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  “Willow wants to see me.”

  “I doubt it. She’s busy, if you catch my drift.” And to make sure I do, she shoves me to one side, so that she can block my path.

  I don’t have time for polite chitchat. So that she gets this message loud and clear, I slam her up against the cottage wall and hold her there with my forearm against her throat. “Yes, I know she’s ‘busy’—with my husband.”

  “Then he should consider himself a lucky guy,” she snorts. “Give him some space. He came to negotiate on your behalf.”

  From the giggles we hear, Jack is doing a piss poor job of it.

  At least now I know it was Willow who took the camera and sent the film clip to Deadline.

  I grab Augusta by the scruff of her turtleneck and pull her inside with me.

  “Donna, trust me, it’s not what you think,” Jack pleads with me.

  It sure as hell better not be.

  Both of them are on the floor—on their backs, and panting heavily. Their thighs are entwined. He holds her foot in one hand, at the toes.

  “What the hell?” Augusta yells. Why, she’s even angrier than me.

  But now that I see the situation, I can forgive him. To prove it, I bend down and kiss him. “Great technique.”

  “You people are sickos!” Augusta yanks Willow up off the ground and shoves her onto the bed.

  Jack jumps to his feet and jerks her away. “Whoa, lady! Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I should be asking you the same question,” she snarls at him.

  That’s it for me. Obviously a demonstration is in order.

  An elbow to the gut has Augusta bowing. A kick behind her knees makes her fold, like a deck of cards, onto the ground—chest down, geisha-style. A second later I’m cuddling her in a bear hug. Give me another second and I’ve hooked my arm around her ankle and rolled her onto her back along with me.

  Her leg is now trapped in the crook of my knee. When I pull her toes forward, she groans in agony.

  “It’s a Jiu-Jitsu move, you moron. It’s called a calf slicer.”

  “Oh! Is that how it’s supposed to look?” Willow seems disappointed. “It’s not at all sexy.”

  “No?” Augusta gasps. “I dunno. I can see the potential.”

  Jack shakes his head in resignation. “It’s not supposed to be sexy. It’s a maneuver to stop someone from hurting you.” He gives me a hand up.

  “Why the hell were you learning it, anyway?” Augusta rubs her bruised toes.

  “Don’t be stupid, Augusta,” Willow sighs. “I’ve got to live up to my soon-to-be new reputation as a female action star.”

  I grab Willow’s arm. “So it was you who stole the camera, and leaked the film clip to the press—just to further your career!”

  “Get real! I don’t do rainstorms. Can you imagine what that would do to my hair?” She wrenches her arm from my grip. “I didn’t even know about the incident until I got a call from my agent at CAA, just an hour ago. Every action film director in town is calling to find out if I’m the mystery woman, and if so, am I doing my own stunts? How Angelina Jolie is that?” She flexes a muscle and strikes a pose for the mirror. “CAA is dying for me to confirm it. The second I do, I’ll be cast in the role of the Wasp for the next Avengers film. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Augusta furrows her brow. “But…I thought the only reason you wanted to take this film was to impress Sebastian with your ability to play a Brit, and get cast in Bloomsbury.”

  “Yeah, well, that was when I thought this film was going to bomb—and before Sebastian fell off the edge of the earth.” She shrugs. “As much as I’d like to take on Bloomsbury and Shakespeare and Shaw and all the other highbrow roles, I’d much rather live somewhere I can get a tan—not to mention earn the big bucks that come with an action tentpole film with sequel potential.”

  Why, the ungrateful hussy! Without my biopic, she’d still be doing inane rom-coms. “Why would you want to be just another Avenger super hero when the Housewife Assassin series will go on forever? Addison has a six-picture arc set for the franchise.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t count on it. Between Rachel and Sebastian’s deaths—not to mention the explosion on the set in Venezuela—the insurance company told Sebastian to pull the plug on the picture. Whitford is gathering up the cast and crew now, to let them know.” Her mouth droops into a pout. “I’d already be out of here, except for the fact that your husband is playing hardball. He won’t let me confirm that I’m the woman in the video.”

