by Elle Kennedy
“You should have told me you were coming to visit,” my mother chides with a shake of her head. “I would’ve baked another batch.”
“Sorry, I probably should’ve called.” I remove my leather jacket and toss it aside, then step forward to embrace my mother.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, tightly returning the hug.
I kiss the top of her head, link my arm through hers, and we stroll through the oak swivel door leading into the kitchen.
After receiving my very first million-dollar paycheck, I’d offered to buy Mom a new house, but she refused. She loves the small bungalow she raised me in, and I have to admit I like it too. It represents a warmth and coziness my life lacks these days.
“To what do I owe this visit?” It doesn’t take long for my mother’s blue eyes to fill with suspicion.
“Just felt like coming home, I guess.” I round the counter and flop onto one of the tall white stools. “It was sort of a last-minute decision.”
“Every decision you make is last-minute, Benjamin. You’re nothing if not spontaneous.”
Well, she has me on that one. My impulsive nature is how I ended up with Maggie. I forced my way into her apartment—and her life—without even knowing why I was doing it. And look how that turned out—I cost Maggie her job, her dreams and her privacy.
Spontaneous is often just another word for fucking selfish.
“So, what have you done?” Mom asks. She pours a glass of milk and sets it on the weathered cedar counter in front of me.
I frown. “What makes you think I did something?”
Chuckling, she slides two huge oven mitts on her hands and removes a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the middle rack. “You’ve got guilt written all over your face,” she tosses over her shoulder. She sets the baking tray on the stove to cool. “And please don’t tell me you got another tattoo. You have enough.”
“No tattoo.” I release the sigh lodged in my chest. “I met someone, Mom.”
Gaping, my mother turns to face me. “Seriously?”
I nod glumly. “Seriously.”
“And?”
“And I like her. I might even love her a little.”
“Victoria’s Secret or Vogue?”
“Neither. She’s a civilian.”
After another second of bewilderment, her eyes light up like a string of Christmas lights. As a huge grin stretches across her face, she whips off her oven mitts. “Tell me everything,” she orders.
So I tell her. About Maggie. About the hotel room mishap that threw us together (though I leave out the details of what happened during that room mishap). I finish with the entire paparazzi mess and Maggie’s request that I leave, ending with, “So basically, I screwed up her life.”
Then I groan and reach for the milk in front of me, feeling like a little kid again as I sip the cold liquid.
“You didn’t screw up her life,” my mother soothes. “It will all settle down sooner or later.”
“Yeah, until the next scandal hits. Maggie doesn’t want to be part of my lifestyle. She doesn’t want that kind of attention.”
Mom assumes that knowing look of wisdom I’ve grown used to over the years. “The only reason you receive that kind of attention, sweetheart, is because you go out looking for it.”
My jaw drops. “I do not.”
“Sure you do.” She shrugs at my indignant reaction. “You date floozies, Ben. And when you date floozies, the media likes to take pictures of you with your floozies.”
“Stop saying floozies,” I grumble.
“Don’t sulk, sweetheart. You know I’m right. You do flashy things with flashy women.”
Fine, maybe my mother has a point. There are plenty of other celebrities, actors far more famous than me, who don’t find their faces splashed across the tabloids every week. I don’t go out and solicit the attention, but I can see Mom’s point. The women I date are gorgeous, glitzy, and demanding to be noticed. Women like Sonja, who may as well be wearing a sign that reads “NOTICE ME! TAKE MY PICTURE!”
“This Maggie sounds very down to earth,” Mom says. “And—I don’t mean this as an insult—she also seems like the type who wouldn’t make the media drool. They need teeny-bikini models to sell covers, not your average Jane type. She’s too normal for those idiots.”
I grin. “You’re right about that.” My expression quickly sobers. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that they’re still all over me. Especially since Gretchen died.”
I almost flinch, expecting to see sorrow, or maybe anger, in my mother’s eyes, but she surprises me. Looking serious, she crosses her arms over her apron and says, “Tell the truth already, Ben. Tell them about Gretchen and your father.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you kidding? I’d never do anything to embarrass you, Mom.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re embarrassing me now, for God’s sake! Everyone in town thinks my son goes to bed with women twice his age—for money! The other day Susan pulled me aside in the pharmacy and suggested you go into therapy.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Call Susan yourself. I’m sure she has a list of shrinks written up.”
“So you honestly don’t care if I tell the world that Dad was a bigamist and a thief?”
“Of course not.” Her features soften. “Sweetheart, I’ve come to terms with what your father did. In fact, I came to terms with it a long time ago. You don’t need to protect me from it.”
I hesitate. “What about the money?”
“What about it?”
“I don’t feel right keeping it,” I confess.
“Then give it away.” Mom shrugs. “There are lots of deserving charities out there, and if Gretchen’s money is that much of a burden for you, donate it.”
As usual, my mother is nothing if not frank. She’s always been frank. Always been the strongest woman I’ve ever known, too, which makes me wonder why I ever believed she’d be embarrassed or ashamed if the truth about my connection to Gretchen came out.
