Immediate Family (27 page)

They were getting ready to leave when Marjorie’s gimlet eye fell on Reggie. “You want my blessing, you have it—on one condition. That you don’t let her walk all over you like she did her ex-husband. She likes to think it was Briggs who ruled the roost, but don’t believe it for a minute. She’s my daughter, after all, much as she hates to admit it.”

“I don’t think there is any danger of that, Mrs. Fitzgibbons,” he said, struggling to suppress a smile.

“Marjorie, please,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “I think we’re beyond formalities at this point, don’t you? Just don’t forget—” She broke off to suck in a breath, and Emerson braced herself, expecting to hear something along the lines of,
Don’t forget your place.
But all she said was, “I can still beat the pants off you in gin rummy.”

“I welcome the opportunity to prove you wrong,” he said.

Marjorie closed her eyes, looking utterly spent. In a barely audible voice, she said, “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, why don’t you two run along and let me get my beauty sleep.”

Emerson lingered a moment longer, watching as Marjorie drifted off to sleep, then she bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead, murmuring, “Good night, Mother. Sleep tight.”

When the call came in the middle of the night that Marjorie had died quietly in her sleep, Emerson felt more relieved than anything, grateful that her mother wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. They’d both been put out of their misery, in a way. She, in having made peace with Marjorie at the end. Now, instead of crying over a lost opportunity, she could truly mourn her mother.

And just as Marjorie had predicted, the society crowd all turned out for her memorial service the following week. The older members of the Cosmopolitan Club, represented by Bunny Hopkins and her ilk, mingled with the congregants at St. Thomas’s Church (Marjorie would have been pleased to note several Mayflower descendants among them). Emerson’s ailing aunt Florence flew in from Boca Raton, attended by her caretaker, a lovely Haitian woman named Eugenie. Nacario, too, came to pay his respects, as did Emerson’s ex-husband and his wife.

Jay and Franny were there as well. And Stevie, for whom it hadn’t been easy getting away, given her newly acquired fame as Grant Tobin’s daughter, which had turned the tables on her, making
her
the focus of a media feeding frenzy. As Emerson sat listening to the minister read from Proverbs, flanked by Ainsley and Reggie on one side and her friends on the other, she felt enfolded by love. She may not have been born into the family she’d have chosen, but she’d done all right in making one of her own. In fact, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Have you thought about where you’re going to scatter the ashes?” asked Franny as they were pulling away from the church in the limo.

Emerson looked down at the urn cradled in her arms. As discreet and tasteful as Marjorie would have wanted, with a polished mahogany veneer, it was surprisingly light: the sum total of her mother’s life. “One of her happiest memories was when she and my dad honeymooned in the Loire Valley,” she said, smiling faintly. “I asked one of my clients who owns a vineyard if I could scatter her ashes there. That way every time we drink a bottle of wine from that year, I’ll think of her. She’d like that.”

“Scatter mine over a wheat field,” Franny instructed Jay. “If I can’t eat all the bread I want in my lifetime, it’d be nice knowing I’ll be in all those loaves after I’m gone.”

Jay tightened his arm around her shoulder. “No more talk about dying, please. I don’t know about you, but I plan to be around a long, long time.”

They were such a perfect couple, Franny with her curly head nestled against Jay’s shoulder, it was hard to remember when they’d been nothing more than friends.

“Speaking of which, have you given any more thought to what kind of wedding you’d like?” Emerson asked.

“Isn’t walking down the aisle alone enough of an ordeal?” joked Stevie. But the wistful look she wore told the real story. The other day she’d confided to Emerson that it had been the biggest mistake of her life not marrying Ryan.

“We haven’t even officially announced our engagement yet,” Franny reminded them.

“My mommy and Reggie got married. Now I have
two
daddies,” announced Ainsley, who sat perched on Reggie’s lap.

“Which means I have two lovely ladies to look after instead of just one.” Reggie reached for Emerson’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “And I owe it all to your grandmother. I wouldn’t have met either of you if it hadn’t been for her. I’m grateful to her for that.”

“Good-bye, Grandma.” Ainsley patted the urn. “Do you think she can hear me all the way up in heaven?” she asked Emerson.

