by Maggie Marr
“They were hers?”
“Yes. She never sent them to a publisher.”
“But all my friends had them. They loved them.”
“Gifts from your mother. Handmade for her friends’ children. She was thoughtful like that. Doing things for everyone else, never thinking of herself.” Marvin’s voice cracked. Mary Anne heard her father’s chest-racking sobs. It was disconcerting to hear him speak about Mitsy in the past tense, as though they were preparing for her funeral.
“Dad, I’m sure she’s fine.”
“I’ve been such a bad husband.”
“Dad, she loves you. I’m sure you just needed time as far as the separation—”
“Oh, Mary Anne, no. You don’t understand. I didn’t leave your mother, your mother left me.”
*
Mary Anne placed the phone in its cradle. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with her father and definitely the most emotional. Where would Mitsy go? Frugal to a fault (some people said cheap), Mitsy wouldn’t actually spend the money to stay at a hotel. She had to be with a friend. But Mary Anne knew Marvin and Michelle had spent the evening scouring Mitsy’s address book, which contained more than five hundred names (the Meyers’ annual Christmas letter went to each and every one), and Michelle had managed to get through most of the family and Mitsy’s closest friends. Perhaps an old college roommate? Someone she’d recently met? Mitsy didn’t have a cell phone; she didn’t own anything that remotely resembled an electronic gadget. Her bifocals were as “high tech” as Mitsy got.
Mary Anne had promised to call Marvin if she heard anything from Mitsy. He seemed convinced that Mary Anne would be the first family member to hear from her, but Mary Anne wasn’t so sure. They’d left on very unfriendly terms when Mitsy returned to Minnesota after her last visit, and they hadn’t spoken since. Another wave of guilt crested over Mary Anne. If only she’d returned her mother’s phone calls, maybe none of this would have happened. She could have talked Mitsy down, or at least convinced her to stay with Marvin. In her head Mary Anne replayed the most recent message that Mitsy had left on Mary Anne’s cell phone voice mail. It was two days old (Mitsy’s Tuesday call). Mary Anne couldn’t remember a trace of sadness or anger in her mother’s voice. No mention of marital strife or disappearing acts.
But today was Thursday. Maybe her dad was right; maybe she would hear first. Mitsy was a complete creature of habit, almost compulsively so. She never missed a Thursday call. Not when she was sick, not when she was busy, not even when she and Marvin went away on vacation. Mary Anne clutched her cell phone to her chest. Oh please, Mother, be predictable, Mary Anne thought. But it was already after ten in Minnesota, and Mary Anne usually called at nine-thirty. Maybe she’s out to dinner?
Mary Anne walked down the hall toward the kitchen, still clutching her phone to her chest. She wasn’t hungry, but she desperately wanted a glass of wine. She turned the corner to the kitchen and reflexively looked at the sink. And there, chopping carrots, was Mitsy.
“Hope you’re hungry, dear. I’m fixing grilled salmon and rosemary potatoes for dinner.”
“Mom?” Mary Anne cautiously walked toward the kitchen island where Mitsy stood slicing and dicing. Was it an apparition or really her mother?
“Yes, dear? Were you hoping I’d call?” Mitsy cocked an eyebrow and pointed the serrated knife toward the cell phone pressed against Mary Anne’s breasts.
“Dad just—”
“How is your father?” Mitsy asked, resuming her cutting.
“He’s—”
“Worried? Upset? A little lost?”
“And emotional.”
“Reeeally. Welcome to my world. Serves him right.” Mitsy thrust the knife through a carrot.
“Maybe you should call him.” Mary Anne cautiously held her cell phone out to her mother.
“No.”
Mary Anne looked at Mitsy. Who was this woman? A woman who made a list, packed her bags, hopped a flight to L.A., and left town without so much as a good-bye?
Mitsy looked over her bifocals. “I’m letting him stew one more night.” She slipped the already diced potatoes into the steamer on the stove.
Mary Anne sat on the stool at the kitchen island as Mitsy continued to julienne carrots.
“I thought we’d have gingered carrots, too. You like gingered carrots, if I remember correctly?”
