California Girls

by Susan Mallery

  Gina set a challenging but achievable pace. Zennie was right behind her with Cassie and DeeDee bringing up the rear.

  The trail was well marked and well used. There were wider areas for groups to pass and the underbrush was kept trimmed, something Zennie appreciated. She might have grown up as a tomboy, but she still had a deep fear of snakes. The foothills around Los Angeles were home to rattlesnakes and Zennie was convinced that in the rattlesnake community, she was a prize.

  They reached a flat area and stopped for water and to catch their breath. The view of the hills and city beyond was amazing. It was early enough that they had the trail to themselves and the only sounds were their breathing and conversation.

  DeeDee handed Zennie her water bottle. “Hold this for a second, please.” DeeDee put her heel on a boulder and stretched her leg. “I keep getting this stupid tight hamstring.”

  She straightened and reached for her bottle. Zennie went to hand it to her friend, her arm outstretched.

  She wasn’t sure what happened next. She knew she stepped on a rock and that knocked her off balance. Zennie’s weight shifted, the edge of the hill gave way just a little and the next thing Zennie knew, she was sliding and falling and screaming as she tumbled over before coming to a stop a good twenty feet below the path.

  At first she was too stunned to do anything but lie there. She heard her friends yelling her name. Gina scrambled down first, hanging on to bushes and dried grass to slow her descent. By the time she was close, Zennie had pushed herself into a sitting position and was trying to assess her injuries.

  She felt shaken but not disoriented. Her upper leg burned. When she looked down, she saw she’d gotten a heck of a scrape from hip to knee. She ignored the oozing blood and dirt and rocks embedded in her flesh. That was superficial and could be dealt with. She was more concerned about serious injuries.

  “Lie back down,” Gina told her.

  “And risk getting a snakebite on the face? No, thank you.”

  Gina waved to the other two. “She’s conscious and still scared of snakes. I think that’s a good sign.”

  “Not snakes,” Zennie muttered. “Rattlesnakes. There’s a difference.”

  Gina crouched next to her. “Did you hit your head?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up.”

  Gina had her move her toes, her feet, her ankles and so on. They quickly assessed nothing was broken, although Zennie had multiple scrapes with plenty of embedded debris.

  “That’s going to hurt to get out,” Gina said, helping Zennie to her feet.

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” Zennie admitted as she stood and waited. She monitored herself for dizziness or acute pain, but there was just the dull ache of the abrasions. She was banged up, a little shaken, but nothing more.

  She and Gina scrambled up to the trail. DeeDee flung herself at Zennie.

  “This is all my fault.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I slipped. That’s on me, not you.”

  “You could have died.”

  Zennie hugged her friend. “You are so weird.”

  Cassie, a pediatric care nurse, looked at Zennie’s leg and winced. “You’re going to need to go to an urgent care center. A hospital would be better, but I know you’ll balk at that.”

  “There’s one just down the hill,” Gina said. “I’ll go with her and you two can finish the run.”

  Cassie snorted. “As if. We are not finishing the run without you two. We’ll all go to urgent care and make sure Zennie’s okay.”

  Zennie wanted to protest but she knew there was no way she could clean out the scrapes herself. Not only couldn’t she see what she was doing, it would hurt like hell. At least at the urgent care center, they could spray on a topical numbing cream to take the edge off.

  Thirty minutes later she was in an examination room. A handsome doctor in a wheelchair entered the room, her chart in his lap. He was in his late thirties, with too-long hair and glasses. He gave her an easy smile.

  “Really? You couldn’t just sleep in on a Sunday morning?”

  “Sorry. I’m not the sleep-in type.”

  “Fine. Make me work for a living. I’m Dr. Rowell, by the way, but you can call me Harry. Everyone does.” He stopped in front of her and looked at her leg. “That’s ugly. Okay. I’m going to make sure you’re only banged up and not seriously hurt, then we’ll clean you up.” He picked up her chart. “Any allergies to medication or medical conditions I should know about?”

  “No, I’m—” She’d been about to say perfectly fine, only what if she wasn’t.

  Zennie clutched the edge of the exam room table and stared at the doctor. Horror swept through her as nausea churned in her stomach. Tears filled her eyes.

  “What?” Harry asked, his tone gentle. “Zennie, what is it?”

  “I might be pregnant. I just got AI last Friday. No one even knows. I’m trying to have a baby for my best friend and I fell.” The tears spilled onto her cheeks. “What if I killed her baby?”

  “You didn’t kill the baby,” he told her. “Come on. If you even are pregnant, it’s like four cells.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay, let’s get serious. This early on, the embryo would be embedded in your uterus, surrounded by all your girl parts and internal organs. Fabergé eggs don’t get such royal treatment when they’re shipped around the world.”

  She wiped her face and managed a smile. “Girl parts? Are you sure you went to medical school?”

  He flashed her a grin. “I think I missed that day, but I totally rocked wound cleaning.” He squeezed her hand again. “Zennie, artificial insemination is a simple procedure that doesn’t always take. If you’re not pregnant, it has nothing to do with your fall. I swear. Believe me?”

