The Real Thing

by Lizzie Shane

  “What good is my father’s money if I can’t spend it on portraits of Candy?”

  “Your father?” Bree asked.

  Candy linked her arm through her husband’s. “Don’t tell me Pretty Boy never told you his secret identity.”

  He grimaced. “It’s hardly secret. My father was Lorenzo Tate.”

  “Really?” Bree asked, but Maggie spoke over her.

  “You’re joking.”

  Pretty Boy arched a brow. “You like his music?”

  “I named myself after him.”

  Pretty Boy—what was his real name?—grinned. “Then we’re practically related.”

  “You’re serious.” God, Ian would die. The thought popped into her head, chased by the realization that she couldn’t tell him. They hadn’t spoken since she left.

  “Lorenzo Tate, Junior,” he said, extending his hand for her to shake. “Or Ren Xiao, since I usually go by mother’s maiden name.”

  “Or Pretty Boy,” Candy piped in helpfully. “Cuz he’s just so pretty.”

  Ren rolled his eyes, clearly immune to his wife’s teasing, but Maggie couldn’t stop staring at him. She could see the resemblance now—more to his mother than his father, but there were traces of both of them. “I can’t believe I was guarded by Lorenzo Tate’s son and I had no idea.”

  And she couldn’t tell Ian.

  They snuck up on her, the moments when she wished she could talk to him or listen to Sadie ramble about her school day. Sometimes she even thought about going back, about seeing him again, but he’d been very clear.

  It hadn’t been real.

  Bree was called away to greet more guests and Maggie mingled, making sure to give a gushing quote to the critic covering the opening, lending as much of her glamour as she could to Bree’s opening to help her friend—though it looked like Bree wouldn’t need her help for long. She was rising in her own right, doing exactly what she wanted to do, and Maggie was happy for her. So happy for her… even if she envied the fact that Bree seemed to have found exactly where she fit. Not just in the art world, but with Cross.

  She had the real thing. And Maggie would never be able to get that if she didn’t fight for her right to it. If she didn’t believe she deserved it. She couldn’t keep waiting for the perfect man to fix her. She had to fix herself. Face down her own demons.

  As she watched Bree beaming, she knew what she had to do.

  She placed a call on her cell as she strode out to her waiting car. “Mel,” she said when her manager answered, “I need you to arrange a flight for me.”

  “When and where?”

  “Tomorrow. Florida.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ian stood in the checkout line at the grocery store, staring at the empty racks where the magazines used to be. Maggie had been right—the reporters had left almost as soon as she had and things in town had gone back to normal. His life had reverted back to pre-Maggie times as if nothing had happened—if you didn’t count the empty magazine racks and the fact that everyone in town kept looking at him like he had three heads.

  Ellen smiled at him, radiating pity as he sidled forward with his chicken breasts. “Hi, Ian,” she said, all but patting him on the hand.

  People in town seemed to have fallen into two camps—those who were convinced Maggie had run out on him and broken his heart, and those who wanted to pump him for information about what Maggie was really like and commiserate over how wild it was that they’d had a celebrity in their midst, if only for a little while. Ellen clearly fell into the former category.

  “Hey, Ellen.” He jerked his chin toward the empty racks. “You can put the magazines back up, you know. She isn’t here to be bothered by them,” he said, hoping she’d taken the hint that he wasn’t bothered by the sight of her face either.

  He was doing just fine, thank you very much. His life had been fine without Maggie before and it was fine without her now.

  “I just feel so horrible about what happened.” Ellen sighed, holding his chicken captive as he resisted the urge to tell her to just scan the damn thing and let him go. “Molly Anderson was in here telling me how she’d seen you going into the movie theatre with Maggie that afternoon and I just know one of those paparazzi people overheard and that’s how they knew to ambush you there. If we hadn’t been gossiping about that sweet girl, none of this might have happened.”

  Ian stifled a groan. The apologies were almost worse than the sympathy. The kid who sold the tickets at the movie theatre couldn’t seem to stop apologizing for letting the photographers into the lobby every time he saw Ian.

  “It’s fine,” he assured her, as he seemed to have to keep assuring every damn person in town. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. They would have found us eventually, and Maggie didn’t leave because of the press. She was never planning to stay.”

  “I could have sworn the two of you—”

  “Just friends,” he jumped in, staring at the chicken in her hands and trying to use the Force on her to get her to scan the damn thing and end the conversation.

  “Well, maybe that’s all it was this time, but who knows what it could be when she comes back.”

  “She isn’t coming back.” That was his other favorite question from the locals. When is Maggie coming back? You tell her we all miss her.

  “Of course she is. She has that house.”

  Ian ground his molars. “I’m pretty sure she’s selling it.” It was only a matter of time. He’d been watching for a for sale sign to appear ever since that hot pink car had vanished one day while he was at work. Not that he cared what she did with it, but Sadie needed the closure. She’d been quiet lately.

