Split Ends (33 page)

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I say, clasping the giant diamond.

She laughs. “It's funny, if you think about it. Ironic. Scott told me that he didn't want to be a father, that he came from a long line of terrible parents and he didn't want to bring a child into this world.”

“He's wrong. Scott and I are excellent parents. We've already done it once for our own parents.”

She smiles, her fantastic blue eyes shimmering. “I got pregnant.”

Oh, no . . . now I understand.
My heart aches. “What did Scott do?”

“I wasn't going to tell him, but Dane did.”

“Dane?”

“He thought he was doing me a favor, that Scott would do the right thing and we'd be led out of our sinful lives.”

I nod.

“I'd gotten drunk, saying I had to get rid of the baby.”

I feel sick. “I don't want to hear anymore.” Sin's consequences seem to go on forever. No one wants to look at that aspect of living exactly how you want.

“Dane was convinced if Scott knew about the baby, he'd ask me to marry him. So Dane told him. He said Scott was a better person than I gave him credit for.”

“I don't understand.”

“I thought Scott asked me to marry him because it was time, so I got . . . I took care of . . . the baby because I knew he didn't really want to be a father.”

My heart is breaking. I bury my head in my hands. “Alexa.”

“I've cried all the tears I can cry. What I did was a simple conversation away from being a different life, but I can't cry the same tears. I made a mistake. I will pay for it in my heart for the rest of my life, and your cousin will never be able to look me in the eye knowing what I did to his child.”

Alexa straightens up as a man walks toward her. She squeezes the diamond in my hands and whispers, “Take care of him for me, Sarah. I love him, but there's too much water under the bridge.”

“There isn't. There's forgiveness.”

“Scott never will forgive me. I'm finally coming to understand that.”

I clutch the enormous engagement ring in my hand. Who would I be in the same situation? Mrs. Gentry or Alexa? Sadly, I can't even say, and that doesn't speak well of my faith. My mother had me. For all her other flaws, she gave me life. And while I shouldn't judge her or Alexa, I certainly have. I've spent my life judging.

chapter 24

As I said, I began losing confidence in
my instincts, which is tough and very
bad for an instinctive person.
~ Kim Novak

W
hen I'm finally allowed out of the parties and countless ridiculous conversations about someone's life being newly defined by a hairstyle, I run home to the apartment. I rush down the hallway to Dane's room. He's not there.

“Sarah, he's gone.” Scott drops his bag of tricks in the kitchen. “Come have some of this piroshki. It's to die for.”

“Scott.” I grab him by the tie. “What do you mean he's gone?”

“He went to France.”

“Without saying good-bye?”

“He does that sometimes. You haven't noticed he's a bit odd? He told me before the premiere he might have to leave early if he caught another flight. Oh, and don't forget to call Kate, Mrs. Gentry, and your mother. And he left you something in your room and said good-bye.”

I run to my room, sliding along the hardwood floor and banging into the wall at the end of the hallway. There's a bag with gold embossing from Dane's shop on my bed. I run my hands along the shiny lettering. “Dane,” I whisper. I should have acted like my mother. For once in my life, I should have taken a risk and done what my heart wanted to do.

All the secrets people have lived. For what? What did it accomplish for any of them? My mother is alone. Scott and Alexa are alone. Kate's alone. Mrs. Gentry's alone. “I don't want to be alone!” I yell to the ceiling. “I want to be in France with the man who sets my heart on fire!”

I know the reality of the situation, and right now I just don't care. I don't care at all. I only know he's gone, and I blew it. I'm left alone here with a fancy job, a client list Scott created that would make the average producer fall prostrate on the ground, and no Dane. I thought success would make me happy. Complete. It's made me just like the rest of them. Alone.

I'm alone again. Just like my nights in Sable, only now I'm surrounded by more people and a better financial future.
I don't want Dane to complete me, Lord. I want him because he makes me a better person. He makes me want to get up in the morning.

