by Peggy Webb
He touches my hair, caresses my head, not the least bit self-conscious when he sees Ramon and the stable boys watching.
“The next time you’re in Mississippi, I’ll show you. I have a lovely little filly named Moonchild who’s eager to talk to a genuine star.”
He leans close, whispers, “You’re a star, Gloria. Always,” then kisses me in full view of a growing and very interested crowd.
When a flashbulb pops, I expect him to whisk me off to some secret, dark stable no reporters would dare invade. Instead he turns to them and says, “This is Gloria Hart. My girl.”
Then he whisks me away.
CHAPTER 14
If life gets good for your friends, does some of it rub off on you?
—Jenny
I couldn’t be happier if it were happening to me. Really.
I’m sitting in Gloria’s kitchen with a cup of coffee and the Sunday-morning paper spread on the table. Her picture is all over the news—in the society pages, in the sports pages. With Tuck. The two of them kissing at the Del Mar stables under headlines that scream, My Girl! Both of them with a gorgeous race horse covered with a blanket of roses under headlines proclaiming, Tuck and the Goddess: In the Winner’s Circle. The million-dollar Pacific Classic winner’s circle.
The two of them dressed to the nines, dancing under the headline, Is it Love? Horse Racing’s Most Eligible Bachelor and America’s Sexiest TV Star.
When my cell phone rings, my heart does the cha-cha, then settles down when I see it’s Roberta and not Rick.
“Holy sweet moly. If she don’t run off with that hunka hunka burning love, I will myself.”
“Isn’t it great, Roberta? Looks like they patched things up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me they made men like that down there in the Deep South? I’m planning my retirement. Right next door to you.”
“What about Hubert?”
“He can come, too, if he’ll pull something out of his magician’s robes besides that darned old rabbit.”
“Roberta, you can’t retire till we complete our plan.”
“How’s it coming? You up to your ears in phone calls?”
“Yes. And Marshall. Every time I turn around, he’s here.”
“Sounds like she’s spreading her wings.”
“Thank goodness. Angie’s only called Jackson once in the last two days.”
“She’s a good kid, Jenny. Just hang loose.”
“I’m trying. Listen, I know you’re used to seeing this kind of publicity, but don’t you think it gives our little scheme a boost?”
“Boost, my butt. It shoots us straight over the goal line. You got your tough skin on?”
I reach into the pocket of my robe, pull out the Cowardly Lion, start to say I’m trying, then change to a resounding, definitive yes.
When we say goodbye, I refresh my coffee, blow kisses toward the morning paper then pad barefoot down the hallway to check on Angie. She looks like an innocent kitten, curled into a little ball hugging her ancient, love-tattered teddy bear, Henry.
“Mom?” She opens one eye and peers at me. Mostly curious. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Just checking.” Again. But I don’t tell her that. She went out with Marshall and his friends last night for the first time instead of having Marshall come here. I didn’t sleep a wink until she got home. Shortly past midnight.
I wait for the usual stinging zingers—she’s old enough to take care of herself, I’ve probably hired the FBI, I don’t trust her enough.
Instead she says, “I’m okay. Thanks, Mom.” She’s settling back into her nest of covers when the cell phone in my pocket rings. “Dad?” She sits up, rubbing her eyes.
I glance at the caller ID. “Yes.”
Wide awake now, she bounds across the room and grabs the phone. “Hello. Dad?”
Sigh. At least I have a daughter who loves her father, and vice versa.
I’m a lucky woman. I know this.
Then why am I feeling sad and lonely and angry? I’ll admit it. Seeing Gloria and Tuck I felt a flash of anger. Not at them, but at love in general, love that sprinkles some people with fairy dust and the rest of us with plain old dirt.
I stand in the doorway. Vacillating. Trying to decide whether to leave or stay, whether Rick will want to talk to me, too, whether Angie will think I’m eavesdropping, whether I’m a terrible mother, an even worse wife.
One thing I know; I’m a good friend.
Just as I’m turning to go, Angie hands me the phone. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
I might as well have won the darned million-dollar Pacific Classic, myself.
“Hello? Rick?”
“I saw the coverage of the Del Mar races. I’m glad Gloria and Tuck worked things out.”
“So am I.” Angie’s sitting up in bed, watching. I give her a cheery, two-fingered wave, then ease down the hall. Hopeful.
“Angie sounds like she’s having fun.”
“Yes. She loves it out here.”
“Good.” I could drive a Peterbilt rig through his silence. Finally he says, “What about you?”
In an attempt to stop myself from telling him how much I need him, I reach into my pocket and rub the belly of my lion.
“I’m good, Rick. How are you?”
“Fine.” Two phantom Peterbilts fill this screaming silence. “The restaurant’s doing well.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Well, Jenny. I guess you have things to do.”
“Yes. Definitely.”
“Hug Angie for me.”
“Will do.”
My hands are shaking when I drop the cell phone back in my pocket. At least he didn’t ask the whereabouts of his socks. His razor. His sheets.
Oh lord, those empty sheets.
I push open the patio doors, race toward the citrus trees and spill my anguish on the orange blossoms.
