“Mom!” Holy hell, did Charlotte Scott just curse? To her daughter?
“Listen,” she says, sounding all distracted, as if she's lost last year's invoices, “I've got to run. Lots to do. Love ya. Bye!”
My mouth drops open and I just look at the disconnected phone in my hand. Mom? Why was she acting so freaky? And why had I answered in the first place? Was some deep recess in my heart longing to find sanctuary back in my old bedroom at 411 Stanton Lane?
How stupid.
I couldn't really go back there. I mean, I couldn't get anything done from back there. And what if I brought Ray? He and Charlotte would be gone in a flash to buy crockery and get mani-pedis.
No, I have to stay in Los Angeles. In my life. I just need to learn to hide in plain sight. And I really have to figure out how to hide from myself.
Chapter 70
JACKSON SCOTT
He tossed another shirt into the open canvas suitcase.
It was time. Charlotte was a hell of a woman to be married to. She had been for the past thirty-seven years. But she always thought she knew what was best. This time, though, it had to be his decision. He had to do this.
Charlotte didn't even know yet that he was packing, getting ready to go. But she'd been so troubled lately. And Jackson knew better than to poke her with any kind of a stick when she was wrestling with a problem. And Lola was the problem.
Lola had always been THE problem for Charlotte.
In the very beginning, Charlotte had been enamored of Lola. But then she became angry. At first, Charlotte's animosity toward her own daughter had just slid along like an undercurrent, one that Jackson would see flash to the surface sometimes. But as Lola grew up, Charlotte began to wage some epic kind of secret war. Lola never seemed sure just what she'd done wrong. But Jackson had always been there for her, quietly waiting in the wings. But damn if his little girl hadn't always come out fighting like a coyote.
Jackson chuckled as he tossed folded socks into the bag. For a few years, there, life with Lola and Charlotte had been like a getting caught in a grudge match between Scarlett O'Hara and Maggie the Cat.
Until suddenly everything froze over. Lola had completed two years of college. Completed? Hell, Lola had been tearing down the ivy and reconfiguring it in her name. And then IT happened. For a long time Jackson hadn't known what IT was. And he still didn't entirely understand. Those ultrasound films he'd found—that couldn't be the whole story. It just couldn't.
What had been going on back then? Things had been so tense and silent. Charlotte had even started freezing him out.
Jackson remembered how he'd hoped that he and his wife could find their way back to each other once Colin was off to college.
But it hadn't been like that at all.
No. Before Jackson could instigate a frenzied rush of renewed love, Charlotte had bombarded him with The Divorce Papers. As soon as Colin left for school, Charlotte had slapped them down in front of him. She hadn't dropped hints. She hadn't threatened. She'd FILED. Jackson shuddered, still remembering so viscerally how his very breath had seized up when she'd thrown down the gauntlet.
“Split down the middle,” she'd said. “Fifty-fifty.”
Jackson had looked up at her, feeling like he was having a heart attack.
“All they require,” she'd said, voice icy, face stony, “is your signature.”
He knew the fear must have been thrashing around in his wild eyes.
Charlotte had lifted a hint of one brow, smiling just a bit. “And mine.”
“What?” he'd finally spluttered.
“I haven't signed them yet,” she'd said softly, just before her face hardened again. “But I'm ready to.”
Jackson had shot up from where he was sitting at his desk. “Tell me what you want, Charlotte. I'll do anything.”
“I want the life I've been denying myself from the day I said I'd marry you.”
And out it had all tumbled. Her years of anger, frustration, hostility—all masked with slathered-on honey.
Well, she hadn't exactly masked her fury from Jackson. She'd taken it out on him in the bedroom. The woman had been such a wildcat that she'd held him spellbound for twenty-five years. And he'd been too busy loving every second of it to ever question where all the ire came from. But she'd told him, in no uncertain terms, the day after Colin left. All her glorious ambitions stifled into the life of his perfect consort.
