Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (48 page)

My chest is constricted knowing the worry my
family is going through—what they have yet to go through. My sweet
boys. I kissed them goodbye yesterday morning, assuming it was
temporary. Noah was wearing one of his favorite plaid shirts. It
had long sleeves that he rolled up high above his elbows. He looked
so responsible, hurrying his little brother out the door. He would
have been the first one to come home. And my precious Caleb. He
won’t understand. Lily. This will be hard on her, too.

My vision begins to blur. I set my head
back. Staring at the sky, I send up a final prayer.

You have to take care of them. All of
them.

The sky above is a gorgeous blue with traces
of clouds. But there is no peace in it. A long, noisy bird streaks
across my view. A horrible wind kicks up. Dirt and pine needles fly
all around me. It takes all my strength, but I manage to cover Baby
with both arms.

His perfection blurs further, melding into
the black that’s started seeping in the edges, dimming the world.
I’m exhausted and can only relax into the peaceful blank that seems
to steal me up and away.

Evan

Evan
—

Marcus rang a bit ago, inquiring how my talk
with Grace went. I had to sit down. Apparently, he spoke to her
directly. She asked about me and gave the impression she was going
to call.

I’ve called her several times since, but
she’s not picking up.

I know how timid she can be when it comes to
confrontation—Grace will jump to defend anyone but herself. She’s
probably sitting there, biting her nails to nothing, listening to
my messages and over-thinking everything. The reason she wants to
talk is the very reason she won’t answer.

Grace doesn’t know I’ve spent the last two
months preparing for this conversation. That I’ve contacted the
family who owns the home she grew up in. It’s a little white house
with blue trim, nestled in the evergreen hills of a tiny community
called Bothell, a stone’s throw from Seattle. I convinced the owner
to sell and am renovating. It’s small, only two bedrooms, but the
basement’s being converted. There’ll be a movie theatre, gym, and
master suite with an intercom system to link every room in the
house.

Just last week, I picked up her new
ring—fire opals this time—because I’m planning on going big with
this proposal. I’ll make it all up to her; show her how much she
means to me. I’m even arranging to have her family flown in. Her
timing puts me in a pinch because we don’t wrap for another few
weeks, but she showed interest in speaking to me and that can only
be a good thing.

If I know her, she’s probably convinced
herself to forgive my imagined sins and now she wants to talk. What
she doesn’t realize is that, though there are millions of reasons I
seek her forgiveness, none of them involve other women. I’m no
monk, but have a very singular taste. Even if I wanted another, I
couldn’t. She’s ruined me.

I went to see her on her birthday, to give
her Nigel. I heard her on the phone with Ronnie, telling how she
was in love. As if what we had meant nothing. I wanted to find out
who he was and beat the living shit out of him. But honestly, it
would’ve only pushed her further away. She was already so far from
my reach I couldn’t have her out of sight as well. And I had no
right to complain, not after what I did.

Up to that point, I’d only done what I
wanted. I wanted her to want me and stayed until she did. I wanted
to marry her. I wanted her to live and breathe for me. When she
didn’t, I didn’t know how to handle it.

I followed her home when she left my hotel,
waited for her while she visited her brother in Kansas City for
spring holiday. While she was gone, I stayed at the house, she said
I could have the two-weeks to go through it. I took the opportunity
to touch her world since I couldn’t touch her. I slept in our bed,
with her laundry piled beside me. The day before she came home, I
knew I had to go—that was what we had agreed upon—but I took her
pillow with me. She said I could have whatever I wanted.

Through all of that, I imagined myself
explaining everything to her. So, when I saw her in the back
garden, it made perfect sense to speak with her. But things didn’t
go like I thought they would. As we stood there on her porch, I
reached, and she shied away. I couldn’t touch her and all became
clear—a positive reaction on her part was only going to happen in
my head. When she looked at me, I saw disgust and pity.

In my addicted haze, she was the one at
fault. She rejected me and I took it out on Marcus’ kitchen, and
inadvertently her, as well.

