Rachel From the Edge Pt. 11

Rachel From the Edge Pt. 11

by G. Lawrence

Rachel challenges her media critics

At Sheila's urging, Rachel offers to go on a daytime cable program and face her enemies head on. Rory thinks she's crazy. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

THE THREE O'CLOCK SHOW

Rory found Rachel in the kitchen at Canby Place. Whatever she was cooking smelled great. Martha was changing sheets in the guest rooms.

"It's safe to come in, Ro," Rachel said, stirring a pot on the stove.

"Are you sure?"

"Dr. Keller sent a new medication."

"Side-affects?"

"Nothing bad so far."

"The numbers?"

"They've been pesky lately."

Rory peeked over her shoulder, sniffing a rich stroganoff with mushrooms and green onions. Then she sat on the heavy stool Rachel was strapped to on occasion. Rachel handed her a cup of coffee and went back to stirring.

"Planning a big meal?"

"This is for the Rescue Mission," Rachel said, pointing to a dozen empty jars on the counter.

"Did you really once cook for a greasy spoon?"

"We kept the kitchen cleaner than that."

"It's an expression."

"After the government finally released me, I had to finish high school. Working at Melvin's gave me a place to stay."

"Released from what? Were you arrested?"

"It's uncomfortable."

"Tell me anyway."

Rachel turned the temperature down on the stove, covered the pot, and took a cup of tea down into the living room, sitting on the floor before the fireplace. More of her knick-knacks were on the shelves now. Figurines of Dutch children holding hands. A puppy fetching a bone. A spot once occupied by a painting of Lady Godiva now held an embroidery of Jane Austin's country cottage.

"Don't tell your mother. She worries," Rachel said.

"If it has to do with you, she probably already knows. It doesn't mean she told me."

"You know what happened to me in foster care. I wasn't coping well after that. I ran away from other homes. Numbers had been filling my head for years, but now they got worse. I was institutionalized for a time."

"What do you mean? A mental institution? Straitjackets? Rubber walls?"

"They don't use straitjackets anymore. Just drugs."

"Rach, my God. I had no idea," Rory said, taking her hand. "Dr. Belcher says your dissociative disorder resulted from a traumatic childhood experience. Is that what triggered your condition?"

"No, it started before that."

"Have you told her about it?"

"Of course not. It's none of her business."

"You've never told me."

"I don't talk about it," Rachel answered with a frown.

"How did you get out?"

"After a few months, I learned to tell them what they wanted to hear, and they released me to St. Mary's. The nuns were generous, though more delusional than I was. When I turned seventeen, I bailed. Got odd jobs. Lived in a homeless encampment. A few weeks later, Mr. Gosling found me going through his trash looking for food and felt sorry for me. It didn't hurt that I was pretty. He offered me a job at Melvin's. I wouldn't call it a fun job, but I liked being in the kitchen."

"Your parents were no help? Your birth parents."

"I never asked. After I ran away from home forever, I never spoke to my father again. I only met my mother a few times and had nothing to say."

"That is so horrible. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"Ro, I don't want to be rude," Rachel said, scrunching her eyebrows.

"Okay, what did I miss?"

"Rory, my good and dearest friend, there are millions of people all over the world who've had it tougher than I have. Alcoholism, like my father. Dementia, like my mother. Drug addiction. Depression. Chronic diseases. And even when someone wants to help, usually they can't. I was able to fight back. And because of a very caring man, I was allowed to go to Harvard, where I thrived. I'm one of the lucky ones."

"You really are a glass-is-half-full kind of girl. But I see sad cases at the clinic, and at the women's center. They could learn lessons from you."

"Not the right kind of lessons. How come you never tell me your dirt? From what I understand, you were worse than I ever was. Weren't you in rehab? More than once?"

"It wasn't rehab. Exactly. But yes, I had a wild phase."

Rachel sipped her tea, waiting to hear more. Rory sighed.

"I wasn't ready to be who I am. To come out. I did the jet set thing, traveling to Cannes and Monte Carlo. Getting drunk. Acting out with boys in public. A darling of the paparazzi. I finally gave in to my friend, Susie Amberson. She gave me the courage to stop pretending. And then Susie died of a drug overdose. You might say I got religion. Went back to school. Decided to make something of myself."

"You've done wonderfully. Your father was so proud, and your mother is proud, too. She has the perfect daughter."

"You're not going to start crying again, are you?"

"I'm okay. Back to the kitchen."

Rachel jumped up, checked her stroganoff, and made another cup of coffee for Rory.

