the tension in the band that Isabelle had placed around her lower thighs.
Of necessity, she’d waddled like a duck, but a very graceful duck, she liked to think. And that, to Anastasia, meant that she had passed the “course” set before her. From here on in, any exercises she faced would be the regular kind, meant to keep her body flexible and limber, something she liked to think kept her youthful as well.
“Oh?” Isabelle asked, her curiosity aroused. “What kind of doubts?”
Anastasia shrugged in that vague, dismissive way of hers. “I knew you had to know your stuff. After all, you did get a degree in physical therapy. But I didn’t think you were woman enough to ride herd over me—” She saw the surprised expression on Isabelle’s face and watched it melt into bemusement. “Yes, I know I can be, let’s just say ‘difficult’ by some standards—”
“You, Anastasia Del Vecchio, are difficult by anyone’s standards,” Isabelle interjected with genuine affection. The woman was an experience like no other, and she would always be grateful for the opportunity to be with her. “But it’s also what makes you uniquely you,” Isabelle concluded with complete conviction.
Anastasia appeared exceedingly pleased with the assessment.
“Glad you could see that. Anyway,” she said getting back to original point, “I didn’t think you could make me do these silly little exercises, but you could and you did and I’m obviously the better for it.” That was said a bit grudgingly. “Thank you,” she declared, then surprised Isabelle even more by pulling her into her arms and awarding each cheek with a kiss. “You have done me—and my public—a tremendous service.”
“I’m glad I could be of help,” Isabelle replied, doing her best to look serious.
Inside she suddenly struggled with a tidal wave of bittersweet feeling that threatened to completely overwhelm her.
Somehow, she managed to keep a smile on her face and an upbeat note in her voice, but it was definitely not easy.
This is the end, a voice in her head whispered. It’s over. The fairy tale you’ve been gliding on is about to break apart. Time to get back to the real world, Cinderella.
Isabelle took a breath. She might as well know it now. “When do you go on tour, Anastasia?”
“They leave the day after tomorrow.” She tossed the words in her direction as if they were of no consequence. As if they didn’t have the power to blow up a carefully crafted world, spun entirely out of sugar. “Thank God, I got in a little rehearsal time before my accident—not that I don’t know the play cold,” she added with her customary, undaunted confidence. “You’ll come to the show when we bring it back to L.A.?” the actress asked her suddenly.
Isabelle drew in a breath, as if that could somehow protect her heart, put a shield around it and forced a smile to her lips. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she promised.
The woman graced her with a satisfied, beatific smile. “Good, then I’ll be sure to leave a ticket at the box office for you.”
A ticket.
A single, lonely sliver of paper to denote her status in life, Isabelle thought. Single. Forever.
Funny, she had resigned herself to that before she came here, making peace with it. Knowing it was better than living in a constant heightened state of dread, subconsciously waiting to be betrayed, the way her father had betrayed her mother.
But being here, being a part of this family, a family she had come to care about a great deal, had changed everything for her, at least temporarily. Living here had made her dream and yearn for something more. Something richer.
She’d even begun to think that it was possible…
That, idiot, was your big mistake. How could it have been possible? He’s Brandon Slade, for God sakes, and you’re…just you.
Stop it, she ordered herself sternly. You knew it would be like this when you signed on. This is a world-famous writer. What do you have to offer the man he can’t get somewhere else? Nothing.
Her old life was calling and she had to go. It was good enough for her once, it would be good enough again. And very soon, all this would just seem like a dream, a wonderful, euphoric dream.
“Oh, my,” Anastasia said, moving about her room. “There’s a thousand things I have to see to before I leave. And I have to call Tyler,” she announced suddenly. “Tyler Channing is the director.” She tossed the name carelessly toward Isabelle. “He’s been pulling out what little hair he has left, worrying whether or not I’ll be ready to join the tour in time. He has this little contract player on standby,” she confided, then snorted at the very thought of someone else taking her place. “Well, she can just keep on standing by because, thanks to you—” the actress beamed at her “—I’m ready. Ready to bring down the house,” she declared with relish.
In the world of Anastasia Del Vecchio, there was no such thing as half measures.
“God, I don’t know where to start,” Anastasia said to herself, turning about in a complete circle as she surveyed every inch of her room, obviously trying to decide where to begin.
Isabelle slipped out of the room as the actress continued making plans, obviously happy to reclaim the life that had once been hers.
Too bad we can’t all feel that way, Isabelle thought.
She sincerely doubted that the actress even noticed that she’d left.
Now what? Isabelle wondered as she walked down the hallway.
The house was empty.
Brandon was in Hollywood for a good part of the day. He and his powerhouse of an agent, Maura, were meeting with a producer who had expressed no small interest in bringing one of Brandon’s earlier books to the movie screen.
For the first time since she’d arrived here, the large house felt hauntingly empty to her. It was an omen, Isabelle decided. Time for her to pack up her things and leave.
The thought of saying goodbye brought a lump to her throat. With her luck, the words would probably get stuck there if she tried to say them. She wasn’t very good at taking her leave. She lacked the gift of knowing what to say and how to say it. Slipping off into the darkness was more her style.
It was just better this way. She certainly didn’t want Brandon to feel awkward in her presence. Didn’t want him to feel he had to say something to her about the time they’d spent together. And she certainly didn’t want him to feel that he had an obligation to stay in touch with her.
That was something she would have wanted to have happen because he wanted to, not because he felt he had to.
And even so, even if he told her that he wanted to stay in touch, who was to say that she would actually welcome that? Wasn’t she the one with an underlying fear of commitment? A fear of commitment because she was afraid of the disappointment that seemed to go with it?
She vividly remembered hearing her mother cry when her mother had confronted her father. It was the only time she could recall her mother displaying any sort of emotion. Except for that one time, her mother had always seemed distant, frozen inside and utterly inaccessible.
