The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (105 page)

“She has her good days and her bad days.” Anna shrugged. No sense bending her ear.

“And your sister?” From the forced politeness of Gerry’s tone, it was obvious she meant Monica, who hadn’t exactly endeared herself to the locals, whom she referred to as the “natives.” Never mind that Monica herself had been born and raised in Carson Springs.

“She’s fine.” Anna didn’t want to come across as rude, but if she said another word, or even
thought
too much about Monica, it would spoil her mood. She was still angry from yesterday when Monica refused to let her have the afternoon off—as if
her
needs were far more pressing than anything Anna could possibly have to do.

Talk turned to other things. Aubrey spoke of his upcoming tour, one that Gerry would accompany him on. “Sort of a delayed honeymoon,” she explained, turning to him with a small secretive smile. Anna hadn’t been at their wedding last June—only a handful of family and close friends were invited—but she could see that theirs was a match made in heaven. Gerry had even traded her suburban ranch house for Isla Verde, the beautiful old estate Aubrey leased from Sam.

The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head once more.

“First stop, Albert Hall,” Aubrey was saying. “I’m told the prime minister will be there. The queen, too.” He didn’t sound the least bit intimidated at the prospect, which probably came from being famous in his own right. With his dignified bearing and imposing crest of silver hair, he could easily have passed for royalty.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to settle for the CD.” London might have been the Emerald City as far as Anna was concerned. The only time she’d seen Aubrey conduct was at last summer’s music festival, which, come to think of it, was where he and Gerry had met.

Gerry glanced at Anna’s plate, “Is that all you’re having?”

The difference between Gerry and Sam in a nutshell, Anna thought. Sam wouldn’t have put her on the spot while Gerry was well known for what she herself jokingly referred to as her foot-in-mouth disease. Anna recalled the church committee they’d served on together last year, and how Gerry had mistakenly had the bulletin printed to read, “For all those who wish to become Little Mothers, please see Father Reardon at the parish house.” It had generated more than a few snickers, particularly in light of the fact that it had been Gerry’s long-ago affair with a priest, when she was a novice at Our Lady of the Wayside, that had resulted in Claire’s birth.

“I’m not all that hungry,” Anna lied.

“In that case, you should take some home with you.”

“Leave the poor girl alone.” Aubrey patted Gerry’s hand, on which sparkled a diamond the size of a sugar cube. “You mothers are all alike, forever trying to fatten people up.”

Never mind that Anna was fat enough as it was.

She excused herself as soon as she could and said her good-byes. No one asked why she was leaving so early; they were used to Anna dashing home to her mother. She was on her way out the door when Finch caught up with her, asking, “We still on for Thursday?”

Anna drew a blank, then remembered the film festival. Every year, the Park Rio showed back-to-back classics the second week of November.
Stranger in Paradise
was on Thursday night’s bill. Filmed on location in Carson Springs in the fifties, it was known locally as The Movie. Anna must’ve seen it a dozen times, though never on the big screen. It had seemed like a good idea when Finch first mentioned it, but now she shook her head, saying regretfully, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.”

“We’ll save you a seat just in case.”

“You’ll be with your friends. What do you want with an old lady like me?” Anna joked.

The crease between Finch’s dark brows deepened—what Anna thought of as her don’t-try-to-pull-one-over-on-me look. “For one thing, you’re not old. Besides, no one knows more about movies.”

That much was true. If there was one advantage to being home every night, it was that Anna had seen nearly every movie ever made. “I really will try,” she promised. It would depend on Edna.

Anna caught a ride home with Hector, who was leaving early to meet with Doc Henry back at the ranch—something to do with one of the horses. The two were companionably silent throughout most of the drive—a relief after all the people at the party, most of whom it seemed were attached. Hector was the only person she knew who didn’t feel the need to talk just for conversation’s sake. By the time he dropped her off she was feeling a little less blue about the prospect of being shut inside with her mother the rest of the day.

She walked in to find her answering machine blinking. Six messages, more than she usually got in a week. A sinking feeling told her to wait until Edna had gone home before playing them back—instincts that proved correct. No sooner had Anna punched the Play button than Monica’s wheedling voice filled the room.