Perched on her low stool, occasionally getting up on her toes, Rachel was stirring the vat when she noticed that look in Rory's eyes. The one running up and down her slender body. Checking out her round breasts and tight butt. She sighed, wondering if this was the time to confront an old situation.

"Can we talk?" Rachel asked, turning to face her.

"We are talking, Rach," Rory answered, sensing something different.

"I know you like me."

"Of course I do. We're best friends."

"I know you like me more than that," Rachel said, stepping down from the stool and approaching her. "I've known since that first day, in my sickbed, when you wrapped your arms around me to keep me warm."

Rory looked down, embarrassed. "I wasn't trying to--"

"Ro, you didn't do anything wrong," Rachel insisted, getting closer and taking her hands. "You saved me. I owe you everything. I don't know what it's like between two women, and as much as I love you, I can't ever love you that way. But if you want me in your bed, you can have me."

Rory was silent. Tempted. Rachel was looking up at her with those big brown eyes, questioning. Nervous. Brave. And so sexy Rory could hardly bare it. She couldn't imagine anyone but Rachel making such a generous proposal.

"I know you're very traditional," Rory said. "One day you'll want a husband and children. But before that, I've always wondered if you'd take a walk on the wild side with me. But it should be because you want to, not from a sense of obligation."

"I'm sorry I can't offer more," Rachel replied, looking sad.

"No, don't ever say that," Rory answered, taking her into her arms. And then she dared to give her a kiss. The kiss she'd always hoped for. Rachel felt so good in her arms, but there was something missing. Though Rachel was trying, Rory didn't get the response she yearned for.

"I'm going to take a raincheck on this, Rach," Rory decided. "Please know my feeling for you aren't just about sex. They never have been. It's you I love."

"I love you, too," Rachel said, squeezing hard. "Thank you so much for being my friend."

Rachel returned to the stool, resuming her stirring. Surprisingly, there was no awkwardness. Nothing more that needed resolving.

"Not going to work today?" Rory asked.

"That sludge machine we call a computer is crunching figures. I'll go in this afternoon. You're usually in class Tuesday mornings. What brings you to Canby?"

"I wanted to say I'm sorry to hear about your mother. I heard she passed away over the weekend."

"No tears there. I've only seen her twice in the last eight years, and had no intention of ever seeing her again."

"Planning any services?"

"No services. If a landfill won't take her ashes, I'll pay someone to dump them."

"I know she disappointed you, but you sacrificed so much for her. For years. You gave up Harvard. Lived in near poverty."

"I fulfilled my obligations."

"You always say that saying goodbye is important."

"I said goodbye a long time ago."

"Are you sure you don't want a service?"

"There's nothing good I can say about her. Nothing I want to remember."

"I know you try not to pay attention, but the press has been good to you lately. Especially with what Ruth Sparrow has been writing. If you come across too cold about your mother's death, they may turn on you."

"Would that cause problems for your mother?" Rachel asked.

"Goddamn it, don't worry about Mom. What do you need?"

"Maybe I should do that interview. Mrs. Sparrow said she could arrange it, and Sheba offered to give advice. I could say how I feel, and people can make their own judgements."

"What if they aren't good judgements?"

"I have faith in the numbers," Rachel replied.

* * * * * *

"Really? She agreed to an interview?" Pamela said.

"She wants to do it. Something about the numbers redeeming her," Rory said.

They were having lunch at Delmonico's, in a private booth. Both were in business attire. The sheared ahi was excellent.

"The timing is good. One of Rachel's co-workers leaked the story about her mother's ashes going to a landfill. I fired the son of a bitch, but the media's been all over it."

"Yeah, I know. A reporter caught up to me outside the clinic. She wanted to know if Rachel is really the cold-hearted bitch everyone says she is."

"I'll call Ruth. See if we can set up a friendly interview where Rachel can tell her story."

"She wants to go on the Lupe Manners' network. One of their afternoon shows."

"No, no, no. They hate her there. They were her worse enemies before the funeral, and Rachel made them look like idiots. They'll want payback."

"I told Rachel that. She thought it was funny."

"Gresley Faulkner's website maintains a Rachel Montgomery joke page. Just the worst kind of trash you can imagine. Jokes about her being a sex slave. The hands-behind-her-back thing. Being a stripper. A gold-digging whore. Someone called her a deranged leprechaun. She shouldn't go anywhere near those assholes."

"It's your fault," Rory said.

"How in the hell is this my fault?"

"You're always pushing her to be brave. To take chances. She wants you to be proud of her. What better way than marching into the lion's den?"

