Public Secrets (32 page)

Emma heard the tiles hit the wall, but kept on walking.

She found Brian outside, leaning against the hood of his newest Jaguar. When he spotted her, he took one last drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt away.

“I thought you might stay a bit longer.”

“No, I said all I had to say.” As she spoke, she fastened the bottom snap on her dark blue bomber’s jacket, then pulled up the zipper. “I wanted to ask you if I’d heard correctly. Did you buy drugs for Stevie?”

“Not the way you mean it. I’m not a dealer, Emma.”

“Word games then,” she agreed with a nod. “Did you provide him with drugs?”

“I provided him with an opiate substitute—to help get him through the tour and keep him from going out to some alley and trying to score heroin.”

“To get him through the tour,” she repeated. “I thought Pete was bad, lying to the press, helping Stevie lie to himself.”

“Pete’s not at fault here.”

“Yes he is. You’re all at fault here.”

“Are we supposed to take out an ad in
Billboard
saying that Stevie’s a junkie?”

“It would be better than this. How is Stevie ever supposed to
face up to this if he can’t admit what he is? And how is he supposed to stop being what he is if his friends, his very dear friends, keep handing him drugs so he can get through one more show, one more city.”

“It isn’t like that—”

“Isn’t it? Or are you deluding yourself into thinking you’re doing it out of friendship?”

Too weary for anger, he leaned against the car again. The breeze that ruffled his hair was brisk with autumn and smelled of rain. Peace, he thought as he studied his daughter’s furious face. He only wanted peace.

“You don’t know anything about it, Emma. And I don’t appreciate being lectured by my own daughter.”

“I won’t lecture you.” She turned and walked to her own car. With her hand on the door, she looked back at him. “You know, I never told you, but I went to see Jane a couple of years ago. She’s pathetic, wrapped up in her own needs and her own ego. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much you’re like her.”

She slammed the door, gunned the motor. If there was pain on his face, she didn’t look back to see it.

E
MMA MARRIED DREW
in a quiet civil ceremony. There were no guests, no advance press. She had told no one, not even Marianne. After all, she was over twenty-one and needed no one’s permission or approval.

It wasn’t the wedding she had dreamed of. No misty tulle and glowing white silk. No flowers except the single pink rose Drew had given her. No music, and no tears.

She told herself it didn’t matter. She was doing exactly what she wanted. It was selfish, perhaps, but she felt justified in committing one purely selfish act. How could she have told Marianne or Bev without telling her father? She hadn’t wanted him there, standing beside her, giving her away.

She would give herself away.

She’d done her best to cheer the dull, mechanical ceremony by wearing a fussy silk dress, shades deeper than the rose she carried. Lacy at the bodice and at the drifting, tea-length hem.

She thought of her father’s wedding. The first wedding she had ever seen. Bev looking gloriously happy. Brian smiling. Stevie, all in white, singing like an angel. The memory brought tears to her eyes, but she held them back as Drew took her hand.

He was smiling at her. Smiling as he slipped the simple diamond band on her finger. His hand was so warm and steady. His voice was clear and lovely as he promised to love, honor, and cherish. She so desperately wanted to be cherished. When he kissed her, she believed it.

Then they were man and wife. She was no longer Emma
McAvoy, but Emma McAvoy Latimer. A new person. And, in vowing her love and her life to Drew, she was beginning a new life.

It didn’t matter that he had to race off directly after the ceremony to the recording studio. She understood the demands and the need for premium session time better than anyone. It had been her idea to be married quickly, quietly, and in the middle of the making of his new album. It gave her time to prepare the hotel suite where they would spend their wedding night. She wanted it to be perfect.

There were flowers now, banks of hothouse roses, orchids, narcissus. For her own pleasure, she arranged them personally, setting tubs and vases throughout the rooms, down to a basket of flowering hibiscus she set in the bath.

A dozen candles waited to be lit, all white and scented with jasmine. Champagne chilled in a crystal bucket. The radio was on low, to enhance the mood.

She indulged in a long bath, fragrant with oils. She creamed and powdered her body, and enjoying the female ritual, dabbed more scent at every pulse point. Like the room, like the night, she wanted her body to be perfect for him. She brushed her hair until her arm went numb. Then slowly, drawing out the pleasure of it, dressed in the white silk and lace peignoir.

When she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror she knew she looked like a bride. Closing her eyes, she felt like a bride. Her wedding night. The most beautiful night of her life. Now she would know what it was like. Drew would come in. He would look at her, those tawny eyes going dark. He would be gentle, sweet, patient. She could almost feel his long, clever fingers skimming over her skin. He would tell her how much he loved her, how much he wanted her. Then he would carry her into the bedroom, and show her.

Patiently. Tenderly. Passionately.

By ten o’clock she was anxious. By eleven, uneasy. By midnight, she was frantic. Her calls to the studio only told her that he had left hours before.

She imagined a terrible accident. He would have been in a hurry to get back to her, as anxious as she to begin their life together in the big soft bed. He might have been careless, and his car … They wouldn’t know where to reach her—the doctors,
the police. Even now Drew could be lying in some hospital bed, bleeding, calling for her.

She was working her way down the lists of hospitals when she heard the key in the lock. Before he could open the door, she was there, swinging it open and falling into his arms.

“Oh, Drew, I was terrified.”

“Easy, easy does it.” He gave her buttocks a quick squeeze. “Anxious, are we?”

Drunk. Part of her mind tried to deny it, but it was there in the slurred words, the sway of his body, the smell. She stepped back to stare at him. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Just a little celebration with the lads. Not every day a man gets married, is it?”