“Hi … it’s me. Are you there? Pick up …” Sigh. “Okay, I’ll try you later.”

Click.

“Me again. Where ARE you? It’s two o’clock, you couldn’t possibly still be at church. All right … all right … call me when you get this. I’ll be in ALL DAY.”

Click.

“I don’t effing BELIEVE it. Are you purposely not picking up? CALL ME, okay?”

Click.

“This is getting old.” Deep sigh. “What? Did you suddenly take up scuba diving? Is that where you’ve been all this time? Listen, it’s important. Call me.”

Click.

“Oh, for Chrissakes. Are you still mad about yesterday? I’m sorry, okay? But it’s not like I ask that much of you. Do you know how many people would
kill
to have your job?”

Click.

“All right, I really
am
sorry. Is that what you wanted to hear? I should have given you the afternoon off. You know I
would
have if I could have managed on my own …” Her voice trailed off piteously. “Look, I feel like an idiot talking to this machine. I’ll wait until you call back.”

Click.

With a sigh, Anna picked up the receiver and punched in the number for Monica’s private line. Her sister answered with a breathless, “Hello?” as if she’d been waiting by the phone.

“I just walked in.”

“Where were you? I was worried.” Monica affected a concerned tone.

As if she didn’t know perfectly well that Anna would’ve phoned in the event of an emergency—or would even give a damn if their mother had suffered a heart attack or fallen and broken her hip. “It was Jack’s christening,” Anna replied as evenly as she could with her blood pressure mounting. “There was a party afterward.”

“Jack who?”

“Sam and Ian’s baby.”

“Do I know them?”

“Sam Kiley, from Delarosa’s.” Monica should know; she shopped there often enough. Just before Sam retired she’d bought a beautiful handblown vase as a wedding gift for her friend Candace.

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Like she had a clue. “Listen, about yesterday, I really
am
sorry. I was in a lousy mood, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I want to make it up to you.”

Monica apologizing? Anna was speechless.

“I know,” Monica went on, mistaking her silence for acquiescence. “Why don’t you treat yourself to a manicure? You can charge it to my account.”

“That’s big of you.” Anna couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. The account Monica referred to was at May’s Beauty Shoppe, with its turquoise plastic chairs and fifties dryers, where Anna took their mother twice a month to have her hair washed and set. The only reason Monica picked up the tab was so she could rub it in even more about everything she did.

But as far as Monica was concerned, it was settled. “Listen, while I’ve got you, I’ll need you first thing tomorrow. I want to make sure we’re all set for Thierry.”

Anna felt her anger burst through its fire wall. Monica hadn’t phoned to apologize.
She’s just making sure I’ll be there for the shoot.
“He’s not coming until eleven,” she reminded her sister coolly. She felt as if she’d swallowed a live coal.

“I know. I want the house to look perfect.”

Anna sighed. Thierry LaRoche, an old producer friend, had cajoled Monica into letting him shoot some footage of LoreiLinda—a segment on celebrity homes for
Entertainment Tonight.
Which would mean that in addition to her usual duties, Anna would have to be on hand to keep the hysteria to a minimum.

“I …”
Say it. Tell her to shove her effing apology, and while she’s at it, shove the job, too.
But the words stuck in her throat like a dry-swallowed aspirin. Even if she could find another job that paid as well, how would she afford Edna? And if she had to stay home and take care of her mother full time, she’d go crazy herself. Her only other choice would be to put Betty in a nursing home, which would mean selling the house—leaving her homeless in addition to jobless. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she forced through lips numb with suppressed fury.

“Okay, then. Bright and early,” Monica chirped. “Oops, there’s my other line. Bye!”

Anna’s hand was trembling as she hung up. It took several attempts before she was able to fit the receiver into its cradle. She eyed her mother, seated at the card table by the window, absorbed in her jigsaw puzzle—never mind that most of the pieces ended up in her pockets or on the floor. Betty glanced up, taking note of Anna’s unhappy face. “Is something wrong, dear?” she asked with such genuine concern that Anna felt even worse. How could she even
think
of putting Betty in a home?