I pull Alexa's ring out of my pocket and set it beside Kate's, then go to the kitchen, where I rummage through the leftovers Scott took from the party and open a can of Pepsi. Back in my room, I prop the two rings up. I could open my very own jewelry store at the moment. Naturally, no one would want what either bauble represents.

If I had known what success would cost me, I would have paid my fees for failure and called it a day. I thought my quest for financial solvency was a higher calling, a way to prove to my hometown that my mother and I had value and worth. In the end, I stand here with my feet in two separate worlds, belonging fully to neither.

There are two engagement rings before me on the expansive, stainless steel countertop. One is from Tiffany's, a classic platinum band and solitaire that I'm sure comes with all the proper GIA ratings. The other is from a mall jewelry store, miniscule and flawed, but sparkling with promise. This might give the impression that there's a choice to make, but there isn't. Neither man would have made an offer had they known the truth.

“And the truth shall set you free.”

I shut the boxes on the engagement rings. They
should represent hope; yet all I see is brokenness in them. Ryan's heart is broken as Kate flies solo for the first time in her life. My cousin's life is broken, but he doesn't know it. Essentially, he made the same choice my mother did; he made a choice for bitterness and being right over a life of love.

I want to be like Mrs. Gentry. I want to choose love.

I call Dane's cell phone and get voice mail again. Part of me wants to rush to LAX and have my Hollywood moment where I tell him everything. Where I tell him that I'm a romantic victim of Cary Grant movies and men in fedoras. And I tell him I've fallen in love with him, and I don't care how ridiculous it seems. He is everything I want.

Finally, I open the bag he's left me. It's a very worn copy of
La dame aux camélias
dated 1868 and published by Maison Quantin. Inside the cover is a very old copy of
Camille
in French. Its cut-edge pages are yellowed and crisp, but its condition is nearly perfect for its age. Inside the book is an envelope with Dane's handwriting, reading, “Sarah.” I run my hand along those letters, thinking how ironic it is that my own unrequited love is written in ballpoint pen along with the gift of an antique book.

I stare at the envelope for a long time, not wanting to know what it says but needing to know. Then, with a breath, I rip open the letter and look at Dane's beautiful script.

Dear Sarah,

By the time you read this, I should be on my way to Paris. I found this book through a friend in England and—humor me—here are some facts about it. It has a color frontispiece, with engraved plates and tinted vignettes. Albert Lynch, the artist who did the renderings, was born in Peru in 1851 and made his name as an artist and illustrator in Paris. You'll notice they spared no expense with books in those days. They were a luxury item. The dark brown morocco with raised bands, gilt-decorated compartments, and the spray of flowers was most contemporary for its time. Aren't the marbled endpapers with their gilt edges
the height of beauty?

I have to stop the letter and laugh at Dane's love of all things fact-oriented. He's a walking encyclopedia. While Scott finds him highly annoying, I find him completely charming and entertaining in his love of history. This should prove once and for all that I am in love.

I do realize, of course, that you can't actually
read it in French, but its value is so much higher in the original French, and I wanted you to have the best. This story and its effects on you are misguided, but if I've learned anything in my years, it's to give the customer what they want.

You are not Camille and you never were. Camille made ill-informed choices, and while I do question your not coming to France with me, I know you chose not to come for intelligent reasons—not because you were ruled by your heart, but because you had the wisdom to see that we are not in full control of our emotions around one another. I don't wish to be loved to the point that you would die to “save” me. What man would?

Unrequited love is not romantic. It's a waste of
the life God gave you. The beach house with
its new kitchen, trips to France with a man who loves you—that is romantic.

When you're ready, I'll find a new owner for this book. I'll sell it and give you the profit. Give up the myth for me, Sarah. Time travel with me into the future. Our future.

With love in Him,
Dane

P.S. I enclose a rendering of Alexandre Dumas and his son for your realistic analysis of them as heroes. Cary Grant they are not.

