“So where exactly did you put your little gold man after you took him home?” Norris asked. “I’ve always wondered where people keep those damned things.”
“Well, I’m not living in the same place anymore.”
“Got rid of the one-bedroom on Franklin in Hollywood?”
Clarissa nodded. “A place off Laurel Canyon.”
“I see. So you found him a happy home, then?”
“For a while, but now I keep him in the office.”
“For all to see, I gather?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes, I’ve become one of those producers. Look at my dick, it’s bright gold and on a shelf with special lighting.”
Norris laughed and Clarissa smiled. Yes, she always felt quite odd when she walked into her bungalow on the Worldwide lot and saw her Best Picture trophy all aglow beneath the discreet accent lighting. As though he wasn’t really hers. But he was. He was most definitely hers, and she’d earned him on that film for certain. She’d nursed that horribly tough film along for five years, fighting to get it made. For two of those years, she’d subsisted on Ramen noodles and sometimes gone without electricity.
Awkward silence fell over them. The script had come to her while she dated Norris, so had the changes in her career. She wondered how much each had contributed to the changes in their relationship.
“I’m glad you didn’t listen to me about that script,” Norris finally said.
“Oh, I listened. I put all the negative things you said into the notes and got a rewrite. You were completely right about everything, except one.”
“Which was?”
“That it was unsalvageable. We fixed it, but it took forever. You saw it, yes? Noticed how different the movie was from the script you originally read?”
Now it was Norris’s turn to blush. His cheeks flamed red. Clarissa leaned back in her chair, comprehension dawning. “You didn’t see it.”
“I did not.”
Clarissa inhaled. She stared down at her plate for a long moment before looking him in the eyes again. “I’m not certain I would’ve seen it if the roles were reversed. Considering.”
She saw the apprehension on his face melt into gratitude that she understood his reasons for not seeing the movie that had changed her life, and in some ways, had changed their relationship.
They had had a terrible fight about that script—she thinking the core story was brilliant and Norris thinking the entire thing was a bag of hot garbage.
They’d both been right.
The original story was unwieldy, and the characters as written morose and unlikable, but Norris’s rantings had only strengthened her determination to prove him wrong. To turn the script into a story worthy of production. The failings had eventually become the movie’s strengths, but the primary casualty had been her and Norris’s romance. That argument, that first big fight, exposed the cracks in their relationship. Her intensity and insistence on making the film had been like a sledgehammer pounding away at them both.
Until they’d shattered. Come apart at the seams. Norris leaving for New York and Clarissa living alone in her tiny one-bedroom in Hollywood.
“You kids ready for dessert?” Alison appeared beside their table with her brilliant smile and fantastic pink hair. Clarissa took a deep breath and nodded.
“I need a cannoli and some coffee. Norris?”
He nodded, a soft smile spreading over his face. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Clarissa smiled at the famous movie line. They used to do that—throw quotes back and forth to see what each would catch. It’d been a game between the two of them that she’d dearly loved. A private joke.
Alison took their plates away. Norris reached out across the cleared table and took Clarissa’s other hand. Warmth flooded her. She didn’t need to ask questions right now, she didn’t really even need answers. What she wanted—and perhaps what she needed, too—was simple. She wanted Norris to hold her hand and look at her as he’d done a long time ago, before she’d become the Clarissa McGovern, big-time Oscar-winning producer and current golden girl of Hollywood. No, right now she simply wanted to be that just-promoted agent who was dating a production assistant and aspiring screenwriter named Norris Foggbottom—the very same girl Norris had proposed to in Hawaii.
5
“No, that is absolutely not how that happened,” Clarissa laughed as they walked up onto the front porch. “I did not ask you out for our first date. You called and asked me to go to Formosa for drinks.”
Norris shook his head and smiled. He held her mittened hand in his. “You’re wrong. Simply wrong. I do remember our first date, and it was not at Formosa. Our first date was actually the Buzz by Sunlight premiere.”
“A premiere is not a date,” Clarissa countered. “A premiere is a business event.”
