The senior Cooper nodded in agreement. “Couldn’t get him to shut the fuck up about you, is more like it,” he said. “But he did mention you were a firecracker, and that you were a fine-looking broad, and from what I can see he was pretty spot-on, on both counts. You’re a hell of a talent, too. And I’m not talking about in the sack, just so you know. I don’t ask my kids about that crap.”
Lexi’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at Rob.
“I might have taken some pictures of your sketches and showed him?” Rob said, phrasing it as a question.
“You didn’t,” she whispered, humiliated.
“He sure did, and like I said, you’ve got some serious chops,” Robert insisted. “You’re not gonna be pissed off at him for that, are you? ’Cause I hate seeing pretty girls looking pissed off. It’s such a waste of good eye candy.”
Lexi blushed and returned his smile, then turned back to Rob. “But why didn’t you just tell me who your dad was?” she asked, still struggling to take all of this information in.
“I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d get scared away or think differently about me if you knew,” Rob said, his dark eyes filling with tears. “I shouldn’t have lied to you, Alexis—that was a bonehead move. If you give me another chance, I swear to you I’ll make it up to you.” He searched her face pleadingly for a response.
“The kid’s telling you the truth,” Robert interjected. “And if you’re the reason I see my goddamned cop son cry, I’m going to run you over with this chair. Fucker’s heavy, too. No shit.” He said this with a mischievous smirk, though, and Lexi managed a grin in return.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, letting Rob wrap his arms around her and burying her face in his chest. He squeezed her until she thought she might pass out. “I’m . . . just so sorry.”
Rob pulled away from her, his hands on her shoulders. “I love you, Alexis Alexander. With all of my heart. I’d never hurt you on purpose. In fact, I’ll make it my life’s purpose to protect you from getting hurt. If you’ll let me.”
“Please say yes before I have to hear any more of this blubbery pussy-boy shit,” Robert pleaded, holding his hands in a prayer pose. Everyone laughed.
“Anyone need to take a shit or anything—sorry, use the shitter—before we eat?” Robert added, spinning his wheelchair until it was facing the direction he’d come from. “I presume you and your friends will join us for a little Thanksgiving dinner, Alexis? Chef made pot brownies for dessert. They’re out of this world.”
“You do know I’m a cop, right, Pop?” Rob asked with a laugh. Then he squeezed Lexi again. “Will you stay? Please?” Lexi looked at her ragtag group of family and friends; they all nodded enthusiastically. It wasn’t like any of them got the chance to share a holiday meal with a world-famous artist in his Malibu mansion every day.
“This is fantastic, fantastic,” Lexi heard George say as they followed Robert to the magnificent dining room.
“Oh shit,” Lexi whispered to Rob. “Brooke’s technically here with two dates—long story, I’ll tell you later. Is that going to be awkward for Frank?”
“You ready for this?” Rob whispered back. “Frank’s gay. Came out to me in the car on the way down here. Obviously don’t say anything, but I was wondering how I was going to break it to you that we tried to set your sister up with a guy who’s batting for the other team. It looks like that crisis has been averted.”
“That and a few others,” Lexi pointed out.
“I guess we can add that to our list of things to be thankful for today,” Rob said, kissing the tip of her nose.
Lexi closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. If I’m dreaming, she begged, please don’t ever let me wake up.
Jules
Jules was holding her breath, watching George read the last few pages of her revised manuscript. With his helpful guidance, she’d been writing around the clock for three weeks straight, and she was cautiously pleased with the results. Finally, George took off his reading glasses and set them aside. He exhaled deeply.
“Well?” Jules asked breathlessly.
“It’s . . . not good,” he said after a painful pause.
“It’s not,” Jules echoed. It wasn’t a question. She felt like a balloon that had been stabbed with a butcher’s knife.
“No,” George said. “It’s not.”
“Oh,” Jules said. What else was there to say? She stared at the nameplate on his desk.
“It’s absolutely brilliant,” George said. She glanced up to see his face lit up like a starlet’s makeup mirror.
“Wait, what?” Jules said, terrified she’d heard him wrong this time.
“Jules, it’s perfect. You nailed it, all of it. The emotion, the drama, the suspense . . . It’s a masterpiece. And I particularly like the new ending.” George was referring, of course, to the part where Brooke wound up with him—and not Billy McCann.
“You do?” she screamed, jumping out of her chair and throwing her arms around George. She probably wouldn’t have done such a thing if he was just her agent, but now he felt practically like family.
“I do,” George told her. “Let’s hope my editor friends agree. It’s a fickle business we’re in, you know.”
A fickle business we’re in. We’re in the publishing business. I’m in the publishing business. Jules’s brain couldn’t quite process the thought. She nodded in agreement.
“So what’s next?” she asked tentatively.
“I do have a few tiny edit suggestions—you can probably wrap them up in a couple days—and then we send it out and cross our fingers. I’m not going to tell you to get the champagne chilling yet, but you should be really proud, Jules.” He rose from his chair and walked around his desk to give her a warm hug.
