by Penny Reid
Attributed to Dorothy Dandridge (but maybe also William Penn)
When my friend Sienna and her husband paused to watch a man in exercise clothes talking to three kids, all of whom were holding pie, I automatically craned my neck to see over the crowd, wondering why the scene held such interest. The man’s back was turned to us, and he was crouched on the sidewalk, yet a spike of heat pierced my chest at the sight. The broad shoulders, blond hair, and something about how he held himself felt familiar.
Murmured conversations surrounded me, but I didn’t hear them, my thoughts a tangle of Does he have kids? Are those his kids? They look really tall for—I did some mental math—four-year-olds.
Eventually, he stood and turned, and I sucked in a breath because it was definitely him, Deputy Dreamy from my one night in Green Valley. I thought maybe he wouldn’t spot me, and that was preferable. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I told myself to turn away to ensure he couldn’t see my face in the crowd. Perhaps one or more of those children were his, and here I was, a hussy staring at a married DILF of three exceptionally tall four-year-olds. It shouldn’t matter, I wasn’t in town to see him.
. . . Really? Then why are you here?
GO AWAY VOICE!
Rae, you are a mess.
I didn’t get a chance to argue the case with myself before Deputy James stalked back over and spoke to a man who’d been recording them with his cell phone. He didn’t like that the man was recording the kids and he told the man so. The sound of the deputy’s voice—all growly with polite, disdainful authority—made my stomach do backflips, and I could not look away.
Then our eyes locked.
He saw me. His face may have been covered in what looked like whipped cream and some kind of yellow-ish goo, but I know for a fact Deputy James looked right at me. Our eyes locked, held, and a million questions whizzed through my brain.
I hadn’t expected to see him so soon. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I’d actually expected to see him at all. My heart tripped all over itself, and I couldn’t quite gather a full breath. Even covered in frosting and goop he was just so . . . sigh.
And then, Deputy Dreamy left. He just up and left. He blinked, looked away from me, talked to an older man briefly, walked to his truck—the same old truck he’d been driving that one night we spent together—climbed inside, and shut the door. My body deflated.
“What does Jackson James think he’s doing? Making a scene like that.” A woman nearby spoke with salty conviction, her words cutting through my daze. Too absorbed by the oddly queasy feeling in my stomach, I didn’t—couldn’t—spare her a glance.
“Are those his kids?” I croaked, wondering at the intensity of my reaction to the unexpected sighting of Deputy Dreamy—my nickname for him—and my disappointment. It’s been years, Rae. Years. Of course he has kids.
“That’ll be the day,” Sienna’s husband Jethro said, his voice tinged with humor. “Jackson James has no kids.”
Another woman nearby tacked on a mumbled, “That we know about.”
The sudden knot in my stomach eased, and I mentally chuckled at myself. What was wrong with me? Why should I be so relieved that a guy I’d spent a few hours with years ago had no children, which reduced the chances that he might possibly be in a committed relationship? Although, by no means did lack of children equal not being married, or in a relationship. Plenty of marriages and committed relationships were completely and totally fulfilling without the addition of—gah! You know what I mean.
Whatever. He probably didn’t even remember our night together. Besides, I really wasn’t here to see him.
Suuuure.
I MEAN IT, VOICE. NO MORE OUT OF YOU!
“Those three hooligans are the pie thieves who’ve been stealing from Daisy Payton.” The first lady made a sniffing sound, adding to her friend, “About time they were caught. Menace, all three.”
“Must’ve been pie all over his face.” Jethro ignored the nearby women as Jackson James’s truck pulled away. “And I bet it was that little sh—uh—” he hesitated, glancing at his oldest son and then back to Sienna “—I bet it was DJ Stokes that got him.”
Sienna also laughed. “Did you hear what he said to Bonnie? Said it was his ‘new beauty regimen.’ Hilarious. That line is going to show up in my next script.”
