The Admirer's Secret (16 page)

Chapter 32

M
arc was too tired to notice the twenty messages left on his answering machine Saturday night when he got home. Too oblivious to see the large, unmarked package on his front stoop. Too exhausted to call Sheba into the house. Too drained to do anything but fall into bed fully clothed and fully unaware of the whirlwind going on around him.

The following morning, as Marc fumbled through the dining room on his way to a cup of much-needed coffee—black—the number of messages displayed on his answering machine stopped him dead in his tracks. When he pressed play, the sound of heavy breathing filled up his answering machine. The eerie wheezing woke him up more than the strongest brew ever could. Whoever it was wanted Marc to know he called over and over.

After twelve replays of the same thing, Marc skipped through the remaining eight messages. Listening to it would only drive him nuts. He wasn’t the type to have enemies… none that he knew of. No, Marc always made a point to get along with everyone, even those folks he didn’t like. This likeable trait tagged along with his laid-back nature, since he never cared enough to bicker about little things with people.

There was no way anyone could hate him this much. But then again, after Haley’s outburst last night, he apparently was in the dark about
something
. Did the messages have anything to do with her? Certainly he couldn’t have upset her enough to spur a half-dozen creepy messages. Or was someone else making the calls?

He stepped away from the phone and retreated to his living room. Squatting in the middle of the floor, he
massaged his fingertips along his forehead hoping to force an answer. Who had a vendetta, and why? There was obviously someone out there he had wronged to an unimaginable extreme, who hated him enough to greet him on a Sunday morning with twenty cryptic messages. This was a direct threat.

He shot up from the floor. Was his enemy possibly in the house? His Glo
ck .40 was in his bedside table… which was upstairs. He grabbed the fire poker and held it over his shoulder, ready to strike.

Room by room he walked with his back against the wall, anticipating someone in a ski mask jumping out at him at any second. Not that there were many places to hide in his open
concept home. Dining room. Clear. Kitchen. Clear. Then he heard a creak upstairs. Was that a footfall? He stepped stealthily up each stair making sure to avoid the noisy ones on his way up. The view to his bedroom was blocked by the thick oak railing that ran up to the landing.

He stopped again and listened. A sound was coming from his bathroom. With the fire poker held high and ready to smash the skull of an intruder, Marc moved forward and rounded the corner to his bathroom. Just as he was about to kick open the door, the heat vent whirred and a burst of hot air sent the door in motion. The door squealed again—in need of some WD-40. Was it just the vent he’d heard? His elbow p
ropped the door open and sure enough, there was no one in the bathroom. He blew out breath held for too long. He quickly checked the remaining rooms—all empty, just as he had left them.

He was alone.

Wait.

He was all alone.

No, that wasn’t right. Something was missing. Where was Sheba? With the messages and the strange sounds, he hadn’t noticed that Sheba wasn’t around. It didn’t occur to him earlier in the day that Sheba didn’t greet him with her usual slobbery kiss.
When he called her name and didn’t hear the clink of her nails on the floor, he remembered last night. He never called her into the house. The poor dog spent all night outside in the cold. He was thankful for her thick winter coat and hoped she’d forgive him after he shared some eggs with her for breakfast.

A cold gust of wind slapped him across the face and chest when he opened the back door.

“Sheba! C’mon, girl! Time for breakfast!”

He strained his ears for the sound of her dog tags jingling as she ran for the house. Nothing. Dead silence.

“Sheba, it’s time to eat!”

Maybe she’s gotten into something,
he figured.
Guess she wants me to get out there and apologize before she’ll come in.
Sheba was a little more emotional and stubborn than most dogs. If she was upset, Marc knew it.

Marc stepped into his boots and shrugged on a coat and headed out. The wind off the lake felt extra bitter this morning. He stepped along the patches of dormant grass and made his way around the front of the house. Twigs cracked under his steps and leaves crunched as his stride quickened.

“C’mon, Sheba!” Still, no bounding fur ball in sight. It was peculiar, since she always came when he called her. Even if she was upset with him, she would still respond. Something was wrong.

His stride turned into a jog, which turned into a run down the gravel driveway. Rocks skirted
sideways underneath him as he ran, and he kicked up more loose gravel in his wake.

“
Sheba! Where are you, girl?”

