This Much Is True (46 page)

“Linc? Brian Addison of the L.A. Times. Can you expand upon your relationship with Ms. Delacourt? There have been rumors that you’ve been engaged to a Ms. Nika Vostrikova and that this is what brought you to Moscow in the first place. Can you explain your relationship with these two women?”

“Nika and I are friends. We have been since our days at Stanford. She does statistical analysis of my baseball games for me. We were briefly engaged, but that has ended. What brought me to Moscow was the Angels’ exhibition game in an effort to share American baseball with more of the world. As for Talia, I’ve known her for almost four years. We met under extraordinary circumstances and have been struggling to make things work between us while living and working on opposite coasts in the States. She’s been in New York with her ballet and traveling and performing in Europe; and I’ve been on the West Coast throwing a baseball. I can assure you that we will work out those differences, one way or the other, in the very near future. I love her, and I’m going to be with her from now on.”

“Follow-up. Are you, in fact, stating here that you won’t sign with the Angels again?”

“No, but I haven’t seen a contract extension offer from them. They appear to be unhappy with my involvement here in Moscow and with helping Talia when this awful crime was committed against her; however innocent we both are.” I shrug. “There’s not much I can do about that. It happened. I was wrongly accused of a crime I didn’t commit and if the Los Angeles Angels don’t see it that way; that’s their prerogative. I’m telling the truth. I can throw a baseball anytime, anywhere; and I will.”

“Mitchell Watson of the New York Times,” says another reporter. “Do you have any interest in pitching for the Yankees?”

The crowd laughs nervously.

I incline my head and grin back at the reporter. “Like I said, I can throw a baseball for anyone—anytime, anywhere—but my immediate future is focused upon Talia. If she’s here in Moscow fighting for her freedom, that’s where I’ll be as well.”

The doors ominously swish open behind me. I glance back in time to see the Moscow Police Chief as he walks straight through the line of reporters. “I have a brief statement,” he says as he wipes at his forehead. He tries to smile. “Ms. Talia Delacourt has given her statement, which further clarified what happened in these horrible circumstances. She was free to go, and Ms. Delacourt left police headquarters through a private exit about twenty-five minutes ago. We appreciate all the witnesses in this matter.” He looks up and over at me. “Mr. Presley is free to go as well.” Reporters grab their microphones from where they’ve been staged by me, while I try not to openly react to what the Police Chief has just revealed.

Kimberley appears beside me. She grabs my arm and steers me away from the crowd. “Keep it together. I know it’s hard. We couldn’t have anticipated this. I’m so sorry we left.”

I nod and attempt to do as she says.
I’ve lost her.
Tally probably knows I left, and I already know how that looks to her—that all I care about is baseball. Kimberley leads me back to the SUV. I climb in with effort. I’m exhausted. Desolation takes over and practically suffocates me.
I can already feel it. I’ve lost her. And it’s my fault.

“Rob Thorn called while you were talking to the press. Apparently, a tidy sum has been transferred into their crime victims’ fund. The Chief is very happy.” She gives me this meaningful look, and it morphs into equal parts of sympathy and
I-told-you-so
.

“What’s a tidy sum?” I ask, staring out the car window and seeing nothing.

“A cool six hundred grand.”

“So, now she
owes
him. That’s how she’ll view it. She
owes
him and…I let her down…
again
.”

“Maybe she won’t see it that way. I could talk to her.
I will
. I’ll talk to her and tell her that you came back insisting on giving your speech, which was awesomely supportive of her by the way.”

“Kimberley,” I say impatiently. “Don’t you see?
I left.
She probably knows that. Rob stayed; Rob paid. She can count on him. She’s never been able to count on me.”

“What can I say that will make you see this differently?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing
you can
say. It’s over. We’re over. She and I. There’s no trust between us. You can’t build a relationship without trust; and I blew it.” I sigh and lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. “The truth is there’s nothing left for me.” I open my eyes for a few seconds. “That’s the irony, right? I might still have baseball, but the only thing I truly care about is Tally.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“No offense, but it probably won’t matter.”

“You’re a stand-up guy—the best one I know.
You are
. Maybe, she’ll see the press conference and see what you said about her. She’ll figure it out. And I’ll
talk
to her. Linc, don’t give up, please.” Her breath hitches. “Please, don’t…look like that, Prez. You’re going to make me cry.”

