by Peggy Webb
“Look, Rick. I’m not blaming you.”
“Does there have to be blame here, Jenny? I’ve had a few weeks to think about this.”
Meaning, while he was home alone and I was in Hollywood flirting with a magician. But then, that’s the kind of thinking that got me here in the first place.
“So have I, Rick. What I meant to say is, there are no good guys and bad guys in this relationship. We just sort of drifted away from each other and got lost in our separate routines.” I pour myself a glass of water. Hand him one. “I guess most couples do.”
“I guess.”
He glances at the clock. It’s the witching hour, when Cinderella loses her glass slipper and the coach turns into a pumpkin and deep conversations can turn productive or nasty, depending on how long you talk and who’s the most persuasive and whose mood takes a nosedive.
“It’s getting late.”
Rick is always the one to point out the obvious. But he’s also the one to see the hidden traps, the gopher holes just under the surface when I didn’t even know we had gophers. So when he says, “We can talk about this in the morning,” I simply say, “Okay.”
He gets his clothes out of the rental car, then I show him the room down the hall.
“This was Angie’s. She loved it.” I’m bustling around, pointing out clean towels and the robe hanging on the bathroom door, turning down the sheets, keeping busy, trying to hide my flushed face and my disappointment.
I know. I know. I’m silly. Reason tells me we’re doing the sensible thing, but my heart is a stubborn old fool. It wants violins and moonlight, mad embraces, sweaty bodies. Declarations.
Oh lord, most of all it wants I love you.
“The room’s fine.” He slips off his tie, tosses it on the bed.
“Well, goodnight, Rick.”
“Goodnight, Jenny.”
Later, lying in bed I think about his tie. Red with navy stripes. I gave it to him last Christmas. “For special occasions,” I told him because he hardly ever wears a tie. He hardly ever has a need. Weddings. Funerals. An occasional banquet where they honor the volunteer fireman of the year. He never even wears his tie on Sundays. We’re casual in our little country church.
And yet…he wore it for me. I was his special occasion.
“Jenny?”
I didn’t hear him come in, can barely see him in this ultra-dark room where the draperies are so thick and well-fitted hardly a sliver of moonlight seeps through. But I can smell him, the heady combination of sun and fresh air with just a touch of Old Spice.
I love that about Rick. That’s he’s not a Bulgari man. That in spite of his looks he has no conceits, no bloated ego.
I don’t say anything, just pull back the covers and feel my husband slide in beside me. Without a word, we turn to each other, and I could swear to you the years fall away and we’re once again the teenagers who fell in love and dreamed of living the rest of our lives together in the same beloved place where we grew up.
Afterward, when we hold each other close, I have that same dream. I hope Rick does, too.
Before I fall asleep, I promise myself we’ll talk about it tomorrow. We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.
CHAPTER 18
If you wake up in your own bed, was it all a dream?
—Jenny
When I wake up I’m disoriented and my head is pounding and I can’t understand why pink light’s pouring in when I distinctly remember closing Gloria’s drapes.
Then I feel Rick’s hand on my shoulder, hear him say “Jenny,” and I know I’m not in California anymore; I’m in my own bed underneath the skylight which Rick has left open, as he always does when weather permits, so he can feel the first brush of dawn.
My head is pounding because Rick and I started a conversation on the west coast his first morning there that continued in the airplane and lasted a thousand miles.
“How are you?” he asks. More than anything it’s Rick’s anxiousness that makes me know I made the right decision.
We’re both feeling our way. That’s what his uncertainty says to me. We both have some adjusting to do, some problems we need to work out, but my heart is tied up in the outcome, too.
“Glad. That’s how I am. Glad to be home, and excited, but a bit scared, too.”
See. I’m learning to express myself. I’m learning not to end my sentences with a question even when they’re not.
“Me, too.”
Rick kisses me on the shoulder then sits up. When the sheet falls away, I see him as he was in high school. Perfect in every way.
But I see him as he is, too, the hairs on his chest going a bit gray, his muscles losing their tone, his hair a bit thinner. And he’s still perfect in every way.
“What?” he says, the corners of his mouth turned up in a little half smile.
“I’m glad you’re scared, and I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you’re getting old, too, because I’d hate to be the only one.”
“You’re not the only one, Squirt.”
I’m even glad to be called Squirt, because now I understand it’s still a term of endearment, special because it’s filled with a lifetime of shared memories.
“Let’s go down to the restaurant,” he says, and I nod, okay, then get out of bed and start putting on my clothes.
Angie’s at Sally’s, her last big all-night hoorah before school starts, so I don’t have to worry that she’ll wake up to an empty house. I’ll see her later.
All she asked when we called to tell her we were coming home was, “How are you guys doing?”
“Fine,” is what I told her yesterday, knowing that I’d talk to her when I got home. Really talk, because she deserves that. She’s earned it.
