Someday, I hope she (my mother, not Liz Taylor, though I wish her well too!) will be well enough to tell me about my father and how she let one man ruin her future. Or maybe she’ll find the solid truth and tell me how her own choices certainly contributed. She’s working on it; one of her steps was apologizing, and I have to say, she was sincere. Mrs. Gentry said so too. I have hope. Guarded hope.
It’s been a month since Dane left for France. I kept myself busy by styling hair and consulting on new looks for starlets. It’s funny how my duties of sweeping up hair and flipping toilet seats were abandoned as soon as I appeared on Hollywood Tonight. But even with my superstar status at Yoshi’s, Dane’s never far from my mind or my heart. I know I can’t be with him and risk the nightmare of a continuation of life with my mother. But I check my e-mail daily, and not a word from him. It seems so long ago that I read his words of warmth in the original letter with the book, and I can only assume if he felt something for me, it’s burned away in the skies of Paris. Love is fragile. I wish I’d known how fragile.
“Okay, so you have everything you need,” Kate says to me now as she stands in line at LAX. “You’ll be home at Christmas?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Mrs. Gentry says you can stay with her, you know.”
“Yes, Kate, I do.”
My BFF enrolled in UCLA, but in the end she was overcome with loneliness for good beef and the man she loved. I thought of telling her who my father was, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just told her Bud was not my father and Cindy Simmons was not my sister. My mother will eventually tell everyone. She promised me. Of course, she’s been lying for twenty-six years, so we’ll see.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask her. I pull out her engagement ring. “I think Ryan will want to see this on your finger.”
She gives me a warm hug. “Thank you, Sarah Claire, for giving me the time and space I needed.”
I nod. “Sure. Thanks for giving me a choice. Not.”
She laughs. “You really don’t want to come back home for the wedding, do you?”
“I’ll take the Fifth on that.”
“You were right to leave there, Sarah Claire. I never realized how bad things were until I saw you here.”
“I’ll see you at Christmas.”
“Sarah Claire . . .” Kate clears her throat. “Try to see beyond Dane’s problem, all right? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s something I don’t think you can see yourself. I believe he’ll do whatever he can.”
My heart skips a beat and I just shake my head. “I imagined the whole thing. Who always told me I had an active imagination? And now you’re trying to back out of it? I don’t think so.”
“I’m not always right,” Kate admits.
“No!” My hands cup my cheeks. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I know it’s hard to believe,” Kate says. “But I was wrong. I was wrong about you leaving Sable, and I was wrong about love at first sight. It happened with me way back in high school, and I saw you and Dane with my own eyes.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do it anymore, Kate. My mother was enough. I have everything I could want. I’m ready to move out on my own, I have a fabulous job, and I’ve made something of myself. My mother’s in rehab. Life is good.”
“If you think cutting hair for a lifetime is going to fulfill your purpose here . . .”
“Alcohol, Kate. An alcoholic. The only thing I cannot take on.” I let out a laugh. “Ironic, but it’s the plan God seems to have for me. Let me dream a little and then crush it like an ant at a picnic.”
“Sarah Claire, it's different with your mom. Dane hasn't touched a drop in a long, long time. Even Scott vouches for that much, and you know he’s not going to say anything for the sake of someone’s reputation.”
“Where’s all this compassion for alcoholics coming from? You were the first one to defend me when my mother would go schizoid. Do I want a life of alphabetizing the booze? I’m thinking not.”
Kate shakes her head. “It’s not like that with Dane! He had a problem. He got help. He loves Jesus. He’s the real deal, Sarah Claire. For another, he’d have to be OCD and an alcoholic to alphabetize booze, and really, what are the chances?”
I manage a smile. “With me? The odds are pretty good, thank you. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Cary Grant to keep me company, and maybe I’ll try another date with Gym Boy. Maybe I didn’t give him enough of a chance.”
