For the rest of the afternoon, Florence all but glided through her scenes, smiling and glowing even when she didn’t need to be, although a few words from the director managed to dim that happy smile suitably. Then the scene would end and she’d go back to glowing and gazing soulfully in Glenn’s direction.

The hours dragged on and I wasn’t the only one noticing it. The grips glared at each other, people snapped, and the assistants were tripping over their feet to get out of everybody’s way.

I leaned against a wall, lost in the shadows.

Normally, Florence didn’t need much from me. If she saw me, she’d flag me down for coffee or just to chat, but if I wasn’t around, she didn’t even seem to think about me.

So I made sure she didn’t notice me.

As the day wore on, Kurt grew more and more aggravated with the performance until, eventually, he called things off an hour early, giving up. But he didn’t let everybody loose without first turning his ire on Florence and Glenn.

He pointed a skinny finger at Glenn. “You. So help me…I don’t know what is up your ass. I don’t know or care if it’s the happy news Florence shared with everybody. Maybe you’re having second thoughts and realizing you’ll have to keep your pants zipped now, but you better figure it out and yank your head out of your ass.”

There weren’t many women on the set. Some of them, especially the younger ones, were blushing, looking at the ground or just trying to disappear into the floor. More than a couple of the men looked pissed off. A few looked amused.

Glenn wasn’t one of them.

Kurt’s words wouldn’t have struck me as being out of place—unprofessional, yes, but I’d heard far worse. I still felt bad for those girls who looked so terribly uncomfortable.

Kurt ignored the dark glares he was getting, lifted his chin and glared back before focusing on Glenn again.

“You need to straighten yourself out—and if you can’t, you’re getting replaced.”

That yanked Florence’s head out of the clouds. “Oh, but you can’t—” She started to move forward, one hand on her chest.

Kurt wheeled on her, that skinny finger now directed at her. “Don’t you tell me I can’t. This is my movie, sweetheart. Mine. And I’m not going to have some pretty, spoiled Hollywood star think he can ruin it.”

“I’ll do better tomorrow,” Florence said, biting her lip.

“I said he, sweetheart.” Kurt raked her up and down with a look. “All you need to do is keep your mouth shut and look pretty.”

It was so condescending, I wanted to hit him.

Glenn seemed to have the same idea. He moved up to join Florence. He didn’t touch her, but the support was obvious. At least to me. Florence was too busy struggling to calm down to notice.

“I’ll get my act together,” Glenn said. “But you need to calm down and stop laying into everybody. You got a problem? Bring it up with me—don’t take it out on them.”

Kurt started to say something else, and Glenn took a step forward. There was nothing overly threatening about that small movement. But Glenn was a big guy, long, tall and lean. And Kurt was shorter than me by several inches.

The director snapped his jaw shut and turned on his heel, grumbling about self-centered actors.

Nobody watched him go.

* * *

“I can’t believe Kurt was so mean,” Florence murmured.

She’d said that, or something to that affect, three times already.

She stared outside at the scenery as the car traveled toward her house up in the hills. I usually enjoyed the drive.

Today, I just wanted it to be over.

She turned her gaze my way and asked, “Why do you think he was so mean?”

Aw, hell.

“He’s…well, Florence, he’s doing his job.” I shrugged and wished I could say something else. “He doesn’t have to be a jerk about it, but he’s only got so much time to get everything done.”

“But Glenn and I are engaged! Why couldn’t he let us have the day to be happy?” Florence wailed.

Shit. I didn’t want to have to do this. I sat there watching her pale face, the eyes already pink from trying to hold back tears, and I knew I needed to say it.

“Florence…when did he ask you to marry him?” I asked gently.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You say you’re engaged, but when did he ask you? You don’t have a ring.”

She looked flustered by the question. “He…well, we’re having dinner tonight and he said he had something important to tell me. What else could it be?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. My stomach plummeted straight down to the soles of my feet, and I had to swallow the bile burning its way up my throat.

I thought I might be sick.

The necklace was burning hot against my skin now, so much that it was uncomfortable, but I was reluctant to take it out and touch it with her—or anybody—sitting next to me. I didn’t want to have to say where it came from...when it came from.

“Florence, you can’t just assume he was going to ask you to marry him,” I said, trying to keep my voice soft. Trying, but failing. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to hug her and tell her to stop doing this to herself. That she needed to get her head out of the clouds and down into the real world.

Her mouth trembled, then firmed. “What else would he want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t know!” The words tore out of me in a frustrated shout, but it was too late to jerk them back. All I could do was try to make the rest of what I said calm. “But neither do you. So why did you just assume it was because he wanted to marry you?”

