Born to Be Wild (24 page)

BORN TO BE WILD

Susan slams out. You can hear the front door hitting hard from the living room. Not three minutes later, the doorbell rings and Draper, Sunday's butler, bodyguard, and confidant, answers it. She hears low voices, then her father walks into the living room. To Sunday's surprise he's in casual dress, an open-collared shirt and slacks. He looks very handsome.

She's surprised to see him, but she is over it quickly. “Since you've come, Mr. Galliard, you might as well tell me why you and Mom split up. Why you left and let me believe I didn't have a father.”

“Good morning to you too, Sunday. Do you mind if I call you Sunday? After all, it's the name I gave you when you were born.”

“You can call me Ducky, I don't care. It's time for some answers. If you're not ready to give me any, you can leave.”

He looks at her, studies her.

Sunday calls out, “Draper—”

Draper appears in the doorway.

Her father slowly nods, says, “Very well, I'll answer your questions.”

Sunday nods to Draper. He disappears.

“Let's get to it then. I have a great deal to do today and you weren't on the schedule. Why did you leave Mom?”

He spots a coffee carafe on the sideboard and walks over to it, pours himself a cup, raises it slowly to his mouth. He sets the cup back down on the sideboard.

She taps her watch face. “I'm waiting.”

He draws a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Your mother didn't want to be a preacher's wife. It's as simple as that.”

“No, nothing's that simple.”

“All right. Don't forget, Sunday, the Cavendish family is old-time wealth, on the social A-list for too many years to count. They run foundations, control large charities. They own more commercial and private real estate than anyone in the state. You know that very well, since you run the Cavendish empire. They were at least as dominant when your grandfather ran the show.

“Lydia was young, fresh, spirited, and bright. She expected to shop in Paris, ski at St. Moritz—to live the life her wealth could give her. When I told her I planned to enroll in the seminary, she thought about it, and told me it was over, with her family's backing.”

Sunday says meditatively, “My mother always thinks of herself, I'll grant you that. And it's true she was spoiled all her life, given anything she wanted, she had only to ask. When she was only thirty, Grandfather had a heart attack and she took over. She ran everything until she tried to grind me under—” Sunday shrugs. “In any case, she is, regardless of her machinations, the head of the Cavendish family.” Sunday suddenly smiles. “One thing I'll say for her—she never gives up. When she wants something, she goes after it.”

“You paint an estimable woman, Sunday.”

“I've wondered if her dislike of me all these years was because of you, because I'm your daughter. You walked out and she was stuck with your offspring at a young age, a child of a man she felt—what did she feel about you?” She nails him, her eyes hard on his face. “There must have been more between you than you've told me.”

“Of course there was more, there's always more when human beings try to relate to each other, but in essence, what I said is the truth. Why don't you ask her?”

“She'd never tell me the truth unless she knew it would hurt me. Would it?”

“You were barely on this earth when we went our separate ways. We wanted different things from life.”

Sunday mimics him. “‘We wanted different things from life.' Now that's a despicable old chestnut.”

He shrugs. “It's the truth. I don't know how better to say it. We both moved on.”

Sunday rubs her hands over her arms as if she's cold. “All right, I'll believe you for now. I suppose I'd hoped it was something deeper, more intriguing, not simple selfishness, on both your parts.”

“But I—”

“Yeah, I know, you were a budding saint. The fact is, you married her under false pretenses. How did you present yourself to her in the first place? Not as a future preacher, I'll bet.”

Phillip Galliard shrugs again. “No. I'd graduated from Boston College. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. I was looking, searching within myself.”

“And? Where did Mom fit in? Are you saying you came to Los Angeles to find yourself?”

“No, my aunt and uncle lived here. I decided on graduate school in philosophy at UCLA. I lived with them.”

“How did you meet Mother?”

“She'd just graduated from Vassar. She was flitting all over L.A. in those days, partying, shopping, drinking too much. I met her when I was working in a small pipe boutique on Rodeo Drive. It was fast. We married three weeks later.”

“And I was born right away?”

