Okay, maybe she needed to go to a different set of channels. She punched in the number for TBS. They usually ran romantic comedies on Saturday mornings. Commercials. She sipped her coffee. Hopefully something that would put her to sleep. The movie came back on. She squinted to read the caption in the lower right corner. “You’re watching Mountebank.”
She nearly threw the remote at the TV. Cliff’s first movie. The one that had made him a star and her a nobody. She jumped out of the chair, crossed to the armoire-style entertainment center, and grabbed the blue box of the extended edition of Return of the King. Nothing like the Battle of Pelennor Fields and the destruction of the ring to get her mind off things—
“Anne, it’s you!”
She glanced down at the TV. Cliff’s face, ten years younger, filled the large screen. She recognized that expression. She’d seen it when he suggested they get married.
“Anne, you’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to marry—”
She turned the DVD player on, mercifully sending the TV to a blue screen while she inserted the first disc.
No wonder he’d gotten that part. He already had the fake emotions—and the lines he had to say—down pat from practicing on her. She slouched down in the deep cushions of the big chair.
What would his marriage to an overweight, provincial, hometown girl have done for his career ten years ago? He’d spent the past decade creating the image of a happy-go-lucky bachelor, only too happy to have a different starlet on his arm at every red-carpet event he attended. Women turned out in droves to see his action-adventure movies on opening night. Would he have become such a phenomenon with Amazon Anne on his arm at every event?
No. She sighed. Not only would she have hampered his rise to megastardom, she would have hated all the attention; and being honest with herself, the stress of living in the public eye would have driven a wedge between them. She was woman enough to admit they would have been divorced within a few years.
He had an ulterior motive for dating her all those years. Could he be marrying Courtney now to improve his image? He’d gotten lots of press about being a playboy, gracing the cover of several magazines as the Bachelor of the Year multiple years running. Which was fine as long as he made action films. According to several conversations she’d overheard last night, Cliff wanted to be “considered for dramatic roles.” He’d never get those roles and garner an Academy Award nomination as long as he lived a life worthy of the cover of the Enquirer. And he’d wanted to win that particular award ever since she’d known him. He’d even practiced his acceptance speeches on her. “I’d like to thank the Academy, the wonderful casting agent who had the foresight to choose me for this role, the fabulous screenwriters who wrote this role with me as their model, the director who took my advice on every scene….” She’d laughed then, not truly understanding the size of his ego.
Did Courtney really comprehend what she was getting herself into? Could the poor girl ever hope to compete with Cliff’s first love—himself?
The struggle between good and evil on her TV screen no longer interested her, and she turned it off. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with Courtney Landry before things went any further. If the girl got in over her head and ended up brokenhearted when Anne could have done something to head it off…
She went into the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. She scrolled down to Courtney’s name and hit the button to dial.
No answer. Her voice sounded so young in her voice-mail greeting. “Hello, Courtney, it’s Anne Hawthorne. I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. You looked beautiful, and everyone in America loves you already. I know—I saw it on all the news channels this morning. Listen, I wanted to schedule a time for the two of us to go to lunch this week. We’ve never really had a chance to sit down, just the two of us, and chat. We’ve got some big events coming up that I’d like to get your ideas for. So just give me a call.” She left her cell, home, and office numbers and hung up.
Out of curiosity, she called into her voice mail at work.
“Ms. Hawthorne, hi, my name is Alaine Delacroix—you’ve worked with my family at Delacroix Rentals and Delacroix Nursery many times. I’m the social scene reporter with Channel Six—” Anne skipped forward and listened to the first few seconds of twenty-three more messages—all from reporters wanting exclusives about the wedding. She deleted them with no remorse.
She needed to go to her office and get her planning calendar. She hadn’t picked it up yesterday morning as she didn’t need it for the engagement party. But for her meeting with Alicia in an hour, she’d need it. So much for a leisurely shower.
She hopped in and out, put a little bit of makeup on so she didn’t look like death warmed over, and drove to the office with the convertible top down so her naturally straight hair would be dry enough to pull into a clip at the back of her head.
She deactivated the alarm at the keypad just inside the back door. She didn’t bother turning the lights on and passed through the dark hall into the front office, lightened enough to see from the bright sunshine outside. Shadows passed in front of the windows. Lots of people out shopping today.
She grabbed the leather planner and glanced out onto the sidewalk. Several people stood outside her storefront. People with huge cameras strung around their necks. Good thing they didn’t have the back entrance covered.
She slipped out the back door and speed-dialed George as she drove down the alley.
“Good morning, Anne.” His voice had an early morning, gravelly quality that sent shivers down her spine.
“You sound like you just woke up.”
“Not exactly. I have to keep regular hours when I’m with Mr. Ballantine. Early morning is the only time I get to myself to read the Bible and spend time in prayer.” He yawned and begged her pardon. “Did you get plenty of rest this morning?”
“Not exactly. Jenn, Meredith, and Forbes practically beat down my door at seven forty-five, wanting to make sure I was all right, waving the newspaper under my nose. I couldn’t go back to sleep after that.”
“You need to get away somewhere they can’t find you.”
“No kidding. Hey, speaking of not being found—I had to run up to the office to grab something for a meeting, and there were photographers hanging out on my front porch.”
“At home?”
“No, at the office. They didn’t see me. I went in and out the back. But I think you and I need to sit down with Tracie and come up with a game plan for how I’m supposed to handle the phone calls and paparazzi on my front stoop.”
“Yes, we do. They’ll lose interest as soon as Cliff leaves for New York Tuesday. Or if not lose interest, all you’ll have to deal with is the phone calls, as the photographers will follow him.”
“Pictures of me aren’t worth much, I gather.”
“Not without either Cliff or Courtney with you. But that’s good, yes?”
“Definitely.” She turned into the hotel parking lot. “I’m at my appointment, so I’d better go.”
“You’re working?”
“Remember Alicia Humphrey? She wanted to sit down before she leaves for California this afternoon.”
“Oh. Good for you. I’ll talk to you later.”
He sounded less than enthusiastic, but she didn’t have time to ask why.
Toodles? You, too? No, I love you….
She went with “Toodles” as if she were an old school friend. Oh well. She’d known going in that she needed to take this slowly. And, although empirically she’d thought forgiving Cliff would come easily, seeing him last night sent her back to square one without passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars.