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  Gerald asked, “Some cable executive paraded through here half an hour ago. She claimed we are about to knock Days of Our Lives off its ratings perch. I thought Tony was going to have a hernia.”

  “Sorry I missed that.”

  “Well, at least you’ll be here for the main event.” Gerald played the stork a final time, and cut the connection.

  Connor opened the central armrest and clipped the mic to the inside of his shirt’s lapel, ran the wire down next to his skin, then slipped the battery pack into his back pocket. There was also a fold-out cosmetic mirror, which revealed an uneven two-day growth the color of sunlight through honey. It turned Connor’s cheeks as cavernous as his eyes. His hair was tousled; and when sunlight glanced through the side window, he winced. Connor folded the mirror away and poured himself another cup of coffee. He decided his appearance fit the role perfectly.

  * * *

  Kali Lyndon’s father had been a nondescript gentleman who wore his pin-striped suits even at the family dinner table. He had lived in the shadows, shunned publicity, and never had anything bad to say about his only child. Kali’s mother died when she was seven, and she was raised by a variety of nannies. Her father’s empire continued to grow, even after he confessed he wasn’t sure why he felt a need to make more money than he would ever spend. They lived in a fine house in a nice area of St Louis. Her father moved in the circles of power when he was forced to, but he preferred to send his associates and remain the quiet, unassuming man he was. He died of heart failure when Kali was nineteen. At that point, his closely held empire of hotels and shopping centers was estimated to be worth over four billion dollars. He left everything to his beloved daughter.

  Kali’s attendance at the board of directors’ annual meeting remained her only contact with the business her father had built.

  So long as Connor played second lead to Kali’s star, they actually got on great. Connor found her funny and endearing. He ignored her temper tantrums with the same deaf ease he had shown to any number of stars on set. Kali had never met anyone like him. She claimed Connor was the first man who could handle her. Connor thought it might be at least partly true.

  Kali Lyndon’s world revolved around playing the poor little rich girl. She was seen and photographed at every star-studded opening. She did the latest, wore the finest, was friends with the hippest. She shone for the cameras. But Kali had a problem. She needed to be fed her lines. So long as she was scripted, Kali was in her element.

  Which was how her publicity machine came up with the idea for this wedding.

  A fake reality show.

  The cable network ate it up.

  Kali’s estate fronted the coveted ninth green of the Bel-Air Country Club golf course. Her home was nestled in three and a half acres of meticulous gardens and fountains and four swimming pools. The mansion itself covered twenty-three thousand square feet and had four turrets. In addition, there were six garages, a poolhouse, two guest cabanas, and servants’ quarters. When asked why a single lady needed such a big place, Kali gave one of three stock answers. Because I can. Because it’s fun. Or her favorite, I like getting lost and discovering rooms I’ve never seen before.

  The camera crew and tech support and Tony the Toad were clustered just outside the mansion’s main gates. Connor stowed the script away, slipped over to the side facing the cameras, and put on his game face.

  Showtime.

  EXT. GATES TO KALI’S ESTATE. DAY.

  ESTABLISHING SHOT: The pale stone wall extends in both directions, topped by black steel spikes. The only entry is a pair of tall metal gates embossed with the initials, KL. The gates are closed. Two UNIFORMED GUARDS stand by the pillars.

  The white Rolls-Royce bearing CONNOR LARKIN pulls up to the gates. Connor’s face is visible through the open rear window.

  CONNOR

  I’m here to see Kali. My name—

  GUARD ONE

  I know who you are.

  Guard One pulls a phone from his pocket. His eyes never leave Connor as he speed-dials a number and speaks softly.

  GUARD TWO

  Being that stupid is a crime, right?

  Guard One cuts the connection and uses a key to open the gates.

  GUARD ONE

  Some states it’s a felony.

  The Rolls pulls slowly through the gates.

  CLOSE-UP on Connor’s face. His expression says this is exactly the reception he deserves.

  INT. KALI LYNDON’S OFFICE. DAY.

  KALI LYNDON sits at her desk. She is dressed in pastel tights and a pale yellow off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. She looks beautiful, tragic, and utterly vulnerable. A tear rolls down one cheek.

  Kali is writing, or at least trying to write. Before her rises a vast pile of engraved wedding acceptances.

  CLOSE-UP handwritten on the card directly in front of Kali are the words GIFT: ANTIQUE SILVER SERVICE.

  Kali’s hand holds a silver pen. She has written a few words on a sheet of her personal stationery, but now she is halted by sorrow.

  KALI (VOICE-OVER)

  Dear Clarissa, Thank you so much for the lovely gift, which unfortunately I must return because

  Connor and I . . .

  The voice stops where her hand has frozen.

  CLOSE-UP as a tear falls onto the unfinished letter.

  INT. ENTRANCE TO KALI’S OFFICE. DAY.

  ERICA, Kali’s private secretary, knocks on the open door.

  ERICA

  He’s here.

  Connor’s arrival was tracked by a platoon led by Tony the Toad. The cinematographer was on point, aiming his Steadicam at Connor’s face. The second cameraman was hidden behind the left-hand column, tracking the Rolls and showing what Connor saw, the house and the grounds and all the wealth he was walking away from.