“Now, about Maggie,” she continues, strolling back to the stove to pluck one cookie from the tray. “I assume you’ll do everything you can to get her back?”
A faint smile plays on my lips. Then I nod. “You assume right.”
32
Maggie
Two days after I sent Ben away, I still haven’t mastered the art of getting off the couch and changing out of my ratty old sweats. Tough. I don’t feel like getting up or brushing my hair or pretending that I’m anything but what I currently feel: miserable.
It’s not like I have a job to go to, anyway. No school either, since my first exam isn’t until next week. And although most of the reporters have abandoned their stakeout of the Broger Center, a few overly ambitious ones still linger, making me feel uneasy about going back. Sooner or later I’ll call Gloria and talk about that permanent position. But not today.
“Jeez, Maggie, did you rob a bank?” comes my roommate’s incredulous cry.
I twist my head in time to see Summer walk in, looking tanned, healthy and seriously confused. In comparison, I feel like a mess with my tangled hair and wrinkled clothing. A big, pathetic mess.
“Yes, Summer, I robbed a bank,” I say dryly.
Eyeing my disheveled appearance, Summer drops her bright red suitcase and marches toward the couch. “Seriously, why are there reporters standing outside our building? I heard one of them quizzing the security guard about you. Are you in trouble?”
“I guess you could say that.” I release a heavy sigh. “I did something stupid.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“I fell in love with a movie star.”
Summer’s stunned silence doesn’t come as any surprise. Hell, I was pretty stunned myself when I figured it out. The night Ben left, I went to bed alone. And when I was lying there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, I came to a realization that rendered any chance of falling asleep impossible.
And everything to do with losing Ben.
“How long have I been gone for?” Summer demands, blinking wildly. “In a week and a half you managed to fall in love with a movie star? Is this a joke?”
“Nope. It’s true.”
She motions for me to move over, then flops down beside me. “Okay, spill.”
“Remember my stranger?”
“Of course.”
“Turns out he’s Ben Barrett—”
“Ben Barrett the actor?” Summer exclaims.
I stare at her. “Yes. As in, I fell for a stupid movie star.”
“Oh gosh, he is hot. Plus his movies have a ton of explosions, so Tygue doesn’t complain about watching them. It’s win-win.”
“Not for me,” I mumble. Then, in a shaky voice, I recap all the events that Summer missed when she was away.
“Holy shit,” she breathes when I finish. “You lost your job? I’m so sorry.”
I shrug. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but—”
My ringing cell phone cuts her off. A tiny pang of hope tugs at my insides, but I will it away. It won’t be Ben. I asked him to leave. He hasn’t called since and he won’t call now.
A quick glance at the screen tells me I’m right. The caller is Tony, of all people.
I furrow my brow and answer the call, mostly out of curiosity. I haven’t heard from Tony since he left that message apologizing for the hotel room mix-up. “Hey, Tony,” I greet him.
“Maggie! I’ve got good news, babe. I’ll be in the city tomorrow night.”
He’ll be in the city? I almost laugh out loud, realizing how things have changed so dramatically since the last time I spoke to—or thought about—Tony. A few weeks ago, I would’ve jumped up and down with excitement at the sound of his voice, at the idea of meeting up and going to bed with him. Now, it’s the last thing I want. How can I just forget everything that happened and go back to the way I was in the pre-Ben days? How can I ever settle for casual sex when I experienced something deeper?
“That’s great,” I answer, my tone hardly enthusiastic.
“Don’t sound so thrilled about it,” he teases.
“I’m sorry. I just…I’ve met someone.” Next to me, Summer’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.
There’s a brief silence. “You’re kidding me,” Tony finally says, chuckling softly.
I bristle. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not making fun of you, babe. I’m just amazed. What happened to the Maggie I meet three times a year?”
“Two times,” I correct.
“Is it serious?” Tony asks.
I draw in a breath. “Yeah. I think so. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t apologize. We had a good run, right?”
“It was great,” I say, and I mean it. My casual trysts with Tony were great. But I don’t want great anymore. I want incredible. I want body-numbing. Toe-curling. Heart-thumping.
I want Ben.
As my eyes well up with unwelcome tears, I utter a quick goodbye and hang up, swiping at my damp lashes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Damn it. I’m sick of crying.
“This is why I never wanted anything serious,” I complain. “Feeling miserable sucks.” I run my hands through my messy hair and release a groan.
Summer stares at me. “You’re a different person. How the hell did this happen?”
I manage a faint smile. “I’m still the same person.”
“I’m serious, Mags. You just broke it off with Tony. Tony, for God’s sake! The guy you can’t wait to see each time he comes to visit.”
“I guess Two-Time Tony isn’t enough anymore,” I admit. “Ben…well, he made me realize something. I…don’t want to be alone.” Saying those words out loud is difficult. But cathartic, too, because they’re undeniably true. The past few days without Ben have been horrible. Miserable and horrible and excruciatingly lonely.
