“It was a great place to grow up,” she repeated. “But you are a woman now. And you need to find your own place. I know that. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I tried to hold you back. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t, financially, put you on this path sooner.”
“I could have left before, Mama. Plenty of times.” And I could have. I could have gotten a job in Tallahassee. Or taken advantage of the Hope Scholarship and gone to Valdosta State or Georgia Southern. Gotten student loans and been on my merry way. I didn’t really know why I didn’t. It just never felt right. And my desire to leave Quincy wasn’t ever strong enough to prompt action. Then Scott and I started dating, and any thoughts of leaving were discarded. Funny how love could spin your life in an entirely new direction before you even realized what had happened. And when you did realize, you didn’t care because the love was bigger than you and your wants.
Our love had been bigger than me. That’s what had made its crash so devastating.
“Where will you go?” Mama’s voice was calm, as if I hadn’t just taken her world and broken it in two.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. I had no idea where I’d go. “Do you want to come?”
I felt her hand find mine, her grip strong and loving. “No sweetie. But you will always have a home here, and with me. Let that give you the confidence to take risks.”
It was a sweet sentiment. I continued to hold her hand, our rockers moving in sync and tried to figure out how much, out of the twenty thousand, I could spare and how long that small amount would last her.
CHAPTER 10
“Assuming a role is like putting on another life and trying it on for size. You spend four months in that life and sometimes pieces of it stick.”
~ Nadia Smith
Cole Masten settled into the seat of his Bentley and picked up his cell. Dialed his wife’s number and pressed a button, sending the call through the bluetooth. He listened to the phone ring through the speakers and pulled out of Santa Monica Airport, heading north on Centinela Avenue toward home. The time spent in New York had been hell. Half promotional, half productive—at least he’d made some headway on The Fortune Bottle. For the first time since he’d started in this business, he felt excited by something. Maybe it was the risk of his money in the pot. Maybe it was the thought of total control—of the cast, the direction, the marketing. Total control was a rarity in Hollywood, a rarity that had cost him financially. But it would all pay off, with interest, when it hit the box office. This movie would be huge, he knew it, had felt it ever since he’d first heard of the sleepy town full of millionaires.
Nadia’s voicemail came on, and he ended the call, weaving in between slower cars as he drew closer to home. If she weren’t home, she would be soon. He’d managed to finish a day early, to give them at least one extra day together before he left for Georgia. Only six weeks until filming started. He turned up the radio, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he downshifted and passed a semi. He’d send the staff away as soon as he got there to give them some privacy.
The sky was dark by the time he wound up their tight, curving street and pressed the button, opening the gate. He saw her Ferrari parked in the garage and smiled. Jerked his car into park and hopped out, his fingers itching to touch her skin, inhale her scent, push her down on the bed. He walked up the side path, the stone uneven beneath his shoes, the landscape lighting illuminating the tall palms in dramatic fashion as he moved to the back door.
When he walked in the house, it was quiet and dark. He stopped in the kitchen, emptying his pockets onto the counter and pulling off his jacket. There was a note to Nadia on the large marble island, one from Betty, the house manager. He glanced at it, then lifted his head, the sound of the shower starting above him.
Skipping the elevator, he jogged up the stairs, a smile on his face when he reached the second floor. It was the strange voice that stopped his smile, the laugh that was distinctly masculine, and he opened the door slowly, the light from the hall spilling into the dim bedroom, the lit bathroom illuminating in clear fashion the end of his marriage.
Nadia’s hands were on the counter. He had always loved her hands. Delicate fingers, she had played piano as a child. They were very dexterous. That night, her polish was a deep brown. The nails had coordinated with the tan granite that they dug into.
Nadia’s head was tilted down, her mouth open in an O of pleasure, the man’s head at her neck, saying something against her hair. Her feet were bare and spread, pushed up on her toes, a position that pushed out her beautiful ass. The man’s hands gripped that ass.
“I love your ass,” Cole whispered, his mouth nipping at the skin.
“Of course you do,” she giggled, rolling onto her back, destroying his view.
“I hereby claim it as mine.”
She propped up on her elbows. “Uh uh uh. That ass belongs to my future husband.”
“Then let me own it.”
She tilted her head at him, a question in her smile.
“Be my wife, Nadia. Let me worship at the shrine of you until I die.”
“Now, Mr. Masten, how can I possibly say no to that?”
The man pushed his hips forward, and he heard her gasp. Saw the flex of her arms as she pushed back against him.
Cole stepped into the bedroom, his head pounding, his chest tight. The sounds of his feet on the carpet were thunderous, yet the couple didn’t turn, his wife didn’t hear, didn’t notice. Maybe because she was too busy moaning, her head lifting and falling back against his shoulder, one of her beautiful hands leaving the counter and reaching out to the mirror, bracing against it.