CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
California, two weeks later
Rhett had ended up having sushi for his Thanksgiving meal at a restaurant near the Savannah airport. He’d told himself he didn’t care about turkey and dressing, that sushi was his tradition and that the crab rolls were phenomenal. They weren’t. Instead they tasted of ashes and heartbreak.
On the flight back to LA, he’d given himself a good talking-to. Better that he and Summer end the way they had. They’d spent many good days in a bubble of wonderfulness, but a mean kid with a sharp tack had stood on the perimeter, insuring they would be no more.
He’d hated being the mean kid.
At present he sat in an austere office, doing one of the many things he had to do to get his life back. Dr. Laura Zimmerman had been the studio’s choice in psychiatrists.
“So, Mr. Bryan, what’s your plan for dealing with a situation like you had last month?” the therapist asked, her blue eyes oddly piercing. The network wanted an “objective” party. Rhett was under the impression that all shrinks were supposed to be objective, but the studio heads mentioned something about safeguarding against Rhett’s charm and influence.
Dr. Laura Zimmerman had thus far been unmoved by his dimples and carefully constructed answers.
“I won’t go on a tirade. I will smile and go to commercial break. Then I’ll let Artie handle anything inappropriate while I drink seltzer water off set,” he said. Good answer, Rhett.
“Is that how you’d prefer to have the situation handled?”
“No, but I learned my lesson.”
She lifted one eyebrow, a trick he’d never perfected. “Yes, but how would you handle it if you had your druthers?”
“Druthers? Is that term still used?” he teased.
Dr. Zimmerman didn’t even blink. Obviously, she had no sense of humor.
“I would punch them in the face,” he said, before pressing his hands to the air. “Just kidding. I wouldn’t do that. I’m actually pretty nonviolent.”
“Define pretty.”
Rhett sighed and tried to remain unruffled. But that was getting harder and harder to do. Dr. Zimmerman seemed determined to see exactly how he would handle a difficult person by being that person. Weren’t therapists supposed to feel safe and comforting? This woman wouldn’t know a warm fuzzy if it smacked her in the face. “I don’t use my fists. I’m mostly calm and collected. Most people would characterize me as a good guy.”
“Do you use other forms of violence to deal with things in your life that perturb you?”
“Why? Are you trying to find out?” he snapped.
“Hmm,” she said, scratching something on her notepad. Her glasses perched on a thin nose. Her cheekbones were high, her complexion milky white. And she wore ugly shoes. He probably shouldn’t trust a woman who wore ugly shoes.
“Can I go now?” He gave her a congenial, talk-show-host smile.
“Almost. Tell me about your relationship with your family.”
Rhett collapsed back into the chair with a heavy sigh. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I was a small child. My grandfather in South Carolina raised me. I have a good relationship with him. In fact, I just spent nearly two weeks with him.”
“Mm,” she muttered, scratching some more on her pad. “And how was that?”
Soul-stirring, cathartic, beautiful, wonderful . . . sad. “Fine.”
“And what about relationships here in LA? Do you have any significant romantic attachments? Close friendships outside of your career?”
“Sure. Uh, no to the romance. I’m in between. And I have friends.” But even as he said the words, he knew he didn’t have anyone who filled the role of mentor, confidant, or good buddy. His housekeeper, Marta, probably didn’t count since he paid her to be around.
“You said ‘in between.’ Can you give me more details on what exactly that means?” Her watery eyes pinned him to the upholstery. No blinking. He wondered if she ever blinked.
“I guess that didn’t sound right. What I mean is that I just got out of a relationship.”
“Okay. Can you categorize that relationship? Was it serious? Casual?”
What he’d had with Summer over those weeks should have been casual, but it felt anything but. Since he’d come home from South Carolina, leaving a day early because he couldn’t face sitting across from her raving about stupid turkey, he’d felt adrift. All the good accomplished in Moonlight had pulled away from him, like a tide going out, sucking at his soul. Sound sleep had fled, to be replaced with tossing and turning, and his old friend bourbon had shown back up to mooch off his emotions and numb him to the hard stuff in his life. He lusted for the easy comfort of South Carolina. He thirsted for the warmth Moonlight and Summer had wrapped him in. “More casual, I guess. She’s someone I’ve known forever, and when I went back home, we sort of fell into something.”
“Fell into something?”
“Yeah, but it couldn’t last because I’m here and she’s there.”
“This was sexual in nature, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t limited to sex. Summer and I go way back. We’re friends, too. She’s a remarkable woman, really. If things weren’t so hard . . .” He trailed off because he didn’t know how to finish that. He’d stay with her? Date her? Marry her? He hadn’t thought much about what-ifs because he’d had too many have-tos in his life.
