This Heart of Mine (12 page)

The restaurant's colorful décor suddenly seemed too bright, and the lively chatter jangled her nerves. She'd told no one about her block, especially not the woman sitting across from her. Now she spoke carefully. "I want this next book to be really special. I've been tossing around a number of ideas, but—"

"No, no." Helen held up her hand. "Take your time. We understand. You've been through a lot lately."

If her editor wasn't concerned about not getting a manuscript, why had she invited her to lunch? Molly rearranged one of the tiny corn masa boats on her plate. She'd always loved them, but she'd been having trouble eating since the miscarriage.

Helen touched the rim of her margarita glass. "You should know that we've had some inquiries from SKIFSA about the Daphne books."

Helen mistook Molly's stunned expression. "Straight Kids for a Straight America. They're an antigay organization."

"I know what SKIFSA is. But why are they interested in the Daphne books?"

"I don't think they would have looked at them if there hadn't been so much press about you. The news reports apparently caught their attention, and they called me several weeks ago with some concerns."

"How could they have concerns? Daphne doesn't have a sex life!"

"Yes, well, that didn't stop Jerry Falwell from outing Tinky Winky on the
Teletubbies
for being purple and carrying a purse."

"Daphne's allowed to carry a purse. She's a girl."

Helen's smile seemed forced. "I don't think the purse is the issue. They're… concerned about possible homosexual overtones."

It was a good thing Molly hadn't been eating, because she would have choked. "In my books?"

"I'm afraid so, although there haven't been any accusations yet. As I said, I think your marriage caught their attention, and they saw a chance for publicity. They asked for an advance look at
Daphne Takes a Tumble
, and since we didn't foresee any problems, we sent them a copy of the mock-up. Unfortunately, that was a mistake."

Molly's head was beginning to ache. "What possible concerns could they have?"

"Well…they mentioned that you use a lot of rainbows in all of your books. Since that's a symbol for gay pride…"

"It's become a crime to use rainbows?"

"These days it seems to be," Helen said dryly. "There are a few other things. They're all ridiculous, of course. For example, you've drawn Daphne giving Melissa a kiss in at least three different books, including
Tumble
."

"They're best friends!"

"Yes, well…" Like Molly, Helen had given up any pretense of eating, and she crossed her arms on the edge of the table. "Also, Daphne and Melissa are holding hands and skipping down Periwinkle Path. There's some dialogue."

"A song. They're singing a song."

"That's right. The lyrics are 'It's spring! It's spring! We're gay! We're gay!'"

Molly laughed for what seemed the first time in two months, but her editor's tight-lipped smile sobered her. "Helen, you're not seriously telling me they think Daphne and Melissa are getting it on?"

"It's not just Daphne and Melissa. Benny—"

"Hold it right there! Even the most paranoid person couldn't accuse Benny of being gay. He's so macho that he—"

"They've pointed out that he borrows a lipstick in
Daphne Plants a Pumpkin Patch
."

"He uses it to make his face scary so he can frighten Daphne! This is so ludicrous it doesn't even deserve a response."

"We agree. On the other hand, I'd be less than truthful if I didn't admit we're a little edgy about this. We think SKIFSA wants to use you to raise their profile, and they're going to do it by zeroing in on
Daphne Takes a Tumble
."

"So what? When the fringe groups started accusing J. K. Rowling of Satanism in the Harry Potter books, her publisher ignored it."

"Forgive me, Molly, but Daphne isn't quite as well known as Harry Potter."

And Molly didn't have either J. K. Rowling's clout or her money. The possibility of Helen's authorizing the rest of her advance seemed to be growing more remote by the minute.

"Look, Molly, I know this is ridiculous, and Birdcage is standing behind the Daphne books one hundred percent—there's no question about that. But we're a small company, and I thought it was only fair to tell you that we're getting a fair amount of pressure about
Daphne Takes a Tumble
."

"I'm sure it'll disappear as soon as the press lets go of the story about… about my marriage."

"That may take a while. There's been so much speculation…" She let her words trail off, subtly hinting for details.

Molly knew it was the air of mystery around her marriage that was keeping the press interested, but she refused to comment on it, and so did Kevin. His courteous, formal calls to check up on her had finally stopped at her insistence. From the time he'd learned of her pregnancy right through her miscarriage, his behavior had been faultless, and the resentment she felt whenever she thought of him made her ashamed, so she stopped thinking about him.

