Butterfly Tattoo (11 page)

Again, the faint, knowing smile. “She sends her love.”

I’ll just bet she does.

“Good. Tell her the same from me, okay?”

“Maybe you should call her, too?” she suggests in a gentle tone, but that’s one area where my emotions absolutely fear to tread. I can’t deal with Laurel, not yet, and Ellen knows it. She rises to her feet, stepping slowly toward the large picture window at the back of the dining room. Her heeled shoes tap out a staccato rhythm on the polished hardwoods, marking time between us in even measurements.

Standing at the sun-filled window, she presses a thin hand against her temple, shielding her eyes against the late afternoon light. Andrea’s been sitting out there on a giant chunk of rock overlooking the Pacific for more than an hour, her nose poked into a Nancy Drew mystery.

I follow Ellen’s gaze, and say, “She loves books.”

“Like both of her fathers.” She laughs. “What perfect sense that makes.”

“At least something in this crazy mess does, huh?”

Ellen turns toward me, absently knotting her long strand of pearls in her hand. “That Andrea would reflect so much of you both? Yes, it makes beautiful sense to me.”

The idea of some part of Alex, living on here with me, well it’s the only comfort I can take in his death.

“Laurel wants to see her, Michael.” The warm eyes are still open, but I’m instantly terrified. Terrified of what happened last year, after Alex’s death; that it could happen again. “And you. She misses you.”

“No way. I can’t.”

“You must talk to her some time. She’s been afraid to push you, after…” She hesitates, staring away from me. She’s searching for a diplomatic phrase.

“After what she
did
to me?” I nearly shout. “That what you mean? Well, good, ’cause she should be afraid.” The rage swells up and I just can’t stop it. We’re talking about Ellen’s own child, after all, and no matter how much she loves me I can’t help feeling cornered. My first priorities always lie with Andrea, so of course Ellen’s are with Laurel. How can she possibly support me? “Ellen, I know she’s your daughter, but she was wrong.”

She steps close again, never taking her eyes off me. “Michael, I’m not choosing sides, dear,” she explains gently. “Just like I never chose between Laurel and Alex.”

“Yeah, well you wouldn’t, ’cause they were your
children
.” I’m on the outside here; I’m always on the outside when it comes to family, so why should this be any different?

“You are my son now. You can’t possibly doubt that?”

“I can’t forgive Laurel for what she did to me.”

“Well, you may not, but at some point, you will have to let her into Andrea’s life. At least in some way. Andrea needs her, too.”

“Why didn’t she come today? She could’ve seen her, that’s what we’d planned. I know it wasn’t some art dealer that she had to meet with back in Santa Fe.”

“She didn’t want to push you, Michael. Not today. You may find it hard to believe, but she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Should’ve thought about that a year ago.” My hand has closed around the tea glass in a death grip, and I don’t realize how badly I’m shaking until the ice cubes begin to rattle.

Ellen lowers herself into the chair beside me and covers my hand again. “You don’t need to be afraid of her. All she wants is a place in Andrea’s life.”

Anxiety knots its way through my stomach and I feel a wave of instant nausea. It’s not just Laurel I fear, that she’ll work her way into Andie’s life. What worries me most is the thought of her waltzing right in and doing what I can’t possibly accomplish—making a connection. And then, the unthinkable will happen: I’ll lose this one amazing person who binds me permanently to Alex Richardson and the life we once shared.

Laurel’s always waiting there, always has been, just off in the wings.

Ellen looks back at me. “Laurel doesn’t want to hurt her, Michael.”

“No, but she doesn’t give a damn if she hurts me.”

And to that, there is nothing Ellen Richardson can possibly say.

***

Sunday evening finds us back in L.A. again. The day began with early mass, which I politely declined, even though Ellen did her best to guilt me into attending.

“Michael, darling, God didn’t kill Alex,” she told me intensely.

“Never said He did,” I grunted, and she didn’t say another word. She’s been hounding me about my unresolved God issues for years, and she never gives up. I’ve always been her pet spiritual project, and now that Allie’s gone, I guess she’s stepping up the pressure on behalf of her grandbaby.

So they headed off together, me reclining on the old wicker porch chair with the newspaper, Andrea slipping her small, delicate hand into Ellen’s aged one as they began the walk downhill to Alex’s childhood church, St. Anthony’s. Watching them go, I couldn’t fight a tug of remorse. Alex always made sure our daughter got to church—was rigorously faithful about it, as a matter of fact, and I’m certain that he’d want it for her now. Plus, the eagerness in Andrea’s face told me everything: church binds her to her daddy in a permanent way. Which makes me wish all the painful history with my
own
father, an Episcopalian minister, wouldn’t prevent me from giving her that simple gift each Sunday. But as much as I love her, and as much as I still love Alex, it’s just one thing I can’t seem to do for either of them.