Dr. Zimmerman arched the other eyebrow and waited.
“She made me feel like a human again. Like I wasn’t merely a made-up person on television. Perhaps I lost sight of myself out here. Pushing myself and keeping my eye on the prize became paramount. Then I got the prize and I wasn’t satisfied.”
“A common problem in LA,” Dr. Zimmerman said, almost sounding human herself.
“Yeah, it is. You asked about relationships, and the truth is that I don’t have any outside of work. Sounds crazy because I grew up with healthy relationships all around me. I’ve worked hard to be this person I thought I wanted, and now I’m somebody I barely recognize . . . except when I went home. There, I felt real . . . even needed. I fixed the railing on Grampy’s deck, took Summer’s kid to baseball, saw old friends, and—” He paused because he had been about to say he’d fallen for Summer.
But that couldn’t be true because people don’t fall in love in a matter of weeks . . . even if they had known the person forever. That sounded ridiculous.
“Let’s just say I escaped for a while, but it wasn’t the real world.”
“And this is?” she asked.
He stared at her for a few seconds. “It’s my world. Or at least it was.”
Dr. Zimmerman looked at her watch. “Our time is about up, but I’m not quite finished with my evaluation. Do you think you can come back next week?”
“I’ll have to look at my schedule.”
“Are you still seeing”—she flipped through the chart at her elbow—“Angela Goodman?”
“Not any longer.”
“I would suggest regular therapy, Mr. Bryan. You underwent a traumatic experience.”
“I know, but I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but paying someone hundreds of dollars to talk about his feelings and then still not being able to sleep or taste food didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been getting any better, so he’d stopped going.
Dr. Zimmerman didn’t say anything to that claim. She merely stared at him.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go back to therapy.”
“That would be wise. See Denise and schedule something for next week on your way out.” Dr. Zimmerman turned in her swivel chair and started tapping on her laptop, effectively dismissing him.
“Bye,” he said lamely.
“Goodbye,” she said, not looking up.
Rhett rolled his eyes and went out to see Denise. Dr. Zimmerman was weird as shit, but he scheduled an appointment with her for the following Thursday. He told himself it was because the network required it of him, but if pressed he would admit talking to someone who wasn’t all “own your feelings” was therapeutic. He nearly laughed at that thought.
Needing some fresh air to clear his head, he headed for the Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic was lighter than normal for some reason, so it only took him an hour. Five minutes after that, he walked along the beach, pants rolled up, collar unbuttoned, wind in his hair.
Gulls pirouetted above him as he let the water roll over his toes. Surfers paddled, the sun shone, and kids shrieked. Quintessential California. There was even the faint scent of pot on the breeze.
He shouldn’t have left Summer the way he had. Packing up in the middle of the night and leaving her a lame-ass Dear John letter made him the lowest of low. Their heated discussion had gotten out of control. Rhett had said some horrible things to her, things that weren’t even true. Jealousy and some crazy inclination to hurt her before she could hurt him had reared twin heads and hissed that he should strike and leave before love crippled him. So he’d listened to the ugly and spouted absolute trash.
And then ran.
But Summer’s words had followed him to LA. Words about forgiveness, owning mistakes, being accountable for his decisions. She’d been right about what he was trying to do to the Tavares family. He’d allowed his PR team to squash them. His lawyer had called, gleeful because their attorney wanted to talk about a settlement. Their plan had worked.
And now he’d done what the McCroy family had intended for Summer. He’d manipulated the story line so the family looked irresponsible, crooked, looking for a payout. To them, he no doubt seemed a rich, callous man who would stomp on any attempt to take from him.
They couldn’t know what killing their daughter had done to him.
His grandfather’s question came back to him. What meaning did his life have?
Rhett Bryan could be summed up with “host of Late Night in LA” and little else. He wasn’t a father, a husband, a partner, or a good friend. He’d spent so much time chasing his dream of fortune and fame, he’d forgotten there was more to life than his name in glittering lights. He measured himself by how many award shows he hosted, how many cameos he’d done in films, which actress sat with him at exclusive restaurants. His net worth was measured only in dollar signs.
Anyone standing outside looking in would say the meaning of Rhett’s life was his career.
Kicking at the wave, Rhett walked a small piece and then confronted the sun hovering above him. The rays warmed him, but not more so than the softness from the Carolina moon the night he’d held Summer on the boat. He wished he could go back and relive those moments, feel the peace she brought him, taste her soft lips, capture her soft sighs as she tightened around him, finding release. He wished he could take back the hard words, the way he’d pushed her away, content to wallow in his own misery. He needed more than what he now had, but his life still felt knotted tight.
So many thoughts swirled around him, much like the waves pulling at his feet—mistakes, wrongs, consequences, courage, regret, redemption.
