Sixty-One

I still don’t regret shooting the man. But remembering that day, I admit, there were a few things I could have done better. Like aim. I wanted to shoot his groin. Instead, the bullet grazed his inner thigh and, from his yelps, I gathered his pain was considerable. In that regard, I was a success.

The incident held the ambiance of a weird dream, almost as if I were a different person at the time. People often say that, right? But in reality, it’s beyond description.

“You don’t feel bad at all for shooting him?” Kate asked over lunch.

“No. I probably should. Maybe I’m a sociopath,” I said and popped a fry in my mouth.

She grunted as her fork twirled her spaghetti. “I know you. I know that’s not right. You’re probably still in shock. But thank God you didn’t kill him. Then you’d be going off to prison.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t think Den could stretch that bogus self-defense plea if you killed the guy,” Kate said.

Was it bogus? The man had a gun pressed up against my side. I’d just taken advantage of his clumsiness. Of course, I’d had time to make a decision.

“So, after all this, was your look-alike related to Jean Harlow?” Kate said.

“We have no idea yet. We’ve contacted the genetics lab in Hollywood and the results are on the way. So we’ll see,” I said. “I just want to get this book finished, and I can’t quite do that until we know.”

“Your publisher should kiss your ass,” Kate said. “You shouldn’t feel any pressure at all to finish the book.”

It was true. The pre-sales numbers had skyrocketed. It was so good, I was thinking maybe I could make a living at writing these types of books, ones with my own added twist, a little more depth into my subjects. Eventually I might work my way into writing exactly what I wanted. But I was still in Justine’s shadow on this book, which was fine with me.

“Do you hear anything from home?” Kate asked with a note of sorrow in her voice. She was homesick even though she’d never admit it.

“Gram is fine. Mom is still in rehab. Neither one of them have heard anything else out of my dad,” I said. “Why don’t you and I go back for a weekend. Stay with us. Just like when we were kids.”

Kate brightened, then frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, gazing off into her own distance.

“Think about it,” I said.

She nodded and frowned. “When I think about the look-alike it makes me sad. She had no real family. Her mother died and her father despised her. Maybe by becoming Jean Harlow, she’d hoped he’d approve. Or maybe she was searching for a family of others like her, which is why she worked as an impersonator, why she needed to prove her relationship.”

After lunch I made my way back to Justine’s apartment, still barely believing I could reside in such elegance. I laughed out loud, and the sound echoed. I’d gone from my bedroom in my family’s dilapidated beach home to this. I was still uncertain about what Judith would do, but I felt more comfortable. Which was probably not a good thing. I braced myself for the inevitable letdown. Still, how many people could say they’d even been in a place like this, let alone lived in one?

I opened the French doors onto the balcony and soaked in the sun and fresh air as I took in the view of Central Park and the West Side of the city beyond, with the grand buildings sprouting from the trees. I felt good, better than I had for a long time. Lighter. Freer. I missed Justine still, and always would.

I wished I’d gotten to know the Jean Harlow look-alike. Maybe Justine was planning to tell me about her that day at Layla’s tea room. I would never know. In a way, it didn’t even matter if the look-alike was blood-related to the real Harlow. She believed she was. She became obsessed with the star, so much so she’d had plastic surgery to make herself look more like her famous relative.

Was she so haunted because of her father’s obsession with Harlow? That held a kind of logic. But there was more to it.

Luther “Lucky” Stone had taken his son’s identification as a woman personally. As if it was an assault on his own manhood, like Maude had suggested. He felt it was his failure as a father. The fact that his son had the ring once belonging to his mother only added insult to injury.

Harlow’s reputation also preoccupied Stone. He wanted to keep the story hushed. In some twisted way, he imagined he was protecting her honor by keeping the story secret. It was almost as if he was in love with her. In love with a woman long gone. In love with his mother’s half sister. Way out of reach. And more than a little creepy.

Family. How did it get so twisted in some families?

I ambled back into the apartment just as my cell phone buzzed and the still-cracked screen said it was Susan Strohmeyer.

“Hello,” I said.

“It’s Susan Strohmeyer,” she said. “Justine Turner’s lawyer. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

I braced myself.

“Judith has conceded the apartment.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the apartment and everything in it is yours. You can stay there or sell it. It’s entirely up to you.”

Heat traveled up my spin. I stopped myself from squealing. The apartment!

“That’s incredible,” I said. “I can’t believe it!”

“Congratulations!”

There was an awkward pause. “Wait. You said there was bad news?”

“Judith is still contesting the rest of the will. The money. The stocks.”

“How much longer until we know?”

“It could be a long time. Sometimes these cases go on for years. I don’t think that will be the case. But brace yourself, it could get ugly.”

“Okay,” I said. “I hear you. What comes next?”

“Come to the office and we’ll transfer the deed to the apartment into your name. That’s the first thing you need to do,” she said. “We’ll discuss Judith when you get here.”

I could do that. I could go to her office, sign papers, chat about Judith. Right now, I sensed my own strength, as if I was ready for anything.