Leave Yesterday Behind Page 8

  If only he could forgive himself and his own failures.

  Chapter 10

  He was too late. She was gone. It was bad enough another almost beat him to his final goal. He couldn’t believe the news reports that Lipstick Larry had struck again, this time attacking the famous soap actress Callie Chennault, Jessica from Sumner Falls.

  He was Lipstick Larry—though he despised the moniker the press hung upon him. Only he found women that resembled Jessica and punished them accordingly.

  Jessica was meant for him, not some dollar store knock-off. It appalled him to see the man’s capture, his sniveling—his cowardice—for all to see on network TV. Everyone would mistakenly believe this wimp masterminded all those loving attacks on the series of young blonds. What sacrilege.

  Yet despite his indignation, he realized this could work to his advantage. The authorities assumed they had the right man in custody. His trial would occur several months from now.

  That left him free . . . free to do his true work. In peace. With no one suspecting he still roamed unseen, unknown. He’d been careful to tamp down the compelling urge to keep in practice. It would be safe for him to remain in anonymity. For now.

  It rankled him, though, that another would receive credit for his painstaking work. Already, he heard rumors that the little moron was starting to deny involvement in the other murders that they believed he’d been responsible for. Looking at living life behind bars might do that.

  But it would be a long time before the idiots in charge figured out they had the wrong man—if they ever did. The fool accosting Jessica on the street and forcing her to use Ravenous Red only proclaimed his guilt to the media and public, in turn.

  Still, if the shitty little copycat continued his protests, he would be taken care of. All in good time.

  Now fate had torn her from him, keeping them apart yet again.

  He tried to get to her when she was at her most vulnerable, but the hospital crawled with security. The fact he’d been clever enough to even gain access to the floor she was on showed his true superiority. Yet no opportunity could be taken with the bulldogs constantly at her door, so she went home to recuperate without a sweet nocturnal visit from him.

  She’d left her apartment on a few rare occasions, always in the company of her watchdog, the redhead he assumed was her caregiver. He only witnessed two separate efforts, but he suspected she may have kept a few more doctors’ appointments. The haunted look in her eyes pleased him, obvious even from across the street.

  Now she’d vanished from his grasp. Not without a trace, though. When he thought to make a delivery to her co-op, her concierge explained he was authorized to sign for her packages, divulging only that she had left town on an extended visit. He promised she would receive the item, before becoming distracted by two prissy poodles who’d both stepped off different elevators at the same time. Rushing to break up their yapping brawl, he took the opportunity and quickly perused a leather-bound notebook behind the desk.

  Sure enough, a forwarding address was on the page containing her name. He recognized it from the official fan club website as some hole in the wall in Louisiana where she grew up.

  It aggravated him about having to change his plans. But surprisingly enough, it would be even more convenient than he’d dreamed possible.

  Because she’d run to the same town where Nick was from. Maybe he would kill them at the same time.

  Wouldn’t that be a ton of fun?

  Chapter 11

  Callie rose early, as she did every morning, dressing in loose yoga clothes and rolling her mat out in the large bedroom from her childhood. Callandra had kept the sunny aspect of the room although new wallpaper and curtains graced the walls and windows since her last visit.

  She eased down onto the mat for her breathing exercises. Wolf opened one eye from the bed, and seeing nothing interesting going on he closed it, and soon was softly snoring. She shook her head as she prepared her mind. Yoga calmed her like nothing could these days. As she breathed slowly, in and out, she lost herself from the world of worry, from the claustrophobia that nagged at her, from the shadow of a stranger that corrupted her life and changed her in unspeakable ways.

  After several minutes she became lost in the very stretches themselves. Potted Palm and Down Dog still brought her satisfaction. She did have trouble with certain poses she’d loved before, such as Cat Chataranga and Cobra, even Sunburst. These were simply beyond her physically, at this point.

  Her side continued to ache. Lefty—she still wouldn’t dignify giving him the media’s label—sliced and stabbed her right side from under her ribcage down to her upper thigh. She found it hard to believe she’d survived his vicious attack.

  Yet she made what Gretchen termed amazing progress. The nurse altered each therapy session so they didn’t become boring, knowing just how far to push her physically. Gretchen could be quiet when Callie needed it, yet she knew instinctively when to joke her out of the gloom that descended from time to time. She was grateful Gretchen agreed to make this trip to Aurora. It might be a healing experience for them both.

  A soft knock brought her back to the morning. Gretchen slipped into the room and smiled warmly.

  “I thought you’d be up and hard at yoga.” She cast her gaze around the space. “Your room is large enough that we can do your therapy sessions here if you’d like.”

  “Yes,” Callie responded immediately. “I definitely want the privacy. I don’t want Aunt C to think you’re my nursemaid. She already wants to baby me. If she knew what bad shape I’m still in, she would hover as if I were a lost lamb. I can’t have her worry that much.”

