Cliff's Edge Read online

  Eve placed the cherry pie in the assembled box and unspooled some string.

  Looking back, it was hard to pinpoint when the shift happened and he became the other Levi, the one she didn’t know. It had been an imperceptible slide. He’d graduated so certain that fame was going to reach out its golden finger and tap him on the shoulder. Over that next year, bit by bit he lost his way. He would come home worn-out, anger flaring unexpectedly, a crack of lightning exploding out of a clear blue sky. He was on the road more often than not, with a plethora of women, drugs, and booze at his fingertips. Their relationship changed, became brittle, full of recriminations, and the very quality she’d adored became the thing that tore them apart.

  Eve secured the pie box with a bow, a wave of melancholy sweeping through her. Someday, somewhere, I’m going to meet someone who’s right for me, she vowed, pushing the sadness aside. And he’s going to be a steady Eddie. A nine-to-fiver. Someone I can count on.

  She turned toward the bustling café, plastered a smile on her face, stepped to the cash register, and rang in Ethelwyn’s purchases.

  Two

  “AAAAND THAT’S A wrap for Rhys Thomas, folks,” the first AD called. The weary film crew burst into cheers and applause. Which was very sweet, considering it was raining, they were on a night shoot, and it’d be a good three hours before any of them would see a bed.

  “Thanks,” Rhys said. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.” The crew was still cheering. “Thank you. Really.” He gently thumped his fist to his heart, nodded, smiled, ignoring the excruciating headache that’d been wreaking havoc on him for the last two days.

  The sound of their hands clapping was like a million ice picks driving into his skull. Rhys took a few more steps back, gave a wave, then headed for his trailer.

  There was the usual crowd of fans by his Winnebago. During the day they set up barricades. Tonight, however, they were shooting bits and pieces. Needed to move fast and light, hopping from location to location, so the barricades were left behind.

  He scrawled a few autographs on scraps of paper, photos of him, current and past. How people found out where he was shooting and showed up still sorta freaked him out after all these years. That they would stand outside his trailer in the pouring rain at four in the morning was mind-boggling.

  “Rhys,” a buxom blonde purred. “Want company?”

  “Not tonight, thanks, love,” he replied, polite but firm.

  There had been a time, in his early twenties, when he would have taken her up on her offer. When he’d first hit it big, he’d been like a kid let loose in a candy shop where everything was free. Now, at thirty-two, screwing her would just make him sad—for her, for him.

  Once the PA was able to squeeze him past the crowd and unlock his trailer, Rhys stepped inside and locked the door behind him. He’d learned early on the necessity.

  He stripped out of his soaking-wet outfit. The heat was on in the trailer, but still, he was freezing his ass off, standing naked holding the dripping clothes in his arms. No sense putting them on hangers—they were filthy. Not just with sweat from the physical scene they’d filmed, but movie dirt, too, and fake blood.

  He wrinkled his nose. There had been something seriously rancid in that alley they were shooting in. He was tempted to leave his briefs behind, because who the hell wanted to stuff soaking-wet underwear into their script bag? But if he left them behind, some enterprising soul would sell them to the highest bidder.

  Rhys shook his head. The world’s gone crazy for sure, he thought as he peeled his underwear from the pile of clothes and dumped the rest in the sink.

  Wardrobe would launder the clothes and store them for a few months, just in case reshoots were needed.

  They’d be wise to disinfect them, he thought with a puff of laughter that jarred his head. Acting sure is glamorous. He strode over to his satchel, caught sight of himself in the mirror, his junk shriveled up like a scared turtle from the cold. Yeah, I’m one sexy beast, he thought, another puff of laughter escaping. He was glad the shoot was over. Was dog-tired. Needed to rest, to tuck away somewhere quiet for a few weeks, far from the crowds and paparazzi.

  “Where’s the damn . . . ?” He rummaged around his bag until his numb fingers closed around the bottle of aspirin. “Thank God,” he muttered, flipping the lid off. He shook out two pills and swallowed them with a glug of coffee left over from meal break.

