The One That I Want (27 page)

In a bizarre respect, this reminded me to keep my priorities in check. Reminded me that there were, in fact, worse things that could happen.

I talked to Shar first thing, which also helped. I had no doubt she was on my side, even though there were details about my relationship with Dane that I couldn’t tell her. And, after I sent her the link to the website, her fury at the reporter approached levels that were almost dangerous.

“We’re going to talk to a lawyer about that tabloid tramp, Julia. Soon. Very soon,” she said with a low, enraged hiss. “I’ll call someone I know. Today. Just to find out what kind of recourse private citizens have in cases like these.”

But I’d spoken briefly with Dane about the press and privacy during one of our conversation this past week. Once someone was seen to be “dating a celebrity,” all bets were off. We became “public figures” in that situation and, thus, there was very little legal recourse available. Besides, in my case, the damage had already been done. The story—complete with pictures—was “out there,” and there was no pulling it back.

I’d left a message with the director at Camp Willowgreen to let me talk with my daughter as soon as possible this morning. If there was going to be any sort of media deluge that might reach her, I wanted to prepare Analise as best as I could…without telling her the exact phrases used in that damning article. For once, I was very relieved that she and her fellow campers weren’t allowed to use the Internet for most of the day.

So, when the phone rang, I reached for it on the first ring.

“Julia?” said a voice I hadn’t heard on the phone for months. Not since Easter Sunday, in fact.

“Um, hi, Katia,” I said to my older sister. “Everything okay in Ann Arbor? How are Paul and the kids?”

There was an odd, cold laugh on the other end of the line. “Did you expect your family not to find out about you and that actor?”

I sighed. “You read the
Tinseltown Buzz
article online?”

“
I
didn’t, no. I don’t read trash like that. But just because I don’t live in Mirabelle Harbor anymore doesn’t mean that I don’t still have friends there.
Several
people sent me emails about you this week, and one person forwarded the website link to me last night. That was the last straw.”

“The last straw?” I parroted.

“Yeah. I wanted to stay out of it—like I need any sordid drama in my life right now—but you have to knock it off with that guy, Julia. You’re making us all look bad.”

This was classic Katia. She didn’t care about my feelings…or the truth, for that matter. She wasn’t calling to be a supportive sister. She just didn’t want anything I did to reflect poorly on
her
.

I inhaled and exhaled deeply before I responded. “It’s a good thing we don’t have the same last name anymore, huh? That has to cut down on most people making a quick connection between us. Except, of course, for those good ‘friends’ of yours who felt it was necessary to immediately spread gossip about me.” I wasn’t trying to disguise my sarcasm, but if she heard it, she didn’t react to it.

“When did you even meet him?” she asked, a weird kind of disdain-slash-jealousy in her voice. She was four years older than me—Dane’s age exactly—and had been a fan of his movies as well.

“We were introduced at the Knightsbridge Theater last month, during the dress rehearsal of his play.”

“Not before that? Not when Adam was still alive then?”

“Jeez, Katia. Really? You believed that part of the article?”

I could almost see her shrug through the telephone line. Again, she didn’t care about
truth
, just public perception. It didn’t much matter what had actually happened between Dane and me. She’d continue to think whatever she wanted.

“Look,” I told her. “I’m not planning to tell Mom and Dad about this just yet because it’s still so early in the day and I need to see—”

“Too late,” she snapped. “I called them first. You can’t hide things like this from your family.”

Oh, shit. Now they were probably worried out of their minds.

Damn Katia for being such an interfering, self-centered little snot. She’d done exactly the worst thing possible, and I’d now have to spend an hour or more trying to soothe Mom and Dad’s anxiety, when I really needed to save my patience and time for other more urgent matters…like my daughter’s wellbeing.

“Well, then I’d better talk to them at once,” I told her, glad to have a good and immediate excuse to hang up on her.

“Wait,” she commanded. “People have been asking me if you and Dane—”

“Bye, Katia. Talk to you later.” Much, much later, I thought as I clicked off.

My parents, living a thousand miles away in South Carolina and not being especially Internet savvy, had still managed to work themselves into a frenzy over this. They, at least, were focused on how I was feeling and if I was all right, rather than on what other people might be thinking about them.

But, still. It was incredibly hard to focus on comforting them when I was in need of so much comfort myself.

I spent most of the day responding to messages—voicemails, emails, a couple of in-person visits, too, from Shar and Yvette, even though I’d told them both on the phone not to stop by.

Yvette said, “I could tell there weren’t any reporters on the block this morning, so I just wanted to visit real quick.” She came across as sincere, but her eyes darted around my living room for the whole ten minutes she was at my house. Looking for Dane, no doubt, or at least some evidence of him.

I mentally reviewed everything I’d ever told Yvette about Dane Tyler—both when we were teens and just this past week, after he showed up at Camp Willowgreen with me.

And when she asked gently, “Have you talked to him about all of this?” I lied and said, “No. Not yet.” I didn’t know if she believed me, but no one seemed to believe what I said anyway today, and I’d had it with being grilled.

One of the worst side effects of that nasty story was that it made me question the motives of my friends. Had Yvette, wittingly or unwittingly, been the one who gave that interview to the
Tinseltown
Buzz
? Or was it someone else? Maybe another person I’d known since high school, like Kristopher? Or other classmates that I hadn’t kept up with in recent years? Perhaps the “anonymous source” was a member of the Quest group who’d overheard me talking about being an ardent fan of Dane’s. Someone like Bill or Vicky or Elsie.

I flat-out refused to suspect Shar. (She had a healthy sense of distrust when it came to the press, and I just
knew
she wouldn’t say anything.) Although, aside from her, it could have been
anyone
in town. A teaching colleague. Someone I’d chatted with at the radio station that day. A nosy neighbor. Or even some thoughtless friend of my sister’s. Whomever it was, though, I knew I needed to be extra careful.