  Gretchen nodded in agreement. “I know you’re down. But you’ve made—”

  “Amazing progress,” Callie finished for her. “I know. You’ve told me enough times. I might even start believing you some day.” She gently rose to her knees and rolled the yoga mat up. Before the attack, she would have stood and stretched to do so. Maybe one day. Soon.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Gretchen left briefly and returned with her table and some hand weights and commenced with their session. An hour later, Callie had been massaged, stretched, and strained till sweat poured from her.

  “You made great strides today. I’m pleased.” Her nurse grinned. “I also want to thank you for bringing me to Aurora. I know you’ve realized by now you could do these exercises on your own. You don’t really need me anymore.

  “I needed this break, though. Maybe I should move out of New York. Just the drive down, seeing new parts of the country. That was nice.” Gretchen bit her lip.

  “Let’s face it. I blew it with Phil, even though I figured out he wasn’t the Prince Charming I thought he was cracked up to be. But I’ve cut myself off from the world ever since we split by burying myself in work. I’m glad you talked me into this trip. That’s all.”

  “It is beautiful here,” Callie said. “And the people are great. Southerners greet you with a smile. I promise we’ll get out and see the area. Not just Aurora, but New Orleans and beyond. We’re going to have a great time here.”

  Gretchen nodded with approval. “I’m glad to hear you say this. You’ve seemed more relaxed since we’ve been here.” She frowned. “Except around Nick La Chappelle. I sensed a little tension there, Cal.”

  She shivered. “You know how I’ve been about men. And frankly, I don’t want him taking Aunt C for a ride. She’s known through the parish for her generous hospitality.”

  “She is a gracious lady, but did you catch what she said about Nick and the lean times? Maybe he did need her help.”

  Callie had picked up on the remark. It troubled her. Had Nick gambled away the fortune he must’ve made in sports? Was he like topnotch athletes that drank and drugged their careers away? He sure didn’t look like it. She remembered his
muscled physique, the broad chest and shoulders that weren’t hidden by the navy T-shirt he’d worn. She grew warm at the thought.

  “I didn’t see a ring, so he’s available,” Gretchen said. “I think I read in Us where he was married before. I guess she didn’t last.” She sighed. “Foolish girl to walk away from that much man.”

  Gretchen brushed back the hair from her face. “I flirted like crazy with him, but he only had eyes for you, Callie C. I don’t think he took them off you the entire time at dinner last night. Maybe Mr. La Chappelle is the one who’ll get you back on the right track.”

  Callie set her yoga mat down in the corner. “You are crazy, Nurse Monroe. All that driving fried your brain. That man has no interest in me.” She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “I’m off to shower. By then Essie’ll have breakfast ready.”

  Gretchen groaned softly at the thought. “I may need to take up yoga with you. Or jogging. Or something. If breakfast is anything as heavenly as dinner last night, it’ll be like freshman year at college all over again.”

  Callie grinned. “They don’t call it the Freshman Fifteen for nothing!”

  Nick plowed through the rich-smelling earth with gloved hands. The sun beat down on his back in warm waves, lulling him as he worked. Part of him was right there in Miz C’s garden, but the secret part was in L.A.—the Hollywood Hills, to be exact. Detective Pete Wheeler was responding to a frantic call from paparazzi fav Amelia Blake, who’d come home to find her dog dead, his head sliced cleanly off and resting dead-center on the doormat to the entrance of her fabulous mansion.

  Amelia had recently been investigated for her husband Parker’s murder. The film studio chief had been murdered while swimming laps early one morning only last month. All fingers pointed to Amelia, but Wheeler cleared her. No arrests had been made. That meant the killer was still out there.

  Now Amelia had come home to find Rupert, her white Pekinese, dead. And this despite all the beefed up security she’d set into motion after Parker’s death. Pete, who’d had a crush on Amelia since her screen debut fifteen years earlier, knew it had to be the same killer toying with Amelia’s head. He tried to reassure her, but the lady was in hysterics.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Nick came out of his characters’ world and returned to Aurora in a heartbeat. He whipped around to see Callie Chennault standing there with her dog by her side, dressed in a sleeveless shell pink blouse and white capris. Her hair was down today, tucked behind her ears. She wore only a light pink gloss on her lips. Her green eyes were large. Her skin flawless.

  His pulse jumped at the sight of her simple beauty. She appeared fragile and very uncomfortable. He fought the sympathy that swam to the surface, remembering how she’d been attacked only months before. Despite her snappish words last night, he could see in the morning light that she wasn’t running at a hundred percent. He decided he should at least try and be civil to her. If only for Miz C’s sake.

  “No, you didn’t interrupt me. Well, actually you did, but I really didn’t know what was going to happen next.”

  Damn. He sounded like a befuddled schoolboy. He watched her brow wrinkle in confusion, and he shot to his feet.

  “I’m sorry. When I’m with my characters, I tend to forget there’s a real world still going on around me. When I’m working with the flowers, in particular, I play scenes in my head of the book I’m working on. One particular lady is in quite a bit of trouble, and I’m not sure how I’m going to get her out of it. Or even if I want to.” He grinned sheepishly, hoping he made some sense.

