All Night Long (15 page)

The alternative was too upsetting to contemplate. And then, there was the prospect of starting school in a couple of weeks having made exactly no new friends outside of Esme and Lydia. She wasn't all that sure that Esme would even be going to school.

She and Tom had talked about all of this on their way to the club, when they stopped at the Brentwood Coffee Bean for café Americanos and a couple of fresh-baked brioches. They'd stood in line behind Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal, and Tom had counseled that the best thing Kiley could do today was not worry about things over which she had no control.

“I wish we were back in Iowa, on my parents' farm,” Tom had mused.

“How come?”

He got a mischievous glint in his eye. “We could bring slops out to the pigs. We've got a couple dozen. Pigs, slops—that grounds you in the reality of what you can control real fast.”

Kiley had laughed, because she knew what he was talking about. She'd spent more than enough time on farms belonging to cousins and friends, though these tended to specialize in corn and dairy instead of soybeans and alfalfa like Tom's family. You could control bringing the slops to the pigs. What happened after that—how the pigs assaulted the trough—that was out of your hands.

“I think trying to go underwater in scuba gear will have the same operative effect,” she noted.

“I know you can do this.”

She'd pursed her lips skeptically. “I don't.”

“Willing to try, that's all that matters.”

Now, here they were, in water up to their chests in the pool. Tom had given her the pep talk, but Kiley's knees felt like jelly underwater. She couldn't help it; she remembered the awful feeling the last time she was in this pool with scuba gear. How she'd practically blacked out, how her heart had raced. How she was sure she had the same panic-disorder affliction as her mother. That disorder had ruined her mother's life. Kiley feared it could ruin her own. If she wasn't able to scuba dive, how could she ever be a marine biologist?

“My plan is to work off what you can do,” Tom told her. He kept his voice low so that no one would overhear. “You're a
good swimmer. You've had your head underwater thousands of times when you're swimming.”

“That's a big duh.”

“What I want to do is take it a step at a time. You've been underwater with a mask?”

“Yep.”

“Then just put the mouthpiece in. Give me the mask.”

Kiley frowned. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“Hey. It can't hurt. What you tried before didn't work.”

Tom put out his hand for the black mask that Kiley had pushed up to her hairline, and Kiley handed it over.

“Cool. Now, when you're ready, get your head wet …after you put the mouthpiece in,” Tom instructed.

Kiley reached for the soft rubber mouthpiece and put it in her mouth. It tasted vaguely salty.

“You look like an alien,” Tom cracked. Then, he pointed to the water. “Pretend you're a swimming alien.”

Somehow, the idea of standing there with a rubber mouthpiece between her lips was more embarrassing than the idea of panicking underwater. Kiley let her knees bend and felt the water up to her neck. Over her mouthpiece. Over her head. Over her head. It was over her head. And she was
not
dying.

She popped up out of the water, spit out the mouthpiece, and grinned at Tom. “Did it.”

“Halfway home. Now let's see you do it with the mask.” He gave the mask to her. She slipped it on, ignoring the pain as it pulled at her now-wet hair. That got her thinking about her breathing. Yes, it was definitely shallower. And her heart. It was definitely starting to race.

“What—what makes you think it's going to be different?” Kiley managed.

Tom edged closer to her. “Because I'm here.”

“So?” Kiley managed to gasp.

“So I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Kiley, look at me.”

She looked at him through the glass of her face mask. He held her gaze for several seconds before he spoke again, and then only after he took both of her hands in his.

“You trust me?”

She nodded. But she wasn't convinced.

“Okay. On four, we're going under together,” he instructed. “Everyone else does it on three. I figure three is never enough. Okay, one. Two. Three. And four.”

He was holding her hands again, and she felt them tug her downward. She resisted for the briefest instant, then gave in, his words echoing in her mind:
I'm not going to let anything happen to you.

And then, she was under, her eyes open, viewing the pool underwater with the rubber mouthpiece clenched between her teeth. He waved and smiled at her. She resisted the urge—God, it was so strong—to push off the rough pool bottom with her feet and rip the mouthpiece out of her mouth so that she could breathe the good air.

He grinned underwater, his eyes open. Then he gave her a thumbs-up and popped up out of the water. She took that as her signal to do the same, breaking the surface and spitting out the mouthpiece all in one motion. “I did it! I did it! I freaking did it!” she exulted, and pumped a fist in the air.

“You did.” He held his arms wide, right there in the pool, and she moved into them for a long and delicious hug. There were more people in the pool now, mostly swimming laps, but no one was paying any attention.

“I don't understand, though. Why I couldn't do this myself.” She clung to him, so grateful.

His arms tightened around her in the nicest way. “You'll do it alone next time. You just needed a better teacher. Now, you ready to breathe? It's easier than holding your breath.”

Tom was right. Five minutes later, he had the regulator working, air flowing, and Kiley was sitting on the bottom of the pool, breathing. The possibilities made her feel drunk with happiness. She'd had to drop out of the scuba class earlier in the summer. Bruce had continued—she had to be a couple of weeks behind. But now that she could do it, maybe she could get the regular scuba instructor to get her caught up. Or maybe even Tom could teach her.

Tom had no idea the gift he'd just given her, Kiley decided. He'd given her back her future.

An hour later, they were together on the patio outside the clubhouse. The Sunday brunch at the country club was an extraordinarily lavish affair, even for a club whose combined membership income topped the gross national product of most Caribbean nations. The cooks had all donned white outfits and official blue Brentwood Hills Country Club toques, and were arrayed behind buffet tables that encircled the patio. Each Sunday had a theme, and this Sunday's was Mexico. Not only was there a mariachi band strolling from table to table, playing romantic songs, but there was also a margarita fountain. There weren't just the usual
chimichangas, tortillas, and variations on carne asada, either. Every part and aspect of Mexican cuisine was represented, from the
chilaquiles
of Sinaloa to the
huilatotas
of Hidalgo. The aromas drifting over the patio were mesmerizing. Combined with the heady endorphin rush Kiley felt from having conquered the scuba gear, she was in a great place.

