Within This Frame (21 page)

He pushed everything into the wastebasket, removed the bag, and tied it. “I’ll take this out.” He paused on his way to the door that led to the attached garage. “Do you need a moment to say your goodbyes?”

Maggie crossed her arms, lips pressed firmly together.

Lance chuckled as he walked from the room.

No longer hungry, Maggie dumped her partially eaten salad down the garbage disposal and turned it on. It sounded like needles being shredded, and she found it oddly soothing.

When Lance came back, Maggie surprised him by asking, “How are you really doing? With everything.”

He gave her a suspicious look and pulled out a chair from the table, contorting his tall frame into a sitting position. “What do you mean, with everything?”

“Olivia, Ivy, life.” She shrugged.

“Why?”

Maggie leaned her hips against the counter near the sink and eyed him. “You’re keeping things from me. I want to know what they are.”

“You sound like you care.” His gaze was a slice of dark disdain.

Maggie swallowed, not responding.

“You want the truth?”

She waited.

“I need this show, and I need it to have a phenomenal debut, or I’m screwed. The divorce did not end well for me financially. Half of everything I own is gone.” Lance looked at her. “I’m struggling.”

“Is that the real reason you wanted to help me? So you could wiggle your way back into my life to use me again?”

“No, and I never used you,” he answered harshly. “You know I didn’t.”

“Then why did you agree to help me?” Maggie wanted him to tell her all kinds of lies, even if they were exactly what she wanted to hear. He couldn’t stand to be away, he thought of her all the time, he cried himself to sleep every night at the guilt he felt from hurting her the way he had . . . she was brilliant and he was a jackass. Stuff like that.

Shaking his head, he said, “Being on my show could be the comeback you mentioned, the chance to let everyone know you are not done until you decide to be.”

“Being on your show is not acting, that’s just me being me.”

“Exactly. It’s better than acting. It’s you proving to the world that you’re strong, mentally and physically. You dictate how your life is going to be, and it could be the best opportunity for you to show that. You’ll inspire people.”

“Routinely being in the public eye didn’t work out well for me the last time I tried it.”

Lance tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “I know. I went to see you at the hospital the night you were admitted.” The smile he offered was black and bled with regret. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I told them not to.”

He nodded, eyes trained down. “Did you hear me outside the door to your room before I was told to leave?”

Maggie closed her eyes, taking a slow breath. She’d never forgotten the sound of his voice, beseeching, broken, panicked, and terrified, as he called out to her from the other side of a door that would not open.

“No,” she choked out, the lie pulled from her without conscious consent.

Lance’s expression told her he didn’t believe her, but all he said was, “It’s just as well. I embarrassed myself big time that night.”

Desperately needing to talk about something else, Maggie said, “I’m sorry you’re having money problems right now.”

Lance didn’t look up, but she caught the wince and tightening of his jaw. “Yeah. Not exactly something I like to admit.”

When he stood, pride had his shoulders back. His stance said it was time to end that particular line of conversation.

“So . . . um . . . you know how when you put your arms up over your head, like this?” Maggie demonstrated, watching as interest came to life in Lance’s eyes.

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured.

“It would be nice if my stomach could be like it is now at all times, when my arms are raised up.”

Lance shook his head, a faint grin taking over the gloom. “I suppose you could walk around like that all the time. Sounds like an awful lot of work to make your stomach look smaller.”

“It could work,” she insisted, dropping her arms.

“Okay.” His tone said Maggie was delusional.

“Or when you lie down on your back, and all the fat goes to the sides, so your stomach looks skinny, even though it isn’t,” she continued.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this. Why don’t you lie down and lift up your shirt and show me?” he offered, the shadows all but gone from his visage.

“And serving sizes. What’s this
about
stuff?”

Lance lifted his eyebrows.

“On some things it says a serving size is
about
this or that. That’s just asking for trouble, because you know what I do?”

“Please.” He gestured with a hand. “Fill me in.”

