Exile

By Muffi Beyer

“Exile is a deeply romantic psychological thriller that will take you on a roller coaster exploration of grief, logic, and the transcendental nature of love...” Anya Richards, best selling Author

Reeling from the loss of her son and her ex’s indifference, Rachel a successful film director, heads to Ireland to shoot her next project. Once there, she’s plagued with vivid dreams and a gnawing sense of déjà vu. But Rachel’s tough exterior really begins to crumble when she spots a statue in the town square and is shocked to realize it’s the exact replica of the man who has haunted her dreams for months—a handsome stranger for whom she feels a deep and mysterious attraction...

Will Rachel choose love even at the expense of her own sanity? Or is her love for the man of her dreams more real than anything here on earth...?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muffi Beyer
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301427888

Muffi Beyer

Muffi Beyer grew up on the beaches of Malibu and has spent her career writing for Hollywood. Her credits include Days of Our Lives, Santa Barbara, Nash Bridges, Doc, Sue Thomas FBeye, and My Friends Tiger and Pooh. She has also produced several reality shows including The Real World, Road Rules, and Project Runway Allstars. She currently spends her days writing her next paranormal trilogy, hanging with her kids and husband, walking her overweight Italian Greyhound, and recording her dreams for future projects. This is her first novel.

Book preview

EXILE

Muffi Beyer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

© Copyright 2013 Muffi Beyer

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons living

or dead is entirely coincidental.

To Mom for being my biggest fan from the beginning

To Dad for teaching me how to laugh

To Tim for showing me how to chase a dream

To Chris for loving always

To Bo for reminding me to be tenacious and fair

To Colt my kindred free spirit for teaching me to chill

To Jenirae for teaching me the joys of femininity and fierceness

To Annalise for your unfailing kindness and quiet grace

I dedicate this book and my life to all of you

Thank you for telling me I could

CHAPTER ONE

I’m dreaming I’m on board a ship, lost in a storm.

Sheets of rain pelt my face. The wind screams around me. I’m paralyzed with fear as the ship’s deck pitches and rolls, slick beneath my feet.

But then I see him.

He battles against the ship’s wheel, desperate to keep the vessel on course. His pale-blue eyes strain to see a way through the wind tossed sea, his long auburn hair tangles around his handsome face. While I’ve never seen him before, I know he loves me.

And I love him with a fierceness and singularity I never believed possible.

Suddenly, the ship plummets sideways down an enormous wave, landing in the frothing water with a teeth-jarring splash. Before we can recover another even larger wave heads straight for us. Growing to titanic proportions, it dwarfs the swells around us in a matter of seconds.

The man plants his lean muscular legs beneath him and yanks the wheel to the left to meet the rogue wave head-on. The ship groans under the force of the radical maneuver but obeys.

The bow digs into the wave’s base and I clutch the railing, an avalanche of bitterly cold salt water slamming into me like a concrete wall. Helpless, we’re pulled ten, twenty, thirty feet up the face of the watery monster. The ship shudders as it climbs, threatening to flip over backwards.

I know we will capsize.

Releasing my grip on the railing, I trip forward, desperate to reach the man and hold him one last time before we both die.

But, in the next instant, I hang suspended in another dimension, far removed from the storm below. My body strains to return; my throat aches to cry out. It’s no use. I’m trapped in the thick darkness.

Helpless.

It’s then his voice reaches above the storm’s riotous din. I’m coming, Kate. Don’t despair.

Kate? I expect him to call out my name, to call out Rachel.

The sky suddenly goes white with a tremendous crack of lightning. The ship lurches onto its side, the mast snapping in two as it free-falls down the hundred-foot wave.

Craaack! Another flash of lightning sends me bolting upright in my bed.

Disoriented, I hold a hand to my chest to quiet my hammering heart and scan the shadowed bedroom. The storm of my dream is mimicked by a storm outside. Above the sound of the wind and rain I can make out the sound of waves crashing on the nearby beach. When I purchased this house three years ago, right in the heart of Malibu’s prestigious Colony, I thought I’d achieved an undeniable level of not only status, but security. But tonight the room seems ominous. More like a prison cell than a bedroom. I’m overcome with the knowledge that I am utterly alone. Completely and totally on my own.