After they returned, we sipped on iced tea and ate chicken salad sandwiches in the formal dining room, making small talk about plans for the summer. Andrea actually got a little animated about going to Casey’s for July Fourth, a nice change from our conversation in the car—but then her face fell when I told her Marti would be bringing her kids. “You guys can swim all weekend,” I promised, and she forced a dark smile. Inwardly I groaned, realizing I’d unleashed the demons again. With her, it’s like walking a minefield, and I never seem to know when I’m going to misstep.

Maybe Rebecca can talk to her again, get her to open up more about the scar. I don’t think it looks that terrible, but I’m not eight years old. And I don’t bear a physical memento of Alex’s death every day of my life. Not unless you count that butterfly tattoo on my shoulder. Ah, but that’s a pure, perfect memory, a reminder of his vivid life. I’ll never forget that sheer look of mischief that danced in his eyes the first time he tugged my T-shirt off and discovered the small monarch on my shoulder. I remember that he laughed, a soft rumbling sound, tracing it with his fingertip. Michael Warner, maybe a little softer than he’d always seemed on the outside.

I wonder what Rebecca would think about my tattoo. The thought pops into my head before I can even stop it, and I rub my shoulder like it’s just been burned, imagining her mouth kissing it, the way Al always loved to do. Almost like the flutter of a delicate butterfly wing, there’s the sensation of feminine lips pressed against my skin, Rebecca O’Neill making love to me, one seductive kiss at a time.

What the hell is wrong with me? Alex deserves better than this. More loyalty. I mean, it’s only been a year. Then how come with as much as I miss him, something feels like it’s starting to change inside of me? Something irreversible, unstoppable.

I’ve been down this road before, and I know what it’s like to feel the sexual pendulum begin to swing. Which is why that unshakable image of Rebecca O’Neill kissing my back, tumble of blonde hair spilling over my shoulder, lithe body pressed naked against mine tells me one thing.

Baby, that damn pendulum has already swung.

Chapter Seven: Rebecca

And so it’s Sunday evening. Which marks one full weekend—and the better part of a week—without a call from Michael Warner. Ever since the Chinese lunch that I’ve come to term The Debacle, I haven’t heard a word from him. I should’ve told him my entire life story when he asked; I knew then that I’d probably offended him, and this whole non-calling scenario only proves that fact. Now I’ll never hear from him again, I think, hoofing it up the steep, winding hill to the garage apartment where I live. My lungs are tight from the three-mile run I’ve just completed, but at least my body’s more relaxed than it was beforehand.

Coming to a stop in front of my garage door, I bend down to stretch, sucking in rattling gasps of air. Despite my asthma, I still run five days a week, but it took a long time to feel comfortable on these secluded side streets of Beverly Hills. I figure that six p.m. on a Sunday evening is about as safe as I’ll ever be, though I doubt I’ll ever feel perfectly secure anywhere on planet Earth again.

Just yesterday in the grocery store I nearly had one of my panic attacks when I noticed a guy staring at me. He had stringy long hair and beady eyes, and generally creeped me out, so I hurried past him, feigning interest in a row of paperbacks until I sensed that he had moved along. Later, he approached me in the checkout line and told me he watched
About the House
in reruns every day and loved it. “I’m a
really
big
fan
, Rebecca,” he told me in an oily voice, black eyes bulging wide. I just smiled and stared at the scorpion tattoo on his forearm.

Once upon a time, I dreamed about being recognized in public like that; thought it would be the benchmark of true success—although, admittedly, scorpion tattoos weren’t factored into that plan. Now all I want is complete anonymity. The syndication payments from the show are nice, but I wouldn’t mind giving them up—not if it meant watching the series slip below the pop-culture horizon and into permanent obscurity.

Even then, I wonder if it would ever really die, especially considering the rabid Internet base that still supports it. There’s fan fiction, multimedia outlets, and online sites that ask me for interviews every now and then, which I always politely decline. And of course all this ongoing devotion—combined with my self-imposed seclusion—only breeds more Rebecca O’Neill rumors. Theories that I’m actually dead, and the execs covered it up by settling some massive lawsuit with my family.

Precisely how this would benefit the studio, I’ve never been able to figure out. Sure, some intern in the production office tossed out the countless psycho Ben letters. We heard that in court. But I have no interest in establishing the studio’s culpability in my attack—especially after having endured all those court appearances associated with Ben’s lengthy trial.