“I'll quit my job,” he'd said. “I'll be here for you 24/7 if that's what you want. I'll be your girl Friday, helping you in whatever way you need to get to the top of your profession.” Because that's what she'd wanted—to launch her career and build her own business.
“I don't need your help with my career,” she'd snapped. “But … if you'll take over laundry, cooking, shopping, errands, taking care of the house, keeping track of the kids, our social calendar, and anything else not related to my career but a part of our lives, that would be a start.”
He hadn't quit his job. But he'd taken—no, he'd asked for—a huge demotion. And right when he'd been on the pinnacle of getting the promotion that would have solidified him as the company's next president-apparent. But he hadn't cared. Or thought twice about what he was giving up. Because he hadn't been giving up anything. He was still doing work that galvanized him, regardless of the smaller scale. And first and foremost, he still had Charlotte. And she loved him. And he'd never been ashamed of what he'd done or tried to hide it.
Jackson sighed as he zipped up the small canvas suitcase. He had been insanely content with his dynamo Charlotte for the past fifteen years. He loved watching his wife blossom and become mighty, trusted, and revered.
But she hadn't been as happy.
Because of Lola. There had always been a dark, unbridgeable chasm between the two women he loved more than anything.
He took the case and turned out the bedroom light as he left the room. He made his way through the hallway and down the stairs, turning off lights as he went. He'd never said anything to Charlotte. Never gave any advice. Never offered a shoulder to cry on. That would be too much like acknowledging that she had something to cry about. And Jackson—the devil-may-care rascal who'd settled down with the most divine goddess in town—was damn careful not to come even the littlest bit close to questioning or insulting Charlotte's strength, power, or control.
But it could not go on any longer.
Packing his bag and taking this step felt right. Yes. What he was about to do was the best thing, no question. The war Charlotte had been raging against Lola had to stop. And Lola had to win. It was the only way.
He walked out of the darkness of the hallway into the brightness of the kitchen where Charlotte clicked busily away at the computer. She looked over at him distractedly, then … silence.
Her fingers stilled and she turned fully towards him. She stood up. “Jackson?” She looked at the suitcase, then back to him. “What are you doing?”
“I'm coming with you,” he said.
So fast he didn't even have time to brace himself, she was on him and hugging him hard. “Jackson,” she whispered as they teetered.
He steadied them both and hugged her back just as fiercely.
She pulled out of the hug, her blue eyes wet with tears. “Jackson,” she said. “I love you so much for saying that. For doing this—for packing and being ready and there for me. But no. Please, Jackson, let me go by myself. I need to do this, one on one, with Lola.”
Jackson's lips parted. She had asked him to let her go. Asked him.
But still, he rallied. He was not going to give up so easily. “Charlotte, Lola is a mighty woman who has accomplished great things on a very tough playing field. But she is hurting. And she is my daughter.”
Charlotte nodded. Then she took a deep breath. “I know. But it is my mistake. My fault. Mine.”
Jackson could feel himself getting pulled in by the blue steel of her gaze.
“Lola …” Charlotte continued. “I'm not sure what's going on, but I have an
idea. She doesn't know how to love. Or she doesn't know how to deal with pain. Something … but whatever it is, it's on me. I am the one who hurt her. Who hurts her. I have to make this right.”
Jackson swallowed and put down his suitcase. Charlotte Annabelle Ewing Scott had just admitted to being in the wrong. He took her hands in his and kissed her knuckles. “Godspeed,” he said. “And may the force be with you.”
Chapter 71
LOLA
The second I open the front door, I know something is wrong. Very wrong. Or very right? Could Arlen …?
“Hello?” I call tentatively, slipping into somewhat of a Tae Kwon Do fighting stance.
“Yoo-hoo!” A voice trills back.
Charlotte?! Holy mother of God! That's IT. Way too many people have keys to my house.
