y Christmas, Fleur had picked up three great new clients—two actors and a singer. Alexi hadn’t made any new moves against her, and the old stories about her broken contracts seem to be fading. The gossip about her relationship with Jake continued, but word had started to leak that he was writing again, and the gossip no longer held as much sting. Rough Harbor’s first album was performing above expectations, and the unqualified success of Michel’s collection was still bringing an avalanche of good publicity. When Kissy got rave reviews after her play premiered on January 3, Fleur felt as if all her own dreams were coming true. So why wasn’t she happier? She avoided probing her inner psyche too deeply by working even harder.

Jake stopped showing up for their morning run, and when she went upstairs to check on him, he barely spoke. He’d been working on his book for nearly three months, and he’d grown increasingly gaunt. His hair hung long over his collar, and he forgot to shave for days at a time.

One cold Friday night in the second week of January, something awakened her. Total silence. What had happened to the typewriter? She stirred.

“It’s okay, Flower,” a rough voice whispered. “It’s just me.”

The dim lights sifting in from her winter garden illuminated the room just enough so she could see Jake hunched in a chair not far from her bed, his rangy legs stretched in front of him.

“What are you doing?” she muttered.

“Watching you sleep.” His voice was as soft and dark as the night room. “The light’s a paintbrush in your hair. Do you remember how we wrapped your hair around us when we made love?”

The blood rushed through her sleep-heavy body. “I remember.”

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said raggedly. “You got caught in the crossfire.”

She didn’t want to think about the past. “That was a long time ago. I’m not so naïve now.”

“I don’t know about that.” His voice developed an edge. “For somebody who wants me to believe she’s made a career out of sleeping around, you don’t seem to have a lot of men coming through here.”

She wanted him to stay soft and sweet. She wanted him talking about paintbrushes and the light in her hair. “Not with you living over my head, that’s for sure. We go to their places.”

“Is that so?” Slowly he uncurled from the chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. “If you’re passing it out for free, I guess it’s time I took my turn.”

She bolted up in bed. “I’m not passing it out for free!”

He stripped off his shirt. “This could have happened between us months ago. All you had to do was ask.”

“Me! What about you?”

He didn’t say anything. Instead his hand went to the snap on his jeans.

“Stop right there.”

“Let’s not.” His zipper fell open in a V, revealing a bare, flat stomach. “The book’s done.”

“It is?”

“And I can’t quit thinking about you.”

Her emotions tangled into a knot. She wanted him so much. But something was terribly wrong. If his book was finished, he should be relieved. Instead he seemed haunted, and she needed to find out why. “Zip your pants, cowboy,” she said quietly. “We need to talk first.”

“The hell we do.” He kicked off his shoes, whipped away the blankets covering her, and gazed down at the ice-blue nightgown twisted high on her thighs. “Nice.” He peeled off his jeans.

“No.”

“Just be quiet, will you?” He reached for the hem of her gown.

“We’re going to talk.” She started to pull away, but he snared the skirt of her nightgown, holding her in place.

“Later.”

She clamped her fingers around his wrist. “I’m not into recreational sex, not with you.”

He let her go abruptly and slapped the wall above her head with the flat of his hand. “How about mercy fucking then? Are you into mercy fucking, because if you are, you’ve got yourself one hell of an opportunity here.”

She saw the pain he couldn’t hide, and her heart ached. “Oh, Jake.”

The shutters banged shut. “Forget it!” He grabbed his jeans and shoved his legs into them. “Forget I was ever here.” He snatched up his shirt and headed into the hallway.

“Wait!” She pushed herself out of bed, only to get tangled in the cast-off blankets. By the time she freed herself, her front door had slammed. She heard the thud of his feet on the steps leading to the attic. She remembered the deep shadows under his eyes, the feeling of desperation rolling off him. Without thinking it through, she went into the hallway and up the stairs to the attic.

The door was locked against her. “Open up.”

Nothing but silence came from the other side.

“I mean it, Jake. Open this door right now.”

“Go away.”

