“Do you hate me for being late for your birthday dinner?”
Lilly smiled. “I know you’ll be surprised to hear this, but after twenty years of friendship I’ve gotten used to it.”
Mallory sighed. “We’ve been together longer than either of my marriages lasted.”
“That’s because I’m nicer than your ex-husbands.”
Mallory laughed. The waiter appeared to take her drink order, then pressed them to try an amuse-bouche of rata-touille tart with goat cheese while they contemplated the menu. Lilly briefly considered the calories before she agreed to the tart. It was her birthday, after all.
“Do you miss it a lot?” Mallory inquired when the waiter left.
Lilly didn’t have to ask what Mallory meant, and she shrugged. “When Craig was sick, caring for him took so much of my energy that I didn’t think about sex. Since he died, there’s been too much to do.” And I’m so fat I’d never let any man see my body.
“You’re so independent now. Two years ago you didn’t have a clue what was in your financial portfolio, let alone know how to manage it. I can’t tell you how much I admire the way you’ve taken charge.”
“I didn’t have any choice.” Craig’s financial planning had left her wealthy enough that she no longer needed work to support herself, only to give her life purpose. In the past year she’d had a small part as the sexy mother of the male star in a halfway decent movie. She’d been able to carry it off because she was a pro, but the whole time they were filming, she’d had to struggle against a sense of the ridiculous. For a woman of her size and age still to be playing sexpots, even aging ones, seemed somehow absurd.
She didn’t like having her sense of identity wrapped up in a profession for which she no longer had a passion, but acting was all she knew, and with Craig’s death she needed to keep busy or she’d think too much about the mistakes she’d made. If only she could peel away the years and go back in time to that crucial point where she’d lost her way.
The waiter returned with Mallory’s drink, the amuse-bouche, and a lengthy explanation of the menu’s many courses. After they’d made their selections, Mallory lifted her champagne flute. “To my dearest friend. Happy birthday, and I’ll kill you if you don’t love your present.”
“Gracious as always.”
Mallory laughed and pulled a flat, rectangular box from the tote she’d set at the side of her chair. The package was professionally wrapped in paisley paper tied with a burgundy bow. Lilly opened it to find an exquisite antique shawl of gold lace.
Her eyes stung with sentimental tears. “It’s beautiful. Where ever did you find it?”
“A friend of a friend who deals in rare textiles. It’s Spanish. Late nineteenth century.”
The symbolism of the lace made it hard for her to speak, but there was something she needed to say, and she reached across the table to touch her friend’s hand. “Have I ever told you how dear you are to me?”
“Ditto, sweetie. I’ve got a long memory. You held me together through my first divorce, through those awful years with Michael…”
“Don’t forget your face-lift.”
“Hey! I seem to remember a little eye job you had a few years ago.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
They exchanged smiles. Plastic surgery might seem vain to much of the world, but it was a necessity for actresses who’d built their reputations on sex appeal. Although Lilly wondered why she’d bothered with an eye job when she couldn’t manage to lose even twenty pounds.
The waiter set a gold-rimmed Versace plate in front of Lilly with a tiny square of aspic containing slivers of poached lobster surrounded by a trail of saffron sauce that had been whipped into a creamy froth. Mallory’s plate held a wafer-thin slice of salmon accented with capers and a few transparent slices of julienned apple. Lilly mentally compared calories.
“Stop obsessing. You worry so much about your weight that you’ve lost sight of how gorgeous you still are.”
Lilly deflected the well-meaning lecture she’d heard before by reaching behind her chair and coming up with the gift bag. The waterfall of French ribbon she’d tied around the handles brushed her wrist as she handed it over.
Mallory’s eyes lit up with delight. “It’s your birthday, Lilly. Why are you giving me a present?”
“Coincidence. I finished it this morning, and I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Mallory tore at the ribbons. Lilly sipped her kir as she watched, trying not to show how much Mallory’s opinion meant.
Her friend pulled out the quilted pillow. “Oh, sweetie…”
“The design might be too strange,” Lilly said quickly. “It’s just an experiment.”
She’d taken up quilting during Craig’s illness, but the traditional patterns hadn’t satisfied her for long, and she’d begun to experiment with designs of her own. The pillow she’d made for Mallory had a dozen shades and patterns of blue swirling together in an intricate design, while a trail of delicate gold stars peeped out from unexpected places.
“It’s not strange at all.” Mallory smiled at her. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve done so far, and I’ll always treasure it.”
“Really?”
“You’ve become an artist.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just something to do with my hands.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Mallory grinned. “Is it coincidence that you used the colors of your favorite football team?”
Lilly hadn’t even realized it. Maybe it was a coincidence.
“I’ve never understood how you turned into such a sports fan,” Mallory said. “And not even a West Coast team.”
“I like the uniforms.”
Lilly managed a shrug and turned the conversation in another direction. Her thoughts, however, remained stuck.
Kevin, what have you done?
Chef Rick Bayless’s cutting-edge Mexican cuisine made the Frontera Grill one of Chicago’s favorite spots for lunch, and before Molly had given away her money, she’d frequently eaten here. Now she ate at this North Clark Street restaurant only when someone else was picking up the check, in this case Helen Kennedy Schott, her editor at Birdcage Press.