"There's a difference between marching into a lion's den and being eaten by the lions. I'll talk with her. Make her be reasonable."

"She sounded awful determined."

"Don't worry, dear. Rachel will do whatever I tell her to do."

* * * * * *

Miss Rachel Montgomery arrived at the Manhattan television studio with an entourage, seeing the Lupe Manners Network logo on the door. Reluctantly led by Mrs. Pamela Benson was Rory Benson, Oliver Mendelson, Mrs. Ruth Sparrow, Maggie Pham to do Rachel's makeup, and Big Bob McLane heading his security detail. They had a green room reserved behind the set.

"Remember, not too much makeup. Demure, not a harlot," Pamela said.

"I know my job, Mrs. Benson," Maggie said. "And with a canvas like this, there's not much to do. You have lovely skin, Miss Montgomery."

"Thank you," Rachel said, otherwise quiet.

"Afraid?" Rory asked, sitting on a stool next to her before the mirror.

"Not in the way you think," Rachel answered.

The blue wool suit Rachel had ordered from Neiman Marcus was pricy, making her uncomfortable, but she had needed something special. Pamela added a delicate string of pearls.

"You look like a star," Pamela said, making Rachel blush.

"I am a scientist," Rachel replied. "But I know if I showed up wearing my lab coat, people would make fun of me."

"You'd look good in anything," Pamela assured her.

"Just be watchful," Oliver warned. "These guys looked bad after their attacks on you backfired. Their ratings took a hit. It cost them advertisers. Don't be fooled if they sound friendly at first, they're looking for trouble."

"Don't worry, Mr. Mendelson. They are going to find trouble," Rachel promised.

"We're here for you," Pamela said, pecking Rachel on the cheek.

"Hey, don't smear that makeup! Anyone else kissing her before I have to fix this?" Maggie protested.

"Mom, if Rachel's face turns any redder, the makeup won't help," Rory said.

"Sorry, dear," Pamela apologized.

Ruth took a seat next to Rachel, studying her demeanor.

"I'll be in the auditorium watching the audience reaction," Ruth said. "My friend Kenya Myers is in the back with her film crew. We'll have an honest recording of the show."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sparrow. I'll try not to let you down," Rachel said.

"This is a big story, honey. I don't need to tell you that. Win, lose or draw, my readers will have the truth, not what Lupe Manners thinks."

"You've always been fair."

"Even if this doesn't go well, just coming here shows courage. That won't be overlooked," Ruth said.

"Wear your hat. If I get mad and throw something, I don't want to hit you by mistake."

"Throw whatever you want, darling. I can duck," Ruth answered with a grin.

"Not everyone will be that lucky," Rachel suggested.

A flashing light indicated it was time to go. The hallway was crowded with onlookers as McLane and six broad-shouldered security personnel led their party toward the stage. The studio was filled with several hundred people, and big ratings were expected. It was The Three O'Clock Show, the network's most popular afternoon talk format, starring Kattie Whitmore and Gresley Faulkner. Both hosts were in their early thirties, sparky, and quick with their acerbic tongues. The network advertised them as New York City's Dynamic Duo. At the insistence of Ruth Sparrow, the show was being broadcast live.

Rachel's party paused at the curtain. Only Rachel would be going on stage.

"Engaged?" Rory asked.

"Oh, yes. Fully engaged," Rachel said, trying not to look nervous.

"You're wearing a microphone," Pamela counseled. "Careful what you say. Don't let the audience throw you off."

"Sheba and her team have been coaching me all week. It should be okay."

"Don't forget what Ollie said. These guys aren't your friends," Pamela persisted.

"I know," Rachel replied, tugging her hem down. The tight skirt was well above her knees, embarrassing but necessary. The thin vest was open down the front, the white blouse showing plenty of cleavage. Rory had not seen her dress so daringly before.

"Remember, I'm right here if you need me," Rory urged.

"Thank you, Ro," Rachel said, holding Rory's hand until the last moment. "By the way, I stopped taking my medication two days ago."

"You did what?" Rory said.

But Rachel was already walking out under the bright studio lights, a few quick steps at first, and then slowing to a hesitant shuffle. The audience offered polite applause. A crude statement was shouted. The hosts rose to greet her with smiles and handshakes.

"Mom?" Rory whispered from the curtains.

"Yes?"

"Something is going on with her."

"I know, dear," Pamela agreed. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Rachel waved to the audience and sat in a padded yellow chair, unsuccessfully trying to tug down her skirt. Her shapely legs attracted attention, particularly from Gresley. The eager hosts quickly took seats on the other side of a plexiglass coffee table, making themselves comfortable. Kattie offered Rachel a mug with The Dynamic Duo logo on it. She declined.