Then he spotted something. A shadowy lump that resembled
Sheba lying near the end of his driveway, much too close to the road. His heart started racing as a twinge of panic set in. Somehow his legs managed to make it all the way to where her body lay sprawled out, and he crumbled down next to her. Her eyes were open and her purple tongue was hanging partway out of her mouth. Using his fingers to part the fur, he felt for a heartbeat. He couldn’t find it. He pressed his ear against her chest, but he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. He spoke softly to her.

“
Sheba, girl, what happened to you?”

When he picked her up, her body was cold and stiff.

“No…” This couldn’t be happening. Pulling her closer, he rested her rigid body against his knees. He felt the pressure of oncoming tears.

How long had she been like this? He didn’t remember seeing her when he rolled up the driveway last night. How could he not have seen her? She had to have been placed here after he returned home. He ran his hands over her body. There were no marks on her, no sign of impact, no blood, so
she hadn’t been hit by a car. Reaching for his phone in his pocket to call someone, anyone, he only felt the empty space where his cell phone should have been. Had he left it in the house?

He stood at the end of his driveway kneeling by his dead dog—the only best friend he’d ever really had. How could someone hate him enough to kill his dog?

Marc began to cry. It was against every male, testosterone-driven part of him, but the tears just kept falling.

**

Ten minutes felt like hours as he carried Sheba home. She was like family to him, his baby girl. He would never be able to view this stretch of land the same way again. When he walked down the driveway to pick up the mail, he’d remember carrying his dead dog up it. When he pulled into the driveway, he would remember what had happened. It would be a memory he’d never forget. And yet a part of him didn’t want to forget. He wanted to get even.

When he reached the porch, he laid her by the stairs and ran his hands up her muzzle and over her fuzzy ears. It was his last good-bye. Somehow he knew this was no accident. Someone had killed
Sheba to tell him they were watching, waiting. It was the same warning the mysterious telephone caller was trying to send him—only this had gotten violent. And then the message hit him like a fist to the face: He would be next.

As he turned to go into the house, it seemed that his mysterious caller and dog-killer hadn’t quite finished making his point. A brown unmarked box taunted him from the front porch.

He threw his arms heavenward. “God, help me!” Marc screamed at the top of his lungs, as if waiting for a booming voice to answer his cry.

A tumbleweed-like jumble of crisp wind-blown leaves rolled past him.

God apparently wasn’t going to thunder his answer, and this wasn’t just a nightmare. It was real.

“I don’t know wha
t’s going on or why, but please… where are You when I need You?” Marc hoarsely whispered.

The box drew him with a magnetic force. Deciding to get it over with, he resigned himself to picking up the box. Once inside his house, he dropped the box onto the dining room table. His heart slammed in his chest cavity and his hands shook with rage as he grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the duct tape holding it closed. He fully expected to find a human hand inside.
Nothing would surprise him anymore.

Chapter 33

Entry 6957

I must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy me. I borrowed the line from Ray Bradbury, but it’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive right now. I caught Marc last night with someone else. Allen was right. How could he have known? As if he scripted my future before it happened, seeing all, narrating my final destination. I don’t know who to hate most. Marc for hurting me. Allen for being right. Or me for being so vulnerable.  

B
eep
. “Haley, this is your mom. Please call me as soon as you get this. I have something urgent—”

Skip.

“Haley, honey, please call me. It’s your mom again. I need to speak with you immed—”

Skip.

“Haley, this is Shelly from work. Sorry to call you on the weekend, but we’ve been worried about you. Where have you been?”

Skip.

“It’s Mom again. You can’t go to Los Angeles with Allen—”

Skip.

Haley wasn’t in the mood for her mom’s dramatics or her office’s inquiries. She’d call everyone she needed to when she got to L.A. After a long conversation with Allen—full of tears and apologies and consoling words—he had agreed to take her back as his protégé. She’d be leaving soon, so there was no point calling Shelly since she’d never see her again. She’d burn her bridges today—her bridges to her job, to Westfield, and to Marc.

Her suitcases sat by her living room entryway, zipped and ready to go. Taking a seat on the sofa, Haley looked at the
luggage with uncertainty, praying that the throbbing in her skull would stop. With only three hours of sleep, she was exhausted and tense. She had spent much of the night furiously packing, then unpacking, then finally packing again until her heavy eyelids refused to stay open a moment longer. Even after plopping into bed, sleep eluded her. She had tossed and turned through fitful slumber before being thrust wide awake. He had invaded her dreams—his fingertips on her face, his lips meeting hers, his arms around her warding off the chilly night air.