  She nodded. “I’m not sure I will later, but I appreciate the information.” She knew he was right, about all of it, but she wasn’t exactly in a rational place. “I just want to give her a healthy little baby.”

  “I know and I’m sure you will.” He released her hand and looked at her leg. “Yup, that’s ugly. Okay, let’s check you out and find out what’s going on, then we’ll start the torture.”

  She laughed. “Sounds like a plan. So are you single?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You work fast.”

  “Not for me. But I do think you’d like my friend DeeDee. You share a sense of humor.”

  “I saw your friends and would be open to meeting any of them. Once you’re patched up, let’s casually introduce me.”

  “Let’s.”

  * * *

  Finola knew she had to get her act together. Hiding out in her house was only making her more depressed. She was withdrawing from everything that wasn’t work-related and that was not a healthy path.

  She was still angry about her stepfather’s comments. She knew she wasn’t responsible for Nigel’s affair and to suggest otherwise was simply cruel. Yet she couldn’t let the idea go. Nor could she stop feeling guilty about not joining her sisters to help with their mom’s house sorting. She spent a restless night and morning pacing in the house feeling trapped. By noon she knew she had to do something.

  She went to the grocery store and stocked up on food for the coming week, then checked the schedule of her favorite workout studio. She saw there was a barre class starting in an hour. She would go to that, sweat out her frustration then come home and make a plan for the next few days. First on her list would be an apology dinner with her sisters.

  The Encino fitness studio was both upscale and snooty. Women came to work out and to judge. No jiggle went unnoticed, no slack thigh went uncatalogued. Finola wasn’t thrilled with the spirit of the place, but the classes were excellent and many movers and shakers worked out there. Life was all about who you knew.

  She had barely started stretching when she heard a famili
ar voice saying, “Is this space taken?”

  She smiled at her assistant. “Hey, Rochelle. You’re young and beautiful. Why aren’t you on the beach with some hunky guy?”

  “I’m always here on Sunday afternoon. You run into the most interesting people.”

  “Good.” Those connections were why Finola had given Rochelle the membership as a Christmas gift. The young woman was going to be someone to be reckoned with in the not too distant future.

  Finola let herself relax a little. Having Rochelle in the class would mean she had a buffer. An unexpected bonus, she thought gratefully. While her strict diet had taken care of any lingering effects of the week of carbs and not moving, Finola knew she was still incredibly vulnerable. It wouldn’t take much to shatter her like a dropped crystal vase.

  For the next fifty minutes Finola couldn’t think of anything but keeping up. She scooped, lifted, held and breathed until she was shaking, with sweat dripping down her back. When they relaxed onto mats to stretch, she was pleased to find that her mind had quieted. She was strong, she told herself. She would use the next week to get her act together. She would stop hiding and walk with her head held high.

  They finished class and rose. Rochelle was as out of breath and sweaty as she was.

  “It kills me every time,” she admitted.

  “It’s supposed to.”

  One of the women from the class looked out the window. “Huh. There’s something going on in the parking lot. I wonder if Jennifer Lawrence is taking a private class again. My daughter just loves her.”

  Finola’s heart sank. No, she told herself. She wasn’t going to assume anything. She had to remember to be strong.

  Several women moved toward the window. Without saying anything, Rochelle joined them, then quickly returned to Finola’s side.

  “Six photographers waiting by the door. I don’t see a news van, so they’re freelancers. Jennifer Lawrence really might be getting a private lesson.”

  The sweat that broke out on her back had nothing to do with the workout. “Do you really believe that?”

  Rochelle’s gaze locked with hers. “No. How do you want to handle this?”

  Finola pressed a hand to her stomach. She had to get out of the studio and to her car. Once she was there, she could make her escape. There was a chance that this had nothing to do with her, but she couldn’t count on it.

  The problem wasn’t the distance to her car, it was the pictures. They would last forever. Oh, why had she worn such an ugly dress over her workout clothes?

  “What did you wear in to class?” she asked her assistant.

  Rochelle smiled. “A leather skirt and denim jacket. Not practical, I know, but I, ah, didn’t come from my apartment.”

  Despite her terror and the nausea, Finola smiled. “Aha, so there is a hunky guy.”

  “There might be. Let’s go get changed.”

  There was a small dressing area in back. The previous class had cleared out and the new one was heading to the studio. They had the space to themselves.

  Rochelle opened her locker and got out her street clothes. She held out the skirt and jacket. Thank God they were both black, as were Finola’s leggings.

  She pulled on the skirt, then slipped on the sandals she’d worn in. She and Rochelle wore the same size clothes, but they weren’t even close on shoes. She pulled a comb from her bag then dug around for a hair fastener. Rochelle had her sit in front of the mirror, then combed her hair back and secured it in a high, perky ponytail. Finola applied lip gloss and put on her oversize sunglasses. Rochelle slipped on her dress.

  “I’m sorry it’s so ugly,” Finola told her.