“But you … You said you’d be here by ten.”

“Christ, Emma, you’re not going to start nagging me already?”

“No, but—I was worried, Drew.”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” He struggled out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. It wasn’t often he got drunk, but tonight it had been so easy to let one drink fellow another. Tonight, he’d climbed one more rung to the top. “And look at you. The perfect picture of the blushing bride. Beautiful, beautiful Emma, all in white.”

She did blush. There was desire in his eyes now. The kind she’d seen before, the kind she’d imagined seeing in them tonight. “I wanted to look beautiful for you.” She went easily into his arms, lifted her mouth to his in innocent trust.

He hurt her. His mouth was fierce and hot. He nipped hard at her bottom lip as he pushed himself against her. “Drew.” She tried to struggle back, alarmed by the memory flash of Blackpool in her darkroom. “Drew, please.”

“Don’t play that game with me tonight.” He caught her hair in his hand and dragged her head back. “You’ve made me wait long enough, Emma. No excuses tonight.”

“I’m not. I just—Drew, can’t we—”

“You’re my wife now. We do it my way.”

He pulled her to the floor, ignoring her pleas and struggles. His hands were rough, tearing the filmy lace as he bared her breasts to suckle and squeeze. The speed and urgency frightened her. It wasn’t right, she thought frantically. It wasn’t right lying on the floor, the lights glaring, her gown in tatters.

His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth clamped down on hers. Choking on the smell of whiskey, she tried to say his name. When she began to fight in earnest, he locked her hands in one of his, and took her virginity in one hard swift thrust.

She cried out both in shock and pain. Then he was plunging and pumping into her, panting, groaning. She was weeping when he collapsed, when he rolled aside and fell instantly to sleep.

H
E WAS FULL
of contrition and shame and tenderness in the morning. With shadowed eyes and trembling voice he cursed himself and begged her forgiveness. He’d been drunk, a poor excuse, but his only reason for behaving like a monster. When he held her, gently stroking her hair and murmuring promises, she believed him. It was as though another man had come to her on her wedding night to show her how cruel and heartless sex could be. Her husband showed her only sweetness. When her first day as a new bride ended, she lay in his arms, content, dreaming only rosy dreams of the future.

M
ICHAEL STAGGERED INTO
the kitchen. He’d meant to get to the dishes. In fact, his intentions had been so firm, he was shocked to find the sink full and the counter cluttered. He gave them a bleary, accusing stare. He’d been working double shifts all week and wondered why things like dishes couldn’t just take care of themselves.

In the spirit of self-sacrifice, he decided to deal with them before he settled in with breakfast and the morning paper. He began to stack plates, bowls, cups, forks. Dragging over a five-gallon Rubbermaid kitchen can, he shoved the whole business inside. They were all paper and plastic, a system that appalled his mother, but which suited Michael just fine. Although his modest kitchen boasted a Whirlpool dishwasher, he’d never owned a plate that required its services.

Satisfied, he poked through the cupboards, knocking over a bottle of El Paso salsa and a jar of Skippy peanut butter. Shoving them aside, he grabbed the box of shredded wheat. He shook some into a Chinet bowl, then lifted the coffeepot and poured the steaming brew over the cereal.

He’d discovered this delicacy purely by accident on another groggy morning. He’d nearly eaten his way through his breakfast when he’d realized the coffee was on the cereal and the milk in the Styrofoam cup. Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen door.

At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn’t have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.

“Don’t try to make up.” Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare chest. The paws hit the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on Michael.

Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs. Michael found it hard to believe that he’d picked Conroy out of a litter of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy had turned out ugly —not homely but down-to-the-ground ugly. This little trick of nature didn’t bother the dog, either.

Conroy continued to grin as he lifted a paw in what both he and Michael knew had nothing to do with subservience.

“I’m not going to shake that paw. I don’t know where it’s been. You went back to that slut again, didn’t you?”

Conroy slid his eyes to the left. If he could have whistled between his teeth, he would have.

“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve spent all weekend rolling in the dirt and slobbering over that half-breed beagle tramp. Never a thought to the consequences or my feelings.” Turning away, Michael rooted in the refrigerator. “If you knock her up again, you’re on your own. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Safe sex. It’s the eighties, bucko.”

He tossed over a slice of bologna, which Conroy caught nimbly and swallowed in one gulp. Softening, Michael tossed him two more before he settled down with his coffee-soaked shredded wheat.

He liked his life. Moving to the burbs had been the right decision for him. It had exactly what he wanted: A nice patch of lawn he could grumble about mowing, a few leafy trees, and what remained of the previous owner’s flower bed.

He’d given gardening a shot, but when he’d proven inept, had abandoned it. That suited Conroy as well. No one got antsy when he dug up the snapdragons.

He’d bought the small brick rancher on impulse, right after the end of his brief and ill-advised affair with Angie Parks. He’d learned something from her, other than kinky sex. And that was that Michael Kesselring was and always would be middle class.

It had been strange to watch her on the screen after he’d been replaced with a twenty-year-old hockey player. It had given him an eerie, almost creepy feeling to see her depiction of Jane Palmer, and to realize that she’d played that part with him all during the three frenzied months they’d been lovers.

He’d gone alone to the theater. A kind of test to make certain he’d gotten rid of any residual, and unhealthy, attraction for her. When she’d bared those beautiful breasts, he’d felt nothing but discomfort. Though it had been by proxy, he knew he had been to bed with Emma’s mother.