Claire McMahon.
“Oh yes, there she is,” trilled Melissa happily as an image of Claire, looking awkward and formal in a blue suit at a cancer-research gala, filled the screen. “That’s her, all right. That’s Annie.”
Dr. Daniel Sanford was out in the backyard playing baseball with his two young sons when his wife called him in to take the phone call.
“It’s Randall Stein calling from the East Coast,” she yelled out at him through the patio doors that led from the palatial living room of their Beverly Hills home out onto the rolling, manicured lawn.
Frowning, he dropped the Wiffle ball and stomped back into the house. He was flying out to Nantucket tomorrow to check up on Siena, and he didn’t appreciate Randall bugging him on a weekend.
“Yeah, this is Dan,” he said grumpily, picking up the call in the relative privacy of his home office and closing the door behind him. “What’s up?”
“She’s gone.” Randall’s voice was controlled, but the fear was still unmistakable. “Her mother came here, pretending to be a nurse or something, and took her back to L.A. You know anything about this?”
“Of course not,” Sanford snapped, although his heart sank as he immediately thought of the letter he’d received last month about that relief nurse for Melissa. He’d thought it was a bit odd at the time, but he found dealing with Randall so unpleasant, and the whole business with Siena so troubling to his conscience, that he hadn’t bothered to call and double-check.
Shit. This wasn’t good news.
“We need to talk,” said Randall. “Figure out what we’re gonna do. If she goes to the press . . .”
The doctor could hear his client’s teeth grinding with stress on the other end of the line and tried to marshal his own thoughts. His wife, Cora, knew nothing about his “work” with Randall. He badly wanted to keep it that way, but that might not be possible now. He wondered how hard it would be to wash his hands of Stein, even at this late stage?
“It could get very bad,” said Randall. “We need to work out our stories, make sure there are no loose ends. I’ve got Dean Reid, my attorney, flying out here as we speak.”
“Good,” said Daniel, deciding on his strategy on the spur of the moment. “You’re gonna need him.”
“What do you mean, I’m gonna need him?” asked Randall, his nerves coming out in barely controlled spleen. “You’re in this up to your neck, my friend, and don’t you forget it. You treated her and you didn’t report it. And I don’t need to remind you that this wasn’t the first favor you’ve done me in return for a nice fat check. You could be struck off for gross misconduct.”
He hissed out each word like venom. Daniel’s heart was pounding—he knew there was some truth in what Randall was saying, but his only hope was to bluff it out and stand his ground.
“Bullshit,” he whispered, cupping his hand around the receiver. He didn’t want his wife listening in. “Siena gave me permission to operate. She signed the consent form. It’s up to her if she wants to go to the police, not me. I’m just the doctor. You’ve got nothing on me, Randall.”
“Listen, you piece of shit.” The cool facade had completely crumbled. Like most bullies, Randall seemed thrown to find himself being stood up to for once. “I’m nine million dollars in the red on this fucking movie. If Siena goes to the press, if she pins this on me, I’m gonna lose my financing.”
“How?” Daniel sounded maddeningly unconcerned.
“There’s a morality clause in the contract,” said Randall. “Basically, if I do or say anything that might reflect badly on the movie’s backers, they have the right to pull out. And as exec producer, I’ve underwritten the whole thing.”
“Hmmm.” Daniel paused to take in exactly what Stein was saying. “So you mean if Siena can prove you beat her to a pulp, you’ll have to pay the nine million yourself? Out of your own pocket?”
“Exactly,” said Randall. At last, Sanford seemed to be grasping the seriousness of the situation, the slimy little shit. “So you’d better get your ass on a plane tonight. Because if I go down, you’re going down with me. We need to shut her up, and we need to do it fast. For both our sakes.”
There was a long pause. This last rant smacked of desperation. Empty threats.
Finally, Daniel said: “I don’t think so, Randall. You know what? I hope that young lady does go to the press—and frankly, I can’t see how you think you’re going to stop her.”
There was some apoplectic wheezing from Randall’s end, but the doctor showed no mercy.
“With any luck, some of the other girls will come forward as well and show the world what a twisted, arrogant, dangerous little son of a bitch you really are.”
“You’ll regret this,” snarled Randall. “I promise you. Your career will be over.”
Daniel ignored him. “And as for losing the nine million dollars . . .” He paused, savoring the moment. Randall had had a hold over him for years. It felt wonderful to finally be free—whatever the ultimate cost turned out to be. “What can I say? It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
He hung up, took a deep, satisfying breath, and opened the study door, running straight into his wife. She had obviously been straining to hear the conversation, and her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as he caught her in the act.
“Everything okay?” she asked anxiously. “You sounded stressed.”
He smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “Absolutely,” he said. “Everything’s just fine, honey. Just fine.”
Siena felt her first misgivings the moment her plane took off from Boston.
Not about leaving Randall—she had never made a decision she was more sure of in her entire life—but about the future. Clasping Claire’s hand as the American Airlines jet roared shakily upward, she felt her euphoria about her sight and about breaking free start to dissipate and the precarious reality of her situation begin to reassert itself.