I just shake my head, while Kimberley gives this same
you’re-a-good-guy
speech over and over on the long flight back to L.A. It doesn’t help.

I look like a jerk because I left.

I am a jerk.

We’re back to that.

I don’t even deserve Tally.

* * * *

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Tally ~ Six hundred thousand ways to keep you

T
remendous amounts of cold hard cash have a way of turning things around. Six hundred thousand dollars dropped into an untraceable crime victim’s fund make a difference.

Rob pays. I’m saved.

And I owe him. And that has to be enough.

My cell phone rings on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Rob hands it to me with a somewhat quizzical look. It’s the middle of March. A Sunday. I have the day off before the next round of rehearsals for our next performance that start up again early tomorrow.

“Hello? This is Talia,” I say tentatively.

“Well, you are a hard person to track down and, truly, not where I thought you’d be.”

“Kimberley?” I ask in surprise. I look over at Rob, and he gives me a smirky smile. It’s so endearing, and I need his smile so much right now that I reach out and trace his lips. “What do you want?” I try to sound gracious, but it comes out rather defensive anyway.

“How are you?” she asks.

“I’m fine. Just fine. Gearing up for the next set of rehearsals. I got the lead part and everything. It’s nice to be back in the States.”

“I’m sure.”

“What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” I ask warily.

“I’d rather not have this conversation over the phone. Can you meet me? How about
Les Miz
after six tonight?”

“Can’t we just talk on the phone?”

“No. Like I said I need to see you in person. I have something I need to show you. It’s important. So meet me at
Les Miz
at six.
Please
, Tally. It’s important.”

“Okay, fine,” I say.

“Tally, I’m sorry for all that went down in Moscow. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say quietly. “I’m
fine
.”

I end the call somewhat upset that she brought up Moscow and somewhat intrigued by what she needs to tell me so badly in person. Rob watches me closely from the other side of the king-sized bed now. I haven’t gotten into the sordid details of Moscow with anyone other than Sasha Belmont, who benevolently insisted I rest for a month before returning to the company full-time. I traded heavily on the confusing details of Moscow but only Sasha knows the whole story about me and what transpired in Moscow and about Linc and Cara and Tremblay—all of it. She was speechless for a few minutes after I told her everything, and then she hugged me and started to cry. The feeling was overpowering for both of us, and she readily agreed to keep a promise—to never talk about it with anyone. After Sasha’s unexpected reaction, I decided not to share everything that happened to me in Moscow with anyone else, especially Rob. There was no solace in talking about it. There was no solace in thinking about it. I just wanted to forget. And, in my mind, talking about it only brought the horrible memories of all of it back to the surface.

So, I didn’t tell Rob about all that happened in Moscow because I didn’t want his sympathy, and I couldn’t take the devastation that would most certainly appear upon his face if he actually knew everything that went down. The newspaper articles remained vague. I suppose I have Lincoln Presley to thank for some of that and most likely the general language barrier between Russian and English translations caused some of the glossing over parts of this terrible story. Lucky for me, the more salacious parts of my ordeal have been left out. I was attacked—that’s the gist of what everyone knows, including my parents and Rob.

Lies. Untruth. We all buy into it because it’s just easier.

In the past four months, Rob and I haven’t spent any time talking about our future since my bartered-for return. All I know is that bags and bags of Rob’s money bought my freedom. I owe Rob. And I want to make it right between us because I owe him. I do.

I carefully lay the cell phone back down on the nightstand, while Rob gets this vexed look. It’s funny to me, and I start to laugh. His left brow furrows in contemplation, and I can tell he’s trying to figure everything out. “You mentioned Moscow. Who was that? What’s going on?”

He looks unsettled at these particular topics of conversation as usual. I roll my eyes, feeling the familiar push-pull from Rob about Linc and Moscow and ballet and us.
If I could just be more like Holly, everything would be fine.

“It was Kimberley Powers. I don’t know what she wants. She’s Sasha’s publicist for NYC Ballet. I think that’s what this is about. I’ll just meet with her and see what she needs. I’m sure it’s just some publicity stuff for NYC Ballet.” I hug my knees to me, gingerly, of course; because my injuries have been slow to heal. I’m wearing one of Rob’s dress shirts, a thong I know he likes, and little else. He studies my legs and lightly brushes his fingers along my wounds and the ugly red line along my lower abdomen. I can see on his face all the questions he has for me, but he doesn’t ask any.