“… we’re all very committed to the Daphne books, but we do have some concerns.”
Molly knew what was coming. She’d submitted Daphne Takes a Tumble in mid-January, and she should have given Helen at least an idea about her next book by now. But Daphne Finds a Baby Rabbit had gone into the trash, and Molly had a devastating case of writer’s block.
In the two months since her miscarriage she hadn’t been able to write a word, not even for Chik. Instead, she’d kept busy with school book talks and a local tutoring program for preschoolers, forcing herself to focus on the needs of living children instead of the baby she’d lost. Unlike the adults Molly met, the children didn’t care that she was the about-to-be-ex-wife of the city’s most famous quarterback.
Just last week the town’s favorite gossip column had once again turned the media spotlight on her:
Heiress Molly Somerville, the estranged wife of Stars Quarterback Kevin Tucker, has been keeping a low profile in the Windy City. Has it been boredom or a broken heart over her failed marriage to Mr. Football? No one has seen her at any of the city’s nightspots, where Tucker still shows up with his foreign lovelies in tow.
At least the column hadn’t said Molly “dabbled at writing children’s books.” That had stung, although lately she hadn’t even been able to dabble. Every morning she told herself this would be the day she’d come up with an idea for a new Daphne book or even an article for Chik, and every morning she’d find herself staring at a blank piece of paper. In the meantime her financial situation was deteriorating. She desperately needed the second part of the advance payment she was due to receive for Daphne Takes a Tumble, but Helen still hadn’t approved it.
The restaurant’s colorful décor suddenly seemed too bright, and the lively ch
atter jangled her nerves. She’d told no one about her block, especially not the woman sitting across from her. Now she spoke carefully. “I want this next book to be really special. I’ve been tossing around a number of ideas, but—”
“No, no.” Helen held up her hand. “Take your time. We understand. You’ve been through a lot lately.”
If her editor wasn’t concerned about not getting a manuscript, why had she invited her to lunch? Molly rearranged one of the tiny corn masa boats on her plate. She’d always loved them, but she’d been having trouble eating since the miscarriage.
Helen touched the rim of her margarita glass. “You should know that we’ve had some inquiries from SKIFSA about the Daphne books.”
Helen mistook Molly’s stunned expression. “Straight Kids for a Straight America. They’re an antigay organization.”
“I know what SKIFSA is. But why are they interested in the Daphne books?”
“I don’t think they would have looked at them if there hadn’t been so much press about you. The news reports apparently caught their attention, and they called me several weeks ago with some concerns.”
“How could they have concerns? Daphne doesn’t have a sex life!”
“Yes, well, that didn’t stop Jerry Falwell from outing Tinky Winky on the Teletubbies for being purple and carrying a purse.”
“Daphne’s allowed to carry a purse. She’s a girl.”
Helen’s smile seemed forced. “I don’t think the purse is the issue. They’re… concerned about possible homosexual overtones.”
It was a good thing Molly hadn’t been eating, because she would have choked. “In my books?”
“I’m afraid so, although there haven’t been any accusations yet. As I said, I think your marriage caught their attention, and they saw a chance for publicity. They asked for an advance look at Daphne Takes a Tumble, and since we didn’t foresee any problems, we sent them a copy of the mock-up. Unfortunately, that was a mistake.”
Molly’s head was beginning to ache. “What possible concerns could they have?”
“Well…they mentioned that you use a lot of rainbows in all of your books. Since that’s a symbol for gay pride…”
“It’s become a crime to use rainbows?”
“These days it seems to be,” Helen said dryly. “There are a few other things. They’re all ridiculous, of course. For example, you’ve drawn Daphne giving Melissa a kiss in at least three different books, including Tumble.”
“They’re best friends!”
“Yes, well…” Like Molly, Helen had given up any pretense of eating, and she crossed her arms on the edge of the table. “Also, Daphne and Melissa are holding hands and skipping down Periwinkle Path. There’s some dialogue.”
“A song. They’re singing a song.”
“That’s right. The lyrics are ‘It’s spring! It’s spring! We’re gay! We’re gay!’“
Molly laughed for what seemed the first time in two months, but her editor’s tight-lipped smile sobered her. “Helen, you’re not seriously telling me they think Daphne and Melissa are getting it on?”
“It’s not just Daphne and Melissa. Benny—”
“Hold it right there! Even the most paranoid person couldn’t accuse Benny of being gay. He’s so macho that he—”
“They’ve pointed out that he borrows a lipstick in Daphne Plants a Pumpkin Patch.”
“He uses it to make his face scary so he can frighten Daphne! This is so ludicrous it doesn’t even deserve a response.”
“We agree. On the other hand, I’d be less than truthful if I didn’t admit we’re a little edgy about this. We think SKIFSA wants to use you to raise their profile, and they’re going to do it by zeroing in on Daphne Takes a Tumble.”
“So what? When the fringe groups started accusing J. K. Rowling of Satanism in the Harry Potter books, her publisher ignored it.”
