by Peggy Webb
I wish I could trade lives with Gloria.
CHAPTER 3
Can a good coat of gloss fix this mess? And I’m not talking lip gloss.
—Gloria
Clearly Jenny Miller thinks I’m after her husband.
As Roberta would say if she were here, I should have kept my skinny butt in bed and not acted like my every whim was an edict from God. Who needs ice at four o’clock in the morning?
In my own defense, twenty years of being in the studio at the crack of dawn to get my hair and makeup done for the show have left me with an internal clock that jars me awake when no self-respecting rooster would be up.
Pulling the covers under my chin, I try to sleep, but that’s impossible. Sure, Rick Miller’s good-looking, but nothing would tempt me to play fast and loose with the husband of a woman who is sharing her house and upending her entire routine for me.
The only way I can fix this mess is to convince her I’m a woman to trust. Spread a little charm around. Shoot, I’m good at this. After all, I’m one of a dying breed, a true Southern belle. Beauty—thanks to good orthodontia and Max Factor—and a backbone of steel.
Nothing gets the best of me. Certainly not a little setback with my hostess.
When I hear Rick leave the house at eight, I drag myself out of bed, grab my ridiculously expensive designer robe, then ditch it in favor of a multi-colored peasant skirt and pink off-the-shoulder blouse. My favorite gold dangly earrings and bangle bracelets. Minimum makeup, just a touch of mascara and lip gloss.
Shoot. I feel as stiff as a ninety-five-year-old. Plus, the bruise on my left hip has grown to the size of Mount Everest. As Roberta would say, I ought to count my blessings. Except the only blessing I can think of is that nobody is going to ask me to pose for a magazine layout in a bikini.
I hobble my way to the kitchen where Jenny is up to her elbows in dough while two dogs sit at her feet with their tongues lolled out and their tails thumping.
“Hi,” she says. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She’s a terrible actress, all fake smiles and false cheer. I could sit down and match her, lie for lie. We could dance around each other all morning, and never say anything of real substance.
That’s the easy way. Just pretend everything’s okay and go on about our business.
But I didn’t get to be the goddess of daytime TV by doing things the easy way. I plop into the chair, my sprained ankle making me as graceful as a mule, then haul off and aim for the heart of the matter.
“Look, Jenny, I know you probably see me as some big-shot celebrity trying to add another notch to my belt with your very handsome husband, but believe me, that’s as far from the truth as it gets.”
Jenny pounds the dough harder. “Oh, I didn’t think for a minute you had ulterior motives.”
Even the dogs don’t believe her. Their tails stop wagging, and they cock their heads as if to say, “That’s a bunch of bull.”
“No, but I’ll bet you thought Rick did.”
“Well, of course I…” Jenny pulls her hands out of the dough, wipes them on her apron and pours two cups of coffee. “You know what? That’s exactly what I thought. You’re famous and glamorous while I’m plain and dull. How could he not be tempted?”
She sets the coffee between us, and we both assess each other as we sip. What I’m seeing is a woman not too sure of herself who is trying to figure out if I’m just playing another role or if I’m sincere.
“Jenny, if you believe half the things that have been written about me, then you must think I’m a spoiled, rich woman with a staff catering to my every whim and men groveling for the privilege of touching the hem of my skirt.”
“Leave out the spoiled part, and that’s about right.”
“Wrong. Contrary to the reports that I kicked both my husbands out, my first husband moved in with an older actress who had more clout and could do more to advance his career, and the second one developed a fondness for bars featuring men in silk stockings and beaded bustiers.”
“They left you?”
“Dumped is a better word. And that story about the married studio head was nothing but the pipe dream of an over-eager reporter who saw us drinking champagne together at a crowded New Year’s Eve party and turned the incident into a sex scandal.”
“I remember the headlines. The Goddess and the Movie Lion.”
