Lost in Carmel Read online

  The look on his face when he came to her hotel room was the kind of detail that managed to pierce the fog her brain was still swimming in. She remembered him coming through the door, his questions rushing at her in a whirl of breath. He was moving too fast; she couldn’t keep up. Scooping up her weary body, Monty laid her on the bed like a wounded bird, smoothing her feathers with a cool hand. The memory was blurry, but she could still see his right hand trembling as he dialed the phone and spoke in hushed tones to someone on the other end. She couldn't remember the conversation, but she'd never forget his eyes. Looking through her, to the twisted mess inside.

  The vision hurt too much to hold it, so she let it go, watching it fall into the black soup along with the rest of the visions from the last week, to be sorted out later.

  It was Monty who called in a favor and secured the Lockheed Jetstar for her. He knew someone who knew someone. Of course, he knew someone. It was Montgomery Schneider's job to know everyone and everything about everyone in Hollywood. Even the things nobody wanted known. Especially those things. Because his job wasn't just about managing talent, it was about managing relationships. And he was damn good at it.

  “Miss Hampton.” A voice in her ear accompanied the hand shaking her shoulder.

  Natalie blinked, and looked up into Janice's smiling face. Still smiling, as if twelve hours and five thousand miles hadn't passed since they'd boarded in L.A.

  “We'll be landing soon,” she continued in her measured voice. “You might want to get ready.”

  Natalie pushed herself into an upright position, rubbing the kink in her neck. Sunlight pierced through the cabin in thin slices, while across from her Chloe was stretching like a cat after a long nap. Natalie pulled up her window shade in time to see the coast of France sliding by. The Riviera, with its toe in the Mediterranean Sea.

  Cannes. Where movies and their stars went to court favor with those who could bestow coveted awards or send a film to an early grave. She'd been there just last year, when Taxi Driver won the festival's top honor. Though it had been several years since she had a film in the running, she still made the yearly pilgrimage. Because it was Cannes. And there was still plenty of acting to be done as she'd walked the red carpet, amidst a sea of tanned and glistening bodies jostling for the photographer's attention. She remembered smiling and waving for the cameras. Head tilted back at just the right angle. Laughing at everything, right on cue. Now she turned away with a sigh.

  Grabbing her tote bag, she made her way to the restroom, wincing as the lights over the petite vanity didn’t bother to hide the truth. Dark circles ringed brown eyes that had seen too much. Gripping the side of the sink she stared at the woman in the mirror.

  What do you have to say for yourself?

  The reflection was mute, a silent witness offering up no excuses. Natalie realized there wasn't enough make-up in the bottom of that bag to even make a dent. Not that she cared anymore. That's what sunglasses were for. Making a headband out of her scarf, she let the fringed ends fall down her back. It would have to do. Good enough to get her past any reporters who might be lurking around the perimeter of the airport.

  Back in her seat she turned her shoulders into the wall, her posture acting as a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. Face pressed up against the window, she watched the ground come up to meet the plane. Red tiled roofs and cypress trees sped by before wheels touched down in one smooth move.

  “Everything's going to be fine.” Chloe reached across the aisle to lay a reassuring hand on Natalie's arm.

  Natalie didn't bother to muster a fake smile; it was too late for pretending.

  3 Saint Bridget

  “First time in Roma?” Lorenzo, who looked more like a faded movie star than a limo driver, took his eyes off the road to look in the rear-view mirror, as if they weren't darting in and out of traffic like bank robbers on the run in a Mercedes Benz.

  “I was here four years ago,” Chloe said. “Studying design and did an entire semester here. I saw quite a bit of Italy. Enough to fall in love.”

  “Parla l'taliano?”

  “Un po.” Chloe grimaced.

  “Un po. Si.” Lorenzo laughed.

  Chloe kept the conversation bouncing back and forth between the front and back seat and occasionally Janice would join in, while Natalie stared out the window, watching the scenery whiz by. A slideshow on fast-forward. The images soon changed from the sparse rural countryside surrounding the airport to modern apartment buildings as they neared the edge of the city.

