Shadows At Sunset

Ted lowered his newspaper and glanced at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. When he first started wearing them she’d teased him unmercifully. After all, why in heaven’s name should a ghost need reading glasses? They were dead, for heaven’s sake. How could his eyesight possibly deteriorate? And where the hell had he found those glasses, anyway?

But he’d simply given her his usual, indulgent smile, and as always Brenda was lost, as she had been when she first saw him across the bright lights of a movie set, when he was a lowly director of photography and she was a grand star. She’d loved him ever since, no matter how illogical. She’d spent almost her entire life, thirty-three…er…twenty-eight years focused on her career, and she’d put it all at risk for a mad infatuation that never faded, through career disaster, through time, through death itself.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, honeybunch,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “The place is still standing, though just barely, and the house tours still stop by the gates occasionally.”

“It’s the scandal tour,” Brenda said. “The same people who go visit Valentino’s grave and the place where the Black Dahlia was found. Hardly befitting a gorgeous villa like La Casa de Sombras!” she said with a sniff. “And not very flattering to the two of us. I hate thinking our only legacy was our death.”

Ted set his glasses down beside the newspaper, turning to look at her out of those wonderful gray eyes of his. The newspaper was the Los Angeles Times, dated October 27, 1951, the day before they died. It never changed, and Ted read it every morning with the air of a man who was seeing it for the first time. As Brenda suspected he was.

“Honeybunch, anyone who sees your movies will remember you in all your glory. Especially the ones I directed,” he added with a mischievous grin. “Scandals fade, art remains. Ars longa, vita brevis, you know.”

“Stop quoting movie slogans at me,” she snapped. “I never worked for MGM and I’m glad of it.”

“It’s a little older than that….”

“Don’t condescend to me, either, with your Ivy League education,” she interrupted him, glaring at her nails. She filed them every day, searching out little imperfections, and each day she found new ones. There was one major glory in that, though. She never aged. She missed seeing her reflection in the mirrors that filled every room of La Casa, but she knew from the look in Ted’s eyes that she was still just as beautiful as she’d ever been. It was all she needed.

“They’re not going to tear it down,” he said patiently. “It survived the sixties and those repulsive creatures who camped out here. It’s survived years of neglect, and at least now we have someone who loves it as much as we do. She’ll take care of the place. And of us.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” Brenda cried. “What if they tear it down to make office buildings? We’ll be left wandering the earth, lost….”

“Honeybunch,” he said, his voice warm and comforting, and she slid into his arms so naturally, finding the peace that was always there. “We’ll make it through. Don’t we always, you and me together?”

She looked at him, so dear, so sweet, so maddening, so eternal. “Always,” she said in a tremulous voice. She leaned down to press her carmine lips against his firm mouth, and slowly they began their inevitable fade-out.

1

Jilly Meyer never approached her father’s office without some sort of absurd fantasy playing through her mind. The last time she’d come she hadn’t been able to shake the image of a French aristocrat riding in a tumbrel to her untimely doom. The reality of that unpleasant meeting with her father had been about as grim, and she hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of civil words to him in the eighteen months since.

And yet here she was again, only this time she wasn’t the proud but noble martyr heading toward her fate. This time she was a warrior at the gates, ready to do battle with the forces of evil. She just had to persuade Charon to let her cross the river Styx so she could confront Satan himself.

Terrible of her to think of her father as the devil, she thought absently. And steely eyed Mrs. Afton didn’t deserve to be called Charon, even if she guarded her employer with a diligence that was downright supernatural.

“Your father is a very busy man, Jilly,” Mrs. Afton said in her clipped, icy tones that had terrified Jilly when she was a child. “You should know better than to simply show up unannounced and expect he’ll be able to drop everything to make time for you. Let me check his appointment book and see when I can work you in….”

“I’m not leaving until I see him.” Her voice didn’t waver, a small blessing. Mrs. Afton demoralized her, and always had, but her father had ceased to wield any power over her, whatsoever. Jilly just simply hated confrontations, and she was anticipating a major one.

Mrs. Afton’s thin lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, but Jilly didn’t move. She was still three doors away from the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, and those doors were electronically locked. If she tried to force her way in she’d only wind up looking foolish.

“You can wait in the gray reception room,” Mrs. Afton said finally, in no way a capitulation. “I’ll see if he can spare a moment for you, but I’m not holding out much hope.”

Abandon all hope, ye who enter, Jilly thought absently. “I don’t mind waiting.” After all, it was past three. Ever since her father had married Melba he’d been less of a workaholic. Jilly didn’t know whether it was jealousy or lust that kept Jackson Dean Meyer from abandoning his third wife as he’d done his first two, and she didn’t want to think about it. Suffice it to say, Melba might have mellowed the old bastard a bit. Enough to get him to do what Jilly desperately needed him to do.

The gray sitting room had a tasteful array of magazines, most of them about cigar smoking, something that failed to captivate Jilly. The leather furniture was comfortable enough, and the windows looked out over the city of Los Angeles. On a clear day she could see the Hollywood Hills, perhaps even the spires of the house on Sunset. La Casa de Sombras, the House of Shadows. The decaying mausoleum of a mansion that was her unlikely home.

But today the air was thick with smog from the Valley, and the autumn haze enveloped Century City. She was trapped in a glass cocoon, air-conditioned, lifeless.

