Talk of the Town (43 page)
Beneath all the postulating, there was a nagging question. Why did I feel Carter’s betrayal so deeply? Why did it seem as if something important,
someone
important had suddenly dropped out of my life? Why was I desperately hoping that the shadowy figure outside the door was Carter, not someone else in a cowboy hat and Hawaiian shirt?
My heart fluttered into my throat, inconveniently exhilarated by the idea that he’d come back. To see me? To talk things out? To try to sign Amber for Higher Ground? If it was really him, why was he here?
My mind rushed to assimilate Imagene’s revelations.
Amber told me she’d been trying to call J. C. Woods about his music company all weekend and he wouldn’t pick up his phone.
Was that true? I’d heard Carter’s cell ring several times. I’d seen him check the number and tuck the phone back into his pocket.
Seems like if he was really here to steal her over to his company, he would have answered his phone . . . unless something had happened to make him change his mind. . . .
Had something happened? Was I foolish to think so, to hope for it, to believe that he was here now to talk to me rather than to promote some scheme that would advance his recording interests? Was I setting myself up for another fall? Only a few days ago, I’d been telling myself that David and I didn’t have any secrets from each other. I’d been convinced that the separate-but-together life he offered was what I wanted. I’d told myself I could fit happily into the mold, be his shipmate, roommate, walk down the street together looking like the perfect power couple. Even now, in spite of everything I’d learned about David, a part of me liked the picture. A part of me desperately wanted to be half of a whole, a partner, a soul mate.
Was I trying to paint a new picture, hastily writing a fresh duet because the future I’d imagined with David had been shattered?
I looked hard at the doorway, tried to decide, tried to see the picture. But with Carter there was no picture. I couldn’t imagine, couldn’t presuppose what it would be like with him. There was no mold for me to squeeze into. Nothing about him fit the artificial scenarios I’d envisioned. Carter was an enigma, a mystery yet to be solved, but the details seemed insignificant. There was only the way I felt when I was with him, the way he made me laugh, his willingness to watch cheesy westerns late into the night, his lack of unrealistic expectations and demands. Carter made me feel like it was good enough, more than good enough just to be myself, just to spend time together. He made me feel . . . perfect.
Had I ever experienced that kind of peace, that sense of rightness before? With David? With anyone?
I could feel him watching me from the doorway. Ducking his head, he pushed his hands into his pockets, and something in the motion let me know for certain it was him. He was waiting there in the darkness, giving me time to consider his presence here, allowing me to make the first move if I wanted to.
Before I heard it in my thoughts, I felt the glimmer of an answered prayer, a tiny grain of faith, a holdover from childhood or the years of Episcopal school, or perhaps something new, sprinkled there by Daily folks, Amber Anderson, or some magical combination of everything. Perhaps some things
were
meant to be and the only chain keeping me prisoner was the fear I’d allowed myself to build. If this wasn’t real, if it wasn’t meant to be, how could I possibly feel it so deeply?
I started up the aisle, a few steps at first, then faster, until I was just inside the door and he was outside. Only the threshold separated us.
I hesitated, unable to cross. A stubborn, wounded part of me felt the need to slow the situation down, to control it, to yield beneath the burden of the heavy chain of questions, of worry and trepidation. A whisper of apprehension told me that as much as I wanted the shadow man to be Carter, he was really J. C. Woods, someone I didn’t know at all.
Be careful,
a voice in my head warned.
Don’t put yourself out there too far. What if you’re wrong? What if there is no grand plan? What if it’s all just wishful thinking? Remember what happened with David. . . .
I hovered on the threshold, teetering between a chasm of fear and a bridge of faith.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Carter leaned against the railing and rolled a stone beneath his boot, waiting for me to say something. I had the sense that he would wait there all night. However long it took. As always, he was patient, like the boy in his song “Drifting on Faith,” aware that the river, not he, was in control of the boat.
Finally, I couldn’t bear the silence. “You could come in.” I wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes and know, once and for all, who he was. When I saw him, really saw him, would I know?
He turned toward me, but his expression was hidden. “I wasn’t sure it was safe.” I could picture him smiling just a little—a soft, fond smile, as if this were all just a misunderstanding and we would solve it soon enough.
“It could be.”
He chuckled under his breath. I loved his laugh. “I didn’t want to leave things the way they were.” There was no laughter in those words, only a tenderness that seemed heartfelt, that pulled and tugged deep in my chest.
I don’t want to leave things this way, either. I don’t
. Hope swelled inside me, as fragile as a soap bubble. I stood uncertain of whether to cradle it protectively or pop it before it grew any larger.
Could I withstand one more shattering of trust?
Did I have the courage to take the risk, to throw off the chains and cross over?
“No telling what I missed out on because I let myself be afraid. . . .”
Imagene’s words repeated in my head. Why was it so easy for me to tell her to set her concerns aside, to jump on a boat and sail out to sea? Why couldn’t I find the backbone to do the same thing? What if I never did? What if I played it safe today, tomorrow, forever? Would I become the woman hiding in my house alone while life passed by outside the window?
Crossing the threshold, I stood in the darkness, saw Carter’s face in the moon glow. “I’d like to know the truth. Carter . . . J.C. . . . Which is it, anyway?” There was an edge of bitterness I couldn’t banish, a remnant of the wall I’d worked so hard to build. It was easy to cling to it, to hide behind it—so hard to let go, to stand in the open, vulnerable.
“Carter to friends and family, J.C. for business.”
“Which one am I?”
