“Okay.” He hesitated. “Can I say how much I’ll miss you?” He worked his fingers between hers.
Katy felt her breath catch in her throat. “Dayne . . .”
“I know. I have other things to take care of. But still . . .” He looked very serious. “I’ll miss you like I have since the last time I saw you. More with every passing hour.”
They said another minute of good-byes, and then she watched him leave, watched him walk to his car and turn around to look at her one last time. It was still strange, knowing that this guy—the one she fell a little harder for every time they were together—was America’s Dayne Matthews. The Hollywood heartthrob and this man walking away from her now seemed like two different people.
He waved and held his hand in the air longer than usual. Even through the dim glow of the parking lot lights, Katy could see his eyes glistening. She watched him climb into his car and pull away. Before his red taillights disappeared down Main Street, she set to work making good on her promise.
Then and all the way home, she prayed for Dayne as she’d never prayed for him before. That he’d go to Mexico and spend time with his missionary friend and come away with a better understanding of mission work, that he’d find peace with the issue of his adoptive parents and their decision—the way Dayne saw it—to choose God over him. She prayed that Dayne would find out who he was, who he really wanted to be. But most of all she prayed something deeper.
That maybe—just maybe—he would allow God to find him.
Dayne changed his mind five times in the next week.
He reserved a flight from Los Angeles International Airport to Mexico City twice and twice canceled the reservation. The principle filming for his current project was finished, but they had only four days and then the director had asked the cast to be available for reshoots. Angie Carr had invited him to spend the time at her place in the Bahamas. When he turned her down, she asked one of the other leading men—an actor living with his current girlfriend.
“Tom’s going with me.” She told him the last day of shooting. “Your loss, Dayne.”
He winked at her. “As always, Angie.” They’d survived the shoot with humor. He intrigued her, for sure. Mostly because he’d held off her advances—something very few men in Hollywood had ever done.
Even with his costars leaving town, he still figured he wouldn’t go to Mexico. But every time he reached that decision, he heard Katy’s voice asking him when he was going to Mexico. “That’s what I’ll be praying for . . . praying for . . . praying for.”
In the end, there was no way he could let her down. He’d already done that once when he’d asked Kelly to move in with him.
When he made the airline reservation the third time, he didn’t cancel. Now he was on an Airbus minutes from landing at the Mexico City Airport, wondering what he was doing.
Once he’d made up his mind, he’d called Bob again just two days ago. Like before, Bob answered the phone with the same tone Dayne remembered from their years in school together. Upbeat and eternally optimistic. “This is Bob . . .”
“Bob Asher.” Dayne had felt the years begin to drift away. He’d been sitting at his kitchen table, looking out at the ocean and one of the bluest days of spring. “It’s Dayne. I made up my mind.”
“I knew you would.” There was a youthfulness in Bob’s voice, as if life continued to be one long adventure and Bob was sitting at the helm enjoying the ride. “When does your plane come in?”
Dayne had given him the details. “I wonder what old Eunice would think, the two of us together again.” He chuckled. “Eunice, remember her? Bouffant hair?”
“That’s right.” Bob’s laugh was easy and contagious. “We spent our share of afternoons with dear old Eunice.”
They had talked for ten minutes before Dayne felt as though the two of them had never lost touch. Dayne could feel himself relaxing, falling into a simpler way of life, a simpler understanding of how everything worked.
“Rosa’s not much of a movie watcher, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.” Dayne heard the smile in his own voice. “I’m not either. Too busy working.”
“I guess.” Admiration filled Bob’s tone. “You took that drama stuff pretty seriously, huh, friend? I watched one of your films a year ago when I was back in the States fund-raising.” He paused. “You’re something else.”
Dayne downplayed his career and promised to tell Bob all about it when they were together.
“We have a street ministry scheduled. Otherwise the weekend’s open.”
“No problem.” Dayne didn’t want to ask what a street ministry entailed; it didn’t matter. “I’ll just tag along for a few days.”
“I’m glad you decided to come.”
“Me too.”
For a beat, Bob was quiet. “Everything’s okay, right?”