“Tally.” He breathes my name out slowly, tiredly. “Do you think you’ll ever get to the point where you actually trust me? Trust anyone?”

I rest my head in his lap and he strokes the side of my face and then runs his fingers through my hair. I finally turn over and look straight up at him. “Can you just give me some time? That’s all. I just need some time.”

“And then, you’ll tell me everything?” he asks, looking hopeful but still a little uneasy.

“Yeah. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

* * *

I push the fear of all there is about Moscow and the heartbreak over Cara and Linc way down. I breathe in deep and hold it for a few moments before opening the door to the bar where I’m to meet Kimberley Powers. I steel myself against the wayward thoughts of Linc.
I’m with Rob. I’m happy. I’m relatively happy. Moscow is over. It’s behind me. I’ve moved on.
For all I know, Linc is married to Nika by now. We’ve all moved on. I’ve lost Cara forever. Tremblay is gone, and I have to learn to live with that. My lies have cost me everything. I’m done lying.
There are…so many lessons learned.

But life goes on, doesn’t it? It just does—painfully or otherwise; it just goes on.

Kimberley Powers waits just inside the front door of
Les Miz
. She inclines her head toward me as the maître d leads us to a dining table and watches me judiciously for the next few minutes. I pretend nonchalance, although I’m quaking inside. My mind whirs with the singular thought that this is an extremely bad idea meeting Kimberley Powers in person.
Paranoia runs deep. The woman doesn’t miss a thing.

Kimberley holds her hand in mid-air, but she’s stopped talking because I think she must have figured out I’m not listening. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird. I guess I would be, too, if all that had happened to me. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You’re not like setting me up or anything, are you? I mean I know your loyalty is to
him
, but I thought maybe you thought you owed
me;
because…you seriously
do
.”

“
Seriously
.” She grins at first and then looks thoughtful. “Yes, I do owe you. Things didn’t go the way I thought they would—the way I planned.” She shakes her head side-to-side. “He rekindled things with Nika after Marla’s wedding, clearly on the rebound from you. And well, Linc has a tendency to, at times, take things too far in his eternal quest to be bound by duty; however gallant, and to do the right thing, sometimes, to his own detriment. His need for a mother, for stability, for a family…not that I believe Nika Vostrikova would have ever fit that bill, on any of level whatsoever, for any of those roles.” She stops. “Well, it effectively explains where he’s coming from, where he’s been. I see bits of Elliot in him—personality-wise; and I’m afraid I end up reacting with my own noteworthy personal experience with the Presley men at the most desperate of times, but it’s not always timely on my part.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I say slowly, fascinated by her soliloquy on some sadistic level. “Is he with Nika or not?”

“No Nika,” she says with a shake of her head. “
Definitely
, no Nika. She bailed on him in Moscow.” She looks at me intently.

I lean back from her, frowning and trying to take in this particular newsworthy announcement. I’m about to ask her a follow-up question about Linc and Nika when someone close by utters my name.

“Tally?”

I look up to see Elissa Mantel. My smile falters as the epic sadness of being harshly reminded of both Tremblay and Cara surges through me at this unexpected encounter from my past. “Elissa. Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Elissa, this is Kimberley Powers. She’s my publicist. We just met up to go over the events I’m doing for the spring performances. We heard the food is great here; right, Kimberley?” I ask sweetly.

“Right.”

Kimberley studies my face a moment longer and then turns her attention to our waitress, Elissa Mantel, who I inadvertently screwed over by awarding the adoption of Cara to Allaire Tremblay. I’m sure she hates me.

For her part, Elissa pushes a tendril of her fine golden blond hair from her face, while confusion briefly passes over her features. But then, it’s gone and she gets this tight smile as she whips out her note pad and prepares to take our order. “What can I get you, ladies?” Elissa asks.

Kimberley launches into her drink and food order with a lot of requests for things on the side. Elissa turns to me. Her face impassive and I know the wheels are spinning in her head as to what exactly I might want.

“What do you want, Tally?” she finally asks me with a discernible edge to her voice.

“I’d just like a side salad with your house dressing and a Diet Pepsi.”

