Tides of the Heart (19 page)

From across the room the ladder snapped shut. Jess jumped at the noise. “It’s none of your business, Charles.”

“It’s my business when it affects my daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maura is upset about this, Jess. Haven’t you put her through enough? Is finding that baby worth more to you than Maura’s peace of mind?”

Heat flamed in her cheeks. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to shove him out of her way. Instead, she said, “I repeat, Charles, it’s none of your business.” She turned to her assistant. “I’ll meet you in the dining room,” she said, then brushed past Charles without looking back at him, without saying another word, and without letting him see the tears that had formed in her eyes.

“It will take three to four weeks,” Marsha Brown told Phillip when he’d given her the information about Jess’s baby. It apparently did not matter that she was from New York, that the baby had been adopted in Connecticut. “I’ll contact the right people, but it will take that long.”

“And you’ll find her?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she replied.

He did not ask how she would find her. He did not want to know the illegal methods needed to break through the sealed records to locate the children who had been meant to disappear. Children as he himself had once been.
“Thank you,” was all Phillip said, then he gave her his office number and told her to call when she knew.

As soon as he hung up, he called Jess’s house. “We’ll know in three or four weeks,” was the message he left on her machine, “Keep your fingers crossed.”

He sat back in his chair, looked around the sparse office, and realized that in three to four weeks he and Joseph would be ensconced in their new headquarters on Seventy-third and Park, and that maybe Nicole was going to bring him good luck.

Devonshire Place
was probably done shooting for the season. Ginny stared at the television screen, watching her daughter, in the role of Myrna, plot to steal her best friend’s husband. As Lisa/Myrna strutted around the room of the penthouse set, Ginny studied her movements—determined, gutsy, unafraid. They were moves that had once defined Ginny—never Lisa. Never sweet, nice Lisa. Sweet, nice Lisa who had clearly lost her mind, who desperately needed to be saved by someone other than Ginny, who needed to be told she was making a big, fat mistake to have fallen in love with Brad. She was, after all, too sweet. Too nice.

Then again, Ginny thought, maybe she hadn’t really known Lisa at all.

She knew Lisa had been raised by the Andrewses—a middle-aged, middle-class, middle-everything couple from New Jersey who, after Lisa, had adopted twin girls. Ginny had met them three—no, four—times, when they’d flown to the East Coast to spend a few days with Lisa each year. It was then that Jake had taken them all to dinner: a few hours, once a year, were all Ginny had as reference on Lisa’s upbringing. And they had been pleasant enough. Pleasant, certainly, to Ginny, who probably didn’t deserve their congeniality, although they told her many times how
grateful they were that she had brought Lisa into the world, that she had allowed them to raise her.

Allowed.
As if she’d had a choice. As if she could have considered anything else. For one thing, she couldn’t very well have brought home a baby whose father was Ginny’s stepfather—a baby who’d been conceived in one of his drunken, groping moments. Nor could she have brought herself to have an abortion: in 1968, those that could be found were the back-alley, coat-hanger kind.

So much for
allowing
the middle-class Andrewses to have Lisa.

But Lisa’s life could have been worse. Mr. Andrews was an insurance salesman; the missus worked in the school cafeteria where Lisa and the twins had gone. Pictures of their home revealed a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath ranch, with a carport “done over” into a family room, an aboveground swimming pool in the backyard, and a small vegetable garden where tomatoes were staked and zucchini sprawled. It was the kind of home that sent shudders of entrapment through Ginny—an image of a place like she had only ever imagined, never experienced.

She had also not been able to imagine any child of hers being raised in such a house. But the photos of Lisa on her eighth birthday, laughing, seated at a Formica kitchen table, an angel food cake with candles in front of her, told the story, as did the shot of her standing before a black marble tiled fireplace, wearing a pretty pink organdy prom dress, a white corsage on her slender wrist, and a big smile across her happy face. Lisa had been a happy child, she had told Ginny so. But that had been in New Jersey, a century ago.

