Five's A Crowd (11 page)

Holden dutifully concentrated on becoming as boneless as a jellyfish, Taylor’s “magic” already beginning to ease some of the tension out of his shoulders, his upper back. “Geoff Hamilton was and is none of my business. And Rich Newsome is a damn lousy sports reporter and an even worse gossip columnist. Sid will handle him, handle all of it. But your name should never have shown up in that column. Your reputation should never have been a part of this whole mess. And I’m sorry for that, Taylor. Really, really sorry.”

“And last night, Holden?” Taylor asked, moving to the head of the table in order to use her balled fists and the leverage of her body to “pull” some of the tension out of his neck. He lay very still, trying to remember to breathe, as her fists slowly moved up either side of his neck, pushing the tension higher into his skull, where it seemed to evaporate into the ether as she then ran her fingers in small circles behind his ears.

All his tension, the tension that knotted his back, tortured his mind, swiftly moved south to settle in his lower gut, in the immediate flare of the passion her question had jogged him into remembering. “You know what I think about last night, Taylor,” he said,
ducking the question—and the completely unacceptable answer that had presented itself to him as he walked along the boardwalk, watching young parents walking past him, pushing baby strollers, holding the hands of their toddlers. “We’re two adults. We knew what we were doing. And, even if I say so myself, I think we did it pretty damn well.”

He glared down at the brown rug—listening to the CD of Yanni’s supposedly lulling instrumental music for a full five minutes after Taylor had raced out of the living room, slamming the outside door of the condo behind her—mentally beating himself up for being a college-educated sports jock with all the finesse of a center trying to snap a greased pigskin on a rain-muddy field.

T
HE NEXT THREE DAYS
at the lime-sherbet condo would always remind Taylor of disjointed scenes from old Laurel and Hardy movies or snatches of Keystone Kops madness—even a bit of Three Stooges comedy.

Where Holden was, she wasn’t.

Where she was, Holden avoided.

Where they both inevitably ended up—the dinner table, passing in the hallways—everyone else in the condo tried desperately
not
to be.

Woody ran facefirst into a corner of the archway in the kitchen in his laughable panic to make a fast getaway the night Taylor was buttering a piece of toast at the counter just as Holden exited the master suite to refill his soda glass.

Tiffany had taken to yelling up the staircase well, “Louise to Thelma—is the coast clear?” before she and Lance set foot beyond the ground-floor foyer.

And Thelma, being the epitome of grace and charm and tact that had become her hallmark, would then stick the little fingers of both hands into the sides of
her mouth and whistle once for “all clear” and twice for “run for your life!”

It was ridiculous, really.

Really.

And almost funny.

Except that Taylor’s heart was breaking.

She had given herself, completely and unreservedly, to a man who had told her up front that he was no more than a man with a need, a desire—and a firm grasp on his own independence.

She had entered into a sham engagement, then twisted the facts all around in her head until somewhere, deep down inside her, she had begun to
believe
Sid’s press releases.

And that was dumb, really.

Really.

And not funny at all.

And Taylor’s heart was
still
breaking.

“Stupid, stupid,
stupid!”
she muttered under her breath as she walked along the shore just as the sun was peeking above the horizon, turning the world golden—not that Taylor noticed the daily miracle she had anticipated with such awe no more than a few days ago. “And getting more stupid by the day. You have to get out of here, Taylor. Get out of here
now.”

But Sid had phoned her from Maui, begged her to stay, and she had promised she would. For at least another two weeks, until Sid could complete the negotiations that were “going great guns now, honey.”

Not that she was doing Holden or his rapidly recovering shoulder much good. He didn’t show up for his massage sessions anymore. He ran on the beach at eight, a full two hours after her own solitary run. And he could do his simple physical therapy exercises himself.

She had become about as necessary to the career of the Master of the Game as fertilizer on artificial turf. “Bad analogy,” she told herself, wincing, then smiled. “Although it sure does describe how I feel.”

Hearing the sound of her name being called, Taylor looked to her left and stopped. She raised her eyebrows as Nancy Marsh hastily and quite clumsily made her way across the beach, her high heels sinking into the soft sand.

“Ms. Angel! May I have a word with you, please?” the reporter shouted, sending a pair of sea gulls screeching into the air. “Please?”

Taylor wasn’t in the mood. “Should I turn my back first, Ms. Marsh, and give you a better target?” she asked, not liking the woman any better at the moment than she had the first time she’d met her.

Nancy stopped three feet away from Taylor, putting up a shaking hand to push her dark hair away from her face. “I deserved that, didn’t I?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath, then bent down to take off her wet, sand-encrusted shoes. “You’d think, considering the fact that I do the ‘Beach Beat,’ I’d be smart enough to keep sneakers in my car, wouldn’t
you? I guess it’s too late now to save these, though. I should have taken them off. That’s me—do first, think later.”

