“What about what you don’t tell me?”
“You picked up on that distinction, huh?”
She turned, crossed her arms, and spoke, looking away. “When I was first getting started, I signed a few contracts without really reading the fine print. I was just happy to get in front of the camera and, as it turns out, so were the producers, just with less clothes than when I walked in.” She shrugged. “Now, or rather up until a few days ago, I’d learned to say, ‘define minor nudity.’ Doing so kept me out of more than one tight spot. I know how that must sound. You’ve probably seen my movies and you’re thinking, ‘But I’ve seen you take your clothes off and walk across the screen in your birthday suit—’ ”
I held up a stop-sign hand. “I haven’t been to a movie in over ten years and I can’t say for sure if I’ve ever seen one of yours.”
A pause while it sank in. “Really?”
“It’s nothing personal. I don’t own a TV, so—”
She pursed her lips, her bottom sticking out farther than her top. One eyebrow rose above the other. Her mind calculating. “So, back to the trust thing—”
“It’s your call.”
“So, I shouldn’t trust you past the point where we are now?”
“At what ‘point’ are we?”
“No longer uncomfortable.”
I scratched my beard. “Probably a good call.”
She shook her head. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re not good and I can’t believe in you.” Her head tilted ever so slightly sideways. She was baiting me. “Is that really what you want me to think?”
“In my experience, trust is built over time and we haven’t had much of that. So, let’s—”
She shook her head once. “I once spent two years of my life living with a man who I thought would be the father of my children only to discover one night when I flew home early from a set that he was trying to be the father of my manager’s children.” The other eyebrow climbed to meet the first. She pointed at my journal. “You ask me if I trust you? You’re writing in a journal, quietly, while I walk and talk around you. Several months ago, the firm that handled my publicity, in their infinite wisdom, hired this”—she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers—“ ‘writer.’ So, I could tell him my story and he could write it and the world could love me more and we could charge more and so they could make more money. Anyway, they told me they’d done their due diligence, that he’d written lots of stories and that I could trust him. He was handsome. They were in a rush to get it published, and he was willing to start right away. Said not to worry about the writer’s contract, that lawyers took forever and he trusted me that it would all work out fine. Said I could trust him. Gave me his”—more quotation marks—“ ‘word.’ So, I did. Some of my secrets.” She shrugged. “Not all. Hardly any, to be honest. Anyway”—she made quotation marks in the air again—“my ‘biographer’—”
I cut her off. “You’re talking about the guy I met in town with the tattoos climbing up his neck and the black fingernails?”
A short nod. “Tricky Dick.”
“You liked that guy?”
No response. She continued. “He spent weeks interviewing me, showing me drafts. He asked a lot of questions. Asked about my childhood, which I’ve always been notoriously private about. I didn’t talk about that, at least. But thanks to the paparazzi, there was still plenty of material for him to work with. My management team felt this would be my chance to set the record straight.
“I told him how I’d been in a downward slide, had managed to hide it for years. But then my weight started to drop. The papers spread questions that led to rumors. A doctor prescribed something to take the edge off. Combat the circles beneath my eyes.
“A pill here. A little sleep there. Another doctor’s order almost anywhere. I cycled much like regular folks and then the pain would pile up, I’d give in, pop the top off the bottle. Pretty soon I was eating them like Skittles. Sold-out shows were canceled.
“I checked myself into this treatment center for the burned out and soon to be burned up. My people kept it a secret. A hundred and sixty thousand later I was back on the stage, clean, and judging by my outward appearance, stronger than ever. Somewhere, some group gave me another award. Another spotlight. Another movie. Another number one. And then there was this biography that was supposed to tell how I’d gotten through it all.
“Anyway, my”—she held both hands in the air for more quotation marks—“ ‘biographer’ fills up this recorder and goes off to write it. Next thing I know, instead of sending me the draft to review, he’s selling my precious story to the highest bidder. Because he never signed a contract, there was little we could do to stop him. Where I hadn’t answered his questions, he filled in the blanks on his own, altering the context and many of the facts. By the time he was through, I looked like a very different person than when I look in the mirror. And he didn’t even know the worst parts.” Her finger unconsciously traced the scar on her wrist and then her hand traced the outline of the angered collar on her neck. She made eye contact with me. “In my experience, ‘time’ doesn’t prove one trustworthy and has very little to do with trust.”
“Then, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me.”
“But I want to.”
“Then do.”
“But you just said, ‘don’t.’ ”
“Okay, don’t.”
A long pause. “Don’t you want people to trust you?”
“Did you learn to do that in acting?”
“What?”
“Pause like that. It was ‘pregnant.’ ”
“The camera does strange things to time. My timing is hardwired.”
I shook my head. “No. That’s why I live out here and why you and Steady are the only two people who know I exist.”
“Do you have family?”
“None that I know of.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“I know how to fish.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Will you teach me?”