  Lorenzo played the proud tour guide pointing out historic landmarks along the way. “Colosseo.”

  Chloe and Janice turned their heads to follow his pointing finger in time to see the crumbling tip of the Colosseum disappear. Before long he was pointing again and they were spinning so often it became laughable.

  As they neared the center city, the streets got smaller and the buildings got older. Chloe dug around in her purse and retrieved the piece of paper with the address she was looking for.

  “Piazza Farnese,” she read aloud. “Monseratto 96.”

  “Si.” Lorenzo nodded. He nudged the car down the narrow alley between buildings and stopped in front of a massive wooden door. “Casa di Santa Brigida.”

  “Saint Bridget.” Chloe nudged Natalie with her elbow.

  Natalie looked up at the stone facade, its walls pale and creamy, having been bleached for centuries in the Italian sun. Unassuming in its monastic simplicity, except for the impressive front door, which Natalie noted was just one of many lined up on the narrow street.

  What the hell am I doing at a convent halfway around the world?

  Monty's words about a safe place swirled in the back of her mind.

  “You know as well as I do, Nat, even the most prestigious hotels can't stop a maid or a bell boy from talking. I've seen a twenty-dollar bill slipped into an open palm pry information from the tightest pair of lips. What you need is a place to heal, without looking over your shoulder.”

  What she craved was peace. What she got was a convent dedicated to a Swedish Saint catering to travelers, tucked into a quiet corner of an even quieter piazza. The far-fetched idea sounded more like a weak pitch on a script that hadn't been written yet when Monty first presented it. Either his pitch got better, or she grew weaker, as she found herself warming to the idea. But that was a couple of days ago, while she still had two feet firmly planted on American soil. Now, she wasn't so sure that some woman named Gidget or Bridget, saint or no saint, had anything to offer.

  It was too late for second thoughts. Lorenzo was already unloading bags onto the sidewalk and a tiny nun was giving orders in rapid-fire Italian.

  The diminutive sister ushered the trio into the hushed foyer, and Natalie could tell Chloe was struggling to match her tourist-level Italian to the avalanche of words being hurled in her direction.

  Chloe turned to Natalie for support. “I thought Monty said they spoke English.”

  Natalie could only offer a noncommittal shrug. “I’m sorry.”

  Once in her room, with the door shut firmly behind her, the stampede of emotions threatened Natalie's façade.

  “This is all wrong.” Natalie grabbed Chloe’s wrist as she collapsed on the bed. “I need to go home. Now. I'm too far away from everything. I'm too far away from Tess.” She’d intended to make her case in a calm tone of voice, but her daughter's name caught in her throat as the familiar panic threatened to consume her. Her breath came in short shallow bursts.

  Chloe knelt, hands on Natalie's knees. “Tess is with your mom. She'll be fine.” Looking directly into Natalie's eyes, she continued, “You're just tired. You've been through a lot, but you're going to be fine, too.”

  Natalie wanted to shout, Enough with telling me everything's fine. I'm not fine. Instead she bit her lip, bit back the anger and fear on the tip of her tongue, aware that none of it belonged to her assistant. Chloe had no idea how dark the dark could get, because even with friends and colleagues Natalie was an actre
ss who’d spent her life hiding the truth.

  “I'll unpack while you get in the shower,” Chloe was saying, “I'm sure you'll feel better after a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep.”

  Thank God for Chloe who always handled everything in her smooth, unruffled style. Chloe, who carried Natalie's appointment book around like a baby on her hip. Chloe, who ran interference. Chloe, who always told Natalie where to go next, where to stand. She would have never agreed to come without Chloe.

  Still, it was all too much. The long flight, the race through Roman streets, the jumble of words in a language she didn't understand had left her overwhelmed. She wasn't strong enough and should have never agreed to this. Though Chloe would try, she couldn't make everything all right.

  Relief only came later when Janice swept into her room with the magic pills that would turn everything off. Natalie couldn’t help wondering what would happen when Janice flew home in a couple of days? Would the magic pills be left behind?