She swore under her breath and went back downstairs to get her key. By the time she got his door unlocked, she was shaking.

He sat on the unmade bed, leaning against the headboard with a bottle of beer propped on his bare chest and his jeans still unzipped. His hostility crackled like dry ice. “You ever heard of tenant’s rights?”

“You don’t have a lease.” She stepped over his shirt, which lay crumpled on the floor, and walked toward him. When she reached the bed, she studied him, trying to read his mind, but all she saw were the harsh lines of exhaustion around his mouth and the desperation that had etched itself into the shadows under his eyes. “If anybody needs mercy,” she said quietly, “it’s me. It’s been a long time.”

His expression tightened, and she realized right away that he wasn’t going to make this easy for himself. He’d revealed too much need, and now he had to throw up some camouflage. He took a swig of beer and looked at her as if she were a cockroach who’d just crawled across his floor. “Maybe some poor slob would take you to bed if you weren’t such a ballbuster.”

She’d love to take a swing at him, but he was only capable of self-destruction tonight, and she suspected that’s what he wanted. “It’s not like I haven’t had plenty of offers.”

“I’ll just bet you have.” He sneered. “Pretty boys with Cuisinarts and BMWs.”

“Among others.”

“How many?”

Why couldn’t he just admit he needed her instead of putting them both through this? She had to stay in charge of this dangerous game he wanted to play. “Dozens,” she replied. “Hundreds.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’m legendary.”

“In your own mind.” He took another slug of beer, then swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And now you want me to take the edge off your sexual frustrations. Play stud for you.”

The man was shameless. “If you don’t have anything better to do.”

He shrugged and kicked the blankets away. “I guess not. Take off your nightgown.”

“No way, cowboy. You want it off—you take it off. And while you’re at it, get rid of those jeans so I can see what you’ve got.”

“What I’ve got?”

“Consider this an audition.”

He couldn’t even manage a smile, and she knew he’d reached his breaking point. “On second thought,” she said, “why don’t you just lie there? I’m feeling aggressive.” She peeled her nightgown over her head, but her hair got tangled in the strap. She was standing naked and vulnerable in front of him. Her fingers trembled as she tried to free her hair, but she only made the snare worse.

“Lean over,” he said softly.

He pulled her down to the side of the bed. She sat with her back to him and her bare hip brushing his denim-covered thigh.

The nightgown slipped free. “There.”

He made no move to touch her. She gazed across the room, her spine stiff, her hands crossed in her lap, and she knew she couldn’t go any further. She heard him sliding off his jeans. Why did he have to make this so difficult? Maybe he wouldn’t even kiss her. Maybe he’d just pull her back on the bed and have sex with her without even kissing her. Wham, bam—nice knowing you, kiddo, but I’ll be moving on now. And wouldn’t that be just like him? He was such a son of a bitch. Playing on her sympathies. Refusing to talk except to insult her. Getting ready to run out on her again!

“Flower?” His hand touched her shoulder.

She spun on him. “I won’t do it if you don’t kiss me. I mean it! If you don’t kiss me, you can go to hell.”

He blinked.

“And don’t you think for one minute—”

He caught her by the back of her neck and dragged her down over his bare chest. “I need you, Flower,” he whispered. “I need you real bad.”

His mouth closed over hers in a deep, sweet tongue kiss. She floated through the kiss, bathed in it, drank it and ate it, and didn’t want it ever to stop. He rolled her onto her back and pressed her into the mattress with his weight.

The kiss lost its sweetness, becoming dark and desperate. His breathing grew more ragged, and she arched her back to press her hips closer. Sweat broke out on his body, mingling with her own, and suddenly his hands were all over her. Rough, clumsy hands—at her breasts and waist, on her hips and buttocks, pushing inside her.

There was something so desperate about his touch. She was frightened for him, frightened for herself. All the frustration, the years of denial, formed a fiery ball in her chest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and met his fierceness with her own. “Love me, Jake,” she whispered. “Please love me.”