  Yuck.

  Then Rhys turned on the shower. An anemic trickling of water emerged. At least it was hot. Wouldn’t take long to wash off the grime and makeup. The shampoo his makeup artist, Pete, had given him smelled of green apples. An odd choice, since Pete was rarely seen without full biker gear on. Either it was a way for the dude to wind Rhys up, or the shampoo had been on sale.

  Oh well, Rhys thought, massaging the shampoo into his scalp, tipping his head back to capture the stingy stream of water. It’s better than smelling of dumpster garbage, old beer, and piss.

  Three

  EVE LEANED AGAINST the staff bathroom door at the café, her eyes squeezed shut. The manila envelope containing the disc with images of her art, her CV, and artist’s statement was clutched to her chest.

  After several months of persistent follow-through, Jocelyn Smith of the South End Gallery had finally agreed to take a look at her portfolio.

  “Please . . . please . . . please . . .” Eve murmured, even though she knew it was stupid to pray about something that was already predetermined. Inside would either be a rejection letter or an acceptance.

  She exhaled, emotionally braced herself, then opened the envelope and took the letter out.

  Dear Eve Harris,

  Thank you for your submission. We at the South End Gallery are fortunate to have a plethora of talented artists residing on Solace Island. We have chosen the works for our next exhibition, and yours was not among them.

  Your work shows considerable talent. We hope that you will consider submitting again to us in the future.

  Best,

  Jocelyn Smith, owner

  She felt her face flush. “Damn.” She shoved the letter back into the envelope. It was stupid to feel defective every time a rejection landed in her in-box or arrived in the mail. Getting an art career up and running was difficult, and the sheer number of wannabe artists was mind-boggling.

  A laugh escaped her compressed lips. “Who are you kidding?” she muttered. “You are one of those frikkin’ wannabe artists.” Never mind that she’d attended Yale University School of Art and graduated in the top five percent of her class.

  “Dammit. I was sure . . .” she started to say, but her voice trailed off. She hadn’t been sure. She’d hoped. Big difference.

  “Fine.” She tucked the manila envelope behind the hot water heater to retrieve later. “Nothing wrong with hoping. Onward and upward, as Grandmother would say.” She straightened, shook off her disappointment, and exited the bathroom. Eve smoothed her apron, then slipped through the swinging doors to rejoin her sister dealing with customers in the front of the café.

  Maggie glanced at her hopefully, eyebrows raised.

  Eve gave a barely discernible shake of her head, keeping a lighthearted smile on her face. Worse than the rejections was her sister’s disappointment.

  “I’m so sorry,” Maggie murmured, placing six brownies in a box and securing it with string.

  The small bell on the front door jingled as three more customers stepped inside and headed toward a table.

  Eve shrugged. “It is what it is.” She turned away, making it clear that if she wasn’t bothered, Maggie shouldn’t be either. Eve handed Dorothy three menus and tipped her head in the direction of the newcomers.

  “It’s eight minutes to three and the place is still hopping. Do you think we should stay open a little longer?” Maggie asked Eve as she passed her carrying the last two brownies on a plate.
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  They smelled delicious.

  “Nope,” Eve said. “You’ve got places to go, people to see.”

  Her stomach growled hungrily. She was in need of a little comfort, and those brownies would hit the spot. “Wait!” Eve snagged the brownie plate from her sister’s hand before Maggie lowered the glass display dome over them. “I’m going to take these puppies home.”

  “Eve,” Maggie said, laughing. “You made me promise not to let you gorge when we’re here.”

  “Exactly,” Eve said, dodging her sister’s outstretched hand and pushing the swinging doors open with her shoulder. “That’s why I’m taking the brownies home. I want to enjoy them at my leisure rather than stuffing my face here.”

  Eve had learned the hard way that if she was craving something, she needed to hide it in the kitchen. Otherwise a customer might see it and she’d be forced to relinquish her claim.

