“I’m going back to my hotel.” She grabs my hand and shakes it like we’re at a business meeting. “It’s been a long day, as you can imagine. My name is Tammy. Well, I guess you know that. But Jamison is my last name, and this is where you can reach me if you want further contact.” She hands me a wrinkled sheet of hotel stationery with her information scrawled across it. “I wanted to meet you for so long, but especially before your thirtieth birthday. Neither one of us is getting any younger, you know.” She tries to grin, but it looks more like a grimace. I just stare at her.
“No,” I whisper. “We’re not.”
“I want to give you time to digest all of this. You’re a mighty beautiful girl. Your grandmother tells me you’re a fabulous designer, and that you have a master’s degree from Stanford. I couldn’t be more proud of you, Lillian.” She runs her hand along my cheek and quickly heads for the door as if I’m following her with a meat cleaver.
I want to say something, but my mouth doesn’t work. I watch her leave. I turn and snuggle into Max’s chest, desperately needing to be hugged. She didn’t hug me. My mother didn’t even hug me. I feel Max’s mouth beside my ear, and his breath is warm against my hair. “You are a beautiful girl,” he whispers.
“Ever the drama queen, that Tammy,” Nana says, and I quickly pull away from Max.
“What did you say?” I asked in a daze, trying to focus on my Nana.
“It’s all about her. She’s got a daughter with a master’s from Stanford and her own design business, and what does she do? Calls you home from the spa, stays five minutes, and makes it all about her: Her family. Her husband. I don’t know what I expected from a woman who would abandon her own child.”
My jaw muscles tighten. “But I have siblings, Nana. That’s exciting.”
Nana smiles a little then and nods her head, “So you do, Lilly. Maybe you’ll get to meet them someday.” She goes back to cleaning, and I know she’s hurt. My grandmother has always been harsh with me, but harsher still on anyone who would dare hurt me. She wanted the best from me, and I think she’s missing the actual warmth gene, but as for consistency? There’s no one like my Nana. She’d come back from the grave to help me if she could.
“Do they actually have planes that go to the middle states?” I wink at her, and she really smiles then. It’s a small gesture, just between us, that says: Everything is okay, Nana. You are my one and only mother. And you are still my daughter—fashion dreams and all.
“Now, I’ve got bingo tonight.” Nana breaks up the sentimental moment and begins bustling around. “You okay? Madeline is picking me up in a few minutes, and there’s leftover pasta in here,” she bangs the fridge, “if you and Max are hungry. You do know how to use a microwave?”
“I’m fine, Nana.” And surprisingly, I am. I have a birth-mother. But if the truth is told, I’m more interested at this moment in what’s going on with this quiet TV reporter in front of me. If only because his warm whisper was just what I needed a few seconds ago, and I’m wondering exactly how he knew that.
But back to my birthmother: she has a family. Wow! I sort of imagined her living on the street somewhere, crushed by the terrible mistake she’d made so many years ago, you know? Someone sort of drinking out of a paper bag and all. Well, I guess we know where the drama queen comes from. Emotionally, she seemed pretty detached, which I guess makes sense. She doesn’t know me from Adam, but it still rubs me raw. I guess I hoped for something a little more maternal. Like that there would be this deep emotional bond that couldn’t be broken by time or distance. But yeah, didn’t really feel it. You know, maybe she actually felt bad for abandoning me as a baby. Is that too much to ask? I start to feel anger begin to build, before I remember—like the Bible says—that I can capture every thought. I struggle but stamp it down.
I bite my lip and look into Max’s eyes. He smiles. Not with his lips, but with his eyes. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the fascination with Stuart Surrey completely evaporates from my mind, taking the momentary fixation on Nate Goddard with it. My attention is fully focused on Max. He was the one who was here for me. Just like Nana.
