Part 1 (1/2)
FAST GLAMOUR.
Maggie Marr.
This book is dedicated to Lindsy Henderson, Thank you for being my family and my friend.
Chapter 1.
Rhiannon.
”Do you think Sterling will remember me?”
”Remember you?” Incredulity and something else revealed itself on Mama's face. ”I don't think he ever forgot you.”
I waved my hand in dismissal and shook my head. My romance with Sterling Legend had been a teen-aged love affair-the tiniest blip on his outlandish Hollywood life-a love affair I'd never forgotten. But what about Sterling Legend? The son of the great Steve Legend? By now, years later, he'd probably bedded enough women that he might not even remember my name.
”My darling Rhiannon, when will you realize how unforgettable you are?”
”Spoken like a loving mother,” I said. I walked over to Mama. She lay on the couch and I sat beside her. Her fingertips wove through my hair. She'd sacrificed so much for my sister's happiness and my own, and I felt regret when I remembered we'd both had to abandon her, and L.A., when I was fifteen and Maeve merely twelve. Our departure had seemed so necessary at the time.
”Have you heard from Maeve recently?” I asked. My sister was somewhere in India, or Katmandu, and it was hard to keep track of her. She traveled with a wild abandon that I had given up when I was accepted to the Sorbonne.
”She's coming to visit,” Mama said. ”She says, soon.”
I raised my eyebrow upward. ”That means before the end of the year.” My sister's concept of ”soon” was very different from mine. With Mama on crutches for twelve more weeks because of her broken ankle, I hoped that Maeve's ”soon” actually meant soon, and not Christmas, which was months away. I grasped my hair and twisted. I took a band from my pocket and pulled my hair into a knot on my head. In London, and even in Paris, my long hair didn't bother me in the heat but here, even high in the hills of Malibu, my hair was sticking to the back of my neck. I'd been back in California for nearly a week and I still hadn't acclimated to the heat.
”The heat bothers you,” Mama said.
”I don't remember it being this hot,” I said. ”Especially in spring. Was it always like this?”
”It's gotten much worse since you were a child. I've got fresh pa.s.sion fruit iced tea in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”
I walked through the living room toward the back of the house to the giant kitchen that overlooked the yard and the porch and the corral that were located at the back of the property. Torrance and Bronco stood in the corral and they, too, looked tired of the early morning heat.
”Does Amanda come up to ride anymore?” I called.
”Sometimes,” Mama called back. ”Not as much now that the gallery has opened. She and Ryan usually come out once a week. Sometimes, when she has the time, she comes alone, as well.”
I poured the tea into two gla.s.ses and put Mama's ginger cookies onto a plate. She had an unrelenting sweet tooth. I walked back into the living room and set everything down on the coffee table near the sofa. Mama sat with her leg raised. The cast looked uncomfortable.
”How is your ankle today?”
”Fine,” she said. A soft smile flitted over her face. She wouldn't complain even if the cast were driving her crazy with itching. It simply wasn't Mama's way to complain. She was a protector, a mother bear, and it seemed her goal in life was to take care of us, to watch over all of us, and allow us the freedom to be who we were. Why else would she have ever allowed me and Maeve to leave her side?
”How is your father?”
I closed my eyes and air whispered over my lips. ”How good can a frustrated Irish writer be?” I asked.
”That well?” A small smile curled up over her lips. ”He's not happy, your dad, unless he's feeling tortured.”
”Then I'm surprised you two parted.” My whip of a tongue moved faster than my mind.
”Rhiannon,” my mother said. Surprise crinkled between her brows. ”Really? Are you angry still?”
”Angry?” I sighed. ”I guess no more angry than any child of parents who've not lived under the same roof for the last seven years.”
”Darling, those were adult choices made under difficult circ.u.mstances. We've done the very best we could.”
”I guess I didn't imagine your separation would be forever-with you and Papa in different places, different countries and leading such different lives.”
My mother sipped her tea. ”And I suppose we didn't think it would happen that way either,” Mama said. ”Time slips away and habits become a way of life. Your father loves Ireland. And me? I love it here. A separation that was meant to be a year turned into three and then it was you, my darling, who turned that one year into seven, not I.”
What Mama said was true. I planned to stay in California to help Mama for as long as she needed, but I had not given up my Paris apartment. California harbored many memories. Memories that prevented me from committing to a life in Los Angeles.
”I can count on one hand the number of times you've been home since you moved to Europe,” Mama said.
Ache clung to her words. She attempted to hide her loneliness with a gentle smile, but she'd never been much of an actress, at least not with me or Maeve, or even Papa.
”You were wise to let me go.” My fingertips troubled a strand of hair that had fallen from the messy bun atop my head. ”I couldn't stay. To stay would have caused trouble that no one wanted. I had to go and you let me. For that I will forever be thankful.”
Her eyes glossed with tears. How hard had it been to allow two girls of twelve and fifteen to move halfway around the world?
”I've missed you,” she said. I sat on the couch beside her. ”I'm thrilled that you're here and that you're showing at the opening of Amanda's new gallery. It's going to be a great evening for both of you.”
Happiness blossomed in my chest. A thrill, over the idea of my art being shown in the States, tingled through my body. I was also thrilled that Amanda was the gallery curator and, while I didn't want to admit it, I was thrilled at the idea of seeing her brother Sterling again.
”What time are we leaving today?”
”Amanda is sending a car. It arrives at four-thirty. I want to get there early to take one final look before the gallery doors open.”
”A final look? You've stood and stared at the art on the walls of Amanda's gallery for the last five days. Surely there is nothing else to see.” She smiled and her voice had the wisp of a teasing lilt.
”It is my first show in America,” I said.
”Amanda is lucky to have you. How many offers have you turned down from New York galleries?”
”I got a sixth request this morning.'
”Oh, my darling,” Mama said. She reached out and clasped her fingers around my hand. ”I am so pleased for you. I know you paint for the love it, and I know it's cra.s.s to admit it as an artist, but it is oh so lovely to have the world recognize one's talent. Is it not?”
I hated to admit it. I painted because I loved my art and I loved my talent. I craved the feeling of immersion and the loss of reality and time that overtook me during the act of creation. When I painted I was engulfed and nested into something bigger than my own singularity. But, yes, there was something that fed my ego by being wanted and recognized.
”The ego is an unhealthy thing to feed,” I said. ”We've both seen the havoc that an unfettered ego can produce.”