“Says the former agent turned producer.” Norris laughed. He pushed open the door to Clarissa’s childhood home.
Their laughter ended.
Mrs. McGovern.
The woman was a teakettle ready to blow. “Where have you two been?”
Clarissa dropped Norris’s hand, but not before Eliza spotted her holding it.
“We went to lunch and then walked around the square and—”
“This week is not about you,” Eliza pointed at Clarissa. “I know, Piglet, that you’ve become accustomed to everything being about you, but this holiday isn’t.”
Clarissa’s cheeks hollowed and the muscle in her cheek twitched. “Mother, I’ve known my entire life that Christmas isn’t ever about anyone but you, so didn’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten.”
“The Candy Cane Lane Choral Competition is tonight. You have exactly twenty minutes to get ready. We need to be there in time for warm-up and—”
Clarissa crossed her arms and shrugged. “I’m not going.”
Mrs. McGovern gasped. “What?” She covered her mouth with her hand. “What do you mean you’re not going? This is a family event, we participate every year! We . . . what will people say?”
“You don’t participate on the years I’m not here?”
“Of course we participate. If you choose not to be here, Piglet, we don’t let your choice of spending the holidays away from your family prevent us from taking part in the festivities. As painful as it is to me and your father and your sister that you don’t come home for Christmas, we do soldier on. Your absence feels like a knife in our hearts.”
“I invited all of you to Hawaii last year. Offered to pay for your and Daddy’s and Julia’s trip, do you remember?”
“I could never miss everything here. And Hawaii? There isn’t even snow in Hawaii. Or pine trees. How would it ever feel like Christmas?”
“Oh I don’t know, we’d still have carols, Christmas presents, and family. We would’ve been together.”
Mrs. McGovern closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared. “Lawrence,” she called, her voice raising to a panicked screech. “Lawrence!” she yelled louder.
“What is it? What is it, my love?” Lawrence came running down the stairs wearing only socks, his sweater, and Christmas boxers. He froze on the last step when he saw his wife was not alone. The poor sap, he’d obviously gotten so used to being beaten over the head with Eliza’s demands that he felt the need to forego masculine decency to avoid being berated by his wife.
Mr. McGovern glanced at Norris and gave him a slight sheepish nod, acknowledging that yes, he was indeed in his boxers, and he’d thank Norris very much to please ignore the fact. “Eliza, what is it?” he asked again, the desperate desire to go upstairs and put on pants all over his face.
“Piglet says she’s not going tonight.”
Lawrence glanced toward his daughter. He paused, his mouth open, as though completely unsure how to handle this conundrum. The poor man. He was caught between a wonderful, grown-up, successful daughter, who by all rights should be allowed to determine for herself whether she wished to go to the local Candy Cane Lane Choral Competition, and
his wife. Oh boy. His wife. Eliza McGovern did not appear to be a woman who was swayed by reason.
Lawrence tried anyway. “Darling, Clarissa is a grown woman.”
Eliza’s head swiveled toward where he stood on the stairs, like a demon. “You always take her side.”
“Darling, there aren’t any sides to take. Clarissa is grown, and if she doesn’t want to go to the Candy Cane Lane—”
“But what will people say?”
“Seriously, Mother? What will people say? I don’t know, what do people say about me never coming home? Or you never coming to visit me? What do people say about the fact that you refused two tickets to the biggest awards ceremony on the planet to see your daughter win in person? What do people say, Mother?” Clarissa crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d love to hear.”
“You . . . you have always been the most ungrateful child. Piglet, I have tried, and tried, and tried to be the perfect mother to you.”
“Oh really? Maybe you could start by not calling me Piglet. Not a lot of love in that word, Mother. Just patent abuse and humiliation. I can give you the number of my therapist if you’d like to discuss.”
“A . . . a . . . therapist?” Eliza said the word as though it were dirty. Norris might have been tempted to laugh if he wasn’t staying in Eliza’s home, and if Eliza wasn’t torturing the woman that, God help him, he was still madly in love with even after all their years apart.
