"Gown, duh. It's not like I get the chance that often. Besides, I think Graham Elliott might be there," she adds, referring to the A-lister she actually met once for about seven seconds. "He and Kirstie Ellen Todd broke up, you know, so maybe I have a shot now."
"Maybe you do," I say encouragingly.
"And if not, there's always Lyle Tarpin."
"He'll definitely be there," I say. "He's not only starring in the movie, but he's the incoming celebrity sponsor of the Stark Children's Foundation."
"That man is seriously hot. I mean, there's like lava flowing under that whole innocent Iowa boy vibe he's got going."
I fight a grin. "You think?"
"Definitely. Except I think the nice guy routine is real. I mean, you never hear about who he's dating, and he's only recently started going to red carpet things."
"Maybe he doesn't like the whole Hollywood lifestyle."
"Oh, no. That's not it at all. He loves Hollywood. He just values his privacy." Her tone is almost solemn, and I can picture her shaking her head vehemently, then leaning forward and cupping her hand around the mouthpiece of the phone as she shares some big secret.
I adore Rachel, but she's significantly more fascinated with Hollywood than I am. Which isn't saying much, though now that I live in LA, I try to at least pay enough attention that I can follow Jamie's conversations over drinks.
That thought reminds me that I'm meeting Jamie for lunch and I want to get some actual work done before that. I finish up with Rachel, then text Damien. Got the job! Call when you can. Want to share that good news and tell you something else, too. XXOO.
Almost immediately, I get a reply. Never had a doubt. Soon, Mrs Stark . . .
I hug my phone close, because I sure as hell had doubts. But I truly believe that Damien didn't. Where my career is concerned, he is my most ardent fan.
I text Jamie next, telling her I'll be at Art's Deli on Ventura at noon, which only gives me half an hour to go through all my emails and handle any crises.
Except I'm not in the mood to work. Not at all. And since my office is less than a mile from the restaurant, I decide to walk there and do a little window shopping along the way.
In the grand scheme of things, I haven't lived in Los Angeles all that long. But Ventura Boulevard has changed a lot in my time here. More restaurants, more shops. Jamie's condo is just a few blocks off Ventura, so we came down here all the time to grab a drink or a bite or poke around in the bookstore housed in an old, converted theater.
Now, I'm looking at the street with a different point of view. I see toys in windows. A shop with designer baby clothes. A store with what has to be the Rolls Royce of baby carriages and a crib that is the most precious thing ever.
A darling little onesie with a giraffe catches my eye, and I veer toward that window, thinking that it's a shame that it's way too small for Jeffery. Almost the second the thought enters my head, I realize that I don't have to focus my baby shopping on Jeffery--I have my own baby on the way.
I can shop for Ashley.
And so I do.
In under twenty minutes, I manage to do significant damage to my credit card. Or what I would have considered significant in another life. The amount I just spent is probably less than what Damien has in his pocket at any given moment. That's something that has taken me some getting used to--this constant proximity to money. The fact that I don't actually have to think about how much things cost. Not as a matter of survival, at any rate. I still cringe at the thought of paying jacked-up prices just because the store or the designer is trendy.
But the point is, I can.
Which is why my shopping bag is now filled with a variety of undoubtedly overpriced baby clothes, all of which are just so darn cute that I couldn't say no. They're also all unisex, because even though I've started calling the baby Ashley, I'm not completely delusional. I'm just hopeful.
"Congratulations again, Mrs. Stark," the clerk says happily. "Come again soon."
"Thanks, I will." I head out of the store, swinging the pretty yellow shopping bag as I hurry toward the crosswalk because, naturally, now I'm running late.
I pull out my phone as I wait for the light to change, just in case Jamie has texted. She hasn't. I glance to make sure the light is still red before I start to scroll through my emails.
And that's when I see the woman on the other side of the road.
Mother?
A nearby man turns sharply toward me. "Excuse me?"
I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud, but I don't bother to answer. Instead, I step forward off the curb. "Mother!" I say again. "Elizabeth!"
But no one responds. It's just a crush of people on the opposite sidewalk, all hurrying to and fro during the lunch hour.
I curse under my breath and take another step, determined to get across the street. To find her.
But now I don't even see a blond head in the crowd, which is a miracle in a city like LA, and for a moment, I just stand there, defeated.