Other rumors: that it was all just a publicity stunt, and I’m perfectly fine, living somewhere off the coast of France. That one sounds fairly appealing to me, but unfortunately someone’s always spotting me around town.
Rebecca Sightings
, that’s what they call them on the Internet message boards. Like last month when a woman apparently noticed me at my gym, then hightailed it back online to detail my entire workout routine. It’s plain unsettling to read a description of my recent weightlifting session as told by someone watching me from across the floor of Gold’s.
And then she did four sets of overhead chest flies. She was really working hard! The scars don’t actually look as bad as we’ve been told by our sources…

Trevor tells me to stop trolling for this stuff, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve lived in this town long enough that I can’t entirely dismiss the rumor mill, and I guess that extends to the fan community. It’s not ego, although I do think it helps to have a healthy one if you want to make it in Hollywood. No, it’s morbid curiosity; the insatiable need to know what they’re saying about me now that I’m gone.
They.
The masses, the invisible people I can’t see, but who are always out there, peering in through the one-way glass at me. Who knows, maybe I want to be sure I’m not slowly cultivating a new Ben McAllister somewhere out in Middle America.

Bending low, I finish a deep stretch of my hamstrings, then reach into my shorts pocket for the garage-door opener. It’s the only way into my apartment, and I chose to live here after my recovery for that very reason. No more unsecured front entryway, where anyone might sneak up on me when I least expect it—and where I might just die.

Watching the slow, ruminative rise of the old door, I can practically feel the eyes of my landlady, Mona Malone, studying me from the main house. Mona never leaves her home, at least not very often. Ninety-two years old, she was one of the very late stars of the silent movies, and a legendary beauty at that. Now she spends her time regaling her bridge partners with tales of old Hollywood, and doing a really good imitation of Norma Desmond. I can only hope I’m as sharp and alive at her age, although hopefully not harboring quite so many regrets.

Mona also likes to advise me over her nightly martinis, which she sips poolside. “There are other plastic surgeons, Rebecca darling,” she’ll counsel. Or, “You should sell your story, if there’s someone offering. They won’t come around forever, you know.”

And there have been offers, believe me. Just imagine.
A Lifetime Original: The Rebecca O’Neill Story.
I don’t think so, thank you very much. That’s all I’d need to activate the next Ben-wannabe, the one I’m always afraid will emerge from the bushes of my life. When I was a girl back in Georgia, fantasizing about fame, I never once imagined the dark side of the dream. Now I often wonder how many stalkers Gavin de Becker must have. Weird, but I’m sure it’s true that the world’s greatest stalking expert has his own militant troop of crazies.

I dart into my garage, quickly lowering the door again, watching to be sure no one follows me, and then I jog up the small flight of stairs to my apartment. The phone is ringing, and I can’t help the hopeful flutter my heart gives at the sound—the wish that somehow, even now, it might be Michael. Of course he’d have called before the weekend, not waited until Sunday night. My head knows that; it’s getting my heart to listen that’s the problem. Clearly he misunderstood my hesitancy the other day, must have thought I wasn’t interested, when really I was just scared to let him get too close.

As I turn the key in the lock, the ringing ceases, and I sprint to check the caller ID box.

Oh crap.

Not Michael, no. Dang it all if it isn’t Jake Slater—even after such a long time, I still know
that
cell phone number by heart.

I lift the receiver, already checking to see if a voice mail has registered, and then the phone rings again, beeping through my call waiting. That’s so Jake. Ever the actor, he can never get his voice mail right in a single take.

Clicking over, I answer. I’m already working to project my displeasure with him that he’s phoning me after all this time. What is it now, more than a year since we last spoke? Almost three years since he dumped me?

“Uh, Rebecca?” comes the deep, rumbling voice, understandably confused by my cranky tone. Not Jake.

“Yes?” Panicked, I glance down at the caller ID box, which might have been a smart thing to do in the first place.
Alexander Richardson
. Interesting—he hasn’t changed the billing name yet.

“It’s Michael. Michael Warner?” His throaty voice turns up at the end, a question mark, as if he thinks I might have forgotten him already.

“Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

“You must not like him very much.” I hear the smile in his voice; sense him easing into our usual warm repartee, but this time I’m determined to resist his charms. After all, couldn’t he have called before now? It’s been almost a week, enough time that I’d practically written him off. I don’t want to be the B-roll of anyone’s love life, not even Beautiful Bisexual Boy.

“So what’s going on?” I answer, cool. Making sure he knows I plan to keep this phone call right on track.

Instead, I’m surprised to hear his thoughtful exhalation of breath, and then, “I’m not sure, Rebecca. Wish I were.” His voice is quiet, notably heavy, and all my anger evaporates in the face of his honesty.

“Tell me what you mean,” I encourage, moving toward the sink to fill my water bottle.

“Oh.” He gives an agreeable laugh. “Just been a tough weekend, that’s all.”

“Well
that
tells me next to nothing.” There’s silence, and I think I hear birds and a lawnmower in the background on his end. “You’re outside.”

