by Meghan March
The night I met Holly, I was sitting on one of the low couches in the corner, avoiding all human interaction, and most certainly avoiding a family dinner that would turn into my uncle berating me for every single goddamn thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Christmas Eve a year ago, after my sister begged, I agreed to go to my aunt and uncle’s and pretend to be a family. Over perfectly cooked duck and way more scotch than he should be allowed to imbibe, my uncle unleashed a tirade about my ineptitude at business before shifting to highlight the failures in my personal life.
The final straw was his muttered comment about the indignity of having to share a last name with me. My aunt blanched, but rather than wade into the fray, she only reached for another glass of wine. Even when I was a kid, she never said a word against my uncle.
I stood, apologized to my sister for being unable to keep up the pretense of family, and walked out.
This past Christmas, I refused to attempt the mockery of a family holiday again. Holly was the cure to my boredom, and to the thoughts of my less-than-ideal family situation.
When the bartender slides my drink across the smooth wood, I wrap my fingers around the glass and move away from the bar. As I settle back into my corner, I smile as the memory of Holly strutting into the bar floods my mind.
Damn. She looked just as gorgeous as she looked out of place. Short skirt, jacket too thin to possibly keep her warm, and cowboy boots. She tossed her wild mane over her shoulder, which I now know is from her crazy stage hair, and scanned the bar like she owned it. Even as her clothes screamed I don’t belong, her attitude yelled But I don’t care. It was that attempt at confidence and bravado that captured me first.
Well, that’s a lie. It was her sexy-as-hell hair, lush tits, and perfectly rounded ass—and then it was her forged confidence with the underlying hint of vulnerability.
Everything about her, even the way she stood, threw out the vibe that she was trying to be strong but needed an even stronger hand to guide her. When I saw another man move in to take a shot, I acted without thinking—something I rarely, if ever, did before her.
I stalked over and claimed her as mine.
I can still remember, almost verbatim, what she said when she finally threw down her proposition after all the innuendos and flirting.
“I came here to find a hot guy who looked like he could handle himself, and see where the night takes us.”
I mean, really, what does a man say to that except grab her by the hand and drag her back up to her hotel room? Because that’s exactly what I did.
The memory slips away when a shadow falls onto the purplish-blue color of the light on the table in front of me. I look up to find Greer.
“Don’t they keep you chained to your desk until midnight every night?” I ask with a smirk.
My sister’s smile doesn’t stretch as far across her face as it used to. She looks at her watch. “I know, right? Hell, Crey, I haven’t gotten out this early in months. And it’s all because I can’t work on the project you’ve got everyone else locked down on. Sometimes conflicts of interest are a wonderful thing.”
I check my watch and hate the fact that my little sister thinks that getting out of work at eight thirty is early.
“You don’t need that job, Gree.” The nickname is one left over from the little pieces of her childhood I got to witness during breaks from boarding school.
She rolls her eyes, drops her briefcase on the floor, and plops into the seat across from me. “I’m not living off your money. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be at the sweatshop forever. A few years will be enough to get me a job in-house, and then I’ll be living the dream.”
I think of the legal department at Karas International and how hard they’re always working. “You realize the grass isn’t always greener, right?”
“Don’t burst my bubble just yet. I spent three years busting my ass for this degree; I’m going to use it.”
I open my mouth to say something else, but instead of wasting my breath, I take another sip of scotch.
A server comes by, and Greer orders a gin and tonic.
“When did you switch to hard liquor?” I ask, the big brother in me coming out. “You used to drink wine, not gin.”
The eye rolling commences again. “Calm down, Crey. I’m splurging on the good stuff because you’re buying. Besides, Tristan is trying to get me to drink more ‘sophisticated’ drinks than just wine.”
I frown at the mention of her boyfriend. “Tristan’s a dick, Greer.”
She glares at me. “He’s not a dick. He’s a good guy, really.” By her tone, I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
“Really? Then why aren’t you with Tristan right now rather than your big brother?”
Her gaze drops and the glare fades away. “Because he doesn’t like me coming over late. Says it messes with his sleep schedule. But we’re going away together next weekend. We need some time alone to reconnect.”
If Greer were any woman but my sister, I’d tell her that any man deserving of the title shouldn’t care what time his woman is crawling into his bed. He should be happy as fuck she’s there to mess with his sleep schedule. But I’m not going anywhere near the topic of sex with my sister. It’s not happening. Not fucking ever.
Greer thankfully changes the subject. “So, when am I going to get to meet your wife?”
I think about the phone call that wasn’t really even a phone call that Holly and I had earlier. “Soon. You should come to one of her shows. She’s fucking amazing, Gree. You’ll be absolutely stunned.”
“Um, news flash, Crey. I’ve seen her perform on TV; I know what she sounds like. And you’re right—she is fucking amazing.”
“When did you see her on TV?”
“I watched the back episodes of Country Dreams as soon as your news hit the papers. I wanted to see this girl who’s now my sister. You did good. She’s crazy talented. They polished her up a lot from that first audition, but her voice has carried through. The judges were stunned.”