“Actually, Mrs. McGovern, she’s staying home because of me.” Norris stepped forward and clasped his hands together. “I need to stay in, and I asked Clarissa to stay and keep an eye on me tonight.”
Eliza’s gaze flashed from Norris to Clarissa.
“I’m really having a tough time with my breathing. It’s the elevation combined with my bronchial tubes, I think. I wanted Clarissa to stay with me, because, well, we wouldn’t want my bronchial tubes to close up while I’m alone, now would we?”
“Your bronchial tubes could close up?” Eliza pressed her hand to her throat and took a step back. “Wouldn’t that mean . . . ?”
“I’m afraid so,” Norris whispered. “And in your home. At Christmas.”
“Oh, my goodness no!” Eliza said. “No, no, no, no. We definitely wouldn’t want that to happen. Oh yes, Piglet must stay with you.” Eliza turned her sharp gaze to her daughter. “I’m sorry, dear, I misjudged.”
Clarissa nodded. She examined her nails the way a sullen seventeen-year-old might. “No problem. I’ll be here to make certain Norris doesn’t asphyxiate.” Clarissa tilted her head and appraised Norris.
He saw none of the gratitude he expected in her gaze. What? Hadn’t he just bailed her out? Hadn’t he just prevented full-on war with Mama McGovern? Clarissa could look a little thankful. Just a smidge of appreciation in her eyes would be lovely.
But only irritation, with maybe a bit of unrepentant rage, beamed out from Clarissa’s eyes. Hmm . . . maybe she’d wanted a knock-down-drag-out with her mother? Norris remembered a few postcoital late night chats that had involved Clarissa’s descriptions of Mrs. McGovern, but none of those had been quite as bad as the reality. In Norris’s opinion, Clarissa had actually been a bit generous where her mother was concerned.
Julia bounded down the stairs, dragging Kevin behind. Oh, what a pair. Norris pressed his lips together and cleared his throat.
“Looking quite dapper there, Kevin,” Norris nodded.
“Stuff it,” Kevin mumbled.
Kevin’s wife-to-be looked lovely in her German-inspired dress topped with a trim jacket of green velvet with red embroidery, but Kevin sported a pair of lederhosen Mrs. McGovern had provided. He looked as if he’d almost prefer to be freezing in his knickers instead.
“Such a nice job Mrs. Hammerslich did on the outfits, isn’t it? Really, we’ll look perfect for Julia’s solo. And with Kevin standing by her side?” Eliza glowed with joy at the thought of her offspring singing and winning, yet again, at the Candy Cane Lane Choral Competition. “Mrs. Duncan will film tonight. We’ll be sure to get a video so you both”—she pointedly turned and looked over her glasses at Clarissa—“can watch the performance.”
Mr. McGovern returned down the stairs, his lederhosen, which matched Kevin’s, not looking any better than his previous getup of Christmas sweater and boxer shorts.
“All of you look amazing,” Norris said.
“Your outfits are on your beds. Useless now, I suppose. I put them out for you since you were both running behind.”
“Very thoughtful of you, Mrs. McGovern.” Norris took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry I can’t go.” He wheezed out the words for effect.
Mrs. McGovern’s eyes widened and the color dropped from her face. “Piglet, do not let Norris die this close to Christmas, do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand, Mother. Completely.” Clarissa headed toward the stairs. “Good luck all, see you later.” The rest of the McGovern family, and Kevin, made their way out into the holiday snow.
“What was that show about?” Clarissa asked.
“That show was meant to save you.” Norris leaned against the doorjamb of her room. He’d expected at list a bit of gratitude for offering up his bronchial tubes in her defense.
“I don’t need saving from Eliza. We go waaaaay back. Even had a residency in her uterus for a while, decades ago.” Clarissa shrugged. “Though it’s hard to believe I actually lived in there and that she and I share the same DNA.”