Jethro shook his head of shaggy brown hair, chuckling lightly and taking his youngest son out of Sienna’s arms, then bending down to give her a kiss. “Okay, enough excitement. Nap time. See you pretty ladies later.”
“Thanks, honey.” Sienna tossed her long, glossy hair over one shoulder, her dark brown eyes warm with obvious affection as she gazed at her husband. “We’ll be back after lunch.”
“No rush. Take your time. Take all day. I’m sure y’all want to catch up.”
“Are you sure this is okay?” I twisted my fingers, glancing between the two of them. “I know I showed up unannounced.”
Jethro’s grin was friendly and easy, and his brownish greenish eyes twinkled. Then again, they always seemed to twinkle. Whenever I saw Sienna and Jethro at industry events, the man rarely left her side, his hands were all over her, and his eyes twinkled.
He opened his mouth as though to respond, but the oldest of their sons tugged on his cargo shorts before he could. “I’m hot. Can we get ice cream?” The little boy pointed to a sign I recognized from my first visit here, Utterly Ice Cream.
The fat baby/toddler in Jethro’s arms grabbed his dad’s beard with both hands, fisting it and grinning.
“No.” Jethro tried to extract his facial hair from chubby fingers as he steered their three sons down the sidewalk. “We got ice cream at home. And your uncle is coming over."
“Which one?” the oldest asked, automatically reaching out to hold his middle brother’s hand.
“They’ll be fine,” Sienna whispered at my side, giving me a wink. I sent her a look of uncertainty and noted that her eyes were also twinkly. Perhaps people as in love as they were had perpetually twinkly eyes.
“Does it matter which uncle?" Jethro’s voice carried to us as he juggled his three boys and pushed them toward the parking lot where we’d parked earlier.
I heard the middle son say something like, “Can I drive the tractor this time?” just before they were out of earshot.
Sienna sighed next to me, then whispered urgently, “No one approaches when Jet is around, and I’m not saying anyone will. But just to be safe, don’t make any eye contact with the locals if you can help it. Otherwise, we’ll be swarmed.”
I flinched back in alarm. “What?”
“I’m kidding!” Her wide grin returned, and she nudged me in the ribs with her elbow, laughing. “Totally joking. Everyone here is great, super chill. No one really cares that we’re movie people. I haven’t been asked for an autograph since before Jet and I were married. Tons of friends have visited—Tom, Eva, Juliette—no one pays any attention. So as long as you didn’t bring any paparazzi or stalkers with you, we’re good.”
“Oh.” Relief flooded through me. “Okay.” I hadn’t thought about being recognized by moviegoers, or swarmed by fans, or being approached by one of my stalkers when I decided on a whim to come visit.
Admittedly, leaving without at least one guard had been reckless. But I hadn’t given much thought to anything except escaping Los Angeles. A light application of makeup, baggy clothes, and a hat pulled low had been enough of a disguise in the airports.
“What I’m saying is, you can relax. No one cares you’re here. I mean, except for me. I care. Obviously.” Her hand came to my upper arm, and she gave it a little squeeze. “Feel free to be yourself.”
I laughed at that, and I’m sure it sounded weird and sad. Sniffling, I closed my eyes against a rush of tears.
Rae, you are a mess. A. Mess.
“What? What’s wrong?” I felt her move closer, and she dropped her voice. “What did I say?”
“God, Sienna. If I knew how to be myself, I would. I would be her.” Opening my eyes, I compe
lled my lips to form something like a smile. “I just feel so lost.”
Ugh! I hadn’t meant to say that. I needed to pull myself together. If Aristotle was right and knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom, then I was the dumbest person on the planet.
Concern wrinkled her forehead and her eyes darted over my face. “What’s going on?”
Gathering a deep breath for boldness—be bold!—I planned to make some joke about their twisty unmarked streets and the backwoods roads my taxi had navigated to her house, but instead I blurted the words I’d been thinking for over a year, “I think I want to retire.”
Sienna stared at me, her eyes wide. “Retire?”
