Alter ego, p.8
Alter Ego, page 8
At Mary’s side, Jeff Hayes looked around, seemingly unimpressed with Alexa’s elaborate foyer. He was handsome, no denying—the man’s face didn’t suffer from so much as one visible flaw, as if it had been sculpted out of a superior batch of tan flesh—but his attitude made her want to twist his arm until his shoulder popped out of its socket.
When Alexa saw Mary, she rushed forward with open arms. “Your parents would be so thrilled,” she said, kissing Mary on each cheek.
Alexa was in her early fifties and aging impossibly well—so well, in fact, that the skin around her lips barely moved. In her stilettos, she was just tall enough to reach Mary’s cheek without requiring Mary to bend her knees.
“Thank you, Alexa,” Mary said. Everyone told her that Celestine and Alan would have been proud. At least her involvement with the foundation would help to make it true. “Allow me to introduce my date. This is—”
“Jeff Hayes, of course, I know your work. Who doesn’t? We were absolutely dismal when we didn’t get you for Archibald. You broke our hearts. But that’s between you and me, no business here. How do you two know each other?”
“We met at a party a while back,” Jeff said.
Mary looked at him in surprise. So he did know how to speak. A lie, but still. All it took was the presence of a rich film producer. Noted.
“I was talking too enthusiastically to a friend, and I knocked Mary’s drink out of her hand with a wild gesture as she passed,” Jeff continued, his tone amiable, no cell phone in sight. “Pandemonium. She shouldn’t have invited me tonight. I’m likely to shatter your chandelier.”
What a story. Mary supposed it was more interesting than ‘her publicist called my publicist and we made a date.’ But Alexa actually tittered, blushing as if Jeff were the first famous actor she’d ever met instead of the hundredth, and waved him away. “Oh darling, you can shatter anything you like.”
People were waving at Jeff from all over the room, trying to catch his eye, while two photographers nudged toward the conversation, lenses clicking furiously—quite the workout for Mary’s paparazzi pin—but he ignored them and offered Mary his fourth syllable of the evening. At least, his fourth syllable for her. “Drinks?”
“I’d love a glass of champagne,” she said. She didn’t drink at these parties, but she always carried a glass.
As Jeff headed toward the bar, Alexa’s gaze stayed focused on his rear end. “Mary, dear, I’ve never seen you with the same man twice, but for my sake will you please settle down and hire a surrogate to carry your babies with him?”
What would Alexa think of Nathan Pearce? The thought barreled into Mary’s mind, out of place and probably inappropriate, but she couldn’t help wondering. Would Alexa accept him? Maybe. Check him out? Almost certainly.
“You’ve seen her with the same man twice, surely,” Parker Chapman said, joining the group with his typical smooth swagger. “Mary O'Sullivan. I haven’t seen you all summer. I was beginning to despair. Someday you’ll have to share your secret for disappearing on the paparazzi.”
He’d never believe it if she did. Secret entrances, team decoys, chartered jets. Maintaining this illusion cost so many LIO resources, so much manpower, that Mary often wondered if the return was worth the investment.
Parker was an actor and an old flame of Mary’s, auburn-haired with silver beginning to dust his temples and ten years her senior—provided he wasn’t lying about his age, which he probably was. Mary O'Sullivan didn’t date men for more than a month or two. Parker had lasted six.
“Nice mustache, Parker,” Mary said.
“It’s for a part.”
“It looks like a scrub brush.”
“I’m going to circulate,” Alexa said. “Don’t forget to make the rounds at some point, darling.”
“You know,” Parker said, stepping closer to Mary as Alexa floated away, “this whole foundation thing is making people nervous.”
Mary bristled. Parker had a tendency to talk down to her. “Then why did they come tonight?”
“They came because Alexa invited them, and because there’s vodka. That doesn’t mean they’ll open their wallets.”
“We made the cause less political,” Mary said. “My parents wanted to help victims of terrorism. Now we’re focusing on children’s welfare around the world. There’s no danger. Didn’t you read the brochure?”
