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  “I love you too, baby. I’ll try not to call until Friday. Your dad’s been talking about taking a trip to Callaway Gardens. With spring around the corner it’ll be nice to see the plants getting ready to bloom.”

  “You could go to that spa you told me about. Get the full treatment.”

  “That does sound like a wonderful idea. Maybe we’ll stay a few days. Order room service, stay in bed and pretend we’re still young.”

  “TMI,” Summer warned playfully. She’d picked up that expression from her brother. “You should call right now. You deserve it.”

  “Maybe I will. It’s not that far away. We could be back in less than two hours if…”

  “I did the job today. And I recognized an old friend. I’ll be okay, Mom. You need to hang up and make reservations now. Promise, okay? I need you to do that for me.”

  “Then you’d better be prepared for me to check in on you. Twice a day.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Chapter Three

  Feelings of hunger eventually got through to the right side of Renny Jamison’s brain. She absently rubbed her belly and stretched her back, pleased with the day’s work so far. Chapter Ten was practically writing itself, the words flowing from her brain about as fast as she could type them. Maybe that had something to do with the subject matter, she thought with a sly smile.

  Pushing back from her desk, she was surprised to discover it was after five. No wonder she was hungry. The stale oatmeal packet she’d scrounged for breakfast had long since been digested. She took a step toward the kitchen and groaned. The only reason oatmeal had been on the menu was due to the lack of other edible foodstuffs in her kitchen. And hadn’t she meant to make a grocery run during the early afternoon when everyone else was at work? she mused, frowning. Well, she’d have to suck it up and fight the traffic in and out of the store. Takeout was not an option considering it had been on the menu three nights in a row and she was now afraid to get anywhere near the scale.

  But looking at the detailed schedule for completion of her novel plastered on the wall of her office, she couldn’t help thinking that dodging traffic was a small price to pay for today’s accomplishments. At the rate she was going, she would finish the first draft by mid-March, two months earlier than projected. Being the superstitious sort, she rapped her knuckles against the wooden desk on her way out of the room. She was almost to the front door when she realized she needed to change before going out in public. She didn’t consider herself too vain, but the holey sweats she was wearing with her favorite writing shirt, now off-white because it hadn’t seen bleach in years, were not fit for public consumption.

  Her cell rang before she made it to the bedroom. She glanced at the caller ID—Eve Jamison—and sighed. She was tempted to let it go to voice mail. In her upbeat mood, she wouldn’t mind putting off talking to her mother until hell froze over. But that would be cowardly and she wasn’t a coward—much. Reminding herself she could handle anything her mother had to dish out, she answered the call. “Hello, Mother.”

  “When are you coming back? You’ve been in that forsaken place for six months now. Surely that’s enough time to mourn my mother.”

  “I’m doing fine, Mother. How are you these days?”

  “Renee, tell me you’re not staying there,” her mother demanded.

  “Do we really have to go through this every time?” Renny sighed. She could count on her mother to demand her return once a month. And now twice in February. “I’m not coming back to California. This is my home now. And for your information, I will mourn Gran for the rest of my life.”

  “And you could mourn her here as well as there. Is it the drugs? You can tell me if you’re afraid—”

  “No! I was clean for two years before I left, remember?” Her mother had a way of remembering only the worst parts of her history. “I like it here. I can write here.”

  “Oh, well, then you must stay. We wouldn’t want being a star to get in the way of your little hobby.” Her mother exhaled. “I thought you might be interested in this script I managed to get my hands on early. It’s a made-for-TV movie that’s perfect for you. One word from me and you’d have an audition. This is your chance to get back in the game. To get back on top.”

  “Eve, when will you get it through your head that no one wants to see me act. Hell, I don’t want to see me act. I appreciate the offer, but as I explained the last seven times, I am not interested in being in the business anymore.” She’d been in her first movie at six months and by the time she was old enough to realize not everyone lived in the land of make-believe, acting had been her life, a sure way to keep her mother’s approval. “If that’s all you needed, I have some errands to run.” Her answer was a dial tone.

  Renny breathed a sigh of relief as she placed the phone on the counter. The requests from her mother were getting easier to deflect. She no longer had that tightness in her chest after a conversation with Eve Jamison—the movie star and demanding mother. She no longer had even the tiniest longing to be back under the lights, either on the set or out on the town. What she told her mother was true. She liked living in Seneca, the growing town an hour south of Atlanta. She loved living in the house her grandmother had left her. Loved the location with its friendly neighbors and a park in walking distance where she could sit and write or people watch. Most of all she loved being in a city where she wasn’t always regarded as the child actress who had turned into a teenage fuck-up.

  There were so many reasons for her to stay and no reasons for her to go back. No use telling her mother that. Eve had never understood her, never known her well enough to know where she was coming from. When Renny had finally accepted that fact, she was able to turn her life around for good. No matter what her mother thought, moving back to Southern California wouldn’t change who she’d become. And I’m finally stable enough to know I don’t have to prove that to anyone, she thought, absently answering her phone, which was ringing again. “Hello?”

  “Keile here. You interested in dinner with strings attached?”

  Her stomach rumbled. “No food, hungry, so yes. When?”