  Outside the camera’s view, everything was in frantic motion. Working on so-called reality television meant learning how to ignore the sound boom hovering overhead and tracking his every motion, the constantly shifting lights, the assistants handling the cables and running interference on Tony the Toad, who was busy hissing into his radio and waving his hands at everybody, especially Connor.

  The Rolls pulled around the circular drive and halted by the bottom step. On cue, Kali’s latest assistant opened the massive front door and stepped onto the veranda. As Connor rose from the limo, the Steadicam operator shifted position so as to show . . .

  A catering truck was parked between the main house and the garages built to look like French stables. Beyond them, a work crew was busy dismantling the wedding tent. At a hysterical cue from Tony, the entire catering staff froze in the process of loading bottles and glasses and silverware back into the truck. They all turned and glared at Connor.

  From her position on the top step, Erica greeted Connor with a volcanic scowl. When he reached the top step, she wheeled about and led him through the manor’s open door.

  The third camera guy and the assistant sound guy and their assistants were all on position just inside the portal. Connor stopped midway across the inlaid granite and marble floor, when his foot hit the piece of tape with his name on it. He gave Kali’s palace and the life he was throwing away a long, slow look. This allowed the two outside cameras and their teams to rush around the side of the house, fly through the kitchen door, and tiptoe into positions. At another bat-wing motion from Tony, Connor turned to the sweeping staircase and Erica’s burning gaze.

  Erica’s smoldering walk along the upstairs hall was tracked by camera two. Connor followed at a slower pace, holding to the beat structure laid out in the script. His every step was duplicated by a change of camera angle. One step, a survey of the idyllic life he was tossing aside. Another step, back to the camera focused on his face, close-up on the expression of a man wracked by doubt and regret. Connor had no trouble showing those emotions. They were exactly what he was feeling—only not for the reasons the audience expected.

  A final close-up on his face, building on the tension and the guilt and
the uncertainty, and then Connor stepped past the assistant’s blistering glare and stepped through Kali’s office doorway.

  The Steadicam operator nudged Connor’s ankle, and he shifted slightly to the left, allowing the guy to get a full-on shot of Kali almost falling apart. She made a huge effort, maintained a shred of control, and uttered her first line:

  “Why, darling? Why?”

  CHAPTER 25

  The three mics taped to the ceiling of Kali’s office looked to Connor like giant black caterpillars. Metal light-stands stood in both corners behind Connor, bathing Kali in perfect illumination. One cameraman crouched by the window. Another stood on a mini-ladder and shot over Connor’s shoulder. Cables snaked all over the floor. Tony the Toad raced back and forth between watching the shoot through the open office doorway and studying the monitors stationed in the guest room next door.

  Connor knew his shoddy, sleepless state heightened Kali’s polished beauty. It suggested that he and Kali had already broken apart, and really they’d had no business being together in the first place. This was the structure of good drama, where the setting amplified the action and the dialogue.

  Connor’s lines confirmed what his presence already revealed. He was not good enough for Kali. He could never live up to her expectations. He wished her happiness. He hoped she found the man she deserved....

  Despite the crowd and the lights and the hollowness of breaking up for the cameras, Connor thought the drama carried a solid punch.

  Like most experienced television actors, Connor had developed a mental clock with a precise second-by-second counter. He could also see when Kali forgot the last bit of dialogue she was supposed to deliver before they left the office. As a result, he completed his line by inserting the first word of her own. In response, she flashed him a tiny hint of the mischievous Kali, the lady who in private moments had referred to the reality charade as a playtime for adults. He had always been genuinely fond of her spirit, and seeing it now added an extra spice to their final exchange. As they left the office hand in hand, and walked the hall and down the stairs and across the palatial foyer, Connor sensed that the entire team was delighted.

  They arrived outside the front door within five or six seconds of perfect. Connor had hoped they might have a private moment, but it was not to be. The second and third camera crews had slipped out the side entry and were now ready to track his departure.

  The Rolls was gone. His satchel sat forlornly in the middle of the drive.

  This was definitely not scripted.

  That could only mean they had intended to catch his surprise on live camera. The significance was clear enough. Connor had arrived care of Kali’s money. He left on his own steam.

  Tony the Toad at work.

  Connor gave them five seconds to register his shock for the audience, then turned and looked up to where Kali stood on the top step. He gave his final lines, “Good-bye, Kali. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. More than you will ever know.”

  The script had him descending the stairs and walking to the car, where he was to pause for a final, sorrowful glance at the woman and the wealth and the life. Then the camera was to track the car to the gates, pausing there for the guards to offer a caustic farewell. Connor figured it would work just as well if he hoofed it.

  Kali, though, interrupted the beat structure by going totally off grid. “Connor, wait.”

  The sound technician had already started descending the stairs with Connor, and he swung the boom back fast enough to have taken off somebody’s head. With a rare flash of genuine emotion, Kali said, “Tell me why!”

  Connor was enough of a pro to give the Steadicam operator time to get them both back in frame. He replied, “This is me, Kali.”

