CHAPTER THREE
WILL liked Jane better before she remembered she was an anthropologist. She kept trying to explain her science to him. Anthropology, she said, was the study of how people fit into their world. That much he understood, but most of the other things she said sounded like a foreign language. On the drive to the police station Monday evening, she’d outlined the best methods for skeletal excavation. When Watkins questioned her for a notice he’d insert in the Times, she’d told him that until someone came to claim her, she’d be happy to help in forensics. And now, the following morning, while Will was working his way through a bowl of Cheerios, she was trying to explain the evolution of man.
She was drawing lines across her napkin, labeling each branch with names. Will was beginning to see why her husband hadn’t shown up.
“I can’t follow this,” he said. “I can’t even do math this early.”
Jane ignored him. When she finished, she sighed and leaned back in her chair. “God, it feels so good to know something.”
Will thought there were probably other things more worth knowing, but he didn’t say this. He pointed to a spot on the napkin. “Why’d they become extinct?”
Jane frowned. “They weren’t able to adapt to the world,” she said.
Will snorted. “Yeah, well, half the time neither can I,” he said. He picked up his hat, getting ready to leave.
Jane’s eyes brightened as she turned to him. “I wonder if I’ve discovered something really important, like the Lucy skeleton, or that Stone Age man in the Tyrolean Alps.”
Will smiled. He thought of her crouched over a site in the red sand of a desert, doing what made her happy. “Feel free to dig in the backyard,” he said.
THAT TUESDAY MORNING, THE LAPD RAN JANE’S PICTURE IN THE L.A. Times with a small blurb requesting information about her, and Jane remembered discovering the hand.
After Will had left, Jane took herself to the local public library. It was a small branch library, but it did have a neat little section of textbooks on anthropology and archaeology. She found the most recent book, hunched over the polished table, and began to read.
Familiar words jarred images in her mind. She saw herself in the British countryside, kneeling beside an open pit in which lay the tangled remains of an ancient Iron Age battle. She could remember brushing earth from the bones; feeling for the pits on a sternum made by lances and arrowheads, or the cleanly severed vertebrae that cried decapitation. She had been someone’s assistant then, she remembered, labeling specimens with India ink, carrying trays of bones to dry in the sun.
Jane flipped the page and that’s when she saw the hand. It was exactly as it had been when she’d found it in Tanzania, fossilized into a stratum of sedimentary rock, tightly grasping a chisel made of stone. Hundreds of anthropologists had combed Tanzania looking for evidence of the stone-tool industry they thought primitive man had the level of intellect to conceive. Following the lead of her colleagues, she had gone down one year to reopen a forgotten excavation site.
She hadn’t been looking when she found the hand. She’d just sort of turned around, and there it was, shoulder level, as if it had been reaching for her. It was an extraordinary find; delicate bones were rarely preserved. For fossilization to occur, skeletons had to remain undisturbed by animals and swirling waters and shifts of the earth, and if any pieces of a skeleton were lost, they tended to be the extremities.
Even as she was working, she had known this would be her break into the field. She had found what everyone had been searching for. She had carefully labeled the chisel, the hundreds of digits of bone, had cleaned them and preserved them with a synthetic resin.
Jane turned back to the book and read the caption beside the photograph of the hand. Dated to over 2.8 million years, this hominid hand and chisel are the oldest known proof of stone-tool industry [Barrett et al., 1990]. Barrett. Was that her last name? Or had she only been someone’s assistant, someone who had taken the credit for her own discovery? She skimmed through the index of the book, but there was no other reference to Barrett. None of the other books even carried a picture of the hand; it was too recent a find.
Shaking slightly, she walked to the reference desk and waited for the librarian to look up from her computer. “Hello,” she said, flashing her most winning smile. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
SHE FOUND WILL BENT OVER A DESK THAT SEEMED TOO SMALL FOR him, sorting through paperwork. “Police reports,” he said. “I hate this shit.” He swept them to the side of the desk with his arm and gestured to a chair nearby. “You see your picture yet?” Will held up the newspaper.
