June (32 page)

That night, for the first time in months, Cassie slept without dreams. Two Oaks didn’t bother her; even if it had tried, she wasn’t interested. She was too aware of Nick breathing behind her—his hand on her hip, his tangy breath in her ear, the warm lump of his sex against her lower back. Sometime in the night, he kissed her, and then she kissed him back and soon found herself astride him, and they moved and moaned together until they were both spent, and slipped back into sleep. His pulse and breath and hunger pinned her to reality, and the dream people didn’t care to argue.

Cassie woke early. She was surprised to discover herself alone. The light was thin; drizzle pattered the windows. Her head was foggy, her teeth fuzzy, her lips bruised. She put her hand over her naked chest and felt the abundance of her heart. She remembered Nick, every square inch of him. She covered her face with her hands and felt her avid breath against her palms.

Where was he? She wouldn’t let disappointment or regret set in, not just yet. He’d gotten up to take a shower. He’d snuck into his bedroom to protect her from Tate. He’d decided to show Tate the letter from Lindie after all.

She wanted to stay in bed until he came back, but practicality took over as she noticed the dark circle on her ceiling. It hadn’t been there the day before. She could remember, now, the gentle sound of the rain pattering on the roof all night.

The roof. She sat up.

Out in the hall, the doors to Tate’s and Hank’s bedrooms were wide open. She should have made a house rule against exercise before 7:00 a.m., although how were you supposed to know to even make a rule like that? She strained to hear their downward dogs above her and considered just going up. But if she did, she’d feel compelled to open the closet above her bed, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to face that reality just yet.

“Oh.” Hank was standing at the far end of the upper hall, frozen at the sight of Cassie. Her expression was disturbingly, uncharacteristically solemn. She looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink.

“I was going to join you guys. Can’t get enough of that burn.” Cassie flexed her bent arm.

But Hank was gaping. Cassie wondered if she had some kind of horrible sex remnant on her face. Or what if Nick had told them a tale of regret? What if he was downstairs right now, mocking her sex face and they were all laughing?

Hank’s phone chirped with a text. She offered a murderous “shit,” then jetted back the way she’d come and down the servant stairs without a second glance at Cassie.

Cassie took a quick trip to the bathroom—no sex remnants to be found anywhere but where they should be, thank goodness—and headed to the stairs. She couldn’t see or hear any of them, but she could feel them. Their anxiety rose from the first floor like heat shimmering off a tarred highway.

They were, all four, in the front parlor. Only Elda, settled on the corner of the yellow couch with one of June’s afghans tucked around her shoulders, glanced Cassie’s way.

It was darker in the parlors than usual, darker even than on a regular rainy day. Then she noticed the sheets up over those windows that didn’t have curtains or shades. Even the windows in the foyer and the glass in the front door were covered, and in the round office.

Nick was huddled over his laptop with his phone tucked under his ear. His smartphone sat in front of him. Cassie cleared her throat. But he didn’t so much as glance in her direction. Hank paced behind him, tapping at her phone and cursing. Behind her, huddled into the ancient armchair where Cassie had settled the first day Nick had come into her house, Tate was folded into her duvet like a rag doll. Cassie could hardly believe this was the same flawless woman who’d been in her house for the last five days, not to mention the star who’d graced television and movie screens for decades. She looked haggard, wrecked. Even her hair was ruined.

“What happened?” Cassie asked.

Silence.

To no one in particular, Elda said, “She wants to know what happened.”

Tate folded further into herself, eyes down, arms hugging her twig-like form. Hank glanced up briefly before dismissing Cassie again. Which left Nick. He eyed Cassie from his conversation—“Yes, I’ll do that. Yes, of course I am. I know. I will. Good-bye”—and checked the screen before lifting his eyes to Cassie.

“Someone,” he began coldly, “took it upon themselves to tell the press that Tate is here.”

That’s why windows were blocked out—of course. Cassie walked to the nearest one and lifted the sheet, and, sure enough, just on the other side of the property line, on the sidewalk, stood a line of paparazzi, too many to count, with too many cameras strapped to their bodies. It was raining. She thought, protectively, of her own camera, which she’d never subject to such a raw day. But she supposed these people didn’t care. Their flashes lit up like diamonds at the movement in the window. She dropped the sheet.

She turned back to find her visitors watching her. “But why does it matter if Tate’s in Ohio?”

Hank and Nick both ventured careful glances at Tate, who pointedly dropped her eyes.

“This someone,” Nick went on, “also told the tabloids that Max and Tate are splitting up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cassie said.

“See?” Hank said. “She’s sorry.”

It dawned on Cassie that she should qualify her apology. “I’m sorry someone went to the press. No one should be sharing your private life.” She tried to catch Nick’s eye, but he looked away.

“What’s awful,” Hank said, “is that Tate felt safe here, and now she—”

“Hold on. You don’t think I had anything to do with it?” That was obviously what they all thought. Cassie felt Elda’s eyes on her, and met them. “Elda, come on.”

Elda held up her hands. “I’m Switzerland.”

“Tate,” Cassie said, approaching her—Hank stood aside, her hand on Tate’s shoulder as though shoring her up—“you can’t think I did this. You spoke to me in confidence, a confidence I respected. But even if I hadn’t kept your secrets—which I did—I wouldn’t know how to contact the press. I don’t even know who I’d call or e-mail or whatever.” She turned to Nick. “I don’t even use my landline. You know that.”

