Falling into Forever (Falling into You) Page 8

  Every time I’ve wanted a drink, every time I thought maybe a swig of whiskey or the quick buzz of tequila would soothe the temporary pain of bad box office numbers or a lost part or, more frequently, the realization that whichever girl was occupying my bed was never going to suddenly morph into Hallie, I’ve looked at that picture. It’s from that stupid party at Sam’s, the masquerade. Our masks are pushed up onto our foreheads, and she’s grinning up into my face like I’m the answer to every question she’d ever thought to ask.

  It hurts, every time, to look at it. But it reminds me of what I’ve lost. More importantly, it’s kept me from trying to drown away all of the sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

  “I want her back,” I repeat. “You have to understand that.”

  “I’ve had a couple of Hallie fantasies myself, so I guess there’s some very tiny part of me that can understand the impulse. But are you sure, really sure, that you want to go down this path? I know you don’t remember much from London, but I do, and I’ll tell you right now, it wasn’t pretty. Neither was LA. Or Morocco. Or any of the places we went after she left you. Any places for about three years. Not a good scene, man. Not good at all.”

  “Let me ask you this, Marcus. You’ve seen me almost every day for the last five years. Whether this ends all tied up in a neat little bow or not, who am I now? Who am I without her? Is that any prettier than what happened in London, or Morocco? Or after?”

  “I can tell you right now who you are. You’re a fucking movie star.”

  “And what does that mean, exactly?”

  “What does that mean? Have you lost your damn mind, Jensen? You’re on your way to being one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood, and let me tell you, that shit don’t come around often. Not the twenty-five million a picture kind of bankable, and that’s what you’ve got going for you at this very instant. I know you hate those shit movies that we make, but they make you and me a hell of a lot of money. So, the way I see it, given that you want to keep on being a movie star, and you’d have to be a fucking idiot to not want that, you have a couple of options. You can make more shit movies and stick the cash away in a bank account. Then, you can just pay someone to punch the lights out of anyone saying that you’re a sell-out. But, hey. If you’re not happy hearing the whispers about selling out, you can lose thirty pounds to play the crackhead brother in one of those boring-as-shit art movies. You might even be able to snag yourself an Oscar. Then, you can make some more boring movies about ‘real life historical situations’ and somewhere along the line, you can direct one. Everyone will call you some kind of genius.”

  “Those are possible career paths, Marcus. That’s not a life.”

  “It is a life. Do you really think all those people in the suburbs with two and a half kids and an early midlife crisis have lives? Hell no. They’re buying cheap red convertibles and trying to pretend they’re you. I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t trade places with you in a heartbeat, Jensen. Why do you think we sell so many goddamn tickets to your shit films? We’re selling you. The lifestyle of a young, rich, ridiculously good-looking New York kid who hit the big time and went through some bad shit to emerge as America’s hero. Even the rehab thing was just a bump in the road. Everyone goes to rehab these days.”

  “Even if I’m buying all of that nonsense, and I’m not saying that I am, I’ve still only got another ten good years of getting the parts, as long as I make the right choices and don’t send my career into the shitter. What then? Twenty years of playing the dad in some bad comedy about taking care of the kids while Mom goes on a girls’ weekend? Eventually, if I’m really lucky, I get to put the old tux back on and head out to a bunch of stupid banquets where they put my name on a trophy and call it a lifetime achievement award. All the while, you and I are sitting around in some uppity restaurant, reminiscing about the good old days, when I was a real movie star, and you were a real agent. We do all of these things to avoid talking about the fact that we’ve become old hacks who are past their prime and can’t stop telling stories about girls and booze and all the shit that goes along with it. Do you really think that’s enough for me? Would it be enough for you?”

  “It was enough five years ago.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “It’s not now. Jesus, maybe I’m getting old.”