Now, walking in the half-light holding hands, Rick and I go down the hill to his restaurant. Not through the woods as I did on my misguided midnight mission, but on the paved road, nothing to hide.
I’ve always viewed his restaurant as having a personality. It’s Rick’s home away from home, his taskmaster as well as his mistress, the other love of his life. Usually when I walk in, I’m intimidated. I feel as if I’m wearing the wrong shoes and the wrong color dress, the wrong hairdo, the wrong lipstick. I feel as if I’m in the boxing ring with a heavyweight championship contender, and I brace myself for the knockout punch.
Today, though, I see the restaurant as an empty building in need a face-lift. A good coat of paint on the walls going dull with smoke and grease. Something cheerful, like a bright sunny yellow. Some new curtains. A few jazzy new prints on the wall. Flowers from my garden on each table.
I tell all this to Rick, and he listens.
“We could take out that wall.” I point, excited now. “Turn it into a room for our private parties.”
He nods, approving.
The plan we started hatching in California and nursed all the way across the country is taking shape now.
I’ll no longer be Jenny the pie maker, but Jenny the hostess, the woman who knows how to plan the best parties in Lee County. We’ll do private bookings—Kiwanis club meetings, school and civic banquets, graduation parties, even wedding receptions.
Rick can trim back the restaurant’s regular hours because expanded services will more than make up the lost income. The best part is that Rick and I will be together, working side by side to build our future.
But one thing we’ve learned. We’ll play side by side, too. And we’ll never, ever take each other for granted.
“I’ll wear a costume,” I tell him. “Something cute and perky with a short skirt that shows off my legs.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I just wink at him then sashay toward his office while he hurries to catch up.
“Jenny? You are kidding, aren’t you?”
I sit on the edge of his desk, hike up my skirt.
“Why don’t you come on in here, big boy, and find out?”
When Rick walks in I say, “Lock the door,” using my very best goddess voi
ce.
Sometimes, suddenly, life makes sense and you no longer need a green-for-go emerald.
—Gloria
THE ROSES DELIVERED to my dressing room today are pink and the card says, Missing you, hurry home, although I’ve only been gone four days and will be back in Mooreville tomorrow.
And so will my Ferrari, I hope. Jackson flew to California with me and is driving it home. When I told him to take his time, enjoy the road trip, he said he was my slave for life. Tuck told him that role was already taken, he’d have to chose a lesser one.
If I keep thinking along these lines, I’ll flub my story lines.
When I hear the knock on my door, I think it’s my cue for Love in the Fast Lane, but it’s Roberta, breezing in without waiting for me to say come in, wearing sunglasses with rhinestone frames although it’s only eight o’clock in the morning and raining outside.
“This place looks like a flower shop.” She goes from roses to violets to gardenias to birds-in-paradise, reading the cards. Every one of them private and every one of them from Tuck.
“He sends you flowers every day? That man’s either lost his mind or he’s horny as a horny toad.”
“Good morning to you too, Roberta. What are you doing here besides reading my private mail?”
“What’s private about a card stuck on a plastic stick in plain view? I came to talk about my retirement.”
“You’ll have to wait. My cue’s coming up.”
“That’s not likely. Somebody forgot to bring Susan Star’s pacifier and she’s in her dressing room pitching a hissy fit.”
“It’s not her pacifier, it’s me.”
“She’s jealous you’re back, huh?”
“It seems that way. Even though she knows this is a guest shot and I’ll only be here once in a blue moon.”
“That’s enough to steal her thunder. If you ask me, she never had any in the first place. That old fox was a fool to lose you at sea.”
There’s a knock on my door. “Miss Hart. Ready for you on the set.”
I grin at Roberta. “Well, he’s found me now, and my island paradise awaits.”
I used to think Jillian Rockwell was the best part of me. But as I enter the hot glare of stage lights I realize that the best part of me is curled inside, waiting to get back to the farm where I can unfold, spread my wings, ride a horse, read in a hammock, hang on to the paddock fence watching Tuck transforming another horse into a champion.
Still, I enjoy the excitement of being on a set, making a story come to life for loyal fans who never stopped believing in me, who fought for me. And won.
So I give them Jillian, rediscovered on her exotic island where she is determined to live the rest of her days in peace.
Oh, I know the writers. They’ll throw in a few good works and a bit of drama. An old priest whose church Jillian saves. An island child suffering from a rare disease that only Jillian’s money and influence can cure. Maybe even a romantic interest who looks a lot like Tuck.
And that’s fine with me, because I control the number and frequency of guest shots.
After I leave the set and get out of my stage makeup, I take Roberta to her favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch.
“Now, let’s talk about retirement,” I say.
“If you think I’m going to abandon you and go off on some prolonged trip cooped up in a camper listening to Hubert snore, you’ve lost your tiny mind. I just figured we’d talk about how I could handle things out here since you’ll be getting married and living in Mooreville.”
