Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

  Groups of elegantly attired people meander, enjoying the drinks and tray-passed hors d’oeuvres.

  “This is the biggest rehearsal dinner I’ve ever attended. An orchestra? Someone is trying too hard. I would have chosen a really good jazz or cover band,” Emma says.

  “That’s exactly what Jen said!” Jon laughs.

  Yeah, my parents have gone above and beyond. They are what Pasadena people call “new money.” And often, try just a bit too hard.

  My mom, an immigrant, built a luxury microbrand. My dad, a construction worker from rural Massachusetts, built one of the largest privately owned design-and-build companies in California.

  My dad taught himself refinement. My mom learned to hide her Italian accent. Both talented, hard workers, who bootstrapped their way to a place where they could throw a lavish party for their son and his very untraditional bride.

  And they disapprove of Brit’s disregard to decorum. Because I’m a coward, I just let them believe she’s an overeducated woman rebelling against the system with her expensive shoes, a pierced nose, multiple piercings in her ears, and a very visible forearm tattoo.

  But if I told the truth, they’d shun me for being a money hungry fuck-up who capitalized on the only bit of legacy Brit’s parents left her.

  We find the rest of the Mafia and the men huddled up on one side of the yard, and my parents and their friends on the other.

  “Hey!” Lynn says, welcoming us into the circle.

  “Is this a Sophia dress?” Brit asks, hugging Lynn.

  “Yes. Nick said it would be a nice gesture if I wore it. I’m pulling a Claire. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and these Spanx are slowly depleting my body of oxygen. Why aren’t you in Sophia?”

  “I would have totally worn Sophia. I didn’t know,” Brit says, shooting me a glance.

  I ignore it.

  Jen returns to the circle with a martini in her hand. For a moment, she embraces my shoulder, flashing her legendary smile. She immediately turns away, engaging Dana, Lilly and Michael in conversation.

  Her small gesture is the acceptance I’ve been seeking. Longing for. And it makes me feel like a douchebag.

  I see my brother, in an indigo blue suit, speaking with his business partner, Paul Johnson and his wife, Mandy. I approach them.

  “The prodigal son arrives. How are you, man?” Paul asks, extending his hand.

  “I’ve been well. Mandy, it’s nice to see you,” I say to the hippie brunette in a flowy cream-colored maxi dress.

  This is the type of dress Lynn should be wearing. She shouldn’t be stuffed into a boring blue Sophia high-neck, structured cocktail dress.

  “I hear you’re moving to Oakland,” Mandy says.

  I grunt a response. They all glare at me. I know this is where I’m supposed to rattle off facts about the house I bought: location, square-footage, architectural style, and my renovation plans. But I just don’t feel like talking.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I see a client of mine,” I say, exiting the conversation and winding through the tables and people to the terrace on the other side of the property.

  With the crowd in the distance, I pull a cigarette from the metal case in my pocket. Two drags in, the door behind me opens.

  “I wondered when you would arrive, Alexander. I thought maybe you had a... meeting,” my mom says.

  She’s radiant in a black, sleeveless, structured, high-neck jumpsuit. Her voluminous deep brown hair falls just below her shoulders. Tall, light olive skin, slender, and fully made up, she looks like she’s in her 40s instead of her early 60s.

  “A martini, Mother?” I ask, gesturing at the glass in her hand.

  My mom rarely drinks anything other than Italian table wine when she’s at home.

  “I saw the redhead with one and I thought it would be a nice accessory for this circus,” she says, retrieving the cigarette from my hand.

  She takes a drag and hands it back. I haven’t seen my mom smoke in years.

  “I thought this is what you and dad wanted,” I say.

  My mom scoffs. “I just want access to my sons, so if I have to throw a party to spend time with them, then so be it.”

  “I see you every week for breakfast at the Club, Mother.”