“If it says five or six or whatever of something is about a serving, I add about three or four more, because it doesn’t specify, so that means it’s up for interpretation, right?”

A grin took over his lips. “I suppose you could argue that.”

“I used to think a whole package was the serving portion. I didn’t understand the nutrition facts on the packages. I just thought, you know, what you got was what you were supposed to eat. And hey, if I ate less than the serving size, being the whole container of doughnuts or whatever, then I was winning, because I consumed hardly any calories. When I figured out what the nutritional values were for, it was a really sad day for me.” Maggie schooled her features into disappointment.

Lance laughed, walking across the room to her. He set a palm on her shoulder and leaned down to meet her eyes. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Maggie smiled back. “I did too, oddly enough.”

LANCE—1996

“H
I, MAGGIE.” HE
felt shy, an emotion he couldn’t recall experiencing prior to Maggie Smiley.

She glared at him from where she sat in a chair as a makeup artist colored and blended her face, changing it from average to exotic. Her long hair was lassoed into a side braid with fiery locks of hair left out around her face and ears, small pink flowers threaded through it. Dressed in a flowing, strappy white dress, Maggie reminded him of a fairy, or some other mystical being.

“Hi.” The greeting was cold and curt.

It was the morning of their appointed sunrise photo shoot. Other than when forced to be near each other for the show, Maggie had strategically ignored him the past couple of weeks. When he went to see her at her apartment, Judith informed him she was either sleeping, not there, or busy. By the seventh time he stopped, even she seemed empathetic to his plight, firm though she remained.

When the blond told Maggie she was finished, Maggie got up from the seat and walked toward the photography crew that was set up near a boulder. Lance fell into step beside her, sand sliding between his toes as he walked. He wore a white buttoned-down shirt with the collar up and the buttons near the bottom of it left undone. White slacks straight and crisp, they’d been rolled up for him so that his ankles showed. Lance’s hair was styled high and floppy, a chunk of it hanging over his forehead. He’d pushed it back once and was scolded. He hadn’t touched it since.

“Can we start over?”

“Start what over?” she asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and picking up her pace. “There has to be something first, and then that something has to end, for there to be something to start over.”

“Don’t wrinkle your dress,” the photographer barked as she glanced up from readying the lens.

Black metal contraptions were set up around them like a photography prison, people rushing around to fix or change things with the setup. It was interesting how much work it took to make something seem simple and flawless.

Maggie dropped her arms like her dress was on fire, her expression abashed.

Lance gave the photographer a glower, which she returned with a lifted eyebrow, and turned back to Maggie. “Everything. I want us to be . . . whatever we were . . . and more. I’ve had plenty of time to think these past weeks while you’ve pretended like I don’t exist—”

She snorted, looking at the ocean in the distance. Lance followed her gaze. It built up, crashed down, only to rise again. He looked at Maggie, staring at her profile like his eyes had the power to make her give in to him.

“—and I realize I did and said things I shouldn’t have, and . . .” Lance swallowed thickly. “I miss you. Can we start over? Please?”

They were at a privately owned part of the beach, and Lance was positive it cost the magazine company a pretty penny to be allowed to have the photo shoot there. The sky was gray, not yet ready to wake up. Lance was tired as well, his mind foggy and slow. Maggie didn’t seem to have the same affliction, but he imagined she’d probably slept better than he had. He hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep since the evening of the road trip, all because Maggie wouldn’t talk to him—and maybe some residual guilt for the way he’d acted and talked to her.

A cool wind flared up, washing over him like an invisible wave. He hunched his shoulders against it as it drove through the thin material of his clothes to icily stab at his skin.

“Why?” Maggie demanded as she stopped moving. “Why should we? It’ll just be the same thing again, like it has been every time I get too close—you push me away. You can’t have it both ways, Lance. You can’t want me when you want me and then treat me like dirt when you don’t. I deserve better.”

“You’re right, you do deserve better, and I know I’m asking something I shouldn’t, but . . . will you take me anyway?” Lance reached for her hand and she closed hers, refusing to let him hold her hand. He hung on to the limb anyway. He had to touch her, to feel her warmth. “I . . . Maggie . . .”