“Forgive me, Molly, but Daphne isn’t quite as well known as Harry Potter.”
And Molly didn’t have either J. K. Rowling’s clout or her money. The possibility of Helen’s authorizing the rest of her advance seemed to be growing more remote by the minute.
“Look, Molly, I know this is ridiculous, and Birdcage is standing behind the Daphne books one hundred percent—there’s no question about that. But we’re a small company, and I thought it was only fair to tell you that we’re getting a fair amount of pressure about Daphne Takes a Tumble.”
“I’m sure it’ll disappear as soon as the press lets go of the story about… about my marriage.”
“That may take a while. There’s been so much speculation…” She let her words trail off, subtly hinting for details.
Molly knew it was the air of mystery around her marriage that was keeping the press interested, but she refused to comment on it, and so did Kevin. His courteous, formal calls to check up on her had finally stopped at her insistence. From the time he’d learned of her pregnancy right through her miscarriage, his behavior had been faultless, and the resentment she felt whenever she thought of him made her ashamed, so she stopped thinking about him.
“We think it’s a good idea to be cautious now.” Her editor slipped an envelope from the folder she had at her side and passed it across the table. Unfortunately, it was too large to contain a check.
“Luckily, Daphne Takes a Tumble hasn’t gone into final production yet, and that gives us a chance to make a few of the changes they’re suggesting. Just to avoid any misunderstanding.”
“I don’t want to make changes.” The muscles tightened in a painful band around Molly’s shoulders.
“I understand, but we think—”
“You told me you loved the book.”
“And we’re totally committed. The changes I’m suggesting are very minor. Just look through them and think about it. We can talk more next week.”
Molly was furious when she left the restaurant. By the time she got home, however, her anger had faded, and the bleak sense of emptiness she couldn’t shake off settled over her once again. She tossed aside the envelope with Helen’s suggestions and went to bed.
Lilly wore the shawl Mallory had given her to the J. Paul Getty Museum. She stood on one of the curved balconies that made the museum so wonderful and gazed out over the hills of Los Angeles. The May day was sunny, and if she turned her head a bit, she could see Brentwood. She could even make out the tile roof of her house. She’d loved the house when she and Craig first found it, but now all the walls seemed to be closing in on her. Like so much else in her life, it was more Craig’s than hers.
She slipped back inside the museum, but she paid little attention to the old masters on the wall. It was the Getty itself she loved. The cluster of ultramodern buildings with their wonderful balconies and unpredictable angles formed a work of art that pleased her far more than the precious objects inside. A dozen times since Craig’s death she’d ridden the sleek white tram that carried visitors to the hilltop museum. The way the buildings enfolded her made her feel as if she’d become part of the art—frozen in time at the moment of perfection.
People magazine had showed up on the stands today with a two-page story about Kevin and his mystery marriage. She’d fled here to escape a nearly overwhelming urge to pick up the phone and call Charlotte Long, the woman who was her only inside source of information about Kevin. It was May, and the marriage and separation had taken place three months ago, but she didn’t know anything more now than she had then. If only she could call Charlotte Long without worrying that she’d tell Kevin.
As she headed down the staircase and into the courtyard, she tried to figure out how to keep herself busy for the rest of the day. No one was banging on her door begging her to star in a new film. She didn’t want to start another quilting project because it would give her too much time to think, and she’d had more than enough of that lately. The breeze loosened a lock of hair and whipped it against her cheek. Maybe she should stop worrying about the consequences and just give in to the urge to call Charlotte Long.
But how much pain did she want to put herself through when she couldn’t see any possibility of a happy ending?
If only she could see him.
Chapter 7
Should I overdose on pills? Daphne asked herself.
Or jump from the top of a very tall tree? Oh, where was that handy carbon monoxide leak when a girl needed it?
Daphne’s Nervous Breakdown
(notes for a never-to-be-published manuscript)
“I’m fine”, Molly told her sister every time they talked.
“Why don’t you come out to the house this weekend? I promise, you won’t find a single copy of People around. The irises are beautiful, and I know how much you love May.”
“This weekend’s not good. Maybe next.”
“That’s what you said the last time we talked.”
“Soon, I promise. It’s just that I’ve got so many things going right now.”
It was true. Molly had painted her closets, pasted photos in albums, cleaned out files, and groomed her sleepy poodle. She did everything but work on the revisions she’d finally been forced to agree to do because she needed the rest of her advance money.
Helen wanted some dialogue changed in Daphne Takes a Tumble as well as three new drawings. Two would show Daphne and Melissa standing farther apart, and in the third, Benny and his friends were to be eating cheese sandwiches instead of hot dogs. Everyone had scoured Daphne with the most lascivious of adult minds. Helen had also asked Molly to make changes in the text of two older Daphne books that were going back to press. But Molly had done none of it, not out of principle, although she wished that were the case, but because she couldn’t concentrate.
Her friend Janine, who was still stung over SKIFSA’S condemnation of her own book, was upset that Molly hadn’t told Birdcage to go to hell, but Janine had a husband who made their mortgage payment every month.
“The kids miss you,” Phoebe said.
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