Silver Bells. Mary Burton
Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Silver Bells
Fern Michaels
Chapter One
Amy Lee stood at the railing on the second floor of her palatial home in Malibu, staring down with quiet intensity at her guests, mostly employees and a few acquaintances. The occasion was her annual Christmas party. Why she even bothered she had no idea.
It had taken a crew of four three whole days to decorate the house from top to bottom. Another crew of three to decorate the outside. Christmas trees in every room, huge wreaths with red satin bows over all the mantels. Gossamer angels floated from ceiling wire, while a life-size stuffed Santa complete with a packed sleigh and a parade of elves circled the floor-to-ceiling fireplace that separated the great room from the dining room. The focal point of all the decorations.
The mansion was festive to the nth degree, and she hated every bit of it. She could hardly wait for midnight, when she handed out the gifts and bonus checks, at which point the guests would make a beeline for the door, having done their duty by attending the festivities.
Amy rubbed at her temples. She’d had a raging headache all day, and it looked like it was going to stay with her throughout the night. She knew she had to go back downstairs, paste a smile on her face, and somehow manage to get through the next hour. For the hundredth time she wished she was anywhere but here. Here was California. While she lived in Malibu, she worked in Hollywood, where she and all the other movie stars worked. Phony and superficial Hollywood—just like most of the people she worked with. But she’d learned how to play the game, and it was a game. If you wanted the star status that she had, you learned quickly what the rules were. And then you stuck to them.
Amy always told herself she would know when it was time to get out. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected the time was now. At thirty-three she was fast approaching has-been status. New, rowdy, outrageous, flamboyant starlets were giving the paparazzi a run for their money in their bid for stardom, and it was working. It seemed like the world couldn’t live another day unless they read about one of the starlet’s underwear or lack thereof, or getting busted for drunk driving while underage or of age, then signing autographs for the arresting officers or going to jail for ignoring the law. Autographs to the highest bidder as they were being fingerprinted. Translation—big bucks at the box office.
She wasn’t a prude, but she’d always prided herself on a certain decorum befitting her celebrity. She didn’t flit from affair to affair, she didn’t drink and drive, she didn’t do drugs, and she absolutely refused to do nude sex scenes in her movies. One of the tabloids recently called her dull and said she wouldn’t know what excitement was or an adrenaline rush if it hit her in the face. They were right.
Amy looked down at the dress she was wearing. It was a plain Armani scarlet sheath befitting the holidays, with a slit up the leg. It draped perfectly over her body. Just the right neckline, just the right amount of sleeve. She’d walked the red carpet enough to know she looked glamorous in her sparkling gown. Just like all her female guests looked glamorous. Once she’d heard a rumor that if you wanted to attend an Amy Lee party, you had better dress down. At the time she’d thought it funny. Now, it wasn’t funny. Why was that?
Her head continued to throb each time she put her foot on one of the steps. Thank God she’d made it to the bottom without her head splitting open. She walked among her guests, chatted, patted arms, smiled, and even giggled at something one of her employees said. She risked a glance at her watch. Fifty minutes to go. Three thousand seconds. It felt like a lifetime.
It dawned on Amy that she’d been so busy with the party details that she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Maybe if she ate something, the headache would go away.
Amy made her way over to the buffet table. Earlier in the evening it had looked gorgeous, with a Christmas tree ice sculpture nestled in a circle of bright red poinsettias. The matching red candles had long ago burned down. Red candle wax pooled on the white tablecloth. The lobster and shrimp in their ice bowls, what was left of it, looked watery. The turkey and roast beef looked dry. The champagne fountain was as dry as the turkey and roast beef. She felt a surge of anger. Where were the people she’d hired to take care of the table? Outside smoking cigarettes, that’s where. Did it even matter? When the last guest left, maybe she’d scramble herself some eggs.
Forty minutes to go. Two thousand four hundred seconds. What she should do was go to the sleigh, pretend her watch was fast, and start handing out the presents and the bonus checks. There were expensive token gifts for the other guests, so they wouldn’t feel left out. Boy/girl gifts. Tomorrow it would be all over TMZ, Page Six, and anywhere else the gossips gathered. It was all part of playing the game.
Amy moved closer to the sleigh, touched her secretary’s arm, and whispered. Word spread, and the guests started to mince their way toward the sleigh.
Twenty minutes later it was all over, and she was standing at the door wishing the last guest a Merry Christmas. Two weeks early, the last guest pointed out. “But then, my dear, you always were ahead of the curve.” Amy forced a smile and stood in the open doorway until the last car pulled away from the driveway. The valet boys waved and walked down the driveway.
Amy turned to go inside when she looked at her oversize magnificent front door. She loved everything about the house, but the front door was special. She’d had it made of mahogany and gone to great lengths to find a lumber mill to round it out so that it looked like a cathedral door. Anytime she had been interviewed at home, the reporters had taken pictures of her front door. A memory. She was going to miss it. Her eyes burned when she looked at the huge silver bells attached to a glorious red satin bow. The bells were hammered silver, specially made. The tone was so pure, so melodious, it always brought tears to her eyes when they rang. Another memory. Maybe she’d take the bells with her.
Amy closed the huge door and locked it. Now she could relax. First, though, she walked about, turning off lights. The buffet table had been cleared and carried away. There was still noise in the kitchen, but she ignored it. She kicked off her heels and made her way to the sofa. She sat down, leaned back, and closed her eyes. It took a full minute to realize her headache was finally gone.
The multicolored lights on the artificial tree winked at her. How pretty it looked in the dim light of the great room. In broad daylight it looked like just what it was—a fake tree with a bunch of junk hanging off it.
As a child, back home in Pennsylvania, there had always been a floor-to-ceiling live tree that scented the entire house. Until that fateful Christmas when she was fourteen and allowed to go to the mall alone. Three days before Christmas, she’d gone to the mall with two of her friends. An hour into her shopping the police had come for her to tell her a gas explosion had rocked their house and killed her parents.
The days afterward were still a blur. She knew she’d gone to her parents’ funeral, knew she stayed at her friend Katie’s house until her aunt Flo, a writer of travelogues, could be found. A week later she’d been located in Madrid, Spain. She’d rushed home, swooped Amy into her arms, then swooped her out to California, where Amy had lived ever since.
There had been money, lots and lots of money that her aunt Flo invested for her. Huge insurance policies added to her robust nest egg. And the house was hers, too. The town had pitched in to repair the damage from the explosion, then closed up the house. Flo paid the taxes every year and said from time to time that they would go back, but they never did. Neighbors mowed the lawn in the summer and shoveled the snow in the winter. Kind people, caring people who had loved her parents. Flo said people in small towns looked out for one another. Amy believed it.
She’d cried a lot back then because she missed her parents. Not that Flo wasn’t a wonderful substitute. She was, but it wasn’t the same as having a real mom. Flo had enrolled her in everything there was to enroll in—gymnastics, soccer, choir, art classes, music classes, the drama club—everything to keep her hours full. But at night, when