Parker chuckled. “I liked your parents as well as anyone, Mary, but surely you can see why people are jumpy.”
Her parents’ dedication to helping victims of terrorism had made more than one person uncomfortable in the past, too, or so she gathered. Back then, Wave’s punishments tended to rain down on anyone who tried to counter the rampant attacks with hope, however small.
But Mary wanted to do something good with her public persona, so she and Agnes had developed these water purification nets. Agnes had created the formula based partly on the way her own powers worked, a method for filtering the pollutants out of dangerous water to make it drinkable. Mary had designed the hardware, the nets.
They were going to change the world.
“It was a good move bringing Jeff Hayes,” Parker said. “If anyone can change some minds, it’s him.”
That’s what she’d thought, too. But Jeff clearly had no interest in her, or in the foundation. “I don’t need someone else to fight my battles for me, Parker.”
“You never did.”
“Don’t talk to me like you know me.”
“Oh, but I do. You’re angry because you know I’m right.”
“Right about what?” Jeff said, returning with the champagne.
“Changing the name of the foundation,” Parker said. “You know, shake off the negative associations. Start fresh.”
Before Mary could respond, Jeff surprised her by saying, “No. Alan and Celestine were heroes, standing up to help people when everyone else was too afraid. They died for their cause, and Mary almost did, too.”
Mary stared at him, baffled. Jeff Hayes, standing up for her?
“The accident was the greatest tragedy Hollywood has ever seen,” Parker said, accepting a stuffed mushroom from a waiter in a gold bow tie. “No one’s denying that.”
The accident, of course, hadn’t been an accident at all. A plane crash, yes, but not an accident. Her parents had been murdered by the very terrorists they wanted to combat. That was the whole problem with the foundation, apparently, though everyone seemed to think it was distasteful to spell it out. Especially at a nice gathering like this one, with custom drinks and bow-tied waiters and shoes with the price tags of a college education. So people said ‘accident.’
Publicly, Mary pretended to remember nothing between boarding the plane and waking up in the hospital. In reality, she’d been alert the whole time. The explosion, the searing pain of metal pinning her right hand to the seat, her father staggering across the aisle to try and pull a protective casing down from the ceiling. Her mother’s body, draped around her in protection as they spun out of the sky.
Then impact, rancid black smoke, dizziness. She’d ripped her hand from where it was trapped against the seat and dragged a broken leg through a hole in the side of the plane, gasping for air. Miraculously alive, she’d crawled beneath a bush and waited, half conscious and trying not to wonder if the blood running down her face belonged to her or to her mother.
Mary wouldn’t be alive if Dolly Reyna—the Pearl Knife, then—hadn’t found her first and lifted her to safety.
She opened the outside pocket of her clutch purse surreptitiously and turned her seashell around in her fingers. She’d taken care to check the inscription this time, a simple C for Celestine. Her mother’s hair had always smelled like lilac.
“Wave is gone,” Jeff said. “There’s nothing to fear from them.”
Parker raised his hands in mock surrender. “I think—”
Jeff turned abruptly to Mary, cutting Parker off. “Shall we explore the patio?”
“Fine,” she said. She accepted his finally-offered arm, and they left a bewildered-looking Parker behind.
Alexa’s back patio was a wide half-moon of cobblestone with a waist-high wall and two sets of stone steps leading out to the yard. In the corner behind the double doors that led into the house, a deflated beach ball languished beside a potted fern, having apparently escaped the notice of the cleaning crew and the team of party planners. Mary had difficulty picturing Alexa with a beach ball; the producer didn’t have any children. Everyone had their secrets. Mary scanned the yard for anything that seemed out of place. The flickering light of crystal torches cast a glow on the extensive grounds, but not enough to illuminate the numerous dark corners to her satisfaction.
She approached the wall and steadied herself against the brick. It was still warm from a day in the sun. Right now, fighting bad guys as Coral and making life-or-death choices in alleyways seemed easier than surviving one cocktail party. At least criminals threw punches. Much easier to dodge than jabs from ex-boyfriends.