She exhales deeply. “Gym Boy has bigger boobs than you. You’re going to have enough to worry about in the intimacy department; you don’t need that pressure.”
“You are not making me feel better. Are you trying to make me feel more like dirt?”
“Just think about Dane and give him some time to prove himself,” she lectures and pats my head. “At least I know you have employment.” She picks up her suitcase. “Thanks for dropping me off.”
“No problem.” I can’t bear to send her off without at least a little bit of hope. “I’m going to Dane’s house in Santa Monica. He needs the house readied for his return, and don’t think I’m not going to check every nook and cranny for a bottle. If he has cough syrup in his medicine cabinet, I’m out for good.”
Her face brightens. “In other words, you stole the key from Scott?”
“Never mind. For someone who’s not a romantic, Kate, you’re going awfully Saturday-morning black-and-white movie on me. I have no intention of being there when Dane gets home, but he asked me before he left, and I intend to keep my promise.”
Kate tilts her head. “If you’re over him, why are you afraid to face him?”
I hate best friends.
“Afraid to face him?” I echo back, annoyed. “When times get tough, what’s to say he’s not going to fall back? That he’s not going to order a Coke and ask the bartender to slip in some vodka to take the sting out of the day.”
Kate tilts her chin. “Well, I believe in him.”
I manage a smile and hand Kate her carry-on. “See you at Christmas.”
She nods, hugs me tight, and turns away.
I watch Kate walk toward the security guard as tears spring to my eyes and run down my face. Like Mrs. Gentry, Kate means well. I get the message: no relationship is perfect. Marriage is hard. It’s excruciating sometimes, and whatever you worry about happening usually won’t happen. It will be something different. That’s what Mrs. Gentry tells me. But you better make sure who you walk the path with is right. I can’t imagine anyone beside me on the journey but Dane, yet I know I can never survive life with another alcoholic. Of all the gin joints, he had to walk into one too many.
As I unlock the door to Dane’s beachside bungalow, I’m mystified at how it’s better than I imagined it. I purposely have not gone to the beach since I’ve been here. Dane’s promise of the waves lapping at my feet with him beside me is exactly the way I wanted to experience it the first time. Though of course, I did see the blue-green ocean driving his car to the house.
The interior of Dane’s house is warm with rustic travertine on the floors covered by antique rugs. The entry hall leads straight to the kitchen, which Dane has redone in his carefully manicured style brightened with a love of history. It’s not modern like I would have thought based on his ease in Scott’s home. Everything has a rustic feel to it. The stove is refurbished, something from the 1940s era. He’s even painted it that seafoam green that was so popular after World War I.
Soon the house is spotless, smelling fresh and clean. I back away toward the door, car key in hand, smiling. I resist the urge to leave a note that would elicit a response from Dane. To what end? The vicious cycle that was my mother’s life? Love me . . . No don’t . . . Yes, love me . . . No, wait a minute . . .
Shoot! I hear voices at the front walk, pivot, and peer out the peephole on the door.
It’s Scott.
With Dane!
Instant panic. Like a deer in headlights, I have no idea where I sho
uld go or what I should do. The door starts to jiggle, and I know if I don’t get out, I’ll be running straight into Dane’s sable eyes. So I do the only sensible thing: I run for the back door and rush through it—only to have the door start blaring an alarm.
What the heck?
Dane is coming through the front door so I run into the backyard like a burglar caught in the act.
“Sarah, I see you.”
Okay, this is not fair. Shouldn’t the alarm have gone off when I entered the house? I crouch down next to a bougainvillea (far too thin to hide me) and wonder if my cousin saw me. Maybe he’ll rescue me.
The alarm ceases and my cousin sticks his head out the back door.
“What are you doing?” His expression shows how insane he thinks I am.
“I promised Dane I’d turn on his water heater.”
“I did that last night.”
“I just wanted to be certain. I didn’t want him taking a cold shower. He has to be tired from all that traveling.” I stand up and brush off a leaf. “Can you get me out of here?”