See, my Nana and I have never had a man around, and we did okay. But that didn’t stop me from wanting one of my own. I have the sappy dream of the white picket fence and Mr. Right bringing flowers home as he hops over the little fence, and I yell, “Honey, watch the pansies!” But inside, I’m laughing at his curious ways and the flowers in his hands, while the children gather at my feet to welcome their dad home. It’s a bad 1950s sitcom. I know that, but it doesn’t stop the dream.
There’s this weird thing that happens when your mother doesn’t care enough to raise you, a sort of deep-rooted insecurity that no one will ever care enough to stick around. There’s this fear that you’re not good enough to keep, not special enough for anyone to want you that way. But the yearning for it never goes away.
“Lilly, did you hear me?” Nana asks.
“Yes,” I say, still looking at Max. “Leftover pasta in the fridge. Are you hungry, Max?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Ravenous,” he says with a sideways grin. “Why don’t we take it upstairs, so we can see the city lights while we eat?”
“It’s not dark out,” I remind him.
“It will be,” he whispers.
Nana plops the cold bowl of pasta in my hands, which pulls me out of my thoughts. “Ah! That’s cold!”
“I taught her to cook, Max. Don’t let her play dumb with you. Lilly, make him a vegetable and some French bread to go with that. There’s starter for the dough on the counter.”
“French bread takes for—” I clutch the bowl of pasta tightly. “How about if I take your Jaguar to get some bread at the store?” Because I could really get used to driving a little horsepower without the need for disinfectant spray.
“I’m in no hurry. Homemade bread sounds divine, and I’ll wait. Where do I have to go?” He looks down at his leg. There’s a horn blaring now for Nana.
“Bake the man some bread,” she barks. “It’s good practice for you. Someday a man’s going to want you to cook for him, and Max is good practice. He likes everything.” She grabs her coat and her purse, and she slams the door behind her.
“Yeah, someday a man’s going to want you to cook for him,” Max grins.
I slap his arm. “I’ll have you know, I have—”
“I know, you have a degree in finance. From Stanford, no less! But I’ll be more impressed if you can bake bread like your grandmother.” Max winks. “And do the laundry without turning my shorts pink.”
“Chauvinist!” I roll my eyes. I’m really not in the mood to cook anyone’s dinner. I want to go home and wallow in the fact that my mother, the woman I’ve dreamt of every day of my life, just breezed in and out of my life again. Leaving me standing here alone and feeling disoriented. Well, alone except for Max, who interrupts my thoughts again.
“Are you all right?” He meets my eyes once more.
“I am, I think. But that was sort of weird, wasn’t it? That she had me come all that way home for a five-minute introduction to her family? I’ve imagined this day my whole life, and that so wasn’t it. I thought I’d find the reason for my hair, hear why she had to leave me. I wanted to hear about my dad from her point of view.”
“She was in here for some time with your Nana. Maybe she’d reached her limit. Or maybe just seeing how gorgeous and accomplished her daughter was, she felt inadequate.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That must have been it.”
“I don’t imagine being here with Mildred was easy on her.”
“Good point. Still, I would think I’d actually want to know what my daughter loved, what her dreams are, what kind of dresses she designed.”
“You will know all those things, because you will raise your daughter. Am I right?”
I nod. “Well, if I ever procreate at all. The world can probably do without another generation of my hair.”
Max pulls at the tip
s of my bangs. “I love your hair. It’s whimsical and fun, just like you. So, are you making me bread?” Max is looking straight into my eyes again, and I’ll admit his gaze unnerves me. I’m a bundle of nerves after this day: death, a dumpster, a mother who doesn’t live in a dumpster, siblings, and a man who likes my hair. I mean, it would be a lot for an average year in my life.
I notice, not for the first time, that Max has very little hair. If he lost the glasses and got a cowboy hat, he’d look strikingly like Tim McGraw with a lighter goatee. He’d be handsome if I were into the slight, intellectual type who wastes his talent on television reviews. But I’m not; and I can’t trust my emotions anyway. Not today. Less than an hour ago, I thought I was falling for a man who only wanted to be my friend—and you know, getting dumped didn’t sound any better with an English accent. Tim McGraw is awfully good-looking. He makes me almost want to like country music.