  “I’m sure she’ll be back,” Ellen assured him, finally scanning his chicken and dropping it into a bag. “Just you wait.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Ian agreed, because it was easier than arguing. He tapped his card to pay, thanked Ellen, and collected the chicken, wondering as he walked out to his truck if it was time he started doing his shopping in Astoria. At least then no one would want to talk to him about Maggie.

  Not that he couldn’t handle it when they asked. He was completely unaffected by her absence.

  It was just annoying that it seemed to be all anyone could talk about anymore. Their brush with fame.

  He dropped the chicken off in his fridge and then swung by the hardware store to grab a washer he needed to fix Joyce Weller’s bathroom sink—and Jorge shook his head sympathetically as he rang him up. “Don’t worry, man. You can’t believe those tabloids. I’m sure she’s not getting back together with that scumbag.”

  Ian didn’t ask what he was talking about. He really didn’t want to know. He just told himself he’d definitely made the right call if Maggie’s name was already being linked with someone else’s in the tabloids.

  “As soon as she sees what Scarlett said, she’ll come around.”

  Ian’s head snapped up at that. “What did you say?”

  “I said Maggie will come around as soon as she reads Scarlett’s interview.”

  Shit. He should have known. Scarlett always raced toward her best chance to be famous. Of course she was giving interviews.

  “Thanks, Jorge,” he muttered, taking the washer and heading out to his truck. He’d barely closed the door before he yanked out his phone and Googled his ex.

  The interview wasn’t hard to find. He braced himself for what he was going to read, but it wasn’t as sensational as he’d expected. Scarlett, who was described as a Nashville-based singer/songwriter, explained that she and Ian hadn’t been together for years and she wished him and Maggie nothing but happiness.

  It was a perfectly inoffensive interview and he was relieved for a few seconds, before the other shoe dropped. Sadie. What was his daughter going to think of her mother popping her head up for an interview when she couldn’t be bothered to call for years?

  Ian cursed under his breath and threw the truck into gear, trying to fi
gure out how to navigate this latest parenting minefield. He had bigger things to worry about than Maggie Tate.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The house was an average suburban cookie-cutter single-family home. The kind of place Maggie used to dream of growing up. The place where her half-siblings had grown up.

  She’d never been here before and she was already regretting the decision to come. When she’d been standing in the Hwang Gallery, surrounded by Bree’s art and happy couples, it had seemed like the obvious choice. Confront her father. Say all the things she’d never said to him that had been festering inside her for thirty years. But now that she was here, she wasn’t sure she wanted to ring the doorbell.

  She hadn’t called ahead. He might not even be there. It was a Saturday afternoon. For all she knew he’d taken up golf. But there was a car in the driveway and as she stared at the house she grew more and more certain that he was in there.

  “You don’t have to go in,” Mel said softly from her position beside Maggie.

  “Yes, I do,” she murmured. This conversation was long overdue.

  It wouldn’t be the one Lolly had been pushing for, with tearful forgiveness and hugs all around, but there were things Maggie should have said a long time ago and if she wanted to be able to look in the mirror and respect the woman she saw there she needed to say them.

  She opened the car door, climbing out and walking up the driveway. The heat was familiar, reminding her of her West Texas childhood, though her father had never lived there with her. He and his wife had moved here to raise their perfect family after he got out of the military.

  Maggie took one last surveying glance down the street at the middle class utopia and rang the doorbell.

  Her stepmother opened the door, her eyes widening when she saw Maggie on the doorstep.

  “Hey, Michelle. Is he here?” Maggie asked, before Michelle could say anything. Her hair had gone grey and everything about her seemed a little rounder, but other than that she was exactly as Maggie remembered. Sweet face, sharp eyes, no-nonsense demeanor.

  She didn’t waste time now. “He’s watching the game. Will you come in?”

  Maggie stepped across the threshold, but didn’t go any farther, her gaze flicking around the rooms visible from the foyer. “Could you…?”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here.” Michelle disappeared down the hallway toward the sound of a television. Maggie focused on that sound, rather than the murmur of voices or the heavy footsteps immediately before her father appeared at the end of the hall.

  He’d always been an imposing man. Tall. Dark-haired. With almost eerily pale blue eyes. She’d gotten the turquoise from her mother. There were creases beside his mouth and beside his eyes—smile lines, though she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen him smile. She remembered him from her childhood—those rare times she’d seen him. Always frowning at her, as if he didn’t know what to do with her.

  “Maggie,” he said—just that, just her name, but it opened the floodgates.

  “I came to tell you I’ve been mad at you for thirty years,” she heard herself saying, the words seeming to come from a distance, as if someone else was saying them. “It never did any good. Hurt me more than it hurt you. But I was so angry. Angry that you left me alone with her. Angry that you never came back. And that when you finally did, you used me to make yourself look good in front of your girlfriend, to prove you were daddy material, and then you gave me back to my grandparents.”

  “They took good care of you.” His deep voice was defensive, the words practiced. “I didn’t want to disrupt your life.”

  “You were my father and you didn’t want me. You never even asked if I wanted my life to be disrupted. You never offered to take me during holidays or weekends. I spent more time with Aunt Lolly than I did with you. You were supposed to love me.”

