Authors: Monique Martin
Jack took both of Betty's hands, so small and chilled, between his own, rubbed them gently and blew on them softly. “Still cold?” he asked after a few minutes.
She shrugged and shook her head, but he could tell she was. “Here,” he said as he gently maneuvered her to sit between his legs and lean back against his chest. He flipped the end of the blanket up over her exposed legs and wrapped his arms around her middle.
“Better?”
He felt her nod against his chest and he wondered if she could feel the pounding of his heart. One of her hands came to rest on his thigh. He put his hand over hers and wished it could always be like this.
The fire blazed on into the night and the long shadows danced on the sand. A bottle of something made the rounds a few times and one of the men took out his guitar and played a series of classical Spanish songs Jack had never heard before.
Betty nuzzled into his warmth and he let his lips graze the crown of her head. How long they stayed that way, content to just be in each other's arms, Jack couldn't say, but he knew nothing so perfect could last forever.
He did everything in his power to delay the end of their evening, but the hours passed and the night grew late. The fire burned down low and slowly everyone made their way back to their cars and their homes and the reality of tomorrow.
Jack held her hand as they walked up the path to her house. He looked down at their hands, twined together and wondered how he'd ever be able to let go.
They walked up the few steps to the small landing at her front door. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand. She dug into her purse, found the key and unlocked the door. She pushed it open, but then paused and turned around to face him. The yellow glass from the porch light made her pale skin a warm, golden color. The glow from the streetlamp behind him caught in her eyes and looked like starlight. Jack was never at a loss for words until now. She literally took his breath away.
Her eyes traveled over his face, dipping down to his mouth, which had suddenly gone dry, and then her gaze fell shyly to the ground between them. “I guess this is goodnight,” she said.
“Yeah.” His voice was husky and soft. And he was an idiot. Say something, idiot. “I…”
She looked up at him, unsure and nervous. “You…”
“I had a great time,” he said. Complete idiot.
She smiled, relieved at having something concrete to respond to. “I did too. It was…”
“Yeah,” he said again. He'd never had a problem talking to women before. Why on earth did he feel like this now? Like his limbs were attached to some else's body.
“Aw hell,” he said and took a long stride that closed the gap between them. Before she could react, he grabbed her arm with one hand and slid his other behind her head and pulled her to him and kissed her.
He caught her mouth in a surprised little “oh” and nearly stopped. He felt her hands grip the fabric of his shirt, but she didn't push him away; she pulled him closer. And he was lost.
He poured everything he couldn't say into that one kiss. When finally, she pulled back he was breathing heavily and happy to see she was too. He caught his breath and slowly released her, hoping he hadn't gone too far.
She looked down again, afraid to meet his eyes. Her fingers untwined from the fists they'd made in his shirt. Nervously, still half dazed, she touched the corner of her mouth. When their eyes met again, it took all of his self-control not to take her in another kiss. But he'd be damned if he was going to screw this up.
“I should go,” he said.
She looked at him, that same shy unsure beautiful light in her eyes. She bit her lower lip and he nearly reached out to her.
Betty ducked her head and stepped back into the open doorway, disappearing into the darkness for a moment before turning back to him. She rested her head against the door jam, her hand playing with the edge of the molding. “Or,” she said, her eyes catching his briefly. “You could stay.”
He knew he shouldn't. “Maybe,” he said, taking a step closer and looking into her eyes. “Just for a little while.”
She stepped back into the darkness and her door opened further inviting him in; he could do nothing else and stepped into the darkness with her.
Simon was growing impatient. Whatever secret Grant and Elizabeth shared started to eat away at him. He'd endured banal conversation and feigned an interest in a half-dozen people he wouldn't remember in the morning for long enough.
He went to collect them and demand that they tell him what was going on. The two of them were off to the side by the hall, laughing and drinking as if there was nothing wrong in the least.
“I think it's time we leave,” Simon started, “and you—”
Simon was interrupted by a slight commotion a few feet away. A young man, who couldn't have been more than seventeen, barged into the room. He was sorely out of place. His suit was brown and wrinkled and far too big for him. He mumbled an apology and tugged at his collar. He ran a dirty hand through the fringe of his hair as his eyes darted around the room, searching for someone.
