by Peggy Webb
When Claude holds up his hand, the glare from his gaudy pinky-ring diamond nearly blinds me.
“That’s enough for today. Miss Hart and I have an important meeting.”
“We do?” When Roberta elbows me again, I figure I’m going to be black and blue. I also rethink her raise.
The reporters keep firing questions, and when we ignore them, they turn toward the eager fans to see what juicy tidbits they can gather.
“Go on,” she says. “I’ll take care of things out here.”
“What about those autographs I promised?”
“We’ll all wait for you in the commissary. Drinks and snacks on the studio.”
Claude and Roberta square off like boxers in a national heavyweight championship. Finally, he says, “Done,” and she says, “Good.”
I’m getting ready to tell him thank you, but the Great One, who obviously reads minds, steps on my toe and shoos me away.
But not before she pokes me in the ribs and says, “Don’t you get soft. You’ve got the upper hand, girl. Keep it. No matter what.”
CHAPTER 15
If you’re lost at sea, how do you know which direction is home?
—Gloria
In Claude’s office I sink into a chair and rub my sore spots while the fox retreats behind his desk.
“That demonstration was impressive,” he says, and I just nod.
Another trick I learned from Roberta. Don’t tip your hand; don’t give the enemy any ammunition. Listen and learn. Then act.
“So, how would you feel about coming back to the show?” I wait. “We’ve been taking another look at ratings and demographics. The fact is, Gloria, you have a cross-generational appeal.”
Translated: when the show started catering to the diaper set, we lost our fan base.
“You’re lost at sea, so it will be easy to find you, maybe in a remote little Polynesian village. Something romantic with coconut trees and lots of beach. Of course, it will take a while. We’ll want to do a big story buildup.”
He’s offering everything I wanted, everything I came back to Hollywood to fight for. Now I’m not so sure.
“I’ll think about it, Claude.”
Leaving his office, I head toward the cafeteria to find Roberta. She’s going to ask me if I’ve lost my mind.
When she sees me, she trots over. “Well?” I tell her everything, and she just stands there laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“Perfect. You’ve just got yourself a great big raise.”
It’s not a raise I’m thinking about: it’s a certain horse whisperer in Mooreville, Mississippi.
When you first emerge from your cocoon, people wearing blinders never notice you’ve become a butterfly.
—Jenny
ANGIE and Gloria and Roberta are in the kitchen drinking lemonade and congratulating each other on the success of today’s rally. You’d think I’d be right in the middle, but I’m holed up in the bedroom.
I told them I needed to rest, but that’s only partially true. Sure, spearheading such a huge event in a town where people don’t even know me was more draining than I expected. But that’s not why I’m so tired.
We’ll soon be going home.
Angie has to get ready for her senior year. And me? I don’t know what’s waiting in Mooreville. Or whether Rick even wants me to come back.
Worse, will he leave if I do?
And why am I cowering in here waiting on him to tell me?
I dial his cell phone. Never mind the different time zones and the way the late-lunch crowd makes the middle of the afternoon a hectic time for him. Usually the early crowd cleans the buffet out of meat loaf and Rick’s scrambling to replace it with fried chicken.
And I don’t even know what he’s doing about pies.
He answers, sounding out of sorts till he hears me, then he says “Hey,” in that way of his that’s friendly and sexy at the same time.
Will there ever be another Rick Miller? Will there even be Rick Miller?
“Angie and I will be coming home soon.”
“I know. Sounds like the trip’s been good for her.”
“Has it been good for us, Rick?”
“What are you asking me, Jenny?”
“I guess I’m asking if you still love me.”
His silence is so big I want to kill him.
“You needn’t get so excited, Rick. It’s not good for your heart.” And it’s certainly not good for mine, this appalling lack of interest on his part.
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what? Talk to you on the phone?”
“Start a fight.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m just trying to find out if my husband wants me to come home.”
While I wait long enough for Hannibal to cross the Alps with his army of bull elephants, I start making a mental list of things I’ll keep during the divorce. My mother’s china. My grandmother’s rocking chair. The scrapbook with all Angie’s little notes and drawings from the time she first discovered pencil and paper. She was three, I think.
He’ll have to pry those from my cold, dead hand.
“Of course, you’re coming home. I don’t want Angie flying cross-country by herself.”
“She’s seventeen, Rick.”
How things have changed. Usually it’s Rick reminding me that Angie’s growing up and I should trust her.
“I have to go, Jenny. They’re calling me in the kitchen.” He’s not making this up. I hear the banging of pots, the rumble of frustrated staff in the background. “Let me know your travel arrangements.”
That’s another thing he’ll have to pry from me with a crowbar. If he thinks he can act like I’m an afterthought then expect me to do my good-little-wife duties, as usual, he’s hunting with the wrong dog.
Tossing the cell phone into a dresser drawer, I prance out to join the celebration.
It turns out the only celebrant in the kitchen is Gloria. Roberta has gone home, and Angie’s gone out with Marshall.
