“I’m not sure what to say.” Rorie shoved the paper back toward Rhonda.
“I didn’t want to be right, but I did warn you. This is what happens when you fall for a confused bisexual.” The smugness of Rhonda’s tone undermined her sympathetic expression. There were two things Rorie knew her friend thrived on: being right, and finding someone with a more pathetic love life than her own.
“There’s a perfectly innocent explanation, I’m sure.” But if she was so sure, why did her heart continue to thud as wildly as if she’d just run a race?
After Rhonda had gone, Rorie racked her brain for exactly what that perfectly innocent explanation could be. It wasn’t unusual for cast members to go out together after work. Only, why is he touching her face? Jealousy bubbled up inside her at how intimate the gesture seemed. But then it occurred to her that Cecily and Brad were sitting on the same side of the table. People enjoying romantic dinners didn’t usually do that. This was an important clue that suggested that they were not alone on this date.
A clue? Rorie stopped herself, played her thoughts back through her head like a recording, and felt ridiculous. She didn’t have to go all Nancy Drew about it. Of course they’re not on a date! No clues were needed to prove what she already knew about Cecily: that she was faithful and loved Rorie as much as Rorie loved her. This damned long distance situation was messing with her head.
Rorie tossed the paper into the trash with a shake of her head. She felt foolish for letting the tabloid and Rhonda get to her, even for a minute. How many years have I worked in Hollywood? She’d lost track of the number of times she’d seen blatant lies about friends splashed across trashy publications like this one. This was no different.
She turned her attention to the pile of renderings on her desk, flipping through the designs, but every so often her eyes would stray toward the paper on the top of the wastebasket. Finally, she fished it out and gave it a good, long stare. And deep inside, something gnawed at her. It wasn’t the supposed affair with Cecily's young costar. Rorie knew the tabloid was just spinning a yarn to make sales.
No, what bothered her was that yesterday, Rorie had woken up to Cecily’s son standing homeless at her front door. She’d driven almost a hundred miles round trip to bring in Cecily’s mail and water her plants. When she got home, she’d cleaned Tyler’s dirty dishes from the kitchen sink, and given him a ride to school again this morning. And in between, she had called Cecily three times, and been ignored. And why had she been ignored? Because Cecily was too busy having a fancy dinner with friends and swanning around for the paparazzi to be bothered to call her back.
How is that okay?
Rorie was fuming by the time she got home that night, even more so because she still couldn’t reach Cecily on the phone. Her call had been forwarded to some assistant who said Cecily was filming on location all day and didn’t have any cellphone coverage. In this day and age? How was that even possible? She growled at the sight of two dirty bowls and cups in the sink. Not only was Tyler failing to clean up his dishes, he was going through them at breakneck speed. And apparently he thought she should clean them up!
Immensely perturbed, Rorie marched down the hall to her bedroom and entered the master bath. She yanked the faucet of the tub to the on position, stripping off her clothes and throwing on a robe while it filled. She glared at the bottle of lavender bubble bath on the rim of the tub, then contemplated the sparkling, clear water. Who needs stupid bubbles, anyway, with that scent that reminds me of her. But then she thought better of it and dumped a measure of liquid under the faucet’s steady stream. She liked the bubbles, and she knew that not wanting to think about Cecily was a lie.
She turned the water off and let her fingers drag through the spongy suds to test the water. Perfect. She was about to slip out of her robe when she paused, hand still at the knot in her belt, at the sound of the front doorbell. She wrapped the robe more tightly around herself and walked at a quick pace to the door, too distracted and annoyed to bother looking first to see who was there.
A woman stood in the semi-darkness on the front step. She looked to be in her late sixties, with tanned skin and dark, curly hair that framed her face, with just a strand or two of silver mixed in. Rorie had never seen her before.
“Rorie?” The woman asked, eyes huge and sparkling. “Baby, is that you? Don’t you recognize me? Rorie, it’s me—your mama!”