"Hello, Miss Rachel Montgomery," Kattie warmly greeted. "Thank you for accepting our invitation."

"Yeah, it was really big of you to stoop to our level," Gresley added.

"I always seek to accommodate," Rachel courteously replied, getting a laugh from the audience. Her voice was light, calm, and even-tempered. Pleasant.

"So, Miss Montgomery, they say this is your first interview. Ever?" Kattie asked.

"Actually, I interviewed for the swim team in high school," Rachel said, recalling a wistful memory. "And for my scholarship to Harvard."

"You didn't graduate from Harvard, did you?" Gresley asked.

"No, I didn't graduate," Rachel said.

"When Danny Benson died--" Kattie started.

"He was Daniel to me. I never called him Danny," Rachel interrupted.

"Okay, when Daniel Benson died, you became the focus of some highly charged press coverage," Kattie continued. "What did you think of that?"

"Did you enjoy it?" Gresley asked.

"Being crushed under Mr. Benson's dead body during a rainstorm was bad for my health. It's an experience I really can't recommend," Rachel answered. "After Mr. Garcia kindly rescued me, I came down with pneumonia. I spent the next few weeks lying on my couch reading Pride and Prejudice, crying, and struggling to breathe. I'm afraid I didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the wonderful publicity your insightful program was giving me."

There were more chuckles from the studio, causing Kattie to grow annoyed.

"Rumors say Danny Benson left you a lot of money," Kattie said. "Shouldn't that cause people to be suspicious of your motives? People who weren't sleeping with the boss? How much are you getting? Fifty million? A hundred million?"

"A billion?" Gresley asked.

"Mrs. Pamela Benson says I've been mentioned in Daniel's will, which is very thoughtful of her, but I don't expect much to come of it. I'm a poor girl from Palmdale. Things like that only happen in romance novels."

"There is no money?" Kattie pressed.

"I suppose a probate court will need to figure it out. I don't know about legal things. I'm just a lab girl."

"Your employment at Marbury & Benson has been controversial. Many of your former co-workers have nothing good to say about you," Kattie remarked. "Some wonder why Daniel Benson hired a pretty college dropout to sit around all day playing video games."

"You think I'm pretty?" Rachel said, shaking out her hair.

"Yes, everyone knows you're pretty," Kattie said. "Please answer the question."

"I learned to swim in high school," Rachel absently recalled. "I swam and swam and swam, because I needed a scholarship."

"Couldn't cut the academics?" Gresley prodded.

"I was squeezing two years of high school into one, so my records were a mess. Colleges didn't know what to make of them."

"Two years of high school? Into one?" Kattie said.

"Yes, and I was working part-time. Keeping a perfect grade point average was terribly difficult. But Melvin's Eatery isn't a greasy spoon. People shouldn't call it that. We worked hard to keep that kitchen clean. It's out on Highway 14 in Lancaster, just past the Holiday Inn. They have specials every Tuesday and Thursday. The grits are really good."

"Do you expect us to believe Daniel Benson hired you for your cooking skills?" Gresley said.

"Oh, no. He thought I had other talents," Rachel said, letting the statement hang as the audience laughed. She made another unsuccessful attempt to tug down her skirt, being sure to give Gresley a glance at her bare thighs.

"While I was swimming at Palmdale High, I would get odd ideas about numbers. Interesting combinations. When I was studying mathematics at Harvard, I thought of ways to make certain forms of accounting more efficient."

"It must have been an awful dumb idea to get you expelled," Gresley said.

"They didn't exactly expel me, Mr. Faulkner. Halfway through my senior year, I got a call. My father was dying of brain cancer. My mother was breaking down. Dementia. They had a lot of debt. I dropped out of school and found a job at Marbury & Benson. The signing bonus paid off my father's medical bills, just before he died."

"What was Danny Benson's bonus? Getting you in bed?" Gresley snickered.

"I certainly hope he wasn't disappointed," Rachel said, making several in the audience howl. She twisted in the chair, causing the skirt to ride up.

"You were in a position to give the Benson family plenty of grief, especially after the way they humiliated you in the press," Kattie said. "They called you a slut, and a whore. Pamela Benson all but accused you of murdering her ex-husband. And then suddenly you made up. Everybody friends. Peaches and cream?"

"Chocolate cupcakes," Rachel said. Pamela laughed so loud it was heard on-stage.

"Wasn't your appearance at Benson's funeral just a publicity stunt? Orchestrated to portray you as the heroic widow?" Gresley said.