  Trepidation gave way to the gentle fog rolling in like a thick impenetrable blanket. Thick enough to cover the world outside her window and the anxiety that hitched a ride all the way from Los Angeles.

  4 Alice

  Was someone singing? Natalie blinked as she looked around the room. Butter colored walls and pale blue trim left her disoriented for a moment before she remembered where she was. Flinging off the covers, she padded to the window and pulled back a pair of tall shutters. Opening the casement windows, she was forced to step back as Rome, riding on the sunlight, floated into the room.

  She found her troubadours; a group of workmen were digging out the concrete around the base of the building next door. Singing and digging. Sinking down in the chair, she rested her elbows on the windowsill and watched the Italian Opera across the narrow street of Monserrato. Puccini in overalls.

  The singing was interrupted by the arrival of the tiniest cement truck she'd ever seen. A Tonka Toy loaded with concrete seemed to require all hands on deck as everyone abandoned their posts to offer directions to the driver doing his best to ignore them. Shouts and hand gestures from a dozen workmen spilled from three floors and, with all the animated conversation, Natalie couldn't tell if they were arguing or not.

  She needed to catch her breath. Only yesterday morning she'd still been a patient of Dr. Mahmet, chief psychiatrist at Cedar's. Natalie was unimpressed with the big cheese, who seemed a little star struck as he sat opposite his patient. She was reminded that even to people in his position, celebrity was a commodity. Day after day, she refused to budge, to allow him inside the swirling thoughts and fears that had brought her there. Brought her to her knees. Unable to trust someone who licked his lips at the possibility of having Natalie Hampton on his couch, she signed the release papers at Monty's request, and boarded a plane.

  She felt like Alice in Wonderland, but instead of falling through a rabbit hole, a private jet swept her through time and space depositing her in a land where gorgeous construction workers sang opera. And people said Hollywood was the land of make-believe.

  All up and down the avenue, people were heading out into the day. Scooters whizzed by, their little bells jangling in a warning to the lazy tourists with cameras draped around their necks and noses buried in guidebooks. Stretching further out the window she could see Monserrato opened into a piazza at the end of the block. Even that short distance seemed insurmountable for her and she tucked her head back inside.

  It was her first time in the Eternal City. Italy had always been on her 'to do' list, to be crossed off at some point. But not with a nurse in tow. Not like this.

  Lifting her gaze, she noticed a couple of painters working on the ceiling in the room directly across the avenue. One of them caught her eye and gave her a wave with his paintbrush. Natalie lifted her hand in a half-hearted response, before turning away.

  It was all so beautiful it hurt. The sky was too blue. The clouds too perfect. The world too full of life. But it was the singing that did her in.

  Her heart strained against her chest. Where was her song?

  She walked into the bathroom, bare feet on cold tile, noticing Chloe had set out all her things. Digging around in her toiletry bag she found what she was looking for.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she picked up a long strand of hair. In the other hand, she had a firm grip on the tiny pair of manicure scissors that had gone unnoticed in her bag. Dark tresses fell in slow motion, landing in a mournful puddle at her feet, while an Italian construction crew provided the background music.

  5 Hair’s The Thing

  “When did this happen?” Dr. Anne Brinkman asked, as Natalie lifted the scarf from her head. Small talk was swept off the table like a magician yanking a tablecloth out from under a stack of dishes. All the cups, saucers and plates left teetering in place. Now the veil drifting into Natalie's lap demanded a course change in conversation.

  “This morning,” Natalie whispered, not recognizing the feel of her own scalp beneath her fingers. The image she'd seen staring back at her from the mirror was that of a doll’s head left in the hands of an unsupervised toddler, but if Anne Brinkman was shocked to see the stubs of dark hair instead of the movie-star locks Natalie was known for, she didn't let on. She barely blinked, leaving Natalie to marvel at the acting skills of her new therapist.

  “I'm Anne,” Dr. Brinkman had said, catching Natalie off guard with her easy manner when Natalie entered the convent library a short time ago.

