Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (39 page)

“The Seventh-Inning Stretch.”

I slipped out of the dressing room and leaned against the wall lest a faint draft lift my skirt a half-inch. Lips twitching, I flipped through the pictures of her curly-haired children. They were cute, but probably a handful. And if they were chatty like their mother, I could guess why Samuel kept them mouth-high in junk food. But I was glad he knew a couple of kids to dote on. At the same time, I felt sad. He deserved children of his own.

Indigo returned the pictures to her wallet. “Anyway, my point is this. Samuel’s a really, really nice bloke. You’ve known him a lot longer than I have and you have a history together, but I still want to make sure, you’re…you know. Good to him. Please don’t be offended,” she said in a rush.

“Are you giving me the ‘if you hurt him I’ll kill you’ speech?”

“Yeah, in so many words.”

I studied Indigo earnestly—her bright eyes, guileless air—and decided I liked her. It would’ve been easy to burn with jealousy if I didn’t know where his heart was. “I understand where you’re coming from,” I admitted. “The industry you move in must be filled with greedy people looking to latch onto someone like Samuel. People who would use him for his money and influence. But I’m not one of them.”

Indigo released a whoosh of air. “Exactly. I didn’t mean to corner you, sorry. The two of us—Nat and me—we’re a bit clucky over him. We’ve talked about how great it is that you and Samuel are so loyal to each other, even though you’re divorced. You really could have profited off the
Water Sirens
books, but you never did.”

Well, aside from the alimony.

“Kaye, how’s the dress?” Nat kindly interrupted.

“Short.”

She smiled. “Try the black one with the little ivory blossoms.”

I shot her a thankful smile and ducked back into the dressing room.

“And Samuel,” Indigo persisted through the vents, “well, I’d be blind not to see how crazy he is about you. Poor me. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why he went out of his way to avoid some good ol’ fashioned pashing. I thought he might…um…‘value his privacy,’ if you know what I mean.”

I smacked my head against the wall.
Not another one.

Indigo must have heard the thumping. “Oh, but I don’t think that anymore. He was helping me find the emotional inspiration behind one of my Neelie scenes on set one day, and the truth finally clicked—he was still pining after you! We all agree it’s the most swoon-worthy thing we’ve ever heard, kind of like an Austen gentleman. Now I have Marco Caldo and we’re on fire…Oh, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

After a while, Indigo informed us she was popping next door to look at shoes. Her absence left a roaring void of sound in the boutique.

“Are you still over there?” Nat laughed quietly from the room next to mine.

“Yes. It got quiet, didn’t it?”

“Indigo’s a chatterbox, but I love her for it. Any luck with the dresses?”

“I’m just finishing up this black one with the lopsided shoulder. I think I like it the best.”

“With the little flowers? Let’s see.” We stepped out of our dressing rooms and I tugged my smocked waist into place. “Oh, Kaye, it’s perfect on you.”

“So’s yours.” We exchanged shy smiles and did a few mirror turns.

“My husband said you were a nice person. Do you remember meeting him?” I shook my head. “You sat next to him on a flight from Denver to LA. He’s Indigo’s image consultant.”

I gasped. “You’re Patrick O’Malley’s wife? I knew I’d heard your name before! I didn’t know he worked for Indigo.” I scanned my fuzzy memories of our conversation, praying I didn’t say anything embarrassing about his client.

“That’s why we’re in town.”

“W-Wow,” I stammered. “Congratulations.”

Nat laughed. “I’ve been fortunate. The biggest bonus was meeting Patrick because of it. When Indigo’s career began to take off, she hired both of us. We occasionally crossed paths in Hollywood, but I’d never gotten to know him until we joined the Kingsley family. The rest is history.”

“Let me get this straight. Indigo doesn’t use a full-service agency like Samuel does with Buitre. You’re her manager and Patrick is her image consultant? And she has a separate publicist, stylist, agent, all that?”

“Correct.”