“She said she’d be back by twelve,” Gloria says, and I just nod, which goes to show I’ve learned how to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
But apparently I still haven’t learned to be a goddess. Or anything close.
When I tell Gloria about the phone call, she asks if I told Rick how I feel.
Well, naturally not. I’m not used to telling other people how I feel. Most of the time, I don’t even know myself. When you get used to being the one to carry on, you forget emotional landscape is even part of your map.
Besides, I know better than to expect sweet and cuddly when Rick’s on the defensive. Good grief, even I have been known to say a word when somebody backs me against a wall. Once I told Godzilla to butt the heck out of my marriage, which is the closest I’ve ever come to a four-letter word.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Gloria.”
“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll fly home with Angie.”
“Rick would probably head straight to a lawyer. He’s expecting me to come home.”
“He might surprise you, Jenny. What if he’s as uncertain as you? What if he just needs a little encouragement?”
“When you get back, see if Tuck has a cattle prod. That ought to do the trick.”
I swear, if you could bottle giggles with a girlfriend and sell them, you could cure all kinds of ailments. Loneliness. Uncertainty. Fear. Even heartbreak.
“It certainly worked with Claude,” Gloria says.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. But I want to spend some time with Tuck before I decide.”
See? This is the thing I’m talking about. If an icon like Gloria can be lured away from fame and fortune by love, a woman with nothing to brag about except lemon ice box pie doesn’t stand a chance.
Tuck calls and when Gloria walks onto the patio for some privacy, I refill my glass then wander into the bathroom. See myself in the mirror
. Really see.
Here’s the thing: I’m not the prettiest woman on the block but I’m not half bad. I have shiny hair and a pleasant face, a nice smile. And I’m a kind person. Everybody says so.
Except Rick.
He used to, though. “Jenny,” he’d tell me when we were first married, “you’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever known.”
Of course, that’s compared to Godzilla, but still, maybe he needs to remember how he once thought I was wonderful.
And maybe I need to stay in California to figure out what I’ll do if he does remember. The truth is, I’m not the same woman he married, and if he wants me as I was, then I have an uphill battle convincing him to take me as I am.
If they ever do give classes in how to be an adult, I would like them to teach that saying goodbye is not a bad thing. Change is necessary for growth.
—Angie
I’M HAVING to pinch myself. All my new friends are at Gloria’s house for a giant thank-you pool party. Actually, it’s also my going-away party.
We’re flying home to Mississippi tomorrow. Just Gloria and me.
Before I came to Hollywood, this would have flipped me out, but I’ve learned something out here: Mom’s a person, too. With her own feelings, her own set of needs and everything. If she needs some time to work things out with Dad, it’s not up to me to pout and whine and insist she fly home.
Besides, I don’t want her to go back and bury herself in pie dough again. I like her better the way she is now. She’s really there, you know what I mean? It’s not like it used to be when she’d be in the house but you’d hardly ever know it unless she decided to lecture you about something or tell you to get off the telephone.
I’m not worried about what to tell Dad, either. What they say to each other is between them.
It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. I can’t have it both ways; I can’t be practically a grownup enjoying a few freedoms and a little girl whining about divorce.
Listen, I help put together a rally that swayed a big-shot TV producer. I can handle anything. If anybody has any doubts, I’ll just whip out my scrapbook.
Marshall’s calling me to the deep end of the pool to show off my swan dive. In Mooreville, being on the swim team was just something I did. Out here, it’s like I’m a contender for the U.S. Olympics.
I do a porpoise move that shoots me underwater where I propel my way to him with a speed that causes him to say, “You’re amazing.”
Sometimes I even amaze myself. Lately I can swim in the deep end whether I’m in the water or not.
CHAPTER 16
Does driving a Ferrari mean you’ve arrived? And how can you arrive if you don’t know where you’re going?
—Jenny
Gloria left me the keys to her Ferrari. As if I’m fixing to get in that dangerous machine and squirt around on freeways that make me pee in my pants—and that’s just when I’m a passenger.
Still, it’s not as bad as I thought, being here in her house all by myself. I pictured drawing the blinds after Gloria and Angie flew out of LAX this morning, crawling into bed and spending the rest of my life with the covers pulled over my head.
The thing about turning into a lion is that it’s hard to be brave when you’re by yourself. It’s hard to talk yourself into believing you’ve made a right and justified decision when your friend is not there shaking the pom-poms, shouting encouragement and pouring tequila in your cup.
Besides, what am I going to do with all this time now that Angie and Gloria are gone? Even Roberta’s not here. She and Hubert have gone to San Francisco to visit their daughter Beverly and her three little hellions. Roberta’s words. Not mine. Though I could tell from the way she said it that she thinks her grandchildren are the smartest, bravest, cutest little people on planet Earth.
I wander into the kitchen on the lookout for bread and some sliced ham, maybe a bit of cheese, and the next thing you know I’m pulling flour and sugar out of the cabinet. Cans of peaches and pears, apples and cherries. Disposable tin-foil pans.