  Keile laughed. “When you get here. Be warned, there are three kids over here and only one adult. Even my fur baby deserted me to go help train Marcus’s puppy.”

  “Three? Sweet! Be there in five.” She rushed to her bedroom and did a quick change. Over the past six months, she’d gotten to know Keile and her partner, Haydn, very well and volunteered her babysitting services regularly for four-year-old Kyle, eighteen-month-old Chelsea and Can, their four-legged child.

  Keile somehow managed to open the door while carrying two babies, one of which looked very much like her. She was also sporting a big welcoming smile. “Yeah. Which one do you want? This one then,” she said as Chelsea lunged toward Renny.

  “Love you too.” Renny kissed Chelsea’s soft brown curls, then smiled at the blonde tot hiding half her face against Keile’s chest. “Hey, sweet thing.”

  “Hey, back,” Keile said, grinning when Renny swatted her arm. “Oh, you were talking to Zelda? According to Edan, who is having a night out with my better half, she’s going through a shy phase. That means she won’t be climbing all over you for another five minutes. Give or take five minutes,” she added as Zelda held out her arms to Renny.

  “Where’s my little man?” Renny asked, balancing the girls on her hips.

  “Probably choking on mac and cheese by now. You’re just not important enough for him to stop stuffing it down.”

  “As hungry as I am, I can’t blame him.”

  “Then let’s join him.” Keile led the way down the hall to the kitchen. “It’s not haute cuisine, but it should fill you up. Chelsea and Zelda have already been fed, so they can go in the playpen while we eat.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.” She placed the girls in the playpen and ruffled Kyle’s hair before taking a seat. He wasn’t choking, but he was shoveling down mac and cheese at an alarming rate. “Hey, Kyle.” She lau
ghed when he grinned at her, mouth full of food.

  “No eat and show,” Keile admonished and set a plate in front of Renny.

  Renny filled her plate with rotisserie chicken, mac and cheese, green beans and coleslaw, then grabbed a couple of rolls. “This looks fantastic. More so because I don’t have to do a thing but eat it.”

  “I picked it up on the way home from work since Zelda’s other mom called to say she couldn’t make it. Haydn suggested I tag you as Edan pulled her out of the door.”

  “I’ll thank your lovely wife later.” She moaned at the first bite of a moist chicken breast. “Sorry. Haven’t eaten since breakfast. Oh, this is good.” She took another bite and wiggled with satisfaction.

  Keile transferred some chicken to her plate. “Hope that means the book’s still going.”

  “Oh, yeah. Great. It’s going great. Something about this town brings the muse to full force. I’m ahead of schedule. Not that I would ever tell my agent that.”

  “Is this one about the child musician with the demanding mother who turns into an addict or the one about the psycho cop killer?”

  Renny finished chewing, then swallowed. “The former. They say you should write what you know and I know all about demanding mothers and addictions. If I thought Eve was going to read the thing, I might be worried she’d recognize pieces of herself. I say pieces, but it’s more like chunks. Big juicy chunks. In case you haven’t guessed, I have mommy issues.”

  “Never crossed my mind,” Keile said with a straight face. “Seems like writing about her is the best kind of revenge. She can’t accuse you of slander without giving herself away.”

  “Priceless,” Renny all but sang.

  “Mama Kee, can I have some more mac and cheese?”

  “Finish your green beans first.”

  “Aw.” Kyle stuck out his bottom lip, looking pitiful.

  “Green beans are good.” Renny forked a few and made a show of eating them. She pretended not to notice when Kyle followed suit.

  Keile mouthed a thank you as she placed more mac and cheese on Kyle’s plate. “Are you sure you weren’t around kids before you got here? You’re too good with them to be a newbie.”

  “Really I wasn’t. But if I’d known how much fun they are to be around, I would have found some to play with sooner.”

  “What about having one of your own?”

  “Have to find the right girl first. And even then I’m not sure it’s for me. I like being able to give them back. Can’t do that when they’re yours.” Renny grimaced. Keile didn’t look offended, but Renny knew that due to having an unstable mother, Keile had spent most of her life in the foster care system. “Anyway, I’m only thirty. I’d say that gives me plenty of time to make a decision.”

  “Speaking of plenty, there’ll be plenty of single women here Saturday night to tempt you. Between Haydn and my good friend, Jo, I believe every lesbian in Seneca got the invite.”

  “And who wouldn’t go for a February-Is-History party. I can’t be the only one looking forward to February being gone. Not to mention a party. Please tell me there’ll be dancing.”

  Keile nodded. “That’s Edan’s job. Maybe you could give her a hand.”

  “Maybe I could.” Renny pushed her empty plate away. Considering the size of her first helping and her impending diet, seconds were not on the menu. “I dated this DJ once. I have vague memories of being shown how to scratch.”

  “Uh, don’t think we’ll have that kind of crowd.”

  “Didn’t think so. I’ll burn a couple of CDs. Now it’s time to play with the kiddies.”

