Under My Skin

Page 83

I’m awakened from a deep sleep by a hard rap at the hotel door. “What the—”
“It’s okay,” Jackson says. “I’ve got it.”
I nod and am just drifting off again when he returns. I start to speak, but he presses a finger to my lips, then holds out a hand to help me up. “I know it’s late, but we need to go somewhere. Will you come?”
“Of course.” He already knows I wouldn’t deny him anything tonight.
The valet pulls his car around, and once we are traveling north on the Pacific Coast Highway, I’m pretty sure I know where we are going, and my suspicions are confirmed when he makes a right turn and heads up into the Pacific Palisades. A few minutes later, he’s parking the car in front of a stunning double lot with an ocean view. It’s a lot that he owns. That he bought years ago, and has yet to build on. But I know that he has been thinking about the house he wants to put here for almost as long as he has owned the property.
He hasn’t said why he wanted to come here tonight, but I can guess. He’d wanted to build a house here. For himself. For his little girl.
And now he’s come to say goodbye.
And that’s not something that I want to hear even though I’m desperately afraid that it is true.
I grab his hand before he can step out of the car. “Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start believing you won’t ever get it done.”
His smile is so tender it almost hurts. “Come on.”
He gets out of the car, and I do, too. He grabs a small bag from the trunk, then he starts walking across the property toward the darkness that lies in front of us. It is the ocean, I know, but on this night, it seems to be nothing more than a void in space into which we are about to disappear.
The property descends after a while, almost as if terraced, adding an extra level of privacy.
“Right there,” he says, pointing to an indentation in the tree line that forms a natural semicircle. “That’s where I want to put her playscape.”
I glance at him, surprised. He said want. Not wanted. And a little thread of hope unfurls within me.
I don’t comment on his word choice. All I say is, “That’s the perfect spot.”
He turns to look at the ocean that is spread out below us, flowing to the horizon just past the snake-like length of the coast highway that separates us on this hill from the pounding waves.
“I hesitated to start on the plans,” he says, as much to the world as to me. “Because I was afraid it would all go to hell.”
I say nothing; he is echoing my earlier thoughts and I want to hear where this is going.
“I hesitated bringing Ronnie here, too. Hesitated making it official that she is my daughter when I should have done it so long ago. I put my life on hold because somebody else killed a man. Me, Sylvia. Who has never once changed the direction of my life because of someone else’s whim. But I did in this. I stopped moving forward in my life because I’ve been afraid that life will be taken from me.”
“And you’re not afraid anymore?”
“I’m scared to death,” he says. “But that’s a goddamn lousy reason.”
I swallow, so many questions and emotions churning through me that I can’t identify any of them. “What is this about, Jackson?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. He presses a kiss to my fingers, and although the gesture is sweet, it is also sad. And I’m not sure if I should be scared or hopeful, and the not knowing is weighing on me so hard it is like a physical burden.
“Tell me about the photographs.” His voice is gentle, and I have no clue where he’s going with this. “The pictures of houses you take.”
“I have told you.” My hobby is photography, and for most of my life I have preferred to take pictures of buildings. And not just majestic skyscrapers and brilliantly designed commercial buildings. But homes. Some plain. Some incredible. Some in suburbia. Some tucked away on acres of their own land.
“Tell me again,” he insists.
I frown, feeling a little unsteady. I’m not at all sure where this is coming from, but I’m not going to ask. Not tonight. “I’ve done it all my life. I guess I wanted to imagine what went on in those houses. All the different buildings. Small and large, fancy and ramshackle. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had a better life. A father who watched out for them. A mother who knew they were alive.” I shrug. “So I collected them. Little bits of lives that I thought maybe someday I’d want.”