“The first, I hope.” His fingers drummed against the railing, his chest rising and falling. His eyes were deep blue in the moonlight. “Manda, what you and I . . . I wasn’t using you to try to get to Amber. I’ll admit that at first, I was a little—” he paused to search for the right word—“curious. I wanted to see what kind of situation I was dealing with. No offense, but your show’s got a reputation for chewing up bright-eyed kids and spitting them out. I figured there wasn’t much chance that a country girl singing faith music and southern gospel was really going to get the million-dollar recording contract. Truthfully, I figured Amber was just being used for publicity—the butt of a highly profitable joke, more or less. The entertainment business is rough, even where I’ve been, and reality TV is a whole new level of dog-eat-dog. So yes, I was interested in talking to Amber about Higher Ground. But I met you first, and you weren’t what I’d expected. It didn’t take me long to discern that Amber was in good hands, so I left the situation alone. I let you do your job. You’re good at it. I figured I’d call Amber next week and tell her to stick where she’s at for now—that Higher Ground would be there later, if
American Megastar
didn’t work out.”
My instant reaction was to be self-righteous, to defend my territory, to defend the show. In the wake of that impulse, an inky black guilt slid over me. The truth was that he was right. Everything he’d said, all his fears about
American Megastar
and the show’s intentions for Amber were spot on. “
American Megastar
wasn’t going to work out for Amber.” In spite of everything, it hurt to voice the truth. “While I was here trying to put together a good hometown segment, my boss was in bed with the maker of the tabulation software, planning to have Amber voted off next week.”
Carter didn’t seem surprised. Clearly, he knew more about the underbelly of the entertainment business than he’d let on. Shaking his head, he sighed. “And?”
“And I think I have it under control for now. Of course, when the season’s over, I’ll be out of a job. If not before.” The reality sent a queasy feeling through me. I had an apartment to pay for, a car, bills. There was the issue of medical insurance. I wouldn’t be getting married and adding my name to David’s policy. I was a single girl. I had to support myself. “It’s worth it, though.” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince myself or him. “It feels good to do the right thing for once, you know? I hope I’ll still feel the same way when I’m standing in the unemployment line.”
I forced a halfhearted laugh, but a touch of self-pity prickled in my throat like a sand bur. What had I done to deserve this? My whole career, I’d tried to do the right thing, to be someone my family and I and even God could be proud of in a business that didn’t always value integrity. All I wanted was a job in which principles and hard work counted for something, a relationship in which I could be myself, be loved, be protected, trust and be trusted. Why couldn’t I find those things? Other people did. My sisters were all happily married with fulfilling careers—why not me? “I got into broadcasting because I wanted my work to count for something. I used to feel like it did, but lately . . .” I knew I was rambling, trying to prop myself up, talking about work so I could avoid the real question, the one I still needed to answer. Was this thing between Carter and me more than just a chance meeting, more than just a sudden and powerful attraction? If so, where did we go from here? He lived in Texas and I lived on the west coast. The truth was that we barely knew each other.
“I know a little recording company in Austin that could use somebody with production experience and big-time connections in the LA scene.”
I looked up, momentarily shocked, then suddenly fluttery and uncertain. Was he asking me to come back?
Adjusting his hat, he scratched his ear, seeming to have embarrassed himself with the sudden suggestion. “Just a thought.”
It’s now or never, Mandalay,
I told myself.
You either get on the boat or stand on the shore and watch life sail on by
. “I might take you up on that.”
He tipped his head to one side, studied me. His grin broadened finally, a soft white line in the darkness. “You know where to find me.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Slipping a hand into his pocket, he retrieved a business card. “Now you know where to find me.”
Our fingers touched and a tingle of excitement, a blossoming sense of something new, something profound slipped over me as I took the card and tucked it away. “I guess I do.” I wanted to tell him what I was really thinking, to admit to the powerful connection I felt with him. He would probably think I was crazy, some desperate thirty-something woman playing relationship bingo.
Pushing off the rail, he stepped closer, and I felt my body quicken in response. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and kiss him, whether it made me look overeager or not. Overhead, the trees stirred and a lover’s moon hung low, as if in anticipation.
Carter stroked a finger alongside his lip, came closer yet, so that only a step separated us. “Of course, I have to be out in LA next week to negotiate a cut for a movie soundtrack. I could look you up.”
“You could,” I agreed, and then finally I found the courage to step aboard the boat and cast off from shore, let the current take me where it would. “You’d better.”
He laughed deep in his throat. “In that case, plan on dinner. You pick the place.”
Suddenly, I was looking forward to going home. I wanted to show Carter everything, to share with him all the spots I loved best, to stand on the pier together and watch the sun go down as ships combed the horizon. “Are we going to pay for the meal or wait until the place closes and break in?”
“Your choice.” The words were intimate, an invitation drawing me to him. “We could get arrested again.”
“Tempting . . .” I knew I would do anything to be with him—even get arrested by Buddy Ray again. “But how about a walk on the beach instead?”
“That’s good, too.” He reached for me, and I slipped into his arms, felt a sense of hope, and promise, and perfect symmetry like nothing I’d experienced before—as if this moment, the two of us, had been predestined long before I ever knew it. Suddenly, the work to be done on Amber’s segment, the questions about my job, the battle with Ursula, the uncertainties of bills and medical insurance felt far away, insignificant.
His lips met mine and all seemed right with the world.
Somewhere deep within me, beyond the passion, beyond the beauty of the night, that little spark of Daily magic ignited in me again, began burning in a place that had gone dark and untended, that had yearned to be bright and warm. I felt it now, something old, something new, something complete. Perhaps it had been there in me all along—the belief that there is a plan and a purpose, that God whispers into every life some things that are beyond the scope of the mind and can only be felt with the heart and the spirit.
Those dreams, the ones that are dreamed
for
us, not by us, are the truest of all.