  “Yes, but as we both know, you rarely share anything about your life, Alexander. Business. Stocks. Investment opportunities. No real you. And you never mentioned you were being investigated by the FBI.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Lynn’s mother. She knows you and Brit reconciled. She thinks of you as her son. In the way she thinks of your wife as her daughter. She told me she took her in after her mother moved to Paris. Left the girl with nothing. Did you get careless in your business because you were taking care of that girl?”

  “The FBI did not file charges against me. I didn’t want to alarm you.... or dad. I know he’d be concerned someone at the Club would find out.”

  “Fuck the Club, Alexander. I am your mother. You should have told me.”

  Wow. My mom just dropped the F-bomb. Pissed. Drunk. A snake ready to strike.

  The door opens and my dad appears.

  “What are you doing out here?!” he asks. “The Meyers just complained about the smell of smoke.”

  I extinguish the cigarette on the bottom of my dress shoe.

  “It’s my property, Alan! If I want to share a smoke with my son, it is my right. It is the only thing he will share with me,” she says, her Italian accent more pronounced.

  “Are you drunk, Sophia?”

  “What does it matter? It’s a fake rehearsal dinner for a fake wedding. All lies.”

  My mom shuffles past my dad, and storms into the house. He ignores her.

  “Son, since you insisted on bringing your wife tonight, please find her a jacket. The tattoo is inappropriate.”

  “She’s Lynn’s best friend.”

  “Yes. If only she were just that.”

  He leaves the terrace.

  It’s time to get a drink; an accessory for this epically fucked up night.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, cradling my second Scotch, I enter the back of my parents’ large kitchen searching for a server with a tray of cream cheese crab puffs.

  Instead, I find the Mafia and my mom. Every woman holds a glass. Every woman gives my mom their full attention.

  Unseen, I duck into the alcove of the doorway. My mom tells a story of her early days in L.A. Her Italian accent drips on every word.

  “I came to L.A. in 1981 with $500. My sister, Mia, lived in Mount Washington. She was a singer. Opera. Movies. She did it all. A true talent. No formal education. Just a hard worker in show business. And she said if I wanted to launch a fashion line, I would have to do the work to make it happen. She had the money, but she didn’t give it to me. Told me to finance it myself.

  Since I modeled for years in Milan, I got an agent and started doing print work... went to casting call after casting call until I landed a national campaign for Ralph Lauren. I took the money and launched my first line. I did all the sewing at night. And went to every buyer during the day to sell my gowns. Everyone said no. My dresses were too structured. Too architectural. Not pretty enough.

  Then I met Alan. He was just a contractor then, remodeling bathrooms mostly. And he did a job for the buyer of Bullocks on Lake Avenue.... ah, it is now a Macy’s. He left my lookbook in her just-completed bathroom. He put my card inside. She called two days later and placed an order.

  My sister gave me a loan on the purchase order so I could buy the materials. Hire some staff. Many of which are still working for me. That order launched my career. I never did another modeling job. Of course, I had to marry Alan. That’s the Willingham Effect.”

  “Wow, your start-up/love story is similar to Brit + Alex,” Lynn says.

  “No. We’re nothing like them,” Brit says quietly.

  “Brit, now is not the time to play modest. Alex wouldn’t have a business if it weren’
t for you,” Dana says.

  “Of course, he would. He is a very hard worker,” Brit follows up.

  “Yes, your husband is definitely a hard worker, but your help got him to where he is today,” Lilly says.

  “Alex said you would assist him at the office and attend meetings with him,” my mom says.

  “She did more than just file papers and go to dinners,” Jen scoffs.

  “Please excuse my ignorance. Can you clarify?” my mom asks.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Ah, I’d love to hear more about your modeling days. My mom modeled in Paris. She also did print work when she moved to L.A. in the eighties. What other campaigns did you do?”

  “What was her name?” my mom asks, sharply.

  “Aretta, but she changed her name to Gladys Palmer before I was born.”