She’d done it. She’d written a book, and her agent just called it brilliant. She was going to be rich, and possibly even famous. Usually when anything good or bad happened, her immediate urge was to call Shawn. But this time, for some strange reason, her very first involuntary thought was I can’t wait to tell Mom. The realization that she couldn’t—and that she was still just a little girl who wanted her mother’s approval and recognition—brought tears to her eyes.
“Jules?” George asked. “Are you okay?”
Jules nodded and swiped at a tear that had escaped and was winding its way down her cheek. She hated it that she always cried in situations like this, but it was just how she was built. She cried when she was sad and when she was happy and when she was tired and when anybody sang the National Anthem, even the time Christina Aguilera butchered it at the Super Bowl. It was a curse.
“It’s overwhelming, I’m sure,” George said soothingly. He handed her a box of Kleenex from the credenza behind his desk. “You must be feeling a million different things, most of them good, I hope.”
Jules nodded again. She wasn’t ready to speak.
“I assume you’ll be at the race on Saturday?” he asked now, graciously trying to change the subject. Brooke’s half-marathon was just five days away, the last hurdle on this long and crazy journey of theirs. Jules couldn’t believe nearly a year had gone by, and how drastically all of their lives had changed—and all because of Juliana. She smiled wistfully at the irony.
“Of course,” Jules sniffed, dabbing her eyes. “I’m planning a little celebration at the house afterward. Will you come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” George promised. “I’ll bring a case of champagne.”
Jules went home and looked at his edit suggestions; they were indeed tiny. A segue change here, a word-replacement suggestion there. She had it wrapped up within two hours and sent it back to George with trembling fingers.
Now all she could do was wait. She tried to picture some fancy New York editors reading her manuscript, but she couldn’t. Would they read it on their iPads in bed, like Jules did, or would they have
the pages printed and bound so they could make old-school notes in pen? Would they read it all in one sitting, or spread it out over the course of a week or several? Jules had read an interview with a top literary agent who’d said that he only ever allowed himself to read the first ten pages of any manuscript on first sitting; the next day, if he wasn’t absolutely dying to pick it back up, it went into the trash. The thought made her stomach churn.
Her mother had only demanded that she write the book and “make a concerted effort to sell it.” Technically, Jules had completed the task she’d been given. Presuming Brooke didn’t break her ankle in the next five days or pass out during the race, they were home free. Millionaires. Jules wouldn’t have believed it a year ago, but right this minute, that wasn’t enough. Not even close. She wanted to see her published book on a bookstore shelf a thousand times more than she wanted to be rich. If this first round of editors passed, she wouldn’t give up, she promised herself. If twenty editors passed, she still wouldn’t give up. If every editor on the planet passed, she’d publish the damned thing herself. People did that all the time—and some of them were even bestsellers, like Hugh Howey and Allison Winn Scotch and even E. L. James. There was no way she was going to let this dream die. Not ever.
Her phone rang; it was Brooke.
“George said you finished and that it’s brilliant and that he’s sending it out this week and oh my gosh, Jules, we did it! Well, I still have to run on Saturday, but that’s so going to happen and then it’s all over and we get all of that money, are you kidding me right now?” Her sister was breathless and giddy on the other end of the line.
“I’ve gotta tell you, it sure feels good not to have all of the pressure on me anymore,” Jules laughed.
“Thanks a lot,” Brooke said, a touch of mock sarcasm in her voice.
“You know what I mean,” Jules insisted. “I was seriously terrified for a while there, Brooke. I never had any doubts about you finishing. Well, maybe at first. But I’m so proud of you! A year ago, would you have even thought any of this was possible?”
“A year ago, I was fat, miserable and living with that slimeball Jake,” Brooke laughed. “I’ve got to hand it to Mom. She sure knew how to make us turn things around. I’m actually sort of sad that she’s not alive to see us now.”
“Me, too,” Jules said. “She’d be really proud. Oh, she wouldn’t show it, and she certainly wouldn’t come out and say it, but I’m pretty sure she’d feel it.”
“Well, anyway, I’ve got to get back to work,” Brooke said. “Gigi needs me to rub her back or she can’t fall asleep.”
“Those kids are so lucky to have you,” Jules said.
“And I’m lucky to have you,” Brooke told her. “Thanks for everything, Jules. I mean it.”
“It was nothing,” Jules said.
“It was everything,” Brooke insisted.
Brooke
Everyone had told her that the race would be different from her training runs, but beyond that, Brooke hadn’t really known what to expect. She’d arrived forty-five minutes before registration even opened, because this was Los Angeles, after all, and traffic could be a nightmare even at six thirty on a Saturday morning. Her race bib was pinned in place and her timing chip was clipped securely to her shoelace and she’d already hit the port-a-potty twice. She reviewed the course map for the twentieth time, memorizing every twist and turn.
As she waited for her wave to be called, Brooke went over her mental checklist. Stay hydrated, even if you don’t feel thirsty. Pace yourself; you don’t need to win or even place, you’ve just got to finish. Remember to look around, take it all in and enjoy the experience. Visualize yourself crossing the finish line, strong and proud. And whatever you do, don’t trip!
The energy was electrifying. She wasn’t sure how, but she was positive that the two thousand amped-up bodies getting ready to run could power all of Los Angeles for at least a week.