“You know, retire,” I whispered, like it was a secret. Which, I supposed, it was since I hadn’t confessed this to another soul until just now. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
I rubbed at my forehead, feeling ridiculous. “I'm sorry because I dropped in without warning on your doorstep today and ruined your plans with your handsome husband and adorable children. And now you’re not having the day with your family that you planned.”
She continued staring at me, like she was trying to figure me out. “I told you it was fine when you arrived. I mean, I was surprised when you showed up, and especially without some sort of a security detail—that seemed odd—but I would much rather you show up on my doorstep unannounced than continue to ignore my calls.”
“Oh yeah, speaking of, I’m sorry about that too.” Acutely, I became aware that we were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking traffic, and forcing people to walk around us. I pulled Sienna to one side and into the nook created by the window display of an antique shop and the corner of the adjacent building. “But I wasn’t technically ignoring your calls. I’m ignoring everyone’s calls.”
She gave her head a little shake. “What is going on with you?”
I watched her, my brain in a riot. Get back on the rails, Rae. Your champagne problems are not Sienna’s problems. They’re not even real problems.
She stepped closer at my silence. “Rae, are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Totally fine.” I laughed, working to slip into the character I usually played at industry events. I hadn’t come here to make her worry. I came here to . . . “I’m not even sure why I’m here, honestly.” Still struggling to smile, I infused a lightness I didn’t feel into my words. “I guess I just wanted to see how country life is treating you, take in the sights, have myself hoedown.”
Have myself a hoedown? Really? Could you be any weirder? Had I been this inept at conversation the last time I was here, five plus years ago? I didn’t think so.
But a lot had changed. I’d gone from rising Hollywood star who was good at faking bravado to an A-list celebrity with a team of people to manage my money, and a team of people to manage those people, and a team of people to manage me.
Which brings me back to Sienna. We hadn’t engaged in more than a quick conversation at a red carpet event since before her wedding. In order to avoid severe-conversation-flail, maybe I simply needed to think of Sienna as a professional colleague instead of as a . . . what? Friend? Were we even still friends? We used to be.
“I see.” Sienna seemed to give my words intense scrutiny, her eyes narrowing. “I had been thinking we could grab some lunch, but based on that odd series of statements, I think we should skip straight to the wine portion of the day. It’s only eleven thirty, but I get the sense we need to have a wine conversation.”
“Oh! Wine. I could do wine. Hey, maybe we could make it a whiskey conversation.” I was only half joking.
“Sure. There’s a whiskey distillery just outside of town.” She pulled out a cell from her little purse. “I’ll call a car and we can just go. Then we’ll have somebody pick us up after so we can drink without driving. You can get drunk if you need to.”
I made a face like whaaaa? and an uncomfortable laugh tumbled out. “Why would I need to get drunk? I’m fine. I’m so fine. I’ve never been finer.”
Lifting the phone to her ear, Sienna’s eyes skated over me shrewdly. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you get too drunk.”
Chapter 3
*Raquel*
“I’ve always just simply seen myself as an actor. And I believe that it serves me well to just think in terms of my craft. If hypothetically, I saw myself only as a sex symbol, or as some other limited stereotype, I think I would feel like a complete failure.”
Viola Davis
Sienna took me to a distillery not five miles outside of town. As soon as we entered the brewery, she’d greeted the woman behind the counter like they were old friends, introduced me, then asked for two whiskey flights. The place wasn’t technically open for customers this early in the day, but they were open to her. Unsurprisingly.
Sienna Diaz was a household name, America’s sweetheart, gorgeous, funny, fun, kind, generous, and sublimely happy with her former-criminal-turned-park-ranger-turned-stay-at-home-dad husband. She was the most with-it and together person in Hollywood. And the most genuine. By far.
“Shoot the first shot, sip the rest.” Sienna pointed to the first in a series of shot glasses.
Presently, we sat at a table outside on a flagstone patio overlooking a summer garden of tall wildflowers, tomato vines, and the remainder of spring vegetables.
