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  She rose, tipped her head right and left to loosen her neck. “Keep those tits high.”

  “They’re high.” Sliding out from the table, Cate gave hers a quick boost to prove it. “You’ve just got better ones than I do.”

  Lips pursed, Darlie looked down. “True. But you’ve got longer legs. Come on, girlfriend, let’s take my tits and your legs and go nail this scene.”

  The work helped. Having someone outside family, someone close to her own age to talk to helped. Her small, supporting role wrapped in a matter of weeks—and Darlie proved right—the bulk of the media attention faded off.

  With her father on location for at least a week, she waited until her grandfather had a day off the call list to corner him.

  She found him in his office with its view of a three-tiered fountain and wide green lawn.

  Piles of scripts and notes littered his desk where he sat in a pale blue polo shirt and khakis. He still sported Gramps’s grizzly beard.

  “Finally! Company to spare me from scripts that have me stupid enough to be seduced by a girl barely older than you for my money.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s before I end up strangling her.” He tossed the script down.

  “Maybe you’d read one that doesn’t have you stupid. Or have a part for you at all.”

  He eyed the one in her hand. “But one for you?”

  “I got three from my agent this week. But you probably know since he’s your agent, too.”

  “I heard a rumor.” Recognizing the question on her face, Hugh shook his head. “I didn’t ask Joel to send you anything, or pull any other strings. But he mentioned three came in he thought you should read—and two of them specifically asked him to send you.”

  “That’s what he said. This is one of the two. Can I leave it with you?”

  “Of course you can.”

  Something, Cate thought. Something in his voice. “Is something wrong?”

  “Why don’t you put that on my stack here, then take a walk with me? I could use the exercise, the air, the gardens.”

  “Something’s wrong.” But she put down the script. “Did I screw up something with Jute?”

  “You were perfect.” Rising, he came around the desk, put an arm around her as he walked her out of the office. “We should wrap next week. On time, on budget. Small miracles.”

  They walked out over tiled floors the color of honey, under ceilings that soared. The Grand Salon, they called it, to highlight the baby grand piano, the silk-covered sofas, the Georgian antique tables and cabinets.

  “I do have some news,” he said as he steered her toward the arching double doors. “It’s going to upset you.”

  “Is something wrong with G-Lil? With you?”

  “No.” He nudged her outside, across a patio to one of the garden paths. “We’re healthy as horses. I thought I’d wait until your dad was back and Lily was here, but I don’t want you to hear about it before they are.”

  “You’re scaring me. Just tell me.”

  “They granted Charlotte parole.”

  “She’s . . .” Everything in her went still for a moment. She saw a butterfly, so light, so free, flutter and flutter before it landed—yellow as butter—on a deep blue flower.

  “I don’t think she’ll come back here, Catey. She has to stay in the state, for now, but I don’t think she’d come back to L.A. There’s nothing for her here but derision and embarrassment.”

  “How do you know she’s getting out?”

  “Red Buckman keeps us informed. You remember Sheriff Buckman?”

  “Yes.” And there was a dragonfly, quick and iridescent, just a flash of color, then gone.

  “I remember. I write to him, and to Julia—to the family—at least once a year. Well, to Julia more than once a year.”

  “Do you?” He turned her to face him. “I didn’t know.”

  “I wanted them to know how I am. I wanted to know how they are. I never said goodbye before we left. I wanted to keep that connection, I guess. Um. Dillon’s in college. Red still surfs.”

  A bee, baby-fist fat, whizzed past a rosebush.

  So much life, all around, everywhere. Why did it feel like hers had stopped?

  She stumbled as the weight dropped on her, as her lungs shut down. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Yes, you can. Look at me, come on, Cate, right at me. In and out. Just slow breaths, in and out.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, firmly, kept his eyes on hers, continued to tell her to breathe.

  “Chest hurts.”

  “I know. In, nice and slow, out, nice and slow.”

  Years, he thought, at least three years since she’d had a full-scale panic attack. Goddamn Charlotte to hell.