She saw someone holding a sign: “Run for the money.” The race had a fund-raising component, and that was obviously what the sign referred to. In a way, that was what she was doing, too, but deep down, Brooke knew that wasn’t the only reason she was here today. She’d gotten strong and fit and had set a goal for herself that she was about to meet. Maybe her mom had lit the fire, but it was Brooke who’d put in the training time to make this happen; Brooke who’d endured the aches and pains and blisters and shin splints and freezing cold early morning runs, when every breath felt like a knife to her lungs. Everything in life really was a choice, she realized. And it was Juliana, of all people, who had helped her to see that. Juliana, who’d chosen to be bitter and distant and die alone and estranged from all three of her daughters, yet almost subconsciously determined to bring them back together. It was a bittersweet acknowledgment, and a motive she knew she’d never understand.
The starting gun roared and Brooke took off cautiously. She’d been following a dozen or more marathon-training blogs, and every one of them made a point of mentioning all the trip hazards at the start. That was when everyone was clustered together and elbowing for space, discarding sweatshirts and water bottles thoughtlessly in their competitors’ paths. Brooke held back just enough to find her comfortable pace and a little room to breathe, and then she went into the zone.
It was like being swept along a river. She could barely even feel her feet beneath her, she was so enthralled with the chanting crowds and blaring music. All along the sidewalks people were holding up signs that said “Run like you just robbed a liquor store” and “Hurry up, Mom, we’re hungry” and “Even if you feel like crap you look great” and “13.1 miles because you’re only HALF crazy.” She smiled and laughed and waved back at the spectators who screamed and yelled and told her she was amazing. She was a runner. A true, legitimate athlete. Her wonderful, sweet, amazing boyfriend was waiting for her at the finish line, and she was about to have more money than she could ever possibly spend. Brooke couldn’t believe this was actually her life.
By the tenth mile, she had a stitch in her side and could feel blisters forming between her toes, and her nipples felt as if they’d been rubbed with sandpaper, but these things that would normally demand immediate attention were like tiny annoyances in the back of her mind, a gnat buzzing around her head at a campfire or a car alarm wailing down the street. She’d learned from her training that running was as much mental as it was physical. Yes, it hurt. Absolutely, it was hard. But could she push through the pain and keep going? That wasn’t up to her body—it was up to her mind. And at this point, her mind wouldn’t let her stop if she was running barefoot on broken glass and vomiting blood.
When Brooke caught sight of the finish line in the distance, she picked up her pace. Not because she was trying to beat or impress anyone, but because she was determined to give it everything she had. She pumped her strong, muscled arms as hard as she could, throwing them high into the air as she hit the finisher’s shoot. She kept them there until she crossed the actual finish line, where she heard an announcer call her name—Brooke Alexander from Reseda, finishing strong.
She hadn’t just finished, she’d finished strong. She was overwhelmed with emotions: pride and relief and accomplishment, and a bottomless joy she’d never felt before. If she could bottle this feeling and sell it, she’d be the richest woman on the planet.
“Brooke! Brooke Alexander! Over here!” She scanned the crowd and saw them: Jules and Shawn and Lexi and Rob and George. They were waving frantically from behind an orange-netted safety fence, and Jules was crying and holding up a sign that said “YOU ARE MY HERO.” Lexi was holding a sign, too; hers said “If your feet hurt it’s because you just KICKED ASS.” George was carrying a bouquet of what looked like three dozen roses, maybe more. Shawn was snapping photos and beaming. Brooke laughed and waved and hobbled over to them.
“That was sick,” Lexi said, high-fiving her. “In a good way, I mean.”
�
��You’re amazing,” George told her. He kissed her sweaty cheek and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“How do you feel?” Jules asked, wiping away a tear and hugging her over the fencing.
“Like about six million bucks,” Brooke said, a smile the size of downtown L.A. lighting up her face.
Lexi
“What?” Rob asked, putting down his beer.
“Nothing,” Lexi said. She took a sip of her lemonade. They’d just watched The Princess Bride—Rob had been horrified that she’d never seen it and insisted they rectify that immediately—and were curled up on his distressed leather couch. Lexi loved that couch; it was solid and relaxed and smelled delicious, just like Rob.
“You started to say something,” Rob pointed out. “What was it?”
“Fine, I was going to ask you about Christmas, but the last time I asked you about a holiday it didn’t end so well, so I decided not to.” Lexi crossed her arms over her chest.
“You’re doing it,” Rob pointed out.
She rolled her eyes and immediately uncrossed her arms.
“You did it again,” Rob said. Lexi pretended to look innocent and he raised his brows.
“Anyway,” Lexi said. “That was what I was going to say.”
“Alexis, will you do me the great honor of spending Christmas with me?” Rob asked, taking her hands in his.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound petulant. “Depends on what you want to do, I guess.”
“Well, Pop wants me—actually, us; he invited you specifically—to spend the day with him, but I told him you might want to be with Jules and Brooke.”
“What, he doesn’t want all of us?” Lexi asked, feigning surprise. Rob laughed.
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