Jeff leaned against the wall beside her, looking for all the world like he was about to start a photo shoot with GQ. “Parker Chapman talks to you as if he knows what you like for breakfast,” he said.
A second ago, she’d almost liked him. Almost. She was used to being insulted as Coral—criminals weren’t exactly polite—but everyone treated Mary O'Sullivan with respect, at least to her face. “What is your problem?” she said. “Is that really how you ask someone a question?”
Jeff twirled the stem of his champagne glass between two fingers. “I saved you back there.”
“Sorry to ruin your love affair with yourself, but I don’t need to be saved. Especially not by you.”
“And why’s that?”
Anger flared in her chest, sharp and hot. “You showed up tonight looking like you were planning to paint the bedroom. You’ve barely said three words to me all evening, but you clearly know words, because when you met my film producer friend you practically turned into Shakespeare. You must have some ulterior motive for suddenly falling all over yourself to defend me to Parker.”
“So you two were together, then.”
Infuriating. She wanted to throw her drink at him, but Mary O'Sullivan definitely didn’t throw drinks. “I know you’re not jealous, so I’m wondering why you care.”
Jeff just looked at her and twirled his glass, his blue eyes completely serious. “Fans aren’t the only ones who get to dabble in voyeur.”
Mary tried to calm herself down. “Yes. We were together. Don’t you read?”
“Only what I find interesting. From now on I’ll scrutinize every article about you, promise.”
Coral would respond to all this with quippy humor. And maybe a fist to the jaw, which Jeff definitely deserved. Mary had no idea how to react as her celebrity self.
She decided to go with sardonic. “Well, thanks for the honesty.”
Unbidden, Nathan Pearce returned to her thoughts. He’d crossed her mind a few times in the last couple of weeks, enough to become something of an annoyance. It was his smile, and the way it quirked to the side. Like he wasn’t sure what to think.
She didn’t miss him; she didn’t know him. It was Coral she missed. The honesty of being Coral.
“A little old for you, Parker Chapman,” Jeff said.
Mary wished more than anything that she could break her own rule and drink the champagne. But situations like this, where someone insisted on wedging his way under her skin, demanded that she keep every ounce of brain function in full operation.
Losing control meant risking secrets.
“Why are you even here?” Mary asked, not bothering to keep the frustration out of her tone. “Why did you accept the invitation?”
Jeff grimaced. “My publicist was standing next to my assistant when your assistant called.”
“She made you come.”
He shrugged. “She says I come off as cold.”
“Shocking.”
“She wants me to get personally involved in a cause. You know. Spend time, not only money.”
“So you’re using me.”
Jeff looked out toward the lawn, and for the first time Mary noticed that despite the outward impression he gave of complete ease, he was clenching his non-champagne-holding fist. Tightly. Could Jeff Hayes be nervous?
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re different than I thought, OK? You have that whole vapid, playgirl persona thing down. I believed it. And your reactions are so gloriously scandalized, it’s hard to resist a little goading.”
She stared at him, speechless. It was one thing to go for the playgirl persona intentionally. It was another to be called out. Mary suddenly felt like her personalities were just a series of layers for people to peel. Sooner or later, she was going to mess up.
“I have a persona too. We all do. I forget that, sometimes.” Jeff turned to face her, holding her gaze. “Let’s try again. Start over?”
Mary shook her head, still unsure of what to say. Who would she be without Coral? If someone didn’t kill her before she got too old to squeeze through cruise-ship portholes, if some injury proved too much to overcome, would she live on as Mary O'Sullivan in this champagne-soaked dreamworld? Fake her own death and move to a cabin in the woods somewhere?
Jeff lifted his drink. “To rebooting.”
Mary accepted the toast and allowed the bubbles to fizz against her lips in a pretend sip. As Jeff drank his champagne—half the glass in one swallow—his sleeve slipped, revealing the tip of a tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
He noticed her looking and pulled the cuff up a few inches to show her the solid black outline of a ship’s anchor. Loop and cross at the top, arrow-headed W at the bottom.