There was an icy silence.

Nick’s jaw flexed. He leaned over his computer and typed in a URL, shaking his head at whatever appeared onscreen. She craned to see.

Her pictures—the ones she’d taken over the last few days. She recognized them instantly. Three, four rolls’ worth—she couldn’t get a precise count on the thumbnailed shots as Nick scrolled through. But she knew them at once. She’d made them: Tate sobbing on her bed. Dozens of these, shots of the disarranged, desperate movie star, weeping for the end of her marriage. Another series of Elda and Tate together: Elda looking pissed, Tate looking pissy. Elda posing in the front parlor with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Another of Tate and Nick talking, his hand on her arm. Someone had commented on that one: “New lovah for Tate?”

“What the hell is this?” she asked.

Nick crossed his arms. “You tell me.”

“You think this was me?”

“You took these pictures.”

She prayed her voice wouldn’t shake. “I didn’t do this, Nick.”

“Leave her alone.” Tate’s voice was a thirsty rasp. “You should have made her sign a nondisclosure.”

Nick nodded. “It’s on me, Tate. Margaret wouldn’t have fucked this up.”

“Oh my god,” Cassie blurted. “Do they know about Margaret?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Do they know what about Margaret?”

Cassie tried to backtrack. “What Hank told me.”

Hank’s eyes grew wide.

“About…you know. The affair.”

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Hank said quickly.

But Nick wasn’t listening. He was tapping at his computer. Then he stepped back, arms spread wide, as though he’d won the jackpot. Cassie came toward him, trying to catch his eye, but he was looking everywhere but at her. She reached out to touch him, but he withdrew as if she was on fire. She wanted to howl then, deep from the growing, gnawing hollow inside herself. The women were watching her every move and he wouldn’t even look at her.

She bent over the screen and read silently to herself, trying to ignore the trail of her own photographs that tiled the article above and below, and already had millions of shares.

June 18
E
XCLUSIVE:
T
ATE AND
M
AX
A
RE
S
PLITSVILLE!

After seven years of wedded bliss, “perfect” couple Tate Montgomery and Max Hall are calling it quits. Why? A source close to Montgomery points to Tate’s recent firing of longtime assistant Margaret Philips. “Margaret was a source of jealousy between Max and Tate. She drove a wedge in their marriage. Is it possible there was cheating? Definitely.”

It’s been a rough few months for Tate. Back in April, she canned Ms. Philips, two days after a reportedly loud argument broke out after a dinner together at Sushi of the Valley in Van Nuys. Then, on June 10, her father—Hollywood icon Jack Montgomery—died, leaving his entire estate, the source confirms, to a previously unclaimed heir (the legal documents naming this heir were not available at press time). In a puzzling turn of events, Tate has retreated to the small Ohio town where her father and mother filmed the movie
Erie Canal
in 1955, a movie that began their legendary romance. Photographs released from an anonymous source within the camp show her looking distraught and unhinged and show her eccentric sister, Esmerelda “Elda” Hernandez, drinking directly from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“[Tate] was blindsided by her father’s will,” says the source. “Now that she’s lost Margaret, her father, and Max, she’s truly alone, and desperate to get back the only thing she can hold on to—her father’s money.”

Reached via telephone, Max Hall declined to comment, saying he’s “focusing on Aloysius’s latest album, which the band and I are thrilled to be recording at the legendary Abbey Road Studios.”

Cassie couldn’t read another word. “I can’t believe you think I did this.”

Nick looked momentarily regretful, but it passed. “Someone will give them Jack’s will in a matter of hours,” he said drily. “So congratulations—now they’ll be digging up everything they can on you too.”

“I have no idea how the pictures got out. But, as for the rest of it, couldn’t Max be your leak?” Cassie asked.

Nick sighed as though she was an impudent child. “Max is the one they approached first—he was the one who gave us the heads-up this was about to break.” He frowned. “He’s less than pleased. Tate and he had an agreement to keep the separation under wraps.”

“But the photographers will go away, right? I mean, eventually, they’ll have to go away. They’ll get bored. We’ll stay inside. We’ll wait them out.”

Nick shook his head. “They won’t leave until they’ve drawn blood. Plus, now that we backed out of our agreement with Max, he’s under no obligation to hold up his end of the bargain. So he can speak to anyone he wants about anything.”

“Wouldn’t that maybe be a good thing?”

Even Elda looked at Cassie like she was speaking in tongues.

“You know, just to finally get the truth out there?” Cassie spoke to Tate. “Maybe you could turn this to your advantage. Wouldn’t it feel better if you didn’t have to hide anymore?” Tate looked blank. Cassie wanted to convince her. “You should give a press conference.”

Tate stood. The comforter nearly swallowed her. “I need sleep.” To Nick she said, “No calls.”

“Tate,” Cassie said, moving toward her, “I really didn’t do this.” What did it mean that someone had? Obviously the pictures had been leaked by someone with access to Cassie’s film—and that meant Hank or Elda, or even Tate. She couldn’t for a second suspect Nick—which galled her, because he, apparently, had no trouble suspecting her—because he was obviously miserable. What did it mean that it was preferable to imagine some stranger breaking into her home and stealing the rolls of film while they slept?

She’d been so naïve.

Cassie summoned her conviction and steadied her voice. She needed Tate to believe her. “I meant it when I said you could stay as long as you want. I care about you, Tate.”