Adored (55 page)

The agent laughed. “What’s up, my friend, is that we’ve done the deal without you. I tried everything to get hold of you, but in the end Angus flew out here last night and signed on the dotted line himself. And before you start screaming at me, Max, he’s perfectly legally entitled, it’s still sixty percent his baby—”

“Dorian.” Max interrupted him midflow. “Slow down. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The agent laughed again, and Max wondered what joke it was that was going over his head so completely.

“Let me give you a clue.” Dorian chuckled. “Miramax.”

Max felt his heartbeat creeping upward. He’d pushed the studio’s supposed interest in the play to the back of his mind weeks ago. It had all seemed so unlikely—there was nothing “Hollywood” about
Dark Hearts
—whereas the move to Broadway was something real and tangible that he could focus on.

“You’re not serious,” he said, once his breath returned. “You mean, they actually want it?”

“Forget ‘want it,’” said Dorian. Max could hear him grinning down the phone. “They bought it. Two days ago. For six million dollars.”

The ensuing silence was so long, Dorian began to worry that his client might have passed out. “Max? Buddy? Are you there?”

Like an idiot, Max sat in his towel, nodding at the phone. He tried to speak, but no sound came out.

“Look, if you’re pissed about Angus signing,” said Dorian anxiously, “you shouldn’t be. We were under pressure to make a deal and if I do say so myself, I think we got a great price.”

“No, no. It’s not that. Sorry.” He was able to force some words out at last. “It’s fantastic. I’m just in shock. I think.”

Six million dollars.

What was 40 percent of six million? Two point four?

Holy shit.

He was rich.

“Look, Dorian,” he managed eventually after another long silence, “do you mind if I call you back? I think I need to lie down.”

“Sure.” The agent laughed, delighted. “You finally made me some money, Max. You can lie down for as long as you want.”

Max put down his cell phone and lay back slowly on the bed, staring up at the swirly patterns etched into the white ceiling. He tried to take it all in.

Two point four million dollars.

He was a rich man.

A success.

How very odd.

He waited for a rush of happiness to overtake him, but it didn’t. Instead, horrible tendrils of depression began tightening themselves painfully around his heart.

After all, without Siena to share it, what did the money matter? What did anything matter? The money should have come to someone who could appreciate it, someone who deserved it, not to him.

But then, almost immediately, another thought occurred to him. And for the first time in months he felt almost happy.

Picking up the hotel phone this time—what the heck, he could afford it—he dialed the familiar number. It rang twelve or thirteen times before a sleepy female voice answered.

“Muffy?” he said excitedly. “It’s me, Max. Look, I’m sorry to wake you up, sweetheart. But I’ve got some good news for you. Some very, very good news.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

After Minnie died, Pete and Claire had moved back into the old mansion in Hancock Park to begin the process of sorting through her estate. The house held unhappy memories for both of them, but it was part of Pete’s history, not to mention Hollywood history, and he hadn’t immediately been sure what he wanted to do with it. Moving in temporarily seemed like the best way to make up their minds.

So it was to Siena’s childhood home that mother and daughter returned from Nantucket.

Siena felt a strange mix of emotions as she stepped through the heavy wooden front door, still the same door, with its brass bolts and neo-Gothic panels. How many times had she fantasized about walking into this marble hallway, with its curving, sweeping staircase, the banisters worn to a sheen by generations of sliding children? She couldn’t possibly count.

But somehow, now that she was actually here, the joy she had anticipated for so long failed to materialize. The Hancock Park she had clung to in her dreams for so many years was the buzzing, vibrant home she remembered from her childhood. To her child’s eye, it had been a magnificent palace, a living presence almost, that had absorbed her grandfather’s energy and spirit till every wall, every staircase, felt alive. What she was returning to was the reality—a lonely, empty shell of a house, shrouded with all the betrayals and disappointments of her grandmother’s life.

It wasn’t just that Minnie had redecorated, eradicating all of Duke’s vulgarity. By any rational adult standards, Siena recognized, those changes constituted a dramatic improvement. It was more than that.

It was if the house she remembered had died all those years ago, along with her childhood and her happiness. Looking around now, she couldn’t help but mourn for it.

Claire took one look at Siena’s pale, shaken face and put her straight to bed with a cup of hot chocolate into which she had crushed two tabs of Ambien. It had been a long and difficult journey for Siena, and she was still very physically weak.

She protested, but her mother was firm.

They would talk in the morning.

The next day Siena had been so frail she couldn’t get out of bed. Claire could hardly bear to leave her for a second, but she had to go to the hospital and see Pete.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, darling?” she fretted anxiously, plumping up Siena’s pillows as she prepared to leave. “I spoke to Dr. Davis last night, and he’ll be in to see you at ten.” Dr. Davis had been the McMahon family doctor since Siena was knee-high. Just hearing his name reassured her. “He can talk to you about eye specialists and sort out some pain relief. And I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Really, Mom, I’m fine.” Siena smiled weakly through her exhaustion. The long journey, combined with all the emotional stress of the last twenty-four hours, was really starting to catch up with her. “You just focus on Dad.”

