by Lisa Plumley
Reno glanced at his dad. This was the first time in more than a week that his father had acknowledged his regular life with Reno’s mom. Maybe that was a good sign. A sign his dad was ready to give up his newfound bachelorhood and go back where he belonged.
When his parents had retired, they’d moved to a new lakefront condo on the west side of Kismet—no maintenance, no lawn mowing, no shortage of weekly cribbage games for his dad or book club meetings for his mom. His parents’ move had coincided with Reno’s sudden return to Kismet, so he’d bought the house he’d grown up in. It had been convenient—and more important, close to Angela. She’d needed him more than ever that year.
Their neighborhood—Glenrosen to locals, named after the initial land developer—was close-knit and cozy, filled with an eclectic blend of cottages, colonials, and modest split-level ranch homes. Many of the residents had lived there for years. Others, like Reno, were second-generation homeowners.
The four square blocks that comprised Glenrosen contained a thriving neighborhood community center and a park carved out of the wooded western Michigan landscape—with brand-new playground equipment, paid for by a fund-raiser a few years earlier. Oak and maple trees bordered Glenrosen’s sidewalks. A real sense of community thrived there—fostered by seasonal block parties, a neighborhood watch program, and plenty of mosquito-filled summertime barbecues.
Some people would’ve found it hokey. But Reno liked it.
His dad chuckled, sweaty and wheezing. “You had a good thing going with that lawn-care business. You were king-of-the-hill all right, even then. Especially to those other kids who worked for you. You had a real bossy streak.”
“I come by it naturally, Dad.” Reno gave his father a meaningful look. “Anyway, I keep meaning to get out there to shovel snow for Mrs. Kowalczyk and her friends one of these mornings, but with the shop so busy…I haven’t yet. Now they seem to think I’m stonewalling them on price.”
Which was why—he took another surreptitious glance outside—they were standing on their porches waving ten-dollar bills.
His dad tsk-tsked. “That’s low, Reno. Pushing up your prices on little old ladies? Mrs. Bender is a widow!”
“Mrs. Bender made her roofing crew cry last year. She can handle herself.” That didn’t mean she wasn’t—like a lot of other people in Kismet—counting on him though. Reno aimed one last suspicious glance toward Hal’s house, then trooped to his dad’s weight bench. He gestured for his father to start lifting. “So…have you heard from Mom?”
A grunt. The weights rattled as his dad prepared for a chest press. “Jesus, Reno.” Up came the barbell. “Not you, too?”
With concern, Reno watched his sixty-three-year-old father push the barbell away from his chest, his back arching with the effort. Physical activity was great for people of all ages. But maybe not this much activity, this fast. Especially not when a terry cloth headband and SWEATMASTER 2000 pants came into play.
“What do you mean, ‘not you, too’?” he asked.
“Your sister has been pestering me. Getting on my case about Thanksgiving.” Blowing out forceful breaths, his dad completed his set. The weights clattered in place. “The two of you should just lay off. Don’t take sides,” he warned.
“This isn’t about taking sides.” Frowning, Reno surveyed the signs of his father’s accelerating bachelorification. In the past twenty-four hours, motivational paperbacks had appeared. Most of them sported cheesy titles like, Remake Your Life Now: The Macho Path and Nice Guys Get Thank-Yous…But Tough Guys Get Laid. “You can’t go on this way, Dad. It’s not right.”
Pausing in the midst of mopping his brow with a towel, his father swiveled on his weight bench. He fixed Reno with a look he remembered well. It was the what the hell did you just say? look that had struck fear in his heart when he’d been a kid.
Geez. It still did. Kind of.
How had his dad retained so much authority? He didn’t pull it out very often, but apparently it was still there, coiled beneath his mild-mannered golf shirts and Sears blue jeans.
“Fine,” his dad said. “I’ll take care of it.”