“So you think he doesn’t want to marry me?” Her voice cracked. The car turned through the gates, pausing as they opened. She sniffled as the car began its slow, forward momentum again. “You know what? I thought you were different. I thought you’d be happy for me. But you’re just like the others. You want him, too. I can see it. Don’t think I don’t.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts and averted her gaze so that she was staring outside. “He wants me,” Florence said stubbornly. “Me. He could have anybody, but he’s stayed with me.”

“Florence…”

“Just…I don’t want to talk to you now.” She called up to the driver and told him to let me out.

We were still close to a quarter mile from the gatehouse, but it was more appealing than trying to argue my case. I climbed out without looking back at her.

The driver gave me a sympathetic look as he shut the door, then patted me on the shoulder. “It will work out, Miss Cruz,” he said softly, in a voice too low for her to hear.

As they drove off, I murmured to the night, “I hope so.”

Man, did I hope so.

* * *

That quarter mile turned out to be more like a half mile. It wound through the hilly estate, back and forth, up through trees and the gardens, and I ended up stepping out of my shoes after less than five minutes.

A half mile wasn’t much of a walk, but in a pair of heels, it could be sheer hell. By the time I got to the front door, I was tired and my feet hurt from the concrete, and my stockings were in ribbons.

Letting myself inside, I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes.

Tears burned.

I tried to hold them back. But one slipped free, then another and another. Each one seemed to weaken the dam and within a minute, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I hadn’t cried, not properly since this had all happened. I hadn’t thought I needed to, but the storm hit me hard and fast and I couldn’t stop it.

I hadn’t cried like this when I’d woken up in the hospital after the wreck.

I hadn’t cried like this since…maybe ever.

I cried like everything inside me was broken.

And it did absolutely nothing to help.

* * *

The storm stopped. They always do—even the emotional ones brought on by misery and grief.

I was grieving. I’d tried not to think about Mom and Dad, Uncle Daniel, but now that the wall had broken, I couldn’t stop it.

What if I never saw them again?

What if I was never able to leave this time? This place?

A miserable headache lingered and I went into the bathroom, hoping to find some Tylenol. All I could find was a bottle of aspirin, which I couldn’t take. I was allergic. Since I couldn’t deal with the headache the normal way, I decided on a shower.

Moments later, with hot water pounding down on me, I tipped my face to the ceiling and wondered when I’d be able to go home. If I’d be able to go.

When the hot water ran out, I slipped out of the tub. Once I was in a robe, hair wrapped in a towel, I got a rag, wetting it with cold water.

Inside my room, I lay down and put the rag over my eyes.

Hopefully, it would help the headache and the swelling around my eyes.

Blowing out a breath, I caught the edge of the blanket and tugged it over me.

I doubted I’d sleep, but…

* * *

I woke to complete darkness, freezing.

The rag on my face was tepid, and the towel I’d wrapped around my hair had fallen off.

I was huddled into a tiny ball, trying to burrow farther into the covers, but with little luck. I was lying on most of them.

The headache, thankfully, was gone.

After taking a few seconds to appreciate that, I slid out of the bed and pulled on some pajamas. A look at the clock told me it was late, almost nine. I’d slept for nearly four hours.

Florence would still be out with Glenn, most likely.

“Don’t think about it,” I told myself.

I couldn’t control the outcome of this.

I couldn’t make him marry her.

I couldn’t make her listen to me.

I could just…be there for whatever happened.

That was it.

Clad in pajamas and wrapped in a robe, I padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was stuff for sandwiches, pasta leftovers sent down from the house, and wine.

I took the pasta and wine.

I was going to eat, drink wine, and read.

Dammit, for once since I’d gotten here, I was going to try and relax.

Sadly, most of the books were things that would either bore me or confuse me. I had no desire to read westerns. Some of the great literary classics on the shelves were things I’d already read in college or high school. If I never saw Oliver Twist again, it would be too soon.

Finally, I picked up a copy of Emma. My mom had always tried to get me to read it, but I’d never been interested enough. She’d finally get her wish. I just hoped I’d get to tell her that at some point.

“Mom,” I whispered, aching inside.

Taking the book, I sat down on the couch and curled up in the corner by the small end table. My pasta waited for me—cold. The stove was an archaic creation and I wasn’t too sure on how to use it, so I wasn’t going to. And there were no microwave ovens yet.

But cold pasta was pretty tasty, and I was actually starving.

After taking one bite, I reached for my wine, picking up both my glass and the book.

I had managed to read exactly two sentences when somebody knocked on the door.

My heart leaped up into my throat. I had a bad feeling I knew who it was.

Florence.

It had to be.