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Now she was the one to make the huffing sound. “That’s a kind way to put it.”
Dishes and silverware clinked and clattered behind them in the kitchen, the sounds underlaid by faint notes of a saxophone, but the two of them were quiet.
She used to be good at making conversation, at finding questions to ask to learn about people, but that too had vanished. Instead, she tried to focus on the May breeze coming in through the screen, a mix of salty sea air and cigarette smoke from the drivers. The scent of mint and leather, though, that wasn’t coming from outside.
She closed her eyes and inhaled again. No, definitely not from outside.
His voice broke their silence. “When I said I was sorry . . . I meant not only about Leigh’s overenthusiasm; I meant all of it. What happened. I am, truly, sorry.”
She nodded. “I know. Me, too.”
“If Leigh heard me say this to you, she would tell me I was being rude, but . . . All those things people say? They’re bullshit. It didn’t happen for a reason. It wasn’t his time. And no matter how hard anyone tries, not a single one of us here tonight knows what you’re going through. People don’t know what to do with someone else’s grief. It’s such a personal, private thing.”
He didn’t so much as glance toward her while he spoke, respecting her isolation. And although not the most profound, his words were the most understanding ones anyone had spoken to her since that day.
The muscles around her jaw loosened, and the tension that had compressed her body from all directions relaxed the tiniest bit.
The surprising sense of ease muted the thank you she had been about to say. Instead, she turned toward him, looked up at his face, and followed his gaze. It led her beyond the driveway, past the dune grass, toward the swath of dark ocean. Like his kind eyes, the sea glittered in the distance, reflecting the nearly full moon.
They stood still, continuing to look out toward the beach, the water. The fresh air, the sea, the earthy-leathery mint—the scents mingled and soothed, and she inhaled deeply.
Soon, low voices coming from the driveway broke their quiet. Car doors closed in succession. An engine revved to life. Thank goodness; guests were leaving. “I should probably go say goodbye,” she told him.
As she turned to leave, her shoulder brushed his upper arm. Warmth radiated through the fabric of his blue button-down shirt. She hadn’t realized they were standing this close.
She paused for the briefest moment, startled by the contact and even more surprised by the unexpected and overpowering craving for more.
* * *
He watchedher turn and walk through the enormous kitchen, past the busy catering staff. Some of the men glanced up from the leftovers they were wrapping to look at her. He had seen similar reactions when they were on set. Then, like now, she seemed oblivious to it.
Maybe that was one of the reasons it was so hard not to look at her. Loose waves of dark brown hair that, in the California sunlight, had taken on sheens of burgundy. Chocolate-brown eyes alive with interest and curiosity.
He hoped what he said just now wasn’t out of bounds. They really didn’t know each other well—they had spent a few long, chaotic days working together with the director and actors, and he had liked her at once.
Not liked-her, liked-her—at the time he was entangled in his own drama, and she was happily married to the judge.
Harris had flown to L.A. and come to the set, on a brief break from a big case but said he just needed to see her. It was a surprise; he arrived with a bouquet of flowers, and she broke into a smile Jonathan would never forget.
She ran to Harris and held the back of his neck when they kissed. Everyone made silly cooing sounds and, the next morning, teased her about why the two of them had not emerged from her hotel room for dinner.
Still, you couldn’t ignore her poise and contentment, how easily she laughed. She was so different from some of the arrogant personalities Jonathan knew, without a whiff of conceit or self-absorption. Even when the director would challenge everyone’s patience at the end of a fourteen-hour day, the volume and tone of her voice stayed even, calm.
Jonathan had read all of her books long before Leigh had asked him to consult—he knew she was creative and smart. When she shared her ideas, you gave her your full attention.
But now . . . now she looked like a ghost, a shell, so different from that vivacious woman. Leigh shocked him when she called a year or so ago to tell him what happened.
He wouldn’t wish a tragedy like that on his worst enemy.
He leaned back against the windowsill and took a swig of beer from the bottle he’d been nursing all evening. The smell of cigarette smoke from outside drifted into his nostrils and set him jonesing. He quit years ago at Delphine’s request, but with no wife around to stop him now, he would bum one from Gil when he got to the car.
One by one, the catering staff filed out and in, still bringing plates and glasses and chafing dishes in from the living room, the party—or whatever it was—now winding down.
He wondered how Leigh had convinced Quinn to go for this. She had tried to escape more than once tonight; she could not have been comfortable with it. He thought back. The invitation had come from Leigh, a voice mail. Small dinner; nothing fancy; it will be good for Quinn.
And that was why he had come, to help in some way, however small. She was a good person and he didn’t know what else he could possibly do.
He said goodnight to the kitchen crew as he went into the living room. The crowd had thinned. The guests who remained were air-kissing and making plans they probably wouldn’t keep. He walked among the disbanding groups looking for her to say goodbye, but it was like she had disappeared again.