  I look at Jack as if he’s crazy. Of course he should let her take credit for pushing Sebastian into a watery grave—unless he’s looking forward to visiting me in the hoosegow.

  Then again, his adorable mug is plastered on Wanted posters, too. If he showed up for even one conjugal visit, the guards might slap him in irons.

  I’m just about to remind him of this when Willow says, “If I trade you my Malibu place for the rights to tell the world I’m the woman doing the stunt in the film, can we call it even?”

  Jack frowns as if she’s got him over a barrel. “I don’t know. What do you think, my lady love?”

  I purse my lips. “The traffic is hell on PCH…but what the heck. The kids love the beach. I say go for it.”

  He nods toward the iPad in my hand. “Willow, give me a second to draft something for you to sign, so that it’s all nice and legal.”

  She clasps her hands gleefully. But a moment later, her smile fades. She must be furrowing her brow, but it’s hard for me to tell because it’s practically a Kabuki mask, what with all the Botox in her forehead. “I’ll still need someone to teach me all those cool martial arts moves—on the sly, that is.” She bats her eyes at Jack. “Can we make that part of the deal, too?”

  “No can do. We may be traveling a lot this year.”

  That’s putting it mildly.

  “But I’ll tell you what,” Jack goes on, “why don’t I hook you up with one of our colleagues, Dominic Fleming? He’s very discreet, and he’s got some moves that you’ll really enjoy. I promise.”

  “The lord with the hung horse? Hmmm, yes, he’ll do quite nicely! We'll practice at my Santa Barbara ranch. He can bring Big Boy if he wants. I could watch that stud all day long.” She grabs the iPad and signs with a flourish. She snaps her fingers at Augusta. “Let’s get packing, before another rainstorm rolls in.”

  At least one more shit storm has been diverted.

  I’m out the door, with Jack right behind me.

  Chapter 16

  Love Story

  “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  —Ali McGraw, as “Jennifer Cavilleri”

  At their worst, stage kisses look awkward. At the very worst, they make the audience feel as uncomfortable as the actors. Here are four tips on how to make kissing another actor look as natural as a real-life smooch:

  First, practice your kisses at every rehearsal. A lot of actors are so embarrassed about having to kiss a stranger that they wait until the very last rehearsal. By then, it’s too late to change what may be natural with you and your normal squeeze, but is so wrong here. Don’t be shy! Remember, practice makes perfect!

  Next, really kiss. Don’t just touch lips, or give your stage partner a quick peck. Get into it! You can’t fake it.

  Now, take your clothes off. I’m being serious! A kiss will seem tamer if you see each other naked.

  And finally, have sex with your stage partner. Not fake porn sex. I mean really get down and dirty. Yes, I thoroughly understand that you’re not starring in a blue film. But, since the point is to be as authentic as possible, after establishing this intimacy between you, the kissing part is second nature.

  My goodness, the things we community theater actors do for our art!

  From all the long faces we pass on the way to our bungalow, I take it that Addison’s news is a big blow to everyone.

  We get a chance to hear it ourselves when we find Addison outside our
door. He nods when he sees us. “I guess you heard that a clip of The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook made it onto Deadline Hollywood.”

  “Yes. And so did Willow. She’s so excited she’s calling the press to confirm her skills of derring-do,” Jack says.

  “Her double won’t own up to it, so she must be telling the truth,” Addison smirks. “Who knew she had it in her? She squeals every time she breaks a nail. Go figure.”

  “Addison, do you have any idea who forwarded the clip to Deadline?”

  He laughs. “Who do you think sent it?” He jabs a thumb at his chest.

  I don’t get it. “But…why?”

  “I needed something to counter all the bad publicity we were getting. Think about it. This was Rachel’s last role. Her fans would have been lining up around the block to see the film! And Bloomsbury fans would have come in droves, too—especially if I’d been able to convince Whitford to incorporate Sebastian’s death footage into the climax scene—you know, as an ‘homage,’ right?”