The young man's eyes went wide as he seemed to find whom he was searching for. Simon followed his gaze. Sam Roth.
“Trouble?” Alan asked.
Roth hadn't noticed and casually ended a conversation with someone, excused himself and exited into the hall. The young man's chest rose and fell quickly with fear and adrenaline. He shoved one hand deeply into his jacket pocket, hunched his shoulders and followed.
“I'm afraid so,” Simon finally answered. “Elizabeth, please don't—”
He turned around to ask her not to get involved, but she was already following the young man and Roth from the room. She turned back and waved for them to follow. Simon swore under his breath and ignored Grant's delighted laugh.
They caught up with Elizabeth at the entrance to the main hallway. The boy looked around nervously and nearly caught them staring right at him.
“Don't talk to me about the Academy!” Grant said suddenly. “Laughton is a hack!” He spun around, his back to the boy now, and nearly bumped into one of Roth's prized statues as he stood sloppily in front of Simon and Elizabeth.
It took Simon a moment to realize what Grant was doing. “A travesty,” Simon said loudly joining Grant's argument mid-flow.
Grant thumped Simon on the chest in agreement. “I could have played Henry the VIII
and
two of his wives with both hands tied behind my back!”
Simon could see the boy dart into a room and nodded to Alan who stopped swaying and fell in with them. The trio continued down the hall.
“I love Charles Laughton,” Elizabeth said softly.
“Traitor.”
They inched down the hall and came to the door the boy had gone through. Thankfully, he'd been in such a rush, he hadn't closed it behind him. Inside the study, Sam Roth stood, hands in the air and a dark scowl on his face. The boy held a revolver leveled at Roth's chest.
His hand trembled and his finger inched closer to the trigger. “She was my sister.”
“Take it easy, kid,” Roth said, trying to inch closer to his desk. “Who was your sister?”
“Sara!” The boy took a stuttering step closer. “Sara Brown!”
“I don't know her. You're mixed up. Look, kid—”
“No.” The boy shook his head. “No, she was mixed up. And you did it to her.”
Roth shook his head and then noticed the trio at the doorway. His eyes went wide and the boy spun around, following his gaze.
Simon's heart raced and he started to step in front of Elizabeth to shield her.
“Stop!” the boy yelled. He spun back and forth between Roth and the door. “Get in,” he said, waving the gun at them. “Shut it.”
The three of them slowly made their way around the perimeter of the study until they were near Sam Roth.
The boy was breathing hard now, caught between panic and anger. “You were part of it, weren't you?”
“Listen son,” Roth said.
Tears were streaming down the boy's face. “I am not your son. I was
her
brother. And you and your lies, they killed her.”
“Ruby?” Elizabeth said.
The boy's attention and the gun he held moved toward her. Simon's hand inched closer to Elizabeth's arm, ready to snatch her from the line of fire.
The boy's face crumpled for a moment. His expression held such a look of pain and sorrow Simon was struck by the force of it. “That's what they turned her into.”
“I'm sorry about your sister, kid, but—” Sam said.
“Shut up!” The boy turned his attention back to Sam, but he was growing more panicky and more dangerous by the minute. “That's not what he said. He said you tricked her. You turned her into something she wasn't. You killed her.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Elizabeth take a step closer to Roth. He groaned inwardly. Damn it, what was she doing? She raised her hands in front her showing she was no threat. Simon wanted to grab her and pull her back to his side, but any movement might set the boy off.
“What's your name?” she asked.
“What does it…” he started, but a woman's presence and her soothing voice seemed to get through to him. “Walter.”
“This isn't what…Sara would have wanted, is it, Walter?”
Walter seemed to be wavering, but his finger was still on the trigger and the gun was still pointed at Roth, and damned if Elizabeth wasn't standing at his side now.
“She wouldn't want you to hurt anyone or get yourself hurt, would she, Walter?”
She was getting through to him now. Simon could see the doubt clouding his eyes.
