Kittens and Snowflurries - Hearts of Hollywood, Book 3, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

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Rayne McQuaid’s heels clicked across the tile floor as she rolled her suitcase along behind. Ahead of her, the double sliding glass doors revealed the California sunshine like a welcoming beacon of freedom. She paused and took a deep breath.

She glanced behind her down the long corridor. These halls had been home to her for the last ninety days. Would she be able to maintain her resolve to stay sober when she stepped out into the California heat? Despite the fact that it was a muggy seventy-five degrees outside, even this late in December, her concerns didn’t revolve around the weather. Heat came in so many forms other than temperature.

Her one consolation was that she would get to see her best friend and fellow actor, Dixon Nash, soon. If anyone could help her navigate the heat, it was him. How long had he been pushing her to enter rehab? He would be so proud of her for making it all the way to the end.

Fortified by that realization, she took a deep inhale. Yes. This time, she was not turning back. She would not become like her father.

That bitter thought propelled her forward, and the doors whooshed open. She strolled into the pass-through that led to the facility’s outer door, thankful to see that, just as planned, her bodyguard, Tyler Kane, was waiting to meet her, suit coat and tie in place despite the warm day. In his late forties or early fifties—she’d never quite been able to tell—it was the man’s former experience in the Marines that had given her the confidence to hire him five years ago when it had become apparent that she needed a bodyguard. She hadn’t regretted hiring him, even once.

She smiled her gratefulness. “Tyler. Thanks for coming.”

He nodded and stretched out a hand to stop her exit. “Reporters somehow got word you were getting out today, so be ready for that.” He tipped a nod to the sidewalk outside.

Rayne’s pulse spiked. Great. Just what she wanted to deal with.

“Clay has your car at the curb.”

Thankfulness eased some of her tension as she glanced out to see her long-time driver, Clay Rogers, and his son, Paul, waiting for her just ahead. Paul stepped from the passenger side, closed the door, and buttoned his suit jacket.

Taking a preparatory breath, Rayne launched into the fray. She lost sight of Paul’s dark spike and sunglasses as a crush of reporters converged on her. The familiar sound of shutters clicking felt like being kicked while she was down. Two reporters leaned into her personal space, and Tyler barked at them to step back. The rapid-fire flashes were making it hard to see where she was going. Thankful for Tyler’s steady hand at her back, Rayne maintained her practiced smile but didn’t respond to any of the numerous questions shouted her way.

Tomorrow, social media would be buzzing about the fact that she was now out of rehab. Gossip rags would plaster today’s messy blond updo all over their covers and gossip about how alcohol had ruined her looks—likely with before and after shots. Magazines would call insistently for the next several weeks, wanting interviews. And her agent would be contacting her—she’d bet within the hour—with a slate of screenplays to read. She sighed and held up one hand to block a particularly aggressive reporter who had slipped near while Tyler dealt with another. “I have no comment at this time. Sorry.” She pushed past him, digging her keys from her purse.

The crush of “journalists” parted, and ahead of her, Paul stood with the back door of her Jag open and waiting. As discussed, she passed him the keys to her Aston Martin DB11 while his father gathered up her suitcase and stored it in the trunk of the car. Surprised at how grateful she felt to see these two men who’d worked for her as long as Tyler had, she reached out and squeezed Paul’s arm just before she slid into the backseat of the Jag.

“Don’t scratch her.” She offered him a wink.

He smiled that half smile she’d become familiar with as he closed the door behind her. Tyler scooted in on the other side, and semi-silence settled. With a sigh, she leaned her head against the plush leather headrest. She wasn’t worried about Paul crashing her favorite frosted-glass-blue Aston. He was one of the most straight-laced, responsible guys she knew—but the king of the straight laced had to be Dixon Nash, Hollywood heartthrob and all around pain in her backside. She smiled at that thought. Sometimes pains were a good thing. It was that pain in the backside who had hounded her about her drinking until she’d finally thrown her hands up and booked herself into the facility.

Clay slipped into the front seat, started the engine, and eased the car forward without even waiting till the reporters were out of the way. She heard a cameraman curse as he darted to the side.

Beside her, Tyler chuckled.

She tucked away a smile of her own. She should probably offer a lecture about being more gracious, but for now, all she could feel was thankfulness. She just wanted to get out of the public eye. She leaned forward and squeezed the older man’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Clay.”

He nodded. “Miss McQuaid.”

The formality brought another smile. No matter how many times she’d asked him to call her by her given name, he’d insisted formality was respectful. “How’s Minnie?” she asked.

Clay’s smile, which she could see in the rearview mirror, was more a softening of his eyes than a movement of his lips. “She’s baking up a flurry of Christmas goodies, which means she’s happy as a cat in a dairy. Thanks for asking.”

“Paul’s looking well.”

The man’s gaze flicked to hers in the mirror for half a second, but he returned his attention to the road before she could get a reading of his feelings. “He is, thank you. Has a real nice girl that he brought home from school for the holiday. Her name is Reena.”

So that was it. Rayne eased out a breath and studied the city slipping by. What kind of person was she when not even her driver wanted his son to be part of her life? Not that she had even meant her comment in that way. “Well, I really appreciate you agreeing to let Paul drive the Aston home. I just couldn’t face the drive alone today.”

He tipped another nod. “It was our pleasure.” His focus switched to Tyler. “I have a feeling that Mr. Kane wouldn’t have stood for it anyway.”

Tyler nodded his agreement. “Lot of buzz today. Much safer this way.”