Rorie stood in the open doorway, staring and didn’t say a word. Overcome with shock and the pent up emotions of the past days, all she could do was crumple to the floor as her body shook in violent, wracking sobs.
Chapter 15
“Here you go, baby.” The woman, who was somehow her mother, pressed a warm cup into her hand as Rorie eased herself onto a kitchen chair. “Here’s some hot chocolate. Drink up. You’ve had a shock.”
Rorie clutched the mug between trembling palms, inhaling its sweet cocoa scent as she raised it to her lips. The smell of the hot chocolate triggered something inside—a memory? Didn’t Mama used to make hot chocolate for me when I was young? Rorie was sure she had. If she closed her eyes, she could see the cup with cartoon characters and the blanket her mother would tuck around her legs while she sipped the drink on an old, floral-print couch. It was one of her earliest memories, and she couldn’t picture her mother’s face. But here she stood in Rorie’s kitchen after forty years, making her cocoa. Rorie struggled to wrap her brain around it.
“I’m sorry, baby. I should have tried to call before coming over, to prepare you. I wasn’t thinking.” Her mother patted Rorie’s shoulder affectionately. “Would you like me to fix you a sandwich? You used to love grilled cheese.”
Rorie nodded mutely. A sandwich sounded wonderful to her muddled brain. And it was true, grilled cheese had been her favorite growing up. A tingling warmth spread within her, chasing away some of the numbness she’d felt since opening the front door. Her mother remembered that she liked grilled cheese. She was standing in her kitchen, searching for a pan to make her one right now. Was it possible that, throughout all these years, her mother had cared about her, after all? But then why did she leave me?
The sight of the grilled cheese, cut into triangles with the crusts trimmed away, brought a fresh flood of tears to Rorie’s eyes. Who but a mother would cut off the crusts? She took a bite, and the perfect buttery crunch of the bread was enough to send the tears spilling over her lashes and down her cheeks. She was too overcome with feelings to chastise herself for her uncharacteristic display of weakness. This is what it’s like to have a mom.
Her mother handed her a tissue and sat in the chair beside her, resting her hand on Rorie’s forearm as she cried. Finally, Rorie dabbed her eyes and looked into her mother’s face. It was framed by the same raven-colored ringlets that Rorie’s own hair formed when it was loose instead of in her customary braids. Her own blue eyes gazed back at her. It’s really her. “Oh, Mama. You don’t know how much I’ve needed you.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
Rorie dabbed her eyes again. “But, how? How did you find me? And…and why did you leave?” Her voice was small and frightened, just as it had been the day her father told her that her mother wasn’t coming home.
Her mother sighed. “Finding you was luck, pure and simple. I saw your picture in a magazine article, and when I looked at your face, it was uncanny—like seeing myself staring back at me off the page.”
Rorie nodded, having just experienced a similar feeling herself.
“So, I made some inquiries to your attorney, who wasn’t very helpful at all. Then I did some more searching on my own and found your address. But I really should have written first, I guess. You were white as a sheet when I told you who I am.”
Rorie looked down at the skin on her arms and chuckled. Her naturally bronze skin-tone would never be quite as pale as that, but she could only imagine how her face must have appeared in that moment. She looked at her mother’s hand resting on her arm and her eyebrows furrowed at t
he contrast. “Your skin is so much lighter than mine.” Since her father and the rest of the Mulloys were as pale and red headed as any Boston Irish family, she’d always assumed her own coloring came from her mother’s side.
“Well, living in Minnesota, I must not get as much sun as you do.”
“Minnesota? Not…Louisiana?” She could have sworn her mother was from Louisiana. It was part of the reason she’d been drawn to the state for college. Rorie’s brain flitted back to memories of her years there, and the cruel teasing she’d been subjected to by her teammates when she told them the sparse details she’d gleaned about her mother’s background. “I guess I just assumed, with my skin tone and the curly black hair…I mean, that ethnically…” For years she’d taken her classmates at their word that her mother must be African American.
