He stopped at the gate, waited for it to open. A reminder about different worlds, he supposed. He did like visiting this one, felt welcome, but it remained a different world from the one he’d chosen.
Through the gate he paused again at the edge of the peninsula, waited for the second gate. He heard sea lions carrying on, and felt his spirit lift when he spotted a sounding whale out to sea.
Different worlds, maybe, but this was one they shared. He could picture her standing at the glass, looking out at the same wonder as he.
Maybe he’d keep those pictures of her after all. Time rolled, didn’t it? And he had plenty of it.
About the time Dillon drove home, Sparks reported for work in the prison library. Due to his good record, he’d do some clerking at the counter today, probably restock some of the books returned by inmates.
He had a nice view from the window of the bay, the mountains. The freedom still denied to him.
Before Jessica, he’d spent time—as many others did—in the law library. He figured he’d educated himself there as well as any, so it began to piss him off he found nothing, no precedent, no loophole, no nothing, that might lead to overturning or shortening his sentence.
Charlotte had screwed him, and screwed him good.
He had access to computers—limited, of course.
When he had free time, he might sit and read some bullshit book or the San Quentin News or just shoot the shit with other inmates—had to keep things running smooth—with that view of San Francisco Bay mocking him.
Then Jessica, and after the wooing and winning, no need to waste his time on the goddamn law books. She’d handle that.
She’d handle what he needed handled.
He worked steadily through the morning. He’d wanted the library job because it was a popular place, a place to make contacts, make connections, make deals.
Close to the end of shift, one of his regular customers—two packs of reals a week—stepped to the counter to order a book as cover. He knew the illiterate asshole didn’t read. He put in the order for the books, for the smokes.
“Hey, heard your name on the news.”
“My name?”
“Yeah, some lawyer bought it. Was a lawyer for that rich bitch you used to bang, they said. The one who set you up for the kid snatch.”
“Is that so? Scarpetti?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Fucker got her off in a walk when she flipped on me.”
As Sparks finished his shift, prepared to take some time in the exercise yard, he thought: Two down.
Dressed in bold red, right down to the soles of her Louboutins, Charlotte angled herself toward the photographer. She had her hair styled in a loosely braided knot at her neck to show off the teardrop diamonds at her ears.
Her lips—plumped by her latest injection and as red as her dress—curved. But regally, she thought, with a hint of sadness.
Inside, she felt glee. It was about damn time she got solid press for herself, instead of for being the wife of an old man who could buy her a fucking country.
Which he would, had she asked. Conrad remained just that besotted. So anyone, any goddamn critic who claimed she couldn’t act her way into a high school talent show could shove it.
The asshole lawyer had finally paid off. He just had to die to do it.
And not tabloids this time, but real press. She’d done the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times. When cable news came knocking, she opened the door.
Or the servants did.
Now, finally, the cover of People, and a four-page spread.
Sure, a lot of it meant playing the devoted wife, the reformed socialite, but now, at last, sitting in the sweeping parlor, the white marble fireplace simmering, the soaring Christmas tree—done in white and gold and shimmering crystal—dressed (intentionally) like a flame, she got down to the real business.
“Charles’s death—the police say murder—is so shocking. I’m still shaken by it. Anyone who knew him must be. I remember, so clearly, his strength and support at the lowest point of my life.”
She looked away, a hand to her throat as the reporter asked questions.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in the past. No, I’m afraid we didn’t really stay in touch. I had to do my penance, of course, and Charles helped me understand that. I did ask his advice on how to adjust when I’d paid my debt.
“What did he advise?” Charlotte repeated to give herself time to make something up. “To give myself time, to forgive myself. He was so supportive, so wise.”
On a quiet sigh, she touched a fingertip just under the corner of her eye as if to catch a tear.
“When I came back to Los Angeles, I wanted only to try to reconnect with my daughter, to find a way to earn Caitlyn’s forgiveness. I hoped she’d find it in her heart to give me a second chance, to be her mother again.”
Turning her head so the lights caught the diamonds, Charlotte put on that sad, brave smile. “I still hope, especially during the holidays, or on her birthday. I had to turn her rejection into my own strength. Rebuilding my life, my career. Wouldn’t there be a chance she could see that, and consider forgiving?”
Leaning forward just a little, as if sharing a confidence, she added the slightest tremor to her voice. “I worry about her. I was deceived by men, used by them. I allowed myself to become so subservient I made the most terrible decision a woman, a mother, can make. She—my daughter—I’m afraid she’s walking that same path.”
Keeping the sad smile in place, Charlotte nodded at the reporter, used the response as her cue.
“How? Caitlyn’s broken relationship with Justin Harlowe is just the latest, isn’t it? Everything I hear makes it sound as if she’s repeating my mistakes. Wanting too much, demanding too much, expecting—on one hand—a man to fill that void, and on the other allowing herself to be walked over because of that desperate need for love.
“If I hadn’t found Conrad, learned to trust his kindness and his loving heart, I don’t know what would have become of me. I can only hope that my daughter finds someone as loving to help her find her true self, her inner strength. Someone who might help her find that forgiveness.”
As a flourish, Charlotte gestured up. “Do you see the angel on top of the tree? That’s Caitlyn, my angel. One day I hope she’ll wing her way back to me.”
And scene, Charlotte thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rather than push through it, Cate simply blocked out the noise. She kept the news, especially entertainment news, turned off. If she sat down with her tablet or computer to research, she restricted her use to the research or personal interests. No deviation, no giving in to the tug to check—just for a minute—on what someone said, wrote, blogged about.
She had her work and, through the holidays, a lot of family to keep her busy.
Before she knew it, the holidays slid toward February.
February always ushered in a period of bad dreams. Maybe, she could admit, they carried more intensity because she’d come back to where they’d started.
When she woke up, shuddering, breathless, for the third night running, she got up, went down to make herself tea.
The falling dream again, she thought. A popular favorite in her nightmare repertoire. Her hands, a child’s hands, sliding, sliding helplessly on the rope of sheets. And all the fiercely tied knots breaking away.