  “Wrong,” I mutter. Some homage!

  And what if someone recognized me?

  The fact that I’m horrified at the thought doesn’t faze him. He shrugs. “I guess Whitford thought so, too. He threatened to walk off the picture. Said doing it would be ‘macabre.’ Damn artistic types! Can’t live with them, can’t live without ’em.” He rolls his eyes. “I thought releasing the clip toDeadline, then following up with an unsubstantiated rumor that Willow did all her own stunts—including that one—would create the kind of buzz we need to keep the investors happy. I guess I’m too smart for my own britches. I didn’t think it would cause the insurance company to back out.” He shrugs. “That’s okay. There may be a private investor willing to see it completed. Then I’ll round up the team, tell them we’re doing it in memory of our fallen comrades in arms.”

  “And for investors,” Jack mutters under his breath.

  Addison’s face falls. He’s wounded. “Hey, I have a heart. But I’ve also got to eat.”

  From what I’ve seen, he’s wrong on both counts.

  “Speaking of which,” Jack says, “the clause in our contract—you know, about fees for sequels—I presume this kills any chance to collect them.”

  Addison laughs. “Don’t sweat it. The money is still yours.”

  Jack looks as stunned as I feel.

  “Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but how is this possible?” I ask.

  “Because GWI—” Addison’s voice trails off. “Let’s just say I drove a hard bargain with my investors on your behalf, and it paid off.” He looks up at the sky. Once again the sun has disappeared behind thick gray clouds. “I’m ready to get back to sunny California. Oh, and tell your son I expect that coverage before we’re wheels up, in two hours.”

  He shuffles off.

  We won’t be on the plane. From what he just let slip, I think he’s well aware of this.

  Frankly, with no Bloomsbury script to give Ryan so that he can get back into MI6’s good graces, the immunity we were looking for here in England is out of our reach.

  It’s truly a shame.

  Next stop for us: Croatia. It’s one of the few countries that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US.

  I’ll download a Croatian Berlitz course for the kids. Seriously, I’ll do anything to get out of homeschooling them.

  “Croatia?” The thought of going to yet another foreign land has finally shaken Mary out of her malaise. “I don’t get it! If the filming is done, why can’t we just go home?”

  Jack sits on the bed beside her. “My company needs me there.”

  “So go, send us a few postcards. But the rest of us want to go home—don’t we?” She looks around the room.

  “I wouldn’t mind going home,” Jeff pipes up. “Addison has already offered me an internship at his production company.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say firmly. “All that means is you’ll do a ton of work without getting paid.”

  Jeff shrugs. “Hey, it’s show biz. Most players get their start in the mailroom. At least I’m already reading scripts.”

  “See? So far, two of us are ready to go home!” Mary jumps out of the bed in order to kneel in front of her little sister and look her in the eye. “How about you, Trisha? Wouldn’t you like to go home and see Miss McGonagall, and all your friends?”

  Trisha nods slowly. “Yes…but not if Mom and Dad can’t come with us. I don’t like it when they go away.”

  Mary frowns. “They’ll come with us if we have the majority vote.”

  “This isn’t a democracy. It’s a family, which means parents decide what is best for the family as a whole,” I warn her. “And right now, being somewhere other than Hilldale is best for all of us.”

  Aunt Phyllis throws her knitting into the bag at her feet. “Donna, dear, I think it’s wonderful that the two of you want to give the family all these wonderful experiences. Truly, I do. But maybe it would be a better thing for them when they’re older and they can appreciate it. Here’s a thought! Why not consider making this a ‘me time’ getaway, just for the two of you? I’ll be more than happy to move in and stay with the children until you’re ready to come home again.”

  Ah, if only she knew: I’m ready now.

  From the disappointed glances Mary and Jeff exchange, I presume they aren’t too thrilled about the compromise Aunt Phyllis has just offered us. Still, they keep their mouths shut.

