River’s End

without a qualm.”
    “Race you.” Olivia darted off like a bullet, blond hair flying. It was that image—the long blond hair swinging, the girlish dare, the swift race through the dark—that Jamie carried with her through the evening. She watched Olivia scoop up dessert, stage a mock battle with her grandfather over his serving, nag David for details about his meeting Madonna at a party. And she wondered if Olivia was mature enough, controlled enough, to tuck all her thoughts and emotions away or if she was simply young enough to cast them aside in favor of sweets and attention.
    As much as she’d have preferred it to be the latter, she decided Olivia had inherited some of Julie’s skills as an actress.
    There was a weight on her heart as she prepared for bed in the room that had been hers as a girl. Her sister’s child was looking to her now, as she had during those horrible days eight years before. Only this time, she wasn’t such a little girl and wouldn’t be satisfied with cuddles and stories.
    She wanted the truth, and that meant Jamie would have to face parts of the truth she’d tried to forget.
    She’d dealt with the unauthorized biographies, the documentaries, the television movie, the tabloid insanity and rumors dealing with her sister’s life and her death. They still cropped up from time to time. The young, beautiful actress, cut down in her prime by the man she loved. In a town that fed itself on fantasy and gossip, grim fairy tales could often take on the sheen of legends.
    She’d done her best to discourage it. She gave no interviews to the press, cut no deals, endorsed no projects. In this way she protected her parents, the child. And herself.
    Still, every year, a new wave of Julie MacBride stories sprang up. Every year, she thought, leaning on the pedestal sink and staring at her own face in the mirror, on the anniversary of her death.
    So she fled home every summer, escaped it for a few days, let herself be tucked away as she’d let Olivia be tucked away.
    They were entitled to their privacy, weren’t they? She sighed, rubbed her eyes. Just as Olivia was entitled to talk about the mother she’d lost. Somehow, she had to see to it that they managed to have both.
    She straightened, pushed the hair back from her face. She’d let her hairdresser talk her into a perm and some subtle highlighting around her face. She had to admit, he’d been right.
    It gave her a softer, younger look. Youth wasn’t just a matter of vanity, she thought. It was a matter of business.
    She was beginning to see lines creeping around her eyes, those nasty little reminders of age and wear and tear. Sooner or later, she’d have to consider a tuck. She’d mentioned it to David, and he’d just laughed.
    Lines? What lines? I don’t see any lines.
    Men, she thought now, but they’d both known his response had pleased her. Still, it didn’t mean she could afford to neglect her skin. She took the time to smooth on her night cream, using firm, upward strokes along her throat, dabbing on the eye cream with her pinkies. Then she added a trail of perfume between her breasts in case her husband was feeling romantic.
    He often was.
    Smiling to herself, she went back into the bedroom where she’d left the light burning for David. He hadn’t come up yet, so she closed the door quietly, then moved to the chevel glass. She removed her robe and took inventory.
    She worked out like a fiend three days a week with a personal trainer she secretly called the Marquessa de Sade. But it paid off. Perhaps her breasts would no longer qualify as perky, but the rest of her was nice and tight. As long as she could pump and sweat, there’d be no need for nips and tucks anywhere but her eyes. She understood the value of keeping herself attractive—in her public relations work and in her marriage. The actors and entertainers she and David worked with seemed to get younger every time she blinked. Some of his clients were beautiful and desirable women, young women. Succumbing to temptation, Jamie knew, was more often the rule rather than the exception in the life she and David lived. She also knew she was lucky. Nearly fourteen years, she mused. The length of their marriage was a not-so-minor miracle in Hollywood. They’d had bumps and dips, but they’d gotten through them.
    She’d always been able to depend on him, and he on her.
    And the other not-so-minor miracle was -that they loved each other. She slipped back into her robe,