Нора Робертс - Hideaway

“Good lesson,” he agreed. “But I hope she gets what she deserves. I’m more concerned with how somebody got that picture than the content. I want you to know I’ve had some strong discussions with security.”

“Okay. Okay. I shouldn’t have taken all this out on you. It’s not your fault.”

“Hold on. Second thing—and this is from your director. Use those emotions, the frustration, the rage, the fuck this shit. That’s what I want to see. Go grab something to eat, get makeup to deal with your face, then come back on set and give it to me.

“Pay her back. Pay the assholes back, and give it to me.”

She gave it to him, kept her head in the character, toughened up. And during the following weeks of production, made a decision.

She waited. An actor knew the value of timing. Besides, Christmas was coming, and this year, Christmas meant returning to the house in Big Sur for a big Sullivan clan celebration.

She’d avoided going back easily enough with work, school, her family’s need to shelter her in Ireland, then L.A.

But this year, schedules meshed, and her grandfather’s real joy at the prospect of holding a kind of full-scale holiday reunion gathered such steam she couldn’t find the heart or the will to spoil it.

She’d never told anyone but her therapist that every nightmare she suffered started at that house with the ocean crashing, the mountains looming.

But if toughening up remained the goal, she had to face it.

Just like she faced learning to drive on the right side of the road—mostly practicing on the back lots—and going through the gates to Christmas shop. Yes, it involved a decoy, a disguise, and a bodyguard, but she got out.

In any case, Christmas in Big Sur had to be more festive and less plain weird than Christmas in L.A. with the Santa Ana winds blowing in the hot and dry. Sweltering Santas in open-air malls, fake trees tipped with fake snow, shoppers in tank tops didn’t bring on images of dancing sugarplums.

Next year would be different, she promised herself.

But for now, she packed for the trip and put on her shiny, happy face. And kept it on as she strapped in for the short flight.

“We’ll get there first.” Lily scrolled through the schedule her PA had put on her phone. “That gives us all time to catch our breath before the invasion.”

Shiny, happy face, Cate thought, perfectly described Lily’s. “You can’t wait to see Josh and Miranda, the kids. I know you miss them.” Timing, Cate thought, and segues. “You’ll see a lot more of Miranda and her kids when you’re in New York. A whole year.”

“A year if the play doesn’t bomb.” Lily fussed a hand over her artistically knotted scarf. “If I don’t bomb in it.”

“As if. It’s going to be awesome. You’re going to be stupendously awesome.”

“That’s my sweets. I wipe at flop sweat every time I think about it.”

“My G-Lil never flops.”

“Always a first time,” Lily muttered and reached for her Perrier. “It’s been years since I did live theater, much less Broadway. But the chance to do Mame ? I’m just crazy enough to go for it. Workshops don’t start in New York for six weeks, so I’ve got time to get my pipes and my pins in shape.”

Before Cate could launch, Hugh leaned across the aisle. “I heard her pipes in the shower this morning. They’re in fine tune.”

“The shower ain’t Broadway, my man.”

“They’ll eat out of your hand. After all … Life’s a banquet.”

Lily gave her rolling laugh. “And most sons of bitches are starving to death. Oh, speaking of banquets, Mo texted me this morning and said Chelsea’s decided to go vegan. We’re going to have to see what the hell to feed her.”

Since she’d lost the window, Cate went back to biding her time.

If her throat went dry on the drive from the airstrip, she knew how to hide it. She used her phone as a shield, as if reading and sending texts. The perfect way to avoid making conversation, or looking out at the sea as they traveled the winding road.

Since a second car had loaded up the luggage—and the mountain of gifts—she could and would busy herself unpacking as soon as they got to the house.

Her stomach lurched when they made the turn onto the peninsula. She put her hand over the hematite bracelet Darlie had given her for Christmas. A grounding stone, Darlie claimed, to help against anxiety.

If nothing else, it brought her friend close and helped Cate hold steady when the car slowed for the gate.

It looked the same—of course it looked the same—the beautiful and unique house cantilevered on the hill with its pale, sunlit walls and archways, its red-tiled rooflines. So much glass, open to the views, the roll of green lawn rising, the big doors under the front portico.

Christmas trees flanked the doors, rising out of red urns. More stood on the terraces, and lined like soldiers along the bridge. Still more shined behind the generous windows.

Sun shot down from a pale, winter blue sky, drenching the house, the trees, and striking the snow-laced mountains, turning them into a sparkle of shadow and white.

She wished, God she wished, that she couldn’t see—so clearly—the girl she’d been, so young and trusting, walking with her mother across that rising lawn on a cool winter morning.

Her grandfather leaned over, kissed her cheek, and used the moment to murmur in her ear.

“Don’t let her come here. This isn’t her place. It never was.”

Deliberately, Cate put away her phone. She spoke clearly, her eyes on the house. “When she woke me up that morning, when she took me out to walk, it was the last time I believed she loved me. Even at ten I’d hardly ever felt it from her. But that morning I believed it. I always knew the three of you loved me. I didn’t have to believe because I knew.”

She pushed open her door the minute the car stopped, got out quickly. The air hit her face—a strong breeze. She thought it tasted blue, like the ocean. Cool and blue and familiar.

She hadn’t appreciated—what child could?—the engineering feat behind the design of the house, the way it jutted from the hill, its layers and tiers and angles both organic and elegant.

“I count at least two dozen Christmas trees.”

“Oh, there’s more.” Lily shook her hair back. “I ordered one for every room. Some are just little things, some are as big as Jack’s giant. I had one hell of a fine time planning all this.” She held out a hand. “Ready to go in?”

“Yeah.” She took Lily’s hand, and went inside.

Cate decided her grandparents had hired an army of elves to deck the many halls, from the soaring tree in the main gathering room to the trio of miniatures on the windowsill of the breakfast nook. The house smelled of pine and cranberry, and looked like a Christmas card.

In the gathering room a second tree—a family tree, Cate realized—held bright red stockings. She smiled at the one with her name embroidered across the white top.

“What with Josh married again and bringing in a second family, and babies starting to pop out here and there, we’ve got too many of us for hanging stockings on the mantel.” Hands on her hips, Lily surveyed the room. “Hugh came up with the family tree concept. I like it. It works.”

Like Lily, Cate studied the room, with its trailing greenery, fat berries, gold-dusted pine cones, the towers of candles, pyramids of poinsettias.

“Just a simple Sullivan Christmas.”

Lily let out her big, from-the-gut laugh. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. I’ve got a couple things I want to check on. You go ahead up, sweets, get settled in. We’re in Rosemary’s rooms now. You’re in the one we used to stay in. You remember where it is?”