  Marcus claps a hand on my back and smiles faintly. “I think I see some wrinkles. I know a guy who can take care of those for you.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  His smiles falls away and his face darkens. “Are you sure about this?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Captain fucking obvious over here. I don’t know why I even asked. Of course you’re sure. You win, Jensen. If I know you, you already have some kind of grand plan to convince Hallie Caldwell that you’ve changed. And if I know me, I’m going along with it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have a plan. What would you say to a little party?”

  “You know I’m always down for a good party.”

  I pull the embossed invitation that I managed to extract from the garbage can. I flash it at him.

  “Want to be my plus one?”

  Chapter 9

  HALLIE

  As I step out of the cab, I see Sam standing outside in the garden, with understanding and a faint expression of sadness on his face. I take a deep breath and collect my things, ready to face the firing squad. He opens his arms and I collapse into them.

  “Let’s get you upstairs.” He breathes it into my hair, and I nod at him gratefully. Hoisting my bag over his shoulder, he pulls me behind him, and we don’t say anything, even when we reach the impeccably decorated living room.

  Marie’s photographs are everywhere, enormous blown-up shots of slightly abstracted faces and full-length portraits of people who’ve managed to capture her attention at one time or another. My eye catches on the one over the grand piano in the corner, and my breath hitches instantly.

  The three figures are blurred and hazy, but she’s manage to create the illusion of movement, the passage of time perfectly frozen in a moment of kinetic energy. It’s as if the subjects could leap out from the canvas.

  If only.

  I look first at Sam’s image. He’s making a goofy face into the camera, sticking his tongue out and reaching into the air for Marie. Even though I know it’s going to hurt badly, my eyes hone in on the pair on the other side of the frame. A man with thick, sandy-brown hair and a brilliant smile on his sun-warmed face is leaning over to tie the shoes of a curly-haired little girl with enormous blue-green eyes. She’s giggling and touching his face. It’s clear that they adore each other. It’s clear that they belong to each other.

  Ben. Grace.

  Grace.

  Damn it.

  I forgot to call my daughter to say goodnight. It’s been hours since I’ve spoken to her, and this is the first time I’ve left her for more than a day since she was born. She must be panicked. I reach down for my phone before I realize that it’s past eleven o’clock.

  I must have lost my mind.

  All notions of tapping my foot to an inaudible rhythm are gone. But even with Ben and Grace staring down at me, the warm memory of the hotel room is still bubbling in my throat, the taste of Chris’s lips is still lingering in my mouth. I can’t regret it, what we had. I swallow the shame and force myself to look at what had once been my family.

  Sam follows my stare, and he leans over to touch my arm. He takes a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Hallie. I forgot about the portrait and what it would…”

  I don’t smile, but I don’t avert my eyes from the picture, either. “Don’t be. It was a good trip. Do you remember the look on Grace’s face when she first saw the ocean? Ben was teaching her how to swim. That was our last summer at the beach house.”

  “She kept looking up at Ben and saying, ‘Do you think it goes on and on and on forever?’ She sounded like an old woman, not an extremely precocious toddler. That whole week, she kept asking, a
gain and again and again,” Sam says, watching my face carefully.

  I slow my whirring brain and try to make sense of what happened to Ben, the fire and the noise and the screaming and the horror. It doesn’t make any sense. None of it will ever make sense.

  But the picture of the man and the girl beside the ocean does. I take solace in the memory, and I’m almost able to feel the warmth of the sun, the grittiness of the sand beneath my feet. I can almost hear Ben’s deep voice and throaty laugh.

  “And he kept saying that yes, every ocean goes on and on and on forever. Until you crushed her dreams by telling her that there is an end of the ocean,” I say, as Sam touches my hand.

  I smile and turn my face to him. There’s a question in his eyes that he finally manages to put voice to.

  “What took you so long to get here, Hals?”

  The picture of Ben and Grace looms large above us. It makes it impossible for me to tell a lie.

  “I was with Chris.”