“Yeah, kid,” Roth said. “Don't be stupid.”
As soon as Roth spoke the words, Simon knew it had been a mistake. Walter's expression changed in an instant. His hand stilled and his face hardened.
“You sonofa—”
Simon lunged forward, knowing he was too far away, knowing he'd be too late. As he leapt forward, something flew past his head and struck Walter's arm just as the gun fired. The puff of smoke lingered in the air as the gun fell out of the boy's grip just as Simon collided with him. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor.
The boy cried out with pain and gripped his forearm with his free hand.
“Elizabeth!”
Simon pushed off the boy and kicked the gun across the room. Grant picked it up and Simon hurried over to Elizabeth. She and Roth had fallen back onto his desk.
“Are you hurt?” Simon asked, reaching out to her.
“I'm okay.”
Simon let out a fast breath and turned to Roth who nodded that he was all right too. Simon helped him stand. The bullet hole in the portrait of Roth behind the desk was silent testament to how close they'd come.
“Everyone all right?” Grant asked as he stood over the boy, gun in one hand. He bent down and picked up the golden Oscar statuette from the ground at his feet. “Charles Laughton, my ass.”
Walter seemed to be in a state of shock and sat quietly, head down, cradling his injured arm. Grant helped him into a chair and sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. Partygoers who'd heard the shot hurried into the study. Some offered genuine concern, but it seemed most were merely concerned with making sure they were part of a story sure to be front-page news tomorrow.
Sam Roth's wife, an attractive middle-aged woman with graying hair and too many strands of pearls, fluttered in. She was in quite a state, despite Roth's repeated assurances that he was fine. At Roth's urging a couple helped his wife from the room and promised to look after her. Just as Roth had managed to sweep the room clear again, two blasted photographers even managed to get off a few quick shots before he slammed the study door in their faces.
Simon could hardly care about any of that, about any of them. He was focused on Elizabeth, his brave and deranged wife, who stood safe and at his side. Her cheeks were still flushed with the blush of adrenaline. It was deeply bothersome that she positively glowed after nearly being killed and even more troubling that he'd seen her in that state more than once.
“Are you sure you're not hurt?” he asked again.
She sighed and then smoothed down her dress. Her eyes went wide in alarm. “Oh no.”
Simon's heart seized in his chest. “What's wrong?”
She wrinkled her nose and turned her hip to the side. “I ripped it.”
“Elizabeth,” Simon breathed. He really needed to take up jogging again. His heart couldn't take much more of this.
The police arrived a few minutes later and as they were escorting Walter out of the room, Benny Roth arrived. It could have been Simon's imagination, but something seemed to pass between the two men. It was difficult to say though as Benny hurried to his brother's side. It seemed that Walter was hardly in his right mind, but Simon filed away the incident nonetheless.
“Nice of you to show,” Sam said to his brother.
“I got caught up with things.” He looked at the bullet hole that tore through the midsection of the portrait behind the desk. “Close call.”
“Too close. Be dead if it weren't for them. Comedy writers. Finally good for something,” he said with a smirk, but his gratitude bled through the casual comment.
Benny Roth gave them both a quick once over and walked over to Simon. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
“You probably saw us at the studio,” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah, I guess that's it,” Benny said. Sam Roth made quick introductions.
Benny's expression was tight, forced. Perhaps he was just upset about nearly losing his brother. “I suppose I should thank you.” He stuck out his hand for Simon to shake. “For saving my brother's life.”
Simon shook it. “We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
Benny nodded thoughtfully.
There was a knock on the study door and two police officers entered. “We know you've been through a lot, but we've gotta get statements.”
Benny Roth turned to his brother. “I'll go check on Midge.”
Sam nodded his thanks and Benny Roth slipped between the officers and out the door. The officer with the ruddy, pockmarked face took off his cap and approached Simon and Elizabeth. “I'll try not to keep ya too long.”
The questions were cursory and routine. They seemed to have made up their mind before the investigation had even started. Walter Brown was an angry young man, avenging what he saw as the murder of his beloved sister.