Нора Робертс - Hideaway

“Really?”

“That’s before I end up strangling her.” He tossed the script down.

“Maybe you’d read one that doesn’t have you stupid. Or have a part for you at all.”

He eyed the one in her hand. “But one for you?”

“I got three from my agent this week. But you probably know since he’s your agent, too.”

“I heard a rumor.” Recognizing the question on her face, Hugh shook his head. “I didn’t ask Joel to send you anything, or pull any other strings. But he mentioned three came in he thought you should read—and two of them specifically asked him to send you.”

“That’s what he said. This is one of the two. Can I leave it with you?”

“Of course you can.”

Something, Cate thought. Something in his voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Why don’t you put that on my stack here, then take a walk with me? I could use the exercise, the air, the gardens.”

“Something’s wrong.” But she put down the script. “Did I screw up something with Jute?”

“You were perfect.” Rising, he came around the desk, put an arm around her as he walked her out of the office. “We should wrap next week. On time, on budget. Small miracles.”

They walked out over tiled floors the color of honey, under ceilings that soared. The Grand Salon, they called it, to highlight the baby grand piano, the silk-covered sofas, the Georgian antique tables and cabinets.

“I do have some news,” he said as he steered her toward the arching double doors. “It’s going to upset you.”

“Is something wrong with G-Lil? With you?”

“No.” He nudged her outside, across a patio to one of the garden paths. “We’re healthy as horses. I thought I’d wait until your dad was back and Lily was here, but I don’t want you to hear about it before they are.”

“You’re scaring me. Just tell me.”

“They granted Charlotte parole.”

“She’s…” Everything in her went still for a moment. She saw a butterfly, so light, so free, flutter and flutter before it landed—yellow as butter—on a deep blue flower.

“I don’t think she’ll come back here, Catey. She has to stay in the state, for now, but I don’t think she’d come back to L.A. There’s nothing for her here but derision and embarrassment.”

“How do you know she’s getting out?”

“Red Buckman keeps us informed. You remember Sheriff Buckman?”

“Yes.” And there was a dragonfly, quick and iridescent, just a flash of color, then gone.

“I remember. I write to him, and to Julia—to the family—at least once a year. Well, to Julia more than once a year.”

“Do you?” He turned her to face him. “I didn’t know.”

“I wanted them to know how I am. I wanted to know how they are. I never said goodbye before we left. I wanted to keep that connection, I guess. Um. Dillon’s in college. Red still surfs.”

A bee, baby-fist fat, whizzed past a rosebush.

So much life, all around, everywhere. Why did it feel like hers had stopped?

She stumbled as the weight dropped on her, as her lungs shut down. “I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can. Look at me, come on, Cate, right at me. In and out. Just slow breaths, in and out.”

He cupped her face in his hands, firmly, kept his eyes on hers, continued to tell her to breathe.

“Chest hurts.”

“I know. In, nice and slow, out, nice and slow.”

Years, he thought, at least three years since she’d had a full-scale panic attack. Goddamn Charlotte to hell.

“Let’s go sit now. I’ll get you some water.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You don’t have to. She’ll never be welcome here, never come through those gates. Your father has full custody, remember?”

Grieving for her, Hugh walked her back toward the house. “You’re nearly eighteen in any case. My baby girl’s nearly of age.”

“Sparks and Denby.”

“Years yet. Years. And no reason to ever come near you again. Here, sit. We’ll sit by the pool. Ah, Consuela.”

She must have seen him supporting Cate as he would an accident victim, he realized, by the way she ran out of the house. “Would you bring us out some water?”

As she dashed back in, he eased Cate into a chair under an umbrella. “We’re going to sit here in the shade, breathe some fresh air.”

“I’m all right. I’m all right. I just … I convinced myself they’d make her stay in prison for the full ten years. It helped to believe that. But it doesn’t matter.”

She swiped at the cold sweat on her face. “It’s not going to matter. Please, don’t tell Dad I panicked like that. He’ll worry for weeks, and I’m all right.”

Crouched in front of her, Hugh rubbed her hands. “I won’t say anything. Listen to me now, Caitlyn. She can’t hurt you anymore. There’s nothing for her in this town. She was a low-rent actress before she went to prison.”

“I think she married Dad for the name, for the boost. I think she had me for the same reason. It’s good press.”

“I’m not going to disagree with you. Oh, Consuela, thank you.”

He straightened as the cook, her worried eyes on Cate, hustled out with a tray—a pitcher of water with ice and lemon slices swimming, glasses, and a cold damp cloth.

She set down the tray, poured the water, took the cloth.

Gently, she dabbed the cloth over Cate’s face.

“Mi pobre niña,” she murmured.

“ Estoy bien , Consuela. Estoy bien .”

“You drink some water, my good girl.” She pressed a glass into Cate’s hand. “Mr. Hugh, please sit, please drink some water. I’m going to make a nice lunch for you both, and the lemonade my Cate likes so. You’ll feel better.”

“Thank you, Consuela.”

“De nada.” She gestured for Cate to drink more water, then hurried back into the house.

“I’m okay. I’m better,” Cate told Hugh. “And I know better, I do, in my head. She’s never cared about me, so why would she want to or try to see me now? I know better. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies. I’ll say one more thing about Charlotte, then we’re going to sit out here and talk of pleasant things. I don’t know, and never have known, how such a small-minded, weak, no-talent, heartless bitch of a woman ever gave birth to someone like you.”

It made her smile. “The Sullivan genes are strong.”

“Damn right.” He lifted his glass, toasted, studying her as he drank. “There’s Dunn in there, too, because, my God, you look more like your grandmother, more like Liv, every day.”

Cate tugged at her mop of blue bangs. “Even with this?”

“Even with that. Now, tell me about the part you’re after.”

“Well, she’s nothing like Jute. She’s the oldest of three, trying to cope when her widowed father relocates the family from an Atlanta suburb to L.A. for a job.”

“Atlanta. Southern accent.”

Cate cocked an eyebrow, and spoke in a smooth Georgia drawl. “I think I can handle it.”

“You always could do that,” Hugh said. “Nail a voice. All right, tell me more.”

She told him, had her lemonade, shared lunch with him among the flowers and butterflies. And put all thoughts of her mother aside.

That night, half asleep, the TV on for company, the lights low, the phone still in her slack fingers let out the quick hip-hop riff signaling an incoming call.

Groggy, eyes still closed, she answered. “It’s Cate.”

She heard singing first—her voice, a child’s voice. A couple of bars from the number she’d done with her grandfather in the movie they’d made in Ireland.

It made her smile.

Then she heard someone scream.

She shot up in bed, eyes wide.

Someone laughed—it sounded wrong. And over the laugh came her mother’s voice.