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I’ve thought about what I’ll say to Jessie nonstop and nothing feels adequate. She’ll slam the door on me and I’ll deserve it. It’s the right decision though. I’m done hiding from my feelings.
The smack of a spatula on skin breaks me out of my thoughts.
“Ow! Calm down, woman, I’m after some orange juice.” Timothy protests, hands in the air as Celia holds him at a distance with her spatula.
“Like hell you are,” she says, jabbing it at him. “If you so much as touch this bacon—and don’t call your mother ‘woman’!”
Slowly he steps closer, reaching for the cupboard where the glasses are. Of course, he’s after the bacon. The moment Celia turns her attention away from him, he snags a piece off the plate and hustles to the fridge before she can whack him.
Celia flips a pancake onto a plate, cursing him under her breath while he pulls the orange juice out of the fridge and eats his bacon with a grin.
I shake my head, but I’ve missed this. I’m glad I haven’t lost them. I can only hope I haven’t lost Jessie too.
Chapter thirty-five
Jessie
January Seventh
I’manervouswreckon my flight. I’m shaking when my rideshare stops in front of Nic’s gate in the hills and by the time she drives off, I’m nearly crying. Clutching my watercolor notebook for dear life, I take a deep breath. The late evening air is thick with the scent of unfamiliar flowers and trees and it’s a hell of a lot warmer than New York. I tug at the collar of my sweater and press the button.
Nothing happens.
Either Nic isn’t home, or he sees me through the security camera and doesn’t want to talk to me.
“Shit,” I murmur, pulling my phone out of my bag and calling Timothy.
Maybe I’m too late. It was a bad idea to wait so long just so I could paint through my feelings. I left three paintings for Gretchen with my boss, inspiration pulled from some of my sketches of Nic from the attic, from the scenes I painted of our lives. The figures on the canvases aren’t recognizably us. They’re not simply ‘pieces of eroticism’ either. There’s something warm and glowing, tender and loving, in them. She might hate my paintings, but I’m putting myself out there again.
I painted a fourth, for Nic. It’s in my suitcase.
My brother answers on the third ring.
“Nic’s not home,” I tell him, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
There’s a long pause. “Are you…in LA?”
“Yes, I’m in LA, outside his house, and he’s not answering. I came out here to talk to him—what do I do?” It’s Friday, a bit early, but maybe Nic has gone out. I’ve been watching the tabloids, and he hasn’t been in them, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t moved on. My stomach lurches at the thought. “Do you think he’s—?”
Timothy laughs. “No. Stay there, give me a couple of minutes.”
He ends the call and I have nothing to do but stand outside a celebrity’s house looking every bit like a stalker.
This is not off to a good start.
Timothy calls back a minute later. “He has a meeting with his agent, then he’s going straight to this charity auction. For now, I need you to go inside.” Timothy gives me the code to the gate and I punch it in. Next, he gives me the code to the house. “Good luck making yourself at home,” he says, and I can see why.
The foyer is cold, containing only gleaming white marble and a hideous chandelier.
“On second thought,” Timothy says, “It’s cruel to make you wait in that house. I’m sending someone over. Follow the instructions of every person who comes to Nic’s house, unless you’re unlucky enough to come face to face with a crazed fan, in which case, turn on the lights and every shiny surface in that ugly house will daze them enough for you to escape.”
“Maybe I should wait—”
Timothy hangs up on me.
I spend a few minutes looking around the place. It’s big and expensive, but everything about it is cold and imposing. One of those tricks of the uber-rich to let you know how powerful they are. The effect is sad and uncomfortable.
I don’t peek into any bedrooms—if the door is shut, I assume whatever is behind it is private—and before long I end up in the kitchen. There’s a single photo on the fridge of Amanda, Hazel, and the kids in their Christmas T-rex costumes, along with at least one hundred magnets, all different. Most tacky.
