Judith McNaught (78 page)

"They all say the same thing—'Welcome home, we knew you were innocent, and now we have an offer you won't be able to resist.'"

"Fickle bastards, aren't they?" Zack said, his voice devoid of rancor. "Funny, they never sent me love notes like that in prison. Now they're calling every hotel in town where they think I might be staying, leaving messages."

Matt chuckled, then he sobered, bringing up a worry that had been plaguing him since Zack's release.

"What do you intend to do about Julie Mathison? If she charges you with—"

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Zack's smile vanished, his eyes turning into shards of ice. "Don't ever mention her name to me again,"

he

bit out. "Ever."

Matt's brows pulled together at his tone, but he let it pass. Later that night, in his own cottage, he called Meredith to tell her he was flying home in the morning and to bring her up to date on Zack's activities.

"He's got blanket film offers coming in by telephone from every studio in Hollywood already. And he wants to give a party in six weeks, on the twenty-second, if we can be there."

In Chicago, Meredith twisted the phone cord around her finger and cautiously brought up the name of someone who Matt completely despised. "What about Julie Mathison?"

"She's not invited," Matt said sarcastically. Softening his voice, he said, "If you think I'm irrational about her, you can't believe Zack's reaction to the mere mention of her name."

Stubbornly, Meredith said, "Has anybody stopped to consider how she must be feeling right now, knowing that he's innocent of those murders?"

"She undoubtedly feels disappointed that her public image as a heroine just went to hell."

"Matt, despite what you think, she loved him! I know she did. I could tell."

"We've had this debate already, darling, and it's a moot subject in any case. Zack hates her, and it's not a temporary state of affairs. I'll be home in the morning. How's Marissa?"

"She misses you."

His voice deepened with tenderness. "How's Marissa's mommy?"

Meredith smiled. "She misses you even more."

"
M
r. Benedict, could we have a picture with you and Miss Copeland?" The
Los Angeles Daily News
reporter shouted, raising her voice to be heard above the music and raucous clamor of the five hundred guests attending a lavish weekend party at Zack's home. When he didn't hear her, she turned to the other

reporters with a laughing shrug. "What a bash!" she said, motioning to one of the fifty tuxedo-clad waiters

moving around the crowd offering trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks to those guests who didn't want to

bother wandering over to the huge white canopy where the caterers were providing lobster, caviar, and a

host of delectable food. Behind them, the enormous swimming pool with its Roman columns was filled with more guests, some of them fully dressed, drinking and shouting. "He's only been out for six weeks

and look at this!" she continued happily, helping herself to a glass of Dom Perignon champagne from the

waiter's tray. "He's back on top of the world, hotter than ever. The kingpins of the industry are all here at his beck and call, overjoyed with the honor to be included in his 'homecoming party.'" She took a sip of

champagne and, for the sake of conversation, confided something most of them already knew. "His agent

said that Paramount, Universal, and Fox have all offered him any script he wants, and the bidding for his

next film is up to $20 million. He's holding out for twenty-five and a bigger piece of the gross."

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"Not bad for a guy who's been away from the business for five years," the CBS reporter said with a chuckle, and like the
Daily News
reporter, he scrupulously avoided the use of the word
prison,
not because he was particularly tactful, but for a more practical reason: Zack's publicist had made it clear to all the reporters who were lucky enough to be admitted to this party that there were three subjects that, if

brought up, would get them ejected and also permanently eliminate their chances for any future interviews

with him. Those permanently banned subjects were his imprisonment, his dead wife, and Julie Mathison.

The NBC reporter looked at his watch, then he looked around for his cameraman and saw him standing

by the swimming pool, trying to flirt with a starlet clad in a micromini spandex dress with a plunging neckline. "His publicist said he'd give us all a two-minute interview and pose for some pictures if we stayed out of his hair during the party. If he doesn't do it soon, I'm not going to be able to get this tape on

the ten o'clock news."

