Читать книгу The Truth About Elyssa - Lorna Michaels, Lorna Michaels - Страница 9

Sixteen Months Later

Elyssa Jarmon was doing what she did best—making kids laugh. Decked out in her Lulu the Clown outfit, she entertained a group of youngsters in the cancer unit of St. Michael’s Hospital.

“Watch closely now.” She held out a slender china vase. “Empty. Anyway, it looks empty. Someone want to check?”

Hands shot up. Elyssa zeroed in on one youngster. Arms stick thin, head bald, he had the look of a concentration camp inmate. He’d clearly been absorbed in her performance but he hadn’t clapped or smiled, just stared with huge brown eyes in a pale, drawn face. She thought she’d seen his fingers twitch when she asked for a volunteer. “You,” she said skipping over to him. “What’s your name?”

“Trace.” The word barely reached her.

“Help me, would you, Trace?” She held out the vase.

The youngster peered inside. “Empty,” he whispered.

“Let’s fill it.” She waved her hand, and instantly a flower emerged, then another. Children squealed, applauded. Trace’s eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile appeared.

“Did you put those flowers there?” Elyssa asked with exaggerated suspicion.

Trace shook his head solemnly.

“Aw, I bet you did. Do it again. Come on, wave your hand.”

Slowly the youngster’s hand moved back and forth.

“Nope,” Elyssa said, feigning disappointment, “nothing hap— No, wait. Here…it…comes.”

An even bigger flower sprang into view, and to her surprise Trace grinned. Then he chuckled. The sound was creaky, as if he’d forgotten how, but he managed a laugh nevertheless. Elyssa patted his shoulder, danced back to the center of the room and brought the show to a close.

She waved to the kids as nurses began pushing wheelchairs out of the room, then as she turned to gather her equipment, she swiped a hand over one white cheek. This place was hot. She would stop at the rest room, shed her heavy costume and scrub off her makeup. And when she got home, the first thing she’d do was jump into a cool shower.

She folded a polka-dot scarf, laid it on top of a set of giant playing cards and closed her case. She was about to lift it onto her luggage cart when a deep voice behind her said, “Let me help you with that.”

Startled, Elyssa turned and met the eyes of a tall, broad-shouldered man. She’d noticed him during her show, lounging against the wall and watching her with a half smile on his face. Before she had a chance to answer him, he bent over and hoisted her case onto the cart, then secured the straps.

Elyssa saw a stethoscope protruding from the pocket of his pale-blue lab coat. So he was a doctor.

His hair was light brown. No, it was more gold than brown. In fact, she thought as he straightened and turned to face her, everything about him was golden. Amber flecks in a pair of arresting brown eyes, a patch of golden chest hair visible above the opened button of the white shirt beneath his lab coat, more fine, pale hairs on the backs of his hands. Who was he? In the two weeks she’d been entertaining here, she hadn’t run into him.

“Thanks for your help, Dr. ah…”

“Cameron. Brett Cameron.”

She recognized the name immediately. “You’re the head of pediatric oncology.”

“And you’re Lulu the Clown,” he said, grinning at her.

She answered his smile with her own. “Sometimes known as Elyssa Jarmon.”

“I’d like to talk to you if you have a minute.”

“Sure.”

He pushed the cart into the hall. Before they’d gone far, a nurse hurried up to claim his attention. While Elyssa waited, she studied him again.

Her impression of him as “golden” was apt; she’d heard him referred to as the golden boy of pediatric cancer. Through her access to the hospital grapevine, she knew he was the protégé of Dr. Clark Madigan, the hospital’s chief of staff, under whom he’d trained at Sloan-Kettering. Dr. Brett Cameron was only thirty-four, but he’d already established a national reputation for treating young cancer victims, introducing new chemotherapy regimes and devising innovative techniques for minimizing pain. Elyssa noticed his relaxed yet authoritative manner with the nurse, the way he ruffled the hair of a youngster who walked past him, and decided she approved.

Two years ago she would have been agog at the opportunity to talk to him, perhaps have a chance to interview him on the evening news. But those days—those heady days—of life in the fast lane of television news were behind her.

