ELEVEN

  

“We found her.” It was Karina who spoke first. “She’d been in the spa the entire time.”

Relief flooded over Allison. Then another emotion took hold. Anger. More of Elle’s games—making people wait, search, and worry while she sat in the spa. Allison stood, taking Grace’s hand. “I’m glad she’s okay.” Allison’s voice came across more harshly than she’d intended.

Hilda, clearly sensing Allison’s frustration, said, “Give her time. Please.”

Allison was past the point of discussion on this topic. A petulant client who showed no real interest in working with her. A half-brother with a threatening demeanor and a record. A group of hedonistic hang abouts. Not the formula for success. But Allison could still hear Jason’s warning.

More gently, Allison said, “I’ll reimburse Elle for our stay. She can send a bill to my business address.”

Grace pulled on her arm. Allison leaned down and the child whispered, “I don’t want to go.”

Hilda said, “Miss Elle’s father is ill. He is…well, he is dying. Slowly. She has a lot to deal with and no real friends. I think it would mean a lot to her. Give her a second chance.” She glanced at Karina. “Since Damien died, she has no one she can trust.”

Allison was caught off guard by the plea. Until now, Hilda had stayed in the shadows, more interested in Grace than adults. Karina, too, looked taken aback by Hilda’s outburst. She stared at her colleague with unabashed surprise.

“Please, Aunt Allison? Can we stay? We haven’t even played with the goats yet. Miss Hilda promised tomorrow we’d see the goats.”

Jason and another man—the stooped, balding man Allison had seen at the pool—were coming from the vicinity of the main house. Allison watched their progress.

“I don’t know,” Allison said finally. “I’m afraid Elle may just not be ready.”

“Tell her yourself, then,” Karina said. Some of her moxie had returned, or perhaps she was still smarting from Hilda’s implied statement that Karina couldn’t be trusted. In either case, her tone was sharp. “She’s waiting for you down by the pool.”

Jason had reached the cottage on the end, two doors down from theirs. Allison nodded. “I guess that’s fair.”

  

It was another ten minutes before Allison could leave. Jason introduced her to Sam Norton’s lawyer. They shook hands cordially. Allison was aware of the attorney’s steady stare. He seemed to be sizing her up.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Allison said.

Before she could leave the cottage, the lawyer stopped her. With a glance at Jason, he asked for a moment of her time—alone.

“I suppose.” It’s not like things can get any stranger, Allison thought.

The two met on garden patio. The lawyer, an American, got right to business.

“You signed a contract with Ms. Rose, did you not?”

“I don’t sign contracts.”

“You signed a confidentiality agreement.”

“Yes.”

He pulled a copy out of his jacket. “Would you agree that this gives rise to an implied contract for services?”

“I would not agree.”

“I think a court of law would see it otherwise, especially when combined with certain ancillary correspondence between you, Ms. Rose, and a certain Christopher Vaughn, who I believe is an agent of your company, First Impressions.” He arched unruly eyebrows over tiny snake eyes.

He’d done his homework. But so had she. “My fiancé, a lawyer, reviewed the agreement. I’ve agreed to hold confidential information learned about Elle and her immediate family members, except in certain cases having to do with criminal activity or possible harm to me or my family.” Allison raised her own eyebrows. “The agreement very specifically says if I continue in her employ.”

The lawyer chewed on the end of a Bic pen. “I see.”

“Look, I’m not sure what you’re after, so maybe you can simply tell me.”

“Michael says you’re planning to leave.”

“That’s between me and my client.”

“I see.”

Allison rose. “Are we finished here? If you have legal questions, you can talk to my fiancé. Otherwise, I’m going to speak to my client.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Allison paused to face the lawyer. “Enlighten me.”

“Because I suggested that Elle call you.” He smiled. “Well, to be more exact, I suggested she call someone. She’s had a very difficult time since Damien died. And with Michael in the picture, she feels that certain things—like her existence here—are threatened.”

“Are they?”

Another smile, this one more genuine. “I don’t know.”

“So you felt it would be best for her to have an existence that’s not dependent on Daddy’s money.”

“Precisely.” He shook his head. “And despite what she may think, I do care about what happens to her. Elle’s money—what she has, anyway—is tied up in a trust. If her father outlives his money, she won’t inherit anything additional, except maybe a piece of several properties. In the meantime, she can’t stay here forever, drinking from the family tit.”

“And why can’t she?”

“It’s not good for her.”

“So nothing is really stopping Elle from remaining.”

The lawyer frowned. It changed the look of his face: added ten years to his appearance and a layer of wrinkles to the skin around his full mouth. “I’m afraid that’s between me and my client.”

  

Allison found Elle still in the spa. She was sitting at the table by the kiosk, a cup of hot tea and a notebook on the table in front of her. She was still wearing her ridiculously short mini and the tank top, although she’d washed the smudges of mud off her face and legs.

“You caused quite a stir.”

Allison sat across from her, settling in on the wooden chair and enjoying the warmth of the inviting room. She wasn’t going to enjoy what she needed to do, but at least the conversation was here, away from prying eyes and big ears.

“They’re ridiculous.”

“They were worried about you.”

Silence.

Allison waited a moment, then said, “Karina said you wanted to talk to me.”

Elle pushed the notebook across the table. “Open it.”

Allison did. She found six pages of copious notes in Elle’s loopy, flowery handwriting. Allison looked up. “What am I looking at?”

“You want goals? You want to know my vision? It’s all there.”

Allison began to read. Elle had, indeed, written goals. Lots of them. Get a better hair style. Learn to dance and audition for Dancing with the Stars. Botox. Boob job? Date Bradley Cooper. Go vegan. Learn Italian. Learn German. Stop biting my nails. Get clean. Eat three squares. Use moisturizer. Learn to ride horses. Be nicer to Hilda. Floss. Go to Grammys. Better dress for Grammys. Bury Damien’s ashes.

Allison stopped at “bury Damien’s ashes.” At first she thought Elle was joking, but as she read through the seemingly random list a pattern began to emerge. It wasn’t just that Elle wanted to get herself together—maybe she did, maybe she didn’t—but what was most telling were the Hollywood references. Here she was in Italy, removed from the glamor and vapidity of the Hills, and she thought the person she needed to be was that person. A clone. A southern California wannabe.

Allison put the book aside.

Elle said, “I don’t want you to go.”

Allison took a hard look at Elle. She saw the chipped front tooth, the tiny red scar along her right jawline, the jagged fingernails, the faint stretch marks along her inner arms. Did Elle Rose even know who existed beneath the layers? Or was her persona one fabrication layered over another, with the center a small, hard bit of nothing?

Am I being unfair? Allison thought. Isn’t everyone’s life complicated? It doesn’t take much for a life to unravel.

Allison said, “Answer me one question.”

“Anything.”

“Who are you doing this for?”

Elle turned her head toward the solarium windows. She knocked her pen against the wooden table, gnawed at the edge of a thumbnail.

“Me,” she said.

“Okay, then.” Allison started to stand.

Elle looked at her expectantly.

“Let’s get started. For real this time.”