A little flummoxed by his dad’s edgy tone, Reno nodded. “Good.” He’d like to see his parents patch up their differences, preferably before Christmas arrived. Ever since they’d retired—his father from bartending at the Kismet tavern and his mother from her job as a receptionist at the ladies-only gym—their relationship had been fraught with snippy comments, eye rolling, and a vocabulary of extensive sighs. But there was a lot of love there, too. Reno felt convinced of it. “I’m glad to hear it.”
His dad stood, slinging the towel over his shoulder before picking up a set of dumbbells for biceps curls. His expression seemed particularly determined as he hefted the weights.
“Tomorrow, I’ll visit your mother,” his dad said on an exhale. “And I’ll ask her for a divorce.”
With her head held high, Rachel clip-clopped her way across the lobby of The Standard on Sunset, carrying her Hermès bag. She spied Mimi waiting for her, perched near a shag-carpeted wall on one of the hotel’s ultrasuede sectionals.
Her friend seemed right at home there—comfortable in an effortlessly (and enviably) cool way that could only come from being a bona fide insider. Which made sense actually, because Mimi’s father was an important film producer. She’d grown up in Beverly Hills and had only begun working as a stylist as an act of youthful rebellion. Not (unlike some people) as a way of escaping small-town monotony.
Doggedly, Rachel kept going. But the closer she got to her friend, the more her confidence wavered. She didn’t want to tell Mimi that, after a long Monday of trying to repair her career, she’d been shut out by another client. That she hadn’t even been allowed to take a meeting—or schedule one for a later date.
It was all too awful. Too surreal. Too hideously familiar, at least today. There was only one thing to do when confronted with painful reality, Rachel told herself. Deny deny deny.
Breezily, she stopped in front of Mimi’s chair, doing her best to appear as though she weren’t about to cry.
“I changed my mind,” she said. “Instead of heading over to Cody’s house next”—Cody was a former teen pop star she styled for events, lately consisting mostly of VH1 reality show guest appearances—“let’s break for lunch. I’m starving!”
With her brows knit, Mimi glanced up from the People magazine she’d been reading. “Oh no, Rach. Not again.”
At the sympathy in her friend’s expression, Rachel nearly lost her composure. She’d fought hard to retain control all day long, even while butting heads with multiple handlers and agents and managers. But none of those people cared about her.
Mimi did. That made it all the worse.
“It’s not a big deal.” Rachel examined her cuticles, dismayed to find herself in need of a manicure. She was so far gone, she hadn’t even realized it. “I’m down to the bottom-feeders anyway. It was time to let some of those clients go.”
At least that was the story she intended to stick to. In reality, Rachel Porter had become persona non grata in L.A., literally overnight. Alayna had effectively blackballed her with everyone who mattered. Clients who hadn’t switched immediately to other stylists were pretending to be “on vacation.” Others had simply dodged her with outright lies and excuses.
The rebuffs Rachel had endured today hadn’t come solely from lower-echelon clients either. People she’d worked with for years—people she’d considered long-standing friends!—had turned her away, too, all of them influenced by Alayna’s horror story that Rachel was the one who’d had “a break with reality.”
What other explanation could there be? Alayna had cooed, according to one insider—probably with an overly innocent blink of her eyelash extensions. Rachel’s (former) number-one client had told everyone that she’d only worn that hideous mashup of a birthday ensemble “to prevent Rachel from becoming violent.”
Apparently, Alayna was as expert at manufacturing belie
vable spin as she was at dishing out danceable pop songs and acting in popularity-bolstering feature films.
“Mmmm.” Mimi—curly-haired, curvy, and as lovable as a Prada-dispensing teddy bear—set aside her magazine. “Right.”
“Just like it was time to let Jenn go.” Her treasonous new assistant had sided with Alayna. When Rachel had phoned Jenn from Mimi’s yesterday, determined to recoup her losses and move on, her assistant had informed her archly that she’d quit, “To, like, go where the, um, opportunities are. With Alayna.”
So much for sterling references.
“Of course.” Mimi nodded. “You’re moving on.”
“Right. So let’s have lunch to celebrate okay?”