  “Let’s go sit now. I’ll get you some water.”

  “I don’t want to see her.”

  “You don’t have to. She’ll never be welcome here, never come through those gates. Your father has full custody, remember?”

  Grieving for her, Hugh walked her back toward the house. “You’re nearly eighteen in any case. My baby girl’s nearly of age.”

  “Sparks and Denby.”

  “Years yet. Years. And no reason to ever come near you again. Here, sit. We’ll sit by the pool. Ah, Consuela.”

  She must have seen him supporting Cate as he would an accident victim, he realized, by the way she ran out of the house. “Would you bring us out some water?”

  As she dashed back in, he eased Cate into a chair under an umbrella. “We’re going to sit here in the shade, breathe some fresh air.”

  “I’m all right. I’m all right. I just . . . I convinced myself they’d make her stay in prison for the full ten years. It helped to believe that. But it doesn’t matter.”

  She swiped at the cold sweat on her face. “It’s not going to matter. Please, don’t tell Dad I panicked like that. He’ll worry for weeks, and I’m all right.”

  Crouched in front of her, Hugh rubbed her hands. “I won’t say anything. Listen to me now, Caitlyn. She can’t hurt you anymore. There’s nothing for her in this town. She was a low-rent actress before she went to prison.”

  “I think she married Dad for the name, for the boost. I think she had me for the same reason. It’s good press.”

  “I’m not going to disagree with you. Oh, Consuela, thank you.”

  He straightened as the cook, her worried eyes on Cate, hustled out with a tray—a pitcher of water with ice and lemon slices swimming, glasses, and a cold damp cloth.

  She set down the tray, poured the water, took the cloth.

  Gently, she dabbed the cloth over Cate’s face.

  “Mi pobre niña,” she murmured.

  “Estoy bien, Consuela. Estoy bien.”

  “You drink some water, my good girl.” She pressed a glass into Cate’s hand. “Mr. Hugh, please sit, please drink some water. I’m going to make a nice lunch for you both, and the lemonade my Cate likes so. You’ll feel better.”

  “Thank you, Consuela.”

  “De nada.” She gestured for Cate to drink more water, then hurried back into the house.

  “I’m okay. I’m better,” Cate told Hugh. “And I know better, I do, in my head. She’s never cared about me, so why would she want to or try to see me now? I know better. I’m sorry.”

  “No apologies. I’ll say one more thing about Charlotte, then we’re going to sit out here and talk of pleasant things. I don’t know, and never have known, how such a small-minded, weak, no-talent, heartless bitch of a woman ever gave birth to someone like you.”

  It made her smile. “The Sullivan genes are strong.”

  “Damn right.” He lifted his glass, toasted, studying her as he drank. “There’s Dunn in there, too, because, my God, you look more like your grandmother, more like Liv, every day.”

  Cate tugged at her mop of blue bangs. “Even with this?”

  “Even with that. Now, tell me about the part you’re after.”

  “Well, she’s nothing li
ke Jute. She’s the oldest of three, trying to cope when her widowed father relocates the family from an Atlanta suburb to L.A. for a job.”

  “Atlanta. Southern accent.”

  Cate cocked an eyebrow, and spoke in a smooth Georgia drawl. “I think I can handle it.”

  “You always could do that,” Hugh said. “Nail a voice. All right, tell me more.”

  She told him, had her lemonade, shared lunch with him among the flowers and butterflies. And put all thoughts of her mother aside.

  That night, half asleep, the TV on for company, the lights low, the phone still in her slack fingers let out the quick hip-hop riff signaling an incoming call.

  Groggy, eyes still closed, she answered. “It’s Cate.”

  She heard singing first—her voice, a child’s voice. A couple of bars from the number she’d done with her grandfather in the movie they’d made in Ireland.

  It made her smile.

  Then she heard someone scream.

  She shot up in bed, eyes wide.

  Someone laughed—it sounded wrong. And over the laugh came her mother’s voice.