His fingers dug into the soft skin of her thighs, spreading them far apart, and his weight settled between them. Without warning, he thrust deep and hard within her. She cried out. He grabbed her head between his hands and covered her mouth with his own. He kissed her desperately as he drove inside her. She came at once, breaking apart in a joyless orgasm. He didn’t stop. He stayed with her, tongue in her mouth, hands in her hair, pushing harder…faster…letting out a harsh, anguished cry as he spilled himself deep within her.

He pulled away as soon as it was over. She lay staring at the ceiling. His desperation…his dark silence…the bleakness of their lovemaking…His book was done, and he’d just said good-bye.

Love me, Jake. Please love me. The words she’d spoken in the throes of lovemaking came back to her, and she felt sick inside.

They lay on the bed, not even their hands touching. Nothing.

“Flower?”

In her mind she saw a long stretch of sun-scorched sand spreading bleak and empty before her. She had so much—her job, her friends—but all she could see was the barren sand.

“Flower, I want to talk to you.”

She turned her back to him and burrowed her face into the pillow. Now he wanted to talk. Now that it was all over. Her head ached and her mouth felt dry and acrid. The mattress creaked as he left the bed. “I know you’re not asleep.”

“What do you want?” she finally said.

He switched on the gooseneck lamp that sat on his desk. She rolled over to face him. He stood next to the desk, unself-conscious in his nakedness. “Do you have anything going this weekend that you can’t cancel?” he said. “Anything important?”

He wanted to play out the final scene, the great good-bye. “Let me reach under the pillow and check my appointment calendar,” she said wearily.

“Damn it! Go throw some things in a suitcase. I’ll get you in half an hour.”

Two hours later they were in a chartered jet flying to God-knew-where, and Jake was asleep in the seat next to her. Was there some basic flaw in her makeup that made her keep falling in love with this man who couldn’t love her back? She didn’t try to slide around it anymore. She loved Jake Koranda.

She’d fallen in love with him when she was nineteen years old, and now she’d done it all over again. He was the only man she’d ever known who seemed to belong to her. Jake, who went out of his way to close himself off, was part of her. Maybe she had a death wish. Again and again, he left her emotionally stranded at the gates of the couvent. He didn’t give anything back. He wouldn’t talk about anything important—the war, his first marriage, what had happened when they were making Eclipse. Instead he deflected her with wisecracks. And if she wanted to be honest, she knew she did the same to him. But it was different with her. She did it because she had to protect herself. What did he have to protect?

It was seven in the morning when they landed in Santa Barbara. Jake turned up the collar on his leather jacket against the early chill, or maybe the prying eyes of a lurking fan. He carried an attaché case in one hand and guided her by the elbow toward the parking lot with the other. They stopped next to a dark maroon Jaguar sedan. He unlocked the door and slung his case, along with her overnight bag, into the back.

“It’ll be a while before we get there,” he said with an unexpected gentleness. “Try to get some sleep.”

The cantilevered glass and concrete house looked almost the same as she remembered it. What a perfect spot for the farewell they still had to play out. “A return to the scene of the crime?” she said as he pulled up in front.

He turned off the ignition. “I don’t know that I’d exactly call it a crime, but we have some ghosts to put to rest, and this seems like the right place to do it.”

She was tired and upset, and she couldn’t help sniping at him. “Too bad you couldn’t find a root beer stand. As long as we’re dealing with the business of lost innocence…”

He ignored her.

While he took a shower, she changed into a swimsuit. After she’d wrapped herself in a warm robe, she went out to test the water in the pool. It wasn’t heated nearly enough to combat the late morning January chill, but she shed her robe anyway and dived in. She gasped from the chill and began to swim laps, but the tension coiled inside her refused to unravel. She got out, pulled an oversized bath towel around her, and lay down on one of the chaises in the sun, where she instantly fell asleep.