Clay inched onto the boulevard and grunted at the tangle of vehicles stretching out before them. At the first stoplight, he reached over to the seat beside him. “Almost forgot. Minnie said you’d likely want to have your phone back right away so you could get reconnected with the world.” His eyes smiled at her from the mirror as he held a small satin bag over his shoulder.

Rayne’s stomach clenched, but she leaned forward to accept it. “Thank you.”

Silence settled then, and she let it wrap around her like a comfortable old friend. Her hand squeezed the satin, and she could feel her phone inside. A quaver worked through her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face the world just yet, but she should at least let Dixon know that she’d sprung her cage.

She withdrew the phone and powered it on. She groaned when she saw the number of texts waiting for her attention. There was no way she was going to be able to get through all those tonight. She pulled up her favorites list and typed a quick text to Dix. I’m on the outside.

It was only a moment before his response came through. Good for you! I’ve been praying. Last day of shooting for me tomorrow. Can I see you in the evening?

Rayne smiled, already feeling lighter at the prospect of seeing him. Dinner? My place? 6:30?

I’ll be there!

Rayne shut off the screen and rested the phone in her lap. She didn’t have the energy to face the other messages just now. She would deal with them tomorrow. She thought of his comment. I’ve been praying. It must be nice to be as assured as Dixon was in the benevolence of a higher power.

We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him. Step three of the twelve steps of AA.

Rayne sighed and focused on the rain clouds gathered against the horizon. God as she understood Him? If she simply made God out to be something she liked and was comfortable with, didn’t that make God a figment of her imagination? Surely if there even was a God, He would want people to know Him for who He really was and not just some cobbled together “understanding.” But how did someone go about getting to know God? And what if she picked the wrong one? What if there were more than one? Or not one at all?

It had been a sticking point between her and her counselor for the entire length of her treatment. The counselor wanted to know what Rayne thought about God. And Rayne insisted she had no idea. She’d always lived under the impression that there could be a God out there somewhere, but He probably didn’t much care about her life one way or another. But now…

Frustrated, Rayne purposefully set the subject from her mind. Traffic certainly hadn’t improved in the ninety days she’d been away. Despite the fact that Christmas lights draped the street and huge Christmas bulbs hung from each light pole, the blare of horns, growl of engines, and cacophony of mingled music gave off anything but Christmas cheer.

Rayne lifted her phone, popped in her earbuds, and cranked up Pentatonix. She propped her head on one fist, letting the soothing harmonies of the acapella band wash over her. From the car to her right, a flash of light revealed that the paparazzi had caught up to them. It was going to be a long drive home.

She fleetingly wondered who had let it slip that she was in rehab. The center had promised the utmost privacy for their patients, but obviously someone had talked. Of course, it could have been one of her friends, too. She wouldn’t put it past Shawna to pass on that tidbit if she owed a reporter for covering up one of her own indiscretions.

It didn’t matter. She’d made it through. Been alcohol-free for ninety days. And she wasn’t going back.

 

***

 

Rayne dropped her phone to her side, loosed a slow breath, and stepped around her white leather chaise to stop in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in her living room. Her fingers curled tight around the phone as she folded her arms.

The sun had already set, and Dixon was due to arrive at any moment. After a morning of sleeping in, she’d spent a leisurely afternoon simply puttering. She’d cooked lunch—a luxury since she hadn’t been allowed to cook for herself for the past ninety days. Then she’d done a little dusting since the maid hadn’t been needed while she was away. She should have thought to have the maid return before her release, but she hadn’t minded the task, it had allowed her to put off reading her texts—which she now wished she’d put off for even longer.

The neighbors to her right—she’d never met them—had draped the palms on their deck in large colorful Christmas lights. And below her, moonlight and splashes of primary colors reflected off the slick black surface of the Pacific like spilled milk and melted candy. If she concentrated she could hear the waves pounding her private beach, but she’d grown so used to the sound that she didn’t hear it unless she purposely paid attention.

Tonight, the view that normally soothed and calmed held no appeal. The words from the text swam before her.

Daisy, Dad is dying.

Rayne turned her back to the view and studied the wine rack on the kitchen counter instead. Why hadn’t she dumped them all? Or given them as gifts before she left for rehab? She licked her lips.

Don’t do it.

If she started drinking now, she’d only make things worse. She strolled to the cupboard, set her phone carefully on the marble, and pulled her favorite wineglass from the rack where she kept her collection. She rolled the stem between her fingers.

Stop.

She blinked hard. Flicked a glance off her phone. She just wanted the pain to be quiet for half a moment.

She studied the bottles in the rack. Her producer had given her that vintage chardonnay last Christmas. She slipped the corkscrew from the drawer and slid the bottle from its cubby. The cork gave a satisfying pop. She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled appreciatively.

He has two months. Maybe. Do you think you could come for Christmas? It would mean a lot to him.

Rayne snorted. Closed her eyes. Was that really what Dad was telling Dave? She’d be willing to bet down to her last dollar—and that was quite a substantial sum—that Dad had said no such thing.

Daisy Crumpton… Why was it she could never seem to leave that mousy girl from Carnation, Washington, behind?

The wine gurgled pleasantly as she sloshed it into the glass. She stared at the liquid. Admired the way the light refracted through it.

Then in one hasty motion, she dashed the wine into the sink.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She plunged the wine bottle upside down into the disposal and left it to glug its contents down the drain. She snatched a towel from the drawer, thrust the glass into the folds, and dashed it against the counter. The crystal shattered, tinkling out a soothing ballad. She threw the crushed glass, towel and all, into the trash beneath the sink and slammed the cupboard door shut.

Her hands trembled against the cool marble of the countertop. Head hanging, she pulled in a tremulous breath.

One battle down.

How many more to go?

 

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