  “It’s fine. No one is going to notice me. If the photographers are who we think they are, you’re the story. Now let’s put the jean jacket over your shoulders.”

  Finola swung it into place, then stood to look at her reflection.

  She looked good. Fit and chic. The sunglasses would hide her wide-eyed stare. She relaxed her face into a neutral expression that showed no emotion. That was her goal. To stay neutral. Pretty, confident and not the least bit upset by what was happening. When there was nothing left to do, they walked toward the studio exit.

  “Want me to ask about a back way?” Rochelle asked. “I could get my car and drive around to get you.”

  Finola managed a genuine smile. “You think they haven’t staked out the other side of the building?”

  “Oh. Good point. Are you ready?”

  Finola nodded because she didn’t have much choice in the matter. “I’ll walk directly to my car. You do the same. When I pull out, get right behind me. I doubt I’m someone worth following, but just in case, you can block the exit for a few seconds while I blend into traffic.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Finola raised a shoulder. “I’ll get through this.”

  She was so focused on getting away, she didn’t have time to think or feel anything else. Probably for the best, she told herself. She had to remember that while she could ignore questions, pictures were forever. She sucked in a breath, then opened the studio door and started directly for her car.

  The photographers were on her instantly. The whirring clicks of their cameras were nearly as loud as the questions.

  “Finola, when did you find out about the affair?”

  “Are you too old to have kids? Is that why your husband’s doing this?”

  “Have you been in a three-way with Treasure?”

  “Does it bother you that she’s so much younger?”

  “When did your husband stop loving you?”

  The questions hit her like poison darts, each more painful than the one before. She kept walking, her head high, her stride confident. She could see her car right up ahead of her. Neutral face, she chanted to herself. Neutral expression so no one knows what a bitch this was. She would get through it because she didn’t have a choice.

  She reached her car. As she touched the door handle, the car unlocked. She slid into her seat, hit the door lock button, then started the engine. The photographers got close, but they didn’t crowd her and none of them raced for their cars. Thank God she’d been right—she wasn’t that interesting. Just interesting enough. Because of Treasure. If he’d slept with nearly anyone else, none of this would have been news.

  She drove out of the parking lot with Rochelle right behind her and merged with the heavy traffic on Ventura Boulevard. She took the long way home, making plenty of unexpected turns, causing other drivers to honk at her. She wove through a quiet neighborhood, even stopping in front of a house for three minutes. No one else drove on the street. Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

  She called Rochelle. “I don’t think anyone followed me.”

  “I didn’t see anyone after you. Finola, I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s going to be everywhere by tonight. You’re going to have to deal with it at work.”

  Not anything she wanted to think about. “I know.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll be in touch.”

  “Do you want me to get you a hotel room?”

  Finola swore silently. Of course—because she probably couldn’t stay in her house. Not now.

  “Let me figure out my next step,” she said. “I’ll let you know. And Rochelle? Thank you.”

  “Of course. You know I’m on your side.”

  Finola allowed herself a second of self-congratulation. She’d chosen well when it came to her assistant. As to her husband—not so much on the choosing.

  She pulled away from the curb. Twenty minutes later her car was in the garage and she was on her laptop. She logged into the TMZ website, then swore when she saw the headlines. News of Treasure’s new lover was everywhere along with pictures of the singer with Nigel.
Worse, there were clips from the interview on the AM SoCal show, showing a very shell-shocked Finola. At the time people had assumed she’d merely had an off show. In hindsight, everyone would know she’d just been told the news and was having to deal on live TV.

  Humiliation and anger fought for dominance. Damn Nigel. Why had he done this to her? She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. He was a total asshole, but hers was the life that was destroyed. Nobody cared if their plastic surgeon had an affair with a singer. But she was all about home and family. Her brand was smart and fun, without any kind of edge. Her viewers would wonder, much like her stepfather had, how she was to blame.

  Her phone started chiming as text messages came in, then it rang. She glanced at the screen. She didn’t know the number, so didn’t answer. She put it on silent, then watched as it buzzed as if it were being electrocuted.

  She needed a plan. It was only a matter of hours until the press found out where she lived. The deed was in both her and Nigel’s names, so hardly secure. She really didn’t want to go live in a hotel. That would be too depressing and she would feel too vulnerable in such a public location. Anyone could knock on her door.

  She dismissed her sisters. Ali was struggling with her own living situation and Zennie’s place was the size of a postage stamp. While she loved Rochelle, she wasn’t going to violate their relationship by imposing.

  Her mother’s house was an option. Finola had kept her late father’s last name even after her mother had married Bill. She used it professionally and personally. Her mother’s last name was different, making her more difficult to trace.

  She pushed Ignore on an incoming call, then dialed her mother.

  “Finola, darling. How are things? I’m sorry you couldn’t come by yesterday but your sisters got so much work done. The whole upstairs is cleaned out.”

  “That’s great, Mom. So I have a situation.” She quickly explained what had happened. “Can I come stay with you for a few days?”