Dayne had his mouth open, ready to say yes. Sure, everything was fine. But if he wasn’t honest now, it would be harder to be honest in person. “Not really.” He sighed, and the sound traveled over the phone line. “I told you. I’m looking for something, Asher. You always . . . I don’t know, you always seemed to get it better than I did. Figure I’ll come and watch you, maybe talk a little and who knows? I might even figure it out.”
Now, here he was—first day of the break—landing in Bob’s home city. It took half an hour to get through customs, and only a handful of people gave him a second glance. He wore Dockers and a solid navy T-shirt. The hooded sweatshirt and baseball cap stayed at home, but he kept the sunglasses. Not that he’d needed them yet. This was Mexico City, not Cabo San Lucas or Cancún. Americans traveling to Mexico City weren’t on vacation; they were on business—too busy to care if a movie star was in their midst.
Dayne spotted Bob as he waited for his bag. His friend was on his cell phone and looked like he was wrapping up a conversation.
Dayne was surprised at his childhood friend’s appearance. He’d pictured him with long hair and a beard, wearing a gauzy shirt, maybe, and old blue jeans. The image of his parents when they were on the mission field. But Bob looked nothing like them. He was tan and clean-cut and in better shape than he’d been in when they were seniors in high school. With his khaki pants and casual, white, button-down shirt, he looked more like a geologist.
Dayne grabbed his bag and headed toward his friend, just as Bob closed the cell and scanned the crowd.
When their eyes met, Bob’s face broke into a grin. He pumped his fist in the air. “Hey!”
Dayne suddenly felt choked up. Why had he let so much time pass without calling? He hadn’t seen Bob for ten years, not since Bob had had a weekend layover in LA and the two had met for lunch. The people Dayne spent time with in Hollywood—at the clubs and premiere events—weren’t friends. They were people with a common lifestyle. A lifestyle of glitz and fame and staying one step ahead of the paparazzi.
In a rush, everything about life as he knew it felt cheap and plastic compared to seeing Bob, compared to the genuine joy and deep recognition Dayne saw in his eyes.
Dayne set down his bag and gave his friend the sort of rough hug usually reserved for brothers. And that’s what Bob had been, really. His brother. His best friend and only brother from the time he was four years old until he left the boarding school the day after graduation.
Dayne took a step back and put his hands firmly on Bob’s shoulders. “You look great. Life in Mexico must be good.”
“You too.” Bob gave him a strong pat on the arm. “It’s been too long, man. Way too long.”
For a few seconds, Dayne’s emotions tried to tighten his throat, but he swallowed and found his voice again. “It has. I was trying to figure it out.” He reached for his bag. “That lunch in LA was what, ten years ago?”
“I think so.” Bob glanced at the luggage conveyor belt. “Just the one?”
“Yep. Travel light. That’s my motto.”
“Well, the Jeep’s this way.”
Dayne kept in step with Bob.
As they walked, the strain and sorrow of the past few weeks seemed to fade away. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? The flight had been nothing . . . and already he could sense it would be worth every minute.
They made small talk as they headed toward the parking lot. Bob explained that the weather was cooler than usual, in the seventies and only mild humidity.
“I can tell you this; for March it makes LA feel cold.”
Bob opened the hatchback, and Dayne swung his bag inside.
Once they were on the road, Bob explained that he and his wife, Rosa, lived only half an hour from the airport. “Five miles, but it’ll take us thirty minutes. Mexico City is unbelievable, man. Packed with people.”
As they drove, Bob asked him about his latest film project.
“I worked with Angie Carr. She’s one of the A-list actresses these days.” Dayne stared out the windshield. Bob was right. Congestion was an enormous understatement. There were people everywhere, teeming along the highway and side streets and even in the alleyways between the buildings.
“Hmm. I’ve heard of her, I think. Dark hair?”
“Yeah. She’s talented.” Dayne left it at that. No need to get into the hazards of his job. Not yet anyway.
“I saw a magazine a few months back with pictures of you and—” Bob glanced at him—“what’s her name? Kelly someone.”
