All That Lies Within Read online

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  About the Author

  Other Books in Print by Lynn Ames

  ALL THAT LIES WITHIN

  © 2013 BY LYNN AMES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN: 978-1-936429-07-3

  OTHER AVAILABLE FORMATS

  PAPERBACK EDITION

  ISBN: 978-1-936429-06-6

  PUBLISHED BY

  PHOENIX RISING PRESS

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  www.phoenixrisingpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CREDITS

  EXECUTIVE EDITOR: LINDA LORENZO

  AUTHOR PHOTO: JUDY FRANCESCONI

  COVER DESIGN BY: PAM LAMBROS WWW.HANDSONGRAPHICDESIGN.COM

  Dedication

  To anyone who has ever felt marginalized or misunderstood, know that there are those who really see you and love you for exactly who you are. Let your light shine and show others the way.

  Acknowledgments

  The impetus for this novel is Knowledge and Illusion, a poem I penned in June 2012. It was published in the poetry anthology, Roses Read, edited by Beth Mitchum. An excerpt of the poem appears in Chapter Ten and is annotated with an asterisk. For the purposes of the story, I gave author credit to one of my main characters.

  As with any of my novels, there are many details that must be factually correct or at least plausible. To my good friend, Audrey Evans, a film veteran who worked on such theatrical releases as Thelma & Louise, Waterworld, and Zoolander, and who provided accurate and essential insights into the workings of a movie set and movie making; to Doctor Jenni Levy, a childhood friend and expert in end-of-life care, who lent realism to some very critical scenes; to Katherine Fugate, screenwriter of such movies as Valentine’s Day and New Year’s Eve, who provided an essential bit of information at a crucial moment; to the counter guy at the Carnegie Deli in New York City, the contracts expert at the Writers Guild of America, the librarian at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, to Laura Nastro, who painted a vivid picture for me of attending a taping of Late Show with David Letterman, to the communications assistant at Middlebury College, and my college friend Lisa Kissinger-Kaplan who helped augment my memory of graduation— you all helped me infuse this novel with realism and plausibility and I am forever grateful for the assistance. Any potential inaccuracies in this book belong solely to me.

  I am blessed to have what I think is the finest team in the history of novel-writing. To my beta readers who read through my manuscripts chapter by chapter during the creation phase and give me critical feedback—you have my eternal gratitude.

  To my primary editor, Linda Lorenzo, in whom I have absolute, unshakeable trust—thank you for your infinite wisdom and patience. Having you guide my work is such a gift. I always know if you say it’s going to be okay, somehow, it will be.

  To the readers who continue to clamor for the next book—you make it all worthwhile.

  Happy reading!

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Wait until you hear this one—”

  Dara Thomas held up a hand in protest. “I don’t want to know. Thanks anyway.”

  “But this critic says, ‘Her arresting blue eyes and flawless features guarantee any movie’s success. Dara Thomas is box office gold!’”

  Dara rose out of the director’s chair with her name embroidered on the back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my trailer to work on my lines.”

  “But you haven’t heard what they said about you in this week’s Enquirer.”

  Dara sighed audibly and walked away. She pushed open the door leading from the sound stage and squinted into the midday sun, only to see her co-star, Luther Rollins, heading directly toward her. “Well, now my day is complete.”

  “Dara, sweetheart, when are you ever going to admit that you’re madly in love with me? Or at least in lust? Your looks, my physique… Just think of the beautiful babies we’d make! Well, we wouldn’t make babies, of course, cuz I’d wear a condom, but…”

  “I don’t know how I could resist such a…touching…offer. But I’ll try.” Dara continued on her way without breaking stride.

  Once inside her spacious trailer on the Warner Brothers lot, she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth until she found that peaceful place within—the place where she wasn’t Dara Thomas, movie star, the place where she was just herself.

  Since her next scene wasn’t scheduled to shoot for a couple of hours, Dara plopped down on the sofa and picked up her laptop. She booted up, entered her password, and opened a file in Microsoft Word. After re-reading a few paragraphs, Dara began to type, at once lost in what she was doing.

  She kept on typing until a knock on the trailer door startled her.

  “Ms. Thomas? Two minutes.”

  “Oh. Really? Okay. Be right there.” Dara checked the time on her laptop. Was it really possible that two hours had passed? She saved the document with the five new pages she’d written. Pleased with her progress, she backed up the file to a flash drive, shut down the laptop, and packed everything away in her briefcase. She would be shooting for the remainder of the day, so there wouldn’t be any more time to spend on the project.