  “Aretta. I knew your mother. Your complexion is lighter, but I see her in you now. We were often up for the same jobs. Both women with heavy accents, but pretty faces. Well, she is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, even to this day. She could have made a good living doing print work, but she wanted to be an actress. She modeled to pay for acting classes. I remember she wanted to attend the Lee Strasberg Institute but couldn’t afford the fee.

  “Many girls on the print-circuit during that time took jobs going to dinners with wealthy men in town doing business. They would pay to have a beautiful girl at the table while they negotiated deals. It wasn’t prostitution, but girls who did extra, made more... under the table. I never did it. Too dirty.

  “Your mother took-up with a man to pay for her classes. A Middle Eastern with a family back in his country. He spoke Arabic and very little English. I always wondered what became of Aretta. What do you Americans say?” My mom pauses, locking eyes with Brit. “I see the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” she says in Italian.

  Jen gasps into her martini glass, but everyone else remains quiet offering each other curious glances.

  A server enters the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Willingham?”

  “Yes,” my mom, Lynn and Brit respond.

  “Oh, my mistake. Chef didn’t tell me who to ask for, but he wants you to know dinner will be served as soon as everyone is seated.”

  The Mafia files out through the door leading to the backyard.

  “Brit? May I have a word?” my mom asks.

  “Ah, sure. But I need to find Alex to let him know about dinner. He’s probably talking business in some corner of the property. It is really a lovely home. I grew up admiring it.”

  “Thank you. My husband and I worked hard to be able to have this home. I like to believe our sons are doing the same.”

  “Yes, Alex is a very hard worker. I appreciate his ambition.”

  My mom embraces a lock of Brit’s long, dark hair. They stand at the same height.

  “I can see why he’s enchanted with you. You are as beautiful as your mother.”

  “Thank you, Sophia.”

  “But make no mistake, a whore’s daughter will never be a Willingham. Enjoy the rest of the party,” my mom says in Italian, smiling.

  My mom releases Brit’s hair and leaves her standing in the kitchen.

  Without saying a word to my wife, I slither out of the room.

  CHAPTER 26

  BRIT PALMER

  After my conversation with Sophia, I stop into the all-marble and dark wood, luxurious bathroom on the first floor. Closing the door, I lower the toilet lid and sit down.

  Tears well behind my eyes.

  My mom never told me all the details of her relationship with my dad, but over the years, I pieced the story together. I never told Alex because I didn’t know for sure.

  Oh, no. He’ll be so embarrassed. He’ll be so embarrassed his wife is the daughter of a... whore.

  As a feminist, I understand sex work can be a means to an end for women who live in the margins of a capitalist society. It’s an easy perspective to hold from the sidelines, but when reality intersects with theory the lines become blurred... and painful.

  Instead of stressing out about it, I ignore the pain. Sing through it. Play through it. Laugh through it. Live through it. Love through it.

  The fact that my mom might have engaged in a sexual act for money is one of the reasons I created the no-sex clause. I just wanted to keep the transactional nature of our relationship as clean as possible. Just friends.

  Now, I don’t feel that way. I know Alex and I are the real thing. It’s not about the money. It’s about the family we’ve created over the last eight years.

  Rising, I blot away the small black streaks of tear-smudged eyeliner and mascara. Turning to leave, the door opens. A part of me expects to see Alex on the other side, but instead Jen pushes her way inside and shuts the door.

  Stunning as always, her vibrant red hair drapes over one shoulder of her Marc Jacobs white with black side panels cocktail dress that shapes her curves. Even in her highest Stuart Weitzman black pumps, I’m still a half a foot or so taller than her.

  “So, Mama Willingham is a drunk bitch in couture!” Jen fires.

  “She’s just an old person telling her stories,” I say, plastering an impeccably fake smile on my face.

  I don’t want her to know Sophia rattled me. Jen is not afraid to get loud to defend the people she loves. And this is not the place. I need to tread lightly tonight. I still want the Willinghams to like me.

