Picture Perfect Read online

  Hands shot up in front of Cassie, blocking her view of the one-eyed cameras. Voices tangled over each other. "Ms. Barrett," one reporter shouted, "are you still living with Alex Rivers?"

  "No," Cassie said.

  "Has he agreed to the divorce?"

  Cassie glanced at her lawyer, sitting off to the left. "The papers will be served today. I don't expect him to contest it."

  Another reporter pushed himself to the front of the throng, waving a microphone beneath the podium. "Extreme cruelty isn't common grounds for divorce, Ms. Barrett. Are you trumping up your charges to expedite the divorce, so you can get your hands on his money?"

  Cassie's eyes widened at the snide tone of the man's voice, at the absolute gall that would let him ask something so personal. For God's sake, this was hermarriage . This was herhusband . "I have no desire to take anything from Alex."Except myself , she thought. "And I haven't exaggerated the charges." She lowered her eyes, realizing that she had come to the point of no return. She carefully cleared her face of emotion and lifted her head again, staring at everything and nothing all at once. "I've been physically abused by Alex Rivers for the past three years."

  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. The litany ran through her mind, and Cassie wasn't sure if she was crying out to God or to Alex or to herself. She felt her heart pounding so fiercely it seemed to be moving the light fabric of her blouse.

  "Can you prove it?"

  The question came from a woman, and it was softer than most of the others had been, which was maybe why Cassie did what she decided, in a split second, to do. Keeping her eyes trained on the door at the back of the conference room, she slowly opened the top three buttons of her blouse and pulled aside the collar and her bra strap to reveal an ugly, mottled purple welt. She untucked the blouse from the waistband of the skirt and lifted it to her midriff, turning slightly so that the swollen, black-and-blue ribs were visible.

  The conference room exploded in a riot of white flashes and cacophonous sound. Cassie stood very still, willing herself not to tremble, wishing she were anywhere else but there.

  WHEN SHE WOKE UP THE MORNING AFTER ALEX HAD HIT HER, HIS side of the bed was cool and the covers had been pulled smooth. For a second Cassie stared at them, at the neatly aligned pillows. Maybe it had never happened. Maybe Alex had never been there.

  She showered, gingerly letting the hot water soothe the sorest places, and then she went in to check on Connor. The night nurse turned him over to Cassie so that she could feed him. Sitting in the large rocking chair, Cassie stared out the window at what promised to be a beautiful California day.

  "We're going away again," she whispered to Connor. Then she stood up and carried him over to his changing table, ripping loose the tape of the disposable diaper and arranging a fresh one under his bottom. She stared at his body--the long, wiry legs; the bubble belly; the pockets of baby fat on his arms that almost looked like a grown man's muscles.

  When the nurse returned, Cassie smiled at her. "I wonder if you could do me a favor," she asked, instructing her to pack up a full diaper bag with several changes of clothing and sleepwear for Connor. And then, leaving Connor in his bassinet, she made her way downstairs.

  She didn't stop in the dining room for coffee; she didn't bother to check the library or study for any signs of Alex. The truth was, it didn't matter. She had made her decision last night.

  The plan she'd settled on involved his public image. After all, it was what had prompted the fight last night. And, Cassie had to admit, it was as much a part of his life as she was. Once the golden boy didn't seem so golden anymore, and once he'd ascertained who had thrown the mud in the first place, she would be free. Either Alex would have to admit to her accusations and make himself into a figure of public sympathy by going for help, or he'd have to fight back and discredit her story, slandering her. It didn't really matter which course events took. Either way, the outcome was going to ruin Alex; either way, the outcome was going to kill her.

  Because she was forcing Alex to stop loving her, but she couldn't make herself stop loving him.

  She opened the front door, walking barefoot down the marble stairs and the winding path that led to the pool and the outbuildings. One day she would show Connor pictures of this castle, and tell him how close he'd come to growing up as Hollywood's crown prince. She walked to the second low white building, the laboratory Alex had built for her after they were married.

  It was dark and musty; she had been in here for a few minutes at a time in the weeks she'd been back, but there was too much for Connor to get into and she wouldn't leave him alone during the day at the house. Flicking on the lights, she saw the cavernous space flood with the colors of the past: yellowed bones and shining metallic tables, silver instruments and rich red earth.

  She found herself wondering what the landscapes looked like where these bones had been procured. And what the people who were supported by these skeletons did in the course of a day. She realized that for someone to whom cultural anthropology had been anathema, her questions were odd and unfamiliar. In a way, it seemed as though anthropology for Cassie had been an exploration in a small, fascinating room, and she had just pulled back a curtain on what she had believed to be a closet, only to find a new room, twice the size of the first.

  She would always have her work once she left Alex--it had been there before him and it was as much a part of her as Connor--but her research would never be quite the same. She had seen the possibilities, and after Pine Ridge, she did not think she could continue to look at bare bones in a vacuum. If she had learned nothing else from the Lakota, Cassie now knew that although a person was made of muscle and bone and tissue, she was equally formed by the patterns of her life and the choices she made and the memories she passed on to her children.

  Before Cassie had left for Pine Ridge, she had been studying a skull from Peru, sent by a colleague, in which a clear disk of bone had been removed from the vault. The scientist who'd sent it to her wanted her opinion as to the nature of the damage. Was it a man-made trephine hole--bored out during an operation for obtaining an amulet, or for alleviating headaches--or was it due to something natural? Cassie sat down at the examination table, scanning her notes for other explanations.Made by a pick during excavation. The continual pressure of a sharp object in the grave. Erosion. Congenital deficiency. Syphilitic reaction .

  Cradling her own head in her hands, she wondered what some scientist would think about her skeleton if it was unearthed millions of years from now. Would he run his instruments over her ribs, cracked and scarred and mutilated? Would he attribute the bone damage to careless gravediggers? To erosion? To her husband?

  Cassie wrapped the skull in cotton and set it back in its packing crate. She layered it in sawdust and shredded newspaper, touching it with the most exquisite care, as if it still could feel the pain of the damage done. Without printing a formal letter, she folded her observation list. She was not the best person to analyze this; not anymore. So she scribbled a note on the outside about not having the time to study the specimen more, apologizing for the months she'd kept the scientist waiting. Then she stuck the letter in with the skull and closed the crate with a staple gun.

  Cassie carried the skull back to the house to leave with the outgoing mail, feeling its weight increase with each heavy step. She wondered why it had taken her this long to see that a skeleton could tell you nothing, but a survivor could show you her life.

  "WHAT WILL YOU DO ABOUT YOUR POSITION AT UCLA?"

  "Will you stay in L.A.?"

  "Do you have any plans from here?"

  Cassie blinked at the stream of questions, thinking that even if she had a clear picture of where she was headed, the last thing she would do was leave a well-marked trail for the press to follow.

  "I've been on maternity leave from teaching," she said slowly. "As for whether or not I'll return to UCLA when that's over, it's a decision I'll have to make down the road."

  A man in an olive trench coat