I close my eyes and slowly lie back, pulling the sheets up around my neck, hoping to pick up the dream where it left off. The need to see his face again, to memorize it before it slips away forever, is urgent. But sleep won’t come. The dream is lost. Even now the man’s handsome face is fading, the strange force of my connection to him swirling away like a cool gray fog.

I slowly open my eyes to focus on the wall opposite my bed, as the rain continues its strangely sinister patter. Portraits of my Irish ancestors, some of the few keepsakes taken from my mother, stare back at me, their names long forgotten. I don’t know why I keep them, schlepping them from house to house, faithfully but inexplicably compelled to line my walls and the occasional dark hallway with their forbidding faces.

Thunder rumbles ominously outside, punctuated by a declarative crack.

Mommy! Mommy, help!

Leaping up, I rush down the hallway to my son’s room. Jason sits ramrod-straight in his small twin bed, his cowboy comforter clutched under his chin like a protective shield as he stares toward his window. I ease down next to him and wrap my arm around his bird-like shoulders. It’s okay. Mommy’s here.

His hazel eyes are as big as headlights as he raises a finger and points it toward the dark window. There’s claws… he whimpers.

Shh, there’s no claws. It’s just the wind.

Rena, Jason’s nanny, appears in the doorway, her soft, kind face etched with concern. Everything okay, Missus?

I’ve told her more times than I can count that I’m not a Ms. or Miss, and most certainly not a Missus. Rachel would do just fine, thank you. It hasn’t made a difference. I firmly remain Missus.

Yes, thanks, Rena. We’re fine. She smiles and pads off down the hall.

Claws… Jason repeats before burying his face in my side.

Don’t worry, honey. I’ll make the claws go away.

Jason shrinks down further under his comforter, awed by his fearless mommy as I move to the window. Outside a tree branch dances in the wind and drags across the glass, rendering a convincing screech.

See? Claws! he insists.

It’s just a branch. I promise.

Jason eyes me suspiciously. Knowing he won’t be convinced until the monster is vanquished for good, I open the window and lean out into the rain. Snapping off the branch, I turn back into the room and show him.

See? Just a branch.

Jason’s shoulders slump with relief. His lips curl into a smile. It’s just a branch, silly, he tells me. Mommy?

Yeah, pal?

Could you lay down with me? Just for a little while.

Sure.

I slip under the covers and curl up next to my son. We mold together, the nooks and crannies of our bodies a perfect fit. His thin heartbeat flutters beneath my hand as I lay it protectively across his small chest. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him, soapy clean with just a hint of warm little boy. Just two weeks ago, after returning from his Pre-K class, he announced that big boys didn’t need their mommies to go to sleep and he was a big boy. Thinking he would fold when it actually came to bedtime, I was surprised when he allowed me nothing more than a quick goodnight peck on the cheek before he hopped into bed and turned off his own light. He’s continued the same fiercely independent routine for the past sixteen days. I counted. But for now I’m Jason’s Mommy once again. His breathing becomes slow and regular as he quiets in the comfort of my arms and, for this moment, everything is right with the world.

Sing to me? he whispers, his voice blurry with sleep.

Smoothing back the silky bangs from his forehead I croon to him, an Irish lullaby my mother had once sung to me. To-ra-lur-a-lur-a… to-ra-lura-a-lie. To-ral-lu-ra-lura, that’s an Irish lullaby.

I sing softly to my son, the meaning of the words unknown but the intention of love unmistakable.

* * *

It’s our last day of shooting. I sprint-walk back after wolfing down a hurried lunch just off set, at one of the gourmet lunch trucks that have sprung up lately along Melrose Avenue near the studios. The one we tried out today featured forty-eight variations of grilled cheese, and I find myself silently regretting my choice of pepper Jack, grilled onions and Jalapeño peppers. Naomi, my trusty production manager, sometimes first assistant director and ever-constant best friend since film school, details her latest sexcapade.

So we’re naked on the bathroom counter, right? And you know those little crystal perfume bottles I got lined up next to the mirror? The cute little ones?

Yeah, I guess.

Well, as it turns out, those puny little bottles have some nasty sharp edges. And they’re digging at my ass like a mofo.