  Not doctor, not even doc. Just, Anne. As if they were neighbors chatting over a back fence. Yet, they weren't having a casual conversation over a backyard hedge. Natalie had traveled half-way around the world to meet with this woman Monty had championed. “She's the best in the biz, Nat. I'm trusting her with you.”

  With light brown hair falling across her shoulders and hoop earrings that swayed as she talked, Natalie had a hard time reconciling the word, psychiatrist, with this woman in a pair of jeans and gold sandals. In another time and place they might have been friends, with Monty as the catalyst. So, when Anne said, “I'm so happy to meet you,” Natalie almost believed her.

  Now Natalie sat across from this person she'd never heard of until a few days ago, and she had to remind herself they weren't having lunch in a chic Beverly Hills restaurant. They were doctor and patient and she was thousands of miles from home, sitting in a room lined with religious tapestries and a faded map of medieval Rome hovering over their conversation.

  Natalie shook her head as she wound the scarf tightly around her left hand. “This is all so absurd.”

  “What exactly?”

  “You. Me. This place. I don't know what I'm doing here.”

  “Well,” Anne tucked one leg under her and settled back in the overstuffed chair, “I'll agree it’s out of the ordinary. We'll talk. I'll ask questions, we'll find answers and before you know it, you'll find your footing again.”

  “I've had therapy before, I know how it works.” She regretted the petulant tone as soon as the words left her mouth. “I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm just...a mess.”

  “You're lucky; that's my specialty.” Anne grinned.

  “So Monty says.”

  “Speaking of Monty, he was very worried about you.”

  “I'm sure he was. He's a great friend.”

  “He is that.” Anne nodded. “I'm glad we've kept in touch since college. When he called asking for a recommendation for a therapist in L.A., I could tell he was beside himself. We talked some more over the next couple of days and pretty soon the idea of having you come to Rome for a little rest and relaxation along with therapy sounded like the right solution.”

  “I'd hardly call this a vacation.”

  “First things first. I think it was important to remove yourself from the environment that caused the... Episode.”

  “You mean nervous breakdown? I'm sure it's all right there in your notes.” Natalie nodded at the file in Anne's lap.

  “Nervous breakdown isn't exactly a clinica
l term,” Anne said. “Society tends to lump several disorders together. Anxiety Disorder, Depressive Mood Disorder—”

  “Is there a disorder in there with my name on it?”

  “What would it be called?” The softness of Anne’s voice held Natalie captive.

  “Broken.” The word escaped on its own.

  Anne nodded, her gaze never leaving Natalie's eyes. “I'm sure the medical staff at Cedars spoke to you but it's worth repeating. A mental or nervous breakdown is closely tied to psychological burnout, severe overwork, and sleep-deprivation. It's stress-induced depression and therefore defined by its temporary nature.”

  Natalie filed the word temporary away in her safe-deposit box.

  “Anxiety and disassociation can manifest in a previously functioning individual rendering them unable to function on a day to day basis until the disorder has been resolved,” Anne continued.

  “That's a mouthful.”

  “Sorry for all the professional jargon.” Anne smiled. “Basically, it boils down to the fact that your circuits became overloaded. Your brain, heart, emotions—are under so much stress that they short circuited. Our job will be to mend those broken fuses.”

  “Maybe all I need is an electrician.”

  “I'm glad you still have your sense of humor.” This time Anne grinned. “That's a good sign. I don't want to mislead you though; we'll do some hard work in here. Psychoanalysis and cognitive therapy aren't always fun and games. But we'll take it slow. And hey, you're in Rome. How bad can it be?”

  Maybe it was the connection to Monty, or the way Anne tilted her head to the side when Natalie spoke. Whatever is was, Natalie felt the shell crack open the tiniest bit. Enough for hope to creep inside.

  “So, what do you say we get to work?” Anne opened a composition notebook, smoothing the spine flat and clicked the end of her pen. “Just so you know, I have no vested interest in your hair. Only in what this means to you. Was this a cry for help? A statement of defiance? A line in the sand? You know, Coco Chanel once said, ‘A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.’ What was going on this morning before you picked up the scissors?”