Butterfly Tattoo (8 page)

What I didn’t admit is that I do know there are secrets in that house. I sense them all around the place, especially around Andrea. Heavy things Michael’s not able to tell me yet. I wonder if he ever will be. And I wonder if Alex went to his grave bearing those same mysteries and unspoken truths.

Trevor wonders aloud why Michael didn’t just tell me he’d been “married” to a man, and with that, nudges just a little too close to my own reservations. That’s when I deftly change the current of conversation, laughing about the occasional duplicity of the gay male—present company excluded, at least ordinarily. “Which makes a perfect segue to Julian’s manuscript proposal,” I encourage, steering us out of the treacherous waves and into safety.

“Oh, thanks, love. Appreciate that, I truly do.”

“You did keep it from me,” I remind him with a cheery laugh.

“Only temporarily. I was going to show it to you on Monday.” He reaches for the engraved cigarette case on his marble-topped coffee table. “Mind?” He taps one out, and I shake my head as he fingers his familiar black Zippo. Unlike with Ed’s chain-smoking, Trevor’s fast cigarette won’t aggravate my asthma very much.

There’s the sound of flint striking metal, the momentary pause of quick inhalation, followed by a soft swoosh as he blows smoke away from me. I watch a silver gray ribbon curl into the lamplight. “Terrible habit. Must quit soon.” We both know better, but we also know the comfort that self-deception can bring.

“When you give me permission, I’ll become your nag hag.”

“Not yet.” He waves me off with a slight cough. “Every good boy must have at least one bad habit.”

“I thought you already had that covered,” I tease, and his dark eyes narrow in confusion. Then he gets it, and there’s that wide, open smile of his that I love so much.

“Yes, well Julian
is
bad.” He giggles like a girlfriend. “At least we both agree on that point.”

“But his proposal is freaking amazing!” I slap my hands together emphatically, feeling generous all of a sudden. All hail scotch whiskey! Then, just as suddenly, I grow somber again. “I don’t have to love him to see that.”

“It’s his best work yet. You should read the chapters…” He takes another long drag on his cigarette. For a moment he stares thoughtfully across the room, at the antique bookcases filled with cracked, leather-bound volumes of classic novels and poetry. Books I know he brought from England, probably from Julian’s place. From the flat they once shared during their glory days together.

“He’s gone deeper. To places I still wish I could go. That I may never go.” He hesitates, and there’s a haunted silence that I wish I could fully comprehend. When he finally speaks again, it’s in hushed, reverent tones. “He hasn’t had a drink in four months, Rebecca. And what it’s done for his work almost frightens me. To realize how truly brilliant he is. If only he
will
be. It makes me wish I were something that I’m not,” he confesses, glancing sideways at me.

I sit upright, turning to face him. “Trevor, you’re a great writer.”

But being a great writer isn’t really what he’s even talking about; we both know that.

“How could someone with a gift like that be so careless with it?” he reflects, and I understand what he’s really asking; the deep, soulful question that he’s always pondering about the one man he’s ever truly loved.

“Only a fool would take something so precious for granted,” I reply meaningfully.

He looks away again, avoiding my probing gaze, and I’m reminded of what I often forget. We all have our scars. Most of mine just happen to be on the outside.

***

The next morning finds me hurrying across the studio lot, not yet late for a development meeting. Suddenly the stifling heat makes my black fashionista suit seem like an imprudent choice.
Silly, silly Rebecca. Hoping you might see him. It’s a great, big studio lot, little girl.

“Ms. O’Neill.” The familiar, husky voice angles right into my thoughts with all the gracelessness of a crowbar.

My head snaps sideways and Michael’s just standing there beside a wardrobe trailer. Hands shoved in both pockets, he gives me that eccentric, dimpled grin that’s already vying to become a part of me.

“Hi!” I hug the folder full of meeting notes against my chest, and the very first thing I notice is my name. On his shirt, emblazoned across the front:
O’Neill
. So, why would he suddenly be wearing a shirt with my name on it; I can’t quite figure that out, and a Ben wannabe wanders into my mental vision for a half-second.

“Are you all right, Rebecca?” The question has me pulling focus back on Michael.