He nods. “I was thrilled, Sunday. You were gorgeous, and you had my eyes. Your grandparents decided to name you Angela. I wanted Sunday because it was the miracle of your birth that made me decide what I was meant to do with my life. I cannot tell you what it felt like to hold you in my arms that first time.”

Sunday looks at him, says finally, with a nice big sneer, “So I come along and you get carried away with the miracle of life and want to go preach in Timbuktu. You held me in your arms and couldn't wait to get out of there. What a wholesome image that is.”

They stare at each other, antipathy alive in the air. Stare, stare—

“Clear!”

“Good, excellent,” Bernie said. “We'll look at it, but it's probably finished.” He gave Mary Lisa a big hug, and bounded off to speak to the director.

Norman said, “I'm not on with you tomorrow. I've got a heavy-duty scene with Betsy. I think she's going to hit me.”

Mary Lisa patted his arm. “Hopefully she won't send a psychopath after you like she did me once. See you tomorrow, Norman.”

The doorbell rang at seven-thirty the following morning. Mary Lisa, with Elizabeth behind her, didn't open it immediately.

“Who is it?”

“Jack, Mary Lisa.”

She threw the door open, a smile on her face that quickly fell away. She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “What is it? What's wrong? Come in, come in. We were just about ready to leave for work.”

Elizabeth was standing back, watching. She said, “Jack, what's the matter?”

He said, “I'm glad you're here, Elizabeth, glad Mary Lisa isn't alone. I've got to fly home.”

“But, why?”

He lightly laid his palm against Mary Lisa's cheek. “Milo Hildebrand—my deputies found him dead in his cell an hour ago.” He added to Elizabeth, “He was a murderer, in jail awaiting trial. I'm waiting for a call from the M.E. to tell me what caused his death. My deputy thinks he was poisoned.”

“Sit down,” Mary Lisa said. “I'm getting you some coffee.”

He sat. When she handed him the last cup of coffee from her coffeemaker, she said, “It'll grow hair where you don't want it, it'll be so strong, but I think you need it.” She said nothing more until he'd taken a couple of drinks. He closed his eyes a moment, then set the cup down on the side table. “My flight leaves at ten o'clock.”

“I'm really sorry about this, Jack,” Mary Lisa said as she eased down beside him. “Do the deputies know who did it? Who visited him? Anything?”

He shook his head. His cell phone rang. “I hope it's the M.E. Chief Wolf here.”

When he hung up nearly five minutes later, he said, “My deputy was right, Milo Hildebrand was poisoned. My deputy had told me there was blood coming out of his mouth and nose. The M.E. said his pupils were dilated—he said they were blown—and that means a part of his brain was compressed, probably by internal bleeding. He thought it was the work of an anticoagulant, like coumarin, the rat poison. He said he's checking the blood work now, and they're looking for his meal trays in the garbage, since that's how it had to have been done. Dr. Hughes says he can't speculate about whether Milo cooperated, that is, whether or not he committed assisted suicide, or was murdered. I knew Milo. I would swear he was one person who would never take his own life. It was cold-blooded murder, no doubt in my mind, and it was done on my watch, in my jail. I can't believe this, dammit.”

“Where did he get his meals?” Elizabeth asked.

“From the Goddard Bay Inn, and my people are already over there checking the kitchen and talking to the staff, to guests, to anyone they can find who might have seen someone local in the kitchen or nearby. I've trained them well, but I've got to be there.” He slammed his fist on his leg. “It smacks me in the face that this was either a revenge killing or Milo was going to implicate somebody else in the crime. I know he was guilty, the evidence was so strong.” He jumped to his feet. “I've got to go,” he said. He grabbed Mary Lisa and pulled her close. “Do you want me to hire a bodyguard or a private investigator to stick to you like glue?”

“No, I've always got people with me. You know that. I'll be okay. Don't worry.”

“Yeah, right.” He didn't want to let her go, he was afraid for her, but both of them knew he had to go back to Goddard Bay. She pulled away from him, touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I'll be fine.”

“Lou Lou and I will be Krazy Glue, Jack.”

He gave her a long look, slowly nodded.

Mary Lisa said, “Call me when you find out what exactly is going on, all right?”

He kissed her hard, nodded to Elizabeth, and was gone.