  He must have because a smile tugged at one corner of her luscious mouth. She nodded slowly.

  “I do that some, too. Not exactly the same because I’m not writing the lines as you do, but I read through a scene and then I play it out in my head. Where am I standing? Will I move as I speak? How will I say that line—wistfully? Forcefully? Will I pause? Will I rush through and let the emotion speak more loudly than the words?”

  She flushed, as if revealing that much of herself to him was a mistake.

  He nodded, suddenly eager to extend the connection they’d made.

  “I really understand what you mean.” He laughed. “I don’t think most people would, though. Anyone listening in on this conversation might certify either of us for the psych ward.”

  Callie stood there, still as the breezeless morning, as if she contemplated how to leave without seeming rude. But Nick realized he didn’t want her to. He’d thought about her often over the years. Though she’d been a prickly pear last night, he didn’t want her to go.

  He pointed to the bench sitting in the shade of a bald cypress. “Want to sit for a spell? I was ready to take a break.”

  “From gardening? Or writing?” Her mouth twisted in amusement, but she went and sat on the wrought iron bench he’d indicated. Wolf pattered after her and sat down at her feet.

  “Both.” He pulled off his work gloves and moved to sit on the ground, his back resting against the tree.

  They sat in silence a few minutes. He hesitated to break it, for fear she would run like a startled deer. She was already perched as if ready for flight as her eyes darted around uneasily, her hands nervously twisting in her lap.

  What could he do to put her at ease?

  “I remember you,” he blurted out. Probably the last thing he’d meant to say.

  She started and then her emerald green eyes met his. “It took me a few minutes, but I remembered you, too.”

  “You were different from any girl I’d ever met,” he said softly. “I pretty much hung around nothing but guys. Didn’t date much. Girls scared me to death back then.”

  “Guys scare me now.”

  Her words made him realize that the stalker’s attack affected her more than physically. It had violated her soul.

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t want to acknowledge the depth of the stalker’s influence in her life now.

  Instead, he moved back to the past. “You didn’t scare me. Then. You were so . . . normal. Better than normal. All the guys I knew talked sports mostly. Nothing really personal. Like there was an unwritten code that men weren’t manly if they went beyond a surface conversation.” He paused and gazed into her eyes. “But you really listened to me.”

  She shrugged and stroked Wolf’s fluffy coat. “You were interesting. And you talked about things that interested me. Books and movies and reaching for something beyond . . . this.” She pushed back and relaxed on the bench. The dog picked up on her mood and curled up on the ground. “You didn’t treat me like a punky little teenager. You made me feel as if I had value.”

  He detected a struggle flit across her face, which spoke more loudly than words ever could. “You do have value. You’ve become a professional actress.”

  She grimaced. “Yeah. On a soap, which most actors belittle. If they only realized how fast we work, how quickly we have to memorize our lines, how little time we have to be convincing. The bond we create with our audience.”

  “But you got out of Aurora. And you’re good at what you do.”

  Her eyes grew hooded. “You got out, too. From wherever you lived in Texas. From what Gretchen said, it seems you made a real name for yourself. Cy Young. World Series. Even I know what those mean.”

  He put a hand on his heart. “And you never knew about that before last night.” He gave her a look of mock indignation. “But I do remember you being a football, basketball kinda gal back then.”

  “Used to be,” she said wistfully. “Not much time for anything like an outside life with what I do. Did.”

  “Well, you’re here now.” Nick sat up, his hands resting on his knees. “Maybe you never saw me play, but you can see what I do now.”

  He stood. “You know the pace in Aurora is slower than snails. I have just the thing for you. Sta
y here. I’ll be right back.”

  He sprinted to the cottage and regretted not being able to stay in the cool air conditioning. He grabbed a book off the shelf and raced back, half of him thinking Callie would be gone.

  But she was still there. Still looking a little lost. Pale. She twisted a loose strand of hair around a finger. It made him wish he could run his hands through the corn silk of her hair.

  “Here.” He walked up to her. “Maybe you’ll never see my fastball or change-up, but you can see what I’ve been up to since then.”

  He handed her the book. She took it, a puzzled look on her face.

  “You want me to read a Nick Van Sandt book? I’ve read all his previous books, including this one. I can’t wait for—”

  And then the look on her face told him she realized he was Nick Van Sandt.

  Chapter 12

  Callie froze. The gorgeous hunk right in front of her was a famous crime novelist who’d won an Edgar for his first effort?

  She studied him, the piercing blue eyes, the chiseled cheeks, and blurted out, “No way. I picture Nick Van Sandt as a grizzled, scruffy, wear his pajamas around the house all day while he taps away on an old typewriter kind of guy. Or maybe even an urbane, tweed jacket type with a pipe in hand, scribbling on yellow legal tablets before he bothers touching a computer.”