“We’re Armenian.”
“Armenian?” Rorie was taken aback. She knew little about Armenia, but the explanation did make all the pieces fit. Just not in the way that she’d expected.
Her mother smiled pleasantly and patted her arm. “Yep. Armenian. And of course, I’m from Louisiana originally. I just live in Minnesota now.”
Rorie nodded. “You moved there…after you left? You never said why you left.”
Sadness clouded her mother’s face. “It was your father, Frank.”
“Frank?” Now she was truly confused. Her father’s name was Francis, but she’d never heard him called Frank before. “Everyone’s always called him Flip. Flip Mulloy. Even my grandmother. I don’t know why. Some stupid nickname from childhood…”
“Well, I called him Frank. You said it yourself, Flip is a stupid name. I couldn’t have a husband called Flip, now could I?”
Rorie broke into a grin, the remnants of tears making her glacier-blue eyes twinkle merrily. “I guess not.”
“You know how it is. We always like to have special names for the people we love.”
“That’s true,” Rorie agreed. “I’m probably the only person in the world who calls my girlfriend Cici.” Her mother’s expression flickered and Rorie tensed. “I’m sorry, Mama. I should have been more delicate about that. It’s just been a long time since anyone didn’t…know. I hope it doesn’t upset you that I have a girlfriend.” It had been decades since she'd cared what anyone thought about her sexual orientation, but the prospect of being rejected by her mother the same way as her father had done tore a hole through her.
“Upset? Of course not, baby.” Her mother’s face relaxed into a broad smile, making Rorie relax, too. “Why would that upset me? This girlfriend of yours—Cici, was it? Is she here?”
Rorie’s shoulders slumped. “No.”
Her mother clicked her tongue. “Oh, there’s a story there, I think. I’ll make another cup of cocoa while you tell me all about it.”
Soon the whole story was pouring from Rorie’s lips, everything from college to Connecticut, right up to Cecily’s job in Portland and Tyler’s recent move to her guest house. “I know it’s something she needs to do, and I’m doing everything I can to make it possible for her, but it’s so hard, Mama.”
“There, there. Of course it is,” her mother crooned. “But you’ll get it figured out.”
Rorie wiped her eyes, which were once more damp with tears. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that right now.” She’d been trying to tell herself the same thing all day, but somehow when her mother said it, it sounded more convincing. I guess that’s the power mothers have.
“Well, I should really get going and let you get some sleep, baby.” Her mother stood to go.
Rorie’s face fell. “I’d offer to let you stay, but like I said before, Tyler’s using the guest house right now.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got myself all taken care of. You just get some rest, and I’ll be over in the morning to take care of you. It’s a Saturday. I was hoping we could spend the day together and get caught up on all the mother-daughter stuff we’ve missed out on over the years.”
Rorie stood at the door watching until her mother’s car had pulled away, then floated all the way back to her room. She felt giddy, light as air. Her mother was here. I have a mother, and she wants to take care of me! They’d go out to lunch, and go shopping, and…and it was just almost too spectacular to believe! Rorie was grinning from ear to ear when the sound of her phone ringing in the bathroom caught her attention. It was sitting on the counter, next to a tub filled with icy cold bubbles. She’d completely forgotten about her bath.
The caller ID showed Cecily’s picture, and with a burst of joy, Rorie answered. “Cici, guess what!”
“Rorie, sweetheart, I’m so sorry I missed your calls. It’s just that I—”
“No, babe, it’s fine. You won’t believe what happened. My mother was just here!” She quickly rattled off the details of what had happened this evening. “And all because of that magazine article. Can you believe it?”
“That’s amazing, sweetheart. I’m so happy for you.”
“And you’ll get to meet her when you’re here.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. We finished ahead of schedule and I changed my flight. I’ll be home Sunday afternoon.”
