Breathing Room (10 page)

She stared in the mirror at her towel-dried hair. Blond ringlets had already started to form at her ears. Without her hair dryer and brush, she'd end up with a headful of curls that all the gels and conditioners in the world couldn't tame. In twenty minutes she'd look just as messy as her mother used to look after she'd come home from one of her extracurricular tutoring sessions with a studly undergrad.

The psychological roots behind Isabel's need for order weren't buried very deeply. Being a neat freak was a fairly predictable outcome for someone who'd grown up in chaos. She considered phoning the villa and canceling the trip, but Gage would think she was afraid of him. Besides, she wasn't that neurotic about her hair. She simply didn't like the way untidiness made her feel.

To compensate, she dressed in a simple black mock-neck sundress cut high on her shoulders. With the addition of slimly sculpted mules, her goldBREATHEbangle, and a natural straw sun hat pulled low over her curls, she was ready to go. She wished she'd been able to meditate that morning to calm herself first, but her mind had refused to quiet.

Although she'd planned to arrive at the villa fifteen minutes late, just for the pleasure of making Mr. Movie Star wait, she was habitually punctual, and at10:05, she started to hyperventilate and had to head for her car. She glanced into the rearview mirror as she pulled up to the front entrance of the villa. The curls peeking out from beneath her hat made her want to rush back to the farmhouse and organize something.

She noticed a man skulking in the shrubbery – a very badly dressed tourist, by the look of him. She felt an unwilling flash of sympathy for Gage. Despite his disguise yesterday, he hadn't been able to keep his hiding place a secret from his fans.

The fan wore an ugly checked sport shirt, baggy Bermuda shorts that nearly brushed his knees, and thick, crepe-soled sandals with white socks. A Lakers cap shadowed his face, and a camera hung from a strap around his neck. His purple fanny pack sagged like a bruised kidney at his waist. He spotted her car and began walking toward it, shifting his weight from side to side in the awkward gait of the overweight and out of shape.

She braced herself for a confrontation, then looked more closely. With a groan, she banged her forehead against the top of the steering wheel.

He stuck his head in the door and grinned. "Morning, Fifi."

Chapter 8

"Irefuse to be seen in public with you!"

His knees bumped the dash as he folded himself into her Panda. "Believe me, you'll enjoy the day more this way. I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but the Italians love my films."

She gazed at his geeky outfit. "You have to lose the fanny pack."

"I can't believe I'm out of bed this early when I don't have to work." He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes.

"I mean it. The fanny pack goes. I can deal with the white socks and those sandals, but not that fanny pack." She looked again. "No, I can't deal with the white socks either. They both have to go."

He yawned. "Okay, let's see...how will the story play out onEntertainment Tonight? " He dropped his voice into television-announcer mode. "The recently disgraced Dr. Isabel Favor, who's apparently not as wise as she wants her legions of worshippers to believe, was seen inVolterra,Italy, with Lorenzo Gage,Hollywood's dark prince of dissolute living. The two were spotted together—"

"I love the fanny pack." She threw the Panda into gear.

"What about the sandals and white socks?"

"A retro fashion statement."

"Excellent." He squinted, then fumbled with the zipper on the pack. She wondered how someone so tall fitted into a Maserati.

"What were you doing in the shrubbery?"

He stuck on a pair of clunky black sunglasses. "There's a bench back there. I was taking a nap." Despite his complaining, he looked healthy and rested. "Nice hair this morning.

Where did the curls come from?"

"A sudden and mysterious electrical failure that rendered my hair dryer ineffective.

Thanks for the hot water. Now may I have my electricity back?"

"You don't have electricity?"

"Strangest thing."

"It could be accidental. Anna said they've had water problems at the farmhouse all summer, which is why they need to dig."

"And why she told you I have to move to town."

"I believe she mentioned it. Dump the hat, will you?"

"Not a chance."

"It'll draw too much attention to us. Besides, I like those curls."

"Be still, my heart."

"You don't like curls?"

"I don't like messiness." She gave his clothes a telling glance.