Spontaneous laughter with another woman feels so good. I’m glad I crashed my car in a place that’s little more than a cow pasture. Real people live here. Not Tinsel Town mannequins whose every move is scripted to gain the attention of the press and capture an audience with the movie producer who has the backing of the richest studio.
“I hate that term. Goddess. Roberta says it makes me sound like a salad dressing.”
“Green goddess?”
“Something like that.”
While Jenny refills our coffee cups and gets two fat muffins off a platter, I tell her about Roberta, who was slaving away unnoticed and unappreciated in the studio’s secretarial pool before I snatched her up and put her to work as my personal assistant, lonely hearts advisor, bodyguard and friend.
“You name it, and Roberta fills the bill. Of course, I pay her handsomely. She probably wouldn’t give me the time of day if I didn’t.” I take a bite of my muffin before I start sounding like one of those women who love to wallow in angst and self-pity. “Actually the fact that I pay her to do something she loves is a running joke between us. These muffins are delicious. Homemade?”
“They are. People say I’m the best baker in Mooreville. Maybe even the whole state.”
“I wish I could cook.”
“You want to learn to cook?”
“Yes. Apparently, it really is the way to a man’s heart. Just look at you and Rick.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Jenny gets up. Fast. A signal that I’ve moved into territory where she’s posted a keep-out sign. “Listen, I’m available for whatever you want to do today. Whatever you feel like doing.”
“I don’t want to disrupt your life. Just go about your business and I’ll try not to get in the way.”
“Well, let me see. I doubt that I can make pies with an audience, and I certainly don’t think I can keep two mutts entertained while you’re around.”
Jenny’s smiling, but I can hear the sting of truth behind her quips. She feels trapped in a life I perceive as the American dream, while I’m leading a high-stress, competitive, brutally lonely life she sees as glamorous and desirable.
“By the way, this is Rollo.” Jenny leans down to pet the big shaggy brown dog on the head. “And this little runt is Banjo.”
He’s no bigger than a squirrel, and twice as fast. Before I know what’s happening Banjo has jumped into my lap and is licking my emerald as if it’s a mint drop.
Or maybe he knows it’s my good-luck charm. I bought it after I landed my role as Jillian. Shamrock green for luck. Green light for go. A reminder to myself to keep charging forward.
“Banjo! Down!” Jenny scoops him off my lap, but I’m laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.
“I haven’t had that much attention from a male in five years.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh, no. Those passionate kisses you see in Love in the Fast Lane are nothing more than good camera angles and lots of breath mints.”
A teenaged girl appears in the doorway sporting black lipstick and a big attitude. Jenny introduces me to her daughter, and Angie, who apparently suffers none of her mother’s shaky self-esteem, pours herself a bowl of cereal, then plops into the chair next to mine.
“Cool. Can I see that Italian sports car Daddy said you were driving?”
“Angie!” Jenny says, but I’m relieved that at least one member of this household is not in awe of anything except my car.
“As a matter of fact, I was hoping I could visit the mechanic today and ask about my car.”
Angie perks up. “Jackson?”
“I don’t
even know. I guess I was in shock when your daddy called the garage.”
Angie jumps up, her cereal forgotten. “I’ll drive you over.”
“I thought you and Sally were going to the library this morning,” Jenny says.
An unspoken challenge passes between mother and daughter. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m right in the middle of it. A pawn in this game of control they’re playing.
“Sally will understand. Besides, you’re cooking.”
“In this house, we honor our commitments.”
Stiff with self-righteous indignation, Angie empties her bowl into the sink. And when she turns on the garbage disposal, she lets the loud grinding go on way past the time it would take to pulverize soggy cereal.
“It was nice to meet you, Miss Hart.” She turns a radiant smile in my direction, then glares at her mother and makes a stormy exit that would rival some of my best on Love in the Fast Lane.
“Well…” Jenny lifts her shoulders and speaks with faux cheer. “If you feel like riding over, I’ll drive you to see about your car. As soon as I finish getting these pies assembled.”