She’d dressed appropriately for a paternal confrontation, in black linen with beige accents. Her father was a stickler for neatly dressed women, and for once she’d been willing to play his games. Since the prize would be worth the effort.

However, if he was going to keep her waiting she was going to end up wrinkled. So be it. He’d have to listen to her, wrinkles and all.

She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the gray leather sofa, tugging her short skirt as far down her thighs as she could manage. She rummaged in her bag for a compact, but it was the Coach bag Melba had given her for Christmas last year, not the usual one she used, and she’d transferred only her wallet and identification. No compact, no makeup, only a rat-tail comb which would be useless with her thick hair. She closed the purse again, leaned back against the sofa and sighed, trying to get rid of some of the tension that was swamping her body.

It was ridiculous. She was almost thirty years old, a strong, independent, well-educated woman, and she was still afraid of her father. Over the last two decades she’d tried everything, from meditation to tranquilizers to psychotherapy to assertiveness training. Every time she thought she’d finally conquered her fear, Jackson Dean Meyer returned it to her on a silver platter. And here she was again, ready for another serving.

Codependency was a bitch. It was relatively easy to break free from her father’s influence. He had little interest or affection for her—he probably didn’t notice when years went by without seeing her. Her father had made his choices and lived life the way he chose. She couldn’t save him, even if he wanted to be saved.

But when it came to her sister and brother things were different. Although Rachel-Ann was probably beyond redemption. All Jilly could do was love her.

And Dean. It was for him that she’d come here, walked into the lion’s den, ready to fight. For her brother or sister she’d do anything, including facing the tyrant who fathered them, though in Rachel-Ann’s case the parenting was adoptive, not biological.

Dean was sitting home sulking, alone in the darkness of his room with his precious computer. Once more Jackson had managed to crush and belittle him; once more Dean had taken it, refusing to fight.

Jackson had removed Dean from his position in charge of legal affairs, replacing him with his new golden boy, a man by the name of Coltrane. Apparently Jackson trusted a stranger more than he trusted his own son. Dean had been given a token raise and no work, a complete humiliation by their ruthless father.

Jilly was ready to do battle in Dean’s place. She couldn’t sit back and watch her brother crawl into a computer, surrendering everything, in particular Jackson’s trust, to an interloper.

To be fair, Dean allowed himself to be victimized by his father. He’d never made any attempt to find other work—the moment he’d passed the bar exam he’d taken a high-paying job with his father’s multimillion-dollar development firm, and he’d been ensconced there ever since, taking Jackson’s abuse, doing his bidding, a perfect yes-man still looking for a father’s approval and love. Jilly had given up on Jackson years ago. Dean had a harder time letting go.

Of course, he hadn’t confronted Meyer about it. Instead he’d come home, drunk too much and wept on his little sister’s shoulder. So here she was, trying to make things right for her brother’s sake, knowing she stood a snowball’s chance in L.A. of doing any such thing.

But for Dean’s sake she had to try.

She leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. She should have gotten a manicure. Her grandmother always said no woman could feel insecure if she had a terrific manicure. Jilly doubted that plastic nails were much of a defense against her father’s personality, but at this point she could have used all the weapons she could muster. Maybe she could leave, do as that gorgon Mrs. Afton suggested and make a formal appointment to see her father, and come back with a manicure and even a haircut. Meyer hated her long hair. She could return with something short and curly, like Meg Ryan had.

Except that she wasn’t cute and pert, she was tall and strong with unfashionably long, straight, dark-brown hair, and nothing was going to turn her into a bundle of adorable femininity. Even a manicure wouldn’t help.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Calm down—don’t let him get you worked up. Picture yourself going down a flight of stairs, slowly, letting your body relax. Ten, nine, eight…

Someone was watching her. She’d fallen asleep while trying to meditate herself into a calmer state, but suddenly she’d become aware that someone was watching her. Maybe if she kept her eyes closed he’d go away. It couldn’t be her father—he wouldn’t let a little thing like sleep interfere with his agenda.

It couldn’t be Mrs. Afton—she’d have crossed the room and given Jilly a shake.

But hiding behind closed eyes was no way to deal with life.

Jilly opened her eyes and blinked, startled by the dimness of the room. It was late, the sky outside the broad expanse of windows was settling into an early autumn night, and the man watching her was blocking the door, consumed in shadows.

The hushed activity of Meyer Enterprises had stilled. It was very late, and she was alone with a stranger. If she had any sense at all she’d be scared to death.

She was a sensible woman. “Are you going to hover there?” she asked in a tart voice, forcing herself to take her time in getting off the sofa, resisting the impulse to pull her short skirt down over her long thighs. It would only draw his attention to it.

He flicked on the light, and she blinked, momentarily disoriented after the shadowy dimness of the room. “I’m sorry you were kept waiting so long. Mrs. Afton left a note on my desk that you were here to see me, but I didn’t see it until I was ready to leave.”

“I wasn’t waiting to see you. I don’t even know who you are. I was waiting to see Jackson.”

He stepped into the room, and his half smile was deprecating, charming and completely false. “Your father asked me to handle it, Jillian. I’m—”

“Coltrane,” she supplied flatly. “I should have guessed.”