Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
Fade to Black
Wendy Corsi Staub
For my dear friends:
Mike and Lisa, Gabrielle and Drew
And for Mark, Morgan, and Brody—again
Enter the World of Wendy Corsi Staub
I
t’s raining.
Of course it is.
Mallory Eden tears her concentration from the dark, slick highway to smile grimly at the irony.
A stormy summer night, a deserted mountain road, a frightened blonde driving alone …
It’s like a scene from a movie—not, of course, one of
hers
.
Mallory Eden does romantic comedy. Period.
“The new Meg Ryan” they’d called her when she’d burst into mainstream America a few years back. Just as Meg had once been called “the new Goldie.”
Mallory swerves slightly to avoid a water-filled rut. She peers ahead through the windshield, looking for the bridge.
Not yet. A few more miles to go.
In a few weeks—no, days—they’ll be calling some perky blond actress “the new Mallory Eden.”
And as for the
old
Mallory Eden …
She clenches the wheel more tightly.
The old Mallory Eden will be dead.
Not Hollywood
dead
, as in washed up.
Dead as in …
Dead.
Out of habit, Mallory glances into the rearview mirror to make sure nobody’s following her. The road stretches behind her, empty as far back as the last curve. She hasn’t seen another car since Dry Fork, the tiny town seven miles back through the mountains. She’s alone out here … at least, she thinks she is. But after what she’s been through, she can never really be sure someone isn’t lurking just beyond the shadows.
Mallory wonders how the tabloids will break the news to the world. The
New York Post
will, undoubtedly, come up with a short, clever headline. They always do.
They’re big on alliteration. Maybe they’ll go with
Mallory Meets Her Maker
. Or
Eden’s End
.
“You’re sick,” she says aloud—not that she’s the type of person who goes around speaking to herself.
Not like Gran.
Her grandmother, who had raised her after Mallory’s teenage mother left, had been a big self-talker. If Gran wasn’t carrying on a spirited one-way conversation as she baked a strudel or dusted the tidy bedrooms, then she was singing to herself. Loudly. Show tunes, mostly.
Gran had loved the theater. And movies. Even television.
Over the past few years, hardly a day had passed when Mallory hadn’t thought wistfully how proud Gran would have been if she could see her now. See what a big star she’d become, how the whole world loved her.
But all Gran had known, when she’d died the week Mallory graduated from high school, was mat her wayward granddaughter had been running around with Brawley Johnson, a redneck gas station attendant who was seven years older than she was.
Gran had loathed Brawley from the moment she met him. Her pursed-lipped reaction had driven Mallory right into his arms. When Gran tried to forbid her to see Brawley, she’d threatened to run away with him.
“The second they hand me my diploma Sunday, I’m outta here!” she’d screamed at Gran that horrible night.
“And where do you think you’re going to go?” Vera O’Neal had shouted right back, her fleshy face blotchy from the oppressive heat and her own fury.
“Away to … California. With Brawley.”
She’d blurted that out on impulse—all of it. But the instant she’d said it, she’d known it was a perfect plan. She’d always wanted to see the West Coast. Santa Monica and San Francisco. Hollywood and Haight-Ashbury.
Oh, there had been a time when she’d been perfectly content to be wholesome and stay put in her heartland hometown. A time when all that mattered was becoming runner-up in the local Dairy Princess pageant, and snagging a part-time job at Burger King, and going out with upright boys named Chad and Brett.
But sometime before her seventeenth birthday she’d entered what Gran had called her “rebellious stage.” It seemed that she and Gran—who had always been warm and affectionate with each other—were suddenly butting heads at every turn.
The worst part was, Mallory had known all along exactly what Gran was worried about.
Like Mother, like daughter
—that was what she was thinking every time Mallory missed her curfew or got a D on a test.
Like Mother, like daughter
.
Vera’s only child, Becky O’Neal, had run wild—then, had simply run away. For good.
Gran, worried that Mallory was going to become her mother, had attempted to impose a series of ridiculously strict rules. And Mallory, who knew she had her mother’s looks and her genes, had decided she might as well live up to her legacy.
On that final muggy June night when Gran had attempted to forbid Mallory to go out with Brawley, she had been filled with rage. Not just at Gran, but at her mother for getting herself pregnant at fifteen and then abandoning Mallory when she was a toddler; at her father, whoever he was; even at Brawley, for refusing to attempt winning Gran over by ditching the sullen attitude he always flaunted around adults.