  “I’m coming home. Watch for me. Watch for me.”

  “Did you think it was over?” someone whispered. “You never paid. But you will.”

  Struggling to draw air, she dropped the phone on the bed. The weight, the awful weight on her chest crushed her lungs. Her throat seemed to compress to a pipestem.

  Around her the room went gray at the edges.

  Breathe, she ordered herself, and shut her eyes. Breathe, breathe. Imagined the cool, damp air by the lake in Ireland, imagined it over the cold sweat now slicking her skin.

  Imagined drawing it in, slow, steady.

  Imagined the comfort of the ranch house, the taste of Swiss Miss and scrambled eggs. The gentle feel of Julia’s hands.

  The weight eased, didn’t vanish, but eased. She leaped out of bed, still sucking air in, hissing it out, to check the locks, every lock.

  No one could get in. No one would.

  She let her legs collapse, and sat on the floor with the now-silent phone.

  If her father had been home, she knew she’d have run screaming to him.

  But he wasn’t home, and she wasn’t a child who needed her father to chase away the monsters.

  If she told him, told her grandparents . . . She should, she knew she should, but . . .

  On the floor, she drew her knees up to her chest, let her forehead drop on them.

  Everything would stop again. Her father would pull out of the film and come home. He’d refuse more scripts, maybe take her back to Ireland.

  Though part of her yearned for that, for that green, safe place, it wasn’t right, not for her, not for her father, not for anyone she loved.

  A recording, just a recording. Someone, someone vicious and ugly who wanted to scare her, made a recording, found her phone number.

  Fine, they’d succeeded.

  She made herself get up, go into the kitchen. With all the lights on it was bright, shining. And safe, she reminded herself.

  The walls, the gate, the security, the locks. All safe.

  She got a bottle of water, drank long, drank deep until her throat felt cool and open again.

  She’d change her number. She’d say a reporter—how did she know it hadn’t been a reporter?—had mined it out.

  She’d say nothing and simply change her number.

  No one had to worry about her because she’d handle it.

  And whoever had sent the nasty recording wouldn’t have the satisfaction of scaring her.

  She made herself turn off the kitchen lights, then turned off her phone in case that someone tried to call again. But in the bedroom, she couldn’t face the quiet or the dark so left the TV and the lights on.

  “I’m not locked in,” she murmured as she deliberately closed her eyes. “They’re locked out.”

  Still, it was a long time before she slept.

  She told no one. After a day, after a quiet night, the edginess faded. That alone told her she’d been right to deal with it herself.

  She had studying to do with her tutor, research to do on the part she wanted. Being a Sullivan, seventeen or not, she thought carefully about the career she wanted to build.

  She prepped, and made a solo trip to Gino, as Lily had work. The mop of blue bangs turned into a sweep of fringe—with some blue streaks because she liked them.

  If she signed on—because miraculously, it was up to her—she had time to let her hair grow out more, go back to full black.

  And thrilled at the prospect of her first meeting with the director, the writer, she chose her outfit carefully. No ripped jeans, no clunky boots this time. For her first professional lunch meeting, she opted for a sleeveless sheath with fun, multicolored diagonal stripes, red sandals that laced to midthigh.

  For the meeting, she was Cate Sullivan, actor. If she signed, she’d drop herself into character.

  Because her father okayed the solo meeting if she took the car and driver, she gave herself one last study in the mirror, grabbed her bag—a wrist-strap clutch in a blue as bold as her streaks—and walked to the main house.

  She needed to get her license, she thought. She’d driven in Ireland. Of course, now she had to learn to drive on the other side of the road, and in crazy traffic, but she needed to get her license.

  And a car of her own. Not some boring old sedan. A fun, zippy convertible. She had money banked, and when—if, if, she reminded herself—she signed, she’d have more.

  She’d suck up the bodyguard again, and Monika was okay, but she needed a car, some freedom.

  But for now, it was probably better to have Jasper handle the traffic.