“Uh, yes,” Mary Anne said, setting down her cell phone. Mitsy seemed calm. Preparing a meal was always her favorite way to relieve stress. Chopping seemed to be especially therapeutic if Mitsy was angry.
“So you know?” Mitsy asked. “Your father told you.” She cracked the knife through a large carrot.
Mary Anne nodded.
“I wanted to tell you in person. It didn’t seem fair to me that Michael and Michelle got the benefit of a family meeting while all you got was a phone call.”
“When did you get to L.A.?”
“Around three. I had the driver stop at the store on the way from the airport. That Gelson’s has everything. A little pricey, though. There’s a bottle of cabernet next to the sink. Why don’t you open it?”
Cabernet? Since when did Mitsy like cabernet? Zinfandel was the only wine Mary Anne ever saw Mitsy drink.
As if reading Mary Anne’s mind, Mitsy said. “Yes, dear, I do drink red wine. Zinfandel is for wimps.”
Mary Anne frowned as she picked up the bottle and inserted the corkscrew. Her whole world was upside down.
“You know, dear, you can’t blame yourself for your father’s and my marital problems.”
Mary Anne twisted the wine key deeper into the cabernet’s cork. “Why would I blame myself?” Mary Anne asked.
“Because it’s in your nature. You, my darling daughter, blame every bad thing on yourself. You’ve done it your entire life. Calling me back would not have changed this scenario. Nor would it have postponed it. I’m just sorry it took this long.”
Mary Anne pulled hard on the cork. It gave way with a large pop. She opened the cabinet and reached for wineglasses.
“No, dear, those are for white wine. You didn’t have any red-wine glasses—I noticed the last time I was here—so I picked some up for you. They’re behind you, on the counter next to the coffeemaker.”
Mary Anne turned, picked up a glass, and poured the cabernet.
“That’s enough. Can’t have the cook caught up in the sauce.” Mitsy giggled. “At least not until I’ve finished cooking the meal.” Mitsy swirled the wine in the glass and tilted it to her lips.
Mary Anne poured a second glass, more full than the first. She needed a large amount of alcohol to make it through the evening. Can you lace cabernet with vodka? She wondered.
“Is that stiff enough for you? I’m sure this evening is quite a shock,” Mitsy said. “Time to start the salmon.” She picked up a platter that held two fillets and headed to the back door. “Are you coming? Surely you aren’t going to drink alone?” she asked as she opened the screen door.
Mary Anne lifted her glass and wandered toward her mother. Then she quickly turned back and grabbed the bottle of cabernet.
“Good thinking, dear. There’s two more when we’re finished with that one.”
*
They dined outside under the stars. The meal, as always when Mitsy cooked, was impeccable. The remains of the food and two empty wine bottles littered the table between them. Mary Anne watched as Mitsy reached into her pockets and pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.
“Mother, what are those?”
“Cigarettes, dear. You’ve never seen them before?”
Mary Anne was horrified. She had listened to Mitsy lecture about the ill effects of smoking her entire adolescence.
“It’s an old habit of mine. From my college days. I haven’t had one in forever. Want one?” Mitsy put a cigarette to her lips and then held out the open pack to Mary Anne.
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Mary Anne said, standing. She reached across the table and lifted her mother’s
plate and then her own. “I’ll take these in.”
“There’s dessert if you want. Strawberry shortcake in the fridge,” Mitsy called after Mary Anne. “Dear, will you bring the other bottle of cabernet when you come back outside?”
Mary Anne set both plates in the kitchen sink. She hadn’t anticipated going back outside. But then, she hadn’t expected her parents to announce their separation, or her mother to show up at her house. Never mind Mitsy’s drinking and smoking. Mary Anne peered out the window above the sink toward her mother’s silhouette. The reflection of the pool lights and the candle on the table cast a glow around her mother. Their conversation over dinner had been mundane. Mitsy had posed questions about Mary Anne’s newest script and the chaos surrounding Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Neither of them had summoned the courage to address the white elephant standing to the side of the table.