Set of
BORN TO BE WILD

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and actors were lolling about the set, sprawled in chairs, reading their scripts, drinking coffee. Betsy Monroe had brought in two dozen of what she claimed were low-fat donuts stuffed with sugar-free raspberry filling, a few of which the crew hadn't yet devoured. Only the light guys and the sound guys were busy, making adjustments for the next set. She heard the director-of-the-day, Tom O'Hurley, Paulie Thomas's uncle, speaking to Bernie Barlow about a reaction Susan had had in her last scene he hadn't liked. She heard one of the wardrobe people griping about how late she would have to work. Though she made an effort to keep up a conversation with Betsy, Mary Lisa felt apart from the people around her. Truth was, she was exhausted. She had had a lot of trouble sleeping the previous night, and now Jack was gone.

Lou Lou was already in Mary Lisa's dressing room to meet her. “What's up, Mary Lisa?”

Once the door was closed Lou Lou patted the chair. Mary Lisa sat down and closed her eyes while Lou Lou freshened her makeup. “Okay, what's wrong?”

The eyebrow brush dug into Mary Lisa's left eyebrow. “Oops, let me Q-tip this off. Okay, that's good to go again. You tell me about it, honey.”

“I'm just starting to feel exhausted, Lou Lou. I'm frightened. And I miss Jack. Is that sad or what? He only just left.”

Lou Lou looked down at Mary Lisa, picked up her hands and rubbed them. “Listen to me, it's going to be all right. This idiot's not going to get to you. Think of me as your own personal spandex. Are you okay with your lines? Okay to go back on?”

Mary Lisa nodded. She felt numb to her feet. Saying it out loud had made it real again.

“Danny will come over this evening. Then we'll talk about it. Jack'll call tonight, tell us what's going on up in Goddard Bay.”

Mary Lisa nodded. She looked at herself in the mirror, saw Sunday Cavendish, smart, beautiful, took crap from no one. What would she do about this? More than martial arts classes and having a friend make an announcement on the six o'clock news, that's for sure. The last thing Sunday would do was leave everything up to the men. She wouldn't be pitiful.

Mary Lisa straightened her shoulders and walked, chin high, back onto the set. She wasn't going to let this creep paralyze her. She had two minutes before she had to be in the club dining room to see her mother.

She called Chico, then Elizabeth.

BORN TO BE WILD

Sunday walks into the club dining room, by herself, sees her mother sitting alone, drinking coffee, a sweet roll at her elbow, untouched. Sunday pauses, then slowly walks to her table, stands over her, stares down at her. She despises this woman in her bright red power suit, the red lipstick and the red fingernails that are surely too young for her. She despises her for casting her aside when her half sister, Susan, came along, for continually trying to sabotage her, and yet—she looks so alone, so vulnerable, so infinitely sad—and this is reflected on Sunday's face.

“Mother.”

Lydia jerks, looks up at Sunday with naked pain on her face, then her mask slips smoothly back into place. An elegant eyebrow goes up, and there's a slight sneer on the lips.

“May I join you?”

A look of surprise, or wariness, but Lydia doesn't say anything, merely sweeps her hand toward the empty chair opposite her.

Sunday sits down, sets her purse and briefcase on the floor beside her.

“When I saw your red fingernails I thought they looked like blood.”

Lydia looks at her fingernails, then shrugs, says, “You saw your father again. That would make me think of blood too.”

Sunday nods slowly. “Why? Did he abuse you? Hit you?”

“No.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence, then, “He came to my house on Saturday. So did Susan, only apparently she didn't leave when my father showed up. Draper told me later she was lurking about, probably eavesdropped outside the living room window, and she heard my conversation with him.”

Lydia flushes, shrugs, finally picks up a white linen napkin and begins to rub her hands with it. Sunday looks at her mother's hands, then says, “Ah, so she told you about it. Did she give you all the juicy details?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that simplifies things, doesn't it? I don't have to do a he said/she said and have you accuse me of lying or accuse him of lying. Of course, Susan would lie in a flash to get something she wanted, but you've never questioned her, have you? You buy everything that comes out of her mouth.”