“But I don’t like country music!” I exclaim, out loud, and with entirely too much force.
“Okay.” Max shrugs. “And this matters to me, because—? I’m not planning to serenade you with Johnny Cash.”
“I’ll make you dinner.” I point at his chest. “But there’s nothing going on here, all right?”
“Did I say there was?” Max raises his eyebrows at me.
“Come on, all that talk about the city lights? I remember the submarine race offers when I was in school. I may be naïve, but I’m not completely dense.”
“The last time you were at my house, you really berated me for keeping all the curtains shut. I’ve heard you complain that you have no windows, so I just thought I’d share mine. That’s all.”
“And you’re in no hurry for dinner?” I say breathily, like he had. “What was that about?”
“I’m not in any hurry.” Max grabs his crutch and hobbles toward the door, looking back at me. “Why are you so suspicious of everything, Lilly? What do you think I would have to gain by hurting you?” He shakes his head. “You should know I’d never do anything to harm your Nana’s granddaughter.” He steps out the door and attempts to slam it behind him, except that his crutch gets caught. He pulls the crutch out and slams it again. Hard.
The way he looked at me, so hurt. Wounded, almost. Forgive me, Lord. Why do I have to be man poison? I put the spaghetti back in the refrigerator and remind myself that I have designing to do! Let Valeria come cook for him. I’ve wasted this entire day, missed the proverbial boat—not to mention my facial and massage—at the spa, reconnected with a mother who treated me like the bag boy at Safeway, gotten two dates completely canceled, and left my friends like toppled bowling pins in my angry wake. I’m definitely better with fabric.
But as I look into the fridge and see the dough starter, I’m reminded that I have no way home, and Max should eat. I can catch a cab anytime.
I reach for the dough, plop it on the bowl, gather what’s left of my self-respect, and open the door. Max is leaning against the wall. He smiles at me. “Are you ready to cook now?”
“I’m taking this home. I was waiting for my cab.” Total lie. I hope God has better things to do at the moment than listen, but I know He’s up there just shaking His head at me—again.
“You called a cab in that minute and a half?”
“I didn’t say I called one. I said I was waiting for one.”
“Well,” Max stares down the completely empty street, “I sure hope one just happens by for you.” He laughs.
“You think this is really funny, don’t you?”
“I don’t see what you have against making dinner for a fine Christian boy like me. One: I would appreciate dinner.” He holds up a finger. “I would like your company.” Two fingers. “I would provide you with a gorgeous view of the Golden Gate Bridge.” Three fingers. “All for a little warmed-up spaghetti and a fresh loaf of French bread. You’re a business woman, Lilly, and it’s a good deal. A solid investment.” He smiles, and his eyes just twinkle.
It is a good deal because I really don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to face Kim or Nate either. “I’ll come up and make your dinner, since you can’t get around very well, but then I’m going home. I should have never left my loft this weekend. I have work to do, dresses to make, a business to run.” But in my mind, I’m thinking, Will I ever see my mother again? Morgan’s lost her fiancé, and I’m not there to help her. What kind of friend am I? And why am I worried about making dinner for my Nana’s landlord? And underneath it all, the running mantra: I have bad hair that sealed my fate long ago in a galaxy far, far away.
“I appreciate that. You are a busy woman.” Max motions with his hand. “After you.” As I start up the stairs, he starts to whistle. “Ah, yes, the view is just fabulous from here.”
I whirl around and glare down at him. “What did you just say?”
His entire face fills with a slightly wicked grin. “The view from my place,” he says, all innocence. “It’s just incredible. Wait until you see it.”
“That better be what you meant.”
We climb the stairs, with Max actually doing pretty well for a leg that’s straight as a board. When we reach the top, I help him up the last step. “You made it.”
“We made it.” He stops in front of me. He towers over me. I always thought of Max as smaller in stature, but as he stands right here with me, I see that he’s not at all. I just thought he was because he seemed insignificant to my life, kind of like a hovering gnat. In reality, he’s probably nearly six feet, and he does look like Tim McGraw. This is not good. He moistens his lips.