How had it happened? When had Mitsy decided to leave? And why now, after all these years? Just when Marvin was talking about retiring next year. Mary Anne thought her parents would finally have time alone. Get to know each other again. And surely Marvin would end his affair with Nancy Macintosh. Mary Anne thought they’d finally travel together, split their time between Minnesota in the summer with the grandkids and someplace warm (preferably not Los Angeles, but perhaps Phoenix) during the winter months.
“Are you coming, dear?” Mitsy called. “I’m out of wine.”
Mary Anne walked out of the back door carrying the open bottle of cabernet. She poured some into Mitsy’s wineglass and then sat.
“So shall we discuss the obvious?” Mitsy asked, exhaling smoke. “Now, some of this will be uncomfortable for me, and a great deal of it will be uncomfortable for you. But I am here, and now, my dear, is the time to ask me any questions you might have. I am halfway loaded and completely relaxed.”
Mary Anne was petrified, as if she’d finally been offered the keys to the kingdom and suddenly didn’t know how to work the lock.
“Well, come on, dear. It’s getting late and I’m getting plowed. After this next glass, I can’t promise anything I say will make much sense.”
Mary Anne gave her mother a half smile. She wanted to know this woman. Not the Minnesota Mitsy whom Mary Anne thought was her mother throughout her life. But this Mitsy, the one who smoked and drank and said everything she thought, regardless of the impropriety.
“Okay, then,” Mary Anne said. “Let’s start with your writing.”
Chapter 27
Celeste Solange and Her Givenchy Spikes
Celeste looked stunning. Her expertly coiffed golden mane spread across her bare shoulders (she’d had a priority sitting with Jonathan, who’d come to the house for a color and cut, per Celeste’s request). Her personal makeup artist, Que, had completed her face immediately after Jonathan had finished styling her hair. She wore a low-cut Dior shirt that emphasized her perfect C cup breasts and tiny waist. Low-slung Armani pants that gave a tiny peek at her tummy and Givenchy spiked heels completed the look. Celeste was dewy, megastar perfection. She drove straight from home to Howard Abromawitz’s office.
Damien would be jealous. He’d be furious with himself for throwing their marriage away on that tramp Brie Ellison. Celeste would make sure of it. None of her preparation would be lost on him. A self-declared addict of female eye candy, Damien wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off of her. She’d even made sure to wear his favorite color, turquoise. He always said it accented the blue in her eyes.
Celeste enjoyed the attention as every head (both male and female) turned as she walked the short distance from the celebrity elevator in Howard’s office to the fishbowl conference room in the center of the suite. Howard’s paralegal escorted Celeste into the conference room and immediately started twisting the blinds, shutting out the rest of the office so everyone would stop staring. She didn’t realize that Celeste needed the attention, wanted that energy that strangers propelled toward her. Celeste fed off it, storing it, gearing up, preparing to do battle.
“Ms. Solange, Mr. Abromawitz will be right here,” the mousy-haired, middle-aged woman said. “His motions hearing ran a little long this morning. I apologize. May I get you something to drink?”
“Water, please.” Celeste perched in a chair at the middle of the conference room table.
“Flat or sparkling?”
“Flat is fine. But do you have lemon?”
“Of course. Let me get it for you. I’ll be right back.” The paralegal scurried from the room.
Celeste sighed. Serving Celeste Solange flat water with lemon was probably the highlight of the paralegal’s day. Maybe her week. She’d have something to tell her family and friends, who would eagerly pick apart every inch of what Celeste wore, what she said, even how she smelled. Celeste knew it would be like this; she overheard other women in Beverly Hills (when they didn’t realize the woman sitting next to them in a baseball cap and oversized sunglasses was one of the world’s biggest stars) talking about their random celebrity run-ins. The way they carried on, it was as if royalty had descended from their throne or perhaps a god from the heavens. Didn’t they realize she was just like everyone else?
Celeste heard a knock at the door and sighed. As if Howard’s staff needed permission to enter their own conference room.
“Yes,” she said. The paralegal tiptoed in, carrying a tray with flat water in a crystal glass and a plate full of freshly sliced lemon.