“Who said anything about marriage?”
“That ruby ring on your left finger.”
Red for stop. Red for passion. Red for love. Tuck gave it to me last week after I told him about the emerald.
“You can stop now, Gloria,” is what he told me. “Right here in Mooreville. Just stop and rest.”
What he meant by that was just stop and be, in the very best Zen-like sense.
“Roberta, you’ve been watching too many segments of Love in the Fast Lane.”
“You’re not going to marry that man? Well, step aside, honey. Let me at him.”
“Perhaps. Eventually. But right now we’re just enjoying being together.”
Of course, enjoy is too mild for what we have, but Roberta’s smart enough to read between the lines.
She’s also smart enough to know that I’ll need someone to carry on out here as long as I decide to keep my career. So over chimechangas, we work out the details.
Then I tell her about the role I’ve accepted in the Jeff Shanks movie.
“I guess we’d better be working on adding some good nursing-home coverage to my health care plan.”
“Why?”
“At the rate you’re going, starting a whole ’nother career at your age, I’ll be needing assisted living by the time you’re accepting your Academy Award.” Roberta calls for a refill on her margarita. “Now tell me about them Miller girls.”
“Those. And I thought you’d given up bad grammar.”
“I just wanted to keep you on your toes.”
“Why don’t you come to Mooreville to see for yourself?”
I pull two tickets out of my purse and hand them to her. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Roberta cry, which tells me Hubert kept my secret in spite of his awe of Roberta.
MY FERRARI arrived in Mooreville, and so did fall. Just in time for the grand reopening of Rick’s restaurant.
We all pile in to the car—Roberta and Hubert, who are our guests at the farm, Tuck and I—then head to the restaurant where Jenny and Rick, arm in arm, are greeting guests in the doorway. Backlit by the lights pouring from the main dining room Jenny told me they’ve repainted a color called daffodil, they look like a Hallmark painting for an anniversary card.
This is the way I imagined Rick and Jenny when I first came to Mooreville, before I learned that looks can deceive, relationships can change and the road back home can sometimes be an arduous journey.
“Everybody in Mooreville saw Jillian’s return to the show,” is the way Jenny greets me. “We hooked up a big-screen TV in the main dining room so we wouldn’t miss it. Come inside. I can’t wait for you to see what we’ve done.”
She sweeps Roberta into her embrace and drags her along, too. For a moment our fierce band of female warriors holds its tight circle in the middle of the room, but I get waylaid by Elaine and Lanford wanting the inside scoop on Love in the Fast Lane, while Jenny gets pulled away by Patty Jones wanting to ferret out the latest gossip.
I glance back at Roberta, who gives me a thumbs-up, and I know that no matter how many directions we go, the three of us will still be together, bound by loyalty, laughter and the war wounds of living, cemented by hearts and souls and spirits that never give up. No matter what.
Jenny escapes her nosey neighbor’s clutches and takes the microphone set up on a newly erected small stage at the back of the restaurant.
“Welcome to our grand reopening. We have food and drinks for everybody, but first I’d like to call a very special person to the stage. Angie, will you come up here?”
Angie joins her mother, black lipstick replaced by pink, big attitude tamed but not broken as she slides her arm around her mother’s waist.
“Though Angie’s eighteenth birthday was last week, we wanted to share the celebration with all of you.”
Rick wheels out an enormous cake, somebody starts singing “Happy Birthday,” and suddenly there’s confetti everywhere.
My gift for Angie is tucked in my pocket, wrapped in festive paper and tied with a pink bow. My green-for-go emerald. Angie needs it now. She’s growing up, moving up, moving on. She has the kind of energy and drive I had at eighteen. I don’t know her plans, and I don’t think she does either, but I’ve no doubt she’ll find her way.
Tuck comes up behind me, kisses my neck, brushes confetti out of my hair.
“Hey, you. Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was just thinking I’ve died and go
ne to Mooreville, Mississippi.”
“It can be a paradise. If you don’t count the mosquitoes and hundred-degree summer days and the humidity that makes it hard to breathe. And if you don’t count the Patty Joneses and Lanfords and Elaines who want to know every bit of your business and aren’t shy about telling it. And if you don’t count the days I’ll be too dog-tired even to take off my boots.”
“Are you trying to scare me off?”
“Just stating the facts so you’ll know what’s in store for you.”
“I know. And who’s counting?”
We link arms and merge with the crowd.
Since I wrecked my car because of a cow, I’ve learned that there’s more than one way to count, and the best is counting blessings.
Okay, so it was a big spotted dog and not a cow, but what can I say? Since I’ve given up constant TV stardom in favor of real life, I’ve become a real goddess.
And goddesses know that life is more fun with a bit of pizzazz, a dash of smoke and mirrors, a few fast friends and a whole lot of love.
THE SECRET GODDESS CODE
copyright © 2007 by Peggy Webb
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0880-7
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.