Instead she wondered why he wanted to meet with her. She hoped he wasn’t planning to discontinue her shows. Her proposal to entertain had been approved only on a trial basis.

She mentally marshaled the reasons for continuing. She was doing the children some good. They enjoyed her shows, joined in and asked for more. She’d even had a phone call from a parent who said her child hadn’t stopped talking about Lulu.

And God knows, Elyssa thought, the shows were good for her, too. If Dr. Cameron wanted her out, he would have a fight on his hands. Circumstances had forced her to give up her career in TV news, but she hadn’t lost the guts and determination that had made her a success.

The nurse turned and hurried away, and Brett ushered Elyssa down the hall past a door with Pediatric Oncology and his name on it. He opened another door, this one unmarked, and led her through a maze of narrow corridors into his office.

A typical physician’s office—she’d seen enough of them recently to know—with medical journals on the bookshelf, framed certificates on the walls and a semilimp ivy plant on a small table. But she noticed a few touches she appreciated—a child’s table with drawing paper and crayons, picture books and a yellow beanbag chair in the corner with a rack of books for older children beside it.

Sunlight from unshaded windows flooded the room. The windows looked out over the emergency room entrance. Elyssa glanced outside just as two orderlies rushed a gurney up the ramp and into the building. “Some view.”

He followed her gaze, shrugged. “It’s temporary.”

That’s right, she remembered. He’d have a different office, presumably with a better view, when the new children’s cancer hospital opened. She remembered hearing that his mentor, Dr. Madigan, had lured him to Indianapolis to head the new facility. Being established here ahead of time would allow him input into the hospital’s development. Sharp man.

Brett gestured toward an armchair. Elyssa sat and he dropped onto the couch across from her and stretched out his long legs. “Elyssa Jarmon,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully. “I recognized your name on the proposal. Channel 9, right?”

“Yes.” Sharp man with a good memory.

“I was a big fan of yours. I used to look forward to seeing you on the news every night. Then I went to a medical conference in Denmark. When I came back, you’d vanished.” He looked at her speculatively.

She stiffened, hearing the unspoken, “What happened?” Because she’d once been a local celebrity, people thought her life was public property. Elyssa disagreed. Even if the person fishing for info had eyes that reminded her of crushed velvet and a voice like velvet, too.

“I made a career change.” That was as much as she cared to say. Quickly she changed the subject. “I noticed you watching the clown show. Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much. You’ve been entertaining the kids for a couple of weeks now. Today was your…third visit.”

“You know that?” Elyssa asked, astonished.

“You sound surprised.”

“I imagine for a department head, clown shows must be way down on the list of priorities.”

His lips curved in amusement. “When something matters, I do my homework. Clown shows matter.” He leaned forward. “Laughter’s important. It helps kids get well. I could show you some research—” Her raised brows stopped him. “Nah, you don’t want to read that dry stuff. Just take my word for it, you’re on the right track with these kids. Trace, for instance. Today’s the first time I heard him laugh.”

“I was beginning to wonder if he could.”

“It’ll be easier for him now. You’ve given him a start.”

“Thanks. I hope so.” Relieved, she settled back in the chair. He obviously didn’t intend to cut out the shows.

He looked at her thoughtfully, then asked, “Could you do more? I’d like to have you here twice a week, unless you have another job that takes your time.”

“No,” she said. “Clowning Around is a full-time business. I do birthday parties, clown classes, magic classes.”

His expressive brown eyes lit up. “Clown classes—that’s what I want. A way for you to work closely with a few kids at a time. Would you be interested?”

She stared out the window and thought about his suggestion. She’d like to say yes. She enjoyed working with these children; they tugged at her heart. But could she afford to take another afternoon away from her business? Turn down lucrative jobs?

She looked back to find his eyes on her. He studied her intently as if he wanted to learn everything about her. Caught in his gaze, she couldn’t look away. The room seemed to heat up around her.

Gracious, the man was sexy, with that lazy, relaxed veneer over a core of energy and intensity. She glanced surreptitiously at the ring finger of his left hand. It was bare.

Time was when she would have been delighted to think he might be available, might have hoped something would develop between them. But that time was past.