"Ah."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just 'ah.'"

"Keep your 'ahs' to yourself so I can enjoy the scenery."

"Be glad to."

It was a beautiful day. Hills stretched to the horizon on either side of the road. Oblong bales of wheat sat in one field. A tractor moved through another. They passed acres of sunflowers drying in the sun but not yet plowed under. She would've loved to see them in bloom, but then she would've missed the sight of the grapes ready for harvest.

"My friends call me Ren," he said, "but today I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Buddy."

"That's gonna happen."

"Or Ralph. Ralph Smitts fromAshtabula,Ohio. It has a certain ring to it. If you have to wear a hat, I'll buy you something a little less eye-catching when we get there."

"No thanks."

"You're one uptight chick, Dr. Favor. Is that a building block of your philosophy? 'Thou shalt be the most uptight chick on the planet'?"

"I'm principled, not uptight." Just saying it made her feel stuffy, and she wasn't stuffy, not really, not in her heart anyway. "What do you know about my philosophy?"

"Nothing until I got on the Web last night. Interesting. From what I read in your bio, you built your empire the hard way. I've got to hand it to you. Nobody seems to have given you anything for free."

"Oh, I got a lot for free." She thought of all the people who'd inspired her over the years.

Whenever she'd reached a low point in her life, the universe had always sent her an angel in one form or another.

Her foot slipped off the accelerator.

"Hey."

"Sorry."

"Either pay attention to the road or let me drive," he grumbled. "Which you should have done in the first place, because I'm the man."

"I noticed." She gripped the wheel more tightly. "I'm sure my life story is boring compared to yours. Didn't I read that your mother's royalty?"

"A countess. One of those meaningless Italian titles. Mainly she was an irresponsible international playgirl with too much money. She's dead now."

"I've always been fascinated with the influences of childhood. Do you mind an intrusive question?"

"You want to know what it was like growing up with a mother who had the maturity level of a twelve-year-old pot-head? I'm touched by your interest."

She'd imagined herself staying aloof today instead of chatting away. Still, what else could he do to her? "Professional curiosity only, so don't get sentimental on me."

"Let's see, maternal influence...I can't remember the first time I got drunk, but it was around the time I grew tall enough to pick up the liquor glasses her party guests left around." She didn't hear any bitterness, but it had to be lurking around in there somewhere. "I smoked my first joint when I was ten, and a lot more after that. I'd seen a few dozen porn films before I was twelve, and don't think that doesn't screw up your adolescent sexual expectations. In and out of boarding schools all along the East Coast.

Totaled more cars than I can count. Arrested for shoplifting twice, which was ironic because I had a fat trust fund and way too much disposable income for a snot-nosed punk. But, hey, anything to get attention. Oh...snorted my first line of coke when I was fifteen. Ah, the good old days."

A lot of pain hid behind his chuckle, but he wasn't going to let her see a bit of it. "What about your father?" she asked.

"Wall Street. Very respectable. He still goes to work every day. The second time around he made sure he married more responsibly – a blueblood who wisely kept me as far away as possible from their three kids. One of them's a decent guy. We see each other occasionally."

"Did any angels show up in your childhood?"

"Angels?"

"A benevolent presence."

"Mynonna , my mother's mother. She lived with us off and on. If it weren't for her, I'd probably be in prison now."

As it was, he seemed to have made his own kind of creative prison, playing only villainous parts, maybe to reflect his self-image. Or maybe not. Psychologists had a bad habit of oversimplifying people's motivations.

"What about you?" he asked. "Your biography said you've been on your own since you were eighteen. Sounds tough."

"It built character."

"You've come a long way."

"Not far enough. I'm currently broke." She reached for her sunglasses, hoping to deflect the conversation.

"Worse things can happen than being broke," he said.

"I'm guessing you're not speaking from personal experience."

"Hey, when I was eighteen, the interest check from my trust fund was lost in the mail. It got pretty ugly."

She'd always been a sucker for self-deprecating humor, and she smiled, even though she didn't want to.