  She rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension of sitting hunched over the computer and shrug off the remnants of the world in which she’d been immersed. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, mentally transforming herself back into Oscar-nominated actress Dara Thomas. Then she adjusted her posture to mirror that of the character she was playing in the movie. “Show time.”

  “Come in, it’s open.”

  A moment later, Carolyn Detweiler dropped her keys and briefcase on the kitchen island and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for her best friend to look up from the laptop.

  “What?” Dara finally said.

  “What? That’s what you’ve got to say?”

  Seeing Dara’s furrowed brow, Carolyn sighed in exasperation at her evident confusion. “How did you know I wasn’t some crazy stalker person?”

  Dara uncurled her long legs from underneath her, turned to put her bare feet on the floor, and placed the laptop on the coffee table. “Well, sweetheart, you’re the only one I’m expecting, and I had a perfect view of you from the comfort of my couch.”

  Dara spun the laptop around so Carolyn could see it. On the screen was a series of boxes with views of the driveway and every entrance to Dara’s new haven, a getaway beach house.
/>   “If you push this little button here”—Dara manipulated the mouse over a command on the toolbar—“it unlocks the front door. So you see? I didn’t unlock the door until I knew it was you. Feel better now?”

  Carolyn came around the coffee table and kissed Dara on the cheek, then sat down on the couch next to her. “Much.” She cast her eyes around the space, taking in the wall of glass that overlooked the ocean with the sliding glass doors in the center, the exposed beams, and the airy openness of the layout, and whistled. “I like the new digs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm. Very nice, indeed. Good thing you’re the sexiest woman alive and the movie business is paying well these days.” Carolyn realized her mistake too late, fumbling on the last two words when she saw the pained expression on Dara’s face.

  “It certainly is a good thing. I mean, how else could I ever earn such a lucrative living if it wasn’t for ‘the face that launched one thousand men’s fantasies’?” Dara stood and walked to the glass doors.

  Carolyn walked up behind her and wrapped her arms around Dara. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know I didn’t mean it that way. You’re the most intelligent and accomplished person I know. You want to be a rocket scientist instead? I’m sure we could polish up the old résumé and make that happen.” She could feel Dara’s sigh against the cheek she had pressed between Dara’s shoulder blades. “Forgive me?”

  Dara turned in Carolyn’s loose embrace and kissed her on the top of the head. “Always.”

  Carolyn gave one more squeeze for good measure and dropped her arms to her side. “Besides, I think you’re going to love me again when I tell you the news.”

  “You could’ve told me over the phone or via Skype, you know.”

  “I know, but where’s the fun in that?” Carolyn retrieved her briefcase from the kitchen island and walked back to the couch, motioning Dara to join her. She pulled out a sheaf of papers and fanned them out on the coffee table.

  Dara leaned over and began to read. After several minutes, she looked up at Carolyn, her eyes wide. “Are they serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Dara reverently ran her fingers over the pages. “For real?”

  “Absolutely. They loved the last book so much they want to lock Constance Darrow into another three-book deal.”

  “And they gave us what we wanted on the e-book royalties?”

  Carolyn nodded, pleased to see the child-like glee in Dara’s expression. “The film rights too.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The question caught Carolyn off-guard.

  “Every other writer is fighting tooth and nail to get a publisher to give them a fair piece of the electronic market, and we don’t even have to break a sweat?” Dara scanned the contract again. “So yeah, why are they giving us this without so much as an argument?”

  Carolyn laughed. “Do the words ‘Pulitzer Prize for Fiction’ mean anything to you?”

  “Well, yes, they mean something to me. The question is, do they mean that much to the money men who carped about poor book sales?”

  “Having Constance Darrow in their stable of writers gives the publisher credibility. It gives them gravitas. They don’t care if she makes money for them.”

  Dara shook her head. “No. They always care about the bottom line.”

  “True. But in this case, they assume Constance Darrow’s presence draws in other authors they want to land.”

  “So, they figure giving Constance movie rights and e-books won’t amount to much; therefore, they aren’t risking much financially and they keep her happy?”

  “Pretty much.” Carolyn slid the papers out of Dara’s hands. “It’s a really good deal.”

  “What about the personal appearance clause? Are they still insistent that they need to meet the author face-to-face and that she needs to do interviews? Or have they given up on that?”

  “I reminded them that the mystery surrounding Constance builds her image as an enigmatic recluse, and it enhances the buzz. The fact that no one has ever photographed or seen her, that she refuses to do interviews or social media of any kind, that she works through a representative and not even her publisher has met or spoken directly to her, that she didn’t even accept the prized Pulitzer in person… All that makes her even more inscrutable and appealing.”

  Dara pursed her lips. “They bought that?”

