My Soul to Keep Read online

  By the time the pre-shows ended and the commentators worked the red-carpet crowd, Liz’s Oscar party was in full Texas swing. Caterers flitted about as though on Rollerblades. People with heaping plates clustered around the screen on the patio and another in the oversized den. The largest crowd occupied the living room, which had been transformed into a theater with room to sit or sprawl before a wall-size screen. The crowd hooted as the lights dimmed. Stanley and the two men he’d brought remained in the back corner. They neither approached nor spoke. But they also did not let Brent out of their sight.

  He drank his share of ginger ale and laughed at the banter. When friends asked him about the ceremonies and the parties, he did his best to respond. But his fears would not let him alone. There might come a time when he could be easy around cops, when he did not constantly fear the wrong step that might land him back inside. But he wasn’t there yet.

  After a half-dozen awards, Brent finally gave up and left by the side door. The crowd’s noise followed him as he crunched down the drive to where he’d left his truck. His isolation bit hard. He knew twelve of those up for the top slots, had acted with two of the leading ladies, and had performed under three of the directors. There was an exquisite agony to seeing their faces painted and smiling on a night he yearned for and knew would never be his again.

  But something even stronger than memories drove him away from the house, stronger even than his fear. He had been acting back there. Playing the role for the two sets of eyes at the back of the room. Honesty was one of those vital components of his new life. If he couldn’t be honest, he had to leave. There was no going back on certain promises.

  A lingering image chased him down the drive, of a woman with white blond hair, gemlike gaze, and the finest smile Brent had ever known. As he drove into the night, Brent could not say which was worse—not seeing Celia Breach among the glittering Oscar crowd or knowing she was absent because of him.

  Celia Breach sat in the dark house and winced at the television’s flickering images. Aiming her remote at the screen, she pushed the channel button as though shooting a fatal bullet. The awards show vanished, only to be replaced by the image of her own face, a closeup in a cable rebroadcast of one of her films. The image filled the screen with painful perfection. She snapped off the TV altogether.

  Setting her wine glass on the coffee table, she rose and crossed the room on shaky legs. She halted before the gilded hall mirror. She should have asked Manuela to take this thing down long ago. A crack snaked down one corner, a souvenir of her rage after his last visit. She traced a finger along the scar that snaked down from her hairline, its pattern eerily similar to the crack in the mirror.

  When she saw the tear reflected in the glass, she angrily swiped it away. “No.” She spoke aloud, the single word echoing in the empty house. I will not let you do this to me. Never again… .

  2

  Brent’s AA meetings were held at dawn and dusk at Sacred Heart Methodist Church of Austin. Brent came mostly to the early session, since the theater claimed a lot of his evenings. The morning AA meeting was a protected sort of place.

  Being protected did not mean being isolated. Quite the opposite. Isolated AA meetings tended to bring in the sort of people who had hit rock bottom and started to dig. Such people knew their only alternative to sobriety was a one-way ticket to the meat lockers downtown. Such AA meetings held a desperate edge. Delirium tremors and heated exchanges were as much a part of those places as doughnuts. Being protected meant a person could attend this AA meeting, feel safe, and not be found out. It was a haven for the businessman who woke up to discover his wife and children had been forced out by his affair with scotch and cocaine. Beside the businessman might sit a lonely housewife who had taken revenge on her husband’s infidelity by diving into a martini glass the size of her swimming pool. Next to her could sit a former movie star, the genuine deal, who had ridden the high life all the way to the federal pen.

  But in the hallway outside this meeting, the sign by the door was just another Magic-Marker placard reading Morning Meeting 101. Two doors down was the young mothers’ Bible class, and across the hall was the nursery. The men’s breakfast group met in the cafeteria one floor up. New AA attendees could pretend they were just another church member with normal daily problems, the kind that they didn’t need to hide beneath blankets of shame, the kind that weren’t whispered about whenever they left a room.

  Protected.

  Before his very public downfall, Stanley Allcott had led one of Austin’s largest churches. Currently he shared an office with three other junior pastors. His salary paid for a studio apartment in a section of town where English was a visitor. If he minded the decline in status and pay, Stanley gave no sign. If someone asked, Stanley talked about the servant’s role. To Brent’s mind, Stanley knew more about service than just about anyone alive.

  After the morning meeting, Stanley led Brent into his office and pointed him to the chair opposite his own. “I got a call from Kevin Phelps, director of Prison Fellowship for the southeast. We’ve been friends a long time. Kevin asked a personal favor. Wanted me to host a couple of men visiting Austin.”

  Brent said, “We’re talking about the two guys you brought to the party last night.”

  “That’s right.” Stanley spoke with an ex-con’s brutal frankness. Such direct words coming from a man the size of a Texas longhorn meant Stanley could talk very softly and be certain most listeners would hang on every word. “I asked who they were. In reply, Kevin asked if I trusted him.”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “The kind I don’t need to answer. Which is exactly what I told Kevin. Kevin’s response was if I trusted him, I needed to help these two guys out and not ask why.”

  Brent felt the creepy-crawlies emerge from his gut. “What did they want?”

  “Access.”

  “To me?”