I pull out my phone to call Cannon.
“What are you doing?” Greer asks.
“I’m getting a copy of that season of the show.”
“You haven’t already? Seriously? I thought that would’ve been in the background check.”
“If it was, then Cannon didn’t share it with me. Shit.”
I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner. My need to see the pre-famous Holly grows exponentially with each ring of Cannon’s phone.
“Not a good time, Crey,” Cannon says, his voice rough.
“Jesus, Cannon. If you’re fucking someone, don’t answer the goddamn phone then.”
“We’re in DEFCON 5 right now, so I figured it had to be important. If it’s not, I’ll get back to Rachel, and we can discuss this in the morning.”
“Guess I’m impressed you actually know her name. And yeah, it’s important, but you can finish up with Rachel first. I want the season of Country Dreams that Holly starred on.”
“You interrupted me for that?”
“It’s important,” I say, my tone clipped and no bullshit.
“And you already have it in your e-mail. Go look for my e-mail from New Year’s Day, after you told me her name. I compiled the report and sent you everything.”
“Thanks. Enjoy your night,” I reply, and hang up.
Greer is grinning. “Told you.”
“Did you listen to the whole damn conversation?”
“Hard not to.”
I shake my head. “I need to get home. I’ve got some TV to watch.” I lift my glass and down the rest of the liquor.
“Fine, leave your little sister to drink alone.”
The server was just returning with her G&T. I pull out my wallet and toss a hundred on the table before grabbing Greer’s hand and pulling her out of the chair.
“You’re not drinking tonight. You’re going home and getting a decent night’s sleep before you go back to the offic
e.”
“I don’t think so, Crey. I’m going to sit down, relax, and enjoy my drink. You run along and watch your wife before she was your wife. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be the one running around with partners snapping orders at me.”
“At least tell me you’re taking a cab home and not walking.”
“It’s like six blocks. Cab not required.”
I sit back down. “I guess I’m waiting until you finish your drink then.”
After walking my sister to her door, I walk back to my place. As soon as I’m in the door of my penthouse, I head for the office and pull out my laptop. It only takes a few minutes to dig through my e-mails and pull up the one that Cannon sent.
I start with the audition episode. To say I’m entranced would be an understatement.
I marvel at the roundness in Holly’s face that she’s since lost, and the polish that seems to smooth over her with every episode. I feel like I’m watching the making of a star, but the part that bothers me most? They didn’t need to change a damn thing about her, because she was perfect from the moment she stepped onstage. Pink plaid shirt, jeans worn by time and wear rather than a designer’s dictates, a pair of battered cowboy boots, and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face.
I won’t rest until I put that smile on her face again.
Today is surreal. Not surreal in the way it was to stand on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry and perform, but still surreal all the same. If you were to google the definition of surreal, the Wickman mother-daughter heart-to-heart should pop up.
Mama showing up, all tanned, buffed, and polished from her vacation, isn’t something I expected . . . but I guess I should have. After she called me from jail, I knew she didn’t have a man in her life, although that’s a situation that doesn’t generally last long.
My bullshit detector immediately springs to life when she hugs me and says it’s good to see me looking so happy.
Is this really my mother?
I’m so stunned and amazed that she wants to talk and find out how I’m doing—and not about how much money I can get my hands on—that I practically hang up on Crey when he calls. But the fact that she hasn’t mentioned a single thing about walking away with Gran’s jewelry the last time she was here reminds me that she still is my mother, and puts me on the defensive.
When I set aside my phone, she says, “You could’ve talked to him, you know. You must miss him like crazy, being that he’s not here and you’re newlyweds still.”
“Uh, I’ll catch up with him later.”
“If you’re sure.” She looks around the kitchen. “How about I make us some sweet tea and we can sit and talk a spell? I’m planning to head over to B&B tonight to catch up with some friends.”
Ah. That sounds more like Mama.
“Okay.”
I don’t think I’ve ever turned down sweet tea, and I’m not about to start. It’s actually one of the things my mama kicks ass at making. Considering it’s one of the only things she’s ever made me—forget Rice Krispie treats and grilled cheese and Jell-O and the stuff other kids’ moms make for them—I guess it’s a good thing she’s good at it.
She moves around the kitchen easily, still knowing where everything is . . . just like she knew where the jewelry was. While she’s pulling out the same mauve Tupperware jug Gran has used for this purpose as long as I can remember, I try to think of how to bring up the subject. But instead, she catches me off guard.
“You look happy, Holly. Is he making you happy?”
“Wha—what?”
“Happy. Is he making you happy?”
My mother being concerned about my happiness is so shocking that it knocks the truth from my lips before I can think to edit it. Or maybe it’s the naive hope that she may actually care about the answer. Either way, I speak from the heart.
“I am. We had a bit of a rough start, but I think we’ve finally got our feet under us. Me walking out and coming here was probably the best thing I could’ve possibly done.”
The Tupperware lid bounces off the counter and lands on the floor.
Mama looks at me, one hand cocked on her hip and the other raised to her lips. “You walked out on that man? Please tell me that isn’t true.”