She and Tom had just come back from filling their plates to the white-tableclothed table for two when her cell rang. She answered automatically when she saw the number was blocked. “Kiley McCann.”

“Kiley, this is Spencer Lacroix at the
Universe
with a quick courtesy message. The story about you and your family is running on Monday. Our corporate counsel is White and Rogerson in New York, should you need to contact them. The magazine will be on newsstands tomorrow at noon. I'm afraid you made the wrong decision, Kiley. The story would run with or without you. You made a poor choice. Literally. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Kiley cried.

It was too late. He'd hung up.

“You look like you've just been informed the police are coming for you,” Tom observed.

“Almost as bad. It was the
Universe
. They're running the story. Tomorrow.”

Tom grimaced. “It didn't go away, huh?”

“Not hardly. Damn!”

Kiley looked down at her brunch. The plate, filled with so many good things, had been alluring just a few moments ago. Now, she had zero appetite. She glanced at the tables around her. All of them were filled: laughing couples, families, golfers, tennis players, people drinking and eating and having fun. She
recognized celebrities from TV and the movies. Some of them surely had to have been the subject of tabloid journalism. How did they feel when it happened?

“You'd better call your parents. Tell them what's coming. You want me to give you some privacy?”

“Stay,” Kiley told him, putting her hand on his. “I've got it covered. I'm going inside. Back in a minute.”

“I'll come with, if you want.”

He was such a great guy! “Thanks,” Kiley said. “But this one I have to tackle on my own.”

She walked across the patio into the main clubhouse. Since so many of the members were part of the entertainment industry, the club had a private business center with soundproof cubicles. Each of the cubicles had a black leather easy chair, high-speed Internet hookup, cell-and-computer charging station, and a sleek gunmetal gray desk. At this time on a Sunday, the center was deserted. Still, she went into the most distant cubicle and closed the door. This phone call was going to suck.

Sunday morning. Her mother would be at the Derby, the restaurant where she waitressed. There'd be the usual post-church crowd, since it was the early afternoon in La Crosse. Hopefully, she'd have a little time to talk. Or maybe, hopefully she wouldn't. Kiley speed-dialed.

“Hello? Kiley? Is that you? Why are you calling on a Sunday afternoon? You don't usually call on a Sunday afternoon. You call on Sunday night!”

Yikes. Her mother sounded more anxious than usual. And that was saying a lot.

“I'm sorry, Mom. It's just that there's something I—”

“Hold on, Kiley. Hold on. I've got a table of seven on the warpath.”

Kiley held. And held, and held. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. But her mother didn't come back. Kiley had been in the Derby so many times that she could picture the scene. Some family of seven badgering her mom because their burgers came out medium-well instead of medium, or because the short stack of pancakes wasn't short enough, or because they wanted their ranch dressing on the side of their house salad instead of on it. Her mother, queen of the overstressed, couldn't handle the questions. Her boss would have to step in. Thank God Jeanne McCann had worked at the Derby forever. The manager didn't have the heart to fire her.

Twenty minutes, though, was enough for Kiley. She clicked off. Her mother would call her back. She was sure of it.

Kiley slapped silent her blaring alarm clock, then burrowed under the sheets. Monday morning. Zero hour of what could possibly be the worst day of her life. Of course she had known this day was coming, but now that she was faced with the reality … testifying plus article in the
Universe
equaled disaster. No wonder a lump the size and feel of an overripe cantaloupe had settled in the pit of her stomach.

Ten minutes later, when she forced herself out from under the duvet and swung her feet onto the floor, she noticed that someone—probably the colonel, possibly one of the kids—had shoved the front section of the
Los Angeles Times
under her door. She shuffled over to pick it up, and gulped when she read the front-page headline: NANNY
TO
TESTIFY
IN
PLATINUM
CUSTODY
CASE
;
STORIES
OF
DRUG
USE
AND
NEGLECT
EXPECTED.

She frowned. Not that the headline was wrong, exactly. Kiley knew that she had to be honest about life with Platinum, as
much as it would hurt to tell the jury about her former boss's addictions and alcoholism and absentee parenting. But there was no way around it. She would be under oath. One thing she would not do was lie in court.

The night before she'd laid out her clothes, in close consultation with Lydia. She'd decided to take the witness stand in a knee-length tartan Club Monaco skirt paired with a plain white button-down blouse. Lydia had found the skirt for Kiley marked down three times at Nordstrom, because there was a tiny fray in the hem.

She showered, dressed, put on the barest amount of mascara, lip gloss, and blush, and found herself the first one at breakfast in the main house. Breakfast was a lavish affair prepared by Mrs. Cleveland according to the colonel's orders: eggs, waffles, toast, hash browns, and coffee made with beans from the PX at Edwards Air Force Base. But she had no appetite; all she could handle was a slice of cantaloupe and black coffee. Mrs. Cleveland quietly wished her good luck testifying, then went into the pantry to get ready for the rest of the day's meals.

When Susan and the colonel entered, dressed in almost identical navy blue suits, the colonel cut right to the chase. “Kiley,” he barked, which was a step up from “McCann,” which was what he usually called her. “Where are the kids?”

“Still upstairs, I think.”

“Breakfast is at 0800 hours. If they're not down here in ten minutes, they don't eat. I trust you're ready for your big day?”

“As much as I can be.”