When Mallory had grabbed an overnight bag and stormed out of the house, Gran was crying. And she had gone anyway, even though she had known that Gran was thinking of how her own daughter had left the same way … and never come back.
Gran couldn’t have known that Mallory had no intention of really leaving town that night.
And Mallory couldn’t have known Gran would drop dead of a heart attack a few hours after Mallory slammed the door in her face.
Now, as she drives around a sharp, sloping curve, the car’s headlights pick up a sign up ahead in the road.
ROCK RIVER FALLS BRIDGE
.
This is it.
She takes a deep breath as she slows the car, checking again in her rearview mirror for headlights.
There’s no one there. No one up ahead either, on the opposite side of the water.
No one to see her drive onto the wet two-lane bridge high above the swift currents of the Rock River Falls.
No one to see her pull over halfway across and turn off the lights, and then the engine.
No one to see her fumbling, with violently trembling hands, for the envelope she had stashed earlier in her Italian leather purse.
No one to witness Mallory Eden, this year’s buoyant Hollywood blonde, propping a suicide note on the dashboard, stepping out into the pouring rain, and walking over to the rickety railing to stare, mesmerized, at the foaming black water below.
1
I
t’s a white sweater that catches Elizabeth Baxter’s eye today.
Yesterday it was the most minuscule pair of jeans she had ever seen; last week, a small straw sun hat with a navy and white polka dot bow at the back.
But today it’s a teeny white sweater edged with lace, not ruffly, strictly feminine lace, but scalloped lace, the kind that would suit a boy or a girl. On the sweater’s little pocket, a pale yellow duck has been embroidered.
Elizabeth stands staring at the sweater in the window of the shop.
Wee World.
That’s the name of the shop.
Elizabeth has never ventured inside.
She never will.
Because she’ll never have a baby.
Tears threaten to flood her eyes, and she does her best to drag her gaze away from the exquisite white sweater she will never have reason to buy.
If only—
“Hey, Liz!”
In the plate-glass window she sees a reflection of Pamela Minelli waving at her from across the street.
She groans inwardly and rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses but turns away from the window, pastes a smile on her face, and waves back. She starts walking again, slowly, pretending to be engrossed in flipping through the mail she’s just removed from her post office box.
Maybe Pamela, who’s loaded down with shopping bags and toting her newborn in a Snugli and pushing her toddler in a carriage, will just stay there on the other side of North Main Street and be on her way.
But no, being Pamela, she won’t.
Even as Elizabeth jabs her key into the driver’s side lock of the red Hyundai parked in the ten-minute zone, Pamela’s making her way across the street, flipping her blond pageboy around and calling, “Liz, hang on a sec!”
Elizabeth turns and pretends to be surprised to see Pamela approaching.
“Hi, guys,’ she says, smiling down at two-year-old Hannah, who rewards her with a drooly smile.
“What’s going on?” Pamela huffs and adjusts the straps of the Snugli.
“Not much.”
“We’ve been shopping,” Pamela informs her, holding up the bags she’s clutching in one hand.
“I see that. How’s this little fella been?” Elizabeth peeks over the fabric pouch to see the precious sleeping baby, trying to ignore her stab of envy for what breezy Pamela seems to take for granted.
Children.
Two beautiful children of her own.
“Jason? He’s a handful, that’s how he’s been. All he wants to do is nurse. And he weighs a ton. He’s gaining weight a hundred times faster than I did when I was pregnant. On him it looks good. But look at me. I can’t seem to take off this last twenty-five pounds.” She pats her ample hips, then eyes Elizabeth, who’s wearing a baggy white T-shirt and denim shorts. “You know, Liz, you’re one of those people who looks good with curves.”
Not sure whether it’s a sincere compliment or a veiled insult, Elizabeth murmurs, “Thanks.”
“I’ve got to go on a diet,” Pamela declares, then hollers, “Hannah, don’t put that in your mouth!” She swoops down over the carriage and wrestles something out of her towheaded daughter’s grasp.
Hannah promptly starts screaming.
Elizabeth shifts her mail from her left hand to her right, looks at her car, and says, “Well, I’d better hit the road. I’m in a ten-minute spot.”