"We think it's a good idea to be cautious now." Her editor slipped an envelope from the folder she had at her side and passed it across the table. Unfortunately, it was too large to contain a check.

"Luckily,
Daphne Takes a Tumble
hasn't gone into final production yet, and that gives us a chance to make a few of the changes they're suggesting. Just to avoid any misunderstanding."

"I don't want to make changes." The muscles tightened in a painful band around Molly's shoulders.

"I understand, but we think—"

"You told me you loved the book."

"And we're totally committed. The changes I'm suggesting are very minor. Just look through them and think about it. We can talk more next week."

Molly was furious when she left the restaurant. By the time she got home, however, her anger had faded, and the bleak sense of emptiness she couldn't shake off settled over her once again. She tossed aside the envelope with Helen's suggestions and went to bed.

Lilly wore the shawl Mallory had given her to the J. Paul Getty Museum. She stood on one of the curved balconies that made the museum so wonderful and gazed out over the hills of Los Angeles. The May day was sunny, and if she turned her head a bit, she could see Brentwood. She could even make out the tile roof of her house. She'd loved the house when she and Craig first found it, but now all the walls seemed to be closing in on her. Like so much else in her life, it was more Craig's than hers.

She slipped back inside the museum, but she paid little attention to the old masters on the wall. It was the Getty itself she loved. The cluster of ultramodern buildings with their wonderful balconies and unpredictable angles formed a work of art that pleased her far more than the precious objects inside. A dozen times since Craig's death she'd ridden the sleek white tram that carried visitors to the hilltop museum. The way the buildings enfolded her made her feel as if she'd become part of the art—frozen in time at the moment of perfection.

People
magazine had showed up on the stands today with a two-page story about Kevin and his mystery marriage. She'd fled here to escape a nearly overwhelming urge to pick up the phone and call Charlotte Long, the woman who was her only inside source of information about Kevin. It was May, and the marriage and separation had taken place three months ago, but she didn't know anything more now than she had then. If only she could call Charlotte Long without worrying that she'd tell Kevin.

As she headed down the staircase and into the courtyard, she tried to figure out how to keep herself busy for the rest of the day. No one was banging on her door begging her to star in a new film. She didn't want to start another quilting project because it would give her too much time to think, and she'd had more than enough of that lately. The breeze loosened a lock of hair and whipped it against her cheek. Maybe she should stop worrying about the consequences and just give in to the urge to call Charlotte Long. But how much pain did she want to put herself through when she couldn't see any possibility of a happy ending?

If only she could see him.

Should I overdose on pills? Daphne asked herself.

Or jump from the top of a very tall tree? Oh, where was that handy carbon monoxide leak when a girl needed it?

Daphne's Nervous Breakdown

(notes for a never-to-be-published manuscript)

"I'm fine", Molly told her sister every time they talked.

"Why don't you come out to the house this weekend? I promise, you won't find a single copy of
People
around. The irises are beautiful, and I know how much you love May."

"This weekend's not good. Maybe next."

"That's what you said the last time we talked."

"Soon, I promise. It's just that I've got so many things going right now."

It was true. Molly had painted her closets, pasted photos in albums, cleaned out files, and groomed her sleepy poodle. She did everything but work on the revisions she'd finally been forced to agree to do because she needed the rest of her advance money.

Helen wanted some dialogue changed in
Daphne Takes a Tumble
as well as three new drawings. Two would show Daphne and Melissa standing farther apart, and in the third, Benny and his friends were to be eating cheese sandwiches instead of hot dogs. Everyone had scoured Daphne with the most lascivious of adult minds. Helen had also asked Molly to make changes in the text of two older Daphne books that were going back to press. But Molly had done none of it, not out of principle, although she wished that were the case, but because she couldn't concentrate.

Her friend Janine, who was still stung over SKIFSA'S condemnation of her own book, was upset that Molly hadn't told Birdcage to go to hell, but Janine had a husband who made their mortgage payment every month.

"The kids miss you," Phoebe said.

"I'll call them tonight. I promise."

She did call them, and she managed to do all right with the twins and Andrew. But Hannah broke her heart.

"It's because of me, isn't it, Aunt Molly?" she whispered. "That's why you don't want to come over anymore. It's because the last time you were here, I said I was sad that your baby died."

"Oh, sweetheart…"

"I didn't know I wasn't supposed to talk about the baby. I promise, I won't ever, ever say anything again."

