Angel Falls

She sighed, and in the heaviness of her breath, he heard that she’d understood. He wouldn’t be coming back.

He turned away from her and made his way through the crowd, past a couple having sex in the hallway.

He found Val in the bedroom, snorting a line of coke off the table by the bed. There was a woman beside him, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy red panties.

Val turned, grinning sleepily. “Hey, Jules, say hi to May Sharona. She wanted to talk to you about a part in—” He cupped the woman’s perfect right breast in his hand. “What movie were you interested in, doll?”

The woman was talking now. Julian could see her painted lips moving, but he didn’t listen. He’d heard it all before.

“I’m going to another party. This one’s dead. ” Julian realized a second too late that he’d just stomped all over the woman’s litany of dreams.

Val didn’t seem to notice that May Sharona—what a name—had turned beet red and seemed to be gasping for air. He angled up to a swaying sit. “Whassa matter? I have more coke in the bathroom. ”

“No, thanks. ”

“No? No?” Val untangled himself from the woman and grabbed his martini glass from the end table. He sauntered unsteadily across the room. Looping an arm around Julian, he kind of hung there, swaying, smiling up through a fringe of blond hair. “Hey, before you go, I gotta message for you. Someone called the office, looking for you. A doctor. He said he needed to talk to you about Mikaela Luna. How’s that for a blast from the past?” He lifted the martini glass to his lips and took a long, dribbling swallow.

“You’re kidding?”

“No. ” Val frowned, as if he’d already forgotten what they were talking about.

“A doctor. Jesus, is she hurt?”

“I dunno. He just wanted you to call him. ”

Julian felt a strange fluttering in his chest. Kayla. Of all the women he’d known, he’d loved her the most. “Where’s the number?”

Val waved a hand and almost fell over. “I told Susan to leave it on your answering machine. ”

“Thanks,” Julian answered, distracted by a sudden onslaught of memories. His first love. Kayla. He hadn’t heard from her in so long he’d almost forgotten her. Almost.

Val slid away from Julian and headed for the bed, collapsing in a heap on the edge. “It’d sure be something to find her. The missing Mrs. True. The press loved her. ” He paused, looked blearily at Julian. “And so did you. ”

At the gates to his home, Julian spoke into a small black intercom. Immediately the intricately wrought gates parted, revealing a short driveway that led to a sprawling Spanish bungalow. At least that’s what the designer had called it. Five families could live here, and still, in this neck of the woods, it was a bungalow.

Julian had lived here for ten years, two of those with Priscilla-of-the-dessert, four with Dorothea-the-bitch, and one with Anastasia. None with Kayla.

Not one of his wives had added anything to the interior of the house, not a photograph or a lamp or a painting. They had each come here with nothing, added nothing, and left with a few million dollars of Julian’s money. He supposed it was indicative of his problem. He cared more about this home than about the women he’d married and brought here to live.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a home. It was a house that wanted to be a home. He had never had time for a home.

Julian walked up the flagstone path. Bushy green trees in huge terra-cotta pots flanked the way, releasing—even at this dozing season of the year—a soft, citrusy scent. Spotlights cast golden, latticed shadows along the path. A riot of late-blooming pink bougainvillea arched above the front entrance. A dozen Japanese-style ceramic lanterns lit the path.

The door opened and Julian’s housekeeper, Teresa, stood in the doorway. As always, her uniform was as starched and white as a brand-new sail, and not a single gray hair was out of place. “Buenos noches, Señor True. How did the movie go?”

Julian was too distracted to smile. “Another hit. ” Frowning, he moved past Teresa into the cool, airy house. It was a place of sharp contrasts—white stucco walls and dark walnut trim, white denim-covered, oversized chairs and dark, heavily carved wooden tables. The floor throughout was tile, huge terra-cotta squares and rectangles that forgave any spill.

In the spotless kitchen, he poured two shots of tequila into a Waterford tumbler and downed it, without bothering to reach for salt or a lime. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he began his search. Somewhere in this house there had to be a picture of Kayla. He went from room to room, lifting every photograph, until he found what he was looking for. There, tucked in the back of the music room, on a bookshelf too high to reach, he found a framed picture of her.

He dropped slowly to his knees on the thick Aubusson carpet, staring at the photograph. It was their wedding picture.

There had not been a photograph like this taken of Julian in many years. Now, he knew he looked handsome—better looking at forty than he’d been at twenty-four—but there was something more in this shot. He realized with a shock what it was: honesty. Here, in this picture, was the last true glimmer of the man Julian had once wanted to be.

He closed his eyes, remembering her. They had been on their honeymoon, on that yacht in the Caribbean …

“Tell me your real name,” she’d whispered, smiling.

He’d grinned, but it was the Hollywood smile, and he’d known that it hurt her. “Nope, I don’t tell anyone that. ”