Thanks to her bruises, dark glasses, and a baseball cap, no one had given her a second glance as her mother paid for both of their last-minute first-class tickets and the two of them shuffled onto the plane unnoticed by the other weary passengers.
After living and breathing for public adulation for so long, she was amazed by how liberating it felt not to be stared at. She was also grateful for her mother’s silence.
Having called the hospital and ascertained that Pete’s condition was serious but stable—as the specialist had put it, “He’s not going anywhere, Mrs. McMahon; no need to bust a gut to get here”—Claire had relaxed a little and was able to focus on helping Siena. Sensing that her daughter needed to be alone with her thoughts, and craving her own distraction, she had immersed herself in a novel as soon as they took their seats, leaving Siena to stare out the window and try to make sense of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
She wanted to make the bastard pay.
You can get mad, Duke used to tell her, just as long as you get even.
But that wasn’t going to be easy. Randall was a formidable adversary, and he had a lot of power and influence in L.A. Police, lawyers, movie studios, press—they could all be bought, or pressured into taking sides and twisting the truth. He would portray her as unstable, desperate, a liar.
If you go after me, Siena, I will crush you.
He was right about one thing: She would never work again in Hollywood. Not with her ruined face and only partial sight. To that extent, he had already crushed her.
Running her index finger along the groove of her long scar, she felt her resolve hardening. Somehow she would make him pay. But the next few months were going to be tough.
Hatred and rage against Randall gave way to sadness. She leaned her head against the plastic window and quietly began to cry. But her tears were not for her lost beauty, wealth, and fame. Nor were they for all the lost time with the people she loved, her mother, Hunter, Ines. They were not even for her father, lying critically ill in his hospital bed, and the love it was too late fo
r her to find with him.
She was crying for one person only.
And he was thousands of miles away in England, crying for her.
Three weeks later, in Manhattan, Max dragged himself up off the hard hotel bed and wearily began taking off his clothes. Perhaps a nice long bath would help?
He was actually becoming quite worried about himself. It wasn’t normal for a man his age to keep crying. Some days the sadness was so overwhelming, he was frightened to go out in public at all, in case he should suddenly burst into tears. Maybe he needed a shrink?
Lying back while the piping-hot water eased the stress and tension from his muscles, he tried to think positively about the future. After that terrible day when the developers arrived at Batcombe, he had finally realized there was no way he could go on trying to make things work with Freddie.
“You deserve better,” he told her. “You deserve a man who still has his heart to give you.”
Closing his eyes now, he could picture her brave, heartbroken face and almost started crying again. Why did he always have to hurt people?
“I don’t want better,” she said. “I want you.”
But they had both known there was nothing he could do.
After that, he’d had no real choice but to accept the offer to move to New York with the play. He had flown out two days ago to begin looking for an apartment.
He knew now that he’d been kidding himself that Henry and Muff needed him at Manor Farm. The truth was that he had needed them. He couldn’t bear to be alone with his grief and his longing for Siena.
He had thought that Batcombe, the only place other than the beach house where he had ever really been happy, might ease some of the pain. But it hadn’t. And now even that safe haven was being destroyed, turned into a battleground between Henry and Gary Ellis.
He had to get out.
Rising up out of the bath, he dried himself on one of the fluffy white hotel towels, sat down on the bed, and flicked on his cell phone to check the messages. There were two, and despite the absurdity of it, he still felt a sharp pang of hope that perhaps one of them might be from Siena.
The first was from Muffy, just “checking up” on him, as she put it. He knew she and Henry were concerned about him, and he felt guilty about adding to their worries. But he was grateful for her message all the same.
The second message was from Dorian Klein, his agent. Shit. He’d forgotten to call the guy back again. What with the move and the play, and all the shit going on in his personal life, he just hadn’t gotten around to it.
Punching in the number, he hoped Dorian wasn’t going to ask him to fly out to L.A. for some pointless meeting. To have to be that close to Siena and all his memories would be totally unbearable.
“Klein.”
Shit. He was answering his own phone now? Times must be tough.
“Hello, Dorian, it’s Max De Seville. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.”
“Max! Jesus, man, where the fuck have you been?” He sounded genuinely stressed out, nothing like his usual slick, imperturbable self. “Angus and I have been trying to reach you for weeks.”
Oh Christ, Angus. Now that he thought of it, Max did remember getting a couple of calls from Dark Hearts’ writer back in Batcombe, which he’d failed to return. Angus was on holiday in the Highlands, supposedly working on his new play, and Max had assumed he was calling about that. He liked Angus a lot, but he hadn’t had the energy to provide any sort of artistic encouragement while his own world was caving in.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly to Dorian. “I’ve had a lot going on at home. Anyway, I’m here now. So what’s up?”
The agent laughed. “What’s up, my friend, is that we’ve done the deal without you. I tried everything to get hold of you, but in the end Angus flew out here last night and signed on the dotted line himself. And before you start screaming at me, Max, he’s perfectly legally entitled, it’s still sixty percent his baby—”
“Dorian.” Max interrupted him midflow. “Slow down. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The agent laughed again, and Max wondered what joke it was that was going over his head so completely.