But then
she
attacked Haley’s sleep—haunting her, taunting her.
Did he ever really love me? What about Julie? What about his notes? Where do I go from here?

The
temptress’ heartless flirting popped into Haley’s dreams last night and thoughts right now, egging her jealously on. What previous life of his did Julie belong to, and why was she coming back now, popping out of the cracks just when things were going so well for Haley? As much as Haley wanted to spit in both of their faces, she still loved him. Maybe that made her a glutton for punishment, but her heart wanted what it wanted… and it usually wasn’t what was good for her. Haley glanced up at the clock on her mantel; it ticked away the minutes, announcing an inevitable good-bye that she resisted all night and all morning.

Sleep apparently hadn’t been the answer to her problems. A drive, however, had helped. She tried to recall what time it was when she found herself at Marc’s house, wishing on all the stars in the cloudless night sky that his light would be on. Though right now she regretted even going there, since it only confirmed her desperation. Part of her wanted to reconcile, talk things through before she left. She wanted a reason to change her mind about
California. But it was too late. 

Back home
, leaning into the soft couch cushions probably for the last time, Haley began to analyze her relationship with Marc. Finding someone else who understood her like Marc did was, well, impossible. He was perfect for her in every way, from their similar interests to his nurturing nature. She could see herself growing old with him, and she quite often let her imagination carry her away with that very image. Their kids would have his gorgeous eyes and her imagination. He’d teach them sports and she’d read them stories. It was picture-perfect. In her imagination.

The debate of whether or not she should go to
Los Angeles still ransacked her nerves. She was tempted to call Marc this morning before departure, but she hadn’t planned out what she would say just yet. There was too much to say, and not enough guts to say it. And besides, he had made his decision pretty clear yesterday evening by his lack of response. When Haley had confronted the two, she had given him a chance to explain, to tell her how sorry he was, yet he stood there gawking with mouth gaping wide but nothing coming out. It was evident that he didn’t care about Haley. He wanted to protect his secret at the expense of Haley’s heart.

Typical guy.

Jerk.

The plane ticket
beckoned her from the coffee table, as if challenging her to make a move. Her hands trembled as she reached for it, then held the top of the paper with both hands, as if preparing to tear it in two. Fleeting memories of Marc’s letters and sweet gestures from all their times together pressed in on her. She knew his feelings for her were strong—or at least used to be—but the obstacles were wide and deep. They could always work it out if he could assure her that he’d be faithful. She’d forgive him in a heartbeat if he could do that. She needed to think, but there was no time; the flight would leave in a few hours. The dilemma bounced between a flicker of hope that Marc would want to start over and the guarantee that she could find success in L.A. with Allen. She slowly perched herself on the edge of the sofa, unable to tear the paper that held her dreams of prosperity and fame into shreds.

She took a long look around her. The house was in perfect order, as it always was under her meticulous reign. Haley felt it complemented Marc’s messier lifestyle, as the cliché confirmed to her that opposites do in fact attract. It dawned on her that she might never see her home again—her first
, and only, home away from home. Though it was only a few minutes’ drive from her mother, renting this house was her first step at independence, and she would certainly miss the place. If she ended up making it on her own out in California, she’d most likely be too busy to come home and pack her things. Haley would probably have to send for them; her mom could handle clearing out the house and taking care of the moving details, and Haley could always call her landlord to tell him to cancel her lease. All the ifs clouded her mind; for some reason it didn’t feel right to just up and go without notice. She hadn’t even properly said her good-byes to everyone. Not that there were many worth saying good-bye to.

Part of her felt like
this was a short-lived vacation, but the other half told her this could be it—the big break she’d been hoping for, the answer to her problems. It was a chance of a lifetime, and her nerves wouldn’t let her forget that. It was a big step, much more than most could brag about. If she refused this opportunity, it might never come up again. But the same applied to true love. If she passed Marc up, would anyone ever take his place in her heart?

A horn honked outside her house. It must be the cab she scheduled to take her to the airport, exactly on time. She had hoped it would be late for some reason, maybe to give her that extra moment alone to dwell
on the choices before her. A second honk hurriedly followed the first and Haley realized it was time to make a decision. Probably the toughest decision of her life.

She reached into her pocket where she carried Marc’s first letter of affection to her. There, on the easily recognizable tablet paper, was his profession of love. Proof that he had
loved her at one point. She held it up and read it once more, than tore it in half. It fluttered to the ground as she released her grip on him. She was going to go make something of herself, without Marc Vincetti.