“Thanks, I’d like that. I’m a bit stiff, but other than that, I feel fine. I guess all those yoga classes have finally paid off.”
“Okay, then.” Distracted, Jenny glances at the doorway where Angie has now vanished.
It’s time for me to get out of the way and let her handle her daughter. Angie reminds me of myself as a teenager. Headstrong and defiant, always testing authority and skirting danger.
Maybe the gods of love everlasting knew what they were doing when they broke up my two marriages. I don’t know how I would have handled a demanding career and a problem child.
“I think I’ll lie down and prop my leg up until you’re ready to go.”
As I clump off on my crutch, I’m thinking the American dream looks more flawed by the minute. Still, couldn’t I have at least been sprinkled with stardust from the gods of mind-boggling sex?
Where was the sign that said Sharp Curves Ahead, Dangerous to All Relationships, and how did I miss it?
—Jenny
WHILE Gloria and Angie leave, I’m standing here with murder on my mind. I don’t know who will be first—my husband or my daughter. Lately, they’re both intent on driving me insane. I wish I could just climb into my truck and drive off. I don’t care where. Anywhere but here.
Instead, I finish assembling the pies, watch out the window while Angie peels off toward Sally’s on two wheels, make a mental note to tattle to Rick, which is about all it will amount to. There’s no discussing Angie with him. In his eyes she’s perfect, even in the case of Jackson Tucker. Rick says we ought to trust her enough to let her find out for herself if Jackson’s right for her. He says the more I forbid her to see him, the more determined Angie will be.
I say we’re the parents, we should make the rules. I might as well be whistling into a hurricane.
What do I know? A woman who was raised by parents who guided me with tough love, God rest their souls. While Rick, of course, ran loose under the evil eye of the Mother from the Black Lagoon.
I shove the pies into the refrigerator so I can bake them when we get back from the garage. Then I wash the dough off my hands, brush my hair, toy with the idea of lipstick but decide my face is hopeless, and knock on Gloria’s door.
“I’m ready,” she says.
When she comes out, I guess I stand there tongue-tied because she starts laughing.
“Jenny, I won’t bite and I bleed like real people. Honestly.”
“I just can’t get over seeing you in the flesh, that’s all. I’ve worshipped you from afar for twenty years. Having you here is like a dream.”
As incredible as it sounds, she seems to be trying really hard to be my friend. I wonder if that’s possible. Plain, ordinary, unexciting, small-town Jenny Miller, friends with the biggest soap star in the nation?
“I’m sorry about Angie’s behavior this morning.”
“Don’t apologize. I was young once.”
“You look about thirty.”
“Can I take you back to Hollywood and let you tell that to the director who canned me?”
“You’re off the show? That’s unbelievable.”
“Yes. But not for long. I don’t take defeat lying down.”
I wish I didn’t. I almost say this aloud to Gloria, but my life pales beside hers. What’s a teenager—and maybe even a husband—running wild compared to a successful acting career?
“I’m driving a truck. Do you think you can climb in?”
“One advantage of long legs is being able to get into pickup trucks.”
I hold her crutch while she catches the strap and swings up.
“I figured you rode around in limousines all the time.”
“Jenny, my life is not as glamorous as you’d think. And sometimes I’d chuck every bit of it for even a small part of what you have.”
After Angie’s display in the kitchen, she’s clearly not talking about having a teenaged daughter. That leaves Rick. Obviously she has us confused with one of Hollywood’s classic love matches. Gable and Lombard. And who knows if that would have lasted if Lombard hadn’t died young in a plane crash.
I have no intention of dying young. What I’ve got to do is figure out how to make my husband notice me again without becoming the idolized dead.
Pulling out of the driveway I head south on Highway 371.
“The garage is only five miles down the road,” I tell Gloria. “Jackson Tucker’s daddy gave him the land, which was once part of Tuck’s Farms.”
“My lord. Matt Tucker, the thoroughbred trainer?”