The loneliness is what finally got to me. For so long I’ve worked my ass off to make something of myself. I wanted my life to mean something, I wanted to matter, if only to the kids I worked with, and that’s what drove me. Saving money, getting a college degree, finding a meaningful job. But what happens afterwards? What happens when I go home at night—alone? When I wake up every morning—alone? When the only person I’m able to share my dreams, thoughts and feelings with is a roommate who’ll soon be building her own life with the man she loves?
I’ll have a career, I’ll spend my afternoons doing something meaningful, but what’s the point if I don’t have anyone to share it with?
“I miss him,” I bleakly tell Summer. “I miss talking to him and joking around with him. I miss kissing him. Hell, I even miss listening to him sing along to the Beach Boys.”
A knowing smile curves her mouth. “It’s a pretty amazing feeling, isn’t it? Being in love?” She pauses. “And, listen, I know this probably isn’t the time to tell you this, but…Tygue and I are getting married.”
For a moment, all my problems whisk out of my tired brain. “Really?”
Summer blushes. “He proposed on the last night of our trip. We’re thinking a Christmas wedding in Jamaica.”
“Oh my God! Really?” I sling my arm over her shoulder and squeeze her warmly. “I’m so happy for you guys. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She pauses again. “Why don’t you call him?”
“Tygue? I can just congratulate him in person.”
“Not Tygue. Ben.”
“I can’t call him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I asked him to leave.”
“So ask him to come back.”
I swallow. “It’s not that simple. Look, even if I do tell him how I feel, the media won’t stop harassing us. And as long as the press is interested in me, Gloria won’t let me work at the center.”
Summer’s expression softens. “Then you need to ask yourself this—what’s more important to you: your job or Ben?”
“C’mon, don’t make this about me having to choose.”
“What if that’s what it comes down to?”
I grow silent. What if it did come to that? I’m not sure what I’d do. I want to be with Ben, but I’m not ready to give up everything I worked so hard for either.
And what if I do decide Ben is worth being hounded by the paparazzi and risking my job for? If we end up breaking up someday, I’ll be left with nothing. I’ll be no better than my mother, a woman who left her responsibilities at a gas station in Queens for a man and a relationship that, knowing my mother’s flakiness, probably hadn’t even worked out.
Does my mother regret leaving me? This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered, and it probably won’t be the last, but it’s the question that always keeps me in line, urging me to make something of myself.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I grumble, too confused to think. “Tell me about your trip. How did the steel drum performance go? Did you get along with Tygue’s family?”
After a beat, Summer grants me the change the subject. “His family loved me. And everyone at the reception gave me a standing ovation after I finished my song.”
I snort. “Uh-huh. Now that’s something I’ve got to see to believe.”
She smiles smugly. “Luckily for you, Tygue got it all on tape.”
33
Ben
“Ben, have a seat,” Alan Goodrich says after we enter the spacious living room of his Beverly Hills mansion.
I assume a relaxed demeanor and sink onto the black leather sofa situated in front of a forbidding stone fireplace. I’d visited the Goodrich home only once before, when Gretchen first contacted me six months ago, but the opulent surroundings still make me a little uncomfortable. Hell, just being in Alan’s presence makes me uncomfortable. The man is one of the most esteem
ed directors in the business, recipient of two Oscars, not to mention a list of nominations and critic nods as long as the Nile.
I’m still not sure why Alan wanted to meet with me, but I hope it doesn’t have to do with Gretchen.
Of course it has to do with Gretchen. Why else would he ask you to come?
“So. Ben. Why don’t we skip the pleasantries and get right down to business?” Alan announces. “I have two matters to discuss.”
“Okay.”
I’m feeling unnerved. With his barrel chest, shock of white hair, and piercing eyes, Alan Goodrich is nothing if not intimidating. Lowering his beefy body into a leather recliner, he folds his hands in his lap. “First, you should know that my wife’s estate has been settled. Since the will was uncontested, you should receive a check very soon.”
I swallow. “About that…I don’t feel comfortable keeping Gretchen’s money, Mr. Goodrich.”
“Call me Alan.”
“Okay. Alan. I’ve decided to donate the money to charity. I got a few organizations in mind, but if Gretchen had any pet causes, let me know and I’ll be sure to make a donation.”
He nods. “I’ll have my assistant send you a list.”
“Also…I wanted to ask you something. I’d like to give a statement to the press about Gretchen’s connection to my father.”
Alan grows silent.
“That is, if you don’t mind,” I add quickly.
“Actually, I think it’s a fine idea.” His strong, somewhat harsh features soften. “Gretchen would’ve hated it if she knew your inheritance caused a media circus. She really did feel awful about what your father did to you and your mother. I don’t think she would’ve ever written you into her will if she knew the kind of negative attention you’d receive.”
“I know.” From what I knew of her, Gretchen had a big heart.
“So clear it up, son. It’s about time the press cut you some slack.”
“Thanks, Alan.”
He gives a brisk nod. “Now, to the second matter at hand. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m currently working on a World War Two picture.”