Crazy and thrilling ideas took shape in my brain. If Indigo Kingsley—one of the most successful actors in the world—didn’t need a Buitre-type agency to manage her career, surely Samuel didn’t, either. “Your clients don’t mind that you’re not with a high-profile agency?”

“Not at all,” she said proudly. “We’re very selective in our clientele because we can afford to be. The few celebs we take on prefer the personal attention. If there’s something we can’t handle, we outsource. So you see, you and I have a lot in common.”

I bit my thumbnail, growing excited. This might be the solution to our Buitre problem, if I could pull it off. “What about mixing business with family? How does that work?”

“Oh, we disagree, usually when something is made public that affects our private lives. But Indigo’s priority is her kids, and she’ll always make decisions with them in mind. And Patrick’s and my relationship comes first, and our careers, second. I will
always
choose Patrick, and he’ll do the same for me. If it hurts my career, so be it. But so far, I’ve had no regrets.”

“That’s…that’s wonderful,” I sighed, feeling some relief.

Indigo returned and by the time we paid for our things (more than two thousand dollars for a dress, shoes, and clutch; I felt sick), it was close to eight.

“I’ve got to relieve my sitter by ten,” Indigo said, “but we have time for a quick drink. Any takers?”

I declined. All I wanted to do was go home to Samuel and put my arms around his neck. Hugging my purchases, I exchanged numbers with the women and waved good night, promising to see them at the Boom Boom Room.

When I tripped up the stairs to the Fort Tryon apartment, Samuel wasn’t there. I fumbled with the spare key he’d given me and collapsed through the door, dropping my garment bag, purse, and boxes on the floor. I flipped on the living room lamp, wondering if he’d fallen asleep.

“Samuel?”

I peered into the bedroom. Also empty.

I told myself I wouldn’t worry. Even after I called him, then heard his phone ring on the kitchen counter, I decided there was no reason to stress. Still, when I heard a key jiggle in the lock two hours later, followed by Samuel’s quiet footsteps, my body sank into the bed with relief. His long shadow fell across the bedroom slats.

“Where have you been?”

“Out writing.” His voice was gritty.

“You forgot your phone. I tried to call you.”

“I’m sorry I worried you. I’m not used to having someone at home.”

I turned in the bed, my eyes taking in his shabby form after a long day of writing. “You didn’t have your laptop with you, either.”

He simply held up his Moleskine notebook in answer.

I tugged a hand through my own unkempt hair. I hoped—really hoped—it wasn’t an eggshells night. Folding back the quilt, I smoothed my palm over the bed in unvoiced invitation. I honestly didn’t know whether he’d accept and come to bed with me, or fade into the hallway again. He chose to join me.

Troubled eyes remained on mine as he shucked his jeans, then pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. He shivered when his skin hit the cold sheets, and he pressed his long body against my back for warmth. One arm wrapped around my waist, but it was stiff and formal, as if he felt it his duty to hold me.

My hand flexed and relaxed on the pillow, a steady rhythm as I waited for him to speak, or fall asleep, or even leave for the sofa.

He spoke.

“Tell me what to do about our book, Kaye. I don’t know.”

I lightly dragged my nails over his forearm. “That’s your decision. If you want to keep your illness a secret, then I’ll stand behind you.”

“Yes, and you’ll be burdened by it, like my family, like Caroline. But if I go public with the story, there will be no more secrets.”

“There are always secrets, Samuel.”

He rose from the bed again and opened the window, letting in a rush of cool air and distant car horns, and I immediately felt the loss of him. He leaned against the frame, watching the quiet street below.

“All I’ve ever wanted to do was write. Before, I wanted people to read my words. The more I shared them, the more real those words became. But now?” He ran a hand through his tangled hair. “I don’t want to share them. Maybe it’s selfish.”

“It’s not selfish to want to keep some things private. It makes it sacred, somehow.”