  He shook his head. “You had a good life.”

  “But I didn’t have you! You had your new family. You were so proud of being a dad. You were obviously capable of loving a kid, so what was so wrong with me? Was it her? Was it because I reminded you of her? Because I had her blood? Was I too broken? Because I was a mistake? A reminder that you fucked up when you were nineteen?”

  “I never thought—”

  “Lolly wanted me to forgive you.” She spoke over him. “I get it. You were young and stupid. We all make mistakes. Me more than most people. But I can’t forgive you if you never ask for forgiveness. Don’t you see? I can’t absolve you of your sins until you acknowledge that you didn’t do right by me and you have never done that.”

  “Maggie—”

  “I’m messed up. I know I am. I have fallen for a long parade of men who don’t love me because I was programmed to be desperate for attention from men who treat me like crap. And maybe that isn’t entirely your fault. Maybe I have to own that. But you sure as shit didn’t help.”

  He closed his eyes, weariness in every gesture as his shoulders slumped. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to be sorry. I want you to love me as much as you love your other kids. I want you to give a shit. And not just because I got famous and being nice to me could benefit your real kids.”

  “I do…”

  “I don’t believe you.” She looked him straight in the eye, this man whose affection she had been chasing her entire life and repeated the words, just to hear them again. “I don’t believe you.”

  And she was done trying to make him want her.

  “I just needed to tell you that.” Maggie walked out of her father’s house without a backward glance, striding down the driveway with her head held high. She made it all the way to the car, climbing inside and nodding to Mel with a simple, “Let’s go,” before the weight of what she’d done hit her. But still she didn’t turn her head. She didn’t look back.

  She’d stood up for herself. She wanted to feel strong. She wanted to feel righteous. What she felt instead was…numb. Her skin tingled and she shivered in the air conditioned car.

  “Maggie?” Mel murmured gently.

  She looked over at her manager and found her holding out a handkerchief, the soft, fabric kind. She touched her face and when her fingertips came away wet, she reached for the handkerchief. “Thank you.”

  At least her tear ducts weren’t broken.

  She touched the hanky to her face, the numbness slowly retreating and leaving in its place all the sadness she’d never let herself feel. Grief for her father and all the energy she’d wasted on him—but also for Lolly and the moments they’d lost. The times they would never get back because they’d both been too stubborn.

  And then just tears for the fact that Lolly was gone. Really gone.

  She’d been one of the few people in Maggie’s life who had wanted her just because. Who had loved her just because. Who had never let her wonder whether she was enough.

  Mel put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders and she slumped against her manager, her friend, and finally, finally let herself cry.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  There was a for sale sign in front of Lolly’s house.

  He’d been expecting it, waiting for it, anticipating it even—which didn’t explain why he stopped to stare at it when it appeared at the edge of the driveway on Friday afternoon. Because it was Friday, his mother had picked up Sadie so there was no one in the truck with him to notice him gaping at a sign.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, easing his foot off the brake and continuing up toward his house.

  His mother and Sadie were already home though his daughter was nowhere in sight as he walked toward the master to change out of his work clothes.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” his mother said absently, her focus on whatever organic delight she was creating at the stove.

  “Hey, Mom. Where’s Sadie?”

  “On the beach playing with Edgar. Do you have time for dinner before you have to go to your gig?”


  “I’m not going tonight. I canceled it,” he reminded her. She didn’t respond as he stepped into the master and made a beeline for the shower.

  The gigs had been crowded lately, but mostly with people who wanted to quiz him about Maggie between sets—which would have been tolerable if he still wanted to play, but he’d decided he needed to stop trying to cling to the last remnant of his old life and move into the future. He’d still pull out his guitar for Sadie when they had bonfires on the beach, but he was done playing at being a struggling musician. Maybe he’d even go back to school part time. Get a degree.

  Refreshed, he stepped out of the master bedroom and found his mother waiting for him, arms folded and eyes narrowed—and he realized he shouldn’t have assumed her silence meant she agreed with his decision.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He strode past her toward the kitchen to grab a beer.

  “Did you just cancel your gig for this week? You have a sore throat? You hit your fingers with a hammer and can’t make the chords? Is that it?”

  Ian sighed. “I’m done, Mom. Not that I should have to explain myself to you.”

  “Because what you do means nothing to your mother?”

  “Because I’m an adult and I shouldn’t have to explain myself to my mother—even if I am living in your house. Maybe Sadie and I should move.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He didn’t feel ridiculous. He felt like it was something he probably should have done years ago. “I told you that you didn’t have to come down this weekend. I know it’s a long way to drive and I won’t have to inconvenience you anymore if I stop doing the gigs. Sadie and I can come up there. For baseball games—”

  “You’re an idiot, you know that?” his mother interrupted. “I raised an idiot.” When he just raised an eyebrow, she shook her head in disgust. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Burying yourself in the sand. We watched what happened when Scarlett left and we didn’t say anything because we didn’t want to tell you how to live your life—”