Dayne turned his attention to his friend. “Kelly Parker.”
“Right.” Bob had his right arm straight out in front of him, gripping the wheel the same way he’d done back when they first got their driver’s licenses. He shrugged one shoulder. “I told you. We’re pretty out of touch with the movie industry.”
A smile tugged at Dayne’s mouth. “You have no idea how refreshing that is.” Dayne stared at Bob a moment longer. Bob really didn’t know, didn’t follow America’s pop culture. None of the Hollywood names had a household ring to a man living Bob Asher’s life here in Mexico City.
Dayne relaxed in his seat. During the next fifteen minutes he told Bob what his life was like. “My days are pretty predictable. Either filming—gone first thing in the morning and home long after dinnertime—or hiding from the paparazzi.”
Bob made a face at him. “Come on. It isn’t that bad.”
“That magazine you saw—” Dayne gave him a wary look—“did you read it or just skim it?”
“Saw your picture, smiled big, prayed for you like I always do, and then put it back on the rack.”
At the mention of prayer, Dayne hesitated. “You pray for me . . . seriously?”
“Of course.” Bob laughed, the easy laugh of someone at peace with everything about himself. “All the time.”
“You ever think of calling?” Dayne was teasing, resorting to what was comfortable. But in the deeper places of his heart he was reveling in the thought. Bob was praying for him. Bob and Katy. And somewhere in Bloomington John Baxter was probably praying for him too, even though he had no idea who Dayne was.
“Sure, Dayne.” Bob grinned. “How many cell numbers have you had since the last time I saw you?”
It hit Dayne then that for a moment he’d forgotten he was famous. He’d asked the question like a normal person: “Ever think of calling?” As if it wasn’t ludicrous for anyone to think of picking up the phone and calling Dayne Matthews. “Yeah—” he winced—“maybe a dozen.”
“I knew it would happen one day.” A warm breeze made its way through Bob’s half-open window. It made the atmosphere even more relaxed, easier.
“What?”
Another grin. “You’d call. Every time I prayed for you I had that same sense. One day you’d call.”
A chill passed over Dayne’s arms and down his neck. He wasn’t ready for this conversation yet, but still . . . every time Bob prayed he had the sense that one day he’d get a call from his old boarding-school buddy? “Anyway, the answer is yes. It is that bad. It’s crazy bad.” Dayne drew in a slow breath. “You can’t believe the stuff they look for. If there’s a clear shot, they’ll take a picture. Anytime, anywhere. You can wind up in the tabs midsneeze or maybe picking your teeth after dinner. They’ll make up their own story. ‘Dayne Matthews Scowls at Waiting Fans’ or ‘Dayne Matthews: Does He Own Dental Floss?’”
Bob laughed, but it wasn’t as lighthearted as before. “That’s crazy. That why you’re here?”
“Maybe.” He stared through the passenger-side window at the sky overhead. Mexico City could definitely hold its own in a smoggy-sky contest with LA. “I’m not completely sure why I’m here.” He looked at Bob. “It just felt right.”
“Well, good.” Bob grinned.
And in that grin, Dayne knew exactly what his old friend was saying.
The visit felt right to him too.
Bob’s house was sandwiched between a whole string of houses just like his. Dayne guessed the place wasn’t more than a thousand square feet tops. There was a main room with a small kitchen built into one corner, a table and chairs in another, and in the front of the room, a coffee table between two thinly padded love seats. There was no TV anywhere. Bob had already told him the place had two bedrooms, each probably smaller than Dayne’s master closet in Malibu.
But what his friend’s place lacked in size and substance, it made up for in warmth and love. Rosa met them at the door, and Dayne was drawn to her instantly. She was a tall woman with a beautiful dark-haired baby on her hip. Playing near her feet was another child, equally dark-haired but with paler skin and blue eyes.
In broken English she welcomed Dayne, kissed Bob on the lips, put the baby on the floor, and hurried back to the kitchen, where she had pots or frying pans on all four burners.
The little girl grabbed hold of Bob’s leg. “Daddy, pick me up!”