“I can, but does that mean you’re done stalking him?”
“I’m not stalking him. I told you, I was checking the water heater.”
“Even you can do better than that.”
This exchange has given Dane time to join us. He looks at me and lifts his brows. Oh, those eyebrows. So much expression and gorgeousness . . .
What kind of person falls in love with eyebrows? I must be cracked.
“Sarah.” He places his hand over his heart. “Sarah.”
“How could you not tell me? You had every opportunity to tell me.” The strength of my voice surprises even me.
“I did,” he admits.
“That’s what drunks do, you know. They lie about who they are. You lied to me, Dane.”
He nods. “I knew you’d run, but you’re right, I lied. I didn’t tell you my truth.”
I shake my head, but my hands are trembling. He steps closer but Scott stops him with a palm. “Leave her alone.”
Once again I realize my cousin has only been trying to protect me. All along. He knew I couldn’t stand to be with Dane and his daily struggle.
“Sarah, how can I prove to you—”
“You can’t. You talked to me about God. You stood there as we bared our souls and didn’t tell me that you struggled with drink. Even when you knew my mother was lost in LA and you knew why, you sat there and listened, and you did nothing to tell me the truth.”
“I told God to give me a chance. I asked Him every time I sat there to just let me prove it to you so that you’d never have to know.”
“But that’s not love, Dane, if I don’t know you. That’s just you pretending some more.”
He nods. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
Scott stands inside the door. “Let’s go home, Sarah Claire.”
My eyes start to water, but I hold steadfast. “I’m coming.”
“Can I talk to you for a minute before we go? In the kitchen,” Scott directs.
“I’ll just get myself unpacked,” Dane says before marching off to his bedroom.
“This house is incredible,” I whisper to Scott.
“He’s worth a fortune. His parents had all this artwork, and they died when he was sixteen in a plane crash.”
“Again with the surprises!” I exclaim.
“If it means anything to you, Sarah Claire, I think he’s figured it out. I can’t promise you, of course, but I’ve known him for years. Even when he was a drinker.” He shakes his head. “He loves you, and forgive me for this—” He looks up the ceiling. “I don’t think he’s going back He’s worked through his grief. I’ll meet you back home.”
I spin around. “You’re not taking me home.”
He shakes his head. “Hear him out. You owe him that much.”
“What made you change your mind, Scott.”
He smiles and walks out the door. At the slam, Dane fills the bedroom doorway.
“You’re still here!”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. Naturally.”
“Is it true?”
“It is, but Sarah, I’ve changed my entire life. I don’t go into bars. I’ve even taken to drinking Pellingrino in France. Do you know how weird that makes me?”
I look into his eyes and I think about Mrs. Gentry’s words. Dane is the only one I want to travel the road of marriage with. What is wrong with me? Do I have no common sense whatsoever?
“I believe in you, Dane.”
“I never want to ruin that trust.” He grins at me in that way that makes his eyebrows rise. “Do you have the book for me?”
“It’s my book.”
“I told you I wanted it back. It was like a library loan. I lent it to you until you were done with it. Are you done with it?”
“Meaning?”
“Are you willing to trade in the poor man’s version of love for the real thing? The kind that promises to love, honor, and cherish you as long as we both shall live?”
“I have terrible luck, Dane. What if I promise that and you get run over by a garbage truck tomorrow. That’s how my life works, you know. You pledge to be sober and I promise my heart and there’s a garbage truck calling your name.”
“Then you’ll have your unrequited love, and you’ll be no worse for the wear. ‘Here’s looking at you.’”
“I beg to differ.” I walk toward him and we dance back and forth, unsure of what’s appropriate. Eventually, I melt into his embrace. His arms surround me and I have never felt safer. For once in my life, there is someone here on earth to protect me.