“Yeah, on the deck. Watching the sun disappear into the hills.”

“Okay, but please just tell me you’re not going to become That Guy.”

“Which guy?”

“The one who calls me whenever he gets a little moody and sad,” I tease, hoping to make him laugh.

“Nah, I’m more like the guy who doesn’t call for a week.”

“Oh, so you’re admitting that, Mr. Warner?”

“Yeah, and you were pissed,” he says, as I chug deep gulps of water. “Weren’t you?”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did you want me to be?”

“Maybe. ’Cause if you were, then I could stop thinking about you so damn much,” he answers with a soft chuckle. “But like most of my plans, guess it didn’t quite work out that way.”

“You know, something tells me you’re a very easy man to forgive.” And I mean it. He’s such a gentle, warm guy that I’m finding it impossible to stay angry.

“I have been thinking about you, Rebecca,” he answers. “A lot more than I probably should have been. But it’s just hard. Figuring things out right now.”

I’m sure it is hard trying to cope without the love of his life, to understand what that means for his family. No wonder this strange dance between the two of us is so baffling to him; it’s baffling enough to me.

I want to tell him that he’s all I’ve thought about for the past week. That he’s invaded my day thoughts, my night thoughts, my dream thoughts. Instead, I practically whisper into the receiver, “You know, you could tell me why it’s been such a hard weekend. Considering that I’d like to forgive you.”

“Would you consider coming over?”

“Now?”

“I could give you the long-form explanation that way,” he says. “Versus the short form that might only get me a tiny pardon.”

“Who’s cooking?” I’m already mentally clicking off ingredients for a pasta dish.
Ground turkey, tortellini, cilantro…

“Domino’s,” he answers decisively. “So we can be together, not dividing our time with the kitchen.”

Why do I get the feeling that Michael Warner is a man rarely prone to backing down from things once he’s made up his mind about them? And more importantly, why do I sense that in some crucial way, he might be beginning to make up his mind about me?

Too bad I remembered that dang voice mail from Jake, because otherwise my mood would be dreamy perfect after my phone call from Michael. Unfortunately, I do remember, and listening to Jake’s smooth Hollywood voice sours my improved humor just a little.

“Uh, Rebecca, hey. Jake. How are you?” I towel off my face, still dripping with sweat from the run. “It’s been too long, you know. I’ve been thinking about you… bumped into Cat down at The Derby the other night. She says you’re doing great.” He pauses, and there’s the muffled sound of him covering the receiver to talk to someone else. “Yeah, so listen, it’s been too long, and we need to do something about that, so call me back. You know the number.” Click. Not goodbye or see you later, Rebecca, or anything. Just a dial tone.

Oh, so very, very Jake.

Standing there in the kitchen afterwards, I’m not sure what to feel. My heart rate is wild, and too many old emotions have risen to the surface in the space of a moment, but even worse? Some small part of my heart hopes Jake finally misses me.

And some even smaller part of me also wants to believe that he finally regrets breaking my heart like he did, dumping me flat on my ass two weeks after I left the hospital, my face and career ruined. My body torn and broken, in need of countless months of physical therapy and operations that would never fully do the trick. Now, even three years later, I’m still stunned that he chose that exact moment to drop me because dating me was no longer advantageous to his career. Especially for that booby blonde who was just waiting to slide into
my
leading role on
my
hit prime-time television show. And into my boyfriend’s cozy bed.

Huh. Moments like this, and I realize I’m really a Georgia girl—not a savvy jaded California one. Otherwise, there’s no accounting for the naive optimism that a single call from Jake Slater can elicit.

Because despite everything I logically know, I can’t help it: I still wonder why he’s calling, especially after all this time.

***

Pulling into Michael’s driveway, I’m struck again by the beauty of his bungalow. I love the old 1930s style architecture of these houses in Studio City. There’s something wonderfully charming about them, something reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage, or
The Three Little Bears
. Then again, maybe I really did spend too much time in those fairy tales as a child; you can blame my mother the librarian for that.

I approach the house, studying the climbing vines along the steps, when suddenly I notice little Andrea sitting on the stoop, shoulders hunched, just watching me. I give her a warm wave, and she lifts her small hand tentatively in greeting as I walk up the driveway.

“Hey!” I call to her brightly, and she rises to her feet.

“Careful,” she admonishes, and I’m not sure what she means until she points down at the walkway beneath my thong sandals, and I come to a dead stop immediately. There’s a vibrant design scrawled across the stone steps in pastel chalk. “Wow!” I say, staring at the ground in amazement. “Did you make that?”

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sundress, shyly nodding her head. “It’s a picture of my grandma’s house.” I cock my head sideways, trying to piece it all together, because the image is divided across a series of steppingstones, strung together like a haphazard jewel necklace.