Jane grabbed the paper out of his hands and scanned the copy. “God,”
she muttered. “They make me sound like a foundling.” She threw the newspaper back onto Will’s desk. “And have you been swamped with calls?”
Will shook his head. “Be patient,” he said. “It’s not even lunchtime yet.” He wheeled his chair back and crossed his ankles on his desk.
“Besides,” he added, “I’m getting used to having you as a housekeeper.”
“Well, you’d better start looking for a replacement.” She tossed him the Xerox copy of the page in the book she’d read that morning. “That’s my hand.”
Will peered at the blurry picture and whistled. “You look damn good for your age.”
Jane snatched the paper back and smoothed it on the edge of the desk. “I discovered that hand in Africa,” she said. “I might very well be ‘Barrett.’ ”
Will raised his eyebrows. “You discovered this?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Barrett, huh?”
She shrugged. “I’m not really sure, yet. That could just be the lead scientist who was excavating the site.” She pointed to the reference. “I could be ‘et al.’ I bullied a librarian into getting me more information,” she said, beaming. “I should know who I am by tomorrow afternoon.”
Will smiled at her. He wondered what he would do when she left him to go back to her life. He wondered how empty his house would feel with just one person in it, whether she’d call him from time to time. “Well,” he said, “I guess I should start calling you Barrett.”
She stopped and turned her face up to his. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’ve gotten used to Jane.”
AN EARLY RISER, HERB SILVER HAD TAKEN HIS BREAKFAST POOLSIDE at six a.m.: tomato juice, grapefruit, and a Cuban cigar. Squinting up at the sun, he had opened the Tuesday Times and stared at the picture of the woman on page 3 until his cigar fell, unnoticed, from the corner of his mouth into the shallow end. “Holy shit,” he said, reaching for the cellular phone in his bathrobe pocket. “Holy fucking shit.”
THEY WOULDN’T HAVE STOPPED FILMING FOR ANY OF THE OTHER actors on the film, but he was one of the executive producers as well as the leading man, and any money wasted would come out of his own pocket. He wiped his arm across his forehead, grimacing as a streak of makeup came off on the sleeve of the velvet doublet. It was twenty fucking degrees in Scotland, but the set designer had ordered a hundred torches to line the great hall of the castle where they were filming Macbeth. Consequently, he couldn’t make it through a single take before his own sweat blinded him.
Jennifer, his mousy little assistant, was standing with the portable phone next to a spare suit of armor. Taking the phone, he walked a discreet distance away from her and the People reporter who was covering the filming. “Herb,” he said, still in accent, “this better be damn good.”
He knew his agent wouldn’t call him on location unless it was a dire emergency, an Academy Award nomination, or a part that would boost his career even higher. But he’d already received an Oscar nomination this year and he’d been choosing his own roles for ages. His fingers gripped the receiver a little tighter, waiting for the transatlantic static to clear.
“—newspaper this morning, and there she—” he heard.
“What?” he shouted, forgetting the cast and crew around him. “I can’t hear a thing you’re saying!”
Herb’s voice came clearly into his ear. “Your wife’s picture was on page three of the L.A. Times. She was picked up by the police and she doesn’t remember her name.”
“Oh Jesus,” he said, his pulse racing. “What happened to her? Is she all right?”
“I just read this two minutes ago,” Herb said. “She looks okay in the picture. I called you right away.”
He sighed into the telephone. “Don’t do anything. I’ll be home by”—he checked his watch—“six tomorrow morning, your time.”
When he spoke again his voice broke. “I’ve got to be the first one she sees,” he said.
He hung up on his agent without saying goodbye and started barking instructions to Jennifer. He called over her shoulder to his coproducer. “Joe, we’ve got to stop filming for at least a week.”
“But—”
“Fuck the budget.” He started toward his trailer, but then turned and touched Jennifer’s shoulder. She was already bent over the telephone making plane reservations, her hair falling around her like a curtain.