"You didn't do anything wrong, love. I'll come over this weekend. We'll have a great time."

But the trip only made her feel worse. She hated being responsible for the worry that clouded Phoebe's face, and she couldn't bear the soft, considerate way Dan spoke to her, as if he were afraid she would shatter. Being with the children was even more painful. As they looped their arms around her waist and demanded she come with them to see their newest projects, she could barely breathe.

The family was tearing her apart with their love. She left as soon as she could.

May slid into June. Molly sat down a dozen times to work on the drawings, but her normally agile pen refused to move. She tried to come up with an idea for a
Chik
article, but her mind was as empty as her bank account. She could make her mortgage payments through July, but that was all.

As one June day slipped into the next, little things began to get away from her. One of her neighbors set a sack of mail he'd pulled from her overflowing mailbox outside her door. Her laundry piled up, and dust settled over her normally tidy condo. She got a cold and had trouble shaking it off.

One Friday morning her head ached so badly she called in sick for her volunteer tutoring and went to bed. Other than dragging herself outside long enough for Roo to do his business and occasionally forcing down a piece of toast, she slept all weekend.

When Monday came, her headache was gone, but the aftereffects of the cold had sapped her energy, so she phoned in sick again. Her bread box was empty, and she was out of cereal. She found some canned fruit in the cupboard.

On Tuesday morning as she dozed in bed, her sleep was disturbed by the buzzer from the lobby. Roo hopped to attention. Molly burrowed deeper into her covers, but just when she was falling back asleep, someone began pounding on her door. She pulled a pillow over her head, but it didn't block out the deep, familiar voice clearly audible over the sound of Roo's yips.

"Open up! I know you're in there!"

That awful Kevin Tucker.

She sneezed and stuck her fingers in her ears, but Roo kept barking and Kevin kept banging. Miserable dog. Reckless, scary quarterback. Everyone in the building was going to complain. Cursing, she dragged herself out of bed.

"What do you want?" Her voice sounded creaky from lack of use.

"I want you to open the door."

"Why?"

"Because I need to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk." She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.

"Tough. Unless you'd like everyone in this building to know your private business, I suggest you open up."

Reluctantly, she flipped the lock. As she opened the door, she wished she were armed.

Kevin stood on the other side, dazzling and perfect with his healthy body, gleaming blond hair, and blazing green eyes. Her head pounded. She wanted to hide behind dark glasses.

He pushed his way past her snarling poodle and shut the door. "You look like hell."

She stumbled over to the couch. "Roo, be quiet."

The dog gave Molly an offended sniff as she lay down.

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"I don't need a doctor. My cold is almost gone."

"How about a shrink?" He walked over to the windows and began opening them.

"Stop that." It was bad enough that she had to endure his arrogance and the threatening glare of his good looks. She didn't have to tolerate fresh air, too. "Will you go away?"

As he gazed around at her condo, she noticed the dirty dishes littering the kitchen counter, the bathrobe hanging over the end of the couch, and the dusty tabletops. He was an uninvited guest, and she didn't care.

"You blew off the appointment with the attorney yesterday."

"What appointment?" She shoved a hand into her ratty hair, then winced as it caught on a snarl. Half an hour ago she'd stumbled into the bathroom to brush her teeth, but she couldn't remember taking a shower. And her shabby gray Northwestern nightshirt smelled like poodle.

"The annulment?" He glanced toward the pile of unopened mail spilling out of the white Crate & Barrel shopping bag next to the door and said sarcastically, "I guess you didn't get the letter."

"I guess. You'd better leave. I might still be contagious."

"I'll take my chances." He wandered over to the windows and gazed down at the parking lot. "Nice view."

She closed her eyes to sneak in a nap.

Kevin didn't think he'd ever seen anyone more pathetic. This pasty-faced, stringy-haired, musty-smelling, sniffling, sad-eyed female was his wife. Hard to believe she was the daughter of a showgirl. He should have let his attorney take care of this, but he kept seeing the raw desperation in her eyes when she'd begged him to hold her legs together, as if brute strength alone could keep that baby inside her.

I know you hate me, but…

He couldn't quite hate her any longer, not after he'd watched her fruitless struggle to hold on to that baby. But he did hate the way he felt, as if he had some sort of responsibility for her. Training camp started in less than two months. He needed to be focusing all his energy on getting ready for next season. He gazed at her resentfully.