"It's important to say goodbye," Rachel softly replied.

"What about that little performance with the engagement ring? A bit melodramatic, don't you think?" Kattie said.

"I usually only wear Daniel's ring at night, when I'm sleeping," Rachel said, taking the ring from her vest pocket and displaying it to the audience. They could see it was a simple setting, with a modest diamond, not the opulent jewel some bloggers had pretended. "Mrs. Benson said the media was being very cruel, and that wearing the ring at Daniel's funeral would soften the criticism."

"Do you think wearing that ring makes you Daniel Benson's widow?" Gresley said, leaning forward. Rachel lovingly fondled the ring, her eyes getting misty.

"Yes, Mr. Faulkner. I do," Rachel sighed, putting the ring back in her pocket.

"Were you paid to attend the funeral?" Kattie asked, growing impatient. "Offered a buy-out on the inheritance?"

"What is the Benson family offering in return for your silence?" Gresley said. "Hopefully not promises, because everybody knows their promises are worthless."

"Mrs. Benson and Miss Rory Benson are standing over there, behind the curtain," Rachel said, turning to look. "They are my dearest friends in the world. I love them. If you're waiting for me to say mean things, we'll be here a long time."

Rachel teared up and had to dab her eyes with her sleeve, trying not to smear the makeup. Rory reached for a box of tissues, but Pamela stopped her.

"You can talk about Pamela Benson like a mother if you have to, but we know how you treated your real mother," Kattie said.

"Saying her ashes belong in a land fill. Is that all your mother was to you? Garbage?" Gresley added.

Rachel didn't respond to the accusation, lowering her head.

"Why shouldn't America think you're not an ungrateful bitch? Pissing on your mother's bones?" Gresley demanded, gesturing with indignation. Many in the audience murmured agreement.

Rachel rose from her seat, as if she might flee the stage. She took a step, and then another. Then she paused. The audience fell silent, wondering what she was going to do. Pamela and Rory wondered what she was going to do. Kattie and Gresley were on the edge of their seats. Rachel slowly turned, as if contemplating her response, and leaned on the back of her chair, looking down on her hosts.

"Mr. Gresley, you have the manners of a loathsome prick," Rachel said.

"Miss Montgomery! I'll thank you to watch your language. This is a family show," Kattie objected.

"I hope so," Rachel said, making eye contact with the camera before looking back. "Miss Whitmore, Mr. Faulkner, let me tell you a story about family. My family. My father was a drunk who couldn't hold a job. He started beating me when I was ten. And then one night, when I was thirteen, he kicked in the bathroom door while I was in the shower. I broke away, refusing to let him get close. Screaming. And the whole time, my mother was standing there, in the doorway, watching.

"I begged my father to stop. He slapped me until I had bruises on my cheeks. The left eye turned black. I didn't have short fingernails back then. Not short like I have now, for a keyboard. They were long, belonging to a young girl, excited about meeting young boys. I raked his face. I raked his face again. Blood poured into his eyes, and he fell back on the bed."

Rachel straightened up, seeing she had caught her hosts off-guard. Even Gresley was speechless. Rachel glanced at the audience before continuing.

"When I tried to escape, I found my mother standing there, shaking her head. Frowning at me. She blocked the door. I pushed out the window screen and ran for the woods. Naked and terrified. I was found by neighbors the next morning and taken to the hospital. When the police questioned my parents about the attack, my mother called me a liar."

Rachel backed away from the chair, stood quietly for a moment, and then walked across the stage, calmly and mysteriously, until she stood directly behind Kattie and Gresley, forcing them to look back at her. She allowed for a moment of suspense, and then knelt between them, as if speaking confidentially with old friends. She knew the microphone would pick up everything.

"Do you know what I got from my mother?" Rachel whispered. "I didn't run away from home with any money, or family photos, or remembrances. Or my clothes. The only thing I left home with were bruises and my virginity. And when my parents got sick eight years later, I was stupid enough to give up my scholarship at Harvard to help them."

Rachel stood up and began to march off toward the curtains, then suddenly whirled around and stomped back to the coffee table, catching everyone by surprise. She stood still for a moment, and then slowly knelt on the floor, looking at her hosts. The posture was no accident. Her back was arched. The fabric squeezed her rounded figure, the skirt riding halfway up her thighs. The tight blouse exposed more cleavage. Rachel straightened her shoulders, gazing defiantly. Half of the people in the audience were taking pictures with their phones.

Gresley's coffee cup was on the table in front of her. Rachel picked the cup up, gave it a casual inspection, and tossed it out on the stage where it broke. The audience was hushed. Expectant.