Emerson felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. What she’d learned about losing someone close to you was that it wasn’t necessarily the big, cinematic moments that set you off—the Bible readings and eulogies, the friends and relatives offering their sympathies—but the small reminders: a word, a gesture, a memento, like her mother’s favorite teacup upended in the kitchen drainer or the familiar scent of violets that had come wafting from the closet when she’d been hunting for a dress for Marjorie to be cremated in.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” she said. “But if she can, I’m sure she’s smiling right now.”

F
or Stevie, the weeks following Victor Gonzalez’s arrest (and Grant’s subsequent exoneration) were almost surreal. Overnight she’d found herself on the other side of the camera, dodging reporters and TV crews—some of the same people she’d worked alongside for years. Only because she was a veteran of the business was she able to negotiate the shoals, opting for a few select interviews merely to set the record straight, with KLNA naturally getting first crack, instead of allowing herself and Grant to be swallowed up by the media feeding frenzy. It hadn’t been easy getting Grant to go along with it. He was still gun shy from his years of being under siege and she’d had to persuade him that in the long run it was for the best. As soon as the public’s curiosity was satisfied, it would move on to the next scandal. There was always one waiting in the wings, and except for the brief flurry of interest that would come with the publication of Keith’s book, Grant Tobin and Stevie Light would soon be yesterday’s news.

Her life was just beginning to settle back into some semblance of a routine when a blind item in Page Six of the
New York Post
jumped out at her one morning as she was sitting at her desk in the newsroom, scanning the daily papers for items she could use:
…Just asking: What studio head recently separated from wife number three was spotted canoodling at a recent fund-raiser with a certain babelicious blond production assistant, last seen on the arm of an Academy Award–winning documentary filmmaker?

Her heart did a flying leap. It had to be Ryan’s girlfriend, she thought. Who else fit that description? And blind items were often more reliable than official statements from publicists. But there was only one way to get the
real
scoop: from Ryan himself. How, though? She couldn’t just pick up the phone and casually ask, “Oh, by the way, are you and Kimberly still together?” She’d come across as an old-boyfriend-obsessed loser.

It wasn’t until the following morning, after a restless night with the tumblers in her head whirling, that an opportunity presented itself. Almost as if fate had decreed it, news came over the wires of the death of Delilah Jacobs, a former child actress who’d gone on to become a leading wildlife preservationist. It seemed Delilah’s last film project, in 1999, when she was in her late seventies, had been a
National Geographic
documentary about her extraordinary life, produced and directed by none other than Ryan Costa.

Stevie spent the next twenty minutes at her computer feverishly hammering out a proposal for a package on the late Delilah Jacobs, which she fired off to Liv. In the wake of Stevie’s new notoriety, the station had gotten its highest ratings ever, so Liv was on her best behavior these days. Even so, Stevie wasn’t surprised when the producer e-mailed her back saying,
Who gives a rat’s ass about some has-been actress???? A few lines will do.
She could have gone over Liv’s head, but that would only have pissed her off and in the end made Stevie’s life more difficult. Instead, she tracked Liv down in her office, working on her until she finally agreed to let her do the piece, mainly just to shut her up. Minutes later Stevie was scurrying off to the assignment desk to line up a crew, armed with a legitimate reason that didn’t involve groveling to interview her ex-boyfriend. Face-to-face, it would be easy enough to find out what the score was and if there was any chance of rekindling
their
romance.

Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like. Meeting Ryan for drinks or an early dinner at the little bistro around the corner from his studio, like in the old days. The way they’d play off each other, like jazz musicians riffing, feeding each other lines and laughing at inside jokes no one else would get. The lovemaking had been great, yeah, and there were times, especially at night, when she’d ache for him with a kind of hunger that was seldom satisfied by the quick-fix method she’d become quite efficient at. But it was the small, seemingly inconsequential moments that had provided the most lasting memories: his little ritual of bringing her coffee and the paper in bed on Sunday mornings; the nights they’d order Chinese takeout and stay in to watch a movie on DVD; the rides they’d take up the coast on nice days, with the top down on the Firebird and no particular destination in mind, just enjoying the sea breezes and sunshine.