Until someone screams my name--and I turn toward the voice and see a fast-moving BMW coming right at me.
12
A violent screeching accosts my ears as the smell of burning rubber insults my nose. My upper arm burns from where someone has grabbed it too tightly, and I turn, startled, to face Jamie.
"What the fuck?" she shouts, looking more agitated than I've ever seen her. "Nikki! What the hell are you doing?"
"I--I thought I saw--"
"Come on."
She gives my arm a tug, yanking me back onto the sidewalk.
"But I saw my mom again," I say, stupidly. "She was right there."
I point across the street in the general direction we need to be heading.
"Your mom?" she repeats, and I nod.
I watch as a full spectrum of emotions play over her face. Worry. Disbelief. Shock. Fear.
She squints as she looks that direction, then shakes her head. "She's not there, Nik."
"But--"
"And even if she were, that's not exactly a good reason to get pummeled in traffic. You scared the shit out of me."
"I know. I'm sorry." I scared the shit out of me, too. I draw a deep breath and realize that my hand is resting protectively over the baby. "Jamie, I--"
She holds up a hand. "Hold that thought. Come on."
This time when she takes my arm, it's gentler. She leads me across the street in the direction where I saw my mother, then down a block to the deli where we were supposed to meet.
We sit in silence until she's ordered for both of us, then she leans back in the booth, stares right at me, and says, "What the fuck?"
I don't even know where to begin, but I suck in a fortifying breath and dive in. "That wasn't my imagination. I saw her, James. I'm sure of it. She sold her house, and now she's here."
She leans forward, her elbows on the table, then immediately leans back again because the waitress is sliding coffee cups in front of us. I expect her to say something, but instead she adds about a gallon of cream to her coffee, stirs, and then takes a sip. She puts the cup back down, then exhales slowly. "This has the potential to be seriously fucked up."
"No kidding."
"But if she moved here, why not say something to you?
Why just keep popping up in the background like some freakish version of Where's Waldo?"
"To torment me, obviously."
"Maybe," Jamie says, but she sounds dubious.
"So what's your theory?" I say, leaning back. I want to take a sip of something warm, but I can't do coffee, and I'd been too out of it to change the order to herbal tea.
"Nothing. I don't know. You're probably right. Your mom's freakish enough to think that gaslighting you is a time-honored mother-daughter bonding technique." She isn't looking at me. Instead, she's concentrating on running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup.
"But . . .?"
Her shoulders rise and fall. "It's just that you're the only one who's seen her." She lifts her head to look at me. "I've been with you twice now, and I didn't see shit."
"That doesn't mean--"
"No, it doesn't. But you've never caught up with her, and she disappears like Santa Claus."
"She sold her house."
"Lots of older women do. Maybe she wanted to live in a garden home and use the money she spent on landscapers to travel to Europe."
"Or Los Angeles," I mutter, but Jamie doesn't hear me. "Okay, fine. She sold her house and me seeing her is just a coincidence. Just my whacky imagination."
"Don't act like that doesn't make sense," she says. "You know it does."
She starts to count out the reasons on her fingers. "First you were putting together that Dallas proposal, so she was on your mind. Now, you know she's moved, so duh. Come on, Nicholas. We both know you've got mommy issues. And that's got to be on overdrive now." She glances at the little yellow shopping bag on the seat beside me, then bites her lower lip. "I mean, doesn't it?"
A sharp stab of guilt cuts through me, and I deflate. "I swear I was going to tell you at lunch--we didn't start telling anyone until today. When did you hear?"
She screws up her mouth. "I saw on social media when you were in Dallas. That's why I called, actually. But then you told me about your mom moving, and I thought I should just wait until you told me about the baby."
"Oh." I frown, feeling like a horrible best friend. "Listen, James," I begin, but at the same moment, she reaches across the table to grab my hands, saying, "God, I'm such a bitch!"
She pulls me into an awkward across-the-booth hug. "Congratulations," she squeals, then plunks back down into her seat. "Oh, my God, I'm going to be an aunt!"
"So you're not mad at me?"
"Are you kidding? Not even."
I laugh, happy and relieved and contrite all at the same time. "I really am sorry," I say, but she just waves the apology away.