"Do you want to know the most ironic part?" Rachel said. "You'll really like this, Mr. Faulkner, it's just the kind of story that appeals to your fans. A few years later, in foster care, their son dragged me out to an old tool shed. Think of it, Gresley? All that pain and suffering of running away from home and I was attacked anyway. Isn't that a funny story? Maybe you can put it on your Rachel Montgomery joke page?"

"Maybe not," Gresley said.

"Miss Montgomery--" Kattie started to say. But Rachel wasn't done.

"Please, Mr. Gresley, I know you're a great admirer of mine. My pictures are all over your webpage," Rachel said, putting her hands behind her back. As if they were tied. She raised her head, and moistened her lips. Her big brown eyes were staring at him with enticing fear.

"Stop that," Gresley said, squirming uncomfortably. Rachel twisted, as if trying to get loose. Her blouse was popping open.

"Stop what, Mr. Gresley?" Rachel innocently asked.

"Stop what you're doing," Gresley insisted.

"But gosh, Mr. Gresley, you are so manly. So dominating. And I feel so helpless," Rachel shyly said. "Don't you want me?"

Gresley slid out of his chair, hunching over as he awkwardly hurried off-stage. Kattie stared at Rachel in disbelief. Howls of laughter rose from the audience.

Rachel slowly stood up, tugged her blouse tight, and smiled graciously before exiting in the other direction.

* * * * * *

"My God," Pamela said, reaching out as Rachel ran towards her. The spectators were on their feet applauding. Many cheered. Kattie left the set, gesturing angrily to her producer. There was no sign of Gresley. Pamela drew Rachel into a curtained alcove.

"Are you alright?" Pamela asked.

"I think so. It may take a few minutes," Rachel said, mildly confused.

She took a packet of pills from her vest pocket and looked for water. Her hands were trembling. Rory helped with the medication.

"You do crazy great. That was awesome," Rory said.

"Was it? Did I do okay?" Rachel asked, turning to Pamela.

"I'm so proud of you. So, so proud," Pamela said, hugging her.

"Thank you," Rachel whispered, squeezing hard.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" Pamela asked, taking the tissues from Rory.

"I hope not. Not here in the studio," Rachel replied.

"The interview is going viral," Oliver said, reading his phone. "Look at those headlines. Dumb-Ass Duo Mess with the Wrong Girl. Gresley Beats It Off Stage."

But Pamela noticed Rachel looked drained. Her eyes were beginning to glaze.

"Big Bob, there won't be any curtain calls. Let's get the hell out of here," Pamela ordered.

McLane got his team in motion, pushing on-lookers out of the way when they needed to. Rory stayed close to Rachel with Oliver and Maggie just a step behind. Ruth Sparrow joined them in the hall.

"Did you hear that?" Ruth said. "No one is ever touching her again. Not while I have anything to say about it. Hell, this is too big for my column. I'm going to write a book."

* * * * * *

The golf course was largely empty on Thanksgiving morning. Oliver had arranged to keep other groups from pressing them too closely, and Bob McLane made sure the mandate was enforced. The California sky was blue and cold.

"9th hole. This will be enough for today," Oliver said, teeing up a ball and standing back.

"Then I better make this one good," Rachel said, stepping up to the tee. She set her feet, straightened her shoulders, and raised the club back, swinging with all her strength.

"That was powerfully hit," Oliver said.

"Where did it go?" Rachel asked, using her hand to shade her eyes.

"I haven't a clue. Off to the right somewhere. Maybe as far as the lake."

"That's far. Maybe I can do it again?" Rachel said, reaching for another ball.

"The idea is to hit the ball on the fairway," Oliver advised.

"I suppose," Rachel said with a sigh. Her second attempt went better.

They were carrying their own clubs, a few woods and irons in leather bags. Rachel wore a blue pleated dress purchased for her by Pamela. Who would have guessed Neiman Marcus has a sports department? Rachel thought. Oliver wore his usual club gear, a green sweater and red slacks. The grass was slightly damp from a recent rain.

"What about dinner?" Oliver asked.

"You should have some."

"No, I mean--"

"I know what you mean," Rachel said as they walked down the middle of the fairway.

"You made Pam and Rory spend the holiday with Johnny in Martha's Vineyard. To meet Alicia's family. Was that your way of getting out of Thanksgiving?"

"John misses his family. He's missed them for a long time. And they have missed him. They need to spend time together."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes, it was on purpose. But you were supposed to go with them."