I tiptoe through the hallway to the kitchen where I force myself to stop on the threshold. There she is in shorts and a roomy white off-the-shoulder tee, bustling around the kitchen making something that smells so damn good. My throat gets rock hard and tears burn behind my eyes. “Mom?”
She glances up at me as she … bastes a turkey?
“Hi, hon,” she says and goes back to basting. “I bought a ton of Pepsi and filled the fridge, so help yourself. And I moved the couch in here because I remember how much you like to just crash like a fallen tree as soon as you come in the door. And if you crash here, we can spend time together.”
I grab a soda and sink into the couch. “Mom? What are you doing here? Now is not a great time—”
“Lola,” she says, waving me off. “I am sixty years old and run a very successful business. I can survive in Los Angeles for a few days without your chaperoning me to Mann's Chinese Theatre and Disneyland.” A strand of blonde falls out of her ponytail and into her face. She tucks it behind her ear just before she mitts up and puts the turkey back in the oven.
“Okay. Um, why are you here?”
“Because my little girl is sad.”
Two big fat tears roll down my cheeks, but I ignore them. “No, I'm not.”
Mom doesn't even look at me as she bustles about, preparing freshly cut yams. I know her averting her eyes is her way of giving me privacy of a sort, but I refuse to cave to her kindness. I take a swig of Pepsi and feel better as it burns its way down my gullet.
She pops a raw chunk of yam into her mouth, washes it down with a sip of white zinfandel, then clears her throat. “I'm here to talk about Arlen.”
I shoot to my feet. “What?”
But she doesn't react. She leans back against the counter and swirls the wine in her glass.
“Lola,” she begins, “you've been getting pretty whackadoodle over the phone all summer, and I put it all down to the show. Your dream come true. Maybe it was harder than you thought, or really nerve-wracking, or not as much fun as you thought it would be … it could have been so many things. But now you're sad. And I've never had these vibes from you your whole adult life. You said it wasn't the show, so I started investigating.”
“What?! We spoke on the phone the day before yesterday. And you hired a P.I.?”
“Hardly,” she says as a buzzer goes off. She pushes herself away from the counter and slides the most divine looking pan of cornbread out of the top rack of the oven. “I just went on the internet.”
“The internet?!”
“Yes, Lola. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. You're not the only brainy one in the family, you know.”
“I'm pretty sure I am, because you don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know that you started going off the rails this summer, that time I called you just after Francine's daughter Justine tried frosting her hair. Frosting! Like it's 1976! Anyway, that was just a few days after that picture came out, the one of Wendy and Arlen. And then there were all Wendy's hints to the media, and that ridiculous story about how Arlen was a handyman working on Wendy's sister's lake house and that's how she discovered him.”
“Ridiculous?”
“Lola,” my mom says, leveling a look at me, “you're the one who was having your house renovated. And why would Wendy Hunter drive all the way up to Lake Arrowhead to check out how her sister's house repairs were going?”
“Wendy is a nut,” I say. “All actresses are. She likes to think she knows everything about everything and she's in control.”
“Really? And is she? In control? Of everything?”
“Stop it, Mom!” I stride across the kitchen and back again. “Where do you even get off talking to me like this? You freaking ignore me for fifteen years and now, NOW that you think there might be a MAN in the picture, you come riding to the rescue to make sure I don't screw it all up? To what end? You know you're never going to get grandchildren out of this deal.”
My mom starts slicing the cornbread. “To the end that I want you to be happy. Truly happy, Lola.”
“And the only way for that to happen is with a man, right?”
“Only now because you've found one and something's happened to make you sad.”
“I don't believe what I'm hearing! You've been a bitch to me my whole life and now—”
“That's because I was jealous.”
“WHAT?”
“Jealous,” Charlotte says again. “And so resentful.”
“Jealous?”
