Her mother didn’t help the situation. Teresa Barr, the former B-movie starlet, had become a cosmetic-surgery addict, and was hell-bent on getting Ginger hooked. Thank God she lived in Los Angeles and was afraid to fly. That meant she could only do her pushing on the phone.
So there Ginger was, well aware of what had rocked her self-confidence, but unable to find her balance. Unlike many other divorcees, her greatest challenge hadn’t been loneliness or finances or that feeling of social limbo so many women talked about. Her challenge was being able to accept herself as she was. She had a hard time truly believing, deep down, that she was still vibrant and attractive, and that there was still a possibility for happiness, for love.
So she’d told herself and anyone who’d listen that she’d given up.
Ginger looked at the exasperation on her friends’ faces and knew she’d tested their patience with all her nonsense. Frankly, she was sick of herself.
“You been talking to your mother again?” Bea asked.
“No.”
“She doesn’t need her mother—she’s got Larry,” Roxie said.
Ginger tossed back her hair and leveled her gaze. “Look, I swear to you I won’t let Larry hurt me ever again. I know he’s just lashing out because I got the house, alimony, and HeatherLynn. Oh! Which reminds me!”
She placed her sweet little bichon down in the grass, hoping she’d join Martina and the poodles. The dog looked tempted, hesitated, but eventually toddled out into the off-leash area.
Ginger made her announcement, filled with pride for her brave little princess. “The other night, when Larry came to the house, HeatherLynn jumped up and bit him in the crotch!”
She got the response she’d hoped for, including a few fist-pumping whoop-whoops from Bea. Roxie laughed until she doubled over. When she caught her breath, she asked if she could feature HeatherLynn on her Web site.
Ginger laughed and smiled, enjoying the moment to its fullest, not even caring how her emotion might accentuate her crow’s-feet and frown lines. She was doing a fine job filling in for Josie, she decided. And it made her happy.
CHAPTER 4
Piers was late, which was the norm, and Lucio had been alone in his friend’s apartment many times before. But on that particular day he felt just slightly awkward. The reason was the change in décor.
The one-bedroom apartment was filled with photos that hadn’t been there just a few weeks before. The breathtaking landscapes for which Piers was known were exactly where they’d always been, plastered on every wall in the place. It was the addition of the photographs of Sylvie that surprised Lucio. They were hung on the walls, propped on the fireplace mantel, placed in frames, and arranged upon the side tables and the divider between the kitchen and living room. None of the photos had been on display in the weeks Lucio had called Piers’s sofa his home. Obviously, Piers had put them away when Lucio moved in, and brought them back out the moment he was gone.
Lucio sighed. Despite Piers’s assurances to the contrary, it seemed his friend had never completely let go of the past. Piers hadn’t wanted Lucio to see all these photos of Sylvie, probably because he hadn’t wanted their prickly history brought front and center.
Lucio walked toward the small room divider covered with frames. He barely glanced at the full-color wedding portrait he’d taken of Piers Skaarsgard and Sylvie Westcott all those years ago. It was the smaller photo next to it that fascinated him. It was a snapshot of the three of them, smiling in front of the tube station in Piccadilly Circus. They all looked so young. Unscathed. Filled with passion and plans.
A handwritten notation at the bottom right corner said, “London, 1992.” The handwriting was Sylvie’s. And, as Lucio well knew, the passion that burned in Sylvie’s eyes that day had burned for him. All her plans had included Lucio.
His throat squeezed. Sylvie had been so very pretty, in that simple, unadorned way some women have about them. She could have been dressed in an old sweater and worn jeans—and usually was—yet she looked elegant. He’d always thought that it was due to her ridiculously correct English posture and her lithe, athletic frame, which seemed to make the freckles, the flyaway dirty-blond hair, and the slightly crooked teeth charming. He picked up the photo to look closer. It was unfathomable that this young, healthy, vivacious girl could be gone. But she was.