Could that be hers again? Was it too much to hope for?

But when she called Red Gate Productions, it was only to learn that Ryan was out of town. Instead of an on-camera interview, she had to settle for a sound bite over the phone. Ryan gave a tribute to Delilah, whom he described as a grand old gal who’d been fonder of four-legged animals than the two-legged kind, and in the end it turned out to be a nice piece. But all Stevie could think of while she was cutting it was how businesslike he’d sounded. Whatever his status, it was clear he’d moved on as far as she was concerned.

It came as a pleasant surprise when he phoned the following day to compliment her on the piece. She was at the ABC studios, on the set of their hit sitcom
Baker’s Dozen,
about a foster mom named Francine Baker and her thirteen kids, getting ready to interview the star, so she couldn’t really talk. She asked if she could call him later on, then spent the rest of the morning obsessing. Had his call been just a collegial pat on the back, or was there more to it than that?

By all rights he should want nothing more to do with her. She was the one to blame for their breakup; when push came to shove she’d chickened out. And wasn’t love all about taking risks? Look at Jay and Franny, and Emerson and Reggie. Each had taken an enormous leap of faith. It wasn’t all a bed of roses for them, and there had to be times they missed single life. But wasn’t it worth giving up those little perks—never having to reach for the milk carton and find it empty, getting to read in bed at night as late as you like, and blasting ABBA’s
Greatest Hits
on the stereo without anyone rolling their eyes—when you got to come home at the end of each day to the one person you loved best in the world? Someone you could talk to about anything and everything. Someone who didn’t mind giving you a back rub when you were too tired to have sex, and who said you were gorgeous, and meant it, when you were having a bad-hair day or your face was broken out.

“How did the interview go?” Ryan asked, when she phoned him later on.

“Fine, except we had to bleep out all the four-letter words.” She explained that Jackie Ramone, the star of
Baker’s Dozen,
had strong opinions on subjects ranging from politics to her pet environmental cause, and wasn’t shy about expressing them. “I talked to some of the kids, too. The littlest one, who’s so adorable on air, turned out to be a terror.”

He chuckled. “In other words, just another day at the office.”

“What about you? What are you up to these days?” Stevie kept her voice casual.

Ryan told her about his current film project, about the late, great jazz saxophonist, Gerry Mulligan. There was no mention of Kimberly or the blind item in the
Post.

She, in turn, filled him in on the latest with Grant, and with her friends.

“So Franny and Jay finally got together?” he said. “I can’t say I’m all that surprised. If ever two people were made for each other, it’s them.”

“I admit I didn’t see it coming,” Stevie said. “But, yeah, it makes perfect sense.”

“Be sure to give them my congratulations. Em, too.” He paused before adding, half jokingly. “Now that they’re all squared away, I guess that makes you the odd man out.”

Stevie wondered what he’d meant by it and was on the verge of asking point-blank if he and Kimberly were still an item when she heard a call-waiting beep and Ryan announced, “Oops. There’s my other line.” He put her on hold a moment, and when he came back told her, “I have to take this. Can we talk another time?”

Stevie took a wild stab, knowing she might not get another chance. “You free for lunch sometime next week?”

“Next week’s no good. But I could do brunch tomorrow.” His tone was brisk, businesslike.

“I think I could manage that.” Suddenly she was having a hard time catching her breath.

“Ten-thirty at the Crow’s Nest?”

“Great. See you then.”

After she’d hung up, Stevie’s heart was racing. She thought briefly about phoning one of her friends, but what was there to report? It was just brunch, not a declaration of undying love. Also, Jay, Franny, and Emerson were no longer available to chat at all hours; they had families. As Ryan had so succinctly pointed out, she was the odd man out.

Feeling at loose ends, Stevie wandered into the kitchen in search of something to nibble on. But going through her mostly empty cupboards only provided more evidence of her lonely existence. All she could find were a few cans of soup, a half-eaten package of stale tortilla chips, and a box of Cheerios. The refrigerator told an even grimmer tale, with its wilted lettuce, single shriveled carrot, and container of yogurt resembling a sixth-grade science experiment. The only thing she had lots of was the coffee she fueled herself with each morning before she jumped on the proverbial treadmill.

