Julia saw the packed bag sitting by the fireplace. And there was Lance, sitting beside it.
"The cab's gonna be here soon," he said, standing up.
Julia allowed the door to slam closed behind her. She dropped her keys on a table and acted cool as she slid out of her coat and asked, "A cab? All the way out here?"
"It's really a shuttle, I guess."
"Oh. And your flight?"
"There's a six o'clock to Dallas. I can connect and be in New York by midnight." Lance took a step toward her.
"Were you going to say good-bye?"
"I was going to call you from the airport."
"Glad I made it back in time then," she said with a touch of sarcasm. She held out a hand. "It was nice knowing you. Good luck."
"Hey," Lance said, gripping her outstretched hand, pulling her closer to him. "You want me to leave. Remember? You want me out of your house and out of your life and ..."
She wrenched her hand from his grasp. "So, what do you have lined up? Is it a play?" she asked with feigned casualness. "A movie?"
She saw him flinch, and she knew she'd hit a vein of truth.
"You can tell me," she said, wanting to ignore the alarm bells sounding in her mind. Then she looked at his bag on the floor and saw the corner of a script peeking out from the side pocket. She pointed at the pages. "Where did you get that?" she asked. Tell me I'm wrong, Lance, she thought. Tell me I'm wrong.
"Julia, it's not..."
"Don't tell me what it isn't. Tell me what it is" she said, but then her eyes fell to the ashes in the fireplace, to what was left of her great secret, and she realized where the script had come from. "He gave that to you. Didn't he?"
Guilt spread across Lance's face.
"You didn't break in and throw his clothes in the pool. You lied to me." She sank into the truth, then whispered, "You lied."
"Julia," he said, "I did what I had to do."
Then another image came to mind. "You knew last night you were going back, and still you tried ..." Julia couldn't finish. She played through the scene again and again, wondering how she'd known that he would betray her, wishing that she hadn't been right. "Like I said, thanks for your help. Good luck." She bolted for the stairs, but Lance was instantly beside her, looking into her eyes.
"Just say you don't want me to go. All right? Just say it. Don't pick this fight, please."
"I'm not fighting. You're the one who wants to leave. I'm not standing in your way."
"Then stand in my way," he said. "If that's what you want, then stand in my way."
"What I want is my life back!" Julia cried. "I want my reputation. I want my career. I—"
"You are like a little kid!" he barked. "Spoiled. Used to having your own way—"
"Did I just hear you correctly?" she asked, her voice seeping with indignation. "Did you just infer that I am not a grownup?"
"Yeah." He nodded his head, defiantly. "I did."
"I've been on my own for fifteen years! I've built a dynasty! I've been on Oprah’
Lance pointed to her grandmother's painting that still leaned against the wall. "Where are you going to hang your picture, Julia? You've leaned it up against every wall in this house. Pick one. I'll drive the nail."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Thirteen cabinet knobs, Julia. Thirteen. You can't even commit to a two-dollar knob." He shook his head as the headlights of the shuttle washed across the widows facing the porch. "How did I ever expect you to commit to me?"