“I thought anchor tattoos were out of fashion,” Mary said.
“Not for sailors.”
“I didn’t take you for the sea-shanty type.”
Jeff tugged his sleeve over the ink. “It was a spontaneous thing,” he said. He was lying, Mary could tell, but she let it go. For now. Out on the lawn, a few party-goers strolled along Alexa’s paths. Mostly pairs, but Mary could make out the tall frame of Andrew Thomas James, and the sparkle of his pink belt, apparently by himself and straying onto the grass.
Jeff drained his champagne. “So, tell me. What does it take to capture the eye of the famous Mary O'Sullivan?”
“Insults and ripped jeans at fancy cocktail parties,” she said.
He smiled, the first one she’d seen from him all evening. “Parker Chapman aside, what Alexa said is generally true. You date a lot of different men.”
“You heard that?”
“Every word. Surely you had a long list of options for tonight, but you invited me. Why?”
Mary set her champagne on the wall and tried to collect her thoughts. At the edge of the garden, Andrew was peering into the leaves of one of the privet trees that shielded Alexa’s yard from the eyes of the outside world. He was so tall. If he were to stand straight, she was sure half his head would disappear into the branches. A strange one, Andrew. She hoped ginger cocktails and champagne were the only drugs he’d consumed tonight.
Mary needed this foundation. Not to keep her in the spotlight, which she could manage whenever she wanted, but to make the spotlight meaningful. The more time she spent in Hollywood, the more useless she felt. If she had a project to occupy her when she was out here, some way to do good when she couldn’t be Coral, she’d be honoring her parents and staying sane at the same time. And she desperately needed to stay sane.
“You need a cause,” she said, “and Sea and Stars needs a prestigious endorsement. Someone whose good opinion can put people at ease.”
“I’m listening.”
The paparazzi pin tickled her shoulder with another vibration, and she glanced around. None of the party photographers were in the yard. If she had to guess, she’d say there was a paparazzo in a certain tree at the edge of the property. Mary scanned the garden quickly, but it was dark and Andrew Thomas James was nowhere to be seen.
With the camera in mind, Mary tilted her head to the side and leaned forward to touch Jeff’s arm, lingering for a moment before she spoke.
“Join the board,” she said. “Make a significant contribution, let us quote you on materials. Your publicist wants you involved? We’ll get you a photo shoot with boxes of water purification nets. We’ll have you collecting school supplies and hugging children.”
Jeff caught her fingers as she let go of his sleeve, pulling her a half step closer. “Did I say vapid?” he murmured. “Silly me.”
Across the yard, a loud splash echoed from the pool. Mary looked up to see Andrew’s sneakered feet disappearing into the water. A few seconds later, his head bobbed up, the torchlight distorting his shadow into odd, dancing shapes.
“Is he still wearing his clothes?” Jeff asked.
“I hope so.”
He let go of her fingers with a squeeze. “All right, I’ll think about it. You can take me to dinner, and try to convince me.”
What could she say? With the pin still buzzing at her shoulder, Mary leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Fine,” she said. “For now I should probably go and cultivate the rest of the guests before Alexa drags me back inside herself.”
10 Mary
Despite its outlandish price tag, Mary’s beach house always felt downright compact after she spent an evening in a decadent home like Alexa’s. She preferred the contemporary design. Not simple, maybe, but minimal.
She dropped her keys in the clamshell dish at the entrance, the one detail in the house she’d actually chosen herself. Though she could have purchased a house anywhere near Los Angeles, she’d purposely returned to Malibu thinking it would serve as a reminder of why she’d embraced the secret identity and the life of a vigilante. But compared to the warm home of her childhood, where beach balls and lawn games were always at the ready, this place was cold and lonely. The whole house smelled faintly of ocean and lemon cleaning solution. Not unpleasant, but not loved either.