With Mimi following, Rachel strode to the lobby doors. The whole place was decked out in a luxe L.A. version of Christmas cheer, with lights twinkling everywhere and subtle touches of red and green offering hip holiday ambiance. The effect reminded Rachel of something as she pushed through the doors to confront the sunshine, smog, traffic, and parking attendants.
“I would kill for some of those Christmas Oreos right now,” she said. “You know, the ones with the red and green filling?”
Mimi gazed worriedly at her. “You’re craving cookies? You’ve lived on protein bars and naked salad for so long, I thought you’d forgotten what real food tasted like.”
“I have. But I’ve been dying for something sweet all day.” Rachel caught Mimi’s increasingly alarmed look and laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy enough to go for it.”
Technically, she could. It was after Alayna’s birthday, so all things holiday-related were okay now. But—whether out of a misguided sense of loyalty or just simple desperation—Rachel had decided it would be better to hold off on the holiday stuff. For now. Just until she got her issues with Alayna settled.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel glimpsed a familiar face. Dustin Park, one of her favorite local designers, emerged from a gleaming Bentley. He stood nearby, chatting with his companion while they waited for the valet.
Beside Rachel, Mimi handed over their ticket. Stripped of her car, Rachel had been obliged to ask her friend for help chauffeuring her around today. After all, she couldn’t exactly piece her life together while on foot. In L.A., that really was crazy.
Feeling a sense of eagerness overtake her, Rachel glanced at Dustin Park again. With his rock-star looks, angular frame, and wicked knack for intricate boning, he was a favorite with red-carpet stars. His gowns were genius. She’d worked with Dustin many times in the past—and with award-show season about to kick off, seeing him now felt like a golden opportunity.
Opportunity was practically Rachel’s middle name. After all, she’d made a career out of seizing it. With a wink at Mimi, Rachel held up her index finger to indicate that she’d be back in a minute, then strode confidently in Dustin’s direction.
“Dustin! Hi!” Beaming as if in surprise, Rachel held open both arms, ready to embrace him. “How are you?”
At her loud exclamation, the hotel’s fashionable guests and visitors turned to see what was going on. But Rachel was not the kind of woman to be intimidated by an audience. In hug position, she crossed the few short feet separating her from the designer.
Dustin glanced up, startled. Recognition crossed his face.
Just as quickly, it vanished.
He glanced at his friend, then at her. Without a word, he took his companion’s arm and steered them both inside the hotel.
“Who was that?” his friend murmured, ducking his head.
“Nobody.” Dustin practically pole-vaulted himself through the lobby doors. “Nobody important.”
His words floated back to Rachel on a chilly breeze.
Nobody. Nobody important. Without her fabulous job and super successful life, that’s exactly who she was. Nobody.
A few yards away, Mimi waited beside her sensible Prius, doors open as she tipped the valet. She glanced up, then smiled across the busy area at Rachel. “Come on. Let’s go!”
Numbly, Rachel turned. She didn’t know where she was going, but one thing was clear—she couldn’t stay here.
Ordinarily on a Monday night, Rachel would have been supervising a dress fitting or scouring trendy boutiques for the latest and greatest “It” clothes. She would have been hitting a hot new club with one of her clients or hobnobbing at an industry party. But tonight, none of those things were in the cards for her. It looked as if they might never be again either.
Morosely, she broke off a piece of strawberry-flavored protein bar, then nibbled halfheartedly at it. It tasted kind of chalky and not really fruity, but it was fast and easy and dependable—virtues she’d come to value more than ever today.
Across the apartment’s living room-slash-dining room, Mimi spooned up the minestrone soup she’d heated, making occasional “yum” noises and tapping away on her laptop.
Unlike Rachel, Mimi didn’t particularly enjoy the social aspects of being a stylist. She was personable—very sweet actually. But sometimes Rachel thought that if Mimi could perform her entire job from the comfort of her sofa, she would.
No matter what else happened though, Mimi always seemed at peace. Not in a weird, overdone Zen way either, but in a normal, loving and happy way. Rachel envied her that. Despite the primo advantages Mimi had been born with, she’d made her own way in life. She never took anything she didn’t earn.