I imagine people who experience what I have become so light they float off like colored balloons.
—Gloria
THE LONG French windows are open to fresh breezes, the smell of the ocean and the faint pink of the sunrise. Lying beside Tuck, his right arm holding me close, I see how it would be possible to chuck everything for this man.
“Gloria?” His voice is full of sleep. “Are you okay?”
“Better than okay.” I turn, cup his face, savor the feel of morning stubble, the enchantment of the cleft in his square chin, the taste of deep dreams in his upward curving mouth.
Without a word he finds me under the covers; we find each other.
The rising dawn paints us with gold and we wear each other for a very long time.
Afterward, Tuck orders room service and we sit on the balcony in the sun, leaned back in wrought-iron chairs, our feet propped on an empty chair between us, toes and heels touching.
When he asks if I can stay one more day, I tell him yes. Without hesitation. Without reservation.
His foot caresses mine. “I don’t want to disrupt your schedule.”
What’s a schedule compared to this paradise?
“Roberta can handle everything. Jenny and Angie love her. They’ll be fine without me.”
“Good.” He peels an orange, feeds me sections, kisses the juice from my lips. “I want you to come to Mooreville. Soon.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you can stay.”
I settle back, savor the sun on my skin, the scent of the ocean, the taste of orange juice and kisses.
Today I will not think; I will simply be.
If I become somebody else, somebody with guts and a kick-butt attitude, will anybody know the difference? Will I?
—Jenny
I CAN PICTURE my obituary: Jenny Miller leaves behind her daughter who finally grew up, her husband who never knew he had a jewel, and her telephone.
After bawling all over the orange blossoms, I’m back in Gloria’s kitchen trying to whip up enthusiasm among her fans for a huge “Bring Jillian Back” r
ally. I’d probably still be out in the backyard ruining the flowers if Gloria hadn’t called my cell phone.
“Tuck wants me to stay one more day,” is what she said, but it sounded like a question to me. It sounded like she was saying I want to stay but I can’t because I feel guilty not coming back to see about you.
“Fabulous!” I told her, and meant it. For one thing, it gives me more time to work out the kinks of the rally. In spite of this big fan list Roberta provided, I’m discovering that people in Hollywood seem to be busier than people in Mooreville.
Or maybe it’s because they don’t know me, they don’t know I’d never ask them to cancel hair appointments and spa treatments unless it was for a good cause.
Friendship. The best cause I know.
And that’s what I’m now on the phone telling Carol Shultz, who just happens to be secretary to the North Hollywood branch of Gloria’s fan club.
“We need to do this because Gloria’s character Jillian has been our friend for twenty years. She’s the incredible, smart, sassy woman we’d all like to be. She’s our role model, and we need to fight for her.”
It seems Carol has everything going wrong except hang nails and bad breath. I try to be sympathetic, but when Angie walks into the kitchen, she freezes into a pose of mock horror, clutching her heart. “What’s wrong, Mom?”
“What tipped you off? Me banging down the receiver?”
“Your face. You look like you could bite ten-penny nails.”
I hand Angie my list. “I’ve called half this list and only thirty people have committed.”
“Well, Dorothy, this is not Kansas.” Angie plops into a chair beside me, grinning.
I get a glimpse of how it might be with us—mother and daughter laughing together as I sail into old age and she floats into adulthood.
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Mom? Are you serious?”
“Well…yeah.” I’ve surprised both of us.
“You bet I do.” She whips out her cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling in the troops.”
The troops turn out to be Marshall and friends. Two hours later we’re all gathered around the pool, cell phones hot, as they rally Hollywood’s teens to Gloria’s cause.
I wish Rick could see this. Especially the part where Angie introduces me and sounds proud that I’m her mom. Especially the part where I’m seeing her as a person instead of an angst-driven teenage daughter bent on wrecking my sanity.
Roberta arrives mid afternoon and orders pizzas for everybody.
“Compliments of Miss Gloria Hart,” she yells, and the kids stomp, whistle and yell their approval.
“Come on, Jenny. Let’s get something cool. Looks like the war room can manage fine without two old farts.” Roberta drags me into the kitchen and proceeds to mix a drink that knocks off the top of my head.
“My gosh, what did you put in this thing?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I guess not. And I guess I’m turning into a woman who knocks back drinks strong enough to fell a bull in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. The ladies at Bougefala Baptist Church would be scandalized.
“How’d you know what was going on?” I ask.
“A little bird told me.”
“Angie?”
“That girl’s got plenty of her mama in her.”
“Oh, lord, I hope not. I hope she’s just like Rick.”
“Will you listen to an old coot who’s got a Hollywood goddess twisted around her little finger and her husband still chasing her around the kitchen table?”
“Hubert chases you around the table?”
“When his arthritis is not acting up and his pecker’s working.”
I nearly choke. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Take yourself lightly. That’s my motto. Now, you want to hear me?”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s time for you to quit acting like a doormat and strut out there and show your stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Any stuff you want. You can do anything you want to, Jenny. But it’s up to you to figure out what you want.”
“Rick.”
Roberta gives me a look over her glass that says, oh, yeah?