  He gave her a smile, white and bright against his dark, lined face, as he opened the door to the shiny (boring) town car.

  “All ready for you, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “How do I look?”

  “A treat.”

  Good enough, she thought, and slipped into the back seat.

  Still, she checked her face, added fresh lip gloss as he drove. Just a get-to-know-you sort of meeting, she reminded herself. And her agent would be there.

  Plus, they wanted her for the part, and that took some of the pressure off. Even if this time she’d play the central character, it was still an ensemble movie.

  When Jasper pulled over, she checked the time. Not early—embarrassing. Not late—unprofessional. “I’m going to be at least an hour, Jasper. More likely closer to two. So I’ll text you when we’re wrapping up.”

  “I’ll be close by,” he told her as he opened her door.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You know I do.”

  The spring to her step might not have hit sophisticated, but what the hell. Showing excitement, she thought as she passed through the archway into the garden bistro, was real and honest.

  She wanted to build her career on both. And that’s just what she was doing now. Building her career.

  She walked to the hostess podium. “I’m here to meet Steven McCoy for lunch.”

  “Of course. Mr. McCoy is already here. Please follow me.”

  She moved through the flowers and greenery, through the subtle sound of water spilling into little pools, through tables covered with peach-colored cloths where people sipped sparkling drinks or studied parchment menus.

  She felt eyes on her, pushed down, strongly down, nerves that wanted to bubble up. Part of the price, she remembered. Pay it or look for another line of work.

  She recognized McCoy and, since she’d done an internet search, Jennifer Grogan, the writer. They sat beside each other at the four-top. So, she understood, they would face her and her agent.

  McCoy stood when he spotted her. He hadn’t yet hit forty, had a scraggly mop of wiry hair he covered with a Dodgers cap when he worked. Grogan peered at Cate through the square lenses of serious black-framed glasses.

  “Caitlyn.” He gave her a Hollywood peck on the cheek. “It’s great to see you in
person. Jenny, meet our Olive.”

  “I know your step-grandmother.”

  “She told me. She said she likes that you write women of layers and substance.”

  “Somebody’s got to.”

  “Have a seat, Cate.” McCoy pulled out her chair himself. “We’ve got a bottle of San Pellegrino going, but you can take a look at the water menu.”

  “No, that’s perfect, thanks.” She set her purse in her lap, waited until the server filled her glass.

  “We’re waiting for one more, but let’s have some squash blossoms for the table. They’re amazing,” McCoy told Cate. “Stuffed with goat cheese.”

  “Save me from vegetarians,” Jenny said. “At least bring some bread.”

  “Right away.”

  She gave Cate a sour look. “Or are you a tofu eater, too?”

  “Not if I know about it first. I want to thank you, Mr. McCoy—”

  “Steve.”

  “I want to thank you both for thinking of me for Olive. She’s a terrific character.”

  “You’ll have to work with a voice coach.” Jenny snatched up a tiny sourdough roll the minute the basket hit the table. “The accent—and it can’t be so hick-thick you need a hatchet to cut it—is essential to her character, and part of her conflict and culture shock. It has to be right.”

  Cate nodded, took a sip of water. And put Georgia into her voice. “I’d be more than happy to work with a voice coach if I take the part. Her accent, her speech patterns, her vocal rhythms are part of what, initially at least, makes her feel isolated. Or that was my read of her.”

  Jenny broke the little roll in two, popped half into her mouth. “Okay, that’s good. Damn it. What am I going to bitch about now?”

  “You’ll find something. Here’s Joel.”

  “Sorry, got hung up as usual.” Joel Mitchell, short and round, kissed the top of Cate’s head like an uncle. He dropped down in his golf shirt—as red as Cate’s sandals.

  He had twin fluffs of white hair divided by a wide swath of pink scalp, thick-lensed shaded glasses, and a reputation for squeezing every last drop out of a project for his client.

  “So.” He glugged down some water. “Isn’t she all that and a chicken taco? Damn, girl, you’re the spitting image of Livvy.”