Taylor felt her lips stretching in a small, commiserating smile. “You’re not the only one guilty of that particular failing these days, Nancy. There’s no one around to see you. Do you want to slip off those panty hose, as well? I want to keep walking, if you don’t mind. We can talk as we go.”

Nancy pulled a plastic bag out of her huge purse and dropped her shoes inside it, to be closely followed by her rolled-up panty hose. “Okay, all set. But some ground rules first. You’ll see that I have no steno pad, no pencils—and no miniature voice-activated tape recorder hidden in my purse. You can check if you want. I left all that in my car. I’m not a reporter today, Taylor. Just another woman. What we say to each other will be strictly personal and off-the-record. I promise. Just us two girls, talking.”

Taylor was becoming more than slightly intrigued. “All right. Deal,” she said, putting out her right hand, which Nancy accepted with a grateful thank-you.

Taylor then turned in the general direction of Atlantic City and began walking, Nancy at her side, the former in her pink spandex running outfit, the latter in a two-piece navy blue linen business suit and a white blouse with a pert Peter Pan collar.
The new
Odd Couple, Taylor thought, feeling more relaxed by the moment.

After a few minutes spent talking about the weather, which was perfect, Taylor brought the subject around to Nancy’s presence, which reminded her of just how
imperfect
her life was right now. “What is it you want to say anyway? If it has anything to do with how I can fill Rich Newsome’s car with chocolate pudding and not get caught, well, I’m all ears.”

“I’ll supply the whipped cream,” Nancy told her, bending to pick up a broken shell, then throwing it with enough force that, if Rich Newsome had been her target, he’d be running for his life. “He used me, you know. Used me, complimented me on my nose for news—that’s what he called it—sent me digging, doing his dirty work for him, and then he scooped me. Oh, sure, he gave me credit in his column—the bastard—but he still scooped me. I couldn’t sell my story to anyone after that. And I’ve got two kids to raise on my own. The louse! And I mean Newsome
and
my ex. Both louses.”

“That’s too bad,” Taylor said, sure she was still missing something. Nancy Marsh hadn’t come running after her to apologize for digging up the old news about Geoff. So far, she was only angry because Newsome had scooped her. If she expected Taylor to join in that particular pity party, well, not in this lifetime!

Nancy bobbed her head in agreement. “Yeah. And it was more than too bad. It stank big time. Look-it, Taylor, I’m not going to apologize for finding that stuff about you and the golf pro. I’m a reporter, and you’re news. You became news the minute Holden Masters announced your engagement. Call it the price of fame, call it the press appealing to the lowest common denominator—doesn’t matter what you call it. You’re news. Holden Masters is news. His contract negotiations are news. His injury was news when it happened, and hiding from the press only made it worse. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Oh, yeah,” Taylor answered. “I understand. Although it doesn’t make any of this easier to swallow. You’ve got a rotten job, Nancy.”

The reporter smiled. “No, I just got greedy. I have a great job, when you get right down to it. I live at the shore all year, reporting on all the hermit crab contests and sand-sculpting events. Good, family stuff. Lots of times I can take the kids with me on assignment. But news like Holden Masters doesn’t drop into my lap very often. And, like I said, I got greedy—saw a way I could get my byline national. Only after I’d done it did I think about what sort of effect it might have on you. And for that, I do apologize. That, and the ear blistering I got from Holden Masters the day Newsome’s column appeared.”

“You want to run that last part by me one more time?” Taylor asked, looking at the reporter, who
was shaking her head as if remembering something unpleasant. “Holden
called
you?”

“He sure did. And, believe me, you don’t want to know
what
he called me!” She grinned. “No, that’s not exactly true. He was a perfect gentleman, never even raised his voice. But I was in little bitty pieces by the time he was done with me. He told me all about you, how sweet you are, how unaffected you are by his fame, his money. He told me how he nearly had to get down on his hands and knees and
beg
you to accept the ring, and how lucky he was to have found you. Where is it anyway? The ring, I mean. Never mind. I guess you’re afraid of losing it on the beach. Don’t blame you. I heard from the friend of a friend of a friend that the thing cost a small fortune. And
that
I didn’t print! I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sticking to covering Fourth of July parades from now on. They’re safer. But, boy, I had to tell you. That I’m sorry—and that I wish I had someone who loved me as much as Holden Masters loves you. You’re a lucky, lucky girl.”