**

Haley arrived at the airport lugging her entire future behind her in a pair of worn suitcases. It had been a long time, too long, she supposed, since she set foot in an airport. She pushed her way through the mass of people and into the monstrous lobby area. Overhead signs seemed to point in a hundred different directions, intercom announcements adding to the chaos.

She had no idea what to expect. Crowds shuffled around her, jostling one another like bumper cars
intent to win. Apparently Sunday mornings weren’t the best time to travel if one was rushed.

Haley looked for was a sign leading her to the luggage check-in. By the time she checked her suitcases and proceeded through security, she only had ten minutes until her
flight’s departure time. Yet Haley didn’t even know her gate number. Someone had written it on her ticket, but it was a bunch of unintelligible chicken-scratch, and she couldn’t tell if it was the letter C or a G. Relieved to come across a flight itinerary screen listing her flight number and respective gate, she had eight minutes until departure. She was going to miss Flight 0417.

The sign directly above her head confirmed otherwise, for she was standing at her gate and had passed
by it half a dozen times, she realized. Just as a monotone female voice announced the last call for all passengers for Flight 0417, she joined the single file line of passengers heading into the terminal. She searched for the blond balding head of Allen, who confirmed his safe arrival at the airport with her cell phone voice mail an hour earlier. Spotting him near the front of the line, he apparently hadn’t seen her arrive. She considered greeting him, then refrained; she needed a breather first.

Sweaty from her jog, Haley wiped her brow with the back of her coat sleeve. So this was what her new life would be like. Allen had told her that this job would require extensive travel—some for story ideas, some for business-related meetings—and at first it had sounded thrilling. The hustle and bustle of flying all over the world would definitely be a change from the slow-paced life she was accustomed to. She had second thoughts about all this running around; it wasn’t anything like she had imagined
, all exciting and adventurous. Instead it was grueling and stressful.
Ignorance is bliss
, she thought to herself.

The line moved up as passengers began boarding, and Allen was slowly heading down the terminal.

“Good morning,” a lady in a navy blue blazer greeted her.

“Good morning,” Haley replied, her gaze still on Allen.

As she stood at the front of the line and handed her ticket to the attendant, Haley realized this wasn’t at all what she wanted anymore. If she never had to deal with another luggage check-in, security check, or an airport ever again, she wouldn’t mind one bit. With no one to share it all with, what was the point? All morning her thoughts were on Marc. If she were going to travel somewhere, she wanted it to be with him. If she were going to write about anything, she wanted to write about her love for him. If she were going to spend her time anywhere, she wanted it to be at his side. Right now, standing in line to board a plane taking her even farther from her heart’s desire, she knew what she wanted for her life. And Los Angeles wasn’t it.

At the junction between following a certain future or an uncertain love, Haley couldn’t move. Without giving Allen, Los Angeles, or her checked luggage another thought, Haley left the flustered attendant still holding the ticket and stepped out of the line with brisk strides. Her high-heeled boots clicked loudly against the tile floor as she quickened her pace to the exit

“Haley!”

She instinctively turned around at the sound of her name. Allen waved, frantically signaling her to return.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

How could she answer—following true love? Her green eyes blankly stared into Allen’s steely blue eyes. She hated to throw away dreams she worked so hard to make a reality, but she worked harder for Marc, if truth be told. She would win back his heart, if she indeed ever lost it, and there was no option for defeat. But Allen wouldn’t understand that. He understood money and fame, two things Haley
discovered she could live without. He didn’t understand love.

“I’m going back for Marc,” she finally said.

“Don’t, Haley. He’s not right for you. We’re right for each other. You and I. Imagine it: creating a life together built on our dreams and imaginings. Marc doesn’t deserve you after what he did.”

“It’s called love, Allen. You don’t understand.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

“What’s that mean?”

“If you won’t protect yourself, then—”

“Don’t.” She’d heard enough. “I have to go. I made a promise, and I’m following it.” She shook her head. There was no time for further explanation. She apologetically shrugged her shoulders, palms out in surrender, and made a mad dash down the long corridor, losing herself in the crowds. The screenplays, the premier, the fame and fortune—none of it fit who she was. Marc, she knew deep in her heart, fit her perfectly. And she planned to tell him that in the only way she knew how.