My old defensiveness rises fast, and once again, I don’t think before I speak.
“What would you have done if your husband’s first wife cornered you at a benefit, telling you you were lucky number three and not the second wife like you’d thought, and sent you into a panic attack, making you realize you had to get out of that concrete jungle of a claustrophobic nightmare before you lost your friggin’ mind?”
The hand at Mama’s mouth also drops to her hips. “He’s been married three times? But the news never says that. Ever. And he didn’t tell you? Oh my, Holly. I don’t like that he’s keeping secrets. That’s not the way a marriage is supposed to work. Trust me, as bad as I’ve been at them, I should know.”
Her honest-to-God parental-sounding concern throws me off. And then I repeat her words in my head.
“Wait, what? How many times have you been married? I thought . . .”
Mama’s gaze drops to the floor like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen, and I can’t help but think the pink flush creeping up her cheeks is embarrassment. It’s a new look on her.
When she looks at me a few moments later, it’s to say, “Well, let’s just say you’re not the only one in the family to have a quickie Vegas wedding. Let’s just hope you only have one.”
That floor Mama found so goddamn interesting? My jaw is on it.
“You didn’t think it was necessary to mention? I mean, seriously? How many?”
She mumbles something, and I’m out of my chair and closing in on her. “Mama, how many?”
“Two in Vegas, one in Reno, and one in Paducah.”
“You’ve been married four freaking times and never once told your only daughter?”
Her posture crumples inward, making me regret my harsh words, even though I don’t think I should. When Mama’s shoulders shake and tears spill down her face, I’m even more stunned. I’ve never seen her cry. I didn’t think she was physically capable of it.
“I know I’ve been a horrible mother, and I have no excuses. But your gran raised you better than I ever could have. I’m sorry for everything, Holly. I’ve made a mess of my life and yours and hers, and I’m trying to make amends. I’m just learning how.”
I’m a sucker. I know it, but I’ve never seen this kind of honesty from my mother before. Never had this kind of conversation with her before. Maybe this is our second chance?
There’s really nothing else I can do but wrap my arms around her and let her tears soak into the cotton of my shirt.
Her words are muffled, but I can still make them out. “I didn’t tell you about the weddings because I knew they weren’t going to last. Nothing ever did. You already hated me, and I didn’t want to give you any more reason to show you what a failure I was.”
Of its own volition, my hand raises and smooths her big hair down her back. “Oh, Mama. I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do. You should. I killed my own mama. I’m a horrible person. I deserve to go straight to hell for what I’ve done, and instead your husband sends me on vacation.”
Her body shakes harder with her sobs, and I can’t even comprehend what’s happening right now. But somehow, some way, the icy exterior I forged years ago around my heart to protect me from Mama’s repeated disappointments and harsh words starts to melt.
After Mama and I pulled ourselves together and drank our sweet tea, she got glammed up and headed to B&B. She tried to talk me into coming with her, but I really wasn’t in the mood to be on any kind of stage tonight, whether it’s the karaoke one or just generally being on display in public.
Besides, I needed some time to adjust to what the hell happened this afternoon, and the emotions are running raw in me. So for the past hour I’ve been pouring them into lyric after lyr
ic, feeling like this song is being ripped from my soul and somehow mending it together at the same time.
It’s long since dark and closing in on seven when another knock comes at the door.
Who now? I seriously can’t handle any more surprises. I wait a few moments, and when the knock doesn’t come again, my tripped-up heart rate drops back to normal levels.
The roar of a diesel engine accelerating piques my curiosity, and I rise and cross to the door. Pushing the lace curtain aside a crack, I look out and see nothing. When I crane my head to one side, I catch the tail end of a brown truck driving away. UPS.
After unlocking the dead bolt, I pull the door open, and sure enough, a package the size of a shoebox is sitting on the purple porch.
I smile.
Crey. Is this what he was calling me about earlier?
I grab it and duck back inside before going for the kitchen knife and cutting it open. There’s a note stuck to the bubble wrap. My heart rate kicks up for a whole different reason this time.
He’s only been gone since yesterday, and I already miss him like crazy. I wish I was able to talk to him earlier, but my shock over Mama is pretty much off the charts.
I know I’m boots over brains in love with the man when just the sight of his handwriting makes me giddy.
Holly,
It’s called The Executive, and you better damn sure be screaming this executive’s name when you come.
—Crey
What in the world?
I set the note aside and unwrap the package. It’s a vibrator. A shiny silver vibrator. It’s shaped strangely, but from what I know of vibrators, which admittedly isn’t all that much, it’s got the G-spot and clit action going on. My lady parts sit up and take notice just from my looking at it.
After the crazy-emotional afternoon and evening, a nice hot bath with a big glass or two of wine is just what I need to unwind . . . followed by a test drive of my new toy.
I’m in the middle of an episode of Country Dreams when my cell buzzes across my desk. I slap at it with my left hand, annoyed that someone is interrupting while I’m watching Holly belt out a song called “Independence Day,” and unwilling to take my eyes off my laptop.