Cheating at Solitaire (7 page)

Julia studied him, then asked, "That was a compliment, wasn't it?"

"Not a compliment," Lance said. "Just a statement of fact."

Julia put her hands under her thighs and swung her legs like she and Caroline used to do when they were girls. She felt little again, not young but small, sitting on this very tall, very uncomfortable bench. She wondered if this was how it felt to get sent to the principal's office, to wait side by side with the eighth-grade bully. But Lance wasn't a bully. And this whole thing wasn't his fault. It was time to tell him so.

"It's not your fault," she said. "I know that. I believe you."

"Thank you," he said simply, taking the apology with grace.

"And your people were not the only ones to get carried away. They
started
it," she said, emphasizing the point. "But my editor, well, my ex-editor, he fell for it, too."

"I'm sorry," Lance said, sounding sincere.

"That's okay," Julia said, calling on her emotional reserves. "I have an early flight. I'm going back to the people I love. I'm leaving, and this will all be over."

"Great."

"Six thirty this morning, and I'm out of here," she stated flatly.

"Six thirty? Your flight's at six thirty, or you're leaving for the airport at six thirty?" Lance glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. "Because it's four fifteen in the morning right now."

Julia turned to study the clock herself. "It can't be!"

"It is." He raised his eyebrows in mock reverence. "Welcome to the criminal justice system."

"I'm not going to make it," Julia exclaimed, wilting with the realization. "It's her fifth birthday, and I'm not going to make it."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Lance turned to her. "What if I was to make sure you made that flight? What would that be worth?"

Julia leaned her head against the notice-covered bulletin board. She heard paper crinkle and felt a thumbtack jab into her skull, but she was far too exhausted to care. "If I made it to the airport with all of my belongings in time to catch a six thirty A.M. flight?" "Yeah," he said.

"If you could do that, you could name your price. But since—"

"I need to make a call," Lance said to a passing guard. A moment later, he was gone, leaving Julia on that hard bench alone.

Forty minutes later, Lance appeared at Julia's elbow. "Come on," he said, holding her coat.

"Let's sign the forms and go."

"What? We're ready?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I am."

The frigid March air hit Julia like a fist as they exited the station, and she recoiled, leaning into Lance. To her surprise, in spite of the hour, a cab was idling on the street at the bottom of the steep stairs. As they reached the sidewalk, the back door of the cab opened and a young man got out. Lance nodded at him and asked, "Everything set?"

"It's all in there," the young man responded. "I signed her out of her room, too."

"Okay." Lance moved to shake hands with his friend. "I owe you."

"Damn right you do."

"Will someone please tell me what's going on here?" Julia asked.

"Oh, sorry." The young man stepped forward and held his hand out for Julia to shake, which she did. "How ya doing?"

"Julia James"—Lance put his arm around her—"I'd like you to meet Tom Ford, a friend of mine."

Lance ran his free hand through his hair, a gesture that almost succeeded in muffling his voice when he added, "Tom's also a bellman at the Ritz."

"Oh," Julia said, allowing a lot of pieces to fall into the puzzle.

"Tom and I are members of New York's thespian underground," Lance explained. "There's not a hotel we can't get into, a restaurant we can't eat at, or a Gap where we can't get .in employee discount. We're very powerful. Don't mess with us," he joked.

Tom raised his eyebrow in a "yep, I'm guilty" gesture. Julia looked at her carry-on bags lying in the backseat of the cab and forgot about invasion of privacy and hotel security, serenely grateful that Tom had chosen to abuse his power for a good cause.

"Come on." Lance pushed her toward the running taxi. "We've got a plane to catch." With a wave back at Tom, he said, "Thanks, man. Good luck in LA."

Julia was almost in the cab when she registered the "we."

"We? What do you mean
'We've
got a plane to catch'?"

Through the diluted light of a streetlamp, Lance surveyed the exhausted woman who was halfway into the cab with one foot on the back floorboard and one hand on the top of the car.

There were a couple of ways he could force her into the car from that] position, none of which he would try in front of a police station,
j

He held out his hands. "Julia, I'm a bartender. I work nights and, as you can tell, I didn't show up tonight, so I'm probably fired. I don't have an agent, not one that I'm proud of anyway. I'm not scheduled for any auditions. And yet my picture is on every newsstand in America. You don't know me, but you have to believe me when I say that I am a good actor and I don't want to get ahead this way. Believe it or not, I'm an honorable guy. But honorable or not, I've still got to make rent. If I stay here, I'm gonna stumble, and then you're going to go down with me. I don't want to do that. Remove the temptation, please. Just get me away from this town for a while.

Let's regroup. Let's put our heads together. Let's do it in Tulsa."

She shifted. He saw her start to budge. She shifted again, and he wished she'd just get in the stupid cab. He wasn't wearing a heavy coat, and it was freezing out. He tried one more piece of truth. "You're here with me, or you're there with me. It's your call, but the clock is ticking. And you said I could name my price."

She slid into the backseat and said, "Let's go."

WAY #47: Get out of town.

If there's a place you've always wanted to see—go there. If there's an adventure you've
always wanted to experience
—do
it. Traveling isn't just for couples anymore.

—from
101 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire

Julia hated to call so early, but the flight was boarding soon and she didn't know when she'd get another
?
chance. Caroline's greeting was groggy but to the point. "How's it going, slugger?"

"You heard?" Julia asked, cringing.

"Oh, I
saw.
There was news footage. What were you think-

"Please, C, please don't start. I've been sitting in a police nation hallway all night. So, please, if we can do this conversation later, I would really appreciate it."

"Sure," her sister said. "We'll do it when you get home."

"Well. . . see . . ."
Just spit it out, Julia,
she told herself.
"I
won't be alone."