I point toward his shirt, feeling a little accusatory—and stupid for that fact. But Ben’s shadow falls over lots of parts of my life. “Your shirt.” I point a little harder, making a jabbing gesture. “It says O’Neill.”

He gazes downward in confusion, the confident smile slipping a little. “Oh, yeah, like—” He points from the shirt to me, drawing the connection I’d intended.

“Like Rebecca O’Neill,” I finish for him, smiling again. Michael isn’t Ben and he definitely isn’t a stalker.

“Or… like surfer gear. Wet suits and all that.” He rubs a palm over his spiky hair with a boyish grin.

“
Ohhh
,” I say. Geez, am I a nitwit? How could I forget the O’Neill brand? “I didn’t know you were into surfing.”

The smile fades now, and he hesitates before answering. “Alex was a lifelong surfer boy. I just gave it my best shot on his account.”

“So you don’t surf anymore?” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I’ve always thought it would be cool, but haven’t ever tried it.”

“I could teach you sometime.” His eyes brighten again, ever so slightly.

“You really think I could surf?” I scrunch my nose up in curious disbelief. “I’m not too… small? I wouldn’t want to wash away or anything.”

“Nah, Andrea even surfs some. In some ways it helps to be compact,” he says, that southern Virginia drawl popping right on out.

“I’ve always wished I weren’t so small,” I admit, brushing at my hair nervously. A strand catches on my thumb ring, and I have to give an extra tug that makes me wince.

“You aren’t small.” He steps a little closer until he’s invading my physical zone. My face warms at the intimacy as he leans low and whispers, “No, Rebecca. You’re delicate. Really feminine. And that’s a good thing.”

The warmth shoots from my face down into my neck. Up into my scalp. I’m burning at his simple compliment. How does he always manage to make me feel so beautiful?

“And that Armani suit.” His voice grows even softer, his gaze traveling the length of me appreciatively. “Looks absolutely amazing on you.”

“I’m impressed.” I fan myself with my folder, trying to get a little breeze going. I’m burning up, and my Irish cheeks have surely stained deep red, like a warning flag on a surfer’s beach.

“Impressed…?”

“Oh, just that you’ve gotta love a guy who knows his designer labels, that’s all.”

He stares down at his weathered work boots. “Hey, don’t forget. I spent twelve years as a doctor’s wife.” Then the beautiful eyes track upward and lock with mine, and there’s humor there. Even he realizes the irony of his remark, with him all decked out in his tool belt and boots. “It’s tough duty being a doctor’s wife, too. Having good fashion sense is part of the job.”

“I can see that.” I eye his faded surfer shirt and denim blue jeans pointedly.

“Didn’t say I had to use it, now.” That smoky-voiced southern accent traipses up my backbone, and desire chases right along with it. “Just possess it.”

“Maybe I should take you shopping with me someday. You know, for a consultation.”

“Happy to oblige you any time.”

We fall silent, me scuffing the sole of my new Prada shoe against the asphalt, Michael glancing around. I clear my throat, wishing one of us could come up with something to say. Then all at once, like two shy people thunking foreheads together in an awkward moment, we start talking at the same time.

As if on cue, a golf cart bearing some “suit” talking on his cell phone speeds at us, and we part like Cecil B. DeMille’s Red Sea.

“You go,” I say once the cart has buzzed by. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

“No, you go on.” Just my luck, he’s chivalrous to the core.

“Lunch? I mean, it’s Monday and I like to go out to a nice lunch on Mondays, not do the pitch thing. Still, my job, you know…I need to get out and be seen. Circulate, all that. Which, of course, might not be something you’d like to do—”

“What time?”

“Today?”

Michael grins at me, such a sweet, reassuring thing, and it takes some of the sting out of feeling so painfully awkward and uncool. “Yes, Rebecca, today. I’d like to go with you today.” He tugs on the hem of his faded T-shirt. “But I do look a little rough around the edges. Sure that’s okay?”

I tell him about a great Chinese place around the corner, a hole in the wall that some of the studio execs frequent on occasion, and even some A-list talent, but it’s dark there, so my “doctor’s wife” can look as casual as he cares to.

He loves Chinese food, and we set our time and meeting place. Then just when I’m walking away, feeling sassy and pretty as I toss my long hair over my shoulder, he calls after me, “Hey, O’Neill!”

