new meaning to ‘keep a light burning in the window,’” Isabelle commented as she got out of the vehicle.
“The power company loves my mother,” Brandon acknowledged. “She uses enough electricity to light up her own midsize country,” he added with a weary sigh. At this point, there was no changing Anastasia or “teaching her a new trick,” and he had pretty much resigned himself to that. He’d told Isabelle the other day that he was a firm believer in the AA credo about having the strength to live with the things that couldn’t be changed. His mother was one of those “things.”
“She still might be asleep,” he told her as he quickly disarmed the security system so that he could unlock the front door. They had to hurry before it engaged itself again. “After you,” he gestured her inside the house.
Isabelle slipped in and then stood in the foyer, listening for the sound of clicking slippers. Though Anastasia was still relegated to wearing the white cotton surgical stockings for another week, she had balanced out her displeasure by beginning to work her way back into her high heels, her footwear of choice “because they make my legs look long and slender” she liked to boast.
“And at my age,” she’d just recently added, “I need all the help I can get.”
There was always a pregnant pause at the end of that pronouncement as the legendary star of stage, screen and television waited to be told that she didn’t need that much help and that she was still as beautiful as ever.
Victoria had gotten very good at picking up the cue and responding. But with her gone, the task, Isabelle felt, fell to her.
She couldn’t help wondering if Victoria would be back from camp when it came time for her to leave the household or if she’d have to tender her goodbyes after the fact.
There was only a week left to the six weeks she’d agreed to when she first came to work with Anastasia. The cutoff point had been a firm goal with no wiggle room. She’d either be well enough to go, or not.
Isabelle had no doubts that Anastasia would be well enough. Beneath the dramatic displays of vanity, the over-the-top glitter and the carefully applied makeup was a very stubborn woman who refused to cry “uncle” in any manner, shape or form. There’d been a couple of minor temporary setbacks, but for the most part, the actress had forged full steam ahead.
That made it her duty, Isabelle thought, to act not just as the woman’s physical therapist, but her coach and have Anastasia not just ready, but raring to go no matter what.
Isabelle knew as she walked into the family room, it was also her duty to make sure that Anastasia didn’t jeopardize her health while she put forth this almost superhuman effort to get ready. It amazed her just how resilient and strong a woman of Anastasia’s age—and what she would guess had been a life of sheer excess—really was.
“I don’t think she’s—”
Whatever Brandon was about to say to her, and she had a feeling it was about his mother, he never got to voice because Anastasia chose that moment to make her entrance from a room she’d dubbed “the library” because there were a number of books on its shelves.
“Ah, you’re finally home,” Anastasia declared. She made a show of looking at her watch. “Getting in a little late for a school night, wouldn’t you say, dear?” The question was addressed to Brandon.
“It’s summer and Victoria’s away at camp,” he pointed out.
“Camp,” Anastasia repeated with a disapproving shake of her head. “Camping out with bugs and furry creatures that eat with their hands.”
“Paws,” Brandon corrected, amused.
That only made his mother shiver. “Disgusting,” she declared. “And completely uncivilized. I don’t know why you sent her.”
He hadn’t sent Victoria anywhere since she was six years old. Wherever she went—school, dance classes, art lessons—she went willingly, because she wanted to.
“I didn’t send her, Mother. She went because she wanted to go. It was her idea, remember?” he reminded his mother. “She thought she’d have fun. And besides, Marisol was going,” Brandon added. The two girls had been fast friends since they’d sat next to one another the first day of kindergarten.
Anastasia moved her shoulders in a careless shrug. She never surrendered when it came to an argument, even if she was proven wrong. She knew how to turn things around to seem as if she’d been right all along.
“Well, I suppose there’s that, too,” the actress conceded loftily. “At any rate, solitude is highly overrated,” she said, waving her hand about to include the whole house. “I’ve gotten accustomed to the sound of you rattling around, making noise.” She drew herself up, as if preparing to go to her room. “Now that you’re home, I can go to sleep.”
Amused despite himself, Brandon couldn’t help asking his mother, “Just what do you do when you’re in your own home?”
Anastasia offered him a very sly smile in response. “Who says I’m alone there?” And with that hanging in the air between them, she majestically turned away and withdrew.
“She really is something else,” Isabelle said, admiration echoing in her voice as she watched the actress disappear around the corner leading to her bedroom.
“Yes, she certainly is,” Brandon agreed. “And someday science will figure out exactly what that ‘something’ is.” And then his demeanor shifted as he turned his attention to her. “But enough about my mother.” He did a fairly good imitation of a radio announcer from a more dramatic, bygone era. “I believe when we last saw Isabelle and Brandon, she was in his arms and he was having a difficult time controlling his desire for her.”
Isabelle laughed, amused. She would have never expected this lighthearted, boyish side of him. “Are you planning on narrating everything that happens between us?” she asked, doing her best to maintain a straight face.
“Probably not.” He brushed his lips against each cheek, then dusted her eyes with one tiny kiss apiece. “Suspense thrillers are my forte, not romantic scenes, remember?”
She smiled up into his eyes as he pulled her into his arms. “Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” she contradicted. “You seem to have a very natural aptitude for romantic scenes.”
“Nice of you to notice,” he told her, continuing to shower her face with tiny, arousing kisses. “I think you should know that no matter what I’m doing, I always try to top whatever I’ve done before.”
Right at that moment, her heart launched into a triple beat. “Well then, in the words of the immortal Bette Davis, I guess I’d better fasten my seat belt because it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
“Don’t bother fastening anything,” he instructed. “I’ll only have to unfasten it.”
Brushing his lips against hers one final time, he then took her hand and led her upstairs to his room, which he’d been dying to do all day.
“Physical
