“Physically? I feel okay right now. The nausea comes and goes.” I’d told her I was pregnant by phone the other day when I called to invite her to Sunday brunch, but this is the first time I’ve seen her in person. “Emotionally, I’m a little under the weather.”
“We’ll get you fixed up,” she says, and I follow her into the kitchen, feeling a bit like a grateful puppy.
Less than five minutes later, we’re on her balcony looking out over the Pacific. I’m sipping sparkling cider and eating shortbread cookies, and she’s drinking scotch and drawing on an unlit cigarette. “I could find the lighter, but what with you being pregnant, I’m going to at least pretend like I have manners.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself not to laugh. “I’m glad I came by. Thank you so much for not tossing me out on my ass.”
“Oh, please. Misery loves company.”
I frown, remembering her earlier “sob story” comment. “Are you and Blaine okay?”
She takes a long swallow of scotch, then refills the glass, forgoing ice this time. “Well, things aren’t dead. Let’s just say they’re on life support.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” I’d met Evelyn in this house when she hosted a show for Blaine, who’s a talented artist whose work has a decidedly erotic edge. In fact, Blaine was the artist Damien hired to paint the nude portrait of me. So it’s fair to say that I feel something of a personal connection to both Blaine and Evelyn.
“He’s a good man, my Blaine. A talented man. But we’ve been living in two different worlds for a while now. Not age—well, maybe it’s partly age. He’s barely thirty, and I’ve crossed the half a century mark. He wants to get out in the world and build his reputation. I’ve done my homesteading. Now, I want to sit back in my castle and play in the world I’ve built. I’m not slowing down—well, maybe a little—but I am playing closer to home.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, no, there’s no malice here. Just sadness. But there usually is with change. So,” she continues, stubbing out her unlit cigarette on the tabletop, “lots of changes on your end, eh, Texas?”
“Damien and I are fine,” I say automatically and forcefully.
She laughs. “You’re not, or you wouldn’t be with me before a premiere party. But you can be not fine without the world crashing down.”
I scowl. “It feels like the world’s crashing down,” I admit as the tears start to flow again.
“Aw, hell, Texas, it’s okay. Get the waterworks over with now before we get you fixed all up like a movie star again.”
“I’m okay. Just hormones,” I say. Then, “No. It’s not hormones. It’s Sofia.”
“Well.” Evelyn’s eyes go wide, and she sits back in her chair. “Well,” she repeats, and I know two things. First, she didn’t know. And second, this is damned unexpected. Because it takes a lot to shock Evelyn Dodge.
“So you didn’t know she was back.”
“Back?” she repeats. “Wait a minute, Texas. You need to start from the beginning.”
Evelyn already knows about Damien’s past and what happened between him and Sofia. She was there during the bad years when Damien was playing tennis, and his abusive coach was forcing him and Sofia to do those vile things together—often with a camera around. And Evelyn was there for the aftermath, when Sofia had come back with the photographs, threatening to release them if I didn’t walk away from Damien.
From the reports, Sofia doesn’t even remember a lot of that, because she was in such a dissociative state. But as far as I’m concerned, none of that makes it easier. And when I tell Evelyn that Damien went and saw her without telling me—and then flat-out lied to me—she nods her head and says, “Yes, yes, I see.”
“Did you know she was back?” I ask.
“I knew she was doing well,” Evelyn says. “I didn’t know she was in the States.”
“He should have told me. Especially since I’ve been getting harassing messages.” I pass her my phone to show her the email that came in today, and then recite the other three texts for her. “And, gee,” I say rhetorically, “who’s harassed me in the past?”
“I’m sure Damien’s had the same thoughts. He probably hopes it wasn’t her. For that matter, he may believe it wasn’t her. From what Charles has told me, Sofia’s doing remarkably well. Not clinging to the past. Not clinging to Damien.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say, the words coming automatically.
“Which Damien would also know,” Evelyn says sagely. “And he might not believe it either. Might be why he waited to tell you any of it. Might be why he went to see her first. Because he wanted to get the lay of the land.”
I swallow. She may be right, but I don’t want to admit it. “I don’t know.” I turn to look out at the ocean and the waves crashing up on the shore. A little girl of about three is splashing in the surf as her mother chases her, smiling and laughing. I sigh, then put my hand gently on my belly. “I don’t know,” I repeat. “Maybe.”
She reaches across the table to take my free hand. “Would you like to join Lyle and me in our limo?”
I shake my head and manage a smile. “No way am I spoiling your date.”
“Oh, please. That boy’s my second choice—and no, I’m not saying Blaine was my first,” she adds, obviously reading my expression.
“All right. I’ll bite. Who was your first?”
“Let’s just say he couldn’t join me. Out of the country traveling.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “Right about now, I think he’s in Ireland.”
My eyes widen, and I’m just about to ask when Evelyn lifts her hand to cut me off. I’m not sure if she’s silencing me on purpose, or if her mind’s just moved on, but it’s just as well. I’d rather just savor the idea of Evelyn and my dad getting together.
I’m still smiling at the thought, but it fades when Evelyn asks, “Do you want to call Damien? Tell him you’re here?”