“Everything’s fine,” she lied. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Betty shook her head. “Don’t go to any trouble, dear. I’m fixing myself an egg. It should be ready any minute.”

An alarm bell went off in Anna’s head. She raced into the kitchen to find a pan smoking ominously on the stove. It had boiled dry, the egg a gummy mess at the bottom. Unthinkingly, Anna grabbed the handle and a bolt of pain shot up her arm. “Damn!” She dropped it with a clatter, clutching her wrist, bits of exploded egg and shell scattering like shrapnel.

Moments later she sat slumped at the table, her throbbing hand submerged in ice water while she dug into a bag of Oreos with the other, tears running down her cheeks.

“To the left … a little more … yes, that’s it.” Monica wheeled back to survey the newly rearranged mantel.

Anna had moved the Staffordshire dogs to the end, repositioning her sister’s Oscar, for her Best Supporting role in
Wild Lilies
, so that it was directly below her portrait. The effect was Monica times two. She said, “You don’t think it’s overkill?”

Monica gave her a withering look. “Why don’t we let Thierry be the judge?” As if he’d dare suggest moving so much as a knickknack. If Monica didn’t approve of the finished piece, it would be a waste of his time and money.

“Good idea.” What difference did it make in the end?

“Well, then, I guess it’s showtime.” Monica’s gaze swept the living room and she let out a satisfied sigh. The stage was set to perfection. In addition to Anna going over it with a fine-tooth comb, it looked as if Arcela had been up all night cleaning. The grand piano and Chinese lacquer cabinets had been polished to a high gloss and the carpet swirled into meringue by the vacuum cleaner except where crisscrossed by wheelchair tracks. Even the floor-to-ceiling windows sparkled, their postcard view of the valley below unimpeded by so much as a fly speck.

“The only thing missing is the orchestra,” Anna remarked dryly.

Monica must’ve caught the edge in her voice, for she shot her a cool look. “I suppose you think this is some kind of ego trip. Well, it’s not. I’m only doing it for Thierry.”

Anna kept her thoughts to herself. She was saving her energy for the little speech she planned to give later on. Last night, after the binge that had left her wallowing in self-loathing, she’d decided it was time to stop fixating on losing weight and start concentrating on what she needed to
gain,
starting with a spine.

There will have be some changes around here if I’m to go on working for you,
she would say.
Starting with my hours. I want the
entire
weekend off, not just Sunday. And no more coming in early and staying late without overtime. If you expect me to
—

“Anna? Are you listening?”

Anna tuned in to find her sister eyeing her impatiently. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“Make sure Arcela understands she’s not to say a
word
to Thierry or his crew except Please and Thank you and May I take your coat. Even if it’s off the record.”

“I’ll tell her.”
God forbid your fans should find out how little you pay her.

Monica glanced at her watch and gasped. “My God! They’ll be here any minute.”

It was ten-fifteen, which left her forty-five minutes to get dressed and made up, but that was barely enough time as far as Monica was concerned. They rode up in the elevator to the second floor. Six years before, when her sister purchased the estate, it had seemed an added bonus along with the private screening room, sauna, and temperature-controlled wine vault, but now Anna viewed the elevator installed by Huff Huffington after his stroke as an eerie foreshadowing of her sister’s accident. Listening to the creaking of its cables she felt a slight chill, the way she always did.

Moments later she was wheeling Monica into her palatial bedroom, tastefully done up in art deco style with lots of buttery wood and mirrored surfaces. Anna resisted the urge to tiptoe as she entered the inner sanctum—a dressing room the size of the entire misses clothing department at Rusk’s—that felt more like a tomb.

An entire wall was devoted to dresses and evening gowns, carefully preserved in plastic shrouds like bodies in a morgue. Each one bore an index card taped to its plastic sheath, on which were neatly printed the dates and occasions when it had been worn. Along the opposite wall, slacks and blouses were hung according to color, the lighter shades graduating like paint strips to the darker hues. Wheelchair-accessible drawers contained everything from lingerie and stockings to shoes and scarves. Anna wondered if Monica had ever considered the irony of owning so many pairs of shoes when the ability to walk was the one thing she couldn’t buy.