As she hung up the phone, Rorie felt tears trickling down her cheeks, but this time they were tears of joy. After forty years, she had her mother back, and Cecily would be home in less than two days. What had started out as one of the worst days of her life, with the stress over Tyler and that terrible tabloid article, had turned into one of the most wonderful days she could remember. Then a nagging concern wriggled through her rapture.
Shit. Tyler.
In all the excitement over her mother’s reappearance, she’d completely forgotten to inform Cecily that her son had been kicked out of his dormitory and was camping out in her guest house. She considered calling Cecily back, but a wave of exhaustion cascaded over her. The highs and lows of the day had left her too beat to deal with the situation now. The cascading flow of her usually pent up emotions had left her completely spent. They could talk about Tyler on Sunday when Cecily got home.
Chapter 16
The line at Cecily’s favorite cafe stretched almost to the door on Saturday afternoon, but their organic beet and artisanal goat cheese salad was well worth the wait. She shifted from one foot to the other, looking from the handwritten menu on the chalkboard to the packed tables all around her as the line inched forward. Just as she had decided to give up on finding a table and bring her order back to her apartment instead, she spotted Bailey and Phinn at a table in the corner. They waved to her and motioned to an empty chair.
She reached the counter and placed her order for the salad—with dressing on the side, as much as it pained her to do it. The dressing was the best part, but after catching a glimpse of herself on screen while the director was running through the dailies a few weeks back, Cecily had been inspired to cut back on her calories whenever she could in an effort to lose a few pounds. That dinner two nights ago had blown a gaping hole in her good intentions, and she needed to get back on track. She held a plastic cup in her hand, considering whether to fill it with water or iced tea, but as tempting as tea sounded, the concept of drinking it without sugar was a sacrilege. And sugar was forbidden. She opted for water, and carried her cup and tray to join her friends.
“Hi, guys!” Cecily started to put her tray on the table but stopped as she realized that most of the surface was taken up by a large piece of poster board covered in circles and bits of sticky notes. “What’s this?” she asked as Bailey scooted it out of her way.
“Seating chart for the wedding,” Phinn groaned. “Bailey thinks we can fit four hundred people in the hall for the reception, and I’m trying to talk some sense into her.”
Cecily’s mouth gaped. “Four hundred people? My God! I don’t think I even know four hundred people.”
“Yeah, neither do we,” Phinn assured her. “We’ve got long lost relatives coming out of the woodwork.”
“Phinn
, that’s not fair,” Bailey chided. “We’ve weeded most of those people out already.”
Phinn shot Bailey an exasperated look. “We could still trim the list by half. Bailey here is much too trusting,” he said, addressing Cecily. “She likes to take everyone’s motives at face value, and too often she ends up getting taken advantage of.”
Bailey nodded her head in agreement. “It’s true, I guess. When Who Wants to be a Bride first aired, I had no idea what fame would mean, you know? And people were so nice. I got letters and emails every day from friends and relatives who’d seen the show and wanted to congratulate me. It felt so amazing to have all these people wanting to spend time with me. And of course, I was making so much more money than I’d ever experienced before, so every time I got together with anyone, I would always pay for everything. It was such a rush!”
“Yeah, until they started expecting it.” Phinn’s voice was somber. “And then demanding it.”
“Demanding?” Cecily asked Phinn, surprised.
“Sometimes flat out asking for a loan or a gift. Sometimes more subtle than that. But yeah. It happened to me, too.”
“And you’d give them money?”
“At first I did, until he set me straight.” Bailey looked sheepishly at Phinn. “It’s hard to accept that these people you thought cared about you were really just in it for themselves.”
Phinn shook his head. “I still think half the people on the invitation list right now likely fit that description.”
“How depressing.” Cecily poked at her salad with her fork. “It’s things like this that make me wonder if I’m making the right choice with all this sometimes. That, and how much time I’ve been away from home.”
Love's Encore Series (Books One and Two) Page 35