Lucio put the photo back in its place and ran a hand through his hair. He headed to the kitchen in search of wine, then stopped himself. Piers wouldn’t have wine. He never had wine. What did Swedes know about wine? So he grabbed a cold Anchor Steam from Piers’s refrigerator, then opened the patio doors that led to the balcony. He knew from past experimentation that if he adjusted the rickety wicker chair just so, he could see a blue slice of the bay from the fourth-floor flat. So he situated himself as such, propped up his feet, and set about the business of waiting.
Lucio smiled at the connectedness of it all. That Piccadilly Circus photo had been taken by none other than Rick Rousseau. They’d encountered the American that very day, sitting alone in a corner booth at the pub that served as Geographica’ s unofficial satellite office. The scruffy young man was eating his fish-and-chips in silence, but smiled and nodded politely when they glanced his way. Sylvie asked him to join them at their table. She was always doing things like that. And that’s how Lucio’s long—and fortuitous—friendship with Rick Rousseau began.
Chance meetings could change the course of your whole life, Lucio knew. But with one catch: You didn’t get to choose which meeting would have the most impact. That unkempt American eating his fish-and-chips would become Lucio’s travel companion and dear friend. Years later, Lucio would pull Rick from a street riot that erupted in Jakarta when the Indonesian government collapsed. And more recently, Rick would hand over his luxurious San Francisco home for Lucio to use for as long as necessary, which, at this rate, could be the rest of his life.
Though Lucio sat in a smattering of afternoon sun on an August day, he felt a hot shiver go through him. It made him sit up straighter, his body suddenly on alert. Ah, of course. Yet again he was thinking of his most recent chance encounter—with the beguiling Ginger Garrison. For more than two weeks now, her business card had been burning a hole in his wallet, while the memory of her—that taste, her scent, those legs—had been burning a hole in his trousers.
Of course he couldn’t contact her. According to the old woman who’d officiated at Rick’s wedding, Ginger was a newspaper editor and a mother of two teenage boys. She was also recently divorced from an unfaithful husband. Lucio knew he had no business bringing all his troubles into her normal, all-American life. It didn’t matter how much he desired to cash in that rain check, how he longed to take her completely. For many nights now, he’d dreamed of doing just that. Lucio smiled to himself as he sipped his beer, knowing that the taking of Ginger Garrison would have to remain there, in his dreams.
The last thing that woman needed in her life was another man she couldn’t rely on.
Lucio heard the apartment door open and close. He called out to Piers to tell him he was on the balcony. “You’re late,” he said, half over his shoulder.
When Piers didn’t reply, Lucio swiveled around, seeing his friend motionless, his expression blank.
“You okay?” Lucio set down his beer.
“Sure. Sure.” Piers joined him out on the balcony, sitting in the weather-worn director’s chair next to Lucio. “I’m just a little embarrassed that you saw all the pictures of Sylvie.”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Lucio said, carefully studying his friend. As a rule, Piers didn’t broadcast what he was feeling at any given moment. His pale mouth maintained a firm and straight line in most every circumstance. His small greenish-blue eyes were no-nonsense, designed to see the bigger picture of earth and sky, a talent that made him one of the most respected landscape photographers of his generation. Lucio had heard more than one person describe Piers as a cold fish, but he knew better. Piers was a serious man. Fo
cused. Determined. Passionate. But to those who didn’t know him well, he could come off as un poco distante.
“You know you can talk to me about her,” Lucio said, leaning toward him. “She was a wonderful person. I know you loved her more than anything in the world, and I am truly sorry she’s gone.”
Piers nodded so quickly it was barely detectable. He stared at the buildings of China Town between themselves and the bay. “She always thought fondly of you, Lucky.”
Lucio sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs before he spoke.