  His nod was almost lost to his mug. “They asked about your time in prison and your life now. I had the impression they already knew a lot of the answers before they asked the questions.”

  “Feds?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who else would do deep background on an ex-con who once had a shot at success?”

  “Hey.” Stanley set down his mug with enough emphasis to spatter the desktop. “Regret is just a sneaky road to ruin. The words on my wall are the real deal.”

  Brent did not need to read the plaque. One day at a time.

  “You got to remember something important here. Kevin Phelps is our kind of man. He wouldn’t send these guys out here unless he was certain they were on the up and up.”

  Brent rose, forcing his watery legs to function. “I better go start my day.”

  “You’re not alone in this, brother. They want you, they’re gonna have to crawl over my sorry carcass first.”

  That night was the last performance of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe . Brent played Ed Couch, the lead character’s hapless husband. It was the sort of role he would have shunned back in his heyday. Brent’s role was to be a foil for the star’s lighter moments. He bumbled about, blind in a distinctly macho way to her feminine needs. He had to play himself down, make himself unattractive, form a human backdrop against which she could shine.

  The deeply ingrained lessons in humility served him well.

  His character was on stage for only twenty-two minutes, but these appearances were spread through both acts. In between, he normally retreated into a corner and read. But tonight the backstage area was a rustling happy scene, full of barely suppressed whispers and the electric jitters following a successful run. They had played to full houses for two weeks, including four matinees—a rare success for regional theater. Actors, stagehands, set designers, and hangers-on watched from the wings, barely suppressing whispers and laughter as the actors ran through the final scenes.

  Only Brent did not share in the gaiety.

  Liz Courtney, his host from the prev
ious evening, sidled over. “You all right?”

  “Why, did I miss a line?”

  “Of course not.” She lowered her voice. “What happened to you last night?”

  “I went home.”

  “I know that, silly. Was it something I said?”

  Brent turned from his inspection of the audience. “Not at all. I just wasn’t feeling a hundred percent.”

  Liz was both strong and caring, a singularly Texas kind of woman. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Third row, seats on the left-hand aisle. Two men in jackets and ties—Stanley’s pair. I think they’re from Washington.”

  “They came by the bank this afternoon. They wanted to know what I thought about you.” Liz directed her words at the pair out in the audience. “I answered them because Stanley asked me to. I told them you take the people around you to a higher level by the way you handle yourself on and off the stage. You carry a genuineness with you everywhere that keeps the less talented among us from feeling overwhelmed.”

  Brent no longer watched the world beyond the curtains. “That’s maybe the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

  Twelve minutes and two scenes later, it was over. The actors gathered in the wings for a parry of quick hugs and handshakes, then trooped on stage for the final bows. When it was his turn to step forward, Brent felt the applause wash over him. That was the singular thrill of live stage, the one boost that could never be gained from film. It was the cleanest high he had ever known. Brent smiled and reached out as to embrace them back, basking in the only job he had ever loved.

  The glow disappeared far too soon.

  Hugs and farewells were passed among the troupe along with directions to the closing-night party. As the merry clamor faded, Stanley came up the side stairs with his two strangers in tow. The pair wore Mutt and Jeff expressions, frowning in unison at the sight of Liz Courtney standing alongside Brent.

  The taller of the pair bore a pigskin briefcase and said, “We wish to speak with Mr. Stark alone.”

  “If wishes were fishes we’d move to Bimini,” Liz replied. “You’ve gotten this far because an ally of Stanley’s vouched for you. But this is Texas, and Brent’s a friend, and you’re not.”

  Stanley said, “Maybe we should invite them to have a seat.”

  “If they don’t come straight with who they are, all they’ll get is the legal version of a boot out the door.” She held out her hand. “Show us your badges.”

  The shorter man said, “You think we’re cops?”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” The taller man handed Liz a card. “I run the Nashville office of Woodman and Weld.”

  “Is that a fact.” Liz said to Brent, “Woodman and Weld are a leading east coast law firm. They handle some of the nation’s biggest companies.”

  Stanley waved them to folding chairs stacked by the curtain ropes. “Why don’t we all grab a chair and you can tell us what’s going on here.”

  When they were all seated, the taller man said, “My associate here is Jerry Orbain. We represent a group that is in the process of putting together a major new venture. And that is all I’m permitted to say.”

  Liz declared, “If Woodman and Weld says it’s valid, you can stick it in your wallet.”

  “Orbain,” Brent said. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Jerry Orbain was a smallboned man in his mid to late thirties. His face held the sullen tension of a man who wished to be elsewhere. “I directed a series for Hope-TV.”

  “Hope is a defunct Christian network,” Brent explained to Liz and Stanley.

  “Not defunct,” the director corrected. “Absorbed. They’ve been bought out.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “You weren’t supposed to.”

  Liz said, “Let’s circle back to earth here and explain what brings you to Austin.”

  Orbain said, “We were sent here to gather information on Mr. Stark.”

  “We already knew that. Who sent you?”

  The lawyer responded, “The people I represent.”

  “Who you don’t plan on naming.”

  “I’m specifically instructed to keep their names out of this for now.”