“I didn’t know if you wanted ice, so I left it out.” She set the tray down across from Celeste. “There’s ice in the other glass. In case you want it.”
“Thank you. Do you know what time it is?” Celeste asked. The woman glanced at her watch.
“Ten after. The other parties won’t be here for another twenty minutes, and Howard just pulled into the garage.” She backed toward the door.
“Great,” Celeste said, smiling. “Thanks again.” At least, Celeste hoped, this woman’s story would end on a positive note. She smiled the most beautiful smile and told me thanks again. She really is just like us. So sweet, so down to earth. That was the story Celeste wanted told. Not the catty She was such a bitch; who does she think she is? story. But after years of celebrity, Celeste had learned that it didn’t really matter how the star actually behaved; the story ultimately told was always from the prism of the teller.
Celeste had just finished squeezing the lemon into her water (she’d decided against the ice; it made her crowns ache) when Howard burst through the conference room door.
“Cici! My darling. You are absolutely breathtaking.”
Howard tossed the file marked Solange in front of Celeste and walked to the side table, grabbing a plastic bottle of water.
“I see you met Connie, my paralegal. She got you all squared away. My God, Celeste, how can a woman be so beautiful?” Howard sat in the chair next to her.
“Thank you, Howard.” Celeste leaned conspiratorially toward him. “You know I do have to try.”
“Try? I doubt it. You are a natural beauty, my love.”
Howard twisted open the top of the water bottle and took a swig.
“Now, are you nervous? Don’t be nervous. You shouldn’t be. This is just a settlement conference. No court reporters, no tape recorders. Just a dialogue between the parties—well, between their attorneys, to see if we can’t complete this thing without going to court.”
“What about the …” Celeste didn’t want to say it. She let her sentence drift away, raising both her eyebrows.
“Yes, that. I made one copy. Just one, mind you, and I messengered it to Janice Rosenblatt just last night. That and a copy of the birth certificate. Told her it was imperative that she watch it before the conference today.” Howard took another swig of water. “Of course, you know we have no idea where the DVD came from. You understand?”
Celeste nodded. She understood perfectly. Finally her prenup would be blown to bits. A thought that thrilled her. Not because of the money. She didn’t need the money (although who was she to turn up
her nose at a multimillion-dollar settlement), but she loved the idea of the tremendous pain it would cause Damien to part with so much of his precious currency. And (much like with his first wife, Amanda) for the simple fact that Damien couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
There was a knock on the conference room door, and the paralegal poked her head into the room.
“Howard, they’re here.”
“Great,” Howard said. “Send them in.” He leaned his head toward Celeste. “We should get their reaction to your directorial debut pretty quick.”
Howard stood as Damien and his lawyer, who looked like an attack dog straining at the leash, entered the room. Janice Rosenblatt was six-foot-one and an overpriced Doberman bitch, trained to maul any woman who dared to divorce one of her celebrity clients. She wore a very expensive yet manly pantsuit and carried a Coach briefcase and bag. Very no-nonsense. She had represented Damien in his divorce proceedings with Amanda. Celeste was surprised that Damien was using Janice again; she hadn’t gotten Damien a very good deal the last time.
Celeste looked at Damien. She felt indestructible. Bring it on, she thought as she sipped her water. Damien looked haggard and old. Older, perhaps, than the night just a few weeks before when Celeste and Bradford caught Brie Ellison’s carnal devouring of Damien on film.
“Howard.” Janice smiled as she sat in the chair across the table. “Ms. Solange.” She gave Celeste a viperous look.
Celeste nodded her head toward Janice, acknowledging her presence but not deigning to speak to her, then turned her attention back to Damien as he made his way to the seat across from her. Her heart fluttered. His paunch was bigger, his hair grayer, and he did, in fact, walk like a very old man. The unkempt cheater with the sad eyes sitting across from her was not the behemoth take-no-prisoners Hollywood producer she’d married little more than a year ago. That man had been obsessive and vain, going so far as to keep a lint brush and roller in the glove compartment of each of his seven cars. This rumpled and unshaven Damien looked as if he’d neither slept nor eaten in the last three days.