As if finally realizing their dilemma, Sally Morrison, who'd handled all of Zack's dealings with the media for years, motioned to them to gather into a group, then she wended her way through the crowd to where

Zack was listening to three producers who were vying for his attention while Diana Copeland kept her

hand through his right arm. As they watched, Sally spoke to him, he nodded, looked over at the reporters, and excused himself from the group surrounding him, walking toward them with Diana at his

side.

"
W
hat a fun evening this has been," Katherine said enthusiastically as she slid into the restaurant booth occupied by her husband, Julie, and Paul

Richardson. Going to the movies on Saturday night, then

stopping at Mandillos afterward for dinner had become a ritual during the six weeks since Julie had decided to throw herself into life with a vengeance that had them all more alarmed than reassured. "Isn't this fun?" she said, looking around at their bright, smiling faces.

"Terrific," Ted said.

"Great," Paul averred.

He put his arm around Julie's shoulders. "What do you think?" he teased. "Would you say the four of us getting together every weekend is fun, terrific, or great?"

"It's wonderful," Julie decreed instantly. "And did you notice how balmy it is tonight? May has always been my favorite month." In the six weeks since Zack had been released from prison, more than just the

weather had changed. Last month, Ted and

Katherine had quietly remarried in the living room of the

Cahills' home with Reverend Mathison officiating.

Paul Richardson had come to Keaton from Dallas for the wedding, and their weekends had become a ritual. Julie's father, however, was now hinting that he'd be pleased to perform another wedding whenever Paul and she were ready. Paul was ready.

Julie was not. Despite her outward gaiety and animation, she had achieved a state of blissful emotional anesthesia toward any sort of deep feeling, and it

was a state of being that she enjoyed. She clung to it and nurtured it with fastidious care. She could laugh and smile and work and play and feel … very nice.

No better than that. And definitely no worse. So strong was her carefully acquired emotional balance, that she had not shed a single sentimental tear during Ted and Katherine's wedding, although she had been very, very happy. She had cried all of her tears
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over Zack, and now she had found a peaceful insulation that could not be broken or pierced by anyone

or anything.

The waitress wended her way through the tables filled with Keaton residents and pulled out her pad.

"The usual, you guys?" she asked. "Four New York strip steaks, medium rare, and baked potatoes?"

"Sounds great, Millie," Ted said.

Julie added a question about her husband. "How's Phil doing with his new job at Oakdale's Garage?"

"Great, Julie. Thanks for putting in a good word for him there. Phil says you practically cinched the job for him."

"He's a terrific mechanic," Julie replied. "He's kept my car running all these years. I did Oakdale's the favor, not Phil."

Mandillos had a juke box with a small dance floor in one corner, tables for diners across the center of the room, and, at the opposite end, a lounge with a bar and big-screen television set, which was especially popular during the football season. "I have some quarters," Paul said, digging into his pocket.

"How about helping me pick out songs on the juke box?"

Julie nodded and smiled, sliding out of the booth beside him. In a restaurant filled with people she knew,

it took ten minutes to get past the tables, where she stopped repeatedly to talk to friends, and only two minutes to pick out the songs.

"The juke box is turned off because the television set is on," Paul said, as they slid back into their U-shaped booth. "I'll ask Millie to turn the television off," he said, looking around for their waitress.

"Wait about two minutes," Ted said. "The news is on and I'd like to know how the game ended."

As he spoke, all four people glanced up at the television set, idly watching the news.

"Before we switch to sports,"the announcer said,
"we
have a special report from Amanda Blakesly,
who's attending a fabulous weekend shindig in
Pacific Palisades at the palatial estate of Zachary
Benedict
…"

The mention of Zack's name shut down

conversations all over the restaurant as people glanced with

nervous sympathy at Julie's booth, then began talking with renewed force in a futile effort to block out the

volume of the set. When Ted, Katherine, and Paul also launched into a diversionary babble of conversation, Julie dismissed their efforts with a wave of her long fingers. "It doesn't bother me in the least," she told them, and to prove it, she perched her chin on her hand and sat there watching and listening, a faint, interested smile fixed on her lips.