  “Maybe, but she took a dig at you. What did she say when we left?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “Brit, you’re a terrible liar. You’re much better at omitting details. The bitch called you out in Italian. And you know damn well she did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I borrowed your Rosetta Stone login when Jon and I went to Italy last summer! I didn’t retain much, but I do know apple and tree. So, it didn’t take much to figure out the rest. She thinks you’re using sex to get Alex’s money.”

  “Ew, Jen. Your mind is going to places it doesn’t need to go. She just said I resemble my mom.”

  “Stop it, Brit. Stop ignoring the facts. That bitch came for you because Alex hasn’t told mommy dearest the truth.”

  Jen’s words slap some much-needed sense into my bionic brain.

  “Oh, my God, you’re right. Here I am feeling bad for not telling him the truth about my parents’ relationship and he hasn’t told his mom the truth about us.”

  “I’m almost certain she doesn’t know about your inheritance and how Alex really started his business. She would have never told that story about your mom. The Willinghams are too arrogant to admit their son married a woman for money. Used a woman for money. Money that came from a man who paid a struggling actor to have sex with him, knocked her up, and to appease his conscience before he died, he left his daughter a house and some cash. But she had to get married to collect it.”

  “No, Jen. It’s not like that. It can’t be like that,” I say, gripping my abdomen.

  “Sure. I get it. There are nuances to every story, but at the end of the day Alex signed his name to a marriage license for a half a million dollars. And don’t give me that load of crap about Lynn moving to San Francisco and you wouldn’t have a place to live.

  I had two spare bedrooms at my house in the Hills. You know you could have stayed with me. No questions asked. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have asked you for a dime. I would have welcomed you like family. Because you are family to me.

  When Gladys left, we all vowed to have your back no matter what. But Alex spun a story like the salesman he is and made you forget you’ve got four friends... now six friends who would do anything for you. Anything.”

  I let the tears fall. “I’m so fucked up. I’m so fucked up...”

  She strokes my shoulder. “No. No. You’re not. It’s the Willingham Effect. Jon talks about it all the time. Nick and Alex can get whatever they want, whenever they want it. Despite the messiness of your relationship, Alex has stuck aro
und for the last eight years because he always wanted you. The real secret you kept from everyone, including yourselves, was how much you mean to each other. Dry your tears, perk up, and sissy that walk to your table. Choose all four entrées and ask for a bottle of hot sauce. And smile pretty. Enjoy your food and at the end of the night, you’ll be the only Mrs. Willingham that matters to Alex.”

  “You think so? Sophia seems to be queen bee,” I say, wiping away tears.

  “No, Brit. The only queen bee in your relationship with Alex is you. If he doesn’t recognize that, then you have my full permission to walk right out of here. And then I will have him killed,” Jen says with her multi-million-dollar smile.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Jen shrugs and offers the adorable face she used to sell cereal as a kid.

  “Maybe.”

  “You know I’m a pacifist.”

  “So am I. But I will gladly put my politics aside if anyone hurts you,” she says, squeezing my hand.

  In so many ways, she’s the mother Gladys could never be. The jazz gods gave me such a gift when they blessed me with Jen. Kind. Protective. Brazenly loyal. She’s the greatest friend anyone could ask for. I am so blessed.

  Too blessed to enter a power struggle with Alex and his mom. I’ll watch their story play out from the sidelines, while enjoying my friends, my fabulous dress, and the food. And if it gets too much, I know I can walk away, and Mama Jen and the rest of the girls will have my back.

  ***

  With straight shoulders and head, I strut from the house to my assigned table alone. Jen ran into someone who knew her mom so she stopped to speak with them. At my table sits Lynn + Nick, Sophia and Alan, Evelyn and Martin (Lynn’s parents), and my hunky husband.

  Alex stands, pulling out my chair. Before sitting, I embrace his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth. He smells like his Burt’s Bee aftershave and a lotta booze.

  So... he’s kind of drunk.

  As soon as my bum hits the white padded seat, Lynn leans over.

  “There is no vegan option!” she whispers in a slur.