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know,” Yvette said sweetly.

I thanked her, hating that I had to second guess her earnestness, and ushered her out the door.

A half hour later, Shar showed up.

“I won’t stay unless you want me to,” she told me, “but I needed to give you a hug, girlfriend.”

After the coldness and insensitivity of my witchy sister, Shar’s warmth and kindness made me cry. She let me sob on her shoulder for fifteen minutes, handed me tissues, and made me a cup of hot coffee before she left. Even after I told her that there were details I couldn’t share with her, she just smiled at me. “I’m not here for juicy gossip, Julia. I’m here for
you
.” And she assured me that, whenever I was ready to talk out all the questions that would arise once the eye of the storm had passed, she’d be waiting.

“Thank you,” I said, wishing she could stay with me all weekend, just so I wouldn’t feel so alone. But there was too much thinking I needed to do by myself. Too many messages that needed answering, and I still hadn’t heard back from Analise. What was taking so long?

I composed a standard text/email message that I used to respond to people who’d contacted me to offer words of support, whether they meant them or not.

“Thanks for your concern. The tabloid story was, of course, not true, but it’s upsetting nonetheless. Will look forward to talking with you when things calm down…”

Kristopher, who’d texted me several times, expressed surprise at the turn of events and, while he didn’t come right out and say, “I told you so, Jules,” he did imply that Dane’s character had revealed itself. He also suggested that he hoped things would soon get back to normal and that we’d see each other again before too long.

Not. Likely.

Dane or no Dane, I still couldn’t get over Kristopher’s weird sense of possessiveness. But, even if he wasn’t the right man for me, someone
like
him probably was. Someone who wasn’t famous. Someone who was my male equivalent. The Boy Next Door, if you will.

Which was why, when my inbox dinged with an email from Ben Saintsbury that afternoon, I paused and considered it carefully. Had I been too hasty in dismissing him from my life?

Ben wrote, “Just caught one of the Hollywood news shows and was surprised to hear your name… I’m sure you’ve got a lot of people jumping to conclusions about what happened, but I’m not one of them. I know the kind of person you are, Julia. And I was serious about getting together. Let me know if you ever want to talk, okay?”

It was nicely written and, hopefully, kindly meant. But I wouldn’t be sure of his intentions unless I saw him in person again. And I wouldn’t be able to figure out until then if what had driven him to reach out to me was genuine supportiveness and interest in my life. Or, perhaps, if it was merely curiosity combined with a desire to have less than six degrees of separation between himself and the ritzy kind of fame he’d always admired.

He’d also let me know—in quite possibly the gentlest way imaginable—that I’d made the entertainment industry news. That this stupid story had spread beyond the
Tinseltown Buzz
website.

Dammit.

I searched online until I found the TV clip that had just aired. I watched with numbed dismay as that arsenal of snapshots of Dane and me together were flashed on the screen, and a truncated version of the article was reported by a too-cheery chick in mini clothing (a mini skirt, a shrink-wrapped tank top, short fashion boots, etc.).

It was funny. They repeated the part about Dane’s upcoming fortieth birthday. It was a week from today, on August first. I hadn’t needed their reminder, though. I remembered the date from his “Star Profile,” and it was burned into my memory, along with all sorts of other things that I knew about him.

Then again, as my so-called “friend” had told Caryn Dizinger, I’d been “obsessed with Dane Tyler” for years. Of course I knew these things.

Just a few days ago, which seemed like a lifetime ago now, I’d been imagining how fun it would be to surprise Dane with a homemade birthday cake next Saturday. But then I totally blew the surprise by asking him what his favorite flavor was.

He’d laughed and said, “Anything made with kindness…and topped with ice cream. With the notable exception of Samuel, no one’s baked anything for me in ages. And I haven’t had a homemade birthday cake in two decades at least.”

To me, his comments felt bittersweet. How heartbreaking that he hadn’t had such a simple pleasure in so long and, yet, I was elated at the thought of getting to do this little thing for him. Now, though, it was highly unlikely that I’d even
see
him on his birthday, let alone get to bake him a cake.

It was sad. And I had no idea even where he was. He’d replied to my “you were right” text with just a brief message this morning. “Again, I’m sorry,” he wrote. “I’ll disappear from your life for awhile.” And, true to his word, he did.

Along with the sadness, though, another side of me was furious about Dane’s professions of love and affection this week. The guy had to be on the brink of insanity to think I’d be willing to bring my daughter into the madness and maliciousness of the Hollywood scene, especially after witnessing paparazzi crap like this firsthand. He’d
known
what it was like, even though I hadn’t. And, sure, he’d
warned
me, but he also had to realize that I didn’t understand the situation the way he did.

Being a parent as well, it was hard to forgive him for that oversight. As unintentional as it may have been, he’d let me put my daughter into a position that he’d worked so hard to prevent with his own.

Speaking of daughters, I finally got to talk with mine in the early evening.

Ms. Watkins, the director, opened the conversation and explained that there was an absolute zero tolerance policy for harassment at the camp. And, yes, there had been an incident or two that day as a result of the news story. “However, I’ll let you talk with Analise, and she can tell you what happened and how it was handled,” the woman said calmly. “I’m here if you have any questions afterward.”

“Hey, honey,” I said when Analise came on the line. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, Mommy,” she said on a sigh. “I’m okay.”

Her voice sounded strange to my ears. Subdued and resigned. Drained, perhaps, but not depressed. I didn’t know whether or not I should consider that a hopeful sign, given the bizarreness of this situation, or if I should be more worried than usual.