Taylor looked straight into the rapidly rising sun, hoping her sudden tears would be blamed on its stunning brightness. “Yeah, Nancy. That’s me. A lucky, lucky girl. So—you want to go up on the boardwalk and get a bag of freshly made chocolate-covered doughnuts? Suddenly I’m in the mood to eat something comforting and sinfully fattening.”

H
OLDEN PUT DOWN
the free-weight as Woody and Tiffany knocked on the door to his room, then entered without waiting for permission. “What’s up, guys?” he asked as they crossed to the king-size bed and sat down, staring at him as if they wanted to bore a hole straight through him. “And if you’re thinking about another trip to Atlantic City, you can just forget it. I don’t care if Thelma said she’d chaperon—especially since she found out about Tiffany’s, um,
talent.
I’d as soon trust the three of you riding bareback on a Brahman bull in the middle of a china shop.”

“Oh, you’re
so
funny, Holden,” Tiffany said, sniffing, which was pretty hard to do, seeing as how she had curled her upper lip in obvious disdain for her stepbrother. “Woody—isn’t Holden funny? Ha. Ha.
Ha!”

“Yeah, Tiff, he’s a laugh riot,” Woody answered, in agreement with his half sister for perhaps the second time in their lives.

Which might have been why Holden pulled himself far enough out of the doldrums he had been enjoying wallowing in to notice for the first time that Tiffany’s hair was blond. And not orangey blond, or glows-in-the-dark blond. Just blond. Naturally blond. The way he remembered it being yesterday, when she was only a child asking to be taken for a piggyback ride down the curving stairs of Peter LeGrand’s mansion.

“You look nice, Tiff,” he said, smiling at her. “Really nice. I like your hair. And your outfit.” The girl was wearing simple denim shorts and a red-and-white polka-dot tank top. She looked, well,
normal.

Tiffany’s mouth worked again, then her lips spread in a smile as she reached up a hand to touch her hair. “You really like it? Lance does, too, if you can believe that. Seeing as how I’m starting college in the fall, Taylor mentioned that I might want to get my act together a little better. You know, put on my college hat? Or should I say—my college
hair?
I really like Taylor, Holden. Maw-maw wouldn’t care if I shaved my head. As a matter of fact, I think she did shave half of hers last year.”

“Uh-huh,” Holden responded absently, now taking a closer look at Woody, who looked much the same as he had these past years—very much like every other young Malibu surfer—and tried to see if there was anything different about him. There wasn’t. It was the same old Woody. But then, he’d barely gotten used to the idea that “the same old Woody” had just been accepted into graduate school. “Woody? You’re looking serious. Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know. You tell us, bro.”

Holden picked up the free-weight again and began doing arm curls, avoiding Woody’s suddenly piercing eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked, instantly regretting the approach he had chosen. His
stepsiblings might be young, but they were far from dumb.

“Oh—
duh,
Woody! What are we talking about?” Tiffany exploded dramatically and rather sarcastically. “Gee, Woody, do you suppose we’re wrong? Do you suppose Holden here isn’t screwing up the best thing that ever happened to him? Do you suppose we, like, haven’t
noticed
what’s going on around here?”

“All right, all right!” Holden apologized hastily. “I get the point. You’ve obviously noticed that Taylor and I aren’t exactly speaking to each other right now.” They remained silent and staring. “Okay, so we’re definitely not speaking to each other right now. But she’s still here, isn’t she?”

“Only to keep up her end of the bargain,” Tiffany retorted, then ducked as Woody took a halfhearted swing at her. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?”

Woody got up from the bed and began to pace, looking much older than his years. “Look, Holden, Thelma told us all about it. How you and your agent talked Taylor into pretending to be your fiancée so you could hide your injury until it was all healed and Sid could get you a better deal on your new contract.”

“And so he could get rid of Amanda, Woody,” Tiffany volunteered. “Don’t forget that part. After all, that’s what started all of this in the first place.”

“Right, Tiff. Can’t forget Amanda. Anyway, Holden, I can understand that Taylor’s ticked off over that story about her and that golf pro, but don’t you think you could just apologize and get it over with? Because of that stupid article? And if you’d only
talk
to each other, well, this whole mess would work out.”

“You think so, do you, Woody?” Holden did another arm curl, then set the weight on the floor.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. You see,” he went on, perching himself on the edge of the bed again, “I had a little talk with Taylor the day Newsome’s column came out, and I think
she
thinks you’re mad at her over the story, and not the other way around. But if you never even
talk
to each other about who is mad at who and why, well, then Tiff and I are just maybe going to have to go on back to California and not stay here and watch while you ruin your life the way Peter does every other year. Does that make sense?”

“We like Taylor, Holden,” Tiffany added when Woody stopped speaking. “We really, really like her.”