It doesn’t surprise me that she knows of him. Matt’s the best breeder and trainer in the country and at one time or another has been written up in Racing World and all the big magazines. And according to Laurel, who knows about such things thanks to her two divorces, he’s also the most eligible bachelor in the Deep South.
“He’s the one. Jackson is a genius with his hands. I don’t know whether his daddy is keeping him nearby so he can fix the Tuck’s Farms equipment or so he can keep an eye on him. Jackson’s wilder than a March hare. Angie thinks she’s in love with him.”
“I see.”
Thank goodness she’s not the kind to pry. I’m so glad to be out of the kitchen, I don’t want to talk about my petty problems. I want to escape them, to kick up my heels and pretend we’re good friends on a morning outing that might end with the two of us trying on dresses at Reed’s or selecting new linens at T.J. Maxx.
When I pull up at the garage, Jackson emerges from under the hood of a blue Ferrari and runs around to open Gloria’s door.
As far as I know, he’s never opened a door for anybody in his life.
“You must be Gloria Hart. T.V. doesn’t do you justice.”
He’s flirting with her. The little twerp. Of course, what red-blooded man wouldn’t? Still, when he bends over and kisses her hand, I want to boot him in the seat of the pants. I’ve told Rick and Angie he chases everything in skirts. She says I’m being picky, that nobody she dates would be good enough to suit me, and Rick says Jackson’s just being charming. Like his mother.
Well, we all know how that turned out. Jolene Beaumont-Tucker was a famous opera singer and charming to everybody—the press who loved to ride out to Tuck’s Farms and take pictures of her in that getup she wore in Madame Butterfly, the cadre of maids she required to wait on her hand and foot, the stable boys, her personal trainer. Some say she was especially charming to her personal trainer, though as far as I’m concerned, that’s just a vicious rumor.
All I do know is that she was charming to everybody but her husband. I’ve heard her shoot verbal barbs at Matt in front of two hundred people milling around their backyard eating Fourth of July barbecue.
Rick thinks Jackson’s bound to have his daddy’s finer qualities, but I’m here to tell you, that boy’s apple fell straight from his mother’s warped tree.
Gloria deftly pulls her hand away from Jackson, which shoots her up another notch on my decency scale. She already went up there around sainthood when she assured me she’s not interested in stealing my husband.
“Jenny brought me to get a first-hand report of the damage,” she tells Jackson.
“I had to order parts, but I’ve already started the body work. I’ll show you.”
She matches him stride for stride, no mean feat on her crutch, while I hang back and watch him show off in his muscle shirt. He knows about body work, all right. Tucker got every bit of his daddy’s good looks.
But he doesn’t fool Gloria for a minute. She controls the conversation as if she’d written the script. And she’s keeping it strictly business.
Speaking of good looks, Matt Tucker himself gallops this way.
Matt and Gloria spot each other at the same time. When he reins his stallion to a halt in front of her it’s like watching that exquisite moment in the movies when the hero and heroine first meet. They melt into each other’s gazes and you just know they’re going to end up riding off into the sunset and living happily ever after.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life could turn out that way? If husbands and wives could keep their love new and exciting till their dying day, and even after death find their way back to each other through time and space?
It’s not happening for me, of course, but that doesn’t stop me from believing other people can have that kind of magic. Especially people as talented and gorgeous as Tuck and Gloria.
And might I add, deserving. Tuck’s been alone for twenty years, ever since that high-falutin’ Jolene stormed back to her career in New York and left him with a five-year-old son. He devoted himself to raising Jackson and the best thoroughbred horses in the country. As far as anybody knows, he never even came close to finding another woman to love.
Thinking that I could be the catalyst for what might turn out to be another Gable/Lombard romance of the century gives me goose bumps.
“Gloria, I’d like you to meet my neighbor, Matt Tucker. Tuck, this is Gloria Hart. She’s a television star and my friend.”