I’m not throwing His blessings back at Him. I’m grateful for Mrs. Gentry, for Scott, and for Kate, but it’s not the same. Dane is just for me. I’m his priority, the one he’ll seek to protect above all else. He won’t protect a cheating husband’s promise first like Mrs. Gentry did. He won’t protect his business first like Scott did. And he won’t be threatened by who I am, like Kate and Ryan were.
He won’t be perfect, but if there’s anyone I want to ride the storms of life with, it’s him.
He slips down on one knee. “I’ll ask one more time. Did you bring the book?”
“I did.” I go to the counter and get my beautiful antique version of Camille. “I don’t want to give it up, though. It was a gift.”
“If you don’t give it up, I can’t give you what’s in box number one.” He pulls a velvet box out of his suit pocket. I grab for the box and he pulls it away. “If you want box number one, the unrequited-love fascination is over.”
I nod.
“And the only time traveling we’ll be doing is where we fast-forward through Somewhere in Time?”
“You’re killing me! What’s in the box? I agree, I agree. You can have my firstborn; just give me the box!”
He holds my hand. “Do you know why Scott told us both we were off-limits?”
“I understand now.”
“He told me on the way here we were both so stubborn, but for once he hoped we’d listen to reason. As if he’d know reason.”
“Open that box,” I say through clenched teeth.
He lifts the lid to reveal a dazzling diamond stick pin in an art deco-style setting I’ve never seen before.
“It’s a cushion cut. Would you like some historical perspective on the cushion-cut diamond, also known as the miner’s cut?”
“That depends. Would you like—never mind. I’m going to be demure. You can tell me all about it, its history, who’s worn it, why it was made, every inch of detail about it. After—”
“Good. I like my women—ahem, woman—demure. You have to let me get through this; my knee is killing me. Sarah Claire Winowski, you have made me a have. I loved you the moment you walked into my life. When I stepped off that elevator, it was like traveling into my future. I won’t rush you; I need to prove to you that I’m a man of my word. But you name the day, and this stick pin becomes an engagement rin
g.”
I can only nod, and dang it if I’m not going to uglycry. Dane slides the pin into the lapel of my Chanel blouse. “I am a have.”
“See that. I told the jeweler in Paris it had to be perfect. What do you say to a walk on the beach with your fiancé? Well, eventual fiancé, once you’re quite certain of my stability. And I am stable, Sarah. I’m the rock of Gibraltar because I know how quickly I fell.”
“I’ve been waiting for the beach.” With you, I add silently.
He laughs. “Not the fiancé?”
“Well, maybe once in a while I thought of it in passing. Getting married.”
He kisses me with a passion I didn’t know could exist outside of a Cary Grant movie. Dane is truly notorious. Then he grabs his fedora, which I brought for him from Scott’s house, places it on his head, and opens the door to the sunlit path. I can hear the ocean’s waves crashing along the shore. The spray of salty sea air hits us as we walk down the path toward the Pacific.
My entire life’s work is strewn on the pages of InStyle for all to see. I’m proud of what I have to show for my life, and my ending will be whatever I want it to be. God might send a few road bumps and a few forks, but I’m going to to better for it.
“Kiss me, Sarah. From here to eternity.” Dane wraps me in his arms.
Sometimes apparently, men do marry Winowski women.
also available from Kristin Billerbeck
what a girl wants
an Ashley Stockingdale novel
“This is Rick Ramirez, reporting for Entertainment This Evening.” The announcer rolls his “R’s” to emphasize his Latin heritage; he’s a cross between Ricardo Montalban and the used car salesman up the street.
“We’re live in Silicon Valley at the celebrated wedding of Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale to the world’s most eligible bachelor, John Folger, heir to the coffee fortune. Not since JFK, Jr. have the world’s single women mourned a wedding as today, but Ashley is the woman who stole his heart—the woman who left the sworn bachelor no other option but marriage. And we hear the ladies cry, Who is this woman? For more on Ashley, we go to Jen Jenkins in ’copter 7.”
Split Ends Page 26