Catherine Coulter - Born To Be Wild

Lydia Cavendish is wearing a white suit with a bright red silk camisole that shows a good deal of cleavage. She looks more flamboyant than elegant, on the voluptuous side, and as arrogant as her eldest daughter. She’s wearing flashy diamonds at her ears, throat, and wrist. “You needn’t be so snide, Sunday,” she says and tosses her purse on a chair.

Sunday crosses her arms over her chest, remains behind her desk. “I’m very busy, Mother, though you hardly seem to have noticed I’ve even come back from that boarding school in Austria. At least you came yourself, rather than sending another of those little psychos you seem to collect. By the way, how is Bernard? In jail yet?”

Lydia walks to the sideboard, pours herself a big shot of brandy, gulps it down. “You were better off in Europe.” She throws back her head, closes her eyes. “You needn’t bother sleeping with Damian. He’s not worth it.” Sunday is shocked, opens her mouth, but says nothing as she realizes her mother is very upset, almost ready to break down.

Alarmed, Sunday walks around her desk, but no closer. “What’s wrong, Mother? Has Susan done something? Damian? You needn’t cry about Bernard, he’s a dishonest creep and we all know that now. You’re far better off without him.”

“No, this has nothing to do with Susan or with Bernard.” She’s silent again, looks around Sunday’s office, frowns a bit. “How I hate this, Sunday. I hoped you would never know. He swore he would never come back. But he’s here.”

Sunday looks down at her watch. “I’m very busy, Mother. Who’s here?”

“I didn’t have to think about him for a very long time, but lately I see his face all over the TV, he’s gotten so popular, and then of course I have to think about him. And now he’s in town. He’s here. The bastard.”

“Mother, who are you talking about? Stop being such a drama queen and tell me!”

Sunday stares at her mother, her head cocked a bit to the side. And stares, stares-

“Clear!”

Three minutes later, the women’s makeup touched up again, Todd Bickly, the stage manager, called out from the wing, “Ready, continue the scene.”

Sunday is staring at her mother. “What is this all about, Mother? Please tell me who it is you’re talking about.”

Lydia draws a big breath, fans her hands in front of her, her diamonds winking in the light. “Your father, Sunday. Your father is demanding to see you.”

Sunday leans against her desk, her arms folded over her chest. She says slowly, eyeing her mother, “My father’s dead. He died when I was only a year old. He was doing business in Cambodia, and he was kidnapped and killed.”

“Yes, that’s what I told you. He was with the Rand Corporation, and he was indeed in Cambodia, that was true. But he didn’t get kidnapped nor did he die there, more’s the pity.” Lydia picks up a crystal glass and hurls it against the far wall. A painting tilts at the impact.

“Mother-”

“You look like him, do you know that? You look exactly like his daughter, and now that he’s seen you, he wants to meet you.”

Sunday is shocked, confused. She looks blindly around her office, walks out from behind her desk to her mother, grabs her shoulders and shakes her. “Are you telling me you’ve kept me from my father all my life? Why? What did he do to you?”

“Oh, stop it, you stupid girl. It was a long time ago, but he hasn’t changed, his kind don’t ever change.”

“I can’t believe this, I really can’t.”

“For heaven’s sake, haven’t you ever wondered where you got your silly name?”

Sunday slowly shakes her head, takes a step back. “I know it’s unusual, but it’s just my name. Everyone has a name and no matter how weird it is, it’s yours. Are you saying my father named me? For some specific reason?”

“It was after he came home from Cambodia, he was a different man, hard and unreachable, and he no longer wanted me or you, but he insisted on having your name changed, forced me to do it or he wouldn’t give me a divorce.”

“You divorced him?”

“Yes. He didn’t love me, wouldn’t touch me, said he was meant for something else. He said he would give me a divorce and wouldn’t make a grab for any of my father’s money if I agreed to change your name to Sunday.”

“What was my name?”

“It was Angela.”

“Why did he pick Sunday?”

Lydia takes a big breath, stares at her lovely nails, then looks blindly toward the sideboard where there are bottles of liquor. You can tell she’d like a drink, badly.

“Mother, enough of this. Who is my father? What is his name?”

Lydia finally meets her daughter’s eyes. “It’s Phillip Galliard.”

“Who-?”

“Reverend Phillip Galliard.”

“You don’t mean the TV evangelist?”

“Oh yes, that’s exactly who I mean.”

“But my name isn’t Galliard-” She stares at her mother, eyebrows drawn together, confused.

“Clear!”

Todd stepped onto the floor, waving the script about, grinning from ear to ear. “That was excellent, just excellent. I’ll bet pins are dropping in every living room in America and you can hear them hit the floor.” He listened a moment, then tapped his earpiece. “Clyde’s screaming upstairs. He loved it!”

Mary Lisa looked hard at her home phone when it rang that afternoon, afraid it might be the crazy. Most people called her on her cell, not her house phone. And the guy didn’t have her cell phone number. But the police wanted him to call, now that they had her phone tapped. That had been one thing Jack and Detective Vasquez had set up before they’d left the day before. And Jack wanted her to improve upon her security system. Fat chance. She picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Mary Lisa.”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Your favorite paparazzo.”

“There’s no such animal in the universe. Come on now, who is this?”

“Don’t you recognize my voice? I’m the artist who got you on the cover of the Enquirer with your legs looking so fine all wrapped around Bernie Barlow’s waist.”

“Ah, Puker.”

“Puker? You called me Puker.” Outrage sounded in his voice. “You actually called me Puker?”

“If the name fits. Don’t tell me I’m your one phone call from jail.”

“No, no, I’m long out of jail, no thanks to your studio and that security guy, Frank whatever. Doesn’t anybody have a sense of humor anymore?”

“I see. It was all our fault for misunderstanding you. You’re a real jerk, Puker, and you shouldn’t be calling me, there’s a court order-”

“That’s for my corporeal self, not my voice. Listen up, Mary Lisa, I saw a guy in a dark sedan who seemed to be casing you out. He was wearing dark glasses but then he pulled them off to rub his eyes and I saw his face. I didn’t like the way he looked-real hard, you know? I snapped pics before he slid his sunglasses back on. I think he might be the guy you’re looking for.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. He was lying, he had to be, it was what he did. Of course he knew much of what happened-he was there that day, snapping pictures. He could have guessed the rest.

“Mary Lisa?”

“Okay, Puker. Let’s say you saw someone. Where was this?”

“Near the studio, on Fourth and Pine. He was parked, engine idling, wearing a baseball cap. I took some shots of him, telephoto, up close.”

“So you’re calling to give me the pictures?”

“Well, now, that depends, doesn’t it?”

“On what, you jerk?”

“He was a mean-looking guy, Mary Lisa, like he was on a mission-maybe you? Hey, it could be dangerous for me to cross someone like that by giving you these photographs. So I want something in return. All you gotta do is call off the studio, talk them into dropping the charges and forgetting about any lawsuit against me.”