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“Listen up, everybody.” He raised his arm.
Georgie felt dizzy, but she somehow managed to curl her mouth in a Scooter-grin. And then she stopped. No more pretense. She was angry, agitated, and sick to her stomach, and she didn’t care who knew it. She let everything she felt show on her face.
A crowd blocked the sidewalk. As shutters click
ed and video cameras recorded the scene, Bram spoke above the noise. “You all know that Georgie and I got married in Las Vegas three months ago. What you don’t know…”
She had no idea how he’d spin this, and she didn’t care. Whatever lies he told were his own to deal with.
“…is that we were the victims of a couple of drug-spiked cocktails, and we basically hated each other’s guts. We’ve been faking this marriage ever since.”
Her head shot up. For a moment she thought she’d misheard. Bram was willing to stand on the front steps of The Ivy and expose it all?
As it turned out, he was. He told everything—a condensed version, but the facts were there, right through the ugly scene on the beach. She studied the determined set of his jaw and found herself thinking of the formidable movie heroes hanging on his office wall.
The paps had more experience with deception than truth, and they weren’t buying a word of it. “You’re punkin’ us, right?”
“No punking,” Bram said. “Georgie’s got this new thing about living an honest life. Too much Oprah.”
“Georgie, are you making Bram do this?”
“Have you two split?”
They attacked like the jackals they were, and Bram shouted them all down. “From now on, whatever we tell you is the truth, but don’t count on us telling you anything we don’t want to, even if we have a movie to promote and need the publicity. As for the future of this marriage…Georgie’s ready to bail on me, but I love my wife, and I’m trying my damnedest to change her mind. That’s all you’re going to hear from either one of us right now. Got it?”
The paps turned rabid, pushing and shoving. Somehow Bram strong-armed the two of them back through the crowd, holding her so tightly that her feet left the ground and she lost a sneaker. The valets managed to wedge the car door open, and she got inside.
As Bram pulled away, he nearly took out the two photographers who’d draped themselves over the hood. “I don’t want to hear another word about ulterior motives.” His dark scowl and unsteady voice left no room for argument. “As a matter of fact, I don’t want to talk at all right now.”
That was fine with her because she couldn’t think of one thing to say.
A circus train of SUVs followed them back to the house. Bram zoomed through the gates, pulled up to the front, and braked to a sudden stop before he turned off the ignition.
His labored breathing filled the suddenly quiet interior. He opened the console and took out a DVD. “This is why I couldn’t come see you earlier. It wasn’t done. I was planning to deliver it tonight.” He set the DVD in her lap. “Watch it before you make any more big decisions about our future.”
“I don’t understand. What is this?”
“I guess you could say it’s…my love letter to you.” He got out of the car.
“Love letter?” But he’d already disappeared around the side of the house.
She glanced down at the DVD and took in its hand-printed label.
SKIP AND SCOOTER
“Going Underground”
Skip and Scooter had ended after 108 episodes, but the label marked this as episode 109. Clutching the DVD to her chest, she kicked off her remaining sneaker and rushed barefoot into the house. She didn’t have the patience to fumble with the complicated equipment in the screening room, so she carried his cinematic love letter upstairs and slid it into the DVD player in his bedroom. She sat in the middle of the bed, wrapped an arm around her knees, and with pulse racing, hit the play button.
Fade in on two sets of small feet walking across an expanse of vivid green lawn. One set sported black patent leather Mary Janes with ruffled white socks. The other, shiny black boy’s oxfords that brushed the cuffs of black dress slacks. Both sets of feet stopped walking and turned toward someone behind them. The little girl whimpered, “Daddy?”
Georgie hugged herself.
The boy’s response was fierce. “You said you weren’t going to cry.”
Another whimper from the little girl. “I’m not crying. I want Daddy.”
A third set of shoes came into view. Black men’s wing tips. “I’m here, sweetheart. I had to help grand-mère.”