The accident had changed her. She wasn’t disfigured—her nose was just a tad crooked and only a crisscross of tiny scars marred her cheek—but her face wasn’t the flawless one that had graced thousands of television screens. And the scars inside were deeper. In the past sixteen months she’d absorbed some hard facts about male-female attraction. She was a fast learner; she didn’t need another lesson.

“What do you say?” Brett asked softly.

She realized she’d been staring at him in mute fascination for long seconds instead of answering his question. She told herself to douse the sparks of attraction she once might have welcomed and to concentrate on business. “I’ll do it,” she said.

“Great.” His smile made his eyes crinkle. “We’ll find some grant money to pay for your time. When can you start?”

She knew her schedule by heart. “Next Tuesday.”

“I’ll have Jean, my secretary, fax you a list of kids you should work with.”

They rose and faced each other, a good three feet apart. It felt much too close.

Ordering herself to be polite and impersonal, she put out her hand. His closed over it—warm, firm and much too personal. “I’d like to talk to you afterward,” he murmured. “Save half an hour, okay?”

“Okay.” Darn it, her voice sounded too breathy.

He walked her out, and Elyssa started down the hall. A small boy on crutches came toward her. His eyes brightened as he passed her, and she turned to watch him slowly make his way toward Dr. Cameron. “Hey, Doc, look at me,” he called and hobbled to the tall doctor’s side. Brett’s face softened.

As he squatted beside the youngster, Elyssa felt a tug on her sleeve. She pivoted and saw a solemn, freckle-faced girl of about eight. “I liked your show. Will you come back?”

“Sure will,” Elyssa said in her Lulu voice. “Next week.”

She waved at the now-smiling girl and started to walk on, then paused and turned, her eyes once again drawn to Brett Cameron.

He was headed toward his office, his back to her. As if he felt her gaze, he swung around, and their eyes locked. His lips curved into a smile of such potent male charm that Elyssa caught her breath. She felt a flutter in her stomach that traveled all the way down to her toes.

Brett raised a hand in farewell, and his mouth formed the word, “Tuesday.”

Elyssa nodded. “See you.”

Yes, that would be okay, as long as he didn’t see her.

That evening Elyssa picked up Jenny Barber and her two children at the hotel and headed to a local pizzeria. Randy’s widow had moved back to her hometown in Tennessee shortly after his death. She and Elyssa kept up with each other by phone and e-mail, but Elyssa had been looking forward to Jenny’s first visit here.

They’d become friends during Randy’s tenure at Channel 9, though they were an unlikely duo. Elyssa stayed firmly focused on her career goals; Jenny was inclined to take in the sights along the way. Although she worked as a pre-school teacher, Jenny was a nester. She’d have been content to stay at home, raise her children and tend a garden. Elyssa was endowed with Midwestern drive and tenacity; Jenny was easygoing and as Southern as corn bread and collard greens. And yet, they’d become close.

While they ate, Elyssa studied her friend. Jenny had lost weight. Once softly rounded, she was now slender, almost bony. And the sparkle in her eyes had dimmed. That was natural, Elyssa guessed, considering the shock and loss she’d experienced.

Between bites of pizza, Elyssa told Tara and Amy, ages seven and five, about Lulu’s magic tricks. Then, enticed by the video games across the room, the girls ran off to try their luck.

Elyssa smiled. “Those games’ll keep them busy for a while. Now we can really talk. Is living in Knoxville working for you?”

“Yes,” Jenny said, staring down at her plate. Her slice of pizza untouched, she twisted a strand of light-brown hair around her finger.

Elyssa frowned. Jenny without an appetite? And nervous? She’d never seen that before. “Really?”

Jenny looked up and smiled, but Elyssa thought the smile seemed forced. “Really. My folks and Randy’s have given me so much support, and of course, Randy’s buried there. It’s as close as I can get to him.” Her wide brown eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed a clean napkin and wiped them away. “Sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to talk about Randy without sniffling. His death was so…so vicious.”

Vicious was a strange way to describe it. The crash was a quirk of fate, yet Jenny was talking as…as if…

“You make the wreck sound like someone caused it. Like it was deliberate.”