How did a man right the wrongs in his life?
Start at the beginning.
The sun sat on his shoulders, bearing down in conviction, as Rhett started back to his car.
Before he could find a new meaning in his life, he had to fix what was broken.
The Tavares family lived in a modest, two-bedroom apartment housed in a brown box building. A tattered awning shielded a glass door that surveyed a scraggly patch of grass out front. Whip-thin palm trees writhed in the background, competing with the surprisingly lush potted plants standing guard outside the entry. A cluster of flowers and crosses sat near the road and took his breath away. But he parked and walked past it, shutting out the images it evoked.
Rhett got lucky—the door hadn’t closed completely. He climbed the flaky, wrought-iron stairs to the upper apartment where the Tavares family lived.
Before he knocked on the door, he wrestled with himself again. Once he knocked, he was committed to his path. Rhett sucked in a deep breath, then lifted his fist.
After several seconds, a small boy opened the door. He regarded Rhett with dark eyes, wearing jeans a bit too short. He said nothing. Just stared at Rhett.
“Uh, hello,” Rhett said, trying to not look so nervous. “Is your mother or father here?”
The little boy didn’t answer.
“Quem é esse?” a woman’s voice sounded from the depths of the house.
“Some man, Mama,” the boy said.
The door jerked wider and Ana Tavares appeared. At first her face was curious, but when she saw Rhett standing there, any politeness disappeared. She tried to close the door.
“Please, Mrs. Tavares, I need a moment of your time,” he said, catching the door with the flat of his hand.
“No. Go away,” she said, pushing against the door. “Socorro!”
Rhett felt someone moving toward the door. Another angry face appeared, wearing a scowl vicious enough to clear a prison yard.
“Please, Mr. Tavares. I just wanted—”
“You have no reason to be here,” Reis Tavares said, jabbing his finger toward Rhett. The child scampered back into the depths of the apartment while Ana clutched her shirt, twisting it into a knot. “You’ve done enough to us. I don’t care who you are. You are shit.”
“No, I’m not. I swear,” Rhett said, taken aback at the violence in the man. Reis looked as if he might murder him on the spot. He remembered the police reports and had a moment of panic. He should have found a different way to do this. “Please, I need to talk to you. I have some things to say. You don’t even have to invite me in.”
Reis’s murderous expression didn’t fade. “So talk. I’ll give you one minute before I pound your ass into a puddle. I don’t care if I go to jail. People already think I’m a thug now anyway.”
A neighbor opened a door and stuck his head out. He looked stoned but very interested in what was playing out before him. Reis glanced at the man, scowled even deeper, and said, “Come inside. I don’t want more nosy-assed reporters knowing my business.”
Rhett swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Thank you.”
The apartment smelled of cooking and was filled with mismatched furniture and huge houseplants. A wizened old woman rocked in the corner, her leathery hands clacking knitting needles together. She glanced up and gave him a polite nod.
“So?” Reis said, crossing his arms. There was no offer to sit down.
“Uh, I wanted to come here to apologize.”
Ana swiped at the sudden tears coursing down her cheeks. “That’s why you came here? To say sorry?”
Rhett sucked in a desperate breath. “For everything.”
“Well, our daughter’s dead. That can’t be fixed.” Ana’s expression grew fierce.
The knife of guilt twisted inside him. “I know, but . . . but I never said those words. I never said anything to either of you. And then—”
“You sic your lawyers on us. Make us look like we wanted nothing but money. We don’t care about the goddamned money. We just wanted you to hurt.” Reis’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched. “But you’re not sorry. You’re white. You’re rich. You’re famous. You don’t have to be sorry.”
Rhett pushed a hand through his hair. “I am those things. That’s true, but your daughter was someone. What happened took her away from you. I need to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”
“You didn’t try to help her,” Ana said, her voice low. She wrapped her arms around herself in a hug. “You climbed out of your fancy car and stood there. And she died.”
“I should have done something—”
“You should have fucking swerved out of the way. You ran right over her.” Reis’s words rained on him like bullets.
“I didn’t see her. She came from the side, Mr. Tavares. I didn’t see her.” Rhett couldn’t stop pushing his hand through his hair. He’d come this far, intent on owning his role, but he couldn’t find a way to ease the grief these two people felt. He was making everything worse. This wasn’t working. “I wish I had been able to stop, that I could have done something to save her.”
Reis looked like an injured bear, his hulking shoulders tense, his expression anguished. “But you didn’t. After you ran her over, you didn’t even try to help her. Like she was trash.”
“No,” Rhett said, holding up a hand. “No. Never that. I don’t know why I couldn’t move. My body shut down and I couldn’t make myself do anything. It wasn’t because I didn’t care or want to help. I . . . just couldn’t.”