I turn back and find him watching me. “Maybe I did wear the shirt ’cause of you,” he admits with a serious expression. “But I’m not scary, I promise. Not any kind of threat.”

Oh, Mr. Warner, care to lay any bets on that pledge?

***

The great thing about the Chinese place is that it’s dark. Very dark. And that makes me feel more relaxed with Michael than I have at any point before now. We’re in a half-moon-shaped leather booth, and he’s seated to my good side, the unscarred version of my profile. So I can relax a little; unless I turn to face him, he’s only going to see the best of me.

At first we chitchat about the movie business and the restaurant while I glance around for people I might know. But I really don’t want to do the table-hopping and glad-handing routine today. I pull at a torn bit of vinyl on the garish red booth seat, trying to think of something clever to say. Nothing comes to mind, so I study the floor-to-ceiling framed photographs of stars who’ve dined here over the years, an array of famous people—some living, some dead.

He makes an attempt at conversation. “How’d you get into acting?” he asks, the tone a little tight. That’s when I realize that he
knows
.

“I guess you’re aware of my past.” I won’t look at him and keep tugging at the vinyl. “Or probably just a tabloid version of it, like most everyone else.”

“Maybe I should’ve pretended I didn’t know.”

“Why?” I set my jaw, looking away from him. “What would’ve been the point?”

“To let you tell me first.” There’s true-blue honesty in his words and tone, and the nervous pressure inside my chest begins to ease up.

I begin picking the dry noodles out of the basket, tiling them into random patterns, trying to decide how to fix this conversational mess. “I’m not actually a bitch,” I tell him after a moment, “but I have been known to play one when I talk about my
past
in TV.”

This makes him burst out laughing. Stupid joke, sweet guy. “That’s a good one. And you weren’t a bitch.”

“Nope, pretty bitchy just then, and I’m sorry.” I brush the noodles together, wiping the slate clean. “I just don’t like talking about my backstory.”

“That makes getting to be friends kind of hard, don’t you think?”

The noodles become my obsession, as I now begin crisscrossing them into an interlaced design. “Hollywood’s about the moment.”

“You don’t strike me as very Hollywood, Rebecca. You’re real. I like that.”

I drop my head. “Give me some more time in this town, and I’ll fade eventually.”

“I don’t see that happening.”

“My past is harsh, Michael,” I answer wearily. “Hard for me to talk about.”

“So’s mine.” He’s got a point there, and I think of how he opened up to me last night.

“But mine’s been made public for everyone to see,” I explain, still avoiding his sensitive gaze, which proves nearly impossible. “If you know I was an actress, then that makes me wonder precisely what all you
do
know. And what you don’t. Which version you got, because there are lots of versions floating around out there, you know.”

“Marti told me,” he confesses, giving me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t recognize you or know… anything until last night.”

“Marti,” I repeat dully, feeling slightly betrayed by this woman I’ve only barely met.

“Don’t blame her. She thought I knew,” he rushes to explain. He gives a quiet laugh. “Well, actually she thinks I live under a rock now because I
hadn’t
heard of you before.”

“Would it help if I said I think so, too?” I tease, laughing with him. Then, just like that, the tension ruptures. We’re buddies again. More than friends, as he leans a little closer to me and lowers his voice. “Rebecca, all your secrets are safe with me.”

Safe. What a concept. The most important word in the world to me, and it’s something Michael makes me feel on instinct, even without his reassurances.

“What do you want to know?” I ask. “How I got here? About the guy who came after me? I’ll tell you whatever.”

“I want to know about you. Just you.”

“What is this?
Notting Hill
?” I laugh anxiously.

He frowns. “I’m serious, Rebecca.”

Jake wanted to know about me, too, that first time he took me out, right after we wrapped the first episode of season two. He was my co-star on
About the House
, and even though I knew his reputation, I thought maybe he’d changed over the hiatus. He certainly convinced me that he had, talking about the power of rehab and finding his “center”. For a southern Methodist girl like me, some of his New Age talk didn’t really make much sense, but I was just so bowled over by his charisma. And he had it in spades.

“I’ve heard that question before.”

“You suggesting it’s a line?” For the first time since I’ve met Michael Warner, I’m glimpsing a slight temper.