“Are you two about done? I know your conversation is more important than the whole world, but we do have pictures to take. The rest of us have a schedule.”

“Give us two minutes,” he snapped, glaring at the woman the popular fashion magazine had hired to photograph them.

Short and compact, but with a ferocious look on her face, Denise Zanders reminded him of a Chihuahua—especially when she bared her teeth at him. Even her short brown hair seemed to bristle as she frowned. He knew her sharp attitude wasn’t personal, but it still irked.

“I’ll give you one,” she stated firmly, stomping off to check something with lighting.

He was running out of time, and not because of the photo session. Every day Maggie slipped farther away. He’d seen her talking to Jeff Mitchell a few days ago and he’d had to leave so he didn’t deck the guy. Instead he’d slammed a fist through his bedroom wall. An uneven hole now graced the wall beside his door.

Lance spoke in a rush. “You told me you care about me. I care about you too. A lot. More than I wanted to admit. It terrified me, okay? It still does. But I’m trying to . . . accept it.” He inhaled deeply, staring into her wide eyes. “I’m telling you now because I can’t stand being away from you anymore. Please, please, Maggie, can we start over?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes? You’re sure?” He wanted to believe her, but it seemed too good to be true.

“Yes.” Maggie nodded. “We can start over. But this is it, Lance. Push me away again and I’m done.” Her words were firm, and when Lance looked into her eyes, he knew she meant them.

“I’m allowed into your personal space? I promise not to try to cook anymore—and I’ll carry a pillow around with me at all times, should you request it. I’m pretty sure I’ll be needing it anyway.” Half of his mouth lifted.

She burst out laughing and Lance smiled, pressing a kiss to her neck as her arms went around his neck.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” Other than yes, there was no acceptable answer.

Maggie turned motionless. “I don’t know, will I?”

“Yes,” Lance responded without hesitation.

“Then I guess you’ll be my boyfriend. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Lance’s pulse tripped and sputtered, but not in fear. It was with gladness.

Her arms tightened around him. “Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Lance’s stomach swirled and he swallowed, unable to speak. It felt like he’d just proposed, or spliced his heart to hers for the rest of his life.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Denise shouted. Exasperated resignation lined her words. “Can we just—”

He released Maggie and clasped her hand in his as they both looked at the photographer. Even her sour expression couldn’t dim his mood. Joy split his face in a grin and it felt like the sun radiated through him. Lance glanced at Maggie. She smiled with her heart in her eyes.

Whatever she was going to say died on Denise’s lips. She stared at them, eyes tripping over Maggie and then moving to Lance. She leaned forward and put out a hand. “Don’t . . . move. That look, I have to capture that look. Don’t move!”

Fingers locked around Maggie’s, Lance looked at the camera as it clicked away.

“Move around, look at each other, do whatever feels natural,” Denise commanded, waving her hand at them.

“She’s so indecisive—move, don’t move,” he muttered to Maggie, who smiled and shrugged.

Lance gripped Maggie around the waist and lifted her to the large gray rock as the sun peaked on the horizon behind her. Even without being able to see her eyes, he knew she stared down at him, her palms resting on his shoulders. Light played peek-a-boo with her body, making her glow and appear to be on fire. He tipped back his head and drank in the sight of her.

“You’re so pretty,” he told her, meaning it.

Maggie’s face went pink, a shadow of doubt darkening her eyes.

“You are,” Lance stated resolutely.

The unsureness faded from her face and she smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

Then he swung her around and down, smiling as she yelped in surprise. Maggie let her head fall back and lifted her arms to her sides as Lance turned and lowered her feet to the sand. The click of the camera was background noise, the people nearby only vaguely existing. Lance knew they were there, that he and Maggie posed for them, but it was as if they were alone. And the words they said to one another—those were for Lance and Maggie.

Maggie set her hands on his biceps and looked into his eyes.