“You want to learn?”
“I want to learn to do a lot of things I’ve never done.”
“You’ve never been fishing?”
She shook her head.
“Really. As in, never?”
“Not once.”
I tried to process this and spoke out loud. “That’s like saying, ‘I’ve never taken a breath before.’ ”
“So—” She slid her hand inside mine.
“I tend to spend a lot of long hours on the boat. Often daylight to dark, and the only bathroom is the one off the back. As in, out in the open. Sound travels. Not much privacy.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Is this important to you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She held on to my hand for a bit longer. “Before we go, tell me one thing about yourself.”
“Why must you know?”
“What’s the harm? Just one thing. I mean—” She waved her hand across the cabin, Evinrude. “How can you afford all this? We both know you’re no hermit. No man devoted to penance and prayer. And I’m pretty sure your name isn’t Sunday.”
She was good. A quick study. “I was in manufacturing. I owned a company. Took it public. Sold it at the height. Made some residuals off recurring sales. Now I fish.”
She had yet to let go of my hand. “And hide.”
I nodded. “Yes, I do that, too.”
“And your name?”
“I’d rather not.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Yeah, it’s getting you to talk that’s the tough part.” She tapped her front teeth with her fingernail. “Guess you’re stuck with ‘Gilligan.’ ”
She eyed me. As in, walked up and down me with her eyes. She said, “Is it difficult for you to be around me? I mean—” She ran her fingertips along the curves of her figure.
I shook my head.
“No. Not really.”
“So, if I sunbathe without my bathing suit, you’re okay with that.”
I bit my bottom lip. “I’d probably go fishing while you did that.”
She shrugged me off. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”
“I’ve tried not to think about it.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause Steady asked me to care for you. Not—”
She nodded, half smiling. “You don’t need to be so flattering. It took a lot of money for me to look this way.”
“Really?”
She pointed to her chin. Then her nose. Above her eyes. And finally, her breasts.
“Well—”
She chuckled. “Your face is turning red.”
“Look, I don’t have a whole lot of experience with women.”
“You gay?”
“No, I just mean I don’t date much.”
“When was the last time you went on a date?”
“About eleven years ago.”
“You ever been married?”
I shook my head.
She raised an eyebrow. She was a quick study. “You ever been with a girl?”
“Define ‘been.’ ”
“You know… ‘been.’ ”
I shook my head.
“How old are you?”
“Fortyish.”
Her disbelief was difficult to hide. “You’re over the hump and you’ve never slept with a woman?”
I didn’t respond.
She put both hands on her hips. “Come on. Are you telling me the truth? I thought everybody had slept with somebody, or lots of somebodies, by the time they were your age.”
“Never found the right—”
“The last romantic. Somebody should make a movie about you.” She looked away, her mind spinning. “If I were still alive, I’d direct it and with your Coppertone face and island-man hair the tickets would sell like hotcakes.”
“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m being serious. I mean you’re… you’re not normal. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who hasn’t been with a woman, and didn’t want to be with me.” I kept my mouth shut. She sat. “I guess maybe you would have a tough time with me sunbathing in my birthday suit.” She curled up one side of her lip. Sucked through her teeth. “You sure you’re not gay? I mean, it’s okay if you—”
I nodded. “Pretty sure.”
“How do you know?”
I turned away, smiling. “I just know.”
She laughed. “Your face is really red.” One hand on her hip. “Just how much did you see on my balcony and the back end of my boat?”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“Yeah, but you still ‘saw’ me. You’re human, right?”
“Yep.”
“So, how much?”
“Enough.”
She threw a pencil at me. “There I was the whole time thinking you were some guy like Steady.”
I stared east through the mangroves toward Miami. A pause. “I’m nothing like Steady.”
She stepped closer. This was the most talkative she’d been. And she’d just stepped into and violated the unspoken and yet consciously observed bubble of my personal space. “What do you mean?”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I was.”
“How so?”
I paused. Tried to put it into words. “He sees clearly.” I opened the screen door. “For what it’s worth, I’ve talked more with you in the few days I’ve known you than any person other than Steady for the last decade.” She took another step. “Combined.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?” It was a sincere question.
“Haven’t wanted to.”
She nodded, once. A long, purposeful blink. “Then—thank you for the gift of that.”
So while the world searched, mourned, and tried to make sense of Katie’s death, Steady returned to Miami, and I taught a Hollywood icon with her own star on the Boulevard how to bait her own hook, how to throw a spinning reel, how to read the surface of the water, how to tie a double surgeon’s knot, how to connect leader to braid, and how to rub lime juice on her hands to get rid of the fishy smell.
All was not Edenic. Hurdles appeared. Not insurmountable. Just unexpected. The first morning, sunlight just breaking the treetops, I offered her a pole and a live shrimp. Still kicking. Her top lip curled. “Do I have to put that nasty, smelly thing on that hook?”