The following morning she rose early to shower and get dressed. On days when she didn’t have to arrive at work camera ready, a touch of lipstick and mascara usually sufficed, but today she took her time applying her makeup and polishing her nails. She took equal care in choosing an outfit, settling at last on a pair of strappy sandal heels and her most flattering dress, a wraparound with a plunging neckline, which even when she was bloated with PMS made her look like she’d been living on salads for a week. The finishing touch was a pair of chandelier earrings she envisioned swinging sexily as she leaned close to whisper in Ryan’s ear.

But any words of love would have to be shouted she realized as soon as she arrived at the Crow’s Nest, a favorite brunch spot on the Santa Monica Pier, to find it packed. As for knocking Ryan off his feet with her sexy outfit, that hope ended when some bozo bumped into her as she was pushing her way through the crowd of people by the entrance, spilling half his Bloody Mary down the front of her dress. She was dabbing at it with a napkin when she looked up to see Ryan standing in front of her.

“It’s not what you think,” she said, noting his concerned look. She added with a grin, “Though there may be some bloodshed involved in getting to the front of this line.”

She gestured toward the hostess station, where the harried-looking hostess was fielding requests for tables.

“I have a better idea,” Ryan said. “There’s a coffee shop down the way. Why don’t we pick up something to go?”

Fifteen minutes later they were strolling barefoot along the sand with a bag of muffins and coffees to go, Stevie wrapped in the sweater she’d had the foresight to bring along. The sky was overcast and a chill wind was blowing in off the ocean, so they had the beach pretty much to themselves. The only other people they passed along the way were a young woman walking her dog and an old man using a metal detector to scavenge in the sand for loose change. Farther out, on the water, fishing boats glided like ghosts in and out of the fog.

“How’s Kimberly?” she ventured after a bit, when it became obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer the information.

“Kim and I broke up.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

Stevie’s heart leaped. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that,” she said as sincerely as she could with a grin tugging at her lips.

He shrugged. “It happens.”

Stevie felt the tiny spark of hope she’d been nurturing send up a feeble flame. Feeling more kindly toward Kimberly now, she said, “Well, she seemed like a nice person.”

“She is.”

Stevie edged a bit further out onto the limb. “You don’t sound too broken up about it.”

“It was mutual. We both realized it wasn’t going anywhere,” he said, gazing out to sea. He looked like a modern-day Heathcliff, in his jeans and blazer over a vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt, his curls wild from the damp ocean air. Good enough to wrap up and take home. Had it really been nearly a year since he’d last held her in his arms? Since she’d heard him say the words
I love you
?

“I can relate,” she said.

He turned to glance at her as they strolled along the sand. “It wasn’t like it was with us.”

“How so?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

“I wasn’t in love with Kim.”

“Ah.” Stevie shivered inside her sweater, wondering if he was speaking in the past tense regarding his feelings for her.

“What about you, are you seeing anyone?” he asked casually.

“No one in particular.” The few dates she’d been on had been non-starters.

“I would’ve thought with all that publicity you’d have men beating your door down,” he said with a smile.

“There was some interest,” she acknowledged, recalling the flood of letters and e-mails she’d received at the station after appearing on
Oprah
with Grant. “Mostly the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to be stuck talking to at a party much less go out on a date with.”

“There’s plenty of fish in the sea,” he said.

“I’m not exactly looking.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up on men?”

“Well, there
is
this one guy. An ex-boyfriend,” she ventured, darting him a look. “Only I’m not sure he’s still interested.”

“Have you asked him?” Ryan said, playing along.

“I’m afraid to,” she confessed. “You see, when we were together, I had my head so far up my ass, I couldn’t see what was right in front of my nose.”

“What was that?”

“That I’d be crazy not to marry him.”

He came to an abrupt standstill, his bemused expression falling away. “What are you saying, Stevie?”

“That I was an idiot to let you go.” Her eyes were watering, and not just from the cold. “After I saw you at the Oscars, I didn’t sleep for a whole week. Do you have any idea how many TV channels there are? Over a hundred. I thought if I had to look at one more late-night lawn-product commercial, I was going to donate my set to Goodwill.”