“No.” I’ve heard everything Evelyn said, and I know that it all makes sense. But that’s a head thing. My heart’s still hurting.
“We’ll get you fixed up,” she says, and I follow her into the kitchen, feeling a bit like a grateful puppy.
Less than five minutes later, we’re on her balcony looking out over the Pacific. I’m sipping sparkling cider and eating shortbread cookies, and she’s drinking scotch and drawing on an unlit cigarette. “I could find the lighter, but what with you being pregnant, I’m going to at least pretend like I have manners.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself not to laugh. “I’m glad I came by. Thank you so much for not tossing me out on my ass.”
“Oh, please. Misery loves company.”
I frown, remembering her earlier “sob story” comment. “Are you and Blaine okay?”
She takes a long swallow of scotch, then refills the glass, forgoing ice this time. “Well, things aren’t dead. Let’s just say they’re on life support.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” I’d met Evelyn in this house when she hosted a show for Blaine, who’s a talented artist whose work has a decidedly erotic edge. In fact, Blaine was the artist Damien hired to paint the nude portrait of me. So it’s fair to say that I feel something of a personal connection to both Blaine and Evelyn.
“He’s a good man, my Blaine. A talented man. But we’ve been living in two different worlds for a while now. Not age—well, maybe it’s partly age. He’s barely thirty, and I’ve crossed the half a century mark. He wants to get out in the world and build his reputation. I’ve done my homesteading. Now, I want to sit back in my castle and play in the world I’ve built. I’m not slowing down—well, maybe a little—but I am playing closer to home.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, no, there’s no malice here. Just sadness. But there usually is with change. So,” she continues, stubbing out her unlit cigarette on the tabletop, “lots of changes on your end, eh, Texas?”
“Damien and I are fine,” I say automatically and forcefully.
She laughs. “You’re not, or you wouldn’t be with me before a premiere party. But you can be not fine without the world crashing down.”
I scowl. “It feels like the world’s crashing down,” I admit as the tears start to flow again.
“Aw, hell, Texas, it’s okay. Get the waterworks over with now before we get you fixed all up like a movie star again.”
“I’m okay. Just hormones,” I say. Then, “No. It’s not hormones. It’s Sofia.”
“Well.” Evelyn’s eyes go wide, and she sits back in her chair. “Well,” she repeats, and I know two things. First, she didn’t know. And second, this is damned unexpected. Because it takes a lot to shock Evelyn Dodge.
“So you didn’t know she was back.”
“Back?” she repeats. “Wait a minute, Texas. You need to start from the beginning.”
Evelyn already knows about Damien’s past and what happened between him and Sofia. She was there during the bad years when Damien was playing tennis, and his abusive coach was forcing him and Sofia to do those vile things together—often with a camera around. And Evelyn was there for the aftermath, when Sofia had come back with the photographs, threatening to release them if I didn’t walk away from Damien.
From the reports, Sofia doesn’t even remember a lot of that, because she was in such a dissociative state. But as far as I’m concerned, none of that makes it easier. And when I tell Evelyn that Damien went and saw her without telling me—and then flat-out lied to me—she nods her head and says, “Yes, yes, I see.”
“Did you know she was back?” I ask.
“I knew she was doing well,” Evelyn says. “I didn’t know she was in the States.”
“He should have told me. Especially since I’ve been getting harassing messages.” I pass her my phone to show her the email that came in today, and then recite the other three texts for her. “And, gee,” I say rhetorically, “who’s harassed me in the past?”
“I’m sure Damien’s had the same thoughts. He probably hopes it wasn’t her. For that matter, he may believe it wasn’t her. From what Charles has told me, Sofia’s doing remarkably well. Not clinging to the past. Not clinging to Damien.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say, the words coming automatically.
“Which Damien would also know,” Evelyn says sagely. “And he might not believe it either. Might be why he waited to tell you any of it. Might be why he went to see her first. Because he wanted to get the lay of the land.”
I swallow. She may be right, but I don’t want to admit it. “I don’t know.” I turn to look out at the ocean and the waves crashing up on the shore. A little girl of about three is splashing in the surf as her mother chases her, smiling and laughing. I sigh, then put my hand gently on my belly. “I don’t know,” I repeat. “Maybe.”
She reaches across the table to take my free hand. “Would you like to join Lyle and me in our limo?”
I shake my head and manage a smile. “No way am I spoiling your date.”
“Oh, please. That boy’s my second choice—and no, I’m not saying Blaine was my first,” she adds, obviously reading my expression.
“All right. I’ll bite. Who was your first?”
“Let’s just say he couldn’t join me. Out of the country traveling.” Her lips curve into a small smile. “Right about now, I think he’s in Ireland.”
My eyes widen, and I’m just about to ask when Evelyn lifts her hand to cut me off. I’m not sure if she’s silencing me on purpose, or if her mind’s just moved on, but it’s just as well. I’d rather just savor the idea of Evelyn and my dad getting together.
I’m still smiling at the thought, but it fades when Evelyn asks, “Do you want to call Damien? Tell him you’re here?”
“No.” I’ve heard everything Evelyn said, and I know that it all makes sense. But that’s a head thing. My heart’s still hurting.