It's too easy, God.
Men do not write letters like this. Men do not offer themselves up for the price of a book. I don't believe it. I can't believe it. But without the hope of this book I hold in my hands, I have only the illusion of success. Why have I been so fearful to state what I really want? Why is it so dangerous?

The answer is as clear as Wyoming air: I want to be loved. Not just by God but by a man God has ordained for that purpose. I want a man to get old and saggy with, someone to laugh with about the latest article in
U.S. News
& World Report
. Together. Old. Saggy. We would be the types of people you don't want at your party because we will laugh at our own jokes, and Dane would have a new fact to share with everyone about the latest nonfiction title on the Gettysburg Address.

I am a
have
.

Scott slams open the door. “Enough of this.”

“What are you talking about?”

He takes the book from me. Looks at it. Frowns. “Dane is the wrong man for you.”

“I don't understand.”

“I've tried to be honest. I've tried to be a good friend to Dane. But Sarah, he didn't grow up a good Christian boy like you're thinking. He's not the preacher's son with the ideal background and stunning education that will rescue you. He would be toxic for you.”

“Scott, I'll be the judge of Dane's character for myself.”

“Dane's an alcoholic, Sarah Claire. He found Jesus in AA. Everyday he walks a tightrope of sobriety. Now, tell me, can you really deal with that?”

All of my hope drains from me. Anything but that.

Anything.

chapter 25

Cars, furs, and gems were not my weaknesses.
Gene Tierney

Y
oshi finally bagged Johnny, who went out with a lawsuit and a laundry list of Yoshi-inflicted torture for a jury, but I can't complain. As my first cover is readied for
InStyle
on the very hot/haute Flora Fawn, my career is currently sizzling. So much so that Scott and I found my mother in a homeless shelter after her brief jail stint (too brief, as far as I'm concerned) in Anaheim and sent her for treatment at the Betty Ford Clinic in Rancho Mirage. She brags that she now has more in common with Elizabeth Taylor than just married men. Although Liz says she's one woman who only slept with men she was married to (though there was that whole Eddie Fisher/ Debbie Reynolds scandal), and that sort of deflates the commonality. My mom's husbands usually belonged to
someone else.

Someday, I hope she (my mother, not Liz Taylor, though I wish her well too!) will be well enough to tell me about my father and how she let one man ruin her future. Or maybe she'll find the solid truth and tell me how her own choices certainly contributed. She's working on it; one of her steps was apologizing, and I have to say, she was sincere. Mrs. Gentry said so too. I have hope. Guarded hope.

It's been a month since Dane left for France. I kept myself busy by styling hair and consulting on new looks for starlets. It's funny how my duties of sweeping up hair and flipping toilet seats were abandoned as soon as I appeared on
Hollywood Tonight
. But even with my superstar status at Yoshi's, Dane's never far from my mind or my heart. I know I can't be with him and risk the nightmare of a continuation of life with my mother. But I check my e-mail daily, and not a word from him. It seems so long ago that I read his words of warmth in the original letter with the book, and I can only assume if he felt something for me, it's burned away in the skies of Paris. Love is fragile. I wish I'd known how fragile.

“Okay, so you have everything you need,” Kate says to me now as she stands in line at LAX. “You'll be home at Christmas?”

“I wouldn't miss it.”

“Mrs. Gentry says you can stay with her, you know.”

“Yes, Kate, I do.”

My BFF enrolled in UCLA, but in the end she was overcome with loneliness for good beef and the man she loved. I thought of telling her who my father was, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I just told her Bud was not my father and Cindy Simmons was not my sister. My mother will eventually tell everyone. She promised me. Of course, she's been lying for twenty-six years, so we'll see.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” I ask her. I pull out her engagement ring. “I think Ryan will want to see this on your finger.”

She gives me a warm hug. “Thank you, Sarah Claire, for giving me the time and space I needed.”

I nod. “Sure. Thanks for giving me a choice.
Not
.”

She laughs. “You really don't want to come back home for the wedding, do you?”