“Bottoms up.” I picked up the first of the shot glasses in front of me and swallowed its contents in one gulp. Setting it down on the wood serving plank, next to the other full glasses, I breathed out fire and shook my head. “Damn.”
“Whew. Okay. Now we can talk.” Sienna, her nose still wrinkled with post-alcohol burn, leaned forward. “So, tell me, what’s going on? What do you mean you want to retire?”
Reaching for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table, I poured myself a glass, concentrating on it rather than giving my eyes to her. “Just exactly that. I think I want to retire.”
“What? Like a dance move? You’re retiring your dance moves? What do you mean?”
“I want to retire from acting.”
“At twenty-seven?”
“I’m twenty-eight, and yes. I feel like—like maybe—like, yes. I think it’s time.”
I felt her gaze inspecting me. “Are you thinking about getting into directing? Producing?”
“What? Me?” I snorted. “Like I could do that.” I couldn’t even make my own lunch. And if the lunch came in a paper bag, I probably wouldn’t be able to find it. I’d needed a map of my own house when I first moved in.
“Did you just scoff? It was a serious question. I think you’d be great behind the camera. You basically rewrote the entire Tabitha Tomorrow script, and everyone knows you were in the cutting room for Starlight Express—and that movie swept the award season for editing.”
“No.” I waved my hands in front of me.
But she wasn’t finished. “AND! You have a great eye for picking projects with universal themes, ones that connect with wide audiences. Any studio would be lucky to have you on the development side.”
“No. I want to retire from the business. I want out.”
Her face fell, dropping right into a frown. “Should I say congratulations? Or should I push you to tell me what’s really going on?”
“Nothing is going on.” I twisted a finger in my long hair and looked out over the raised garden beds. They needed to be weeded. “I’m just bored, you know?” If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be a mile long after that statement. “And besides, what am I doing with my life?”
“Let’s put a pin in that last question,” she said almost primly and mimed placing a tack in an imaginary corkboard. “First, do you feel good about this decision?”
“Yes. Of course.” Ope. There goes my nose again. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Hmm.” She looked me down and then up. “So, uh, what does Harrison think about this?” The way she said his name told me that Sienna didn’t think much of Harrison.
“This
is not about Harrison.” I picked up the second shot glass, its color a lighter brown than the first, and brought it to my lips. I meant to take just a sip but ended up drinking half.
“Yeah, but what does he have to say? Does he know you want to retire?”
“I haven’t talked to him about it.”
“You two are engaged and you haven't talked to him about it? What am I missing?” Sienna touched her second glass but didn’t pick it up, she was too busy interviewing me.
I squirmed in my seat, drank the rest of my shot, and then picked up the third.
“Rae.”
“Fine!” I set the whiskey back down but didn’t release it. “It’s fake. It is fake. It’s all fake. We are big fakers. We’ve been faking it.” I drank the third shot. It didn’t burn at all. “Sorry, was I supposed to sip that one?”
She ignored my question, her mouth dropping open. “You and Harrison are fake engaged?”
“Yes. We’re not really together. It’s all a ruse, which is a word I say but don’t know how to spell but feel like I should. Does it have a z? R-O-U-Z?” My mother had always been horrified by my lack of spelling skills. Sometimes, before I sent her text messages, I typed them out in a word processor first, to check for grammar and spelling errors. True story.
“Spelling lessons later. How long have you been faking it?”
“Since we publicly got back together during the filming of Hard Nights End.”
She shook her head like this made no sense. “That was over four years ago. Why would you—what—whose idea was this? Was this Domino’s idea?”
Domino Bing was both Harrison’s and my publicist and manager. “No. It was Harrison’s idea, and my agent’s, John. Do you know John?”
She nodded.
I continued. “They approached me about it before filming started and then we went to Domino together. Only the four of us know—not even Harrison’s agent knows—except now you know.” And I couldn’t believe I’d just told her.
My face must’ve displayed my flare of panic because she held a hand up. “I’m not going to say anything.”