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At the gym, Ash added weights on the bar for his last series of bench presses. After finishing with a primal grunt, he wiped sweat from his forehead and strode to the locker room. He stripped out of his nylon shorts and stepped to a mirror and flexed. He ambulated to the steam room in a scanty towel. An impromptu business discussion evolved as it always did in the bath.
He spoke first to a local official whose campaign he’d heavily invested in. “I want Ina Cummings off my golf course.”
“I’ll do what I can. But if you plan on putting up condos there, I can’t zone the property nonresidential.”
“I want her out.” Ash rubbed his chin. “The damned house is falling down around her ears. She can’t be safe living there.”
With shaking hands, the assemblyman dabbed at his brow and repeated, “I’ll do what I can, but she’s a stubborn old girl.”
Billowing blasts of steam flooded the space and when it cleared the veil of concern was gone from Ash’s face. “Stubborn is no longer my problem. I offered her a good price and pulled strings to get her bumped to the top of a senior housing list. I’m through negotiating with her. Get her out.”
The assemblyman took an arduous gulp of steam and again mopped his head with a towel. “I had a hell of a time getting rid of her borders. The town council members weren’t keen on making veterans homeless. They agreed to let them come back if she makes repairs. She’ll need a loan. You have enough clout with the bank to see that she doesn’t get one.”
“You can get a loan on the internet.” Ash’s matter-of-fact tone was worse than a threat. “Have a conversation with the building inspector. Remind him the lease is almost up on his wife’s little muffin shop. I’m sure he’ll find enough wrong with the Cummings’ house to have it condemned.”
****
The vanity in Bree’s ensuite bath was a grand length of white stained rosewood. Everything in the room, from the walk-in shower, Venetian tub, and hand-fired tiles was as high-end as anything found in a palace.
Peering into the mirror she studied her aesthetician’s handiwork. Her lips were augmented plump and lush, but the collagen injections for her laugh lines failed to mask the somber parentheses framing her mouth. Miserable was an inaccurate illustration. Bree was angry—chew glass-and-smile-as-it-sliced-her-tongue angry.
Damn her ungrateful husband. He should be off somewhere filming, reaping the rewards of the life she’d handed him; while she should be at the clinic in Switzerland, having the full treatment instead of a half-assed one at a day-spa on Wilshire.
Stepping into the bedroom, she rifled through her mail. Not so much as a single summer holiday invitation was in the mix. She damned Eric again. He was the star and would be getting the parties and the red-carpet events in the divorce. “Fuck him and his sad little broken heart,” she muttered as she wandered the room.
Her eyes coasted from one item of luxury to another, and another. The suite in the Pacific Palisades house was the most elegant of all the bedrooms in their various homes. It was a vision of pale-pink and cream colored damasks and brocades. Satin pillows with silky tassels rested on the chaise, and a carpet as dense as a lamb’s hide cushioned her feet.
Bree stepped close to the bed, a massive four-poster with inscribed columns that swirled toward the high ceiling and ended at an open canopy. Yards of gossamer silk wrapped around the frame and draped like a pour of shimmering water to the floor. The bed was designed for lovemaking—a sultry vessel where she had spent the most ardent moments of her adult life.
Bree brushed her fingers over the luxe fabric covering the bed while wistfully remembering nights shared with Eric. He had been an artful lover, far better than any she had taken to idle away the time while he’d been away on location. Her extramarital flings had been poor substitutes and a cliché testimony to the bored Hollywood wife—one on oneswith her tennis instructor, personal trainer, or whoever was young, attractive, and eager to please on any particular afternoon. None of her lovers came close though, not in looks nor prowess. Eric Laine was a virile lover whose performance was unrivaled.
Sitting on the bed, she gripped the heavy duchess satin in her fists.Performance.Bree should have appreciated the irony. The talent that afforded them the trappings of Hollywood entitlement didn’t live exclusively on reels of film. In bed, he had also performed. He had taken her, hot and desirous,performingas a dutiful husband. But he never spoke of love. His eyes never probed long and lingering, into hers. His breath was never the thready sigh of a man fallen lost in the depths of passion. He had carried the torch for another woman, a woman Bree grew to resent more and more as the years passed.
“Fuck him and his broken heart,” she repeated. “Fuck the both of you.” Bree was either going to get Eric Laine back, or she was going to get even.
Chapter Ten
Ina Cummings scraped another helping of fricassee from the pan. “Here, have another piece of chicken.”
Eric gladly obliged. He couldn’t remember ever having a meal this good. During the years of his childhood, sustenance was whatever slogged from a can, andNouvellecuisine, what he generally ate now, an over flavored burden on his tongue. He did as his landlady ordered and cleaned his plate. There was nothing better than an old fashioned, home cooked dinner.
As he swiped the last bit of gravy with a biscuit, Ina smiled. “As much as I’ve enjoyed feeding the gentlemen who’ve lived here, it’s a lot easier making meals for someone who doesn’t have ulcers or high blood pressure.” She leaned across the table and whispered. “You don’t have a spastic colon, do you?”
Eric shuddered at the suggestion and then laughed. His new landlady was on the quirky side, but he got a real kick out of her.
“Well, I’m off to bingo. There’s pie in the fridge. Just help yourself.”
From her window, Eric watched her old pickup sputter down the dusty drive. He stepped outside and eased comfortably low in an Adirondack chair. The night was clear and stars were quickly gathering in the evening sky like old friends. The lingering warmth of daytime air crept low, but night’s chill was pressing at the edges. He rolled the cuffs of his flannel shirt down to cover his wrists. A howl of something, baby fox or nocturnal bird, jarred him from drifting into sleep. A glance at his watch told him it was only 7:30.
What the hell.Why not.He rose from the chair and headed to his car.
****
Jenna heard a light tap at her door. Before opening it, she took a breath and drew her lips into the smile she’d at one time reserved for interviews—a wide faux gleam that showed no gums. She’d agreed to another date with Ash and hoped the night ahead would spark some deeper interest in their friendship. She pulled the door open, prepared to greet him, but her smile departed as Eric stepped inside. “What areyoudoing here?” She gave an anxious glance toward the stairs praying her daughter, her eyes a wide and unmistakable azure glow, wouldn’t come running down.
“I…we…we still need to talk.”
She brushed at the redcrepe de chinefabric of her dress with her fingertips. His stare was unnerving…intimate.
