Brian felt that familiar knot in his stomach as he stood in the wings listening to the crowd murmuring in anticipation, their myriad voices a constant drone. It was a full house—all twelve-hundred seats. He’d lost count over the years as to how many readings he’d performed, but the feeling was always the same: a heady mixture of dread and exhilaration. His grip tightened on the book he clutched to his body like a running back, his index finger marking the section he intended to read.
A Nest of Vipers, what the critics were hailing as his masterpiece, had just been published, and he could see a pallet’s worth of the books stacked next to the table where he would sign them after the reading. He hoped they had enough, as he hated disappointing his fans.
He felt Penny’s arm encircle his waist, the sultry scent of his wife’s Lancôme perfume filling his nostrils.
“You ready to knock ’em dead, honey?”
He turned to her, seeing that mischievous look he fell in love with, and grinned. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He then looked down at his three-year-old son, Joey, who smiled adoringly up at him.
I can do no wrong in his eyes, he thought, suddenly forgetting his nervousness.
Returning his attention to the stage, he saw Kevin, his publicist, standing at the podium.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to an evening with Brian Weller.”
The crowd cheered and whooped with lusty abandon.
Brian leaned close to Penny’s ear. “You’d better get to your seats.”
“Good luck,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“With you I don’t need any.”
Kevin was looking his way, motioning with his hand, “And now, without further ado, Brian Weller.”
The crowd erupted again, louder this time, when Brian sauntered onstage.
“Glad to see everyone here,” he said, placing the book onto the podium. He opened it to his predetermined place then stole a glance at the front row where he spotted Penny and Joey taking their seats. He fought to suppress a smile when the boy yawned, already fighting the gravity of his leaden eyelids.
Brian cleared his throat and began.
“Sully didn’t mean to kill the old man, but sometimes his anger just erased all conscious thought, like an alcoholic blackout. Now, with the tempest of his fury a fading memory, he was left with a cooling body and his back to the wall….”
Fifteen minutes later, Brian paused, sensing the collective intake of breath from the audience, the creak of their seats as they leaned forward. He had them in his hip pocket and the feeling never got old.
“…She put her arm around him and cradled his head on her shoulder. Time was the only way to make sure, but she already knew in her heart he was gone. Judith spoke to him throughout the night, crying, begging him not to leave, reminding him of the promises she now knew would never be kept.
“An hour before sunrise she rose from the bed and tucked in the blankets that were covering him. She kissed his forehead gently, her tears wetting his thick dark hair. Making her way downstairs she gazed out the window, where the stars shone brightly in the canopy of eternity....
“Thank you for coming, everyone.”
The crowd roared, and Brian grinned, drinking in their adulation.
* * *
The Porsche Cayenne took the corners of Mullholland Drive as if the winding Hollywood road were a quarter-mile dragstrip.
“I just wish there was a way to limit them to one book,” Penny said, her gaze on the road ahead. “You were signing for over two hours.”
Brian glanced in the rearview, seeing Joey fast asleep in his car seat.
“It's the least I can do for them, Pen, they paid for our house. And you don't have to be at every one of these things, you know.”
Penny turned and gave him one of her looks. “Except Joey loves listening to you read, when he's not falling asleep, and so do I.”
Brian laughed. “Okay, I concede, I concede,” he said, momentarily taking his hands from the wheel. “And it wouldn't be the same without my two biggest fans.”
Penny laughed and placed her hand on his thigh. Brian covered it with his own.
Just then a car careened around the corner, its high beams slicing through the gloom and turning the inside of the Cayenne into a white-hot sun.
Brian tried to block the light with his hand.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with this guy?”
The oncoming car swerved in and out of their lane, leaving ugly black tread marks on the asphalt. Penny’s fingers dug into his thigh.
“Oh, God, Brian!”
And then it seemed as if the oncoming car had leaped across the distance between them in the blink of an eye and there came an unholy shriek of tires.
“BRIAANN!”
2006
CHAPTER ONE
The phone jangled, ripping Brian Weller out of his dream. He sat up, gasping, sounds and images jumbling in his groggy brain until none of it made any sense.
The phone rang again, startling him.
He grabbed it, his eyes struggling against the darkness in the room.
What time was it?
Jesus, it was only 6:00. It felt even earlier due to the late night he'd spent at the computer.
He cleared his throat. “Brian Weller.”
“Is this a good time?”
Brian’s body stiffened. It was Armen Surabian, Penny's neurologist. “What’s wrong? Is everything—”
The voice on the phone softened. “Hold on, Hoss, everything's fine. Her vitals are stable, but we need to talk.”
Brian sagged back against his pillows, his heart rate dropping. “I keep dreading that phone call, Armen.”
“And this one isn’t it, but we still need to talk.”
“What about? And why couldn’t it wait until a decent hour?”
“I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”
“Now, you're making me nervous again, Doc.”
“I'm sorry, I don't mean to, but it's been awhile since we've assessed the situation, and I think it's time we did. And don't call me Doc.”
Brian grinned. “And don't call me Hoss.”
It was an old gag between them, a sure sign that things were status quo...for the moment.
“All right,” Brian said. “What time?”