Bob swung the child into his arms and twirled her once. “How’s my little Angel?”
“I’m a happy Angel, Daddy.” She had an accent, but her English sounded perfect.
He took a step toward Dayne. “This is our oldest daughter, Angel. She’s three and very bilingual.” He turned to her. “Say hi to Mr. Matthews.”
“Hi.” She hid her face behind her dad’s shoulder.
“And down there on the floor—” Bob eased Angel back to the floor—“is Anna. She’s just eighteen months.” Bob winked at Dayne. “We don’t get much company from the States. I told Rosa not to worry because it was just Dayne Matthews and—” he rubbed his knuckles on his own shoulder, his grin wide—“I won best actor in the boarding school’s production of Snow White our senior year. Not you.”
Dayne gave Bob a knowing look. “Because you played the mirror, and I played Prince Charming. You had the other kids in stitches from the moment you took the stage, and I got—”
“Purple tights and pointed gold shoes.”
“Exactly.” Dayne crossed his arms. He loved this, loved the easygoing banter he and Bob had always shared. “I still have those purple tights somewhere.”
“Anyway—” Bob pointed his thumb in Rosa’s direction—“she didn’t care if you didn’t win. Still wanted to roll out the red carpet.”
“She didn’t need to do that.”
“I tried to tell her.” Bob looked at his wife, and she—maybe sensing his gaze—did a half turn and smiled at him. It was a flirty grin, and it gave a glimpse into the private love the two clearly shared. At her feet on the floor, Angel was showing the baby how to play with measuring cups.
The picture was like something from a painting, something Ashley Baxter Blake would dream up. Rosa, working hard in the kitchen, her babies playing underfoot. Still, she shouldn’t have gone to any trouble. He was no more special than anyone else just because he made movies.
Dayne leaned against the nearest wall. “Hey,” he whispered, “I thought she didn’t know who I was.”
“Hmm?” Bob looked confused. Then a light dawned in his eyes. “Oh, you mean that you’re famous? that part?”
“Yeah.” Dayne gave a single laugh. “That’s why all the fuss over dinner
, right?”
It took a moment, but suddenly Bob chuckled under his breath. “Dayne—” he tossed out a look that said Dayne was maybe a few crayons short of a box—“what you do for a living isn’t something that concerns her. You’re my friend; you’re from the United States. That’s all that matters. It’s like that with the Mexican culture. They’re big on people.”
Dayne wanted to crawl under the door, rewind the scene, and start over again. Was he that out of touch? Had Hollywood turned him into a person who expected to be recognized, someone who figured any nice thing done on his behalf was because of his fame and status?
Bob seemed to know what Dayne was feeling. He gave him a teasing slap on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it.” His eyes danced. “You’re used to someone making a big fuss.”
Before, Dayne would’ve chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d responded that way when someone commented on what a rough job it must be, acting with Hollywood’s leading ladies and being doted on everywhere he went. But he couldn’t bring himself to even smile about the idea now. He felt his eyes grow distant. “For all the wrong reasons, Asher.”
Bob’s smile dropped off. For the first time since the airport, his eyes grew deep, more serious. “I can imagine.”
They sat at the kitchen table, and Bob poured them each a glass of iced tea.
Dayne took in everything around him, drank it all in: the smell of cooked beans, the smallness of the place, the intimacy. How wonderfully refreshing Rosa was, steeped in her culture and heritage, giving Bob private knowing glances and smiles every few minutes, happy to make a big homemade dinner simply because it was a way to honor her husband, a way to welcome her husband’s friend.
“Hey, Asher,” Dayne said from across the table, “you have any idea how lucky you are?”
“Not lucky.” And there it was again. The depth in Bob’s eyes. “Blessed. I thank God every day for my family.” He spread his arms. “My home, our health. All of it.”
Bob lived in a simple stone dwelling, with a hard-tile floor and three windows in the entire place. Yet he thanked God every day for what he had. The thought was enough to make Dayne’s head spin. When was the last time he thanked God for everything he had? Or when had he ever done such a thing?