Picture Perfect by Jodi Picoult

spotlights. It had been built with ninety-two plate-glass windows, strategically located for eastern, western, and overhead exposure so that no matter where you were, the sun placed you center stage. Alex stood in front of a wall of glass, beautifully backlit, running his thumb over the edge of an oval inlaid maple box. “You got this in Lyons, I think,” he said to Cassie. She was sitting in a love seat the color of a blush, and when he sank to the floor in front of her, grasping her hand, she couldn’t help but gasp. It was like having the character spring off the movie screen, suddenly flesh and blood.
    It was an odd feeling, seeing a stranger a few feet in front of you and knowing that you had shared his bowl of cereal, warmed your feet against his calves, traded him your whispers in a soft, mussed bed. Cassie wished she could throw herself into the charade, but she could not. Alex was the actor, not her, and she was painfully aware of the shifting zone that moved with her, blue and magnetic, forcing a distance between them even when they touched.
    Alex sighed. “You’re not going to start acting like I’m larger than life, are you?” he said. “You never did before.”
    Cassie gave him a half-smile. She had been quiet on purpose, figuring the less she said, the less of a fool she’d make of herself. “This takes a little getting used to,” she said. She glanced at the white alenç on curtains, the pickled-wood coffee table, the pink marble sink of the wet bar.
    Alex leaned close to brush a kiss against her forehead, and she couldn’t help it, she stiffened. Since Alex had claimed her at the station, he hadn’t hesitated to touch her. It was ridiculous, really, to feel as skittish as she would on a blind date, since Alex had said they’d been married for three whole years. Still, she couldn’t seem to see herself in the day-to-day routine of a marriage. Instead her mind kept flashing through images she knew she’d been fed by the media: Alex Rivers at a black-tie benefit for AIDS research, Alex Rivers accepting a Golden Globe award, Alex Rivers juggling coconuts during a break on the set of Robinson Crusoe .
    Suddenly he stood up, bathed in sunlight, and Cassie lost track of her thoughts. She did not remember Alex, she did not feel comfortable around him, but she was fascinated by him. The silver shine of his eyes, the proud line of his jaw, the muscles corded in his neck, all called to her. She studied him as she would Michelangelo’s David: fluid, beautiful, but far too steeped in his own perfection to be singled out for her.
    â€œIt’s a good thing we came here,” Alex said. “If you’re overwhelmed by the apartment, I can’t imagine what you’d think of the house.”
    On the way to the Malibu Colony, Alex had tried to jar Cassie’s memory with descriptions of their three homes: the house in Bel-Air, the apartment in Malibu, and the ranch just outside of Aspen, Colorado. He said that they spent most of their time at the house, but that Cassie had always preferred the apartment because when they were married she’d redecorated it.
    â€œWhat’s it like?” she had pressed, eager for some detail that would shake free her past.
    Alex had just shrugged. “It’s little,” he said.
    But when the Range Rover pulled up to the towering whitewashed building, Cassie had stared at the rounded edges, the princess’s turrets, the tiers and tiers. The last thing it was was little . “It looks like a castle,” she had breathed, and Alex had thrown his arms around her. “That’s what you said the first time you saw it,” he’d said.
    â€œCassie?” She jumped now at the sound of her name. She hadn’t even heard the telephone ring, but Alex was holding the receiver, mouthpiece covered. “Herb says he won’t sleep until he sees that you’re all right.” He