“How about we do lunch? Meet me at the Bistro. I'll buy.”
“Now, that's an occasion. You're on.”
Brian hung up, then padded into the bathroom and threw cold water on his face. Might as well get up and see if he could get any more writing done. Donning his bathrobe, he trudged downstairs, turned on his MAC G5 then entered the kitchen to brew up some much-needed java. How much sleep had he gotten? Four hours? And Armen's phone call coming at this ungodly hour didn't make it any better. Brian shook his head and laughed. Did the guy ever sleep? He was always calling at weird hours and never seemed to realize that he might be inconveniencing someone. Still, he was the best doctor in Los Angeles, and Penny deserved the best.
When the coffee finished brewing, Brian filled his mug, went back into his study and sat down in front of the computer. The familiar image he'd put up as wallpaper on the screen stared back at him. It was a picture of Penny and their son, Joey, taken on a postcard-perfect summer day at Roxbury Park two years before. They'd both mugged for the camera, looking silly. It wasn't the best photo. It was just the last one...before the accident.
“Miss you, Little Guy,” Brian said, to the image of the towheaded boy grinning back at him.
He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. When would he ever learn to make it right? It was something Penny always did, and she'd always chided him that he should learn.
“Guess, I never will, Pen.”
Looking down, he turned the mug in his hands, the one she'd given him after his first book sold, its once stark white glaze now chipped and yellowed. He read the stenciled words for the millionth time.
GENIUS AT WORK!
He sure as hell didn't feel like a genius. Not now, anyway, no matter what the L.A. Times or any of those other rags spouted. They'd called his latest, A Nest of Vipers, “a towering landmark of suspense.” It still sat in the top ten after twenty-five weeks. No small feat. And to tell the truth, he was proud of it. But because of the mess his life had become, it had taken every ounce of will and discipline to finish that book. Now, after six months of beating his head against the wall, it was time to acknowledge that the well had run dry; and the thought of that scared him to the core.
He brought up the previous night's work and read through it, hating every word.
“Who are you kidding, Weller?” he said, shaking his head. He reached for the DELETE key and noticed the little mailbox icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen was flashing, indicating fresh mail.
Well, at least someone loves me, he thought, grabbing the mouse. He opened his AOL account, ignoring the headlines shouting about the latest North Korean saber rattling and the newest fad diets.
Thirty e-mails. Thirty since last night.
Most of them were the usual spam for hot stocks and hotter singles, as well as those from the ubiquitous pharmaceutical touts. He deleted them with the practiced motions of one who'd done it a thousand times.
That left four. Two were from his agent. He smiled, knowing Doris would be falling all over herself to apologize for her caustic humor during their last phone call. He'd read them later. The third was from his college alumni association with the usual pitch for money.
Not today.
He stared at the subject line of the last one, frowning.
A Note From An Old Acquaintance....
Odd. A part of him wanted to delete it, feeling it was just another spammer with a crafty come on. But another, deeper part of him knew it wasn't.
“The hell with it,” he said, clicking the “READ” button with a jab of his index finger. The e-mail flashed onto the screen. The font resembled feminine handwriting, almost as if someone had scanned an actual letter.
August 19, 2006
Dear Brian:
I know it's been almost fifteen years since we last saw or spoke with one another, and I'm not at all sure if I'll be able to put my feelings into the proper words as eloquently as I know you can, so I'll just muddle through.
I often think about the night you and I met at that private party Nick Simon threw at the Metropolis Club back in '91. And I still remember the feelings that went through me when you asked me to dance and how we spent the evening together. I wanted you to know that night, and all the days and nights that followed, were magical ones for me, as I've always hoped they were for you.
Ever since I saw your interview on the Today Show last month, I've wanted to contact you and tell you this—to see if I could find out why things turned out the way they did. I have so many unanswered questions, Brian. You see, you really made an impression on me, one I've carried with me all these years. What's really silly to me is why I've waited so long. Guess I was afraid of how you might feel.... And maybe how I'd feel, too. Truth is I've never stopped wondering if I deserved to meet someone as wonderful as you. Maybe I didn't. Does any of this make sense? Maybe you'll just laugh at this e-mail or...maybe you've forgotten. I hope not.
Anyway, please tell your agent that I'm sorry for my little deception. I told her I was your cousin, so she'd give me your e-mail. She wouldn't budge on the phone number. Boy, you must REALLY think I'm nuts!
I'm now the head of the Fine Arts department at The Boston Art School. You can reach me at 617-555-8795 on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays when I hold office hours.
I'd love to hear from you.
Sincerely,
Joanna Richman
PS—I've read all your books. They're terrific!
He stared at the screen, his mind spinning.
“It couldn't be....”
Joanna Richman.
Brian shook his head, his emotions warring. He remembered her, all right. Her and that night in the minutest detail, his nascent writer's mind recording everything: the shadowy modernist interior of the club, the moment their eyes met, falling madly in love with her in the span of a heartbeat, and the one other not-so-insignificant thing that hung over that night and its aftermath like a pall: she was married to another man. And as far as how he might feel, he wasn't at all sure how he felt.
And the dream he'd just had.... It was more than a little uncanny.
“Why now, Joanna? Why the hell now?”
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