“How’s Marla?” Elissa asks.

I’m sure the girl hates my guts. I took away her chance for a baby. I broke her heart and her husband Jamie’s, too. Her face seems to convey all of this with just one look.

“She’s married. They live in California. They’re doing well. She had a baby. A boy named Elliott last summer. I haven’t spoken to her in a while. I’ve been out of town.”

“Moscow,” she says evenly with a slight nod.

She knows.

I nod back while she reaches for my hand. “It’s good to see you. It’s terrible what happened to you in Moscow. Nobody deserves that.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Tally.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I force myself to smile. “I’m dancing with the NYC Ballet here now. No more trips abroad. No more foreign countries.” Then I give her a pleading look that clearly conveys that
I-don’t-talk-about-it
. “I’m sorry, too, about everything.”

She nods again. “We’ve sort of moved on, you know? We’re saving up enough money to move back home, and I’m ten weeks pregnant.” She fondles her flat stomach.

I focus on breathing and smile ever wider. The heartbreaking possibility of not being able to have another child assails me from out of nowhere. I’ve put it out of my mind. I haven’t even told Rob this yet. I’ve just moved on. Until now. This moment.
Breathe.

“Congratulations then about the house, the baby, a new life back home.” My throat closes up with fresh pain. I’m sure it shows on my face.

“Congratulations on the NYC Ballet gig…if that’s what you want.”

Kimberley blatantly stares at me from the other side of the table.

“It’s a good gig,” I say slowly. “Yes, it’s what I want. A lot of sacrifices for it though…” I force myself to smile again.

Elissa gives me this weird knowing look. I know she wants to ask me more about the baby I gave up because, invariably, Marla told her that I gave Cara up for adoption to our dance instructor. I shake my head ever so slightly, and she writes down my food order instead.
“Well, I’m glad things turned out okay for you, Tally.”

“Yes. Me, too. And, for you…with a baby on the way and a life and a new place with Jamie. That’s good.”

Kimberley is watching this exchange with this unchecked fascination even after Elissa leaves to put in our order. To buy myself some time for the Kimberley Powers’ inevitable inquisition, I casually take a sip of my ice water preparing myself for the onslaught of questions and queries. And, not surprisingly, she is way ahead of me. She’s amazingly good. She bides her time seemingly to gain my trust, the longer we talk. I have to remind myself, more than once, to keep up my vigilance and be ready for an attack of some kind. Kimberley Power is so smart, so put together that I envy her.

“Your statement…saved him, you know. His career. His contract is up for renewal after this season but now the Angels want to start those negotiations early, but he’s open to a trade, if the terms and the team are right. He may sign with the Giants. And the Yankees have shown some interest…” Her voice trails off.

I look at her incredulous. “That’s what he wants? The
Yankees
? Why would he want to move to the East Coast?”

“Because you’re here.”

She studies my face intently for my reaction, but I manage a nonchalant shrug. “Lincoln Presley should not be planning his life around
mine
. I have my own. I’m just trying to move on here and salvage my career out of the flipping fire and move on with
Rob
. We’re moving on.
We are.”
I wave my arm around the restaurant for emphasis.

“How’s the foot?”

I take in the air and hold it for a moment. “It gives me trouble,” I say slowly. “It appears to be chronic. But Sasha
knows
…I’m doing all I can. Physical therapy of every kind. Yoga. It’s better.” I sound defensive so I just stop talking.

Kimberley nods. “Has she talked to you about San Francisco Ballet? She told me she was going to,” She’s said this casually like it’s just the newest weather report, even though she should know and probably does, that this is career-ending talk. You don’t just
leave
the NYC Ballet.
Nobody does.
And yet, Sasha and I have been secretly talking about this very thing for the past several weeks, since Moscow, really. So I have to weigh whether she’s guessing or actually knows about Sasha’s plans to move to San Francisco to be with Michael.

Sasha met Dr. Michael Markov while we were still in Moscow when she came to visit me right after I had to be re-admitted for a raging infection and return to surgery for a second time to stop more internal bleeding. Yeah, it was another near-death experience for Tally Landon—one last, twist-of-fate performance for the Moscow fans before I could leave Russia and vow to never, ever return.
Funny.
Sasha falls in love in Moscow. And I lose the love of my life there. The irony isn’t lost on either one of us.