  “I know that.”

  “No. You know the me I was for you. But this is me. And the truth is, I don’t belong in your scene.”

  “You said you loved it!”

  “I did, for a night. Or a weekend. But all of this, the house, the PR machine, the parties, the people—I just don’t fit.”

  “I could change!”

  He had to smile. “I believe you would.”

  “Really, I mean it.”

  “For a night, sure. Or a weekend. But for good? Kali, I want the life your dad loved.”

  That stopped her cold.

  “The small town. The real people. The simple life.”

  “You’ll stop acting?”

  “Not unless I have to. Your dad stayed a businessman. I hope I can do this, too. Hold on to some kind of balance.”

  Kali struggled with that. “Why are you only telling me now?”

  “I just figured it out. That’s what came from running away.” He climbed back up the steps and kissed her cheek. He tasted salt, and realized these latest tears were real. “Good-bye, Kali. Be happy.”

  Tony the Toad said, “And we are off air.”

  CHAPTER 26

  As they approached the Saturday afternoon opening time, Sylvie became filled with the sense of a storm building beyond the horizon. She knew from her GP that some patients with migraines had attacks whenever there was a big low coming. Apparently, the most sensitive patients were so impacted by changes in atmospheric pressure they could not get on a plane. Thankfully, this had never been an issue for her. Imagine predicting bad weather with a headache. Even so, Sylvie repeatedly checked the horizon as she prepared for work. But the sky remained blue, the wind mild and off the sea.

  It was only when she arrived downstairs that she realized how right she had been about an approaching tempest.

  Two of them.

  Porter was seated at the otherwise empty bar, cradling a kitchen mug with his two scarred hands. Rick and Marcela stood together on the bar’s other side, as though they needed one another’s company. They all three shared the expression of funeral directors waiting to greet the recently bereaved.

  Sandy came bustling in from the kitchen, bearing a plate of fresh pastries. “They’re called petticoat tails. Don’t ask me why. My mother swore by them. Said there wasn’t a thing that couldn’t be put straight by a few of these and a proper cuppa.”

  “Nix on the tea,” Rick said. He reached under the bar and brought out what Sylvie referred to as her hidden stash, a bottle of sixty-year-old Bas-Armagnac she’d found during the renovations. He set a snifter on the bar and poured a liberal splash. “Sylvie, come sit. Now drink.”

  “That’s meant for celebration,” she replied.

  “The lad’s right,” Sandy said, pushing the plate toward her, “and have a few of these to mop up the alcohol.”

  “I’m not the least bit hungry.”

  Marcela said, “Eat.”

  Sylvie knew she had no choice, not really. They carried bad news, something so terrible she needed to be dosed. One look at their collective expression convinced her that resistance was futile.

  She tossed back the Armagnac and ate two of the tails, or whatever they were. The brandy drew a line of liquid fire down her throat. “All right. Tell me.”

  Porter waited until Rick refilled her snifter. Then he said, “The prosecutor is bringing formal charges against you. I convinced them to let me bring you in for the arrest and arraignment on Monday, rather than create a scene here. Possession with intent.”

  Sylvie was very glad for the stool’s support. “That’s insane.”

  “They’ve come up with nothing that will hold up in court,” Rick agreed. “Not a single definite lead. This is a face-saving measure. They have to know they can’t bring a verdict against you.”

  “But if I’m indicted I’ll be tried and convicted in the court of public opinion,” Sylvie protested.

  “If people around here didn’t care for you as much as they did, I might agree,” Porter said. “As it is, this town will definitely think otherwise.”

  “This is awful.”

  “It’s not good.” Rick unbuttoned his shirt pocket and drew out a sheet of paper. “Officially, Porter can’t re
commend a lawyer.”

  “Rick . . .”

  “Hear me out.” He unfolded the sheet and flattened it on the bar between them. “These three are the region’s best defense attorneys. I have it on best authority.”

  Sandy said, “A gutter brawler in your corner is just the ticket.”

  Rick went on. “I’ve had an unofficial word with all three. You need to contact them tomorrow. They’ll take your call, despite it being a Sunday. Make your choice and sign them on.”

  Sylvie asked weakly, “How much?”

  “All of them ask about the same,” Rick replied. “I know because I checked. They’ll want a retainer of twenty thousand and another fifty if you go to trial. Which, in my opinion, you won’t. Not if you come into the initial arraignment with your guns blazing.”

  Sylvie pressed both hands to her middle. There were only two places where she could get that kind of cash. Neither was the least bit appealing.

  She had falsely assumed such bad times were relegated to her past. Things were different now. She was a citizen of the town she loved. She cared for the town and the people. Somehow that should have been enough to protect her from this sort of calamity. Because that was what it was, really. Everything she made went to paying off the loans she had taken out to first buy and then renovate this beautiful place, her restaurant.

  Now she just might lose it.

  She realized with a start that they were all silent. Waiting. Sylvie took her time, inspecting each face in turn. It turned out to have been the exact right thing to do at that moment. There in their expressions was the confirmation of all the rightness this place held for her: the caring concern, the friendship, the offering of strength when she was at her weakest.