Born in Puerto Rico into a Catholic family of seven children, Naomi and I share the same tenacity for the film business, but all similarities end there. I’m tall and lean with no hips and no boobs. Naomi is 5’ 2" with curves that go on for days. I’m anal and focused. Naomi is a self-confessed slob who would ADD her way through life. I tend to be suspicious of people, questioning their motives, and have few friends. Naomi passes out phone numbers like penny candy and once confided she had fifteen hundred friends on Facebook, all of whom she swore she’s actually met.

The most obvious difference between us, however, is Naomi’s approach to men.

I learned early on to guard my emotions or, maybe even worse, lock them away. Men could smell my reticence and steered clear, or at least that’s the excuse I allow myself as I stay home every Friday night, popping popcorn and watching Thomas the Tank Train for the one millionth time with Jason. On the other hand, all Naomi has to do is flash her I-got-what-you-want-boy smile and raise a penciled eyebrow and guys swim through two miles of alligator infested swamp to please her… and bed her. If anyone else had as many partners as Naomi I would call her slutty, but Naomi is so enthusiastic about each and every one of her men, finding something endearing in every shape, size and ethnicity, it’s impossible to do anything except love and admire her.

So like he pushes me back, all Captain America, right? You know, taking charge—

I always thought Captain America was more of the conservative type.

Okay, fine, wrong super hero, but you get the picture.

Unfortunately, yes.

Don’t interrupt, okay? So. He’s got me on the counter and my butt is crammed up against all those pretty little perfume bottles. I mean, they’re nice to look at and all, but right now they’re digging the hell out of me. But far be it from me to say, ‘Yo, by the way, my butt’s in agony here.’

Of course not.

Exactly. I mean, it’s a real moment, you know? I don’t want him to think this isn’t a good idea, because it is.

And you wouldn’t want to just turn around and maybe move the bottles out of the way?

Hell no! I already said it’s a moment, didn’t I? Why ruin it?

So you take the pain.

I take the pain. Then all the sudden, I mean, right at the… you know… right as he’s about to get it in, he just pulls it right back. I mean, it’s sticking straight up at attention, giving me the five star salute or something, and then it’s like somebody lowered the drawbridge. Big time!

This was a real story twist. I leaned in a little closer, anxious to get to the ending.

He looks at me and says, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this.’ Excuse me, I’m scarring my ass for you! I’m driving glass into my bare ass for you and you can’t do this! Then I find out. She stops for dramatic affect.

Then you find out what?

That he’s a virgin. Do you believe that?

Seriously?

I know! Exactly what I said!

Was he gay?

Thank you! That’s what any grown-assed woman would think, am I right?

I think you’re right.

So he shouldn’t have gotten so salty when I asked him.

You asked him if he was gay?

He’s twenty-eight years old. Good looking. Six pack. Tight ass. And he doesn’t want this? she says, pointing to herself. I mean, come on, it’s a fair question. She frowns and wipes the imaginary insult off her shoulder and unconsciously pushes her shoulders back. But she’s leaving me hanging again.

So what happened?

Well. Turns out he’s actually telling the truth. I mean I actually believe the guy. He tells me he’s one of those homeschooled crazies—I mean he didn’t call himself crazy, but he tells me he comes from this real religious family. One of those born-agains. When he was fourteen years old he took an oath of celibacy. He’s got some purity ring, or some such thing, that he’s keeping on until he finds ‘the one.’

Oh, please.

Hmm-hmm. Apparently I was his first kiss… and a little bit more, but whatever. Who’s keeping track?

Wow.

I know, right? He said he was ‘saving himself’ as a ‘gift’ for his one true love. He wanted to give his virginity to his wife so that she’d have something no one else ever would.

Please, I just finished my lunch.

I thought it was sort of sweet, really.

I look at her like she’s the crazy one now.

What? she snaps.

I didn’t say anything.

Don’t act like you’re all hard.

I’m not hard. I’m a realist.

Come on. We all want to find our soul mate. Our ‘one true love.’

You can’t really believe that?

I’m a romantic. And I like my orgasms just as much as the next girl. So shoot me Gloria Allred. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t want to find your soul mate.

Sure I do. And a sparkly unicorn that farts flowers too.

Go ahead, be like that. But I’m telling you, being all rich, smart, beautiful and famous isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be if you don’t got somebody to love.

Have.

Have what?