The words were hollow to even his own ears. He should have tried something that day. Drag the car off her, CPR, something.
“Josefina ran out in front of him, meu filho,” the old woman said from the rocker.
“Shut up, old woman,” Reis snapped.
“Do not disrespect me,” the old woman said, setting aside her knitting. “I was there.”
“You were where, Avo?” Ana asked, turning to the old woman.
“I was there. Sitting in the chair Yogi leaves outside when he smokes. I had my eye on the young ones. Josefina ran after the ball, but she didn’t look. She forgot where she was. He could not have avoided her. She was very fast.”
“Shut up,” Reis said, turning his scowl on the older woman. “Josefina played on this street many times.”
“You cannot blame others for misfortune,” the old woman said, rising from her chair and setting down her knitting. She shuffled from the room, but not before tossing a hateful look at Reis. They all watched her disappear into what looked to be a kitchen.
“Look, I should go. All I wanted was to say how sorry I was. I didn’t come here to upset you,” Rhett said, inching back toward the door. “Recently a friend taught me about the power in owning one’s mistakes. Josefina’s accident was unavoidable, but I was there. I made choices that day, choices I regret. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you lost your daughter, and that no matter the outcome of the lawsuit, I want to do something. Maybe set up a scholarship in your daughter’s name. That is, if you both are okay with that?”
Both Ana and Reis stared at him.
“I’ll go now,” Rhett said, feeling behind his back for the doorknob. Summer had been wrong. He’d done nothing to make the situation better. Ana and Reis felt worse, he felt worse, nothing had changed.
“Does your lawyer know you’re here?” Reis asked.
“God, no. In fact, he’ll probably hand my case over to someone else when he finds out. The first thing he told me was to say nothing, to admit nothing. Standard advice from an attorney.”
Reis nodded. “A lawyer came looking for us. She wasn’t even in the ambulance and they were ringing my doorbell.”
Rhett wasn’t surprised. There was a death, and a celebrity was at the wheel. “Yeah, well, the lawyers can squabble over the money. They are good at that. But I needed to say this to you. So I can sleep. So I can feel like a person again. I don’t care about the money, either. I just want . . . God, I’m a selfish bastard. This isn’t about me. I really wanted it to be about her. To honor your daughter in some way.” As he said the words, something welled inside him. His throat ached as emotion rolled over him.
Ana walked toward him, easing her husband back. “You mean this? This isn’t . . . a stunt?”
“No. I shouldn’t have come.” Rhett blinked back the sudden moisture gathering in his eyes, aware he needed to get out before he crumbled. Something dark within him unknotted, rising to the surface as he saw firsthand their utter grief. “I’ll go now.”
Josefina’s mother set her hand on his forearm. “You didn’t have to tell us that.”
He looked into her dark eyes. In the depths he found something so profound, his body began to tremble. He couldn’t name it—tenderness, understanding, knowledge of who he was. The grief he’d hidden swelled inside him. He should have left seconds before. “I’m sorry . . . I gotta . . .”
But his body once again betrayed him. A sob tore away, unfettered from his soul. He jackknifed forward, pressing his hands to his torso as if he could hold everything back. And then it engulfed him. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Ana’s hands clasped his shoulders as uncontrollable grief flowed out of him. She murmured words that Rhett didn’t register—some were in Portuguese, others English. He was helpless, other than to crumble to the floor and hold on to her. His levee had failed.
After a few seconds of sobbing, he rocked back on his heels, stunned at what had just occurred. He looked up at Ana and Reis, who both had tears sliding down their cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” He swiped a hand across cheekbones that GQ had once described as chiseled, then he struggled to his feet. He felt drained. Altogether, it was the strangest damned thing that had ever happened to him.
Ana pulled a tissue from a box sitting near the worn recliner. Reis had sunk into a chair, his expression void of anything. The man looked gobsmacked.
“Sometimes we need to let things out so we can get better.” Ana handed him the tissue. “Like an infection, you know.”
Rhett had never been so embarrassed. His resolve to say his piece and slip unobtrusively back into his regular life had disintegrated at Ana’s compassion and he’d broken apart. “Maybe so. I have to admit I’m pretty embarrassed.”
Reis looked up, tears still swimming in his eyes. “We’re good with the scholarship fund. Josefina loved to read. That would have pleased her.”
Rhett nodded, swiping again at eyes that felt raw. His head ached, but his soul felt oddly unencumbered. “I’ll start the process by the end of the week.”
He opened the door, turned to them, and nodded.
Ana stood beside her husband, her hand on his shoulder. They nodded back and Rhett felt something in the universe expand and snap into place.
He’d done what he needed to do.
In more than one way.