“Lola, do you have any idea what it was like to be me? Like you, I was young, gorgeous, and brilliant. And like you, I wanted to take on the world. I'd graduated at the top of my class, I had a sparkling degree in architectural design … but I got married. And everyone said what a beautiful home I would make with that degree of mine, like it was the best accessory a young bride could hope to have. It would be like if, with all your amazing writing talent, everyone in your life was telling you what great dinner invitations and Christmas cards you could write to your husband's business colleagues. How you could be such a social boon to his amazing life and to your place as a couple in the upper echelons of the community.”
“But Mom,” I say, pushing away the images she was conjuring, “that was your choice. To get married, to make a home, not to get a job or have a career.”
“I know. And do you think knowing that I should have been brave, and that I wasn't, makes it any easier?”
“So you blamed me?”
“No, no, never blamed you. But I took it out on you.”
“No fucking kidding!”
“Lola,” she croons, “I named you Lola, don't you see? I wanted you to be strong and sassy and independent. Not stuck, like me and my traditional, matronly name.”
“So what are you saying? You tried to raise me to be strong so you could hit me harder?”
“No! I'm not a monster!”
“Really?”
“Lola,” she sighs, “I raised you to be the woman I wasn't strong enough to be. I couldn't raise you any other way. But even as I did it, I resented you.”
“Wait a minute! What do you mean you raised me to be Supergirl? You were always going on and on about the wonders of being a woman and getting married and having kids!”
“I know,” she concedes, bolting back another hit of wine. “I had some real Jekyll and Hyde shit going on.”
All these words rushing with such force between me and my mom, and suddenly, the real impact of what they all mean starts to sock into me.
“None of it was my fault , mom. And you didn't like me.”
“Of course I like you. And I love you. And I'm proud of you.”
“And you were so cold to me when I found out … found out ...”
“I was so mad,” she said. “I told myself that I was angry with you for the way you just threw it in my face, like you had gotten the last laugh.”
I nod slowly. “I know,” I say, remembering how triumphant I'd felt. Back then, I'd really thought I HAD gotten the last laugh.
She looks right at me. “We both knew the truth. You would never feel all the pressures that I had—the pressure to settle down and be a mom.” She pushes a st
rand of hair out of my eyes. “You knew how free you were to blaze your way across the world. And that's exactly what you did.”
I look back at her. “Well, it's finally all caught up to me, Mom. Hope you're happy.”
I turn and head out the front door. I'm in my car and zooming down Los Feliz before I even fully register that I've left. I have no idea where I'm going, but I know I want food.
Chapter 72
LOLA
At midnight I decide to head home. With any luck, Mommie Dearest will have high-tailed it back to Charleston with her suitcase full of wire hangers. And if not, I can at least depend on jet lag to put the shrew out of commission. I drive through the gate and up the driveway as gently as I can, hoping I don't wake her if she's still here.
When I get in the house, all is quiet, but lights burn low in the hallway and back in the kitchen. Is she still around? I honestly can't tell. I feel like I should be able to sense her, the way Daphne always gets felled by a migraine whenever Lilith comes to town. But I can't sense any dark, muddy presence. But I can't not sense it, either. Oh, hell! I'll just go up to the guest room and look, for Pete's sake!
Then I hear a scream and I grip the banister as my heart thuds me right off balance. It came from upstairs and … outside? “Mom?!”
“Lola! Help! I'm on the roof and I'm stuck!”
I go charging up the stairs.
“What are you doing on the roof?” I bolt into the guest room where one window gapes open. I stick my head out and crane my neck this way and that.
“I was trying to chase off a raccoon,” she yells. “I couldn't sleep with all that noise.”
“Mom, the raccoon's name is Athena and she lives here and you don't. You didn't hurt her, did you?”
I don't see my mom but right about now I don't care if she falls.
“How do you know it's a girl?” she calls with enough franticness in her voice that I wonder why she's bothering to ask.
“Because a few months ago she had a litter of three little raccoons. Mom, where are you?”
Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2) Page 21
