Picture Perfect Read online

  "It's a good thing we came here," Alex said. "If you're overwhelmed by the apartment, I can't imagine what you'd think of the house."

  On the way to the Malibu Colony, Alex had tried to jar Cassie's memory with descriptions of their three homes: the house in Bel-Air, the apartment in Malibu, and the ranch just outside of Aspen, Colorado. He said that they spent most of their time at the house, but that Cassie had always preferred the apartment because when they were married she'd redecorated it.

  "What's it like?" she had pressed, eager for some detail that would shake free her past.

  Alex had just shrugged. "It's little," he said.

  But when the Range Rover pulled up to the towering whitewashed building, Cassie had stared at the rounded edges, the princess's turrets, the tiers and tiers. The last thing it was waslittle . "It looks like a castle," she had breathed, and Alex had thrown his arms around her. "That's what you said the first time you saw it," he'd said.

  "Cassie?" She jumped now at the sound of her name. She hadn't even heard the telephone ring, but Alex was holding the receiver, mouthpiece covered. "Herb says he won't sleep until he sees that you're all right." He took a step closer to her and laid his palm against her cheek, his eyes darkening. "Well, I don't give a damn," he said. "You've got to rest."

  He lifted the telephone to his ear. "No, Herb," he said. "Five minutes is too long. No--"

  Cassie stood up and put her hand on his arm. It was the first time she had actually reached out to touch Alex, instead of him touching her. He turned to her, the telephone forgotten, his eyes locked onto her own. "It's okay," she said quietly. "Tell him to come over. I'll be fine. I don't want to rest."

  He murmured something into the telephone and she watched the way his lips formed the words. She waited for him to hang up, but he didn't. He cupped his hand over the receiver again and moved closer, until they were separated by the space of a breath.

  Cassie did not close her eyes as Alex kissed her. Her hand fell away from his arm to hang at her side, and she tasted faint traces of coffee and vanilla. When he pulled away, she was still leaning toward him, her eyes wide and waiting for the flood of memories she was certain would come.

  But before that could happen, Alex gestured helplessly at the phone. "I have to talk to him. I leftMacbeth mid-scene, you know, to get you. Poor Herb has to clean up the mess I made." He ran his hand over her hair. "Why don't you poke around a little? I promise, no more than five minutes."

  As Alex turned away and started rattling questions into the telephone, Cassie moved downstairs to the middle level of the apartment. She wondered if she should change her clothes before Herb arrived. She wondered who Herb was.

  She started toward the master bedroom, where Alex had showed her, earlier, a closet full of silks and rainbow cottons that belonged to her. She reached the arched hallway Alex had pulled her through before. This time, she stopped to look at the pictures that hung against the stark white walls. There was one of Alex on the beach outside the apartment, buried up to his chest in sand. Of Cassie herself, grinning, her arm thrown casually around the shoulders of a skeleton. There was a picture of a dog she did not recognize, and one of Alex on a rearing horse. Finally came a photo of Cassie in bed, white sheets pulled just up to her breasts, a lazy smile across her flushed face.

  She thought of the pressure of Alex's kiss. She tried to imagine his hands tracing their way down her spine.

  She looked at the picture again, and she wondered if Alex had taken it.

  HERB SILVER WAS FIVE FEET TALL, BALD, WITH A HANDLEBAR MUStache and pointed ears that made Cassie think of a Munchkin. He met Alex at the door of the apartment and shoved a greasy brown paper bag into his arms. "So, I figure it's lunch and what's agoy like you going to have in his kitchen?" His eyes darted behind Alex's substantial height, searching for Cassie, pushing Alex aside as he began to rummage in the bag. "There's pastrami on rye with sauerkraut for you, and three knishes and for God's sake, don't eat all theforshpeis by yourself this time. Ah!" He held out his arms to Cassie. "You were trying to give me my third heart attack?"

  Herb Silver was Alex's agent at CAA. He had moved to L.A. over twenty years earlier, but he told everyone that even though you could take Herb Silver out of Brooklyn, you couldn't take Brooklyn out of Herb Silver. Cassie reached out and hugged him, his head coming under her chin.

  Herb kissed her on the mouth. He ran his hands lightly down her arms as if he were checking for broken bones. "So, you're fine?"