You meant to say ‘have somebody to love.’

Don’t start getting all Strunk and White on me just to change the subject. I was an English major, remember? I know what I’m saying.

I forgot what we were talking about.

Naomi digs into her cavernous bag and comes up with two Tootsie Roll Pops. Unwrapping the cherry one, she pops it into her mouth and sucks noisily before offering me the grape.

I don’t think so, I decline.

Come on, live a little.

No. I’m good.

Fine. But you don’t know what you’re missing.

Maybe she was right.

We turn the corner and stride onto set, a half block of Melrose Avenue cordoned off and guarded by our security, a gray haired veteran named Bob. He normally greets me with a jaunty top of the mornin’ to ya, Ms. Brannagan, a small inside nod to our shared Irish heritage, but as Naomi and I pass he steps back quietly with an uncharacteristically deferential nod.

A movie set normally hums with the energy of a small city but today a hush ripples across it as we cut a course toward my director’s chair. I slowly pull to a stop, afraid to take another step, and scan the silent crowd. Some faces are forlorn, other awkwardly study their sneakers, several quickly wipe tears from their flushed cheeks. Naomi shoots me a look and shakes her head. She has no more idea of what is going on than I do.

Thom, my executive producer, weaves his way through the clumps of mute crewmembers, his eyes determinedly fixed on me. In the ten years I’ve known him, I never cease to register just how good looking he is. It’s his signature of sorts—those warm brown eyes framed by his perfectly shaggy blond hair, the easy grin, the casual swagger that exudes bad boy sexuality. To a large degree it all accounts for his survival in the pool of man-eating sharks known as Hollywood. His famously undeniable sex appeal has convinced scores of studio execs to loosen their purse strings and drop their panties, not necessarily in that order.

But he isn’t smiling now. Instead, he reaches out and unceremoniously takes me by the elbow. Before I knew what’s going on, we’re ducking into the makeup trailer. Thom flings open the door without knocking to reveal a stylist working on our lead actress, an anorexic beauty, who’s quietly studying her script. She glances up, annoyed, but her expression softens the moment she realizes it’s me.

Oh, Rachel… I’m so sorry, she mews.

A flush of hot adrenaline courses through me, my entire body is suddenly damp with a film of perspiration. The actress’s eyes dart uncertainly to Thom.

Can we have a minute? he curtly tells her, rather than asks. The actress and the stylist trip over themselves to hurry out. Thom hangs his head, shielding his hand over his brow. He can’t face me.

Why don’t you have a seat?

I remain immobile. Screwed to the linoleum floor.

Rachel, something happened. I tried to find you sooner, but…

I’m suddenly angry. What is he talking about? If I can get angry enough then I won’t have to hear what he wants to tell me. Sooner? What do you mean, sooner? I was at lunch. I was gone for a total of one hour.

Okay, fine. I don’t know, I just wish you were here when, well, when the police got here.

Police? Thank god. My shoulders slump with relief. This isn’t at all what I thought. It’s about work. Not Jason. Not my son. It’s just some kind of screw up. This I can handle.

What, a permit problem? I swear to God, I’m never using Henry again. I don’t care whose nephew he is, he screwed up before on the Atlanta thing too.

That’s not why they came. It’s Jason.

The floor below me tips as my stomach twists, my ears beginning to ring. Wait, just, just… what?

It was an accident. Rena was with him. It was a freak accident.

There is a serious need to focus now. I need to understand. I’m having such a hard time processing Thom’s words, which become nothing more than sounds strung together in an indecipherable string. Barely words at all.

Rachel, I’m sorry…

Wait, wait… Can you just, just… Thom turns away from me. I want to grab him, shake him, but my arms hang heavily.

But… he’s okay… Jason’s okay, isn’t he?

He keeps his back to me. He doesn’t need to answer.

Suddenly, Naomi barges into the trailer, looking frantic.

Oh my god, honey… she reaches out for me, but I turn and run for the wastebasket. I bend over it, my lunch rushing out of me as I heave over and over and over, until there is nothing left. Nothing left of me at all.

CHAPTER TWO

Some things in life should never happen. Under any circumstances. Like picking out miniature suits and coffins just big enough to fit four-year-old boys. In the end I insist, much to the obvious distaste of the funeral director, my son be buried in