Seeing Pete was a shock.

“He looks terrible,” Claire said frankly to the senior consultant looking at his pale, seemingly lifeless body rigged up to a horrible-looking mesh of wires and machinery. “Are you sure he’s stable?”

The consultant had explained, kindly but clearly, that “stable” meant nothing more than that his heart was not expected to stop again imminently. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have another attack in the future. And it didn’t mean he would ever regain consciousness. He might. But as of today, no one could say for sure which way things would go. Nor could they tell her how long it would be before his condition changed, for better or worse.

For the next week, Claire made the daily trip to Cedars alone. She longed to bring Siena with her, but Dr. Davis had warned her not to rush things.

“Give her time,” he’d said. “She’ll be fine, but she needs to regain her strength.”

About ten days after their return home, Siena was finally well enough to make it downstairs for breakfast. She still looked terrible, although she insisted she had slept well, and Claire was greatly encouraged to see her smiling for the first time in weeks when a totally hyperactive Zulu, Claire’s beloved bichon frise, launched himself into Siena’s lap like a rocket-propelled pom-pom and began frenziedly licking her face.

“Nice to see someone still appreciates me,” she laughed. Claire clucked around her like a mother hen in her old white dressing gown—she’d had the same one since Siena was little—making toast and coffee and signaling for Siena to sit still and be waited on.

“It feels funny, being here. In this kitchen,” said Siena. “Sitting at this table. This is where Grandpa died, right here.” She stretched out her fingers and swept them in an arc across the worn wood of the table, lost in the awful memory. Whatever his failings as a father, as a husband, as a man, Siena had loved her grandfather with the pure, uncomplicated adoration of a child. Duke’s death had marked the end of her childhood and the beginning of a long and painful journey. But the irony was that the journey had ultimately led her back to Hancock Park, to this same table. She had come full circle.

“I know, honey.” Claire placed a steaming mug of milky coffee in front of her daughter. “But we had a lot of good times at this table as well.” When Siena didn’t say anything, she went on. “I think your grandfather would be pleased to see you back home.”

That made Siena smile. While she petted Zulu and nibbled at the peanut-butter toast that Claire had piled high in front of her, she found herself starting to talk about Randall. It was the first time she had admitted to anyone, perhaps even herself, just how controlling and abusive he had been. The first time she had said the words out loud, anyway.

Claire let her finish without interruption. She wasn’t about to pass judgment, or even offer advice. It was up to Siena what she wanted to do now. And whether she decided to risk going after him through the courts or the press, or just walked away and let it go, this time Claire was going to be there for her daughter 100 percent.

“Well,” she said at last, once Siena’s stream of consciousness had come to a natural end. “That’s all in the past now, my angel. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” Siena smiled at her, pushing all thoughts of Randall from her mind for the time being.

“So,” said Claire, kissing the top of her head and clearing away her empty plate. “I guess we should think about heading for the hospital.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom.” Siena frowned nervously. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“What do you mean?” asked Claire. “You want to see your father, don’t you?”

Siena felt torn. The truth was, she was terrified of seeing Pete and had no idea how she was going to react once she got into that hospital room. On the other hand, she knew how desperate her mother was to be at his bedside, and to have her support. It was almost obscene to sit here worrying about herself when her dad might be dying, whatever she did or didn’t feel for him. But she couldn’t seem to help it.

“What if the press see me?” she heard herself saying, knowing how selfish she must sound and cursing herself inside. “They’ll go berserk.”

“No they won’t,” said Claire reasonably. “No one recognized you on the plane from Boston, did they? Besides, so what if they do see you? It’s hardly a crime to visit your own father when he’s d—” She only just stopped herself from saying it. “When he’s seriously ill.”

Siena thought about it. “Did you speak to his doctor today?” she asked. Claire nodded. She looked terribly anxious. She must have aged years in the last few days. “Is he conscious?”

“He hasn’t been. Not for the last forty-eight hours.”

“All right then,” said Siena. She was scared shitless, but so what? It was time to put her mother first for once. “In that case, I’ll come with you.”

Kenneth Sams was starting to get pissed.

He’d been over the moon when he heard that he was going to get the bulk of the shifts taking care of Pete McMahon. All the other nurses had been
sooo
jealous.

“You’re bound to meet loads of celebrities coming to visit,” they said.

“Hunter, ‘world’s most beautiful man’ McMahon is sure to come see his brother,” they said.

That was over a week ago. And how many famous movie stars had he met? How many gorgeous, tight-assed TV hunks had stopped by to patch things up with their only brother before he croaked?

None.

Nothing.
Nada.
Zip.

