The Sinner. Kathleen O'Brien
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so tired of having this argument. No one could understand why she’d quit, why even a million dollars wasn’t enough to compensate for working at a career you hated. In fact, no one could understand why she’d hated it—wasn’t it what every girl dreamed of?
But the dream of being an actress was very different from the reality. No girl dreamed of standing around for twelve hours straight, with strangers tugging on you as if you were no more human than a mannequin, arguing about how to hide the fact that one breast was a millimeter larger than the other. No one dreamed of seeing your own head superimposed on some naked body, then plastered all over the Internet, or of the nasty, suspiciously stained letters that flooded your mail for months afterward.
No one dreamed about the claustrophobia of never being private, or the isolation of not knowing who to trust. No one dreamed of a stalker.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said. “My agent doesn’t believe it. My own mother doesn’t believe it. But I’ve left Hollywood for good. I’m studying to be a music therapist.”
He cocked an eyebrow, a mute but eloquent incredulity.
“This is only my first semester, but I think I might have a talent for it. I’ve always liked to work with people. The very best times, back in Hollywood, were when they sent me to a hospital, or a nursing home. When I could really connect, and be myself. Of course there are lots of ways to make a career working with people. But music is very special to me. I think I’ve always understood its healing qualities. Actually, I’ve used music as a kind of therapy my whole life, to see me through the rough times.”
She heard the crack in her voice, and she stopped. She didn’t want to get maudlin. He would hate that. Besides, he didn’t know a thing about her childhood, about the years before her parents divorced, when tension hung in the air like smoke, hiding terrifying fires she couldn’t see, couldn’t predict, couldn’t avoid. Fires that would flare up suddenly in tears and slamming doors and shattered dinner plates, and in her mother’s blistering tirades. “I’ll leave. And I’ll take Lara with me. You’ll never see your daughter again.”
Finally, one day when Lara was thirteen, the fire went out. Her father left them both for a young woman of twenty-one. And then there was only the cold, empty air of abandonment, and her mother’s determination that they would show him. Lara would be a star.
She tucked the memories back into her subconscious and arranged her face into what she hoped was a calmer control. She even tried to smile. “At least I’m already trained in music. All those years of voice lessons, piano lessons—they might finally be worth something, after all.”
His eyebrow rose. “As I recall, they already were worth something—like a million per movie and climbing.”
“I don’t mean money,” she said. “I mean personal satisfaction.”
He tilted one corner of his mouth wryly. “You may be the only person in Hollywood who thinks there’s a difference.”
“Which is why I didn’t fit in there. Which is why I needed to leave.”
“Sure, for a vacation, maybe. A month in the Bahamas. Even I needed one, after the whole Kenny Boggs thing. I can see why you might have trouble getting over that—the guy was a head case. But you will get over it. You’ll go back.”
Before Lara could respond, the waitress arrived and proceeded to drop cocktail napkins on the table. On each napkin was a cartoon of an angry woman. “Where have you been?” it read above her scowling face. And below it, the answer. “Absolutely Nowhere.”
Lara was glad to have an extra minute to decide how to respond to Bryce. Irrationally, she had hoped he would be different, that somehow, in spite of everything, he might sense her sincerity. But he’d merely echoed exactly what everyone else had said.
There, there, they’d all murmured, patting her back either literally or figuratively. Of course you were terrified, take a break if you need to, come back when you feel better.
They didn’t dare take her decision seriously. They needed her to come back and make them some more money. She’d been shocked to discover how many people had been expecting to get rich on the Lara Lynmore franchise.
“It wasn’t just Kenny,” she said when the waitress had finished arranging their drinks. “It was a lot of things. I understand why you’re skeptical, though. I’m committed to making a new life for myself, but I can see it will take time to convince people.”
“About a hundred years.” He tilted his beer on the napkin, rotating it thoughtfully. “But let’s just say for a minute that you’re serious, that you really want to be a…”
He glanced up.
“Music therapist,” she supplied evenly.
“Right. Even if you really wanted to be a music therapist, why here? You can’t tell me Heyday has the best damn music therapy school on the planet. We don’t have the best anything, except maybe the best selection of cheap souvenir zebras.”
Stalling, she took a sip of her drink. The first part of her explanation had been difficult enough—but it paled in comparison to this.
“Well, I looked at quite a few schools. Lots of colleges offer music therapy majors these days, and I visited several of them. But when I got here—”
She hesitated. How much could she safely say?
Bryce was still looking incredulous. “When you got here, what? You were overwhelmed by the cultural stimulation, the sophisticated residents, the endless choices of shopping, entertainment and excitement?”
She flushed. Is that what he really thought she was all about? Shopping and snobbery and utter self-indulgence?
“Actually,” she said, “I think I was impressed by the lack of all that. I was drawn to the quiet charm. The peace of the place.”
Toying with the damp edge of her napkin, Lara went on without looking at Bryce. “Frankly, I’ve had all the excitement I can stand for a while. And besides—” She raised her gaze. “I was curious about Heyday. The few things you’d said about this little town had been so emotional—”
He laughed. “Yes, but that emotion was pure contempt.”
“Still. It was intense. Obviously your years here had been important in shaping you, and I was curious. I wanted…” She chose her words carefully. “I wanted to know more about you. I—I’ve missed you. When we were together, it was—I was—”
If only she were better with words. If she were playing a role here, someone would hand her the perfect lines, eloquent, powerful words that would miraculously soften his eyes, gentle his tone, unlock his heart. Instead, there was only this foolish fumbling to make him understand when she hardly understood herself.
But she refused to chicken out and say something noncommittal. She’d spent too many years being afraid to speak the truth, too many years worrying what other people wanted, what other people might think. In this new life, she was going to be honest, no matter how terrifying.
“Our time together was—special,” she blurted as bravely as she could. “I know it sounds crazy, but during those weeks you came to mean a lot to me.”
A daunting silence greeted that line, and for a moment she wished she could take it back. But it was true. She’d been drawn to him, not just his virile good looks and strong, hot hands, but everything about him. The calm authority, the rare moments of unexpected kindness, the intelligence, the wit…and beneath it all, the sense of some unspoken pain.
Lara held her breath, suddenly overly aware of the librarian and her boyfriend, who had begun to shuffle out of their booth giggling and whispering and fumbling with their check.
Finally Bryce shook his head slowly.
“That,” he said, “is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said in this entire preposterous conversation.”
She