Maybe she’s right. If I climb out of the box I’m in, maybe I’ll discover more than Rick Miller. Maybe I’ll discover myself.
Who’s the fox now?
—Gloria
DRIVING back home I feel as if I’ve been gone three months instead of three days. Amazing how wonderful it feels to let go and savor the moment.
My cell rings, reminding me the problems I left behind are still there, waiting. Funny, though, they no longer feel like big elephants sitting all over my living room. They’re smaller now, reduced to a manageable size. Maybe a rat terrier gnawing on a shoestring.
“Where are you?” It’s Roberta calling. Shouting, as usual. I wonder if she’s hard of hearing.
“Twenty minutes from home. Is Jenny okay? Angie?”
“Forget about home. You’ve got to get down to the studio. Pronto.”
“Oh no! Did you set up a meeting? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I’m not dressed for that.”
“What are you wearing? Something sexy?”
I glance at my slim black Audrey Hepburn pants, gold sling-back heels, hot-pink spaghetti-strap top, gold bangles on my arms.
My good luck, go-get-’em emerald.
“You could say that.” I narrow my eyes as if the incorrigible Roberta is in the car. “If you’re thinking about that leopard-skin casting couch, you’re out of your mind. I wouldn’t touch that troglodyte with a ten-foot pole. And I certainly wouldn’t resort to such sleazy tactics. What’s gotten into you?”
She just laughs. Cackles, is more like it.
“Same thing that’s got into you, probably. Did you have fun?”
“I ought to say ‘None of your business.’ But yes, I had fun. More than fun.”
How do you explain amazement?
“Good. We’re going to keep the good times rolling. Did you pack one of them long chiffon scarves?”
“Yes.” Roberta has me so intrigued I don’t even correct her grammar.
“Before you get out of the car, throw it around your neck.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll look like old Hollywood glamour.”
“Because?”
“I’m through answering silly questions.”
Roberta hangs up. I ought to fire her. For real. But where else would I find somebody who can mother me, make me laugh, manage my career and keep me grounded, all at the same time?
I pull into the parking lot behind the studio, rummage in my suitcase till I find a long diaphanous scarf that floats along behind me like a rainbow, then head around the side to the front entrance.
“Jill-i-an, Jill-i-an, Jill-i-an.”
Following the sound of chanting I come upon the throng in front of the studio, carrying placards and wearing sandwich boards.
I am overwhelmed. Fumbling in my shoulder bag, I pull out big Jackie-O sunglasses. They’re prescription and now I see the signs: Bring Back Jillian, We Want Jillian, Give Us Our Goddess.
I also see faces—Jenny, Angie and Roberta, front and center.
“Look, there she is,” Angie yells, and this huge, wonderful crowd surges forward shouting, “We love you, Jillian. We love you.”
I sign sandwich boards, placards, notepads, dry-cleaning slips. Even movie-ticket stubs.
Roberta sidles up. “Having fun?” I nod, and she proceeds to give orders. Through a megaphone, no less.
“Gloria will sign something for every one of you. First, let’s get back to our posts and get that stubborn old fox out here.”
When the mob surges back, I ask, “Did you do all this?”
Roberta nods toward Jenny and Angie. “Those two.”
“Angie helped?”
“Didn’t you notice all them te
enagers?”
“That’s remarkable.”
“How come you didn’t correct my grammar?”
“You’ve known the difference all along?” Roberta nods, grinning.
“Then why do you insist on slaying the English language?”
“Just to get your goat. And to give you somebody to take care of.”
Roberta pats my hand, then hurries back toward Jenny. I am thunderstruck. At long last, Roberta has revealed that big heart I always suspected lay underneath her curmudgeonly exterior.
I need to give her a raise. And I should ask her about retirement.
Right now, though, all I have time for is a quick hug. Reporters are streaming this way shouting questions, and hard on their heels is none other than Claude Foxwort, himself.
“Miss Hart, are you coming back to the show?”
“Is it true your fans are planning all-night vigils at Claude Foxwort’s home?”
“How do you account for your popularity with teens?”
Roberta punches me. “How does it feel to be back in the limelight?”
I don’t have time to answer her, or even to think about that because Claude has barreled his way through the reporters and is standing by me like a guardian bulldog.
“We’ll answer your questions one at a time.” Obviously he’s laboring under the impression that when he speaks, everybody listens.
Instead, Rita Gaines of Reel News elbows him aside and says, “Miss Hart, are you engaged to Matt Tucker?”
I start to say no, but Roberta punches me and says, “No comment.”
“Is it true you’ll be moving to Mississippi?”
Roberta digs her elbow into my side to shut me up. “No comment.”
“Are you coming back to the show?”
Now Claude Foxwort’s the one taking over. “Of course, she’s coming back to the show.”
If he thinks I’m playing Lolita’s doddery old aunt, he has another think coming, as Roberta would say.
Rita Gaines, who is both revered and despised for her persistence, says, “As Jillian Rockwell?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t dream of disappointing her legions of fans.”
“Miss Hart, why did you leave the show? Did Tuck have anything to do with that?”