“I have always considered her a dear friend.” Lucio wasn’t certain how far Piers wanted to go with this line of conversation, but he knew he needed to reassure him. They’d never once discussed what had happened in the months after Lucio left London for the Azores, leaving Sylvie with a shattered heart and Piers with the job of picking up the pieces. She’d married Piers eight months later, in the garden of her parents’ Devon cottage. She’d been a beautiful bride. And she’d barely spoken to Lucio.
In general, Lucio wasn’t proud of his record with women. In particular, he saw Sylvie as his most shameful offense. Lucio hung his head, wishing he could turn back time, make himself a more decent man with one wave of a magic wand. He would have gone about things differently. He would have let Sylvie down easy, taking more time to explain that she was a wonderful woman, but his only true love affair was with the camera, the light, the pursuit of the shot. Instead, he’d just left a note. He’d been an idiot. ¿Qué imbécil!
And now she was gone forever.
“I put her pictures away when you were staying here because, well, I didn’t want you to think I was living in some kind of morbid shrine to Sylvie.” Piers glanced sideways at Lucio, a sheepish look on his face. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, or unwelcome.”
“I wouldn’t have,” Lucio said. “And it’s not morbid. It’s perfectly natural to want to surround yourself with her memory. She’s only been gone a few months.”
Piers nodded, then sighed. “Sometimes I don’t think I can bear it without her.”
Lucio placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I have always regretted hurting her the way I did. If she were here, I would seek her forgiveness.”
The air whooshed in and out of Piers’s nostrils. He nodded sharply and slapped his hands on his knees, as if declaring it was time to change the subject. Piers stood and smiled down at Lucio. “It was all a long, long time ago, my friend—part of another lifetime. We all have things we wish we’d done differently.”
Lucio nodded, grateful for his friend’s generosity.
“But we should get going,” Piers said with a smile, extending his hand to Lucio. “A man in your position can’t afford to keep anyone waiting.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’d do something that stupid!” Joshua stomped his foot on the asphalt of his dad’s driveway and glared at his brother.
“Fine,” Jason said, languidly placing his hands behind his head and stretching out on the hood of their father’s new Porsche. “You don’t have the balls for something like that, anyway.”
Joshua shook his head in disgust. “You want to get yourself arrested again? Hey, go for it—drive Dad’s brand-new car without a license. Whatever. Fine. I just won’t be part of it. And I won’t cover for you, either.”
“You become a bigger nerd every day, do you realize that?” Jason yawned, as if the conversation were boring him. “It’s embarrassing, really.”
Joshua groaned in frustration. “If you had the least bit of respect for me as a person—for my dreams—you wouldn’t do this kind of crap in the first place. I’ve told you a million times that the mistakes of a brother can taint a president’s reputation. It’s a historical fact!”
Jason closed one eye and leaned away, as if looking at his brother caused him physical pain. “What the fuck are you talking about, ass-face? You’re never going to be president and you know it. Please—do us all a huge favor and let it go.”
“Loser.”
“Shut up, tardvark.”
“Don’t you know anything about history?” Josh’s cheeks had reddened with outrage. “Billy Carter’s alcoholism? Roger Clinton’s drugs and disorderly conduct? You are my twin—and that makes it even worse! People will think we’re wired the same! What you do will affect my ability to get elected and stay up in the polls!”
Jason hopped down off the hood of the 911, drilling a knuckle into the muscle of his brother’s upper arm before he walked away.
Joshua yelped in pain. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” He ran after him. “What is your problem? What is it you think you have to prove? Is this about Dad?” He caught up to his brother and blocked his way, yelling in his face. “If you’re doing this kind of stupid shit just to get his attention, then it’s totally pathetic!”
“You’re the pathetic one,” Jason said, not looking at him.
“Our dad is a jackass,” Joshua said. “He’s a middle-aged sex freak and he’s not worth ruining our lives for.”
With that last comment, Jason spun around and punched his twin brother in the mouth. Both were shocked to see three small white teeth clatter to the bricks, followed by several plump drops of bright red blood.