  Cassie nodded, and Alex stepped forward, offering her half of a paper-wrapped knish. "She's perfect," he said with a full mouth.

  Herb raised an eyebrow. "Does the girl have a voice of her own?"

  "I'm fine," Cassie said. "Really." She looked from Alex to Herb and then back at Alex again, silently thanking the little man for forcing his entry this afternoon. With Herb added to the mix of her mind, Alex couldn't help but seem more familiar.

  Alex clapped an arm around Herb's shoulders and led him upstairs to the dining room. "Cassie--can you get the plates? All right, Herb, tell me what Joe's doing in Scotland."

  Cassie wandered into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. Somehow the ordinary things, like finding plates, or cooking, or watching the shower steam up the bathroom, made her feel at home. Alex had seemed so much less threatening that morning when they were doing things together--him pouring juice and her finding the ice, standing side by side and chopping peppers for an omelette, picking up a stack of papers the wind had scattered to the floor. There was an intimacy to simple tasks, things everyone knew and everyone did, that formed a floor of false comfort and security beneath even two strangers.

  Herb and Alex were talking in the dining room, a running river of syllables she caught from time to time. Cassie looked from one cabinet door to the next, wondering where the dishes were. She opened the door closest to her. Tablecloths, and a breadbasket. The door beside it revealed wineglasses.

  "Joe's filmed the six lousy scenes that don't revolve around you--the witches, and something or other with Banquo. He says Melanie did a tour de force with the hand-washing bit." Herb watched Cassie open a third and fourth cabinet, bite her lip, and then check beneath the sink. "What's with her head?" he whispered to Alex. "She's still a littlemeshugge ?"

  Alex shrugged. "The doctor told her it's going to take some time for her to remember who she is, and what the hell knocked her out." His eyes followed Cassie as she finally opened the cabinet that held the dishes. "In the meantime, I figure I'll just keep her near me. Safe." He grinned at his agent. "Shit. IfI can't bring back her memory, I don't know whatcan ."

  Cassie brought back three plates and a stack of paper napkins. She hovered at the edge of the table, the outsider. "I could only find wineglasses," she said.

  Herb waved toward her chair. "Just sit. We can drink out of the bottles." He unwrapped a sandwich with a colossal amount of meat jammed between the slices of bread, and Cassie watched his mouth contort to seal around the bulk of it. "I hope you've thanked your lovely wife, Alex, for the free PR." Herb pinched Cassie's cheek. "Nationwide coverage of the heartbroken Alex Rivers shielding his wife isexactly the kind of pre-Oscar coverage we need." He held his sandwich inches from his mouth. "It can't hurt all your buddies at AMPAS to see you being a family man before they cast their Best Actor and Best Director votes. You know, I'm going to call Michaela this afternoon and see if we can't milk this onOprah . You can plugTaboo , maybe we can get Cassie on for the last five minutes--"

  "No." At that last word, Cassie jumped. Alex hadn't spoken particularly loudly, but he'd slammed his fist on the table so forcefully that he had cracked one of the hand-painted tiles that made up its surface. Cassie watched a tiny line of blood trickle down Alex's wrist, but he did not bother to wipe it away. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned across the table toward Herb, upsetting a bottle of soda. "You will not exploit my wife on television to stack my odds for the Oscars."

  Herb blotted his mouth with a napkin, as if he w
ere used to this kind of outburst every day. "Okay, okay," he said.

  Stunned, Cassie sat motionless, watching the clear stream of Sprite puddle onto the carpet. She looked up at Alex. "I don't mind," she said. "If you think it will help you--"

  "I saidno ," Alex bellowed. His fingers, clenched white around the edge of the table, suddenly relaxed. "Cassie," he said more softly. "Thesoda ."

  Cassie pushed back her chair and flew into the kitchen. A dishcloth. She spun around, intuitively opening the cabinet that housed a stack of simple folded cloths. She efficiently mopped up the tiles on the table and then, kneeling between Herb and Alex, she pressed the cloth to the carpet. She scrubbed for a full minute. In fact, she was so intent on cleaning the mess, she didn't notice the breaking weight of the silence that settled on her shoulders, forcing her to bow her head, preventing her from looking up at Alex.