  Once in the kitchen she wrote Eve’s! Don’t touch. Thanks! on a Post-it and attached it to the plate. Larry, the new dishwasher, had a habit of surreptitious snacking on the job. He wasn’t supposed to, but Eve couldn’t blame him. It was impossible to resist the siren song of Maggie’s baking. Larry was an odd duck. He didn’t talk much. He had a shambling quality about him. A huge beard, shoulder-length bushy hair, abundant on the sides and back but sparse at the crown of his head. Eve made a point of keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his eyes when he spoke because he had really bad teeth and she didn’t want to embarrass him.

  All in all, Larry was a pretty good find. Eve did have to give him a gentle reminder to use deodorant last week, but she only had to tell him once and after that it wasn’t a problem. He was punctual, fast, and hardworking, and best of all, he washed dishes like a dream!

  “Mine,” she called out, pointing to the brownies as an extra precaution.

  Larry was hunched over the sink, up to his elbows in soapy water. His head rotated slightly, and he grunted.

  “Thanks,” she said, then slipped through the swinging doors and returned to the hustle and bustle of the café.

  There were several people lined up at the bakery counter. Maggie was looking a little tired. Dorothy Whidbee, however, who was well into her sixties, was going strong.

  “Where does she get her energy?” Eve murmured to Maggie. They paused for a moment, watching Dorothy, their rotund part-time waitress and full-time love child weaving her way among the tables with the coffeepot, topping people up. She was incorporating some kind of belly-dance move into her walk and undulating along like an overstuffed snake with legs.

  “Don’t ask,” Maggie warned, a bemused smile flitting across her face. “I made that mistake and got an hour-long dissertation on the joys and benefits of tantric sex. Oh dear.” Dorothy was now attempting to demonstrate to Big Hank—a loyal and steady customer—that she could do a shimmying backbend and top up his coffee cup at the same time.

  “Dorothy,” Eve called.

  Dorothy straightened, looking like a kid who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Uh-huh?”

  Eve shook her head. “No belly dancing on the job.”

  “Aww,” Big Hank protested. “Party pooper.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a party with a lapful of scalding coffee,” Eve replied.

  There’d been a line waiting outside the front door when they opened that morning, and the flow of people hadn’t let up all day. Everyone wanted to store up on goodies before Maggie and Luke went away on their vacation.

  “It’s really not fair,” the next woman in line chided Maggie. “You get us addicted and then you abandon us?”

  A young hippie couple complete with earth-toned fabrics, backpacks, and fresh-scrubbed faces vacated their table.

  “Maggie’s not abandoning us,” Eve said, snagging a dishrag. She rounded the counter, gathered the two empty mugs, a crumpled napkin, and the dessert plate that had been licked clean, then wiped down the table. “She is taking a well-deserved break.”

  Maggie and Luke had gone on an abbreviated three-day honeymoon with the understanding that they’d make up for it with a longer vacation once the Intrepid Café was better established.

  Well, the time had arrived. Eve was more than a little apprehensive about the next two weeks, but it’d be a cold day in hell before she’d let her sister know. “When Maggie comes back from her glorious holiday, she will be refreshed and rested and full of ideas for new recipes and tasty treats.”

  “Ooh,” the soft-faced woman in the lavender dress murmured.

  “And I,” Eve continued as she headed toward the entrance, making sure to project her voice so everyone in the café could hear, “will be here at the Intrepid Café, keeping the home fires burning. Granted it will be a shortened week, but on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, we will be open as usual. Eight a.m. to three p.m.”

  “Who will be doing the baking?” called someone from the round corner table of rowdy construction workers.

  “I will,” Eve called back with more confidence than she felt.

  “But you can’t cook,” Big Hank said from his spot by the door.

  “You don’t know that,” Eve replied jauntily, but she could feel her face turning red and giving her away.

  “Yeah, I do,” Big Hank insisted, his voice building in strength and volume. “Remember when Maggie went away for that long weekend—on her honeymoon, she was. I ordered my usual oatmeal cookie to go with my coffee, and it tasted terrible.”