When she looked up he held her gaze, and she saw something in his striking eyes that very few people ever had: a quiet desperation.
“Please,” he murmured. “If you have to, move heaven and earth.”
It took Jennifer a moment to shake herself back to reality, and even after he’d been gone for several seconds she could still feel the heat where his hand had held her shoulder; the weight of his plea. She picked up the phone again and began to dial. What Alex Rivers needed, Alex Rivers would get.
AT SEVEN A.M. ON WEDNESDAY, THE TELEPHONE BEGAN TO RING.
Will ran from the bathroom into the kitchen, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Yeah?”
“It’s Watkins. I just got a call from the station. Three guesses who’s showed up.”
Will sank down to the kitchen floor and let the bottom drop out of his world. “We’ll be there in a half hour,” he said.
“Will?” He heard Watkins’s voice as if from a long distance. “You really know how to pick ’em.”
He knew he had to wake Jane and tell her that her husband had come to claim her; he knew he had to say the reassuring things that she’d expect him to say during the ride to the Academy, but he didn’t think he could do it. The feelings Jane brought out in him went deeper than a matter of a fateful coincidence. He liked knowing that she tried to cover her freckles with baby powder. He liked the way she had of talking with her hands. He loved seeing her in his bed. He told himself that he would simply put on the mask of indifference he’d worn for the past twenty years, and that within a week his life would be back to normal. He told himself that this was what was meant to be all along.
And at the same time, he saw Jane running from the cemetery gate beneath the owl’s cry, and he knew that even when she was gone she would be his responsibility.
She was sleeping on her side, her arm curled over her stomach. “Jane,”
he said, touching her shoulder. He leaned closer and shook her lightly, shocked to notice that the pillow and blanket no longer smelled like him, but like her. “Jane, get up.”
She blinked at him and rolled over. “Is it time?” she asked, and he nodded.
He made coffee while she was showering, in case she wanted something in her stomach before they left, but she wanted to go right away. He sat beside her in the pickup and drove in silence, letting all the words he should have been saying clutter the space around him. I’ll miss you, he had planned to tell her. Call if you get a chance. If anything happens, well, you know where I am.
Jane stared glassy-eyed at the freeway, her hands clenched in her lap.
She did not speak until they turned into the parking lot of the police station. At first, her voice was so quiet that Will thought he had heard her incorrectly. “Do you think he’ll like me?”
Will had expected her to wonder aloud about whether she’d remember her husband the minute she laid eyes on him, or to speculate about where her home was. He had not expected this.
He didn’t have a chance to answer. A flock of reporters pushed their way toward the truck, snapping flash cameras and calling out questions that tangled with each other in a knot of noise. Jane shrank back against the seat. “Come on,” Will said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
He pulled her toward the driver’s-side door. “Just stick close to me.”
Who the hell was she? Even if she was this Barrett person, this anthropologist, and even if she’d discovered that hand, this kind of press coverage seemed to be a little overboard. Will guided Jane up the steps and into the main lobby of the station, feeling her warm breath make a circle against his collarbone.
Standing beside Captain Watkins was Alex Rivers.
Will dropped his arm from Jane’s shoulders. Alex goddamn Rivers.
All these reporters, all these cameras had nothing to do with Jane at all.
The corner of Will’s mouth tipped up. Jane was married to the number-one movie star in America. And she’d completely forgotten.
THE FIRST THING SHE NOTICED WAS THAT WILL HAD STEPPED AWAY from her. For a moment she was certain she wouldn’t be able to stand on her own. She was afraid to look up and face all those people, but something was keeping her on her feet and she needed to see what it was.
She lifted her head and was bound by Alex Rivers’s eyes.
Taboo.
“Cassie?” He took a step forward, and then another one, and she unconsciously stepped closer to Will. “Do you know who I am?”
Of course she knew him; everyone knew him, he was Alex Rivers, for God’s sake. She nodded, and that’s when she noticed how faulty her perception had become. Alex Rivers’s face kept shimmering in and out, the way the heat rising off asphalt in the summer sometimes makes you see double. One moment, Cassie saw him glossy and larger than life;
in the next, he seemed to be nothing more than a man.