“I need to get this spaghetti going,” I say nervously. I open up his door, and his place is like I’ve never seen it before. Yes, there’s a huge television screen, but the wall of windows, the expensive furniture, the house in the Marina. Selectively unobservant—that’s me! “What is it you really do for money, Max? Do you sell drugs?”
He laughs. “No, that would be your friend, Stuart.”
I whirl around. “How did you know Stuart was in pharmaceuticals? You know Stuart?”
“I go to church with him. And Caitlyn Kapsan. Haughty bunch, Lilly. You can do better.”
I feel my breath leave my body like a rogue wave rushing back out to sea. “Just never mind. You’re changing the subject. I asked you what you do for a living.”
“I write a newspaper column about what’s on TV. Maybe you’ve seen it?”
“You don’t own a house in the Marina with a journalist’s salary. And you offered to give me the money for my business. What do you do, Max? Tell me, or I’m not making dinner.” Granted, I know his parents own a hotel chain, but I want to hear it from his mouth. I want him to admit he’s been lying about living on his TV reporter salary and not taking anything from his wealthy parents.
“I’m an heir, Lilly. Like Prince Charles without the ears. Sound romantic?”
I shrug. “You could have said like Prince William. It has more oomph.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I’m confessing my sin of being wealthy.”
I slam the bowl down on the table. “It’s just that you lied by omission, Max. You made Nana and me believe you were this pathetic loser who does nothing but watch TV. You even got my Nana to help you watch TV so you could write a better column.”
“I never lied. I am a pathetic loser who does nothing but watch TV—oh, and occasionally climb into and fall out of air vents in my father’s hotel. Having money makes me no less pathetic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It makes you more pathetic.” What am I saying?
“Because I didn’t earn it? Well, you’ve got me there, pal. Thanks for the reminder.”
“No, you can’t help how you’re born. I know that more than anyone. The pathetic part is that you push away who you are.”
“Sort of like you straightening that hair?”
“How do you know I straighten my hair?”
“Your Nana has pictures of you since you were a baby—I know your secret. What is it y
ou have against men with money, Lilly? Are you afraid your degree in finance will go to waste if you find a rich man?”
“I don’t like money. I don’t like what it does to people,” I say, thinking in particular about Morgan’s father and Caitlyn Kapsan.
“What’s it done to me, Lilly?” He pulls open his shutters to reveal the Golden Gate Bridge over a crystal blue bay. “Got me a great view, right?”
“It has made you a liar. You pretended you had no idea who that was who dropped me off tonight, and you knew all along it was Caitlyn’s boyfriend. You told me some longwinded story about that drop-dead gorgeous Valeria, when she was really your girlfriend who dumped you. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie. Okay, it was a sin of omission, if you will. But she wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a woman after me for my money. You were right, okay? I should have known a twenty-year- old wasn’t interested in my mind or my heart, but I chose ignorance, okay? Feel better now?”
“Well, most men would have taken the bait, so why wouldn’t you? I can forgive you for that. You’re living here alone, having dinner with my Nana, of all people.”
“Lilly, really, what do you have against rich people?”
I think about this for a long time before I answer. It seems my life has always been missing what mattered at the time: jeans when they were in style and I had miniskirts; Jennifer Aniston hair when I looked like Bon Jovi; and Stanford money when I was in school on a government grant.
“Money ruins people. It takes away the essence of who they are, and covers it with a fancy house or a gown.” What am I saying? “Wait, I don’t believe that, Max. I don’t know what to believe.” I don’t even really know what I think. I just want to be away from my feelings. I just want to work on clothes and not have to deal with any of this. I want my mother to go away, I want my Nana to care what I want, and I want Max Schwartz to come clean and tell me who he really is inside. But as I gaze into his eyes, I wonder if that’s really what I want. Max is a straight shooter, and I’m just not sure I’m ready for his version of truth.
She's All That Page 21