  Grizzled Big Hank was a gruff old sweetie, but at the present moment Eve would quite happily stuff her wet dishrag in his mouth.

  “Well, that was an unfortunate accident,” Eve said crisply. “We buy everything in bulk, and I wasn’t used to the layout of the cupboards. I did, however, learn from that, and now when I bake . . .” Eve didn’t bake. She was a klutz in the kitchen. The last time she attempted was three months ago, when her sister had taken her mini honeymoon. It had been an unmitigated disaster. Eve had planned to practice cooking, to prepare for the next time Maggie wasn’t able to man the ovens. But there were only so many hours in the day. When Eve found spare time on her hands, it was much more pleasurable to be out in a field painting.

  “Yes?” Big Hank said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Now when you bake . . . ?”

  “I test,” Eve said, jutting her chin out. “That’s right. I dip my finger in and taste, to make sure the sugar is actually sugar and not salt.”

  “Well, thank heavens to Betsy, because that cookie”—Big Hank paused for dramatic effect—“was horrible,” he said with relish. “Worst thing I ever tasted in my life!” Big Hank slapped his thigh, his booming laugh filling the café. “I paid good money for that cookie. My mouth was all ready . . . I took the first bite and . . . BLAH!”

  Big Hank leapt from his chair, grabbed his napkin, and rubbed it wildly on his tongue. As if he were still being tortured by the flavor of the cookie Eve fed him three months ago.

  Clearly, he was enjoying the rapt audience of the entire café.

  Hilarious, Eve thought a trifle bitterly. Must have participated in Ham-o-lah Community Theater Productions in his youth. “Well, wait and see,” she said, keeping the confident smile affixed to her face. She flipped the sign on the door to closed and threw the dead bolt, so no new customers could slip in when she wasn’t looking.

  Just in time, too, because she could see a cluster of hungry-looking tourists heading their way. “I happen to be a crackerjack cook now. My sister has taught me all her secrets.”

  There was no reason to inform all and sundry that said “secrets” consisted of Maggie working day and night for the last week. She’d made huge containers of dough for the various cookies. Premade pies were waiting in the fridge and the freezer, ready to be slipped into the oven. She’d even premixed ingredients for the muffins and cupcakes, keeping the wet ingredients separate from the dry. Detailed instructions were wr
itten in a blue binder.

  All Eve needed to do was mix the right amounts together and pop them in the oven. Easy-peasy. What could possibly go wrong?

  Four

  THE PROTECTIVE GLOVES made him feel a little fat fingered, but they were a necessary evil when working with toxic substances. What he didn’t like was how sweaty his face was getting. He longed to rip the mouth mask, safety shield, and safety glasses off and climb out of the protective coveralls, but the sodium peroxide would cause severe chemical burns. It could literally melt flesh away.

  He smiled.

  That was, after all, why he was using it.

  He glanced at the battery-operated schoolroom clock that he had secured to the concrete wall of his underground bunker and watched the long black second hand finish its jerky sweep around the face and land on the twelve. That should do it.

  He pushed away from the wall, walking past the small shrine in the corner, which was shrouded in a clear plastic tarp. It was not ideal, but special circumstances had arisen and compromises had needed to be made.

  Tomorrow, once the place was dry, he’d be able to remove the tarp and bury his face in her cherry-red scarf once again. The scarf he’d stolen from the coatrack in the back room at the Intrepid. Would be able to feel the caress of silk slide across his face, breathe in the lingering notes of her scent.

  Then he’d move on. Trail his finger over the grainy picture he’d taken outside a few months ago. The quality of the photo wasn’t good. He’d captured it surreptitiously through the windshield of his car. He’d been too far away. Too many people had been crowding around, and she’d been moving quickly. The focus had been bad, and perhaps his hand had been shaking from the pressure and excitement. It didn’t matter. He would get a better one soon.

  But right now he had work to do.

  He turned on the hose and started spraying down the section of the bunker where the bondage bed had been, cleansing the far wall and the floor with fresh, cool water. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Everything was dispensable.