You have to set an example, Kevin. Do the right thing.

He moved away from the windows and stepped over her worthless, pampered dog. Why did someone with her millions live in such a small place? Convenience, maybe. She probably had at least three other addresses, all of them in warm climates.

He sank down on the sectional couch at the opposite end from where she was lying and studied her critically. She must have dropped ten pounds since the miscarriage. Her hair had grown longer, nearly to her jawline, and it had lost that silky sheen he remembered from their wedding day. She hadn't bothered with makeup, and the deep bruises under those exotic eyes made her look as if she'd been somebody's punching bag.

"I had an interesting conversation with one of your neighbors."

She settled her wrist over her eyes. "I promise I'll call your attorney first thing in the morning if you'll just leave."

"The guy recognized me right away."

"Of course he did."

She wasn't too tired for sarcasm, he noticed. His resentment simmered.

"He was more than happy to gossip about you. Apparently you stopped emptying your mailbox a few weeks ago."

"Nobody sends me anything interesting."

"And the only time you've left your apartment since Thursday night is to take out your pit bull."

"Stop calling him that. I'm recovering from a cold, that's all."

He could see her red nose, but somehow he didn't think a cold was the only thing wrong with her. He rose. "Come on, Molly. Holing up like this isn't normal."

She peered at him from beneath her wrist. "Like you're an expert on normal behavior? I heard you were swimming with sharks when Dan found you in Australia."

"Maybe it's depression."

"Thank you, Dr. Tucker. Now, get out."

"You lost a baby, Molly."

He'd made a statement of fact, but it was as if he'd shot her. She sprang up from the couch, and the way her expression turned feral told him more than he wanted to know.

"Get out of here before I call the police!"

All he had to do was walk through the door. God knew he had enough aggravation on his plate right now with the publicity the
People
article had kicked up. And just being with her was making his gut churn. If only he could forget the way she'd looked when she'd been trying to hold on to that baby.

Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he tried to cut them off. "Get dressed. You're coming with me."

Her rage seemed to frighten her, and he watched her struggle to make light of it. The best she could manage was a pitiful croak. "Been smoking a little too much weed, have you?"

Furious with himself, he stomped up the five steps that led to her bedroom loft. Her pit bull shadowed him to make sure he didn't steal the jewelry. He looked down at her from over the top of the kitchen cabinets. God, he hated this. "You can either get yourself dressed or go with me the way you are. Which will probably get you quarantined by the Health Department."

She lay back on the couch. "You're so wasting your breath."

It would be for only a few days, he told himself. He was already in a foul mood about being forced to drive up to the Wind Lake Campground. Why not make himself completely miserable by bringing her along?

He'd never intended to go back there, but he couldn't avoid it. For weeks he'd been telling himself he could sell off the property without seeing it again. But when he couldn't answer any of the questions his business manager had posed, he'd known he had to bite the bullet and see exactly how run-down it had become.

At least he'd be getting rid of two ugly duties at the same time. He'd settle the campground and badger Molly into getting her butt moving again. Whether it worked or not would be up to her, but at least his conscience would be clean.

He unearthed a suitcase from the back of her closet and yanked open her drawers. Unlike her messy kitchen, here everything was neatly arranged. He tossed shorts and tops in the suitcase, then threw in some underwear. He found jeans along with sandals and a pair of sneakers. A couple of sundresses caught his eye. He threw them on top. Better to take too much than have her sulk because she didn't have what she wanted.

The suitcase was full, so he grabbed what looked like her old college backpack and glanced around for the bathroom. He found it downstairs, near the front door, and began dumping in various cosmetics and toiletries. Succumbing to the inevitable, he headed for the kitchen and loaded up on dog food.

"I hope you're planning to put all that back." She was standing by the refrigerator, the pit bull in her arms, her rich-girl's eyes weary.

He'd like nothing better than to put it back, but she looked too damn pathetic. "You want to take a shower first, or do we drive with the windows down?"

"Are you deaf? I'm not some rookie you can order around."

He propped one hand on the edge of the sink and gave her the same stony look he used on those rookies. "You've got two choices. Either you can go with me right now, or I'm taking you over to your sister's house. Somehow I don't think she'll like what she sees."

Her expression told him he'd just thrown a Hail Mary.

"Please leave me alone," she whispered.

"I'll look through your bookshelves while you take a shower."