Half an hour later they reached the outskirts of Volterra, where a castle of forbidding gray stone appeared on the hill above them. Finally a safe topic of conversation. "That must be thefortezza ," she said. "The Florentines built it in the late 1400s over the original Etruscan settlement, which dated to around the eighth century B.C."

"Been reading our guidebook, have we?"

"Several of them." They passed an Esso station and a tidy little house with a satellite dish perched above its red roof tiles. "Somehow I'd pictured the Etruscans as cavemen with clubs, but this was a fairly advanced civilization. They had a lot in common with the Greeks. They were merchants, seafarers, farmers, craftsmen. They mined copper and smelted iron ore. And their women were surprisingly liberated for the time."

"Thank God for that."

There was nothing like a history lesson to keep things impersonal. She should have thought of this earlier. "As the Romans moved in, the Etruscan culture was gradually assimilated, although some people think the modern Tuscan lifestyle is more a reflection of its Etruscan roots than its Roman ones.

"Any excuse for a party."

"Something like that." She followed the parking signs past a pretty walkway lined with benches and found a spot at the end of the lot. "They don't let cars in the city, so we have to park out here."

He spoke around a yawn. "There's a great museum in town filled with some world-class Etruscan artifacts that should strike your fancy."

"You've been here?"

"Years ago, but I still remember it. The Etruscans were one of the reasons I majored in history before I flunked out of college."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You already knew those things I was talking about, didn't you?"

"Pretty much, but it gave me a chance for a quick nap. By the way, the original Etruscan city was built around the ninth century B.C., not the eighth. But, hey, what's a hundred years here and there?"

So much for showing off her knowledge. They got out of the Panda, and she saw that one corner of his sunglasses was wrapped with tape. "Didn't you wear a disguise like this in that movie where you tried to rape Cameron Diaz?"

"I believe I was trying to murder her, not rape her."

"I don't mean to sound critical, but doesn't all that sadism get to you after a while?"

"Thank you for not being critical. And sadism has made me famous."

She followed him through the parking lot toward the sidewalk. He moved with the rolling gait of a much heavier man, another illusion from his actor's toolbox. It seemed to be working, because no one was paying any attention to him. She told herself to be quiet and leave it alone, but old habits were hard to break. "That's still important to you, isn't it?"

she said. "Despite all the inconvenience. Being famous."

"If there's a spotlight around, I generally enjoy having it pointed in my direction. And don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about."

"You think attention is what motivates me?"

"Isn't it?"

"Only as a means of getting my message across. "

"I believe you."

He clearly didn't. She looked up at him, knowing she should let it go. "Is that all you want your life to be about? Staying in the spotlight?"

"Spare me your self-improvement lectures. I'm not interested."

"I wasn't going to lecture."

"Fifi, you live to lecture. Lecturing is your oxygen."

"And that threatens you?" She followed him down the cobblestones.

"Everything about you threatens me."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"You think I'm smug, don't you?"

"I've observed a tendency."

"Only around you, and that's deliberate." She tried not to enjoy herself.

They turned into a narrower street that looked even older and more quaint than the ones they'd been on. "So did you get your Four Cornerstones in a thunderbolt from God," he asked, "or did you read them on a greeting card somewhere?"

"From God, thanks for asking." She gave up on her attempt to stay aloof. "Not in a thunderbolt, though. We moved around a lot when I was a child. It kept me fairly isolated, but it gave me time to observe people. As I got older, I started working different jobs to put myself through school. I read and kept my eyes open. I saw people succeed and fail – in jobs, in personal relationships. The Four Cornerstones grew out of all that observation."

"I don't imagine fame came instantly."

"I started writing about what I was observing around the time I entered graduate school."

"Academic papers?"

"At first. But that began to feel too limiting, so I condensed my ideas for some of the women's magazines, and that's how the Four Cornerstones were born." She was rattling on, but it felt good to talk about her work. "I'd begun putting the lessons to use in my own life, and I liked what was happening, the way I felt more centered. I organized some discussion groups on campus. They seemed to help people, and they kept getting bigger.