Her eyes wide and unblinking, she watched Zack talking affably to a throng of reporters while camera flashes exploded and Diana Copeland beamed at him, looking incredibly gorgeous. He was holding a glass of champagne in his hand … the same hand that

had once caressed and intimately explored every inch of her body, and his lazy white smile was as devastatingly attractive as it had been in Colorado—

more so because he was tanned now. "He certainly looks nice in a tuxedo," Julie remarked in an impartial voice to her uneasy group. "Don't you think so?"

"Not particularly," Paul said, watching her face lose what little color it had.

"Every man looks nice in a tuxedo," Katherine quickly pointed out. "Just look at the other men at the

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party. They all look nice. Even Jack Nicholson looks great in a tuxedo."

Julie muffled a laugh at Katherine's needless attempt to disparage Zack, but she didn't stop watching as the camera slowly panned the crowds of dancing, laughing, talking people, many of them with famous faces. She watched and she felt nothing, not even when someone called out to Diana,
"How about a
welcome home kiss for him, Diana?"

Unflinching, she watched Zack grin and oblige, sliding his arm around Diana's waist as she gave him a

long, hot kiss that made the guests start to laugh and clap. Julie endured that without reaction, but when he bent his head and whispered something to Diana

… or nipped her ear … the teasing, affectionate gesture gouged a hole in Julie's emotional barricade.

Bastard,
she thought with a flash of unjust angry pain that she squelched instantly. Firmly, she reminded herself that she had no reason to be angry with

him just because he was happy and she was … dead inside. She liked not feeling anything, it was her choice, after all, and a very comforting choice.

Zack left with Diana, ending the brief interview, but the reporter wasn't finished. As the camera came in for a close-up, she told the audience with a conspiratorial smile,
"There are rumors circulating
around

here tonight that a marriage between Zachary
Benedict and long-time friend Diana Copeland
might be imminent."

"How nice for him," Julie said brightly, looking around at everyone. "Oh, here's our dinner."

A half hour later, Paul watched Julie and Katherine heading to the ladies room, Julie's smile bright again,

her conversation animated as they wended their way past the tables, pausing to talk to friends. Pulling his worried gaze from her back, he looked at Ted. "How much weight would you guess she's lost?"

"Too much. She laughs a lot, though," he added with pointed irony.

"She's got a strong will."

"Yep. She's working and playing with a vengeance."

"That's a good sign, isn't it?"

Ted sighed angrily. "It doesn't mean a damn thing, except she's trying to hide from her memories."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Among other obvious signs, when Julie is under stress, she organizes and tidies things up. In the last six

weeks, in addition to teaching her classes, coaching her handicapped kids, giving private tutoring lessons,

working on every civic and church committee in town, and taking charge of the Bicentennial Celebration,

she has also wallpapered every room in her house; rearranged every closet, drawer, and cabinet she has; and repainted her garage. Twice. She has now descended to filing her groceries in alphabetical order in

the kitchen cabinets."

Paul choked on a laugh. "She's what?"

"You heard me," Ted said, but he wasn't smiling.

"And it's not funny. She's stressed to the max, and she's ready to break. Now I have a question for you,"

he added, leaning forward. "You got her into this nightmare and so did I. We worked on her, convincing her Benedict was guilty until she believed it. You

made her go to Mexico City, like a lamb to the slaughter, and I went along with it. I accept my share of

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the blame. Do you dispute yours?"

Paul shoved his dessert plate aside and shook his head. "No."

Leaning forward, Ted said tersely, "Then suppose you and I come up with something to get her out of this mess!"

Paul nodded. "Let's talk about this tonight, after I take Julie home."