“You’ve come a long way from the tomato patch,” Ginny said to Lisa’s image on the television now.

Then she realized that maybe the Andrewses could talk some sense into Lisa about Brad. They’d take one look at him and, in their middle-class way, they’d know he was not right for their daughter. She wondered when they’d be
coming for their annual visit; soon, she thought. They were usually here in the spring.

Eyeing the phone, Ginny decided there would be nothing wrong in hurrying things along. She hadn’t called to thank them for the flowers they’d sent when Jake died—the too-large bundle of red and white carnations. The flowers were ugly, but the Andrewses had meant well.

Ginny pulled her address book from the drawer of the end table, looked up the number, and placed a call to the opposite coast. Surely they could talk some sense into Lisa.

Mrs. Andrews was so glad to hear Ginny’s voice! “It’s been so long, Ginny … we were devastated for you about your husband … I’m sure Lisa’s been a big help to you … we’re all peachy-keen, the twins graduate from the university this year so, no, we hadn’t planned on coming west. We were hoping Lisa would come here for their graduation, do you think there’s a chance? And, of course, we’d love to have you, too … we could put you in the basement … we’ve done that over and it’s a rec room now.…”

Ginny regretted that she’d called. She said good-bye without mentioning Brad, without a hint that Lisa was not speaking to her, nor she to Lisa, without the slightest innuendo that everything was not just peachy-keen, too, out here in L.A.

She hung up the phone, flicked off the TV, and knew there was only one other person capable of talking sense into Lisa. Only one person whom Lisa would dare not cross: Harry Lyons, her director.

Slinging her feet to the floor, Ginny decided to pay a call on Harry and have him haul out his big guns of persuasion. But first, she had to bring out hers.

•  •  •

At forty-seven, Ginny supposed her legs weren’t exactly what they used to be. Then again, she figured, pulling onto the studio lot where only days before she had been evicted, Harry Lyons was far from the catch of the century. She supposed, however, that he believed otherwise. After all, he was a man.

Glancing around nervously in case she needed to dodge that grip named O’Brien, Ginny got out of the car and checked her reflection in a glass door. Thankfully, she’d found a minidress that was loose and flowing and did not reveal her newly added pounds. It would be easier to convince Harry she needed his help if she had any interest in sex—specifically, his. It would not be the first time Ginny had had to fake it, but that, she reminded herself, had been back in the days when she could count on her libido to make up for her apathy.

But she had to give this a shot. It was her only chance.

With her chin held high and her eyes fixed straight ahead, she stepped inside the cavernous building and strutted toward the director’s office as if she belonged there, as if she came there every day. She marched toward the dressing rooms, past several closed doors until she reached the door just past the one where she’d last seen her stepson screwing with Lisa’s mind.

She held her stomach to stop it from rolling. Then she took a deep breath, raised her hand, and bravely knocked.

“Yeah?” came a voice from within.

Ginny sucked in her gut, undid another button at the neckline of her dress, tossed back her hair, and strolled into the room.

Harry was there, seated at a desk, as bald and bulky as Ginny remembered. On the edge of the desk perched a fat woman smoking a cigarette.

“What d’ya want?” Harry asked.

Ginny stepped forward and extended her hand. “Harry,”
she said smoothly, “it’s so nice to see you again. I’m Ginny Edwards, Lisa Andrews’s mother.”

“Shit,” he said standing up quickly and taking her hand into his sweaty one. “Ertha, leave us alone, will you?”

Ertha—whoever she was—gave Ginny the once-over, then left the office.

“I’m glad you found me.” Harry motioned for Ginny to sit in an overstuffed vinyl chair. “Two more minutes and I’d have been outta here.”

“I’m glad, too,” Ginny said, swallowing her pride—if she’d ever had any at all. She glanced around the photo-lined walls. “So this is where Harry Lyons hangs out.”

He chuckled, the many folds of his neck rippling in response. “This is only my studio office. My real office is across the lot.”

