very fragile.
“Is that all I am
to you?” she said, teasing him, happy to find she could speak. “Beautiful?” Her
throat was dry. The words were a papery whisper.
“What else is an
actress but a pretty face to look at?”
She wanted to
laugh, but a sob escaped instead. A tear tripped down her cheek. “Sal…” She swallowed,
tried to work up saliva. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She didn’t know.
For speeding? For not paying attention to the road? For all the terrible things
she’d said to him after discovering the affair? She shook her head.
“How do you
feel?” he asked.
“Groggy. But
okay, I think. Am I okay?”
“You’re fine.”
Relief swamped
her, and something inside her chest that had been very tight loosened. “What
about this?” She touched the bandages around her head.
“It’s just a
bump.”
“How long have I
been here? What time is it?” She glanced toward the window. The blinds were
drawn. No sunlight slipped in between the cracks.
“You came in this
afternoon. It’s about midnight now.”
Less than twelve
hours. Not as bad as she’d feared. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple hours.
I would have gotten here sooner, but we ran into some bad weather over the
Atlantic and had to detour.”
Scarlett frowned.
There was something she was missing here. Something about Sal coming back to
LA, coming for—
“My birthday!”
she said. “The party!”
“Don’t worry
about that. Gloria’s taking care of it.”
Scarlett groaned.
Her actual birthday was on December 13, nine days earlier. But because of
filming she’d postponed the celebration to today. She usually didn’t make a
fuss over birthdays, but this one, number thirty, was big, up there in
importance with sixteen and twenty-one, the last big fun one until you
seriously began dreading them. Over two hundred invitations had gone out. Every
actor who had made the headlines within the past six months would have been
there—not to mention executives from HBO, Castle Rock, Warner, and all the
other big studios. Sal had invited the mayor of LA and the former Vice
President, both of whom were his close friends. On top of the Who’s Who guest list,
a tabloid paper had paid her $2.5 million to photograph the event, the money of
which was supposed to go to one of her charities.
“I’m such an
idiot,” she said, shaking her head and instantly regretting doing so as pain
flamed beneath the bandage. She put a hand to the sore spot. “I’ve ruined
everything.”
The door to the
room opened again. This time a fiftyish doctor with a graying beard and a
ponytail entered. Scarlett had seen plenty of men sporting ponytails before, of
course. Just never a doctor. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was like
your doctor having tattoos—or worse, a bowtie.
“Hello, Bill,”
Sal said, standing and shaking the doctor’s hand. “Scarlett, this is Dr. Blair,
the neurologist who looked you over when you came in.”
“Welcome to
Cedars-Sinai, Miss Cox,” he said, coming to stand before the bed.
“Cedars? I
thought I was in the Beverly Hilton.”
“Not everyone
gets a private room, Miss Cox. You can thank your husband for arranging that.”
He shifted the clipboard from his left hand to the right one. “I’m sure you’ve
noticed the bandage around your head. You hit it pretty hard in the
accident—hard enough to have lost consciousness for several hours at any rate.
Your forehead will likely be sore for a few days. But, as I’ve told your
husband, the X-rays and CT scan came back clean. No fractures or hematoma,
which is a good thing. How do you feel?”
“A little
groggy,” she said.
“Any dizziness or
nausea?”
“Not now.”
“As opposed to?”
“Earlier this
morning. I get migraines.”
He scratched some
notes down on the clipboard. “How often do you get them?”
“A couple times a
week.”
“How long have
you been having them?”
“A few months.”
More notes. “Any
change
“Is that all I am
to you?” she said, teasing him, happy to find she could speak. “Beautiful?” Her
throat was dry. The words were a papery whisper.
“What else is an
actress but a pretty face to look at?”
She wanted to
laugh, but a sob escaped instead. A tear tripped down her cheek. “Sal…” She swallowed,
tried to work up saliva. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She didn’t know.
For speeding? For not paying attention to the road? For all the terrible things
she’d said to him after discovering the affair? She shook her head.
“How do you
feel?” he asked.
“Groggy. But
okay, I think. Am I okay?”
“You’re fine.”
Relief swamped
her, and something inside her chest that had been very tight loosened. “What
about this?” She touched the bandages around her head.
“It’s just a
bump.”
“How long have I
been here? What time is it?” She glanced toward the window. The blinds were
drawn. No sunlight slipped in between the cracks.
“You came in this
afternoon. It’s about midnight now.”
Less than twelve
hours. Not as bad as she’d feared. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple hours.
I would have gotten here sooner, but we ran into some bad weather over the
Atlantic and had to detour.”
Scarlett frowned.
There was something she was missing here. Something about Sal coming back to
LA, coming for—
“My birthday!”
she said. “The party!”
“Don’t worry
about that. Gloria’s taking care of it.”
Scarlett groaned.
Her actual birthday was on December 13, nine days earlier. But because of
filming she’d postponed the celebration to today. She usually didn’t make a
fuss over birthdays, but this one, number thirty, was big, up there in
importance with sixteen and twenty-one, the last big fun one until you
seriously began dreading them. Over two hundred invitations had gone out. Every
actor who had made the headlines within the past six months would have been
there—not to mention executives from HBO, Castle Rock, Warner, and all the
other big studios. Sal had invited the mayor of LA and the former Vice
President, both of whom were his close friends. On top of the Who’s Who guest list,
a tabloid paper had paid her $2.5 million to photograph the event, the money of
which was supposed to go to one of her charities.
“I’m such an
idiot,” she said, shaking her head and instantly regretting doing so as pain
flamed beneath the bandage. She put a hand to the sore spot. “I’ve ruined
everything.”
The door to the
room opened again. This time a fiftyish doctor with a graying beard and a
ponytail entered. Scarlett had seen plenty of men sporting ponytails before, of
course. Just never a doctor. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was like
your doctor having tattoos—or worse, a bowtie.
“Hello, Bill,”
Sal said, standing and shaking the doctor’s hand. “Scarlett, this is Dr. Blair,
the neurologist who looked you over when you came in.”
“Welcome to
Cedars-Sinai, Miss Cox,” he said, coming to stand before the bed.
“Cedars? I
thought I was in the Beverly Hilton.”
“Not everyone
gets a private room, Miss Cox. You can thank your husband for arranging that.”
He shifted the clipboard from his left hand to the right one. “I’m sure you’ve
noticed the bandage around your head. You hit it pretty hard in the
accident—hard enough to have lost consciousness for several hours at any rate.
Your forehead will likely be sore for a few days. But, as I’ve told your
husband, the X-rays and CT scan came back clean. No fractures or hematoma,
which is a good thing. How do you feel?”
“A little
groggy,” she said.
“Any dizziness or
nausea?”
“Not now.”
“As opposed to?”
“Earlier this
morning. I get migraines.”
He scratched some
notes down on the clipboard. “How often do you get them?”
“A couple times a
week.”
“How long have
you been having them?”
“A few months.”
More notes. “Any
change
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