“Kidding?” He made a sound of disbelief. “Why in God’s name would I kid about something like this? I don’t know what else to say to you, Leah,” he said angrily. “You are angry with me because I left you, but I can’t change that, anymore than I can change my eye color. Jesus, I love you, I adore you, and I can’t change that, either—I don’t want to change that. But I am who I am, and if you can’t be certain about me or what I say to you now, and if you will always wonder, then I don’t know what else to say. I tried. I failed. I’m not going to be reminded of my failure day in and day out.”
Her heart was reeling, her thoughts collapsing, her anger and frustration mounting. “Good, that’s great,” she said sharply, her voice betraying her hurt. “I’m glad to hear you say it, because I can’t live with the uncertainty of you, I just can’t. I can’t live with the Extreme Bachelor or the ex–CIA agent with enemies or the worry whether you are being honest with me. It’s too hard and too much and I don’t want it. I want to be happy, not constantly fearing that this will be the day you break my heart to pieces again!”
He looked as if she had physically struck him. He blinked. Put his hand to his nape. “Okay,” he said stiffly. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” she said firmly, yanking the stupid gloves from her fingers. But it was a lie, a stupid lie, because it wasn’t what she wanted, it wasn’t even close to what she wanted. Only it was too late—days, years, eons too late. And now that she’d said the words, had set them free to swell between them, she couldn’t take them back.
Michael was already moving backward. “I wish you well, Leah,” he said quietly. “Whatever you do, wherever life takes you, I wish you nothing but the best.”
“Great,” she said, her voice damnably shaky. “You, too.”
He smiled sadly, shoved his hands into his pockets. “Good-bye, Leah.”
“Good-bye, Michael,” she choked out, and watched the only man she would ever love turn on his heel and walk away.
Subject: Re: I’m Home!
From: Lucy Frederick <[email protected]>
To: Leah Kleinschmidt <[email protected]>
Time: 3:23 pm
I’m so glad you’re back! There are soooo many things we have to decide, but the big one is the color of the bridesmaid dress, surprise, surprise. So now I’m thinking red, a rich, ruby red. You like red, don’t you? Yes, you do. Remember that red dress you wore to my holiday party? Anyway, I attached another great halter dress to this e-mail. Tell me what you think.
Hey, did you get a chance to talk to Michael?
Subject: Re: Re: I’m Back!
From: Leah Kleinschmidt <[email protected]>
To: Lucy Frederick <[email protected]>
Time: 12:48 pm
I like the style of the dress. And the red is really pretty, even if most of your bridesmaids are blondes or redheads. I always thought red was a better color for brunettes. And BTW, I never wore a ruby-red dress to your holiday party. I wore black. Maybe a rich green would be a better idea. But hey, if you want red, that’s cool, too. It’s your wedding! I am here to serve.
I didn’t talk to anyone. I mostly worked. I think I’m off guys for a while. And please don’t give me the speech you always give me when I take a break from guys. I’m not being a hermit, I’m not wearing my feelings on my sleeve, I’m not doing anything but concentrating on my career, okay? In fact, Frances called me today and told me I have a shot at an HBO Original Series about pilgrims or something. Kewl, huh?
Chapter Thirty
LEAH did manage to snag a role in the new HBO series, Coming to America, which was about the grueling reality the pilgrims faced in settling America. Leah had wanted the part of the trapper’s daughter, but when she asked, Frances laughed so hard that she threw her back out. “You’re not going to be the star, honey,” she’d said, not unkindly, but as if it was obvious to the entire world, save Leah. “It’s like I’ve been telling you—character roles.”
Which is exactly what Leah got when they tapped her for the minor part of the wife of one of the settlement’s elders. Essentially, that meant her on-screen time was devoted to slaving over a washboard, lifting giant kettles of water, or, conversely, stirring something in it, and looking after the five kids that supposedly she had given birth to while they eked out their meager existence, which no woman in her right mind would have done. In fact, it became a running joke between her and the other minor wives as to how in God’s name their stinky pretend husbands could possibly be getting any action in bed, what with the life they led.
The only thing Leah liked about the role was the costumes, but even that got old after a bout of unusually warm weather and the soundstage heated up along with the rest of L.A. Wool was not Leah’s first choice when the temperatures started hitting eighty-five degrees and higher.