An instant before he reached for her, all of Cassie’s senses seemed to converge upon one another. She could feel the warmth coming from his skin, see the light reflecting off his hair, hear the whispers that wrapped them closer together. She smelled the clean sandalwood of his shaving cream and the light starch of his shirt. Tentatively, she stretched her arms around him, knowing exactly where her fingers would meet the muscles of his back. Anthropology, she thought, the study of how people fit into their world. She closed her eyes and fell into the familiar.
“God, Cassie, I didn’t know what happened. Herb called me in Scotland.” His breath fell just over her ear. “I love you, pichouette.”
It was that word that made her pull away. She looked up at him, at this man every woman in America dreamed about, and she took a step back. “Do you have a picture?” she asked softly. “Something that shows, you know, you and me, somewhere?”
She did not question why, days ago, when she wasn’t thinking clearly, she had so easily trusted Will; yet here she was asking for proof before she’d let Alex Rivers take her away. Alex frowned for a moment,
and then pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He handed her a laminated picture, a wedding photo.
It was certainly him, and it was certainly her, and she looked happy and cherished and sure. She gave it back to Alex. He put away his wallet and held out his hand.
She stared at it.
Somewhere behind her, she heard a desk clerk snicker. “Shit,” the woman said, “if she got her doubts, I’ll go with him.”
She laced her fingers through Alex’s and watched as his expression completely changed. The vertical line of worry between his brows smoothed, the thin line of his lips softened into a smile, and his eyes began to shine. He lit up the room, and Cassie felt her breath catch.
Me, she thought, he wants me.
Alex Rivers let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist. “If you don’t get your memory back,” he whispered, “I’ll just make you fall in love with me all over again. I’ll take you back to Tanzania and I’ll mix up all your bone samples and you can throw a shovel at me—”
“I’m an anthropologist?” she cried.
Alex nodded. “It’s how we met,” he said.
She bubbled at the thought of that. Her hand. It was her hand, after all; and through some miracle of God Alex Rivers seemed to be in love with her, and—
Will. She turned to see him standing a few feet away and shrugged out of the circle of Alex’s arm. “I am an anthropologist,” she said, smiling.
“I heard,” he said. “So did most of L.A.”
She grinned at him. “Well. Thank you.” She raised her eyebrows. “I wasn’t really expecting it to end this way.” She stuck out her hand, and then impulsively threw her arms around his neck. Over her shoulder, Will did not miss the flicker that iced Alex Rivers’s eyes for a fraction of a second.
He loosened Jane’s—Cassie’s—arms and held them down at her sides, furtively slipping into her palm the piece of paper he’d marked with his address and phone numbers. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “If you ever need anything,” he whispered, and then he stepped back.
Cassie stuffed the paper into the pocket of her jacket and thanked him again. She apparently led a storybook life. What would she possibly need?
Alex was waiting patiently at the door of the station. He framed Cassie’s face in his palms. “You don’t know—” he said, his voice faltering. “You don’t know what it was like to lose you.”
Cassie stared at him, absorbing the fear in his tone. She was frightened too, but that seemed secondary all of a sudden. Acting on instinct, she smiled up at Alex. “It wasn’t for very long,” she said softly, reassuringly. “And I wasn’t very far away.”
Cassie watched Alex’s shoulders relax. Amazing—when he seemed to be calmer, she felt better too.
Alex glanced out at the swarming media. “This isn’t going to be pleasant,” he said apologetically, as he anchored her close to his side and opened the heavy front door.
He held one hand in front of his eyes and pushed a path for them through the growing throng of paparazzi and cameramen. Cassie looked up, dazed, only to see a looming face and then the explosion of a flashbulb. The early air closed in around her throat and, blinded, she had no choice but to turn her face into Alex’s chest. She felt him squeeze her arm, felt his heartbeat against her shoulder, and she willingly sacrificed herself to the strength of this strange husband.