I considered this. “No.” I offered the pole again. “But if you want to catch a fish, it helps.”
She gritted her teeth, baited her hook, and we fished in silence. Easy with one another. Not talking. Not filling the air with nervous chatter. She didn’t feel the need to give me her résumé detailing the worlds she’d conquered and I didn’t pepper her with questions about what it was like to be her. We sat in the quiet, on the edge of the world where the Glades melted into the islands, casting across the current and letting arms of the mangroves envelop us in shade and easiness.
We watched each other out of the corners of our eyes. Comfortable but not demanding comfort. When she did talk, she did so in passing. Not in an effort to justify, but understand. Make sense of.
I listened. Something I’ve always been good at. Steady says the ocean is the bosom of God—if it is, then cradled there in that faraway place, we nursed.
And with every quiet moment that passed, every hook baited, every fish landed, every word unspoken, my wall—my very fortified, very carefully constructed, very calculated, protected, unscalable, and impenetrable wall—began cracking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Four days later, the call came in from Steady. I picked him up in the airboat and returned him to the island, where we found Katie comfortable on the porch. Hands in her lap. A thought on her mind, but not yet on her tongue.
We went inside.
He emptied his satchel and set the newspapers on the table. “They buried you.” She picked up the papers, studying the pictures. The color in her face had slowly returned—mixed now with hours in the sun. And yes, I’d long since had the thought that she was in fact the most beautiful human being I’d ever been this close to. She asked, “What’d they bury?”
“Memorabilia. Ticket stubs. Show programs. Posters. A scarf you sold for charity. Some jeans they said were your favorite.” He waved his hand across an imaginary area of the table. “You’ve got your own section of the cemetery. It’s a mausoleum, complete with all-night lighting and twenty-four-hour security paid for by your estate that, thanks to you, I’m now overseeing. Although…” A slight chuckle. “I’m soon to be embroiled in a nasty lawsuit with ex number three.”
She waved him off. “All bark. No bite.” She sat, reading the articles. Clicking her teeth on a single fingernail. She turned the article sideways, studying it. She nodded. “Yeah, I did like those jeans.”
Steady had some questions, but he let her finish. When she laid down the papers, he opened his mouth but she beat him to the punch. Her words were cleanly articulated and echoed around the inside of the cabin. “I need to go to France.” She said this with the same tone of voice with which she might order a Diet Coke.
Both our heads turned. I suppose our open jaws prompted her to explain. She drew a picture of the country of France in the air. “France. You know, west of Italy. North of Spain.” She nodded. “You’ve seen pictures.”
Steady sat back, realizing she’d made up her mind. He knew her pretty well. “I suppose you’re going whether I like it or not.”
“Oh, you’ll like it ’cause you’re going with me.”
Steady looked caught off guard. “What?”
“It’s your fault. You got me into this mess. I’m dead because of you.”
I admit, I liked the thought of getting her off my boat and returning to my uncomplicated life. “I think that’s a great idea.”
He tapped his chest. “Sorry. Bum ticker. Can’t fly. Doctor’s orders.”
She crossed her arms,
chewed on her lip, and turned to look at me.
I didn’t like what I saw.
She considered me for some time. Finally, she nodded. “You’ll have to take his place. As long as you don’t get in my way.”
Being around her was like riding Space Mountain at Disney World. I looked at both of them. “Me? Why me?”
Steady smiled. “She obviously can’t go alone.” He placed his hand across his heart. “I can’t go and you’re the only other person who knows she’s still alive.” A shrug.
I spoke to both of them, shaking my head. “That does not mean I have to go.”
She protested loudly. Reminded me of Veruca Salt in the chocolate factory. When I didn’t react, she took a breath and said, “This is serious.”
“I’m being serious.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not even listening to me.”
“Yeah, I did. You said you wanted me to go to France and I said no.”
Steady interrupted. “She needs you.”
His support of her was not what I had in mind. “She doesn’t need me. She needs a priest and probably a good shrink.”
She turned her thumbs in her lap, whispering below her breath. “It’s important.”
My voice rose. “What could possibly be important in France? I just helped you blow yourself to bits in the Gulf of Mexico!”
She crossed her arms.
Steady was still trying to get her point across. He patted me on the shoulder. “You should definitely go.”
I looked at him like he had lost his mind and wondered how he’d gotten out of this so easily. He, of all people, should know that I couldn’t go to France. I said, “You haven’t answered my question.”
She looked at me and spoke without emotion. “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.”
I knew it was French, but I had no idea what it meant. My deer-in-the-headlights stare convinced her of this. She said, “ ‘The heart has its reasons that reason ignores completely.’ ”
“You make that up?”
A single shake. “Pascal.”
She had me there but I tried not to let on. “Quoting dead philosophers sounds great but it’s not getting me to France.”
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and spoke with conviction. “Writers die, not their words.” Had me there, too.