Page 15 of Faking the Pass
Then his expression brightened, and he delved a hand into one pocket, pulling out a keyring.
“I’ve got an idea for you—somewhere you can goanda way to get you there so you won’t be followed. It’ll be perfect. Come on. This way.”
He walked at a rapid pace, leading me farther down the underground hallway, past the dressing room and a roped off wine cellar and several closed doors, stopping at the very end.
“This exit comes out under the Bluff Walk and leads to the mansion’s boat house. It was used back during the Prohibition Era for receiving contraband alcohol deliveries from ocean steamers.”
Sorting through the keys, Wilder removed one from the collection and held it out to me.
“There’s a seaside cottage just around the bend from the mansion, and a dinghy in the boathouse,” he said. “It’s got an outboard motor. I’ll start it up for you, and you can take the boat around to the cottage without the paparazzi seeing you. You can stay there a few days and lie low until the furor dies down. Then we’ll work on getting you back to the West Coast.”
I took the key, closing my hand around it. “The cottage is empty? Is it yours?”
“No, but it’s… a family property. No one will be using it for a couple weeks, so you can stay as long as it takes. It’ll be perfect.”
He nodded with enthusiasm and opened the door for me. A cool ocean breeze rushed over me, lifting my veil like an airy flag and rustling my skirts. I shivered from the abrupt contrast in temperature, but the fresh air felt good.
It felt like freedom.
Waves crashed against the rocks supporting the boat house, a small but sturdy structure tucked against the base of the cliff. Wilder and I took the walkway out to it and went inside.
It housed a gorgeous vintage speedboat, which I’d have no hope of piloting, and a much smaller boat.
Wilder helped me into it, encouraging me to put on the lifejacket, which I did. He gave me directions to the cottage and described it in detail before giving me some quick instruction on steering the dinghy.
It was pretty simple, and I’d piloted one a few times in high school, puttering around Eastport Bay Harbor in a friend’s small boat. Far less scary than facing the paparazzi.
“Stay right along the coastline,” Wilder said. “The house is out at the end of a point—you can’t miss it. You should only need to hunker down there a day or two. My company’s worked a few other high profile weddings here in town. The paparazzi disappear like roaches when a light’s turned on as soon as their ‘target’ leaves town. We’ll put out a story that you’re gone, maybe hint that you left on a yacht, and when the dust settles, we can get you to the airport and on a plane back to L.A..”
“How do you know they won’t find me at the cottage?” I asked. “Eastport Bay’s a pretty small town. People talk.”
“This place is set back from the road. Very private,” Wilder said. “You can’t even see the house from Atlantic Avenue. It’s accessible only by boat or a twisty, gated drive. You won’t be disturbed there. You can rest up, call your friends, do whatever you need to do in peace.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Peace was all I wanted at this point. A remote seaside cottage all alone for a few days sounded like Heaven.
Wilder started the boat for me, then climbed back onto the dock. He raised his voice to be heard over the waves and the noise of the outboard motor.
“I’m heading to Providence for the Nauticals game right after I finish here, but when I get back to town, I’ll see about retrieving your luggage from the hotel and getting it to you.”
“Thank you. You have saved my life.”
Well, maybe not my life, but he’d certainly preserved my dignity.
“I don’t understand why you’d do all this for a stranger, but I’m grateful,” I said.
“Nah, not a stranger.” Wilder offered a smile and a lifted hand as he turned to walk back to the mansion. “A family friend. And that’s what friends are for.”
Waving goodbye to him, I piloted the dinghy through the boat house’s open entrance and toward the safe haven where I planned to sleep for days, hunker down and lick my wounds, and rethink my entire life.
After the choice I’d made today, I’d probably be starting it over from scratch.
Chapter 4
Beauty Sleep
Presley