“I think it was.” Jenny’s eyes glittered with dark fury.

Stunned, Elyssa stared at her friend. “It was an accident,” she insisted, then her voice trailed off. She groped for breath. Everyone—her family, friends, the police—had said Randy’s car skidded on wet pavement. She’d accepted that. Because she couldn’t remember anything different. She fumbled for her glass, took a swallow of tea. “You think someone killed Randy?”

“Sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

Elyssa reached for her friend’s hand. It was ice-cold. “Jenny, why would anyone want to do that?”

“He was working on a story.” Jenny leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He wouldn’t talk about it, but I know he was preoccupied, even obsessed by it. I’d wake up at night and he’d be up pacing or scribbling in a tablet.” She raised her eyes. “You were his best friend at the station. Do you know what the story was about?”

“No. He didn’t say anything to me.” Or did he? That last night. The memory stayed tauntingly just out of reach. “Are you sure about this, Jenny? Maybe you’re reading something into—”

“I found some notes.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and held it out.

Elyssa’s hand shook as she took the note. She recognized Randy’s handwriting and, seeing it again after so many months, felt a sharp stab of pain. Before her lay a to-do list. She began to read:

Pick up cleaning, get oil changed. Nothing menacing there. But then she saw: Install home security system, make out will. “Will?” she gasped. Randy had been only twenty-eight.

Jenny nodded. “Men his age don’t usually think about wills. I found this, too.” She held out another paper.

An application for a gun permit, dated the day before Randy’s death.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Elyssa asked. “When did you find these papers?”

“Last week. I finally made myself start goin’ through Randy’s things.” She reached for a napkin, began tearing it into shreds. “After I found this, I remembered how edgy he seemed in the weeks before he died. Whenever we went somewhere, he’d be lookin’ over his shoulder. That wasn’t like him.” She brushed the mutilated napkin out of the way. “I started thinking about the story he was working on and how closemouthed he was about it, when usually he told me everything. There has to be a connection.” She leaned across the table and gripped Elyssa’s hands hard. “Do you remember anything? I have to know.”

Elyssa felt as if an electric current were racing through her body. She heard a buzzing in her ears, then a memory surfaced, but so faintly, so fleetingly, she couldn’t hold on to it. It swirled away, lost in blackness. There’s something, she thought, something I ought to know. But she knew nothing….

“Did you talk to Derek?” she asked. “He would have known what Randy was working on.” She hated mentioning Derek’s name, hated even thinking about him. Derek Graves, news director at Channel 9. Ex-lover. Prize jerk. How could she ever have thought she was in love with him?

“I called him,” Jenny said, “but you know how Derek can be.”

“A first-class jackass,” Elyssa mumbled.

“Right,” Jenny agreed. “Took you long enough to realize it. Anyway, he practically laughed in my face when I asked if Randy was working on something dangerous. He said Randy had covered the school board meeting that week. They were debating whether or not to buy more buses. Sounds tame, doesn’t it?” She bit her lip. “Then why was Randy so nervous?”

“I wish I knew,” Elyssa said. “If I could only remember…”

They both started as Amy appeared beside them. “Mama, can we have more quarters?”

“No, sugar. It’s time we were gettin’ back to the hotel.”

“Aww.”

“There’ll be another day. Now go get your sister.”

Pouting, Amy plodded across the room. Jenny turned back to Elyssa. “I shouldn’t have brought this up, but—”

“Don’t be silly,” Elyssa said. “I’m just sorry I can’t help.” The frustration of not remembering, not knowing, gnawed at her. Surely if she could recall that last evening, she could put Jenny’s mind at rest.

“If you do remember anything, you’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Jenny said. “By the way, I brought you something.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a book. “I wanted you to have something of Randy’s. He was reading this just before he died.”

“Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. I’ve always admired him. Thank you for thinking of me.”

While Jenny went to round up her dawdling children, Elyssa glanced at the cover of the famous broadcaster’s book. But she was barely aware of what she held. Her mind was caught up in a question she’d never imagined she would have to ask. Was it possible that Randy’s death—and her own misfortune—hadn’t been accidental after all?