“Hmm, really, I don’t think it’s so hard to fathom.” Norris walked into Clarissa’s room and stood next to the bed.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not really. You’re both obsessed with the things that are important to you. Borders on pathological.”
Clarissa squinted. “You’re calling me a sociopath? And even worse, you’re saying I’m like my mother?”
“Well, Clarissa . . . your obsession with putting movies together exactly the way you want them might have similarities to how your mother so carefully produces her very own family Christmas extravaganza.”
“Not even close.” Clarissa shook her head and grabbed her laptop from her bag.
“Hmm, I’d’ve thought that fancy therapist would’ve gotten you much further past denial by now.”
“Thin ice, mister. I know you’re lying about the, bronchial tubes. I have no problem telling Mad Madre.”
“She’ll blame you.”
Clarissa sighed. “You’re right. She will blame me, and then tell me I’m a horrible hostess for throwing a guest under the bus.”
“Can’t win.”
“Obviously,” Clarissa flopped onto her bed. “Bring home one of the biggest awards in the world, and don’t even get a ‘hello-how-do-you-do.’”
“You’re kidding, right? Surely even Eliza was impressed with your Oscar.”
“Not a bit. Daddy was, but Daddy was impressed when I could pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time. Mother? No. She’s never liked me much. I’m not sure what it was that really turned her off of me. Maybe the dark hair? The brown eyes? Or it could’ve been that I never gave a rat’s ass about anything that was important to her, including what the neighbors thought.”
“Oh dear, you ruined the McGovern image? How utterly unforgivable.”
“Nope. But I tried. I was too well-liked to actually ruin anything. That was another thing that seemed to drive Mother bonkers. That I was different and yet loved. I did give it my very best shot. Sex. Drugs. Lots of rock ’n’ roll. It just made me the coolest kid around. Mother hated it all. Now, Julia, on the other hand, was just exactly prim and perfect enough for Mother. Anyway,” Clarissa said and met his gaze. Desire tore through Norris’s body, “I don’t need you saving me.”
“I wasn’t saving you,” Norris ran his hand through his wild shock of hair. “I was saving myself. I didn’t plan to go tonight, and I didn’t want to be bored. It’s a lot less boring here with you home.”
He stood close to her now. They somehow hadn’t discussed the kiss
from earlier. Hmm . . . not even a hint. And now they were alone, in a bedroom, with a giant bed, and he was dangerously close. The type of close where she could smell him. That Norris scent of soap and oranges and something remarkably male . . . distinctly Norris. Pine trees? Had she noticed that Norris smelled of pine trees when they were lovers in L.A.? Because he did.
He sat next to her on the bed, his nearness stealing her breath. “Okay, so no saving,” she whispered. His lips were so close to hers. The heat of his breath caressed her face. “Because, as you know from past experience, I definitely don’t need to be saved.”
“Of course not.” His hand brushed up over her arm to clasp the back of her neck, beneath her unruly curls. “I’d never assume a woman as strong as Clarissa McGovern would ever need to be saved. Especially by a man as humble as I.”
Her heart fluttered as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Her gaze met his and her body flared. Damn, her breath came in short pants. Her resistance—as though she had much—melting like butter on a hot cinnamon roll.
His lips claimed her own.
My God, this kiss was better than this morning’s. This kiss contained not a tentative sweep, but the deep unrepentant need of a man who knew what he wanted. The passion of former lovers who’d missed each other, and knew what each craved in the most intimate way. Oh, yes. Hot. Her skin burned as though his fingertips were the sun. Illicit and yet knowing her body, the perfect combination.
And in her childhood home? With her parents away . . . but not for the entire night. So bad and yet so good.
Her toes curled. God, yes, but Norris Foggbottom could kiss. His mouth opened hers, his tongue probing deep. His hand drifted to the edge of her sweater and pulled the wool from her body. He cupped her breast and teased his fingertip over her nipple. Heat seared through her. She relaxed into his touch.
Her entire existence in Hollywood was about appearing in control, contained and effortless. My fucking God, she put so much effort into appearing effortless that she was exhausted.
Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology Page 34