I liked the pork? Lance berated himself as they fell into awkward silence. "I hate Jason," he said, grasping for common ground.
At this, Julia exhaled and momentarily dropped her cheek onto his shoulder. "Promise you won't let me kill him. Just promise me I won't end up in jail twice in one week."
Lance laughed, and with his old smile, his old confidence returned. Their steps became more fluid, and soon they were floating across the floor. When he spun her out and smoothly back into his arms, he told her, "I'm an old-fashioned guy, Julia. I'd be more than happy to do the killing for you."
"You're not just saying that to get on my good side?"
"No, I hate him."
Julia smiled, and she looked like he hadn't seen her look since that first day in the cab, as if she was comfortable in her own skin, certain of where she was going. For the first time since they'd arrived in Oklahoma, Julia looked at home.
On the ride back to her place, Julia let Lance drive. He had taken off the tuxedo jacket and loosened his tie, and as they drove down the gravel road, she studied him in the glow of the dashboard lights. He looked like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square, or in a cologne commercial. He seemed too perfect to be real. So when they reached the house, Julia hurried inside, anxious to be tucked safely in bed before the clock struck twelve and she turned back into a pumpkin. "I'm going to bed," she said.
"You are? It's not even that late," he protested, and she knew he was right. Ro-Ro's events were always of the early-bird variety; it was still before eleven.
"I'm exhausted, really. Just make yourself at home and ..."
The phone rang. Julia, too exhausted to think clearly, answered it. "Hello?"
"Julia, honey, Richard Stone here. How's our boy?"
Julia froze; the night came to a grinding halt. Lance read her gaze as she stared at the receiver. He took the phone from her hand and killed the line.
"It was Richard Stone," she said numbly. "He wanted you."
"You didn't tell him I was here, Julia," he said. "But you are here. You're in my house. It's going to look like—"
"Julia." He spun her to face him. "Things are okay. Okay? Look at me. How much property do you have here?"
"Almost five hundred acres. I rent it. I mean, I let my dad run cows on it."
"How many roads are there to the house?"
"Just the one, the main one. There's a county road on one side, but other than that, we're landlocked."
"Okay, good. We're on private property as long as we're here. The press can't come near us. We can call the sheriff if we have to, but they can't set foot on your property."
His arms were on her shoulders. His voice was soft but strong when he said, "No one has proof we're together, but they're probably coming to get some."
"Yes."
"This changes things," he said. "I know."
Chapter Fourteen
WAY #15: Don't let little things get you down.
It's important to keep life in perspective. Comments from people who don't know or understand you should never make you question your own worth. After all, you are the world's greatest expert on yourself.
—from 707 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire
The clock on the bedside table kept ticking—not an unfamiliar sound. But that night, the cards didn't seem to soothe Julia's mind. She wrapped her arms around her knees and tried not to think about the man in the bedroom down the hall. She tried not to imagine the headlines that would swell as soon as the tabloids learned that he was in her house, sleeping under her roof. Reporters and photographers were certainly on their way, so Julia pulled the cards back together and slipped them into their cardboard box, knowing the situation wouldn't change, no matter how thoroughly she shuffled.
She pulled on a robe and slippers and moved quietly into the hallway, past the closed door of Lance's room. The shades on the window in the upstairs landing were drawn so tightly that not even the moon crept into the dark house, yet she feared turning on a light, as if, right then, men with telescopic lenses were perched in the limbs of sycamore trees, trying to invade her home. She trusted the smooth surface of the mahogany banister to guide her down the stairs. When she reached the foyer, she turned into a small room, slid the big double doors as far as they would go, and sealed herself away from everything beyond the four walls of her home office. She went to the desk where her computer waited, pushed the button, and heard the machine chime to life.
Her house might be four miles from the nearest neighbor, its walls might be thick, the woods might be dense, but Julia knew chaos could intrude on these comfortable borders. She had returned home to block herself off from the outside world, but her career was still going on without her—out there. The sales figures Candon had given her that day at the Ritz were astronomical. He'd known how those sales would translate into income. As the Windows icon flashed on the screen, Julia looked around her study with its broken shelves and cracking walls and asked the room itself, "Does it look like I'm in it for the money?"
Surely the momentum is bound to swing, she told herself as she typed in the URL for Amazon.com and wondered if she was the only writer in history to hope that her sales ranking had plummeted.