  "There," Cassie said to herself, breathless. She rocked back to her heels.

  Alex pulled her up to sit on his lap. "Sorry, Herb," he said sheepishly. "You know how I get about her."

  "Who wouldn't?" Herb picked up the second half of his sandwich and began methodically sifting through the corned beef, eliminating every other slice. "Goddamn cholesterol."

  Cassie watched him pile the meat on the side of his plate. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling Alex's thighs beneath hers. She realized she was shaking, and almost as quickly, Alex banded his arms around her. "Cold?" he whispered against the curve of her ear, and before she could answer, he tightened his embrace.

  "I'm going to fly back to Scotland on Friday," he said. "I'm taking Cassie with me."

  "You are?" Cassie said, turning in his arms to stare at him.

  Herb nodded. "UCLA's giving her a sabbatical?"

  UCLA?Cassie struggled off Alex's lap. "What does UCLA have to do with it?"

  Herb smiled indulgently. "Alex probably didn't get around to telling you yet. You teach there."

  "I thought I was an anthropologist."

  "You are," Alex said. "You teach anthropology there." He grinned at her. "Let me see if I've got it right this semester--you're teaching Archaeological Field Training, The Australopithecines, and you're heading a tutorial for Golden's course on biology, society, and culture."

  Cassie rounded on him, furious, her anger eating away at the distance between them and making her forget her quiet role as an observer. How could he have neglected to mention this? She'd told him about the hand she'd found in the library the day before, the first clue to her identity. And at the police station, when he'd confirmed her profession, she'd practically crowed. For someone so concerned with his own career, Alex should have understood. "Why didn't you tell me this before? I've got to call someone there. I might have missed a class. They might have seen the paper--"

  "Cassie," Alex said, "calm down. I had Jennifer call to let them know you're all right and to tell them you'd be taking off sick for a couple of weeks."

  "And who the hell isJennifer ?" Cassie yelled.

  "Myassistant ," Alex said. His voice, low and soothing, ran over her shoulders and her back. He came to stand in front of her, grasping her upper arms and forcing her to look into his eyes. "Take it easy," he said. "I only want you to get better."

  "I'mfine ," Cassie exploded. "I'm perfectlyfine . I may not be able to remember who I am, Alex, but that doesn't make me an invalid. I'd probably remember a lot more if you weren't so intent on making all my decisions for me and--" Suddenly, her words dropped off. Alex's voice had been soft as rain, and his arms were offered for comfort, but his fingers bit into her skin. Cassie looked down to a spot where a small smear of blood from the side of his injured hand had marked her shirt.

  He was staring at her so intently he didn't even know he was hurting her. Cassie felt her cheeks burn. She was accusing him, although she only knew half the facts. She had yelled at him, when all he'd done was try to help. She turned away from Alex, mortified that she had screamed like a banshee in front of him, in front of his agent. What had she been thinking? Of course she'd go to Scotland. She had the rest of her life to teach at UCLA.

  Alex brushed her hair back from her forehead. He seemed to be waiting for her to come to her senses. "I'm sorry," Cassie murmured. "I just wish you'd said something." She pulled away from him, letting that uneasy shadow fall back into place between them. She smiled through her embarrassment at Herb, then walked onto the patio that led to the beach.

  "Whew," Herb said, standing and stretching his arms overhead. "I don't think I've ever seen Cassie act like that."

  Alex watched his wife walk over the bright sand, the wind covering her footsteps almost as quickly as she made them. He saw her pick up a stone and throw it as far as she could, aiming to shatter the sun. "No," he said quietly. "Neither have I."

  IT WAS THE SUMMER OF 1975 AND SHE AND CONNOR LAY ON THEIR backs on the floating dock, rubbing their toes against the rough wood, challenging each other to see who could stare longest at the burning sun. "You're cheating," she said. "I can see you squinting when you think I'm not looking."

  "Am not," Connor said indignantly. "You just can't think of any other way to win."

  She was twelve and she was with her best friend, and it was one of those absolutely perfect days on Moosehead Lake, one that moved so slowly you were sure you were stuck in a photograph until, wham, just like that, it was over too soon. "God," she said. "I'm totally blind."

  "Me too," said Connor. "All I see is black."