"I
knew
it!" Caroline cried. "As soon as I saw that picture, I just knew in my gut! He looks just like—"

"Caroline!" Julia cut her off.

"What? Can't I say it? Doesn't he know he's the spitting image of—"

"Caroline, cut it out. We're not 'together' together. Making the flight was kind of iffy, and there was a price attached. I've got to take him with me. But it's okay. I can keep an eye on him this way, keep things from escalating. So, please, just brief the troops."

"Whatever you say," Caroline said. "Whatever you say," she repeated, not trying to disguise her skepticism.

Julia looked across the terminal at the man waiting for her by the glass and told herself that everything was for the best. Then Lance yawned and stretched, and she saw half the women in the airport drop their purses and their jaws at the sight of him.
Oh, well,
she thought,
that
which does not kill us makes us stronger.
She said good-bye to her sister and snapped her phone shut.

Lance took this as his cue to make a call himself.

"Everything okay?" he asked as he walked past.

She cut her eyes up at him and said, "Fine."

He slid a quarter into a pay phone and dialed a familiar number. He told the operator that the call would be collect, something he no longer felt guilty about. The guilt he did have came from calling at what was essentially the middle of the night in

California. But knowing his mother and her chronic insomnia, Lance half suspected she might be repotting petunias or vacuuming the oven instead of in the middle of a dream. Whatever the case, he was sure she'd want to know what was going on.

"They're not true," he said instead of hello as soon as he heard his mother's voice.

"Well, I knew that," she said, her voice utterly awake, her response to the point. Lance realized then how much he'd missed his mother's shorthand. With other people, things needed to be explained, sentences needed to be finished. When he was talking to the woman who'd raised him, all adjectives and most verbs became virtually useless.

"So," she said, "are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Not really. As long as you're okay."

"I am. I'm good."

"Sweetheart," she started, and he knew very well where that sentence was going to end up.

"Don't, Mom. Please."

"But he's your father," she pleaded. "He'd want to—" "You didn't need his help when you were raising me. I don't need it now."

"Okay," she said, backing down. "You're okay?" she asked again.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay. Look, I'm going to drop off the radar for a little while. Don't worry if you don't hear from me for a day or two." From the corner of his eye, he saw a newsstand full of tabloids. "And if you read anything about me," he went on, "don't believe it."

The line was silent for a long time, and Lance wondered if the call had been disconnected. Then he heard his mother say, "This sounds like something—"

"Dad's
not
a factor in this."

"You'll call if you need anything?" she asked him.

"Of course," he said and told her good-bye.

Julia was in first class; Lance was stuck in coach. Well, not really stuck. She'd put him there under the guise of not wanting to draw attention to themselves by traveling together, and he'd bought it. Or he didn't care. Whatever the case, she stretched out in the leather seat, ate her warm croissant, and got ready to sleep until they had to change planes in Dallas. Without delays, they'd touch down in Tulsa at one and be at her sister's in plenty of time for Cassie's three-o'clock party.

Her heavy eyelids had just begun to drop when she heard, "Excuse me," and opened one eye to see a flight attendant hovering overhead. "I'm sorry to bother you, Miss James. It's just that I'm such a huge fan. The airline usually frowns on this sort of thing," the young woman said as she reached into the pocket of her smock, "but if you could . . . " She held a copy of
101 Ways to
Cheat at Solitaire
and a pen toward Julia.

An autograph,
Julia thought, feeling as if the last few days had been a dream and she was just flying out of New York, not fleeing from it. Her book was in her hands; a woman who appreciated her message stood before her.
This is who I am,
Julia thought.
This is what I do.
Her confidence soared. Two lines inside the cover. A signature. A smile.

She took the book, opened to the front page, and saw that someone had beaten her to it.

To
Marci, All the best, Lance Collins

When the passengers back in coach were finally allowed to deplane, Lance followed the masses through the airport.

Julia was nowhere to be seen. The staff at the Ritz had shipped the bulk of her toy purchases home for her, but she still had suitcases and other bags. Lance knew she might have ditched
him,
but she wasn't going home without her luggage. He stood on his tiptoes and scanned the baggage-claim area when a noise flew past his ear like a gnat.

"Pssst. Pssst."

Where was that coming from?
"Behind the ficus." He started to pivot. "Don't turn around!"

Lance faced forward, away from rustling of fake ferns and plastic trees that came from an exhibit designed to encourage visitors to check out the Tulsa Zoo while they were in town.

Among the stuffed monkeys and rubber snakes, Julia was hiding with her scarf wrapped around her head.

"Exactly what are you doing?" Lance wanted to know.

"I am waiting for you to claim our bags. Then you and I are leaving without anyone knowing we're here."

"Okay," Lance said, placating her, as he realized that not every crazy person in the world lived in Manhattan.

Julia's suitcases tumbled onto the circular belt, followed by his own bag. He claimed them, and once the luggage was in hand, he proceeded directly out the glass doors and into one of the most beautiful spring days he had ever seen. When they'd left New York, it had been dreary and twenty-five degrees. But in Tulsa, the sun was out and the temperature must have been at least sixty-five. He stood, soaking up the vitamin D until Julia emerged from the airport, removing the scarf, freeing her hair to billow in the Oklahoma wind. Strands blew across her face, and he wanted to brush them away, but before he could say or do a thing, he heard a raspy voice behind him.

"He's tall," the woman said. "That's good, Jules. We like tall."

Lance turned to see a woman who was in every way the opposite of her voice: small and feminine, with olive skin and refined features.

"I'm Nina." The tiny, raspy little woman extended her hand. "I'm her best friend." "I'm Lance."

"I know," Nina squealed. "You're her boyfriend!"