“Your sister doesn't lie.”

“She's my half sister. So what do you think? Why is Phillip Galliard here in Los Angeles now, after twenty-seven years?”

“He wants something, but not money. Phillip doesn't need money, he's never been about that. He's always wanted power.”

“Money is power, you know that. But I tend to agree with you. I get the impression that money, in and of itself, doesn't motivate him. Do you know why he's here then?”

Lydia folds the napkin, lays it beside her plate with its untouched roll. “How would you expect me to know? I haven't seen him in twenty-seven years.”

“All right. Then maybe you'd like to tell me why you two broke up all those years ago.”

A waiter appears at Sunday's elbow. Not just any waiter, but the majordomo, Jacques Trudeau. “Mademoiselle Cavendish? Can I bring you some tea? Earl Grey?”

“That would be wonderful, Jacques, thank you.”

“Madame? May I freshen your coffee? Perhaps bring you something else?”

Lydia doesn't look at him, merely shakes her head. He leaves.

Sunday looks at her mother straight on—her face shows sadness. Her mother sees this, sees her daughter's pain and weariness, and presses back against her chair.

But Sunday doesn't look away. “Did you ever love him?”

Lydia tries to evade her, but can't, not with her daughter looking at her like that. She draws a deep breath. Her hand trembles a bit as she reaches for her water glass, then drops away. She flattens her hands on the white tablecloth, then slowly clutches them. Lydia finally whispers, “I loved him more than I loved myself. I would have given my life for him.”

“Then why did you let him leave us?” The pain on Sunday's face, the pain in her voice, is palpable, thick between the two women.

Lydia's face is pale. She slowly moves her fisted hands to her lap.

Sunday's eyes sheen over. She says slowly, “I have never loved a man like that. But I know if I did, I would never let him go. Never. Mother, if you ever loved me, tell me what happened.”

Lydia shudders, then looks her daughter straight in the face. “The truth—dear God, Sunday, it's been such a long time. Memories blur.”

“That's a lie and you know it. Memories of the man you say you loved more than your own life would never blur. Tell me.”

“All right. All right! My father—your grandfather—believed Phillip was not right for me, not right for you—or for the family.”

“A man of God—not right? Now that makes a whole lot of sense. Why?”

“I—I never knew, Sunday. Phillip refused to discuss it with me, he never told me.”

“Mother, please—” Sunday reaches out, grasps her mother's hand. Lydia looks down at that lovely white hand clasping hers. There's shock on her face, but she doesn't move her hand. “You have his hands. Odd how I never before noticed that.”

“Please, Mother, tell me the truth.”

Her eyes still on Sunday's hand, Lydia says, “I can't swear this is true, but my mother told me she overheard them talking the day Phillip left. She said Phillip told my father he'd found out he'd used extortion, manipulated stock, ruined lives and reputations to get what he wanted. He said my father was responsible for a friend's suicide. Can you begin to imagine anyone saying such things to your grandfather? He was enraged, beside himself with fury—”

“My grandmother told you this?”

Lydia nods. “She said that he—oh God, Sunday, she claimed my father almost killed Phillip. She said he was panting he was so furious, that he pulled a revolver out of his desk drawer and started screaming at Phillip—that he was a sheep, he was weak, he'd never amount to anything. And that he'd see him dead before he allowed him to stay in the family.

“My mother said there was a shot. She rushed in to see that Phillip had taken the revolver from my father and he was white as death, but unhurt. Then he threw the revolver in the fireplace and walked out. He didn't say anything to either of them, simply walked out. I never saw him again.”

“But you don't know if this really happened.”

“Unless my mother dreamed it up to protect me. I know you always believed your grandmother was weak because she never stood up for herself, pathetic because your grandfather controlled her completely. Well, after your father left, I was a wreck. I was told that he'd simply said he was sick of me and sick of the baby. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't leave it, wouldn't eat. Until one day she came into my room, sat down beside me, took my hand, and told me this is what happened.”

“My father never talked to you about any of this?”

Lydia shakes her head. “I told you, I never saw or heard from him again. There were divorce papers with his signature at the bottom, that was it.”