  "Truce?"

  "Truce." Cassie sat up, groping along the dock past her fishing pole and Connor's to find the skinny bones of his wrist. She pulled until she knew he was sitting up too.

  She had known Connor for as long as she could remember. He lived next door and his father worked at the bait and tackle shop in town. They had stolen still-hot elephant-ear cookies from her parents' bakery; they had been in the same class since second grade; they had learned to sail together on a battered old Sunfish bought with their pooled paper route money. They had both forsworn marriage, each thinking that with the exception of the other, the opposite sex was a miserable lot; they talked constantly of running away to the Canadian border, just to see if they could actually do it. Their parents said they were each other's flip side, inseparable, two halves of a whole. Cassie liked that idea a lot. It made her think of a picture in their biology textbook of a hermit crab that lived with a sea anemone on its back. The sea anemone, carried by the crab, had a better chance of finding food, and the crab was better protected by the sea anemone's sting and camouflage. Separate, they had to take their chances. Together, they had a whole new chance at survival.

  Connor jumped to his feet. "Want to fish?"

  "Again?" said Cassie. "No."

  "Want to race back?" He gestured toward the sliver of shore.

  "What about our poles?"

  Connor dropped to a crouch. "I could teach you to do a backward dive."

  For a second Cassie's eyes gleamed--Connor could do anything when it came to diving. He'd tried to show her once or twice, but she hadn't been a very good student. Still, aback dive.

  "Okay," she said. "What do I do?"

  Connor positioned her beside him on the floating dock so that they stood with their backs to the water, their toes balanced right on the edge. Then he bent at the knees and executed a perfect dive, slicing the water with his hands before his body followed like the silver slip of a knife. He surfaced beside the dock and wiped mucus from his nose. "You do it."

  Cassie sucked in her breath. She bent a little, hopped, and slipped on the wet dock. The only thing she remembered for a long while after that was the horrible sound her skull made as it cracked against something hard and unforgiving.

  Connor was already in the water when she blacked out, and he slung an arm across her chest and scissor-kicked his way back to the shore. He dragged her across the sand, Cassie's heels cutting dark wet furrows in their wake.

  When her eyes blinked open, something was blocking her view of the sun, someth
ing black and looming.Cassie . She rubbed her hand against the back of her head.

  Connor was staring at her as if she'd come back from the dead, instead of just passed out for a minute or two. "You okay?" he said. "You know who I am?"

  Cassie snorted; she couldn't help it. As if she could ever forget Connor. "Yeah," she said. "You're my other half."

  Connor stared down at her, his face so white she knew she had given him a good scare. For a moment neither of them said a word. Connor found his voice first. "Come on," he said. "Let's get some ice for you."

  They swung open the screen door of Cassie's house, leaving damp footprints and a shadow of sand on their way into the kitchen. "It would have been a perfect dive," Cassie tossed over her shoulder. "Next time, I think--" She stopped at the doorway so abruptly Connor slammed against her back, and unconsciously, she leaned toward him. Her mother was slumped across the kitchen floor, soaked in a pile of her own vomit.

  Setting her lips in a tight line, Cassie knelt beside her mother with a wet dishrag, wiping her cheek and her mouth and the collar of her shirt. From the corner of her eye, she saw Connor silently retrieve the bottle of gin that had rolled underneath the radiator. Her mother was supposed to be at the bakery, since it was only three o'clock. There must have been another fight. Which meant she didn't know when, or whether, to expect her father home.

  "Ma?" Cassie whispered. "Ma, come on. Get up." She looped her mother's arm around her neck and hefted the dead weight in a dragging fireman's carry. With Connor watching from the doorway, she draped her mother across the living room couch and covered her with a light quilt.

  "Cass?" Her mother's voice was soft and breathy, a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe's. She reached blindly to find her daughter's hand. "My good girl."

  Cassie tucked her mother's hand under the quilt and wandered back into the kitchen, wondering what she could scrounge up for dinner. If she had a meal set when--if--her father got home, then he wouldn't get angry, and if he didn't get angry her mother would be less likely to drink herself out cold again. She could make everything okay.

  Connor stood in the kitchen packing ice into a plastic baggie. "Get over here," he said. "The last thingyou need is for your head to swell some more."