Rachel, on the other hand, had taken everything she’d been able to get her hands on. Now most of those things were gone. The rest she’d been forced to lug to Mimi’s place in boxes.
Mimi glanced up. “There’s still more soup, if you want some.” She gave an encouraging smile. “It’s really good.”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” A grin. “Enjoy your fake food.”
“Har-har.” Fondly, Rachel returned her smile.
She was grateful to Mimi for taking her in this way, but the truth was that she didn’t want to hang around for long.
Taking help from someone meant being indebted to them. When you didn’t know what the payback might be, it was better to stand on your own two feet as much as possible.
Which meant getting back to the job at hand.
Through force of habit, Rachel stuck her protein bar in her mouth, then used both hands to rummage through the box she’d brought from storage into the living room with her. Sitting on the floor with the box between her outstretched legs, she removed items one by one, then divided them into piles.
“I want to get all this stuff sorted,” she told Mimi. “Alayna’s security guys did a pretty haphazard job of packing everything. I never put client contact info down on paper, but if I could find my old cell phone…”
“You know, you don’t have to do all that today.”
Rachel didn’t even glance up. She did have to do it today. How else was she going to put her life back together again?
The piles around her grew, but she still didn’t find anything seriously useful. Old photos, magazines she didn’t remember keeping, an assortment of jewelry and handbags, business receipts, paperwork…the buildup of minutia continued as she reached the middle of the box. She kept going.
“Rachel, I think you’re in denial,” Mimi said gently. “Why don’t you leave that stuff alone for now and come over here?” Her friend patted the sofa cushion, nodding toward her laptop. “I started working on your résumé for you, but there are a few gaps we should go over. I don’t know everything about you.”
Thank God, Rachel couldn’t help thinking.
“Aww, Mimi. That’s sweet, really,” she said. “But I know that phone must be in here somewhere.” More digging. “Hey, here’s a clipping from the People’s Choice Awards last year!”
She held it up for Mimi to see, then gazed at it herself, filled with pride. She’d styled a record number of stars last year, Rachel remembered, outfitting them all in fabulous looks.
“Who would have thought it could all vanish, literally overn
ight?” Wistfully, Rachel ran her fingertips over the glossy magazine image she’d pulled out. “Twenty-four hours after catching Alayna and Tyson together, I’m boyfriendless, jobless, homeless, and phoneless! It’s like a bad Lifetime cable movie.”
“Down and Out in Beverly Hills?”
“I think that one’s taken.”
“Too bad.” With a sigh, Mimi typed something—more résumé filler probably. “How long did you work on that sitcom? With your experience, I can probably get you a job on Sweetwater.”
Involuntarily, Rachel made a face. She didn’t want to go backward—and that’s what taking a regular job would mean.
“I doubt it will come to that,” Rachel said. “If I give Alayna a little time, I know she’ll take back all those things she said.” Unwilling to meet Mimi’s eyes, Rachel searched through the box again. “She’s passionate. She’s Greek! But I’ve never known her to hold a grudge.” Something shiny caught her eye. “Hey! At last, here it is!” She pulled out a clunky-looking cell phone, probably five years old. She caressed it, hope springing to life inside her. “Hello, baby. How’ve you been?”
“Do you two want to be alone?”
Rachel laughed. “I’m just glad it’s still here. It probably needs a charge”—she fished around one-handed for the unit’s plug-in charger, her fingers brushing papers—“but after one quick trip to renew my old calling plan, I’ll be in business.”
Mimi squinted. “It doesn’t even have a camera.”
“I know. It’s totally ancient. But all of my best clients are listed in here.” Rachel leaned over, peering inside the box. She didn’t see the charger, but she did see…“Oh my God.”
Curious, Mimi hung over the sofa back. “What is it?”
Rachel pried out the item she’d spied—a peach-colored greeting card envelope, splashed with glued-on confetti. It smelled vaguely of potpourri and drugstore perfume.
“It’s a birthday card. From my mom.” Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes. Rachel hugged the card to her chest, her fingers trembling. “It must have gotten mixed up with my other mail.”