  Trisha is sobbing now. “I want Mommy and Daddy to stay with us.”

  Tears soften Mary’s eyes, too. She walks over to me. “Be honest with us, Mom. Why won’t you and Dad come home with us?”

  She’s right. I should always be honest with them.

  There’s only one way in which to learn how they’ll react:

  Just tell them.

  And to do it quickly, like pulling a Band-Aid from a wound.

  The fact we’re innocent doesn’t mitigate the fact that the adults they love and trust most are fugitives from the law.

  On the upside, once the shock and awe wears off, they’ll be so mortified at the thought that their friends know, but they’ll accept a life incognito.

  I take a deep breath. Okay here goes nothing.

  And here goes everything—my children’s respect. And their trust. Maybe even their love.

  Before I can get a word out, Jack walks over to her. He lays his arm on her shoulder. She looks up into his eyes, as if searching them for the answer she so desperately wants to hear.

  But no. Even before he opens his mouth, I see the half-mast lids that warn of a rock-hard stance, the twitch of regret on the right side of his mouth.

  He cannot accommodate. He can only commiserate. “Mary, please don’t be mad at us because we can’t tell you what you want to hear. Our mutual goal is that we all stay together. But if you’d prefer to go back to Hilldale, we will understand, and respect your wishes.”

  No, this isn’t what Mary wants to hear.

  Her acceptance comes with little fanfare. Hope fades from her eyes. A dull sadness takes its place. Her body seems slighter, as if it has shrunk along with the hope she had of getting her family home in one piece.

  I don’t blame her for freezing as Jack kisses her forehead, or for her hand going limp when I take it in mine.

  Even when I squeeze it, it lays there, still and small.

  When my hand drops away, her arm falls to her side. Like a sleepwalker, she turns and treads back to the couch. Since Rachel’s death, it’s become her cocoon.

  When she flops onto it and crawls under the blanket, her foot touches something, and it tumbles to the floor.

  It’s a Bloomsbury script.

  I scoop it up. “Mary, where did you get this?”

  She peeks out from under the cover, but shrugs when she sees the script in my hand. “Sometimes Rachel and I would come here to read the scripts. I guess we forgot to return this one to Sebastian. Why? What’s the big deal? I mean, now that they’re both…gone.
” Her voice trails off.

  “It’s a very big deal. It may mean we can stay here in England, as opposed to going to Croatia.”

  The cover calls it out as Episode Two, from last season.

  “Do you know if this is one of the scripts with the phrase that was changed?”

  She takes it from my hand. After glancing at the first few pages, she says, “Yes, I think so.” Slowly, she flips the pages. Finally, she stops and points to a bit of dialogue:

  Virginia Woolf

  Vanessa, we may not be as high-minded as the Clapham Sect, still I shudder to think we’ll overlook the very same bourgeois habits we claim to abhor! All the more reason the group must address Duncan’s latest indiscretion head on. It’s a tangle, I know—but it cannot be ignored.

  I pick up her iPad and log on to our Netflix account. Bloomsbury is prominent in our queue because Mary has viewed it so many times.

  I fast-forward to this scene:

  “…Vanessa, we may not be as high-minded as the Apostles, still I shudder—”

  The website for Bloomsbury confirms that the episode aired exactly a week before an attempted suicide bombing in London.

  It’s all the proof we need to make our case to MI6.

  Mary’s eyes grow big. “I wouldn’t mind staying here with you in England. Dad, do you think you can talk your bosses into it?”

  Jack smiles. “Something tells me they’ll approve it, yes.”

  “If that’s the case, maybe another script will get us transferred back to the states.” She rummages under the covers and pulls out another script—for the third episode in the upcoming season, which is to start next week.

  Jack and I exchange glances. The script still to be aired may hold the key to a future attack.

  He reaches for his cell phone and dials Arnie. “Are you in your room at the inn? …Great! We may have stumbled onto open source intel, and we’ll need you to decode it for us, pronto…Arnie, are you there? …Is everything okay? …What? …Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right over.”