I hoped for an opening into which I could pour my apologies. Instead, her letter swam blood-red with hate and invective that sliced me open worse than any screaming tabloid headline.
And now, fourteen years later, she has sent the letter I dreamed of that day.
I read it again, and I do not fall to my knees with relief. I feel only emptiness edged with annoyance and, if I’m being honest, a hint of outrage.
Now she feels bad? Now she realizes she was wrong? Now she wants to talk to me about it?
I reassemble the package with the cashmere shrug and put it into the closet under the stairs. Then I strike another match, set the corner of the letter alight and watch it burn, charred bits dropping into the sink. When the flame warms my fingers, I drop what’s left and watch the paper curl and blacken.
Then I run water in the sink and let the tissue-thin black pieces dissolve and run down the drain.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. I grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it as Marco descends. It’s only when I turn that I see the opened envelope still on the table, with “Lucy” screaming on the front.
I dart between the envelope and the stairs.
Marco blinks at me. “Everything okay?”
I lift the glass, half-filled with water. He nods and yawns.
“You want one?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Then he sniffs. “Is something burning?”
“Outside, I think.” I wave at the open window.
When he reaches for me, I hesitate. I want to go to him, to fall into his arms and take comfort there.
I have this new life, Isabella, and you cannot touch it.
Except she can touch it. The envelope proves that, and I cannot let Marco see it. So when he reaches for me, I lift the water glass. He takes it with a chuckle and says, “I’ll put it on your side of the bed,” as he retreats.
Once he’s gone, I snatch the envelope and tuck it into a stack of music books for later burning. Then I follow him upstairs.
Chapter Four
The Hamptons 2005
The cab dropped me off at the end of a long, curving drive. Nylah had joked about Mary Poppins, but that was who I felt like as the car pulled away, leaving me standing there, clutching my bag.
This couldn’t be the right place. Admittedly, I didn’t know much about Hollywood stars, but I was certain someone of Colt Gordon’s caliber summered in a gated community, his house fenced and patrolled by gun-toting guards with Rottweilers. According to Nylah, this was a family who couldn’t take their kids to school without attracting a conga line of paparazzi. Yet here I stood, at the end of a gate-free driveway, having passed through zero security on my way in.
It had to be the wrong address.
Or I’d been scammed.
I trusted Mr. Moore, but I’d had no direct contact with Colt Gordon or Isabella Morales. I’d only been interviewed by a woman named Karla Ellis, who claimed to be Colt Gordon’s manager.
She certainly seemed like a celebrity manager, all designer pantsuits and cool efficiency. It also made sense that Colt Gordon and Isabella Morales would let their manager handle staff hiring—running background checks, getting NDAs signed—and Ms. Ellis had done all that. I might feel inadequate for the position, but if I pushed aside my lack of confidence, I did have the experience: years of babysitting, children’s music lessons and lifeguard summer jobs. Ms. Ellis had checked my references, so the job did seem real.
When she’d offered car service from the airport, I should have accepted. At least then I’d be certain I had the right place.
As I made my way down the long drive, I spotted a gardener. The front yard was clearly the work of experts—at least a half acre of rolling green lawn and gardens filled with tall grasses that swayed like ocean waves. In one of those gardens, a woman knelt, tugging weeds.
As I walked over, she twisted to toss a weed into the bucket, and I saw her face.
Isabella Morales.
I stood there, mouth opening and closing in the perfect imitation of a beached fish. She saw me—or heard the gulp-gulp of my fish breathing. As she turned, she fixed me with the smile that smote a million telenovela addicts, and I nearly did a schoolgirl swoon.
“Ms—Ms. Morales?” I managed. “I—I’m sorry for sneaking up. I thought . . .”
“That I was the gardener?”
I was about to say yes. Then I noticed her smile had dimmed, and I realized how that sounded—mistaking a Latina for the hired help. Which wasn’t the case at all—I’d only seen her back and giant sun hat.
“No,” I said. “I thought I had the wrong house. I expected . . .” I gestured like an idiot. “Armed guards and piranha-filled moats.”
She chuckled and pushed to her feet. “We leave our piranha in LA, where they feel more at home.” She peeled off her dirt-crusted gloves. “The security here is far more discreet. It’s a very small community, and the summer residents contribute generously to the local law enforcement. The neighborhood also hires private security to patrol. I’d warned them you were coming today, but I still expected—”
The buzz of a cell phone. She took it out, glanced at the screen and smiled. “And there it is. A text telling me that your taxi was spotted.” She tapped out a reply. “We’re spoiled out here. It’s a chance to give our kids the illusion of a normal life, but it really is an illusion. I’ll need to send your photograph to the security firm and the local police department, or the first time you go out walking, they’ll escort you to the village border.”
As she pocketed the phone, I got my first good look at her. She was smaller than I expected. Maybe five feet two. A scarf barely contained her long black curls. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, but the skin below it was flawless and makeup-free. She wore a sundress under a gardening apron, and the dress showed off the curves that were as much her trademark as that smile.
Isabella Morales had the kind of figure that shouldn’t be possible—lush curves with a tiny waist. I’d read tabloid articles that insisted her waist was the result of industrial-strength corsets. Yet there was no way she had shapewear under that sundress, and the apron was cinched tight enough to show her waist in all its enviable glory. My waist might not be a whole lot bigger, but only because I had the narrow hips and chest to match.
When Isabella reached for the weed bucket, I picked it up and got a smile for that. Then she said, “The kids are out back. Colt’s inside, I think. I suppose you’ll want to meet him.”
She said it lightly, as if aiming between wry and teasing, but a note of tightness cut through.
When I didn’t answer, she glanced over, her brows rising. “Not a Colt Gordon fan?”
My face heated. “I . . . I’ve seen Fatal Retribution. The first one, at least.”
Nylah had gifted me DVDs of the other two, and I’d meant to watch them, but I’d run out of time. I stumbled on with, “I liked it. I’m just not really into action movies. I’m more a telenovela fan. Mi Hermana was just . . . It was amazing, and it got even better after you started writing for it and . . .”
My cheeks blazed, threatening nuclear-grade heat. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fangirl. I won’t do that while I’m here. I promise. I know it’d be awkward. I’m just . . . My abuela got me into telenovelas, and I’ve followed your career and—”