I swallowed hard. “God, that sounds stalkerish, doesn’t it? I’m so sorry. I’m just a fan of your career, what you’ve accomplished, and I didn’t angle for this job. I didn’t even know it was you. Mr. Moore said it was for Colt Gordon, and I didn’t recognize his name and—” I stopped in horror.
She laughed, a throw-back-her-head laugh that echoed through the yard as I prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Morales,” I said. “I’m babbling, and I—”
She reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “You’re fine, Lucy. We just won’t tell Colt that you didn’t know who he is.” She grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry—following my career isn’t stalkerish. The real stalkers don’t give a rat’s ass about my actual achievements. Now, come and meet my family.”
Isabella led me into a cool, shady house, every window thrown wide to let the sea breeze waft through. There was nothing about the decor that screamed, “interior designer,” but it was the kind of beach house that you saw in a magazine and tacked up on your dream-life wall. Every piece of furniture whispered a siren’s call, inviting you to curl up with a book and a lemonade. Even strawberry lemonade would be fine. No need to worry about stains. This was a house for sandy feet and spilled wine and wet hair.
“Colt?” Isabella called as we walked through the living room. Then louder, “Colt?”
She turned to me and shook her head. “Either he’s gone for a run, or he’s in the exercise room. That’s what happens when you hit forty and dream of being the next James Bond. Once again, I am grateful to be working off-camera.”
Isabella opened one set of patio doors. The back wall was all window with multiple doors. She led me onto a stone deck surrounding an in-ground pool.
“Yes, we have a pool two hundred feet from the beach,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed. “The water can be cold and . . . Well, while it’s a private beach, the waterfront is public. We certainly do let the kids use the beach, but if passing boats linger, please let us know. And if you see a camera . . .”
“I’ll bring the children in immediately and let you or Mr. Gordon know.”
“Colt. He will insist on Colt, and I’ll insist on Isabella. Now, speaking of the kids, they should be right over here.”
We passed a low wall to find a boy swimming. That would be eight-year-old Jamison. He was reedy with sun-bleached hair and peeling red skin on his shoulders. The older girl reading on a lounge chair was Tiana. At ten, she had her mother’s brown skin, sturdier build and dark wavy hair.
“Jamie,” Isabella said with a sigh. “Where is your swim shirt?”
“Same place it always is,” Tiana said without glancing from her book. “Not on him.”
“I don’t need it when I’m swimming,” Jamison said.
“It’s a swim shirt, dork,” Tiana muttered. “When else would you wear it? While skydiving?”
He started to respond. Then he saw me, his freckled nose scrunching. Before I could say hello, he dove.
“That’s Jamie,” Tiana said, and now she looked up, her sunglass-framed eyes on me. “He’s not being rude. He’s just avoiding conversation, which sure, is kind of rude, but he doesn’t mean it like that.”
She set the book down and rose with a grace as mature as her words, and when she extended a hand, I hurried to shake it . . . and tripped over the leg of a lounge chair. As I stammered apologies, Tiana’s lips pressed together. She lifted her glasses onto her head, and her eyes met mine.
“We’re just kids,” she said.
Behind me, Isabella admonished her daughter, but I knew what lay behind Tiana’s very adult look of disapproval: years of people stumbling over themselves around her family, years of not being treated like a normal child. And oh, look, here was her new music tutor, starstruck already, stammering and stumbling, eager to e-mail her friends with “OMG, I’m here!!!” complete with surreptitiously snapped photos.
When she said, “We’re just kids,” I paused only a heartbeat before coming back with, “And I’m just a klutz.” I took her hand in a firm clasp. “Lucy. Your Mary Poppins for the summer.”
As I said it, I realized the reference might not mean anything to her, but she snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You gonna teach me to sing and dance on rooftops?” she asked.
“Sing, yes. As for dancing . . . you did notice me tripping over my own feet, right?”
Another snort, but some of the disapproval leached from her eyes. She lowered herself onto her lounge chair again and picked up her book. I glanced at the cover, expecting something suitably tween-friendly. It was 1984.
“Nice beach read,” I said.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I thought so.”
Behind us, Isabella held the swim shirt over the pool edge for Jamison, who was ignoring her by swimming underwater. I kicked off my sandals, took the shirt and jumped in, not even thinking of what I was doing until the water closed over my head.
I caught Isabella’s laugh of surprise and Tiana’s muffled voice, but I stayed under, holding the swim shirt out for Jamison. He saw me, his dark eyes widening. We both surfaced, and he took the shirt with a crooked smile.
“That’s one way to do it,” Isabella said, still laughing.
I swam to the side just as feet slapped on concrete, and Tiana said, “Hey, Dad.”
I glanced up, straight into the sun, and squinted. I could only make out the shape of a man. I started to heave myself out. Then I realized I was wearing a soaking-wet sundress and dropped back into the water.
“Jamie was being a goof,” Tiana said, “pretending he couldn’t see Mom with his swim shirt. Our summer Mary Poppins fixed the problem.”
A low chuckle. “I see that.”
The figure bent at the poolside, and a hand appeared from the sun-shaded shadow. I squinted up into a face that sent a jolt of recognition through me. I might have blanked on Colt Gordon’s name, but seeing that square jaw, the cleft chin, those bright blue eyes, I instantly recognized him.
Those eyes met mine in a direct look that only lasted a second before they moved on, to my relief. I was an eighteen-year-old girl in a movie star’s house—I didn’t want to catch his attention. But he met my gaze only perfunctorily, quickly shook my upheld hand, and then rose, calling to Jamison.
“Give me a minute to change, buddy, and then I’ll join you while Lucy gets herself settled in.”
Jamison nodded, and with a peck on Isabella’s cheek, Colt strode into the house.
I exhaled and climbed out as Isabella handed me a towel.
Chapter Five
Rome 2019
Normally, Thursdays are my least favorite day of the week. It’s my busiest, gone from dawn until dusk, with barely enough time to grab an espresso between gigs. Today, though, I thank God it’s Thursday. It keeps me too busy to think of that letter.
The canary in the coal mine, warning of impending explosion.
I will not allow the explosion this time. I’ll wait it out and pray Isabella takes a hint and backs off.