What most people don’t know is that I’ve
been using, mostly meth, recreationally since I first came to LA. I
like the energy, the clarity, and control that brings everything
into focus.

When she and I talked that day at the
museum, I could tell she wasn’t the type who’d tolerate that shit.
I stopped cold and it was easy. I was with her and she became my
drug. But the pattern repeated and I lost control with her,
too.

I never hit rock bottom, so to speak.
Instead, I slowly sank further and further down, without noticing
how far I had to look up to wipe my own ass. A side-effect of the
meth, I suppose. By the time the clock struck one hundred and
seventeen days, thirteen hours and counting, nothing had changed
since the day she walked out on me. Except that I was drunk a solid
seventy percent of the time, strung out, high. I ate very little,
slept even less. The only thing I did unfailingly was think of
Grace. She was in my every thought, conscious or not.

So when I took her the dog, I needed to talk
to her, but had no intention of being seen. I wanted to shoot
straight out of the neighboring shrubs and shake her, but couldn’t
let her see how awful I looked.

On the way back to my beach house, I decided
I’d had enough. I was going to clean myself up, go back into
treatment if need be. Then the whole show with Sheri ensued. She
met me outside the front door with an envelope. Grace wanted a
divorce, she said, and it was in my best interest to sign. She
wanted to keep the house and property, and pretend like we never
happened. It didn’t matter to me if Grace was happy and trying to
move on; she wasn’t going to get a divorce decree from me.

More so, it wasn’t Sheri’s place to give the
impression that I would make things easy for my wife. What was easy
was firing Sheri. That felt pretty damn good.

I’m not going to lie. As I sat there in the
sand watching the sunset, I wished for the courage to swim out and
keep going. I nearly got that wish a bit later, after I passed out
on the beach and woke in the Pacific. Lost my wedding band in
there. When I woke in hospital, Grace wasn’t there and I knew she
must really hate me. Sheri was hovering, doling out her
I-told-you-so’s. I had her barred from the building.

While I was there, I put some serious
thought into what direction I wanted my life to take. I took in
everything that’d happened, weighed my options, and let myself
wallow in the pity until it became fuel, the same way I did after
Mum passed. I checked myself into rehab, got a new manager, and got
back to work.

As I stand
here
, in my seventies-inspired swim trunks at the edge
of the hotel pool we’re using for this scene, my stomach churns.
Not because I’ve got to get into water, either.

I’ve left the phone numbers of every
assistant director that works with me directly and the landline
where she can reach me on her answering machine. No matter where I
am on-set, she should be able to get hold of me. I’m going to give
her another hour, then I’m calling Lily.

I adjust my posture. Director calls action.
I stride into the pool with weighted ankles, treading along the
bottom until I’m in the deep end. Bobby Fischer was an avid
swimmer. I didn’t realize I’d be treading water when I took the
role, because I hadn’t read a script. I simply wanted to work with
a great director and said yes, straight away. When I got the
script, it was really good and I’m glad I’m doing it. I read a
biography on Fischer some years ago and always found him
fascinating. A self-destructive, brutal genius he was.

On the bottom, I work into my Lotus
position, take a bit of air from one of the two crewman holding
tanks on stand-by just off-camera, and wait for them to get the
shot. This pose takes a minute to get in and out. They’re here so I
don’t have to go up for air.

When we first met, I found Grace’s immediate
openness intimidating. And inspiring. I wanted to know everything
about her. Her absolute honesty is just one of the hundreds of
things I love. There was nothing I could ask, to which she wouldn’t
offer a sincere answer. Grace always told me what she thought, even
if she was afraid I wouldn’t like it. If that were the case, she’d
crinkle her nose.

Once, when we were out for sushi—when I
discovered she loved ginger—I learned she had no interest in
watching my movies. When I asked her about the aversion, she
explained simply, “Because I like getting to know you. Just you.
But I reserve the right to view your work at any time. For now,
knowing you is enough.” She flashed a brilliant smile.