"John and I don't always have the best relationship. He's a great kid, but he thinks I enabled his father."

"Didn't you?"

"Danny didn't need enabling, from me or anyone else."

Rachel got her ball up to the green in three more strokes. Oliver did it in one.

"You should take lessons," Oliver said, removing the flag from the cup.

"I'm taking one now," Rachel said, kneeling low to line up her putt as Pamela had been teaching her. "Don't you have family in Chicago?"

"Sure. A brother, a sister, a couple of cousins. A brood of nieces and nephews."

"Why aren't you sharing Thanksgiving with them?"

"Because I'm here with you."

"I'm okay."

"You don't lie to Pamela or Big Bob. Why do you lie to me?"

"I don't want you to know what I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking?"

"That nine holes are enough for today," Rachel said, tapping her ball in the hole with one stroke.

As they walked to the clubhouse, Big Bob took Rachel's clubs, keeping a few steps behind. He was always watchful, even in areas presumed safe. No golf clothes for the giant former army sergeant, he had a gray trench coat and a black fedora.

They soon reached the elegant mansion that once served as a movie mogul's palatial estate, now called the Royal Titans Country Club.

"This will be enough for today, Mr. McLane," Rachel said, reaching to take both of his hands. "Say hello to the family and have a wonderful holiday."

"I should drive you back to Canby Place," Big Bob said.

"Mr. Mendelson has a driver and a body servant. I'll be fine."

"Jacks isn't a body servant. He's an administrative assistant," Oliver objected.

"I work for Mrs. Benson. She wants you safe," Big Bob protested.

"Mr. McLane, how would I ever face your daughters again if I kept their father away from home on Thanksgiving?"

"I'm just a phone call away," Big Bob conceded, heading to the parking lot.

"Don't forget to give Mrs. McLane the cherry cobbler!" Rachel shouted.

"I won't," he called back.

Rachel turned toward the imposing clubhouse; three stories high, white stucco and red brick, with ivy crawling up the walls. A cold wind blew down from the nearby foothills. Though her designer golf jacket was stylish, she'd rather have been wearing a sweatshirt.

"Mr. McLane is very protective," Rachel said, trying not to sound annoyed.

"Pam is thankful for that. You aren't an anonymous lab girl anymore."

The mansion was large, with marble floors, thick Persian carpets, crystal chandeliers, and glistening trophy cases. There were gold plaques, autographed photos, and an Academy Award. The dining rooms and bar lay to their left, decorated in the style of a 1920s speakeasy. It was sparsely occupied so early in the day. The club facilities and locker rooms were to the right. Staff members stopped to acknowledge Oliver, and stare at Rachel.

"You're turning heads again," Oliver said, noting the lustful gleam in a young steward's eyes.

"It's the outfit," Rachel replied.

"Where did you buy it?"

"I don't buy any of these get-ups. Pam and Rory keep bringing me stuff. They don't like Goodwill as much as I do."

Rachel entered the women's locker room cautiously, finding no one there. She avoided the shower, washing in the sink and fixing her makeup. Rory had bought her a new dress especially for Thanksgiving, apparently from Macy's. It came with a nice maroon wool jacket and long flowing black skirt. Rachel didn't know what it cost because Rory would never show her the price tags. She wanted to wear tennis shoes, like she always did, but Rory insisted on ankle boots instead.

As she changed clothes, she couldn't help glancing in the mirror. Her dark brunette hair was worn a little shorter now, just to the top of her shoulders. Her eyes seemed less vacant, a blessing of her medication. Her body looked great. Sumptuous. Round and desirable. She was swimming again every morning and hiking behind Canby Place to a spot on the hill where she could watch the sun set over the ocean. She sighed, knowing men would be chasing her again.

She met Oliver back in the tavern, finding a tall barstool.

"Not too early?" Oliver asked.

"Not for me," Rachel said, ordering Southern Comfort on ice with a splash of lime. The barroom was quiet, a few elderly couples sitting at the windows overlooking the 1st tee. Cable news was playing on the TV monitor. Oliver had the bartender turn it off.

"I'm glad you're finally talking to me again," Oliver said.

"I was always talking to you."

"From a distance. A very great distance."

"If I wasn't trying to do better, we wouldn't be sitting here."

"I appreciate that. I really do. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Why does anything have to be wrong?"

"Still worried about money? Work?"

Rachel played with her drink, stirring it with a toothpick.

"I don't know if I can stay," Rachel confessed.

"Stay where?"

"Marbury & Benson. Canby Place. All of it."