THE PHONE jars me out of a flour-dust stupor. I wipe dough on my apron—actually, Gloria’s apron—and pull my cell out of my pocket.
“Jenny?”
“Rick?”
“Who did you think it would be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t read minds.”
Rick’s set mine fields in this conversation, and I just blew off one of my legs.
“What are you trying to pull, Jenny?”
“Nothing. I decided to stay in California.”
“Without telling me?”
A second explosion, and there goes my right arm.
“I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You certainly did.”
From his tone of voice, I take it the surprise was a nasty one. Well, chalk one up to the new Jenny Miller, former pie-queen doormat.
“We could have discussed this, Jenny.”
“I’m willing to discuss anything, anytime. Only not on the phone.”
I look at the line of pies. If I eat them all I’ll grow to the size of this house. Then I won’t have to make any decisions at all except how to wedge myself into the shower.
“How do you expect me to discuss anything with you pouting out there on the west coast? I have a restaurant to run, Jenny. A daughter to take care of. Fires to put out.”
“You sure know a lot about that, Rick. Putting out fires.”
I just stepped squarely in a mine that knocked out my heart.
We listen to each other breathe a while, then we hang up. Me, first. I hope.
The pies sit there in accusing rows, and I can’t tell you what I was seeking when I made them. Comfort in the familiar? Comfort in calories? Comfort in doing something I do well?
It would be a shame to waste all these pies. But I’m not fixing to take out a spoon. Instead, I get Gloria’s car keys, make a shaky exit from the driveway, gain momentum two blocks down the street and zoom with confidence into the neighborhood Walgreen’s. I purchase cellophane and ribbons, return home and tie the pies with pretty pink bows, then load them into the back of the Ferrari.
When the woman next door answers the bell, I say in my best perky voice, “Hello, you have just won a home-baked pie. Compliments of Jenny Miller.”
“I didn’t enter anything. How could I win?”
“Because you’re a woman?”
She looks at me as if I’ve lost my last marble, then we both start laughing. I tell her I’m Gloria Hart’s guest from Mississippi, and she invites me in for coffee.
Afterward, Ruth Clark, mother of two college-kids-driving-her-crazy, daughter of mother-in-a-nursing-home and wife of busy-lawyer-never-on-time-for-social-functions climbs into Gloria’s fancy car and helps me deliver the rest of the pies to the unsuspecting public.
“I haven’t had this much fun since my senior prom,” she says, and I tell her I’m staying in California a while, perhaps we can be friends.
Sometimes you have to stop looking in order to find what you want.
—Gloria
IT’S TWO DAYS before Tuck and I come up for air enough to have a real conversation. And our first disagreement. Over a horse.
We’re in his barn where he’s introducing me to Moonchild and telling me I can ride, but only in the paddock with him leading the horse and holding the reins.
I ruffle up like a petticoat in a hundred-mile-an-hour wind.
“I won’t be carried around on a silk pillow or treated differently from any other woman around here.”
“You are different.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“For me, you are. I’d die if anything happened to you.”
Okay. Now I’m melting. Now I’m tempted to get on this horse and let him lead me around. But only for a moment. I didn’t become who I am by letting anybody lead me around.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I want to take care of you.”
“Not by wrapping me in cotton batt
ing, you won’t.”
“Would you be satisfied if I helped you into the saddle then rode along close by, just in case I need to catch you if you fall?”
“For how long?”
“What would you do if I said the rest of our lives?”
“I’d say you needed a different script writer. One who would include starlight and a great big moon and maybe a little harmonica music.”
Tuck pulls a harmonica out of his pocket and plays a blues riff. See? That’s one thing I love: the surprise of this man.
“There’s your music.” He tucks it back in his pocket. “I think I can take care of the rest.”
He’s not kidding around, and neither am I. Falling in love is like being pregnant. You can’t be just a little bit pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.
You either fall in love or you don’t. And it only takes an instant. Sure, it takes time to learn another person’s habits, his quirks, his favorite music, his favorite foods. But if the chemistry is not there from the beginning, the grand passion will be missing, and what’s the use without it?
“You don’t even know what I eat for breakfast.” I say this to test the waters.
“In the morning we’ll get out of bed long enough to find out.”
“And what about my TV show?” I’m looking for affirmation now, real commitment.
“I’m not afraid of flying.”
With that he leads the horses outside, swings me into the saddle, mounts his huge black stallion, and we ride out side by side.
“See. I told you I can do this.” Moonchild trots down the lane at a sedate pace, and I feel as if I was born in the saddle.
Past the pasture gate, she speeds up and I wonder aloud why saddles don’t come with handlebars.
“Have you ridden before?”
“Yes. But I never knew what they meant by rolling gait.” The way I’m rolling, I could slide off any minute.
“How many times?”
“Once. On a segment of Love in the Fast Lane.” The tree I’m passing teeters at an alarming angle, and when Tuck stops laughing, he reins in his stallion then helps me down.
“Are you always going to be this much trouble?”