  “Please, Hallie, tell me that scumbag didn’t…”

  “He’s not a scumbag.”

  “He is.”

  “I made my fair share of mistakes, too. You only picked my side because you needed a dancing partner and Chris has two left feet.”

  Sam lets out a dramatic sigh. “Yep, that’s it. I picked you so that I wouldn’t get all embarrassed up in the club.” He grins at me and nudges my side. “What happened today?”

  I can’t tell him and I can’t lie to him, so I focus my eyes on his deep brown ones and lift my hand slightly. He groans.

  “Hallie. You know I want nothing more than for you to start living your life again. It’s what I want. It’s what Marie wants. It’s what your mom wants, and what Eva wants, and it’s what everyone else who cares about you wants. I can tell you right now that Chris Jensen is not the answer.”

  “I think it’s the only answer I was able to figure out right now.”

  Sam’s phone buzzes before he can offer a quick retort. He hands it to me with a wry look.

  “Saved by the bell. This is Marie’s fourteenth call. You better figure out a good excuse for not telling her that you were coming to town.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Africa. Shooting some fashion spread with wildlife. She’s been there for a week.”

  “So, she’ll be exhausted. She’ll be begging to get off the phone. You know what she’s like if she doesn’t get at least nine hours of sleep every night.”

  Sam chuckles, conceding my point with a little nod as I pick up the phone. Marie’s lilting tones are raised in frustration, but just the sound of her voice puts a smile on my face.

  “Samuel, if Hallie is already there and you didn’t call me the second she arrived, I really will kill you this time.”

  “Marie, it’s my fault.”

  She shrieks and I can almost see her arms dance around her, the way they always do when she’s excited.

  “Hallie, you have no idea how much I have missed you. But, how could you come to New York and not tell me? I would have come home a day early.”

  “I don’t know.” I throw up my hands helplessly, even though she can’t see me. “I really am sorry for not telling you I was coming. I know it was a mistake. I was trying to keep this trip as business-like as possible with the movie and all, and…”

  “Ah, so you are in my city for a movie deal. I knew there had to be a reason. I also know you hate New York, Hallie. Half the days, I hate New York, too. Of course, half the days I think it is the most beautiful place on the planet. So dirty. Such energy. So heartless. So alive. I do not blame you for not wanting to tell us that you were coming. You wanted to return home quickly, and we would have held you captive, because we love you and we do not see you enough.”

  Sam grabs the phone from my ear and shouts into it. “Baby, you know I don’t like it when you talk shit about my city. I’m a New Yorker. I can talk shit. You’re not a real New Yorker, even though you live here, so you cannot talk shit.”

  When Sam first told me that he was dating a half-French, half-Ethiopian model-turned photographer, I was prepared to be skeptical, particularly after the last four model girlfriends had turned out to be empty-headed (albeit decorative) gold diggers. All of my doubts were quickly dismissed when Marie had walked in to Ben’s and my house in Michigan and promptly said, “Now, where is this Hallie who lives in the flower house?” right before throwing herself into my arms.

  “So unfair, Hallie. He is always telling me this.” She says it loudly enough so that I can hear her and Sam yanks the phone away from his ear to soften the blow. “Now, put Hallie back on the phone, love.”

  Sam reluctantly hands the phone back to me. I hear Marie trying to stifle a yawn.

  “Is it finished? The deal? They will finally leave you alone?”

  “More or less.”

  “And they gave you money? Which studio? Someone Sam knows?”

  I sigh. “FFG.”

  She clucks her tongue before releasing a very slight sigh. “Well, since I am well aware of who owns FFG, I can tell you now that this sounds like the beginning of a very long story, Hallie. And long stories and red wine go together like, how do you say, peanut butter and jelly?” She sounds decidedly French at the end of her sentence, and I laugh at her. “Bordeaux, I think. A very nice Bordeaux. You and Sam can raid my wine cellar. Tell him that for you, there is always an exception.”