“Let me give you a clue.” Dorian chuckled. “Miramax.”
Max felt his heartbeat creeping upward. He’d pushed the studio’s supposed interest in the play to the back of his mind weeks ago. It had all seemed so unlikely—there was nothing “Hollywood” about Dark Hearts—whereas the move to Broadway was something real and tangible that he could focus on.
“You’re not serious,” he said, once his breath returned. “You mean, they actually want it?”
“Forget ‘want it,’” said Dorian. Max could hear him grinning down the phone. “They bought it. Two days ago. For six million dollars.”
The ensuing silence was so long, Dorian began to worry that his client might have passed out. “Max? Buddy? Are you there?”
Like an idiot, Max sat in his towel, nodding at the phone. He tried to speak, but no sound came out.
“Look, if you’re pissed about Angus signing,” said Dorian anxiously, “you shouldn’t be. We were under pressure to make a deal and if I do say so myself, I think we got a great price.”
“No, no. It’s not that. Sorry.” He was able to force some words out at last. “It’s fantastic. I’m just in shock. I think.”
Six million dollars.
What was 40 percent of six million? Two point four?
Holy shit.
He was rich.
“Look, Dorian,” he managed eventually after another long silence, “do you mind if I call you back? I think I need to lie down.”
“Sure.” The agent laughed, delighted. “You finally made me some money, Max. You can lie down for as long as you want.”
Max put down his cell phone and lay back slowly on the bed, staring up at the swirly patterns etched into the white ceiling. He tried to take it all in.
Two point four million dollars.
He was a rich man.
A success.
How very odd.
He waited for a rush of happiness to overtake him, but it didn’t. Instead, horrible tendrils of depression began tightening themselves painfully around his heart.
After all, without Siena to share it, what did the money matter? What did anything matter? The money should have come to someone who could appreciate it, someone who deserved it, not to him.
But then, almost immediately, another thought occurred to him. And for the first time in months he felt almost happy.
Picking up the hotel phone this time—what the heck, he could afford it—he dialed the familiar number. It rang twelve or thirteen times before a sleepy female voice answered.
“Muffy?” he said excitedly. “It’s me, Max. Look, I’m sorry to wake you up, sweetheart. But I’ve got some good news for you. Some very, very good news.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
After Minnie died, Pete and Claire had moved back into the old mansion in Hancock Park to begin the process of sorting through her estate. The house held unhappy memories for both of them, but it was part of Pete’s history, not to mention Hollywood history, and he hadn’t immediately been sure what he wanted to do with it. Moving in temporarily seemed like the best way to make up their minds.
So it was to Siena’s childhood home that mother and daughter returned from Nantucket.
Siena felt a strange mix of emotions as she stepped through the heavy wooden front door, still the same door, with its brass bolts and neo-Gothic panels. How many times had she fantasized about walking into this marble hallway, with its curving, sweeping staircase, the banisters worn to a sheen by generations of sliding children? She couldn’t possibly count.
But somehow, now that she was actually here, the joy she had anticipated for so long failed to materialize. The Hancock Park she had clung to in her dreams for so many years was the buzzing, vibrant home she remembered from her childhood. To her child’s eye, it had been a magnificent p
alace, a living presence almost, that had absorbed her grandfather’s energy and spirit till every wall, every staircase, felt alive. What she was returning to was the reality—a lonely, empty shell of a house, shrouded with all the betrayals and disappointments of her grandmother’s life.
It wasn’t just that Minnie had redecorated, eradicating all of Duke’s vulgarity. By any rational adult standards, Siena recognized, those changes constituted a dramatic improvement. It was more than that.
It was if the house she remembered had died all those years ago, along with her childhood and her happiness. Looking around now, she couldn’t help but mourn for it.
Claire took one look at Siena’s pale, shaken face and put her straight to bed with a cup of hot chocolate into which she had crushed two tabs of Ambien. It had been a long and difficult journey for Siena, and she was still very physically weak.
She protested, but her mother was firm.
They would talk in the morning.
The next day Siena had been so frail she couldn’t get out of bed. Claire could hardly bear to leave her for a second, but she had to go to the hospital and see Pete.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right, darling?” she fretted anxiously, plumping up Siena’s pillows as she prepared to leave. “I spoke to Dr. Davis last night, and he’ll be in to see you at ten.” Dr. Davis had been the McMahon family doctor since Siena was knee-high. Just hearing his name reassured her. “He can talk to you about eye specialists and sort out some pain relief. And I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Really, Mom, I’m fine.” Siena smiled weakly through her exhaustion. The long journey, combined with all the emotional stress of the last twenty-four hours, was really starting to catch up with her. “You just focus on Dad.”
Seeing Pete was a shock.
“He looks terrible,” Claire said frankly to the senior consultant looking at his pale, seemingly lifeless body rigged up to a horrible-looking mesh of wires and machinery. “Are you sure he’s stable?”