  “Read the contract. It’s written right in there. No public appearances required, no social media—nothing.”

  “Okay. Sign it.”

  “Yeah?”

  Dara smiled that million-dollar smile. “Yeah. Why not? Besides, Constance is halfway through the next manuscript.”

  “I can’t wait to read it.”

  Professor of American Literature Rebecca Minton distractedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned the page of the hardcover sitting open on her cluttered desk. Gradually, she became aware of someone standing in the doorway. She smiled and looked up, assuming it was one of her students stopping by, even though posted office hours wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes. When she realized that it wasn’t a student at all but her ex-girlfriend, her smile became a pained frown.

  “What do you want, Cynthia? And why couldn’t you have asked for it over the phone like a normal person?”

  “Because, dearest, you don’t take my calls anymore. Remember?” Cynthia sashayed the rest of the way into the office and looked Rebecca up and down as she wiggled into one of the visitor chairs.

  “You needn’t have bothered to sit down. You’re not going to be here that long.”

  “Tsk, tsk. To think, you so used to look forward to my impromptu office visits. Some of the hottest sex we ever had took place right here, on this desk.” Cynthia trailed her fingers across the glossy wood surface.

  Despite her best efforts, Rebecca felt a blush creeping up her neck. She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “What do you want? Or did you just come here to reminisce? Because if you came here to relive old times, any happy memories I might have had of us went out the window when I found you in bed with our landscaper. What a cliché.”

  Cynthia threw her head back and laughed. She ran her fingers through her luxurious hair, a move Rebecca knew well.

  “There was a time when that would’ve worked. That time is long past.”

  Without warning, Cynthia leaned forward and snatched the still-open book off the desk. This time the laugh was more of a cackle. “Well, dearest, perhaps if you had paid more attention to me and less attention to your obsession with Constance Darrow, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere for…entertainment.”

  Rebecca reached out and grabbed the book back. Through clenched teeth she managed, “I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

  Cynthia sat back and crossed her long legs, revealing quite a bit of skin. “I want the rest of my things.”

  “You already got everything that belonged to you. Now get out.”

  “Not true, dearest. How about those lovely three-carat diamond earrings you bought me last Christmas?”

  “You’re the one who left them behind. I believe you said, and I quote, ‘Keep them. I’m sure I can get plenty more where those came from.’”

  Cynthia waved her hand dismissively. “I was just hurt, that’s all.”

  Rebecca narrowed her eyes, the pieces finally clicking into place. “You’re broke.”

  Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was a squeak.

  “You want the earrings so you can sell them for cash. What’s the matter, did the flavor-of-the-month kick you out?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that so? Try this on for size. Get out of my office now, before I have security throw you out.” When Cynthia didn’t move immediately, Rebecca picked up the phone.

  “All right, all right. I’m going. Besides, I have a date.”

  As Cynthia sauntered out the door, Rebecca muttered, “Heaven help the next v
ictim.”

  Dara sank into her favorite chair. Fleetingly, she wished she was spending the night at the beach house instead of here, but this was so much closer to the studio and her call for the morning was so early, the commute was impractical. She laid her head back and closed her eyes, letting the soothing jazz music from the sound system ease the stress from her tight muscles.

  The day’s filming ran over by four hours, the director was cranky because the fading daylight forced him to alter shots he had planned, and the subsequent adjustments required Dara and her co-stars to improvise dialogue, a fact that made the screenwriters apoplectic.

  Tomorrow’s schedule already was tight. Now Dara was waiting for the e-mail to arrive with the new script changes she would have to memorize before arriving on set at five a.m. She opened her eyes, yawned, and stretched her arms over her head, simultaneously rotating her upper torso to relieve the pressure in her upper back and neck. As she did so, she noticed the thick manila envelope her housekeeper had left for her on the coffee table. She smiled at the sight of Carolyn’s neat, precise handwriting.

  Once a week, Carolyn forwarded some of Constance Darrow’s carefully screened fan mail to Dara. Every once in a while, when time allowed, Dara/Constance would type out a reply and send it to Carolyn so that it would go out postmarked from New York.

  Dara hefted the envelope in her hands and slit open the seal to peer inside. Carolyn’s usual handwritten note was on top of the pile.

  My dearest Constance ,

  I’m sorry that this week’s pile is so thick. I culled out the dreck as best I could, knowing how busy your schedule is at the moment and wanting to spare you extra work.

  There is one letter in here I think you’ll find of special interest. It’s from a professor of American literature. She’s apparently quite a fan. At any rate, her points seem highly intelligent and cogent. Her name is Rebecca Minton and her letter is first in the pile.

  Have fun, darling. Talk soon. C.