But deep down, she hoped it would be her mother.
Her mother had found Audra when she had slit her wrists at twelve years old. Susana Clairmont Snow stepped into the bathroom and saw her only child bleeding onto the freshly scrubbed white tile floor. Thick crimson rivulets filled the gutters between each gleaming ceramic square. What have you done?! she screamed, then grabbed up the bath mat and threw it into the tub to save it from ruin rather than calling for help. It had happened ten years ago, but it was one of those moments left hanging in suspended animation, always looming at the back of her mind.
Audra hoped this time around that her mother would bang on the front door to no avail before pulling out the spare key. She hoped Susana would storm in, pissed off, only to find her daughter blue and bloated, gently swinging from one of the living room rafters by a length of clothesline. Audra had already tested the line’s tensile strength a handful of times. She was certain it would hold.
“What are you thinking about?” Deacon asked.
“My mother.”
“Are you two close?”
She wanted to laugh at that, but all she managed was a scowl.
“Maggie said that you’re shy . . .” he said. “But I have to say that you strike me more as lonely.”
Her scowl turned into a glare. She peered at her feet, Deacon’s statement igniting a pang of resentment deep in her gut. She appreciated the company, but he had some goddamned nerve making assumptions, no matter how spot-on they were.
“I’m sorry,” he said, noticing her annoyance. He looped his arm through hers for the second time that afternoon, as if expecting his simple gesture to win her forgiveness.
She nearly pulled away. Lonely, she thought. What the hell do you know about lonely? At least I don’t need to surround myself with people who I call “family” to feel complete.
“I guess it makes me uncomfortable,” he confessed, derailing her inner tirade. “Because I remember living on my own, being lonely myself.”
The way he said it downshifted her irritation into a lower gear. His arm tightened around hers, and the way he looked at her convinced Audra that, despite their not knowing each other well, he was letting her in on a real secret. He wanted her to know him. And if that were true, it meant that this charismatic man wanted to know her, too. But, in exchange, Audra had to make an effort, had to reciprocate, open up.
“When you were talking about California,” she said, “you seemed saddened by the memory, like you missed it.”
His face brightened a little, as though charmed by the fact that she had empathized with him on their very first meeting. His expression fell a moment later though, and he nodded to say she was right. But he contradicted his nod with a denial. “Nah, I don’t miss it. I didn’t have anyone back there, at least no one that really understood who I am. I’ve left that life behind. Now, I don’t have a physical home, which can be pretty rough. But you don’t need a physical home when you’ve got an emotional one. You know what they say about people who surround themselves with material possessions, right?”
Audra shrugged.
“The man with the most possessions is the poorest of all. It’s why I left L.A. If you set eyes on the house I grew up in, you’d fall over right where you stand.”
“What do you mean? What was wrong with the house?”
“Nothing, and everything. You know those houses you see on TV shows with the motorized front gates? The bars are a metaphor. You can go in and out, but every night you’re sleeping behind them like a prisoner in a cell.” He paused, readjusted his grip on her arm. “My old man is a movie producer. He works on films with guys like Jack Nicholson and Robert Redford.” Audra gawked at him, and Deacon grinned at her piqued interest before continuing on. “You know Faye Dunaway?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?”
“She came over for brunch a few times. She and my mother smoked cigarettes on the patio while discussing the pros and cons of wicker furniture. Thankfully, this was before she did Mommie Dearest. Because at ten or eleven years old, I would have shit my pants had I known Joan Crawford was milling around our pool.” He made crazy eyes at her, and Audra couldn’t help but laugh.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said.
“Guessed what? That I come from money?”
She nodded. Deacon looked more like a Texas Ranger than the son of a bigwig Hollywood producer.
“Well, good,” he said. “If you can’t tell, that means I’ve successfully wiped that part of my life away. You know, in a way, Mommie Dearest is a pretty good analogy for the lives we were forced to lead.” His statement was unflinching, as though he knew Audra came from the same place as him—a big house, absent parents. It was another correct assumption, one that led her to believe that she wasn’t as closed off as she had thought. He was reading her like one of his father’s screenplays. “Not all of us were beaten with wire hangers, but psychologically . . . emotionally?”
She nodded again, understanding what he was getting at.
“But you let that go, Audra. What’s in the past is in the past. Those people, your parents, they don’t have to matter. They only matter if you give them that power. Take back your life, take back control. You put your foot down and tell them ‘I’m worth something, worth more than your fuckin’ money, Pops. I’m worth more than your most precious jewels, Mommy dear.’ ”
Her heart fluttered inside her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was love or nerves. She dared to shoot a glance at him, and their eyes met as they approached the clearing that would lead her back to her parents’ home. It was as though he knew everything about her, knew just what she needed to hear.