Why hasn’t she called?

I open my eyes, feeling the sting of
chlorine. Eric’s rippling figure appears at the edge of the pool.
He taps a hand on the water, beckoning me topside.

“My call?” I spit the water away; it rolls
down my head and face.

Craig, one of the assistant directors, gives
me a towel and robe, another tosses a bottle of water as I pass,
following Eric as he navigates a network of equipment, pulling me
into the first empty room we come across.

When he turns, his face isn’t what I expect.
Eyes saucer-wide, neat hair and suit like always, but his tie’s
undone. He’s composed, yet wringing his hands.

“What is it?”

“Rhys.” I’ve learned from my mistakes. We
aren’t friends. He works for me so he calls me Rhys. “Your wife is
missing.”

“No,” I shake my head and reach for the
nearest phone. “Lily knows where she is.”

If anyone wants to know about Grace, where
she is or what she’s doing, they need only call one person.

Reykjavik, Iceland is seven hours ahead of
California. I’m technically travelling back in time. Not even the
clock can give back what’s been lost.

It’s a twelve-hour trip by corporate jet on
loan from the studio. I spend it making phone calls. Lily’s in a
state. Marcus is on his way back, as well. I’ve done everything I
can think of, remotely—hired an independent security team to sweep
the property, a private investigator to assist police, reported her
car stolen, talked with Noah and Caleb to be sure they’re alright,
and called her brother. Bloody awful conversation—and there’s still
seven hours to go.

Eric’s issuing a press release as we speak,
asking anyone and everyone to help with the search. She’s sick and
pregnant and she never would’ve left of her own volition.

My estranged wife is pregnant. We’re having
a baby. Another boy. As excited as I want to be, I’m bloody
terrified. Grace’s car is gone. It’s an old piece of shit. No way
to track it. I bought her a fucking GPS and she never used it.

I guess Lily got a worried call from Noah.
He’d come home with Caleb after school and couldn’t find her. Lily
said her cell was on the bed beside her purse. Grace never leaves
home without those two items. Ever. We’ve all called every hospital
and clinic in the greater Los Angeles area and no one matching her
description has turned up. None of her co-workers, church
affiliates, or doctors have seen or spoken to her. Not even Ray or
Sergio, the neighbors whose house I bought. There are no signs of
forced entry and nothing’s missing. Nothing except her.

My chest is tight; held together by a taut
string. I press my hands to it. If it breaks, I’ll lose it. I need
her to be alright.

Near the last time I was in the house, when
we were still good, I begged her to come with me. I should’ve
fought her decision to stay. Then none of this would be
happening.

When we find her safe and sound, I’m going
to make her get a new car, then flog her for worrying us this
way.

Supplications keep me busy for the remainder
of the flight. I pray, begging God—who I’m not even sure exists—to
make her come back, as the burden of possibilities crush me.

Evan
—

It’s just after three in the morning, local
time, when I land at the Municipal Airport. Eric’s going his own
way at the moment, taking care of details I can’t handle right now.
He nods a farewell as I step into a waiting car on the tarmac.

Inside is a crew-cut fella in a suit. We’ve
crossed paths once or twice. He owns the company that provides me
with bodyguards when I need them. His jacket’s off, neatly folded
on the seat beside him. This small detail sends me shithouse mad,
but I keep it, use it to focus. He acknowledges, but barely looks
at me as he works in two conversations at once. A Blackberry and a
Bluetooth.

The driver shoots straight for home. A short
distance, long ride.

The first time I saw Grace, she didn’t see
me and I ended up with her wine in my shoes. I left the bar without
talking to her and regretted it straight away. The second time was
pure chance and I knew there wouldn’t be another. I could’ve given
her phone back before she left the lift. I might have, had I not
been rendered speechless by her bright blue eyes and easy laugh.
Those stunning eyes. I had to see her again, to talk to her. And
when I did, I never wanted to stop.