“Sacred. Just like friendship.” His voice grew stronger, angrier. “From the very beginning, Caro’s pushed me to publish this thing. Now she’s backed me into a corner where my only other choice is to build another web of lies. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“Her method sucks, but she has a point.”

He squinted at me, head cocked curiously. “And what would that point be?”

Tread lightly, Kaye.
“Maybe publishing
Hydraulic Level Five
would be a good thing.”

Samuel sat on the edge of the bed. “A few months ago, you had rather forceful opinions
against
publishing my memoir,” he said coolly. I tried to grasp his hands, but he planted them behind him on the mattress.

“That was before I knew the whole truth. Our story could help people, Samuel. People like Molly’s sister. And maybe…maybe it could help you, too.”

“Would it?” He gave a short, sardonic laugh. “I suppose it would help TrilbyJones. Imagine the clout your little firm will get, trotting out my personal life for your fund-raiser.”

Ooh, he knew how to hit me where it hurt, didn’t he? “Hey, cliff-hucker, I didn’t ask for any favors. You offered.” I angrily whipped the quilt around my camisole-clad body. There was no way I was sharing a bed with him after a jerk statement like that. Yanking my pillow from the bed, I stalked out of the room, half-tripping over the blanket.

“Don’t pretend you’ll support me if I remain silent, Kaye,” he called after me. His feet hit the floor and pounded across the room. “I could see it in your face the moment Caro suggested I go public. You want me to be a poster-child for mental health disorders, because it’s easier than cleaning up when my brain goes haywire. I mouth off to the media in a manic frenzy, you arrange for me to do a PSA that’ll run nationwide, problem solved. I’ll not be turned into a tool.”

Eyes blazing, I whirled and found him directly behind me. “Then quit acting like one. I have put
everything
on the line for you. You could at least do the same for me!”

“To what gain? That I’ll break from Buitre and go with your firm?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You said yourself it was time for a change.”

But his accusation hit a little too close to home. Fighting him when he was like this—paranoid and stressed—was putting a match to a stack of kindling. I took a step back, trying to calm myself. What did I expect to happen if he went public with his illness? It wouldn’t magically go away. Cautious glances from fans, hugs of pity from talk show hosts. Friends and family asking about his health, when they were really asking if his head was put together. Then the backlash would hit, hard. Every time the tabs caught wind of a display of emotion, they’d blow it into a headline reading “Sirens Author Goes Manic in Public.” He would hate that.

This wasn’t a decision to rush. But I did know this: Samuel carried too much dead weight and he was collapsing under it. Some burdens needed to be cast by the wayside.

“TrilbyJones doesn’t have the capacity to handle you,” I replied. “But if what Caroline said is true, breaking from Buitre is a necessity. We could find new people to represent you…”

I tentatively traced his jawline with the tips of my fingers, back and forth…back and forth…soothing him. His eyes closed and he wrapped his hands around mine, burying his face in my palm.

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” he whispered.

“Trust yourself. You will do the right thing.”

He said nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was mulling over what I’d said, or listening to laughing voices outside the door as his neighbors returned home. So I continued.

“Do you trust me when I say I love you?”

Ah, there was a reaction. He raised his head from my hand. “Yes.”

“Then believe that I’m telling you this in love. I know about crutches. Secrecy has been your crutch, and everyone’s indulged you in it. Secrecy about your illness. Your family. Your addictions. You live in the past, Samuel, in our childhood, your mother, the
Water Sirens
books, heck, even our old furniture—” I gestured around the room “—because it’s easier to cling to those things than to give up your secrets. So when I said publishing your book might be a good thing, I really meant for you to let go of it all.”

“Kaye, don’t.”

I took a deep breath and rushed on. “I admit it’s my fault, too, with all the careless reminiscing and ‘remember whens.’ But it’s time to make a new start together. Let’s just finish the book, published or not, then move on with our lives. Because as much as I cherish your Caulfield, I’d rather have the grown-up version.”