Only the old boy’s wife, who was a nice enough lady and all, and occasionally his blubbering lump of a sister had come to visit. For a guy who had practically ruled Hollywood for the last fifteen years, Pete McMahon sure didn’t seem to have a lot of friends.

This morning Kenny had checked on his patient as usual—still no change—and was heading back to the staff room for a slug of coffee when he saw Mrs. McMahon arriving. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

All he could make out of her companion as they approached was that she was small and female, but he noticed she was wearing big dark glasses and a scarf—the classic celeb disguise!

“Hello, Mrs. McMahon.” He minced over to them excitedly, staring without restraint at Siena’s scar and collapsed cheek. “He’s still sleeping, I’m afraid. And are you, er, another friend of the family?” He cocked his head curiously at her.

“No,” said Siena rudely. She was in no mood to pander to some nosy queen of a nurse. “Did you mean asleep, or is he unconscious?”

Kenny paused. She didn’t look much like her, but then they could do incredible retouches these days on some of those magazine pictures. And he was sure he recognized the voice.

“Unconscious,” he said. “He’s still unconscious.”

“Fine,” said Siena. “We’d like to see him now, please.”

She swept into the private room regally, with Claire following anxiously behind.

“Did you really have to be so rude to him?” she said once the door was safely closed behind them. “Kenny’s your father’s nurse, and he’s always been really helpful and supportive.”

“Sorry,” said Siena, although privately, she thought Kenny looked like a classic star-fucker and could imagine exactly what had inspired his “support” toward her mom. “I just don’t want people asking too many questions, you know?”

Down the hall, Kenny pumped three quarters into the nurses’ pay phone and tried to stop his heart from pounding.

“Hello?” he stammered breathlessly. “
L.A. Times
? Yeah, put me through to the news desk, please. Uh-huh. Yeah, my name’s Kenneth. Kenneth Sams.”

Staring at her father, Siena tried to feel something, anything. But it was as if she had no emotion left at all.

He was naked from the waist up and fatter than she remembered, with his sandy red chest hair shaved to allow six round pads trailing wires to be stuck to his chest, as though somebody might be planning to electrocute him. His face looked unusually placid—he didn’t appear to be in any pain—and his breathing was deep and regular.

Claire pulled up a chair and positioned herself beside him, taking his limp hand in hers and stroking it as she spoke to him. “Siena is here, honey,” she said. “She’s come to visit you. She’s come back home.”

Pete made not the slightest flicker of recognition, and Siena relaxed slightly. At least he wasn’t going to wake up and start screaming at her. Unfortunately, she did not share her mother’s belief that he would feel anything other than anger should he come to and find the prodigal daughter returned.

The room was cold and clinical and smelled sterilized. It made Siena shudder. She’d seen more than her fair share of hospitals recently. The only noise was a dull, constant hum from the high-tech-looking machine next to Pete’s bed, which she assumed was some sort of heart monitor, although it didn’t have one of those blippy green screens with a squiggly line like they had in all the TV shows.

The thought occurred to her that if Pete had had his way, she would have gone to Oxford and become a fully fledged doctor by now, and would no doubt understand the significance of every blip and whirr.

On the table next to the machine, two huge vases of pale yellow roses, Claire’s favorite flowers, defiantly attempted to inject some color and natural beauty into the sterile room. But even they, Siena noticed, had started to brown and fray at the tips of the petals, as if contaminated by the artificial atmosphere.

“Are you okay, Mom?” she asked, trying to smile for Claire’s sake. “You want me to get you anything from the cafeteria? Some coffee or something?”

Claire shook her head. “No, darling. I have everything I ever wanted right here.”

She took hold of Siena’s hand and placed it on top of Pete’s and between her own. Siena closed her eyes and tried with all her might to feel something.

It was no good. She was still numb. What kind of heartless monster was she?

As if reading her mind, Claire said gently, “It’s all right, darling, it’s not your fault. You haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” Siena whispered in reply. Then she blurted it out. “I don’t think I love him, Mom. I really don’t.”

“Shhh,” said Claire, placing two fingers gently over Siena’s lips to silence her. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here, darling. That’s all that matters. Why don’t you try talking to him? Tell him how you feel.”

Tell him how she felt? Siena very much doubted whether he or her mother would be ready to hear the truth, even if she knew what to say, where to begin. But she could tell from Claire’s anxious, desperately hopeful face that she was longing for her to make some sort of gesture of reconciliation.

She knew she couldn’t forgive him in her heart. It was too late for that. But she could do this one small thing for her mother. She had to do it.

Taking Pete’s hand in hers, she cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Hello, Dad,” she said, blushing self-consciously as she spoke. “It’s me, Siena. I . . .” She stumbled, unsure of what her mother would want her to say. In the end, she decided to keep it simple. “I want you to know that I love you and I forgive you. For everything.”

Suddenly, she let out a little scream of shock and jumped back from the bed, as if a snake had bitten her.

“What is it?” asked Claire in panic. “What’s the matter?”