  “Fair enough. But only for the first bottle. Then, we can dig into the cheap stuff.”

  “And this is why you are my favorite. No, go, and drink lots of wine with my husband and laugh and try to be merry. There is a tomorrow waiting around the corner.”

  Sam must have heard her, because both of us grin at the same time. Marie’s always scattering her grandmother’s slightly ridiculous expressions in all the wrong places. Still, I can’t deny that the sentiment is appealing.

  “Love you, Marie.”

  “I love you, too, Hallie. Call me when you get home and we can talk and giggle into the phone all night like teenagers. And tell my dear husband that if he drinks another one of my good bottles without you there, there will be hell to pay when I get home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Get some sleep.”

  I hang up the phone and glance at Sam, who’s rolling his eyes in exasperation.

  “Let me guess. She recommended Bordeaux?”

  “Yep. Sure did.”

  “Bordeaux sounds like a grown up drink, and I am most certainly not a grown up. Not yet,” he says, tousling my hair affectionately. “I say we go straight for the tequila shots.”

  I laugh. “Maybe later, Sam. Maybe later.”

  “Well, we need to dig in to the wine, at the very least. I know you’re a total lightweight, but I would hate to risk Marie’s wrath when she returned home to find all of her bottles of Bordeaux lined neatly in a row. I know it’s a sacrifice, but we should at least drink one bottle.”

  “You get the wine, I’ll get the glasses.”

  “You’re a guest!” He’s mock-horrified.

  “I think I stopped being a guest a long time ago, even if I never make it to New York.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender and disappears into the room behind the kitchen as I reach into the cabinet and pull out two long-stemmed glasses. When he comes out, he opens the bottle in one deft movement and pours the thick red liquid into the bottom of my glass. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I swirl it around and around.

  “What the hell are you doing, Ellison?”

  “Um…” I’m desperately trying to remember the right words for it, from that terrible road-trip movie about wine snobs. “Letting it breathe?”

  He gives me a long sideways look. “Seriously?”

  “Screw you! I might be a secret wine aficionado.”

  I take a long gulp of the sticky liquid and almost spit it out. So, maybe not quite an aficionado. Sam merely laughs and beckons me back into the living room. There’s an old plaid chair in the corner, Marie’s only con
cession to Sam’s decorating prowess, and I plop onto it and throw my feet on the ottoman. The glass rests, heavy in my hand. I take another sip and there’s an immediate lightness in my head. I’ve never been a big drinker, but it’s been a hell of a day, and I can’t begrudge myself the little indulgence. I take another sip.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Ellison.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of inflation?”

  The look on Sam’s face tells me that he’s not letting me off the hook. His next words, however, do buy me some time to think, which I desperately need.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “I have to leave tomorrow morning.”

  “If you stay another day, you can see Marie. There’s a big party for Evenstar tomorrow. I know your favorite things in life are champagne and making small talk, so it should be right up your alley.”

  “Oh, you know me so well. I’d rather go water-skiing with alligators than go to that party.”

  “Figured it was worth a shot.”

  “I’m glad you’ve kept that fighting spirit, Sam, now that you’re a big-shot music man.”

  “Shut up, Hallie.”

  “Gladly.”

  We lapse into a comfortable silence. He knows me well enough to realize that I need some time to think.

  Sam and I became friends, real friends, the kind that don’t dress everything up in fancy words and the kind that demand answers instead of asking for them, during the first summer that I spent in New York with Chris after we got back from Prague. Chris was shooting a cop movie in Brooklyn and was on set for what felt like endless hours every day. Of course, I didn’t know a soul in the city besides Sophia Pearce, and I would rather make friends with the Central Park pigeons than call her. Luckily for me, after a very long night in which we drank too much champagne at one of his parties, Sam and I found ourselves singing the “Star-Spangled Banner” and dancing a little Irish jig on his rooftop. I had found a summer soul mate.