Ginny smiled and crossed her legs. She let her dress inch upward, silently grateful for the fat woman who had preceded her. No matter how puckery Ginny’s thighs had become, she had a long, long way to go to match Ertha. “I need to talk to you, Harry.”

He grinned, sat back in his chair, and lit a plump cigar. “If you’re looking for work, have your agent contact me,” he said in a directorish sort of way.

She laughed in return. “I don’t need work, Harry. Though I’m sure you’re the best to work for, if I were so inclined.”

He blew out a stinky cloud of smoke. “Well, then, this is a first. Beautiful women only come calling when they’re looking for a job.”

Ginny smiled through her clenched teeth. “I’m looking for help, Harry, but not a job.”

“Help with what?”

“Lisa.”

“Lisa Andrews hardly needs help. She’s doing a great job.”

“It’s not her job, Harry. It’s her personal life I’m concerned about.”

He narrowed his already squinty eyes. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“Not yet. But she might be.” Ginny stood up and slowly ran her hands down the front of her dress, over her breasts, down to her thighs. Harry’s eyeballs predictably, idiotically, followed each move she made. “Even though Lisa isn’t a child, she is an innocent.” She hoped he was not going to tell her otherwise.

“She’s a good kid … is it Ginny?”

Ginny flashed another smile. “Yeah. Ginny.” She liked the way his eyes were locked down on her breasts. She only wished she could feel … something. Without her dependable flash of heat inside, she wasn’t sure she could pull this off. “Harry,” she continued, her voice as low and throaty as she could muster, “I’m sure you’re a man who’s had a lot of experience with women.” She couldn’t believe she’d just said that and kept a straight face.

“Well,” he stammered, “well, of course …”

“Which is why I need you. I need you to explain to Lisa that the young man who she’s seeing is not good for her career.”

“He’s not?”

“Oh, believe me, Harry, he’s not. I’ve known him many years. But that’s not the point. She won’t listen to me, Harry.” Ginny laughed again. “You know how daughters can be with their mothers. Anyway, this guy she’s seeing is bad news. Very bad news. I think he’s out to damage her career. I think he means to ruin her.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Envy. Greed. All those things that people like you and I know about. Things that Lisa is naive to.”

“So you want me to tell her to dump him.”

Harry Lyons was definitely not as dumb as he looked. “Precisely. But she can’t know I’ve come to see you. She can’t know it’s my idea.” She sat on the edge of the desk where the fat woman had been, then leaned toward Harry, the neckline of her dress, she knew, parting slightly, revealing
more than a hint of a large, round breast. “After you’ve talked to her, maybe you could come out to my house and tell me how it went. I have a wonderful wine cellar. We could toast your success.”

His eyes returned to her breast. He blinked, then looked back at her. “Sounds inviting. There’s only one problem.”

She pulled back. “What problem?”

“Lisa’s not here. We wrapped for the season this morning, and she took off. Said she was driving across country or something.”

“Driving? Across the country?”

“Yeah. Something about her sisters’ graduation. And I don’t know how to tell you this, but she also said her boyfriend was going with her.”

Ginny blew out of his office so fast he must have choked on his cigar. She steered her Mercedes toward Rodeo Drive with revenge pumping through her veins.
Fourteenth Street
, she said to herself. Fourteenth and Rodeo Drive was the home of Fresco’s—Brad’s sink-or-swim restaurant. The place she prayed he’d be right now.

She stepped on the accelerator as she rounded the curve, then sharply turned down Fourteenth. With a squeal of tires, Ginny double-parked, got out, and ran to the front door of the restaurant. Hopefully, they hadn’t left yet. Hopefully, there was still time to kill him.

The door was locked. She peered inside. There were no tables within view, no chairs. Only an empty, vacant restaurant abandoned and alone.

“Fuck!” Ginny screeched into the air. She kicked the door and pounded on the glass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Then her screech turned to a mutter, and her fucks turned into sobs, and she knew that she had lost Lisa again, this time, most likely, forever.