  Chapter Four

  Summer jerked awake, a scream caught in her throat. Fighting against the covers, she struggled to breathe. Once free, she turned on the bedside lamp, letting the light bathe her and her fevered imagination. “I am not in the closet.” She had to say it out loud. Saying it out loud made it true. “I’m not.” Hugging her knees, she rocked back and forth, willing her mind to let go of the vivid dream featuring a young Rich. He had been sitting in the closet, watching as his crazed father pounded on his mother. She could still smell the mixture of blood, booze and the emptying of bowels as the poor woman died. Could feel the terror as Rich whispered prayers and waited for his father to start on him.

  “No!” She shook her head and took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. “It didn’t happen.” After a couple more breaths, the trembling slowed and her mind cleared. A look at the clock and she groaned. Five thirty. Too early to get up and too late to get any decent sleep. Not that she wanted to sleep. Not if it meant going back to the closet or back into Rich’s mind.

  She wondered how the hell she had gotten there as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Maybe if she had thought through her earlier experience, written it down before going to sleep, she wouldn’t be awake now. Taking another glance at the clock, she dismissed thoughts of calling Dr. Veraat. What could she tell her anyway? That she’d had an episode on the elevator and fallen into a stranger’s memories? On her first day on the job too. Dr. Veraat would write it off as stress, the anxiety she had said would come with each step forward. She told Summer to remember that the little wayward backslides didn’t take away from the forward motion.

  See, she told herself, you don’t need a shrink. You need exercise. Looking like a scarecrow is no reason not to be an in-shape one.

  Thanks to her mother, the treadmill in the third bedroom was top of the line. But then again, everything in the condo was new and top of the line. Sandra Baxby had spared no expense when setting up her daughter’s new home. Summer made her way to the exercise room, hooked up her MP3 player and set the speed for a brisk run. As her feet slapped against the treadmill pad, finding her rhythm, her mind wandered. There were plenty of areas in her life that needed work, but the physical was working for her. She was eons away from the days of having to use a walker because she lacked the strength to stand on her own. Now she could walk, run, bike—that was her miracle. Her freedom. For now her bike or her legs got her where she wanted to go. Maybe one day she would be able to get behind the wheel of a car.

  Summer grimaced. The last time her mother convinced her to try that, she had coated the dash with vomit, unable to fight off the panic that had gripped her. Now she could almost smile about that day, remembering the quickly disguised look of horror that flashed over her mother’s face—as if she were wondering if her daughter were the Antichrist.

  Summer didn’t need a shrink to tell her the answer to her problem was buried with the rest of her memories. It was strange that she equated being behind the wheel with danger because she hadn’t been driving when the accident occurred. So she’d received with skepticism Dr. Veraat’s assurance the fear would pass, much like her fear of being inside the car had. She’d experienced the cramping in her stomach, the sweating, the feeling faint the first few times she’d sat in a car, but only being behind the wheel had induced vomiting. She didn’t see that little side effect going away soon.

  And how would she know if it did? Even her mother got a tick in her eye when she talked about Summer getting into the driver’s seat of her car. Her father flat-out refused to let her near his beloved Mustang, and her sisters were quick to find errands that had to be done elsewhere if the subject came up. Her brother, the only one who wouldn’t care if his beat-up pickup got spewed on, lived three hours away. In crazier moments or when she needed a good laugh, she fantasized about asking some poor car salesman if she could take a luxury car out for a test drive. Her conscience had prevailed so far.

  Hitting the four-mile mark on the treadmill’s counter, she switched to cool-down mode. Fifteen minutes with the dumbbells and she’d be finished. Then she’d shower, grab some chow and wait until it was time to leave for work. Not a bad way to start her day when she added in a book to keep her company. She had become addicted to reading during her recovery. In a lot of ways, books had been her salvation, reintroducing her to the world and explaining how she sho
uld act in certain situations.

  It was eight twenty-five when she hurried into the lobby of her office building. The book had been excellent company, keeping her turning pages as she tried to figure out the identity of the killer before he or she was unmasked. She took a quick look at the elevators and veered to the stairwell. Her thighs protesting as she crested the eighth floor, she prayed she wasn’t developing an elevator phobia to go along with her other issues. Running her fingers through her hair, she entered the reception area and smiled at the unfamiliar woman sitting behind the front desk.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Summer Baxby. I, uh, work here.” She fumbled through her bag for her wallet and pulled out her employee ID.

  “Oh, right.” The petite brunette with the spiky hairdo held out her hand. “I’m Fiona. I was out sick yesterday.”

  Something about the way she said it made Summer think Fiona hadn’t been sick. She knew that for certain when she shook Fiona’s hand and—

  she was on a bed, a man behind her, and they were looking into the mirror as they had sex…

  Mild pain flashed through her skull and her heart hammered. A fleeting trip this time. Still, she felt her cheeks burning as she pulled her hand back quickly, looking anywhere but at the woman she’d just seen naked. “Gotta, um, go,” she blurted out. “You know, Marcia, late, that kind of stuff.” She hurried away, not caring that judging by the look on Fiona’s face she had just been branded a kook. Because considering what just happened, she must be one. She might be able to rationalize away the thing in the elevator as stress-induced. Maybe. Both she and Rich would have scored high on the stress scale during that. No way could she say the same about the deal with Fiona just now.