  Liz looked from one to the other. “I gotta tell you, I feel like an armadillo chasing her tail through high grass. Lost, confused, and growing hot under my shell.”

  The Nashville attorney said, “We came up here tonight to ask Mr. Stark if he’d travel to Nashville tomorrow.”

  “For what purpose?” Liz demanded.

  The attorney shook his head. “My client wishes to have a look for himself before revealing what he has in mind.”

  3

  From the moment Jerry Orbain seated himself on the Nashville-bound plane to when the taxi deposited them at the downtown office building, the diminutive man did not utter a word. Brent assumed the man disliked playing step-and-fetch-it for a drunk, a felon, and a has-been.

  Nashville in late February defined weather-bound misery. Sullen clouds slumped upon the hills and tallest buildings. The air stank of diesel and coming snow. A mist thick enough to choke off breath clung to every surface. The taxi took them to a building Brent scarcely saw. Inside, however, everything changed.

  The building’s lobby was adorned with framed gold and platinum albums and autographed concert posters. Flatscreens imbedded high in marble walls played a collage of music videos. The atmosphere held the electric quality of entertainment in the making. The people were young, extremely attractive, and used their conversations to claim center stage. Even so, every eye turned and watched them pass. Brent had been around the Hollywood scene long enough to know they were watching Jerry and wondering who Brent was to be with him.

  Jerry led Brent to the last in the bank of elevators, the one that only opened when he fed a plastic card into the slot. Inside, he did the same thing. The elevator held no buttons. But from the way Brent’s ears popped, he knew they were climbing quite a ways.

  “Will this take us above the clouds?”

  “Not in February. Come back next month, you won’t recognize the place.” Jerry tapped his fingers nervously on the brass railing. “A word to the wise. These people might look friendly and talk nice. But they are the real deal. If they say no, you can waltz back to Austin and spend the rest of your days on the dinner theater circuit. Far as they’re concerned, you’re just another road they didn’t take.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Brent said. “I was really worried before you told me that. Now I’m doing just great.”

  The executive suite’s lobby was adorned with interiordecorator art and a sterling silver centerpiece. The colors were muted and sterile. The secretary wore a designer-name suit and a million-dollar smile. “If you and your guest would please wait in the boardroom, Mr. Orbain, the others will be with you shortly.”

  “No problem.”

  “There are soft drinks and coffee on the side table. Shall I come serve?”

  “We’re good, thanks.”

  The room was severely ornate and the two oils on the wall behind Brent’s chair were both original Chagalls. Across from him, the wall of glass showed a dismal gray afternoon. Brent had scarcely settled into his chair when the boardroom door opened and a man bounded in.

  “Jerry, my man. Good trip?”

  “I’ll let you decide.” He waved at Brent. “Brent Stark, Bobby Dupree.”

  He had all the energy of a Hollywood agent and none of the edge. He was almost as tall as Brent, and Brent’s height had often been a problem in a world where most leading men were, to put it mildly, tall only in the ego department.

  “I’d like to pretend I’m not spooked, meeting a hero of the silver screen.” Bobby’s grip was solid. “But I don’t want to start this meeting off with anything but the truth.”

  As far as Brent could tell, the guy was a hundred percent genuine. “If you’re looking for a hero, Mr. Dupree, you got the wrong guy.”

  “Call me Bobby.”
>
  “I’m just a fellow trying to make it through the hours God gives me.”

  “You know what? I like that a lot.”

  “Can I get you a coffee?” Jerry asked.

  “Nah. My wife has me on a strict diet. I get one cup to start my engine and then I’m cut off. She says if I have any more I’m harder to handle than our thirteen-year-old. I’d like to think she’s exaggerating, since having a teenager in the house is just one long session of crisis control.” He slid into the seat next to Brent’s. “Did Jerry fill you in on why you’re here?”

  “I didn’t tell him a thing,” Jerry told him, “just like we agreed.”

  “That was the lawyers talking, not me.” Bobby Dupree glanced at his watch, then started swiveling his chair back and forth, a kid in a suit. “I guess we better wait for the others. Tell me something about yourself, Brent. You mind if I call you that?”

  “It’s my name. What do you want to know?”

  “What are you doing these days?”

  “Running a lawn care company. Staying sober. Taking whatever roles the local theaters will give me.”

  “You don’t like the idea of acting in front of a camera anymore?”

  Brent took a breath. Bobby Dupree’s question was casual enough. But Brent had no doubt about the truth behind Jerry’s warning. The easy attitude masked a get-it-done guy. “I’d like nothing more. But these days, all drama is sourced through one system. And Hollywood has shut me out.”

  Bobby liked that answer as well. The guy had a gaze that reminded Brent of a clear-running stream, so guileless the color was unimportant. Bobby was starting to say something when the door opened and four others walked in. Two men, two women. One man and a woman were African American. Brent thought he recognized the woman from an album cover, but he couldn’t be sure. They were followed by the Washington lawyer and Bobby’s secretary. Bobby saluted them and joked with them and introduced them to Brent. The names came in a rush. Brent knew he wouldn’t remember them and didn’t try. If it proved important, he would have another chance. Right then he was too busy reading the room.