"None of that is a trick. Daniel--"

"I know Pam and Rory are sincere in wanting to help me. I love them for it. Maybe too much. It will break my heart to leave them, but the math isn't good. Eventually it's all going to fall apart."

"Wow. I guess you're talking to me now," Oliver said, scooting closer.

"I don't want to hurt them."

"There's no reason for you to go anywhere. You need them. They need you. You're making a big difference in their lives."

Rachel glanced around the bar, looking uncomfortable. She tugged up her collar.

"I'm not saying anything bad will happen right away, but when it does, you'll need to take care of them. I'll check in from time to time, if I can, but only with you."

Oliver leaned back, trying to discern where this was coming from. Rachel rarely spoke in such forbidding terms.

"You asked for my trust, Ollie."

"I asked you to forgive me."

"I can't perform miracles," Rachel replied.

"Before you make any drastic decisions, you have to consult with me first. I'll need to know it's what you really want. If your medication is working. And I'll need to know you'll be all right."

"That's fair," Rachel said, sipping her drink.

"What brings these fears on? You did so well on that TV show."

"And there's been nothing but publicity ever since. Reporters stalk me. Fans ask for autographs. Can you believe that? I have fans. People try to take pictures of me."

"What do you say to them?"

"Say? I don't say anything. I run."

"They probably think that's funny."

"It's too strange."

"Is that all?"

"I won't make any decisions now," she answered. "Not until Level 12 is completed. Or fails. After that? I don't know. What comes after that?"

"Pam is getting you your bonus money. The money you were entitled to, but Danny couldn't give you. Will or no will, you're not going to have financial problems."

"Anything above eating out of a trash can is a bonus for me."

"I've always known that about you. It's a fine thing the way you don't let money or fame go to your head. Rory especially likes it. You keep her grounded."

"Rory doesn't need me as an example. She's a better person than I'll ever be."

"No, Rachel, you don't get to sell yourself short. Not with me."

"It doesn't matter."

Oliver realized she was digging in. Time to change the subject.

"It's Thanksgiving. What would you like to do today?"

"Visit Daniel's grave. Quietly, I hope. I volunteered to cook at the Rescue Mission, unless they throw me out of the kitchen."

"I'll visit Danny with you, if you don't mind? Jacks and our security guys will go with you to the shelter."

"I can take the bus."

"No, you can't."

"The buses run on the holidays."

"That's not the point," Oliver insisted. "Pam is counting on me to watch out for you. I know you don't like it, but I have my orders."

"You know this is hard for me, don't you? People keeping track of me. Following me around. Having expectations."

"You've also spent your whole life being lonely and afraid. When Danny realized you were more than a pretty face, he wanted to help you. Many want to help you if you'll only give them a chance."

Rachel was quiet, playing with her drink.

"If you don't have dinner plans, I can make Cornish game hens. Maybe later, we can play tennis?"

"You need to stay busy, don't you? Is it the numbers?"

"Something is happening. The matrix ... The matrix is ..."

Rachel started to drift, but it wasn't the mild haze she usually experienced. Oliver took her hand and ordered another round of drinks, urging her to relax. He sensed the real problem now. Her great project was reaching a turning point. She was scared.

"Rachel, you're good at what you do. Maybe the best. You don't need to be afraid."

"It's been hard to concentrate. I've never let people distract me before. The work has always come first. Always."

"Honey, the moment you got tangled up with Danny Benson, and then the Benson family, your life changed forever. There's no going back."

"I don't know what I'd go back to. I've never had a home. I have no family. I have nothing except my work. Without my work, I'm nothing."

"That's not true. You know it's not true."

"I don't know what I know. Everything is changing so fast."

Rachel started tearing up and wiped her eyes with a napkin. She wasn't crying, though it looked like she wanted to.

"You're a strong woman. One of the strongest I know. You can make this work," Oliver insisted.

"Thank you."

"No, you don't dismiss me that easy. I know you can make this work, and I can prove it. Do that scan thing on me. You'll know I'm telling the truth."

"What scan thing?"

"Come on. The scan thing. Everyone close to you has seen you do it."

"That's crazy, Ollie. No one scans people."

"I don't know what you call it, but it's something."

Rachel took a sip of her whiskey and narrowed her gaze, the big brown eyes squinting. Then she raised her thumbs to her temples, wiggling her fingers. Her expression was grim at first, and then she burst into a laugh.

"That is so ridiculous," she said, settling back in her chair.

Oliver was relieved to see her smiling. And wondered if she really didn't know what he was talking about.

* * * * * *

In the next installment, we finally learn the mystery of Level 12, the project Rachel has devoted her life to.