me out to think he could have died retrieving a bunch of my crappy college
writing assignments. I would have never forgiven myself. Not that I would have
known. Anyway! I hate thinking about it; I don’t even want to look at that
flash drive (that’s why it’s shoved into a desk drawer in our apartment). And I
definitely don’t want to touch it long enough to plug it into my computer and
retrieve the files from it.

I hate making him mad, though, so I relent. “Fine. But I’m
not touching it. And I’m still pissed off at you for taking such a risk to get
it.”

“So damn stubborn,” he mutters, rubbing his chin and staring
straight ahead through the windshield. “I told you; I’ll copy the files to your
laptop. Promise me you’ll read them.”

“Is that an order?” I listlessly turn my head to look at
him.

“Yes. I’m pulling rank and ordering you to read them, if
that’s what it takes.”

“‘Pulling rank’? What the hell is that supposed to mean? You
don’t out-rank me!” Outraged, I stare at his profile.

He stifles a sudden grin. “I broke my leg and almost died
for those files. The least you can do is read them.”

“I never would have asked you to do that. Ever.”

“And I did it anyway. More reason for you to do as I say.”

“I already said I would.”

“Just making sure you understand how important it is to me.”

I clench my teeth when I feel the tears of frustration
threatening. “I get it. Can we please change the subject?”

He glances over at me and does a double-take when he sees
that I’m becoming emotional. “Hey,” he says gently, offering me his hand again.

I take it and squeeze his fingers. “I’m fine,” I claim. And
I am, but I get easily upset when I think too much about what could have
happened. And I hate when he makes light of it. I know too well how it could
have turned out. It’s far from funny.

“I was only kidding.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

He knots his fingers through mine. “That’s how I deal with
it, though. It still scares me, so I joke about it.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be mad, Jayne.”

I sniff and say curtly, “I’m not,” but I don’t say anything
else for the rest of the drive home. When we get to the apartment, I ride the
elevator with him in silence, and as soon as it spits us out into our living
room, I stride to the bedroom, where I strip and then shut myself in the
bathroom to soak in a hot tub of water.

He’s so sure that the answer to my problems lies on that stupid
piece of plastic and metal. What if it doesn’t? What if I read through it all,
and nothing comes of any of it? He makes it sound like any dipshit with an
eighth grade education could make something out of what’s on there. But what if
I can’t? Won’t that be the ultimate proof that I’m a hack? Or at the very
least, that a gift I once had is now gone? I’m terrified to find out that I
don’t know how to write anything other than the book I’ve already written, no
matter how many inspirational ideas are tossed my way.

When I emerge from the bathroom, wrinkled and wrapped in
Luke’s robe (which he hasn’t had a chance to wear in months, since I’ve
commandeered it), he’s sitting up, fully clothed on top of the bedclothes with
his back against the headboard, scratching his way through a crossword puzzle,
which he immediately sets aside.