Hours later, a small Mexican woman with shiny black hair awakened her and announced that dinner would be ready soon if she’d like to change first. Fleur deliberately avoided the big bathroom with the sunken tub where they’d made love all those years ago, choosing a smaller guest bathroom instead. By the time she’d finished her shower and swept her hair back from her face with a set of combs, her grogginess had disappeared. She pulled on light gray slacks and an open-necked sage-green blouse. Just before she stepped out into the living room, she slipped on the necklace Jake had given her, but then she fastened the button between her breasts so he wouldn’t see she was wearing it.

He was clean-shaven and dressed almost respectably in jeans and a light blue sweater, but the lines of exhaustion around his mouth hadn’t eased. Neither of them had much appetite, and their meal was tense and silent. She couldn’t get past the feeling that everything that had passed between them was about to be resolved, and there wouldn’t be a happy ending. Loving Jake had always been a one-way street.

Eventually the housekeeper appeared with coffee. She set the pot down harder than necessary to protest the injustice that had been done to her meal. Jake dismissed her for the night and sat without moving until he heard the back door close. He pushed himself away from the table and disappeared. When he came back, he was carrying a fat manila envelope. She stared at it, and then she stared at him. “You really did finish your book.”

He shoved his hand through his hair. “I’m going out for a while. You can—if you want, you can read this.”

She took the envelope gingerly. “Are you sure? I know I pushed you into this. Maybe—”

“Don’t sell the serial rights while I’m out.” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t make it. “This one’s just for you, Flower. Nobody else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. I wrote it for you. Only you.”

She didn’t understand. How could he have spent the last three months destroying himself over a manuscript that only she would read? A manuscript he never intended to see published? Once again, she thought of the little girl wearing a shirt with yellow ducks. There could be only one explanation. The contents were too incriminating. She felt nauseous.

He turned away. She heard his footsteps pass through the kitchen. He went out the same back door the housekeeper had used such a short time ago. Fleur took her coffee over to the window and stared out into the lavender evening. He’d written about massacres twice, first a fictionalized version in Sunday Morning Eclipse and now the true story in the pages sealed inside the manila envelope. She thought about the two faces of Jake Koranda. The brutal face of Bird Dog Caliber and the sensitive face of the playwright who explored the human condition with so much insight. She’d always believed Bird Dog was the fake, but now she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong just as she’d gotten so many other things wrong about him.

It was a long time before she could make herself pick up the manila envelope and pull out the manuscript. She settled into a chair near the windows, turned on the light, and began to read.

Jake dribbled toward the basketball hoop on the side of the garage and went in for a quick dunk, but the leather soles of his boots slipped on the concrete, and the ball hit the rim. For a moment he thought about going back inside for his sneakers, but he couldn’t bear to see her reading.

He tucked the basketball under his arm and wandered to the stone wall that kept the hillside in place. He wished he had a six-pack of Mexican beer, but he wasn’t going back into the house to get it. He wasn’t going anywhere close to her. He couldn’t stand watching her disillusionment for a second time.

He leaned against the rough stones. He should have come up with another way of ending things between them, a way that would have distanced him from her disgust. The pain was too sharp to bear, so he imagined the sounds of the crowd in his head. He envisioned himself in center court at the Philadelphia Spectrum, wearing a Seventy-sixers uniform with the number six on his chest. Doc.

Doc…Doc… He tried to make his mind form the image, but it wouldn’t take shape.

He stood up and carried the ball back around the garage to the hoop. He began to dribble. He was Julius Erving, a little slower than he used to be, but still a giant, still flying…Doc.

Instead of the roar of the crowd, he heard a different sort of music playing in his head.

Inside the house, the hours slipped by and the pile of discarded manuscript pages grew at Fleur’s feet. Her hair slipped from its combs, and her back got a crick from sitting in the same place for so long. As she reached the final page, she could no longer hold back her tears.

When I think of ’Nam, I think of the music that was always playing. Otis…the Stones…Wilson Pickett. Most of all, I think of Creedence Clearwater and their bad moon rising over that badass land. Creedence was playing when they loaded me on the plane in Saigon to go home, and as I filled my lungs with that last breath of monsoon-heavy, dope-steady air, I knew the bad moon had blown me away. Now, fifteen years later, it’s still got me.