Lucio felt confident when he arrived at his agent’s office. Piers was with him, agreeing to vouch for him if needed, lend moral support, and voice a healthy dose of outrage as a fellow Geographica photographer.
The confidence didn’t last long. Lucio got his first taste of bad news before the meeting even started. Sydney pulled Lucio aside and told him that the chairman of the Erskine Prize committee had called, and they had temporarily rescinded his award.
“What!”
“They will review the situation and decide by next month.”
Piers overheard Sydney and shook his head sadly. “Oh, no. No. This cannot be.”
Lucio was stunned. The Erskine was the biggest prize of them all, the ultimate mark of achievement in nature photography. He’d wanted an Erskine since he was twenty years old. He’d worked like a dog for it. He’d risked his life countless times for it. And it had a cash prize of $250,000, upon which his entire future now hinged.
“We have to—”
Sydney stopped Lucio by placing a hand on his arm. “No interference. They said if you or anyone else tries to lobby them about this, they would automatically pull the award. I am to notify them if your situation changes, but that’s all.”
“But…”
“Just sit tight,” Sydney said. “The results of today’s meeting might reassure everyone. Let’s think positively.”
Lucio sat on one side of the conference table along with Sydney, Piers, and Bill Voyles, Lucio’s recently acquired—and very expensive—criminal defense attorney, who promptly passed his business cards to everyone in the room.
On the opposite side of the table sat two Geographica attorneys and a pair of underlings from the U.S. State Department.
Lucio’s hopes for a hassle-free resolution were dashed within the first five minutes. The magazine’s lawyers told him that Geographica had no interest in reinstating Lucio’s current contract, nor would they be interested in any future partnership.
Lucio sat in silence, his blood hot and pounding.
Next, they went on to inform him that they had evidence linking Lucio to the missing fifty thousand in magazine funds.
“But I’ve already told you—I did not take that money!” Lucio waved his hands around in frustration. “I would never do that!”
As Lucio’s lawyer whispered to him to keep his mouth closed, one of the magazine’s attorneys produced a stack of papers, which he spread out on the table for inspection. In front of Lucio were sixteen completed expense reimbursement forms dated over a four-month period. The signature looked almost identical to Lucio’s’almost.
The lawyers explained that all the forms had been couriered together from China to Geographica’ s London office, where the requests had been approved and mone
y had been wired to an anonymous personal account in the Bahamas. A routine audit had revealed discrepancies, and editors were alerted to the possible fraud.
“But that is not my signature,” Lucio said, tapping his finger on the black-ink cursive, the rage building in him as he examined a listing of hotel, food, transportation, and equipment expenses in southern China. “What is this garbage?” he asked, incredulous. “I don’t even use this brand of diffusion filter and I certainly wouldn’t be buying it in China! And I never set foot in the Jiangxi Province for that assignment.”
“Exactly our point,” the lawyer said.
“¿Es una trampa para incriminarme!” Lucio said, the realization slamming into him. He looked around the table. “I have been set up!”
“So this is not your bank account?” one of the lawyers asked.
Lucio looked again at the name of the offshore bank and the account number. “Absolutely not. For more than ten years I have used an account here in San Francisco—your records will show that. This is not my account.”
One of the lawyers smiled as if he enjoyed the exchange. “Who would want to set you up as you claim, Mr. Montevez?”
“I do not know,” Lucio said, trying to stay calm. “Just as I cannot explain how my rough video footage got to the Chinese foreign ministry.”
The lawyer smiled again. “So you believe one person is responsible for both offenses—a conspiracy of sorts?”
“I suppose it is possible,” Lucio answered. “I do not know what happened. That is what I am telling you.”
“Hmm…” the lawyer said, his grin expanding. “So there is someone out there vengeful enough to go to all this trouble to damage your reputation? Someone who also happens to be knowledgeable of Geographica’ s reimbursement procedure? Someone who can get a hold of the appropriate forms and then forge your signature?”