Unable to sleep after he had finalized his strategy to fix the mess he’d made, John walked downstairs. A light glowed in the small living room, which was overfull with books and furniture that didn’t quite fit, and a TV had been shoved into the corner as an afterthought. It was two in the morning, and his mother sat in the worn leather chair with a book.

“You’re still up,” he said.

“I was worried. I could hear you pacing around up there. Have you figured out how you’re going to patch things up?” she asked, removing her reading glasses.

“It’s probably not going to work.” He walked into the kitchen. “I’m going to be blacklisted, and the only thing left for me will be moving back here and home brewing.”

“We don’t have the space. Besides, I hate it when the house smells like hops.” His mother wrinkled her nose. “We only ever wanted you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“Do you? You mistake the pressure you put on yourself to succeed for pressure that is somehow coming from us. Your dad and I are proud of your work ethic and your dedication. You have nothing to prove to us, John. We love you. Period.”

John nodded, swallowing his emotion at hearing those words. “Thanks. I think... I needed to know that.”

“Well, it’s true.” His mother closed her book, setting it on the side table. “You going to tell me about this plan?”

John smiled. “If it works, you can read about it in the press.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Hazy sunlight filtered through the curtain in Jenny’s front room. Anna had passed a fitful night’s sleep on the couch. Her parting words to John replayed in her mind, like a film reel fluttering and images stuttering on the screen. Her shock at the revelation of his deal with Tom had transformed into unbridled spite. She rolled on her side, the oppressive warmth of the blankets keeping her safe, if uncomfortable.

Had that confrontation really been yesterday? She might as well have been Dorothy returning to Kansas, so far away did hotel suites, movie shoots, and late mornings in bed with John feel now. Her heart ached.

Anna had wandered out of the hotel, lost in a daze, and walked down Sunset Boulevard. Tourists milled about, gawking at the sights and supremely uninterested in the lone woman putting one step in front of the other, fleeing from her thoughts and her memories. She sat down on a bench at a bus stop and pulled out her phone to make a call.

Her mom answered. A door closed, and the din of chatter receded. “What happened?”

“I screwed up.” Anna held back a sob.

“I’m sure we can fix whatever it is.”